With the title of commander-in-chief of the whole Polish army, Prince Constantine received unlimited power of life and death over the soldiers. He had, at the same time, full authority over all the officials of the kingdom; practically, the Constitution ceased to exist; as early as the year 1819, the freedom of the press had been withdrawn, and a strict censorship established.
When the appointed time arrived, the Diet was not convoked, and faithful patriots who dared to express their opinions were imprisoned. The country swarmed with spies, whose business was to persecute and punish those who showed the least sign of a desire for freedom. Not only the actions, but the half-whispered words, and even the thoughts of the people were betrayed to the Government. Especial severity was exercised towards the young, whom for their natural love of liberty and resistance to despotism the Grand Prince hated with all his heart.
To enforce obedience, the most harsh and unjust means were employed, which could not but embitter the people. The long-cherished wish of Constantine was that the Polish youth should wear a uniform, be enlisted in the army, and thus become the obedient tools of his tyranny. Every young man who devoted himself to science, literature, or the fine arts, instead of entering the army, was, in his eyes, as also in those of the ever vigilant police, either a foolish fanatic, or dangerous to the State. From such proceedings a revolution could not fail, sooner or later, to ensue.
OUTBREAK OF THE REVOLUTION. Inflamed by the example of the July revolution in Paris, the Polish youth, whom Constantine hated so intensely, instigated the insurrection of November 29th, 1830. The army and the whole nation followed the revolutionary banners, for all classes were equally incensed against the tyrannical government of the Grand Prince.
At the first news of disquietude in Poland, Titus Woyciechowski at once left Vienna to enter the army. Frederic wished to do the same, as he thought that in such circumstances he could not endure to be so far from his family and friends, and he was only prevented from doing so by the entreaties of his parents, who knew that their sonʼs health was not fit for the hardships of war. Chopinʼs family were naturally undesirous that he should cut short the artistic career on which he had just entered at so much cost, and in which he had already achieved good success. But his anxiety about his parents and sisters was so great that he followed his friend by the extra post, and had he overtaken him, he would certainly have gone back to Warsaw. Returned to Vienna, Chopin yielded to his fatherʼs will, and resumed the idea of giving a concert.
This, however, was not so speedily arranged. The interest of the Viennese musicians had waxed somewhat faint, and he had no benevolent or influential friends among the newly-arrived artists. When he played gratuitously help was readily forthcoming; but the case was altered now, and Frederic saw himself neglected. It is not impossible, in the time of Metternich, that people kept aloof from Poles from motives of prudence; and the energy necessary for overcoming all these obstacles failed Chopin.
Some of his former acquaintances were ill, others had gone away, and the rest were afraid that the agreeable, educated, and highly-gifted artist might settle in Vienna, and thus become a dangerous rival. Many even were displeased at his success in the drawing rooms. The rapid succession of military events in Poland frightened most of his patrons from serving him, while his own mind was more occupied with politics than music.
Several of Fredericʼs letters, written in a spirit of patriotic enthusiasm, were destroyed by his parents, in case they should fall into the hands of the Russian Government, which had even instituted domiciliary visits. In consequence of the war, much that he wrote never reached Warsaw at all. The sad condition of his country made a deep and lasting impression on the mind of the young artist, so sensitive alike to happiness and sorrow. The gay, buoyant tone of his letters, which had formerly so delighted their recipients, changed to a certain discontent and sadness; even his pleasant wit, as the reader will see by the following correspondence, was frequently turned into bitter sarcasm.
Vienna,
Wednesday before Christmas-day.
(I have no almanack at hand, so do
not know the day.)
Dearest Parents and Sisters,
It was seven weeks, yesterday, since I left you. What for? But it is so, and cannot be helped.
DANCING AT THE HOUSE OF A JEWESS. I was invited, yesterday, at the very hour that I was conducted to Wola, to a little dancing party, at the Weiberheimʼs. There were several handsome young people there, not old-fashioned looking, that is, not Old Testament-looking.[82]
I was pressed to join the Cotillon; so I went round a few times and then returned home. The hostess and her amiable daughters had asked several musical people, but I was not in a humour for playing the piano.
