After he had been presented to the Queen by the Duchess of Sutherland, and had played at Court, he daily received invitations from the first families, and became, finally, a noted favourite. The late evening parties, the want of sleep, and the wear and tear of salon life, were very injurious to his weak constitution, and quite opposed to the doctorsʼ orders. For the sake of quiet he accepted an invitation to Scotland, but, as might have been expected, the climate was too severe for him. The prevalent mists, so trying to nervous temperaments, affected his spirits, and induced that melancholy which had often troubled him in early years, and become infused into his earnest and wildly romantic compositions. He writes from Scotland to his friend Grzymala:—
VISIT TO SCOTLAND. “I have played at a concert in Glasgow before all the haute volée. To-day I feel very much depressed. Oh, this fog! Although the window at which I am writing commands the same beautiful prospect with which, as you will remember, Robert Bruce was so delighted—Stirling Castle, mountains, lakes, a charming park, in a word the most splendid view in Scotland—I can see nothing except when the sun breaks momentarily through the mist. If it would but do this a little oftener! I shall soon forget Polish, and speak French like an Englishman, and English like a Scotchman.
“If I do not write you a Jeremiade it is not because I mistrust your sympathy, but because you only know everything; and if I once begin I shall go on complaining for ever, and always in the same strain. But, no, I am wrong in saying it is always the same, for I grow worse every day. I feel weaker and weaker and cannot compose, not for want of inclination, but from physical causes, and besides I am in a different place every week. But what am I to do? I must at least lay by something for the winter.”
Despite the kindness and the hospitable welcome which he received from two Scotch ladies, sisters, one of whom, Miss J. W. Stirling, had been his pupil, he did not enjoy his visit, and sometimes longed for wings that he might fly back to France. I quote again from his letter to Grzymala:—
“I am quite incapable of doing anything all the morning, and when I am dressed I feel so exhausted that I am obliged to rest. After dinner I have to sit two hours with the gentlemen, listen to their conversation, and look on while they drink. I feel ready to die with weariness, and think of other things all the time till I go into the drawing-room, when I have to use all my efforts to rouse myself, for everybody is curious to hear me play. After this, my good Daniel carries me upstairs, undresses and puts me to bed; he leaves the light burning, and I am once more at leisure to sigh and dream, and look forward to passing another day in the same manner. If I ever arrange to do anything I am sure to be carried off in another direction, for my Scotch friends—although with the best intentions in the world—give me no rest. They want to introduce me to all their relations; they will kill me with their kindness, but for mere politenessʼ sake I must put up with it all.”
Witty men never quite lose their sense of humour, and a gleam of cheerfulness, a spark of his former brilliant esprit, would now and then shine forth amid his melancholy. He describes going to the opera in London when Jenny Lind made her débût, and the Queen appeared in public for the first time after a long retirement. He says, “I was very much impressed, especially by old Wellington, who, as a valiant protector of monarchy, sat in front of his sovereign, like a faithful watch-dog guarding his lordʼs castle. I have made the acquaintance of Jenny Lind; she is from Sweden, and is quite an original.”
His ennui, however, increased. He wrote to Grzymala:—
“I am going to Manchester where there is to be a grand concert, and I am to play twice without orchestral accompaniment. Alboni is also to perform, but I take no interest in this or anything else. I shall just sit down and play, and what I shall do afterwards I do not yet know. If I were only sure of not being ill if I spent the winter here.”
In another letter he complains that he is feeling ill, but has to play at a concert, and he commissions his friend in Paris to look out for a suitable residence. He adds, “why I should trouble you with all this I do not know, for I really do not care about anything. But I must think about myself, so I ask you to help me in doing so.” Then comes a reference to the unhappy love which he cannot forget: “I never yet cursed anyone, but I am now so overwhelmed by the weariness of life, that I am ready to LAST LETTER FROM ENGLAND.curse Lucrezia. But there is pain in this too, which is all the worse as one grows older in wickedness every day.” He finishes by saying, “It is no good their troubling about me at home. I cannot be more wretched than I am, and there is no chance of my being less so. In general I feel nothing and await my end with patience.” And indeed the end was not far off. In his last letter from England he writes:—
“On Thursday I am to leave terrible London. In addition to my other ills I have got neuralgia. Tell Pleyel to send me in a piano on Thursday evening, and have it covered; buy a bunch of violets to make the room smell sweet.[44] I should like when I return to find some books of poetry in my bedroom to which I shall, probably, be confined for some time. So on Friday evening I hope to be in Paris; a day longer here, and I should go mad or die. My Scotch lady friends are good, but very wearisome. They have made so much of me that I cannot easily get quit of them. Let the house be thoroughly warmed and well dusted. Perhaps I may get well again.”