[Illustration:  The Mendelssohn Monument in Leipsig.]

Thus, while Cecile does not seem to have been an extraordinarily gifted woman from an artistic or intellectual point of view, it is quite evident that she possessed a refinement that must have appealed forcibly to a man brought up in such genteel surroundings and as sensitive as Mendelssohn.  Such a woman must have been, after all, better suited to his delicate genius than a wife of unusual gifts would have been.  For it is a helpmeet, not another genius, that a man of genius really needs most.  The woman who, without being prosy or commonplace and without allowing herself to retrograde in looks or in personal care, can run a household in a systematic, orderly fashion is the greatest blessing that Providence can bestow upon genius.  Evidently Cecile was just such a woman.  Her tact seems to have been as delicate as her beauty.  Without, perhaps, having directly inspired any composition of her husband’s, her gentleness, her simple grace, doubtless left their mark on many bars of his music.

It seems doubly cruel that death should have cut Felix down when he had enjoyed but ten happy years with his Cecile.  Yet had his life been long, the pang of separation would soon have come to him.  Devrient had not been mistaken when he spoke of “those sad harbingers of early death;” and Cecile survived Felix scarcely five years.

Felix’s death occurred at Leipsic in 1847.  In September, while listening to his own recently composed “Nacht Lied” he swooned away.  His system, weakened by overwork, succumbed, nervous prostration followed, and on November 4 he died.  Sudden death had carried off his grandfather, father, mother and favorite sister; and he had a presentiment that his end would come about in the same way.  During the dull half-sleep preceding death he spoke but once, and then to Cecile in answer to her inquiry how he felt—­“Tired, very tired.”

Devrient tells how he went to the house of mutual friends in Dresden for news of Mendelssohn’s condition, when Clara Schumann came in, a letter in her hand and weeping, and told them that Felix had died the previous evening.  Devrient hastened to Leipsic, and Cecile sent for him.  I cannot close this article more fittingly than with his description of their meeting in the presence of the illustrious dead—­the cherished friend of one, the husband of the other.

“She received me with the tenderness of a sister, wept in silence, and was calm and composed as ever.  She thanked me for all the love and devotion I had shown to her Felix, grieved for me that I should have to mourn so faithful a friend, and spoke of the love with which Felix always had regarded me.  Long we spoke of him; it comforted her, and she was loath for me to depart.  She was most unpretentious in her sorrow, gentle, and resigned to live for the care and education of her children.  She said God would help her, and surely her boys would have the inheritance of some of their father’s genius.  There could not be a more worthy memory of him than the well-balanced, strong and tender heart of this mourning widow.”