Herr Likl, who knows Louise, was introduced to me. He is a good, honest German, and thinks me a great man; so I would not destroy his good opinion by playing when I was not in the right mood. I also spoke to Lampiʼs nephew, who knows Papa well. He is a handsome, agreeable young man, and paints very well. A propos of painting, Hummel and his son were with me yesterday. The latter has now almost finished my portrait. It is so good, one cannot imagine it better. I am sitting in my dressing-gown, with a look of inspiration which I do not know why the artist should have given me. The portrait is in quarto size, drawn in chalk, and looks like a steel engraving. The elder Hummel was exceedingly polite, and introduced me to his old acquaintance, M. Duport, director of the Kärthner-Thor Theatre. The latter, who has been a celebrated dancer, is said to be very stingy; however, he was exceedingly complaisant to me, thinking, perhaps, that I should play gratuitously for him. He makes a mistake there! We had a sort of conference together, but nothing definite was decided on. If Herr Duport offers too little, I shall give my concert in the large Redoubt Hall.
Würfel is better; I met Slawick, an excellent violinist,[83] at his house last week. He is at the most twenty-six, and pleased me very much. When we left Würfelʼs he asked me if I were going home, to which I replied in the affirmative. “Come with me instead, to your countrywomanʼs, Frau Beyerʼs,” said Slawick. I agreed. Now Kraszewski had sent me, the same day, from Dresden, a letter to Frau Beyer, but without any address, and Beyer is a common name in Vienna. So I resolved at once to fetch my letter and go with Slawick; when, lo and behold! I really went to the right Frau Beyer. Her husband is a Pole from Odessa. She declared that she had heard of me, and invited both Slawick and myself to dinner the next day.
SLAWICKʼS GOOD PLAYING. After dinner Slawick played, and pleased me immensely, more than any one since Paganini. As my playing was also agreeable to him, we determined to compose a duet together for violin and piano. I had thought of doing so in Warsaw. Slawick is, indeed, a great and talented violinist. When I become acquainted with Merk, we shall be able to manage a trio. I hope to meet him soon at Mechettiʼs.
Czerny was with me at Diabelliʼs, yesterday; the latter invited me to a soirée on Monday next, where I am to meet none but artists. On Sunday there is a soirée at Liklʼs, where the aristocratic musical world assemble, and the Overture for four performers is to be given. On Saturday there is to be a performance of old church music at Kiesewetterʼs (author of a work on music.)
I am living on the fourth floor; some English people took such a fancy to my abode, that they said they would rent it of me for eighty gulden; a proposal to which I acceded most willingly. My young and agreeable hostess, Frau Baroness of Lachmanowicz, sister-in-law of Frau von Uszakow, has just as roomy apartments on the fourth storey for twenty gulden, which satisfy me quite well. I know you will say, “the poor wretch lives in a garret.” But it is not so; there is another floor between me and the roof, and eighty gulden are not to be despised either. People visit me notwithstanding; even Count Hussarzweski took the trouble to mount up. The street is in an advantageous position for me, in the midst of the city, close to where I most often want to go. Artaria is at the left, Mechetti and Haslinger are at my right, and the Royal Opera Theatre is behind. Could I have anything more convenient?
I have not yet written to Herr Elsner, but I was at Czernyʼs just now. Up till to-day, the Quartett has not appeared.
Dr. Malfatti scolded me for appearing at Madame Schaschekʼs to dinner at four instead of two. I am to dine with Malfatti again next Saturday, and if I am late again, Malfatti will—so he threatens—subject me to a painful operation.
I can imagine dear Papa looking grave over my frivolity, and want of respect to my elders; but I will improve. I am proud to say that Malfatti is really fond of me. Nidecki comes to me every day to play. If my concerto for two pianos succeeds to my satisfaction, we are going to play it together in public, but I shall play alone first.
Haslinger is always pleasant, but does not say a word about publishing. Shall I go shortly to Italy, or shall I wait?[84] Dearest Papa, please tell me what are your and dear Mammaʼs wishes.
I daresay Mamma is glad I did not return to Warsaw, but how I should like to be there! Embrace dear Titus for me, and beg him to write me a few words.
I know you believe in my affection and deep attachment; but you can scarcely imagine what a very great delight your letters are to me. Why is not the post quicker? You will think it natural that I should be very anxious about you, and impatiently await news of you.
AN AGREEABLE ACQUAINTANCE. I have made a very agreeable acquaintance, a young man of the name of Leibenfrost; he is a friend of Kesslerʼs. We meet frequently, and when I am not invited out we dine together in the city. He knows Vienna perfectly, and will be sure to take me to see whatever is worth seeing. For instance, yesterday, we had a splendid walk to the fortifications; Dukes, Princes, Counts, in a word, all the aristocracy of Vienna were assembled there. I met Slawick, and we agreed to choose a Beethoven theme for our Variations.
For some reasons I am very glad that I am here, but for others!...
I am very comfortable in my room; there is a roof opposite, and the people walking below look like dwarfs. I am most happy, when I have played to my heartʼs content on Graffʼs magnificent instrument. Now I am going to sleep with your letters in my hand; then I shall dream only of you.
