must not be supposed that Chopin’s musical acquaintances were confined to the male sex; among them there was at least one belonging to the better and fairer half of humanity--a pianist-composer, a maiden still in her teens, and clever and pretty to boot, who reciprocated the interest he took in her.  According to our friend’s rather conceited statement I ought to have said—­but it would have been very ungallant to do so—­he reciprocated the interest she took in him.  The reader has no doubt already guessed that I am speaking of Leopoldine Blahetka.

On the whole, Chopin passed his time in Vienna both pleasantly and profitably, as is well shown by his exclamation on the last day of his stay:  “It goes crescendo with my popularity here, and this gives me much pleasure.”  The preceding day Schuppanzigh had said to him that as he left so soon he ought not to be long in coming back.  And when Chopin replied that he would like to return to perfect himself, the by-standers told him he need not come for that purpose as he had no longer anything to learn.  Although the young musician remarks that these were compliments, he cannot help confessing that he likes to hear them; and of course one who likes to hear them does not wholly disbelieve them, but considers them something more than a mere flatus vocis.  “Nobody here,” Chopin writes exultingly, “will regard me as a pupil.”  Indeed, such was the reception he met with that it took him by surprise.  “People wonder at me,” he remarked soon after his arrival in Vienna, “and I wonder at them for wondering at me.”  It was incomprehensible to him that the artists and amateurs of the famous musical city should consider it a loss if he departed without giving a concert.  The unexpected compliments and applause that everywhere fell upon his ear, together with the many events, experiences, and thoughts that came crowding upon him, would have caused giddiness in any young artist; Chopin they made drunk with excitement and pleasure.  The day after the second concert he writes home:  “I really intended to have written about something else, but I can’t get yesterday out of my head.”  His head was indeed brimful, or rather full to overflowing, of whirling memories and expectations which he poured into the news—­budgets destined for his parents, regardless of logical sequence, just as they came uppermost.  The clear, succinct accounts of his visit which he gives to his friend Titus after his return to Warsaw contrast curiously with the confused interminable letters of shreds and patches he writes from Vienna.  These latter, however, have a value of their own; they present one with a striking picture of the state of his mind at that time.  The reader may consider this part of the biography as an annotated digest of Chopin’s letters, of those addressed to his parents as well as of those to his friend Woyciechowski.

At last came the 19th of August, the day of our travelling-party’s departure.  Chopin passed the whole forenoon in making valedictory visits, and when in the afternoon he had done packing and writing, he called once more on Haslinger—­who promised to publish the Variations in about five weeks—­and then went to the cafe opposite the theatre, where he was to meet Gyrowetz, Lachner, Kreutzer, and others.  The rest shall be told in Chopin’s own words:—­