An Edinburgh correspondent of the Musical World, who signs himself "M.," confirms (October 14, 1848) the statements of the critic of the Courant. From this communication we learn that one of the etudes played was in F minor (probably No. 2 of Op. 25, although there are two others in the same key—No. 9 of Op. 10 and No. 1 of Trois Etudes without opus number). The problematical Andante precede d'un Largo was, no doubt, a juxtaposition of two of his shorter compositions, this title being chosen to vary the programme. From Mr. Hipkins I learned that at this Chopin played frequently the slow movement from his Op. 22, Grande Polonaise preceded d'un Andante Spianato.
And now we will let Chopin again speak for himself.
Chopin to Grzymala; Keir, Perthshire, Sunday, October 1, 1848:—
No post, no railway, also no carriage (not even for taking the air), no boat, not a dog to be seen—all desolate, desolate! My dearest friend,—Just at the moment when I had already begun to write to you on another sheet, your and my sister's letters were brought to me. Heaven be thanked that cholera has hitherto spared them. But why do you not write a word about yourself? and yet to you corresponding is much easier than to me; for I have been writing to you daily for a whole week already—namely, since my return from northern Scotland (Strachur [FOOTNOTE: A small town, eight miles south of Inveraray, in Argyleshire.])—without getting done. I know, indeed, that you have an invalid in Versailles; for Rozaria [FOOTNOTE: Mdlle. de Rozieres.] wrote to me that you had paid her a visit, and then in great haste had gone to an invalid in Versailles. I hope it is not your grandfather or grandchild, or one of your dear neighbours, the Rochanskis. Here one hears as yet nothing of cholera, but in London it appears already here and there.
With your letter, which I received at Johnstone Castle, and in which you informed me that you had been with Soli [FOOTNOTE: I suppose Solange, Madame Clesinger, George Sand's daughter.] at the Gymnase Theatre, there came at the same time one from Edinburgh, from Prince Alexander Czartoryski, with the news that he and his wife had arrived, and that he would be very glad to see me. Although tired, I at once took the train and found them still in Edinburgh. Princess Marcelline was as kind as she always is to me. The intercourse with them reanimated me, and gave me strength to play in Glasgow, where the whole haute volee had gathered for my concert. The weather was magnificent, and the princely family had even come from Edinburgh with little Marcel, who is growing nicely, and sings already my compositions, yes, and even corrects when he hears someone making mistakes. It was on Wednesday afternoon, at 3 o'clock, and the princely couple did me the kindness to accept along with me an invitation to a dinner at Johnstone Castle (by the way, twelve English miles from Glasgow) after the concert; in this way, then, I passed the whole day with them. Lord and Lady Murray and the old Lord Torphichen (who had come a distance of a hundred miles) drove also thither with us, and the next day all were quite charmed with the amiability of Princess Marcelline. The princely pair returned to Glasgow, whence, after a visit to Loch Tamen, [FOOTNOTE: There is no such loch. Could it possibly be Loch Lomond? Loch Leven seems to me less likely.] they wished to go back at once to London, and thence to the Continent. The Prince spoke of you with sincere kindness. I can very well imagine what your noble soul must suffer when you see what is now going on in Paris. You cannot think how I revived, how lively I became that day in the society of such dear countrymen; but to-day I am again very depressed. O, this mist! Although, from the window at which I write, I have before me the most beautiful view of Stirling Castle—it is the same, as you will remember, which delighted Robert Bruce—and mountains, lochs, a charming park, in one word, the view most celebrated for its beauty in Scotland; I see nothing, except now and then, when the mist gives way to the sun. The owner of this mansion, whose name is Stirling, is the uncle of our Scotch ladies, and the head of the family. I made his acquaintance in London; he is a rich bachelor, and has a very beautiful picture-gallery, which is especially distinguished by works of Murillo and other Spanish masters. He has lately even published a very interesting book on the Spanish school; he has travelled much (visited also the East), and is a very intelligent man. All Englishmen of note who come to Scotland go to him; he has always an open house, so that there are daily on an average about thirty people at dinner with him. In this way one has opportunities of seeing the most different English beauties; lately there was, for instance, for some days a Mrs. Boston here, but she is already gone. As to dukes, earls, and lords, one now sees here more of them than ever, because