I was to start with the Cracow post for Vienna as early as this day week, but finally I have given up that idea—­you will understand why.  You may be quite sure that I am no egoist, but, as I love you, am also willing to sacrifice anything for the sake of others.  For the sake of others, I say, but not for the sake of outward appearance.  For public opinion, which is in high esteem among us, but which, you may be sure, does not influence me, goes even so far as to call it a misfortune if one wears a torn coat, a shabby hat, and the like.  If I should fail in my career, and have some day nothing to eat, you must appoint me as clerk at Poturzyn.  There, in a room above the stables, I shall be as happy as I was last summer in your castle.  As long as I am in vigour and health I shall willingly continue to work all my life.  I have often considered the question, whether I am really lazy or whether I could work more without overexerting my strength.  Joking apart, I have convinced myself that I am not the worst idler, and that I am able to work twice as much if necessity demands it.

It often happens that he who wishes to better the opinion which others have formed of him makes it worse; but, I think, as regards you, I can make it neither better nor worse, even if I occasionally praise myself.  The sympathy which I have for you forces your heart to have the same sympathetic feelings for me.  You are not master of your thoughts, but I command mine; when I have once taken one into my head I do not let it be taken from me, just as the trees do not let themselves be robbed of their green garment which gives them the charm of youth.  With me it will be green in winter also, that is, only in the head, but—­God help me—­in the heart the greatest ardour, therefore, no one need wonder that the vegetation is so luxuriant.  Enough...yours for ever...Only now I notice that I have talked too much nonsense.  You see yesterday’s impression [he refers to the name-day festivity already mentioned] has not yet quite passed away, I am still sleepy and tired, because I danced too many mazurkas.

Around your letters I twine a little ribbon which my ideal once gave me.  I am glad the two lifeless things, the letters and the ribbon, agree so well together, probably because, although they do not know each other, they yet feel that they both come from a hand dear to me.

Even the most courteous of mortals, unless he be wholly destitute of veracity, will hesitate to deny the truth of Chopin’s confession that he has been talking nonsense.  But apart from the vagueness and illogicalness of several of the statements, the foregoing effusion is curious as a whole:  the thoughts turn up one does not know where, how, or why—­their course is quite unaccountable; and if they passed through his mind in an unbroken connection, he fails to give the slightest indication of it.  Still, although Chopin’s philosophy of life, poetical rhapsodies, and meditations on love and friendship, may not afford us much light, edification, or pleasure, they help us substantially to realise their author’s character, and particularly his temporary mood.