The Mazurka was danced, yesterday, at Beyerʼs. Slawick fell down with his partner, an old Countess with a coarse face and a large nose, who daintily held her dress in the old-fashioned way, by the tips of her fingers, her head resting on the flap of his coat. But all respect to the couple, and to the lady in particular, who is sensible and entertaining and knows the usage du monde.
Among the most popular of the numerous amusements of Vienna are the Garden Concerts, where Launer and Strauss play waltzes while the public sup. After every waltz the musicians receive a boisterous bravo. If an ad libitum is played, introducing favourite operatic melodies, songs, and dances, the enthusiasm of the Viennese knows no bounds.
I wanted to send you with this my last Waltz, but the post goes, and I have no time to write it out, so must wait till another opportunity. The Mazurkas, too, I must get copied first; but they are not for dancing.
I do not like to say goodbye already; I would gladly write more. If you should see Fontana tell him that he shall soon have a letter from me. Matuszynski will have a long epistle either to-day or by the next post.
Farewell, my dearests,
Your FREDERIC.
To John Matuszynski.
Vienna,
Sunday, Christmas Morning.
This time last year I was in the Bernhardine church, to-day I am sitting in my dressing gown, quite alone; I kiss my sweet ring and write.[85]
Dear Hänschen,
“SECOND ONLY TO PAGANINI.” I have just come from hearing the famous violinist, Slawick, who is second only to Paganini. He takes sixty-nine staccato notes at one stroke of the bow! It is almost incredible! When I heard him I wanted to rush home and sketch out some variations for piano and violin on an Adagio by Beethoven; but a glance at the post office, which I always pass (that I may ask for letters from home), diverted my desires.
The tears which this heavenly theme brought to my eyes have moistened your letter. I long, unspeakably, for a word from you; you know why.
How any news of my angel of peace always delights me!
How gladly would I touch the strings which should awaken not only stormy feelings, but the songs whose half echoes still haunt the shores of the Danube—songs sung by the warriors of King John Sobieski.
You advised me to choose a poet. But you know that I am an indecisive being, and only once in my life made a good choice.
I would not willingly be a burden to my father; were I not afraid of that, I should immediately return to Warsaw. I am often in such a mood that I curse the moment in which I left my beloved home. You will, I am sure, understand my condition, and that since Titus went away too much has fallen suddenly upon me. The numerous dinners, soirées, concerts, and balls I am obliged to attend only weary me. I am melancholy. I feel so lonely and deserted here, yet I cannot live as I like. I have to dress, and look cheerful in drawing rooms; but when I am in my room again, I talk to my piano, to whom, as my best friend in Vienna, I pour out all my sorrows. There is not a soul I can unreservedly confide in, and yet I have to treat everyone as a friend. Plenty of people seem, indeed, to like me, take my portrait, and seek after my company, but they do not make up for you. I have lost my peace of mind, and only feel happy when I can read your letters, think of the monument of King Sigismund,[86] or look at my precious ring.
A LOVERʼS ANXIETIES. Pray forgive me, dear Hänschen, for writing so complainingly, but my heart feels lighter when I can thus talk to you, and I have always told you everything that concerned myself. Did you receive a short letter from me the day before yesterday? Perhaps my scribbling is not of much consequence to you as you are at home, but I read your letters again and again.
Dr. Freyer, having learnt from Schuch that I was in Vienna, has been to see me two or three times. He gave me a great deal of interesting news, and was very pleased with your letters, which I read to him up to a certain passage, which passage made me feel very sad. Does she really look so changed? Do you think she was ill? She is of such a sensitive nature that this is not at all unlikely. But, perhaps, it was only your imagination, or she had been frightened by something. God forbid that she should suffer anything on my account! Comfort her, and assure her that as long as my heart beats I shall not cease to adore her. Tell her that, after my death, my ashes shall be spread beneath her feet. But this is not half what you might say to her on my behalf. I would write to her myself, and, indeed, should have done so long ago, to escape the torments I endure, but if my letter chanced to fall into other hands, might it not injure her reputation? So you must be the interpreter of my thoughts; speak for me, “et jʼen conviendrai.” These words of yours flashed through me like lightning, when I read your letter. A Viennese, who happened to be walking with me at the time, seized me by the arm, and could scarcely hold me in. He could not make out what had come to me. I could have embraced and kissed all the passers by, for your first letter had made my heart feel lighter than it had been for many a day.
