I wished to enclose my latest waltz, but the post is about to depart, and I have no longer time to copy it, therefore I shall send it another time.  The mazurkas, too, I have first to get copied, but they are not intended for dancing.

And in the month of July, 1831, “I have written a polonaise, which I must leave here for Wurfel.”  There are two more remarks about compositions, but of compositions which were never finished, perhaps never begun.  One of these remarks refers to the variations on a theme of Beethoven’s, which he intended to compose conjointly with Slavik, and has already been quoted; the other refers to a grander project.  Speaking of Nidecki, who came every morning to his lodgings and practised his (Chopin’s) concerto, he says (December 21, 1830):—­

   If I succeed in writing a concerto for two pianos so as to
   satisfy myself, we intend to appear at once with it in
   public; first, however, I wish to play once alone.

What an interesting, but at the same time what a gigantic, subject to write on the history of the unrealised plans of men of genius would be!  The above-mentioned waltz, polonaise, and mazurkas do not, of course, represent the whole of Chopin’s output as a composer during the time of his stay in Vienna; but we may surmise with some degree of certainty that few works of importance have to be added to it.  Indeed, the multiplicity of his social connections and engagements left him little time for himself, and the condition of his fatherland kept him in a constant state of restlessness.  Poland and her struggle for independence were always in his mind; now he laments in his letters the death of a friend, now rejoices at a victory, now asks eagerly if such or such a piece of good news that has reached him is true, now expresses the hope that God will be propitious to their cause, now relates that he has vented his patriotism by putting on the studs with the Polish eagles and using the pocket-handkerchief with the Kosynier (scythe-man) depicted on it.

What is going on at home? [he writes, on May 28, 1831.] I am always dreaming of you.  Is there still no end to the bloodshed?  I know your answer:  “Patience!” I, too, always comfort myself with that.

But good health, he finds, is the best comfort in misfortune, and if his bulletins to his parents could be trusted he was in full enjoyment of it.

Zacharkiewicz of Warsaw called on me; and when his wife saw me at Szaszek’s, she did not know how to sufficiently express her astonishment at my having become such a sturdy fellow.  I have let my whiskers grow only on the right side, and they are growing very well; on the left side they are not needed at all, for one sits always with the right side turned to the public.

Although his “ideal” is not there to retain him, yet he cannot make up his mind to leave Vienna.  On May 28, he writes:—­