Now we moved from Brünn to Vienna. Social life was over. We were relegated to the schoolroom again, as befitted our age. I devoted myself with redoubled industry to my studies in languages and the piano, and made excerpts from Brockhaus’s _Konversationslexikon_. The games of puff grew somewhat rare, for Elvira lived in a distant quarter of the city with her mother, and we came together only once or twice a week. She continued writing poetry. “Delascar,” which had been interrupted by the journey to Wiesbaden, was now polished and finished. Then came a comedy, _Der Briefträger_ (“The Letter-Carrier”), and a sequence of ballads whose collective title I do not now remember. The young poetess wanted to get the verdict of experts, and sent her manuscripts to Joseph von Weilen, whose dramas were at that time having much success in the Burgtheater, and to Feldmann, the writer of comedies. And she ventured higher yet: she addressed herself to Grillparzer, who was at the height of his renown, and to Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach, whose star was then beginning to rise. These two came to call on Elvira, and it was at our apartments. I can still see in my mind the old and somewhat morose Grillparzer as he came into our room, fatigued with stair-climbing. He had a lively conversation with Elvira, and urged her to keep on writing diligently—she might come to produce notable work. And young Marie Ebner—she was twenty-eight at the time—came likewise to return Elvira’s visit and give her verdict. This too, I believe, was favorable. Unhappily I cannot recall the details of these interesting visits. I have retained merely the impression that on that occasion Frau Ebner was especially pleased with _me_, though I was only a secondary person there. Later too, when she corresponded with Elvira or met her, she always inquired with interest for the beautiful (she said “beautiful,” I cannot help it, and after nearly half a century it is permissible to claim the long-lost epithet) Countess Kinsky. Shall I here interpolate a personal description and tell how I looked at fifteen? Why not? Well, then,—an incredible abundance of hair, dazzling white little teeth,—Enough, I would rather stop. This self-flattery, even if it does date back to gray antiquity, has too silly a sound for me. One day—it was in the beginning of the year 1858—my guardian came in looking quite pale. “Do you know the news?” “What has happened?” cried my mother. “Why, you are all upset!” “Radetzky is dead!”