the Queen has sojourned in Scotland. Yesterday she passed close by us by rail, as she had to be at a certain time in London, and there was such a fog on the sea that she preferred to return from Aberdeen to London by land, and not (as she had come) by boat—to the great regret of the navy, which had prepared various festivities for her. It is said that her consort, Prince Albert, was very much pleased at this, as he becomes always sea-sick on board, while the Queen, like a true ruler of the sea, is not inconvenienced by a voyage. I shall soon have forgotten Polish, speak French like an Englishman, and English like a Scotchman—in short, like Jawurek, jumble together five languages. If I do not write to you a Jeremiad, it is not because you cannot comfort me, but because you are the only one who knows everything; and if I once begin to complain, there will be no end to it, and it will always be in the same key. But it is incorrect when I say: "always in the same key," for things are getting worse with me every day. I feel weaker; I cannot compose, not for want of inclination, but for physical reasons, and because I am every week in a different place. But what shall I do? At least, I shall save something for the winter. Invitations I have in plenty, and cannot even go where I should like, for instance, to the Duchess of Argyll and Lady Belhaven, as the season is already too far advanced and too dangerous for my enfeebled health. I am all the morning unable to do anything, and when I have dressed myself I feel again so fatigued that I must rest. After dinner I must sit two hours with the gentlemen, hear what they say, and see how much they drink. Meanwhile I feel bored to death. I think of something totally different, and then go to the drawing-room, where I require all my strength to revive, for all are anxious to hear me. Afterwards my good Daniel carries me upstairs to my bedroom, undresses me, puts me to bed, leaves the candle burning, and then I am again at liberty to sigh and to dream until morning, to pass the next day just like the preceding one. When I have settled down in some measure, I must continue my travels, for my Scotch ladies do not allow me—to be sure with the best intentions in the world—any rest. They fetch me to introduce me to all their relations; they will at last kill me with their kindness, and I must bear it all out of pure amiability.—
Your
FREDERICK.
Chopin to Gutmann; Calder House, October 16, 1848 (twelve miles from Edinburgh):—
Very dear friend,—What are you doing? How are your people, your country, your art? you are unjustly severe upon me, for you know my infirmity in the matter of letter-writing. I have thought of you much, and on reading the other day that there was a disturbance at Heidelberg, I tried some thirty rough draughts [brouillons] in order to send you a line, the end of them all being to be thrown into the fire. This page will perhaps reach you and find you happy with your good mother. Since I had news from you, I have been in Scotland, in this beautiful country of Walter Scott, with so many memories of Mary Stuart, the two Charleses, &c. I drag myself from one lord to another, from one duke to another. I find everywhere, besides extreme kindness and hospitality without limit, excellent pianos, beautiful pictures, choice libraries; there are also hunts, horses, dogs, interminable dinners, and cellars of which I avail myself less. It is impossible to form an idea of all the elaborate comfort which reigns in the English mansions. The Queen having passed this year some weeks in Scotland, all England followed her, partly out of courtesy, partly because of the impossibility of going to the disturbed Continent. Everything here has become doubly splendid, except the sun, which has done nothing more than usual; moreover, the winter advances, and I do not know yet what will become of me. I am writing to you from Lord Torphichen's. In this mansion, above my apartment, John Knox, the Scotch reformer, dispensed for the first time the Sacrament. Everything here furnishes matter for the imagination—a park with hundred-year-old trees, precipices, walls of the castle in ruins, endless passages with numberless old ancestors—there is even a certain Red-cowl which walks there at midnight. I walk there my incertitude. [II y a meme un certain bonnet rouge, qui s'y promene a minuit. J'y promene mon incertitude.]
Cholera is coming; there is fog and spleen in London, and no president in Paris. It does not matter where I go to cough and suffocate, I shall always love you. Present my respects to your mother, and all my wishes for the happiness of you all. Write me a line to the address: Dr. Lishinsky, [FOOTNOTE: The letter I shall next place before the reader is addressed by Chopin to "Dr. Lishinski." In an Edinburgh medical directory the name appeared as Lyszynski.] 10, Warriston Crescent, Edinburgh, Scotland.—Yours, with all my heart,