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With the following letter Mendelssohn sent a small, highly finished
water-color drawing of the Bridge of Sighs at Venice to Mrs. Moscheles,
which we reproduce.
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DÜSSELDORF, Jan. 10, 1835.
DEAR MRS. MOSCHELES,--I ought to be kneeling on peas to do penance, all
the time I am writing this letter, sinner that I am! And indeed, in my
innermost heart, I am really on peas, when I think of my long silence.
Such a shocking return for your kind letter after the Birmingham
Festival! The courier who is to take my long-promised sketch to you
leaves to-morrow, or I should scarcely have written to-day. The fact
that I write only to accompany the sketch, you must not look upon as an
aggravation of my offence,
[Illustration: 16. The Bridge of Sighs. From a Water-Color Drawing by
Mendelssohn. (See page 122.)]
but must interpret it favorably. You know, there are times when I feel
but a poor mortal, and avoid speaking or even thinking about myself.
Such tunes come upon me every now and then; and having no kind friend
here to turn to for sympathy, I suffer more than elsewhere. If just on a
day of that kind a letter reaches me like your last, I am carried into
the midst of your busy interesting life, and, comparing that with the
monotony of my own existence, I feel as if I could not write a word
about myself; in such times, to speak of myself and my work, depresses
me still more. Then I fancy I am but a nuisance, and don’t write to you.
So it has been hitherto; but to-day I turn over a new leaf, and must
present my water-color drawing to you, which I herewith do most
gracefully. My most solemn and impressive bow you must here picture to
yourself.
The sketch, taken at Venice in October, 1830, represents the Bridge of
Sighs. Should it be out of drawing, you mustn’t set that down to me, but
fancy the Doge’s palace just tumbling down, and consequently leaning on
one side. The water is the _partie honteuse_. I have labored the whole
morning to make it a little clearer, but it only got muddier; so there,
again, imagine that the tide happens to be out, because then the water
throughout Venice gets thick and muddy, and might look as unattractive
as it does in my sketch. My sky, too, is rather murky; but a certain
Nicolaï of Berlin has just published a stupid book meant to prove that
there is nothing worth looking at in Italy,--that the country is devoid
of beauty, and the people dull and heavy, no _Weissbier_, no oranges,
and the sky no better than our own. If he speaks the truth, it would
make the color of my sky right. Should my drawing, with all its
shortcomings, find favor in your eyes, let me know, that I may make you
another; for I am improving, and my next will be better; I might paint
you a Swiss landscape, with meadows and houses, for nothing amuses me
more. And now if I could only carry this one to you myself, and then and
there alter it according to your suggestions!
I shall be glad if I can get to you in the spring; though, much as I
desire it, I fear it will hardly be possible. I shall have done my work
by that time just as I planned it; but the question is, Ought I to begin
something fresh, and go on working quietly, or should I take a holiday?
However, one thing I do know, and that is, if I treat myself to a visit
to England this year, I will lead a very different life in London to
what I did before,--trying to keep as quiet and retired as I do here,
and not going into society unless really obliged to; but as to you, I
shall inundate you with as many visits as you can endure. Till then I
must work hard at my piano, for I fear I have lost ground a good deal.
The other day, however, in telling a friend how Moscheles and I used to
improvise together, and showing him some of the passages, I could have
given anything to start for London, once more to enjoy the same
pleasure; for not only do I play but little here myself, but I rarely
get to hear others. On the other hand, there are what I call good days,
and most enjoyable ones, when the work prospers, and I have a long
morning to myself in my own quiet room; then life is charming indeed.
And pray, how do you all get on? Is there already some “miss” playing
her scales downstairs in Moscheles’s study, or is he allowed a little
leisure to compose and make music? Does little Felix cry very much? Has
Emily grown? Of her growing up, you know I stand in mortal fear. I was
going to send you another song to-day, but could not get on with it,
which annoys me; so you must even rest satisfied with this dull,
unmusical letter. And now farewell. May you all be happy and merry in
this new year! May it bring you every blessing, and to me a happy
meeting with you and Moscheles! All my belongings keep sending messages,
which I never give you, although my father is always mentioning your
kindness to him and his regard for you.
Ever yours,