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):—