Dec. 25, 1830.—I longed indescribably for your letter; you know why. How happy news of my angel of peace always makes me! How I should like to touch all the strings which not only call up stormy feelings, but also awaken again the songs whose half-dying echo is still flitting on the banks of the Danube-songs which the warriors of King John Sobieski sang!
You advised me to choose a poet. But you know I am an undecided being, and succeeded only once in my life in making a good choice.
The many dinners, soirees, concerts, and balls which I have to go to only bore me. I am sad, and feel so lonely and forsaken here. But I cannot live as I would! I must dress, appear with a cheerful countenance in the salons; but when I am again in my room I give vent to my feelings on the piano, to which, as my best friend in Vienna, I disclose all my sufferings. I have not a soul to whom I can fully unbosom myself, and yet I must meet everyone like a friend. There are, indeed, people here who seem to love me, take my portrait, seek my society; but they do not make up for the want of you [his friends and relations]. I lack inward peace, I am at rest only when I read your [his friends' and relations'] letters, and picture to myself the statue of King Sigismund, or gaze at the ring [Constantia's], that dear jewel. Forgive me, dear Johnnie, for complaining so much to you; but my heart grows lighter when I speak to you thus. To you I have indeed always told all that affected me. Did you receive my little note the day before yesterday? Perhaps you don't care much for my scribbling, for you are at home; but I read and read your letters again and again.
Dr. Freyer has called on me several times; he had learned from Schuch that I was in Vienna. He told me a great deal of interesting news, and enjoyed your letter, which I read to him up to a certain passage. This passage has made me very sad. Is she really so much changed in appearance? Perhaps she was ill? One could easily fancy her being so, as she has a very sensitive disposition. Perhaps she only appeared so to you, or was she afraid of anything? God forbid that she should suffer in any way on my account. Set her mind at rest, and tell her that as long as my heart beats I shall not cease to adore her. Tell her that even after my death my ashes shall be strewn under her feet. Still, all this is yet too little, and you might tell her a great deal more.
I shall write to her myself; indeed, I would have done so long ago to free myself from my torments; but if my letter should fall into strange hands, might this not hurt her reputation ? Therefore, dear friend, be you the interpreter of my feelings; speak for me, "et j'en conviendrai." These French words of yours flashed through me like lightning. A Viennese gentleman who walked beside me in the street when I was reading your letter, seized me by the arm, and was hardly able to hold me. He did not know what had happened to me. I should have liked to embrace and kiss all the passers-by, and I felt happier than I had done for a long time, for I had received the first letter from you. Perhaps I weary you, Johnnie, with my passionateness; but it is difficult for me to conceal from you anything that moves my heart.
The day before yesterday I dined at Madame Beyer's, her name is likewise Constantia. I like her society, her having that indescribably dear Christian name is sufficient to account for my partiality; it gives me even pleasure when one of her pocket-handkerchiefs or napkins marked "Constantia" comes into my hands.
I walked alone, and slowly, into St. Stephen's. The church was as yet empty. To view the noble, magnificent edifice in a truly devout spirit I leant against a pillar in the darkest corner of this house of God. The grandeur of the arched roof cannot be described, one must see St. Stephen's with one's own eyes. Around me reigned the profoundest silence, which was interrupted only by the echoing footsteps of the sacristan who came to light the candles. Behind me was a grave, before me a grave, only above me I saw none. At that moment I felt my loneliness and isolation. When the lights were burning and the Cathedral began to fill with people, I wrapped myself up more closely in my cloak (you know the way in which I used to walk through the suburb of Cracow), and hastened to be present at the Mass in the Imperial Court Chapel. Now, however, I walked no longer alone, but passed through the beautiful streets of Vienna in merry company to the Hofburg, where I heard three movements of a mass performed by sleepy musicians. At one o'clock in the morning I reached my lodgings. I dreamt of you, of her, and of my dear children [his sisters].
The first thing I did to-day was to indulge myself in melancholy fantasias on my piano.
Advise me what to do. Please ask the person who has always exercised so powerful an influence over me in Warsaw, and let me know her opinion; according to that I shall act.
Let me hear once more from you before you take the field. Vienna, poste restante. Go and see my parents and Constantia. Visit my sisters often, as long as you are still in Warsaw, so that they may think that you are coming to me, and that I am in the other room. Sit down beside them that they may imagine I am there too; in one word, be my substitute in the house of my parents.