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"The meditation on death is a very imporhant meditation. When you meditate on death, you love life more, you cherish life more. We can learn many lessons from it,” writes Thich Nhat Hanh.

The first moment borrowed from Mozart's Requiem is an ascending chromatic line in the sopranos, and the fugal subject in the basses, from Kyrie. The second borrowed moment is the instrumental introduction to Lacrimosa from Sequentia. The first line of the text, which translates as “Full of tears will be that day”, reminds me of Thich Nhat Hanh’s words that “the tears I shed yesterday have become rain.” — Anna Clyne 

But there has always been an inconvenient item of contradictory evidence to challenge opinions like that—the Violin Concerto in E minor, which premiered only two years before Mendelssohn died in 1847 when he was just 38. A composer who could fashion that concerto clearly lived up to his potential and earned a place in the “foremost rank.” Although it would pain Shaw considerably, even “Elijah,” from Mendelssohn’s penultimate year, is now also widely recognized as the product of a fertile, mature master.

When Mendelssohn became music director of the famed Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra in 1835, he had an ideal concertmaster in Ferdinand David. The two men had been pals since their teen years, and their time together in Leipzig proved inspirational. “I would like to write a violin concerto for you,” Mendelssohn wrote to his friend in 1838. “There’s one in E minor in my head, and its opening won’t leave me in peace.”

He managed to get it out of his head long enough to pursue other projects of interest, but finally focused on writing the concerto in 1844, constantly consulting David on technical matters each step of the way. “Don’t laugh at me too much,” Mendelssohn wrote to him. “I’m just groping here.” He continued to fiddle with the score for months before finalizing it in time for its 1845 premiere in Leipzig with David as soloist (Mendelssohn was too ill to conduct it). You’d never guess that the composer had any trouble creating this perfectly constructed, melodically indelible concerto, which gives a soloist plenty of opportunity for virtuosity without ever overshadowing the musical content.

Although Mendelssohn was far from a radical composer, he still managed to shake up tradition here. Instead of initially laying out the opening movement’s thematic ideas, the orchestra gets only a few seconds to establish the key of E minor before the violin jumps in with the principal theme. And a striking theme it is, impassioned and propulsive. Mendelssohn prepares for the next big melodic idea with an enchanting effect—the violin ascends to a great height, then elegantly descends three octaves to hold onto its lowest G, providing a foundation for woodwinds to intone the sweet new theme.

Conventional concerto procedure then called for development and a recapitulation of thematic material, then a cadenza for the soloist. Instead, Mendelssohn inserts the cadenza before the recap, filling it with colorful leaps and trills, and wrapping it up with another inspired touch—a series of reiterated arpeggios that become an accompaniment pattern to the orchestra’s reprise of the opening theme.

Mendelssohn follows this departure from the norm with another at the end of the coda. When the orchestra delivers what sounds like the last chord, a single bassoon keeps on playing, its deep note forming a subtle bridge to the second movement. This Andante centers around a radiant, songful melody for the violin. The mood darkens briefly midway through, but the serenity returns, and the solo lines turn even sweeter.

A meditative passage for soloist and strings, rather like a recitative preceding an opera aria, prepares the way for a robust finale. It’s dominated by an infectious little tune that darts and dances about and, along with a broader melody slipped into the mix, generates sparkling, witty interplay between violin and orchestra to finish the concerto in exhilarating fashion.

Instrumentation: solo violin, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, timpani, strings

Coleridge-Taylor also achieved fame as a conductor, both in England and the United States, where festivals featuring his music were held in Washington and Baltimore in the early 1900s. (Underlining the impact he had on these shores, public elementary schools in at least two states were named after Coleridge-Taylor; one in Baltimore opened in 1926 and still carries the designation).

Born in Croydon in South London in 1875 to an English mother and African father, Coleridge-Taylor invariably faced prejudice because of his racial background, but never let that hinder his creative focus. At 15, he entered London’s Royal College of Music, where his fellow composition students included Ralph Vaughan Williams and Gustav Holst. Coleridge-Taylor (named for celebrated poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge) soon came to the attention of Edward Elgar, who described him as “far and away the cleverest among the young men.” Elgar arranged for Coleridge-Taylor to receive a commission from a prominent festival in 1898; the result, Ballade in A minor for orchestra, was warmly received. 

A few months later, that “cleverest of young men” made an even bigger sensation with his Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast, an ambitious and vivid cantata based on poetry by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. After attending the premiere of that cantata, Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) wrote in his diary that he was “much impressed by the lad’s genius,” praising the “fresh and original” score, with its “melody and harmony in abundance” and “brilliant” orchestration. 

