fingers a power beyond the ordinary measure of their cunning.  It is true that Florestan’s whole applause was expressed in nothing but a happy smile, and the remark that the variations might have been written by Beethoven or Franz Schubert, had either of these been a piano virtuoso; but how surprised he was when, turning to the title-page, he read ’La ci darem la mano, varie pour le piano-forte, par Frederic Chopin, Ouvre 2,’ and with what astonishment we both cried out, ‘An Opus 2!’ How our faces glowed as we wondered, exclaiming, ’That is something reasonable once more!  Chopin?  I never heard of the name—­who can he be?  In any case, a genius.  Is not that Zerlina’s smile, And Leporello, etc’ I could not describe the scene.  Heated with wine, Chopin, and our own enthusiasm, we went to Master Raro, who with a smile, and displaying but little curiosity for Chopin, said, ’Bring me the Chopin!  I know you and your enthusiasm.’  We promised to bring it the next day.  Eusebius soon bade us good-night.  I remained a short time with Master Raro.  Florestan, who had been for some time without a habitation, hurried to my house through the moonlit streets.  ‘Chopin’s variations,’ he began, as if in a dream, ’are constantly running through my head; the whole is so dramatic and Chopin-like; the introduction is so concentrated.  Do you remember Leporello’s springs in thirds?  That seems to me somewhat unfitted to the theme; but the theme—­why did he write that in A flat?  The variations, the finale, the adagio, these are indeed something; genius burns through every measure.  Naturally, dear Julius, Don Juan, Zerlina, Leporello, Massetto, are the dramatis persona; Zerlina’s answer in the theme has a sufficiently enamored character; the first variation expresses, a kind of coquettish coveteousness:  the Spanish Grandee flirts amiably with the peasant girl in it.  This leads of itself to the second, which is at once confidential, disputative, and comic, as though two lovers were chasing each other and laughing more than usual about it.  How all this is changed in the third!  It is filled with fairy music and moonshine; Masetto keeps at a distance, swearing audibly, but without any effect on Don Juan.  And now the fourth—­what do you think of it?  Eusebius played it altogether correctly.  How boldly, how wantonly, it springs forward to meet the man! though the adagio (it seems quite natural to me that Chopin repeats the first part) is in B flat minor, as it should be, for in its commencement it presents a beautiful moral warning to Don Juan.  It is at once so mischievous and beautiful that Leporello listens behind the hedge, laughing and jesting that oboes and clarionettes enchantingly allure, and that the B flat major in full bloom correctly designates the first kiss of love.  But all this is nothing compared to the last (have you any more wine, Julius?).  That is the whole of Mozart’s finale, popping