I am sure I must be wearying you, my dear friend, but it is difficult for me to hide from you anything that touches my heart. The day before yesterday I dined with Frau Beyer, who is also called Constantia. I enjoy visiting her very much, because she bears a name so unspeakably dear to me; I even rejoice if one of her pocket-handkerchiefs or serviettes marked “Constantia” falls into my hands. Slawick is a friend of hers, and I often go to her house with him.
Yesterday, as on Christmas Eve, we played in the fore and afternoon. The weather was spring-like. As I was returning in the evening from the Baronessʼs circle, I walked slowly into St. Stephenʼs. I was alone, for Slawick was obliged to go to the Imperial Chapel. The church was empty, and, to get the full effect of the lofty and imposing edifice, I leant against a pillar in the darkest corner. The vastness and splendour of the arching are indescribable: one must see St. Stephenʼs for oneʼs self. The profoundest silence, broken only by the resounding steps of the vergers coming to light the tapers, reigned around.
Before and behind me, indeed everywhere but overhead, were graves, and I felt my loneliness and desertion as I never had before. When the lights had burned up, and the cathedral began to fill, I muffled myself in my cloak (you know how I used to go about in the Cracow suburb), and hastened off to the Mass at the Imperial Chapel. Amid a merry crowd, I threaded my way to the palace, where I heard some sleepy musicians play three movements of a mass. I returned home at one oʼclock in the morning, and went to bed to dream of you, of her, and of my dear children.[87]
Next morning I was awakened by an invitation to dinner from Frau Elkan, a Polish lady, and the wife of a well-known wealthy banker. The first thing I did that day was to play some melancholy fantasias, and, after receiving calls from Nidecki, Liebenfrost, and Steinkeller, I went to dine with Malfatti. This excellent man thinks of everything; he even goes so far as to provide dishes cooked in Polish fashion.
THE STARS OF THE ROYAL OPERA. Wildt, the famous tenor, came after dinner. I accompanied him, from memory, in an air from “Otello,” which he sang admirably. Wildt and Fraulein Heinefetter are the stars of the Royal opera; the other singers are not so good as one would expect. But a voice like Heinefetterʼs is very rare; her intonation also is always pure, her colouring refined, and, indeed, her singing altogether faultless; but she is cold; I nearly got my nose frozen in the pit. She looks particularly handsome as a man. I liked her better in “Otello” than in “Barbiere,” in which she represented the consummate coquette, instead of the lively witty girl. As Sextus in “Titus” she was exceedingly brilliant. In a few days she will appear in “Der Diebische Elster,” which I am curious to see. Fräulein Wolkow pleased me better as Rosine in the “Barbiere,” but she certainly has not the voice of Heinefetter. I wished I had heard Pasta.
You know that I have letters from the Saxon court to the Viceroy of Milan, but what had I best do? My parents leave me to follow my own wishes, but I would rather they had given me directions. Shall I go to Paris? Friends here advise me to stay in Vienna. Or shall I go home, or stay here and kill myself? Advise me what to do. Please ask a certain person in Warsaw, who has always had great influence over me. Tell me her opinion, and I will act upon it.
Let me hear again before you go to the war. Address, Poste Restante, Vienna. Do go and see my dear parents and Constantia; and, as long as you are in Warsaw, please pay frequent visits to my sisters that they may think you are coming to see me, and I am in the next room; sit with them that they may fancy it is me; in a word, take my place at home.
ALOYS SCHMITT. THALBERG. I am not thinking any more of concert-giving just now. Aloys Schmitt, the pianist from Frankfort-on-the-Maine, whose studies are so famous, is here at present. He is something over forty years of age. I have made his acquaintance, and he promised to come and see me. He intends giving a concert, and it must be admitted that he is a clever musician. On musical matters we shall, I think, soon understand one another.
Thalberg is also here, and playing famously, but he is not the man for me. He is younger than I am, very popular with the ladies, makes pot-pourris on the “Mutes,” plays forte and piano with the pedals, but not with his hands, takes tenths as I do octaves, and wears diamond studs. He does not at all admire Moscheles; so it is not surprising that the tutti were the only part of my concerto that pleased him. He, too, writes concertos.
I finish this letter three days after I began it, and have read through my stupid scribble again. Pray excuse having to pay the postage, dear Hänschen. When dining to-day at the Italian restaurant, I heard some one say, “God made a mistake in creating Poland.” Is it any wonder that my feelings are more than I can express? Somebody else said, “There is nothing to be got out of Poland,” so you ought not to expect anything new from me who am a Pole.
There is a Frenchman here who makes all kinds of sausages, and for a month past crowds have gathered round his attractive shop, for there is something new in it every day. Some people imagine that they are beholding the remains of the French Revolution, and look compassionately at the sausages and hams, which hang up like pictures, or they are indignant at the revolutionary Frenchman being allowed to open a meat shop, as there were quite enough pigs in his own country. He is the talk of Vienna, and there is a general dread that if there should be a disturbance the French will be at the bottom of it.