That description could just as easily apply to Danse nègre, the orchestrated version of what was originally the final movement of Coleridge-Taylor’s “African Suite” for solo piano. This 1899 work, along with such compositions as Symphonic Variations on an African Air and 34 Negro Melodies for piano, reflected the composer’s keen interest in black culture, an interest awakened when he befriended esteemed African-American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar.

After a couple of attention-getting chords, Danse nègre takes off with a bustling, back-and-forth pattern in the strings that sets the stage for a syncopated and perky little tune in the woodwinds that goes on to permeate the piece. This earworm is sidelined when an outbreak of chromatic shifts signals a change in mood and tempo, leading to a sweet interlude where Coleridge-Taylor’s gift for melody shines warmly. 

The principal idea pops back up soon enough, chomping at the bit to get the dancing restarted. And resume it does, but there’s a neat surprise when the energetic rush suddenly stops for a couple measures of silence, followed by a tender reminder of that earlier interlude. Then it’s off to the dance floor again for a bright, bold finish.

Instrumentation: two flutes, piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, timpani, bass drum, cymbals (pair), triangle, strings

The unhurried, darkly beautiful theme that launches the work moves from minor to major and back to minor, ending with a major chord. Melodically and harmonically, it is ripe with possibilities for expressive development. It’s also loaded with implications, because the word “enigma” is written above it in the score (more on that in a moment).

The first variation, C.A.E. (Catherine Alice Elgar), expands on the theme to offer a lyrical sketch of the composer’s wife. In Variation II (H.D.S.P.—Hew David Stewart-Powell), skittering music gives a nod to an amateur pianist who had a distinctive approach to warming up at a keyboard. Other amateur musicians who often participated in chamber sessions at the Elgar home pop up in the piece. A prominent viola solo in the elegant Variation VI, “Ysobel” (Isobel Fitton), and a deeply poetic cello solo in Variation XII, B.G.N. (Basil G. Nevinson) let you know what instruments those friends played.

Elgar fondly references certain personal traits. One friend’s habit of inserting witty asides into serious conversations, for example, is evoked by the contrast between brooding strings and lightheaded woodwind flurries in Variation V, R.P.A. (Richard P. Arnold). And the gently flowing Variation VIII, W.N. (Winifred Norbury) is dotted with occasional trills in the woodwinds that give “a little suggestion of [her] characteristic laugh.”

Some variations spring from pictorial scenes that Elgar recalled or imagined, notably Variation XI, G.R.S. (George Robertson Sinclair). Here, Sinclair’s pet bulldog is the main focus. A descending outburst from the strings and the ensuing frantic dash conjure up a moment when the dog fell into a river and quickly paddled back to safety.

Also highly descriptive is Variation XIII, which indicates the dedicatee by three asterisks in parentheses and is titled “Romanza.” Elgar said he had in mind a certain aristocratic lady who was traveling on an ocean liner while he composed the piece, but that remains a matter of debate. Regardless, it’s a wonderfully atmospheric passage with a tender clarinet solo quoting a Mendelssohn overture, “Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage,” and a subtle drum roll Elgar likened to “the distant throb of the engines.”

The heart and soul of the whole piece is revealed in Variation IX, titled “Nimrod,” Elgar’s tribute to his dearest friend, the German-born music publisher August Jaeger (“Jaeger” is German for “hunter”; Nimrod is a “mighty hunter” in the Book of Genesis). Here, the theme gets its noblest, most affecting transformation, building to an extraordinarily emotional climax before pulling back to a hushed close.

Elgar saved Variation XIV for himself, marking it E.D.U.—not his actual initials, but a nod to the nickname that his wife gave him, “Edoo.” The music opens with an almost martial assertiveness and keeps building steam, enriching the orchestral texture with the inclusion of an organ and intensifying the development of the theme with striking references to the C.A.E. and Nimrod variations—Elgar’s way, he said, of honoring “two great influences on the life and art of the composer.”

So about that enigmatic business. According to the composer, the “enigma” written on the score’s first page refers to a “dark saying” that “must be left unguessed.” More intriguingly, he added that “another and larger theme” goes “through and over” the whole piece, “but is not played.” Did Elgar really mean all of this? Was he just pulling everyone’s leg? In the end, it hardly matters, since the music says plenty by itself, exactly as written.

But over the past 125 years, the mystery has spawned many a sleuth determined to unlock the secrets, especially the supposedly unheard theme. People have tried to stick “Auld Lang Syne,” “God Save the King,” Bach’s chorale “Ein feste Burg,” music hall songs, and any number of other melodic bits on top of Elgar’s score to see if the notes fit. No proposed solution has thoroughly convinced the world yet. Chances are, people will theorize and argue about hidden melodies and mysterious messages as long as orchestras continue to perform “Enigma Variations”—which is to say, forever.

Instrumentation: two flutes (second doubles piccolo), two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, one contrabassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, bass drum, cymbals (pair), suspended cymbal, snare drum, triangle, organ, strings