I must close, for the time is quite up. Embrace all my dear friends for me, and be assured that I shall not leave off loving you till I have ceased to love my parents, my sisters, and her. My dearest, do write me a few lines soon. You can show this to her if you like. I am going to Malfattiʼs again to-day, but to the post first. My parents do not know of my writing to you. You can tell them, only donʼt show them the letter.
I do not know how to part from my sweet Hänschen. Depart, you wretch! If W—— loves you as warmly as I do, so would Con ..... No, I cannot even write the name, my hand is too unworthy. Oh! I should tear my hair out if I thought she forgot me: I feel a regular Othello to-day. I was about to fold and seal the letter without an envelope, forgetting that it was going where everybody reads Polish. As I have a little space left, I will describe my life here.
I am living on the fourth floor in a handsome street, but I have to be on the alert if I want to see what passes. When I come home you will see the room in my new album, young Hummel having kindly made me a drawing of it. It is spacious, and has five windows, to which the bed stands opposite. My wonderful piano stands on the right, the sofa on the left, a looking-glass between the windows, a large handsome round mahogany table in the middle of the room; the floor is waxed. Donʼt be alarmed!...
DIVISION OF THE DAY. “The gentleman does not receive in the afternoon,” so I can be in your midst in thought. The intolerably stupid servant wakes me early; I rise, take my coffee, which is often cold, because I forget my breakfast over my music. My German teacher appears punctually at 9 oʼclock; then I generally write, Hummel comes to work at my portrait, and Nidecki to study my Concerto. I keep on my comfortable dressing-gown till 12 oʼclock, at which hour Dr. Leibenfrost, a lawyer here, comes in to see me. Weather permitting, I walk with him on the Glacis, then we dine at the “Zum Bömischen Köchin,” the rendezvous of the students from the Academy, and afterwards, according to the custom here, we go to one of the best coffee-houses. Then I make calls, returning home at dusk, when I throw myself into evening dress, and go to a soirée. About 11 or 12 oʼclock (never later) I come home, play, laugh, read, and then go to bed and dream of you.
My portrait—which is a secret between you and me—is very good. If you think she would like it I could send it through Schuch, who will probably leave here with Freyer, about the 15th of next month. I began to write this letter quite clearly, but I have finished it in such a way that you will have some trouble in reading it. Embrace my college friends, and, if possible, get them to write to me. Kindest love to Elsner.
To the same.
Vienna,
New Yearʼs Day, 1831.
Dearest Heart,
Now you have what you wanted. Did you receive the letter, and deliver any of it? I still regret what I have done. I was full of sweet hopes, and now I am tormented with doubt and anxiety. Perhaps she scorns me, or laughs at me! Perhaps—oh, does she love me? asks my throbbing heart. You good-for-nothing Esculapius. You were in the theatre with your opera glasses, and did not take your eyes off her! If that is so, confound it.... Do not make light of my confidence, but I only write to you for my own sake; you are not worth the trouble. Now you know all my thoughts. When you are in your room with your old friends Rostowski, Schuch, Freyer, Kyjewski, and Hube, imagine that I am enjoying myself with you, but oh! I feel so strange in writing to you here. It seems as if I were with you, and what I see and hear around me only a dream. The voices to which my ear is unaccustomed seem to me only like the rattling of a carriage, or some other unimportant sound. Only your or Titusʼs voice could wake me out of my stupor. To-day, life and death are indifferent to me. Say nothing of this to my parents. Tell them that I am in capital spirits, that I want for nothing, am enjoying myself gloriously, and never feel lonely. Tell her the same, if she laughs at me, but if she asks kindly after me, and seems anxious about me, whisper to her not to be uneasy, but say that I am very lonely and unhappy away from her. I am not well, but do not tell my parents. All my friends are asking what ails me; “humour,” I sometimes say, but you know what is really the matter.
FEELS LONELY IN VIENNA. At the end of next month I shall go to Paris, if things remain quiet there. There is no lack of amusements here, but I very seldom care to participate in them. Merk, the first violinist in Vienna, has promised me a visit. This is the first of January. Oh, what a sad beginning of the year for me! I love you dearly. Write as soon as possible. Is she at Radom? Have you built forts? My poor parents! How are my friends? I would die for you, for any of you. Why am I condemned to stay here, lonely and forsaken? You who are together, can comfort one another in these fearful times. Your flute will have enough to mourn over? How my piano will weep itself out!