Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician

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And then, we do not meet with a phrase of a more cheerful nature
which is not clouded by sadness. Weber--I mention his name
intentionally--would, for instance, in the D flat major portion
have concluded the melodic phrase in diatonic progression and
left the harmony pure. Now see what Chopin does. The con anima
has this mark of melancholy still more distinctly impressed upon
it. After the repetition of the capricious, impulsively-
passionate first section (in B flat minor and D flat major)
follows the delicious second, the expression of which is as
indescribable as that of Leonardo da Vinci's "La Gioconda." It is
a pondering and wondering full of longing. In the deep, tender
yearning, with the urging undercurrent of feeling, of the C sharp
minor portion, the vague dreaming of the preceding portion of the
section grows into wakefulness, and the fitful imagination is
concentrated on one object. Without continuing the emotional or
entering on a formal analysis of this scherzo, I venture to say
that it is a very important composition, richer and more varied
in emotional incidents than the other works of Chopin which bear
the same name. More than to any one of the master's scherzos, the
name capriccio would be suitable to his third "Scherzo," Op. 39,
with its capricious starts and changes, its rudderless drifting.
Peevishness, a fierce scornfulness, and a fretful agitation, may
be heard in these sounds, of jest and humour there is nothing
perceptible. At any rate, the curled lip, as it were, contradicts
the jesting words, and the careless exterior does not altogether
conceal the seething rage within. But with the meno mosso (D flat
major) come pleasanter thoughts. The hymn-like snatches of
sustained melody with the intervening airy interludes are very
lovely. These are the principal features, to describe all the
whims is of course impossible. You may call this work an
extravaganza, and point out its grotesqueness; but you must admit
that only by this erratic character of the form and these
spasmodic movements, could be expressed the peculiar restiveness,
fitfulness, and waywardness of thought and feeling that
characterise Chopin's individuality. To these unclassical
qualities--for classical art is above all plastic and self-
possessed--combined as they are with a high degree of refinement
and delicacy, his compositions owe much of their peculiar charm.
The absence of scorn distinguishes the fourth "Scherzo," Op. 54,
from the other three; but, like them, although less closely
wrapped, it wears dark veils. The tripping fairy steps which we
find in bars 17-20 and in other places are a new feature in
Chopin. As to the comparative value of the work, it seems to me
inferior to its brothers. The first section is too fragmentary to
give altogether satisfaction. One is hustled from one phrase to
another, and they are as unlike each other as can well be
imagined. The beauty of many of the details, however, must be
acknowledged; indeed, the harmonic finesses, the melodic cunning,
and rhythmical piquancy, are too potent to be ignored. The
resting-place and redeeming part of this scherzo is the sweetly-
melodious second section, with its long, smooth, gently and
beautifully-curved lines. Also the return to the repetition of
the first section is very interesting. This scherzo has the
appearance of being laboured, painfully hammered and welded
together. But as the poet is born, not made-which "being born" is
not brought about without travail, nor makes the less desirable a
careful bringing-up--so also does a work of art owe what is best
in it to a propitious concurrence of circumstances in the natal
hour.

The contents of Chopin's impromptus are of a more pleasing nature
than those of the scherzos. Like the latter they are wayward, but
theirs is a charming, lovable waywardness. The composer's three
first impromptus were published during his lifetime: Op. 29 in
December, 1837; Op. 36 in May, 1840; and Op. 51 in February,
1843. The fourth impromptu ("Fantaisie-Impromptu"), Op. 66, is a
posthumous publication. What name has been more misapplied than
that of impromptu? Again and again we meet with works thus
christened which bear upon them the distinct marks of painful
effort and anxious filing, which maybe said to smell of the mid-
night lamp, and to be dripping with the hard-working artificer's
sweat. How Chopin produced the "Impromptu," Op. 29 (in A flat
major), I do not know. Although an admired improviser, the
process of composition was to him neither easy nor quick. But be
this as it may, this impromptu has quite the air of a
spontaneous, unconstrained outpouring. The first section with its
triplets bubbles forth and sparkles like a fountain on which the
sunbeams that steal through the interstices of the overhanging
foliage are playing. The F minor section is sung out clearly and
heartily, with graces beautiful as nature's. The song over, our
attention is again attracted by the harmonious murmuring and the
changing lights of the water. The "Deuxieme Impromptu," Op. 36
(in F sharp major), is, like the first, a true impromptu, but
while the first is a fresh and lusty welling forth of joy amidst
the pleasures of a present reality, this is a dreamy lingering
over thoughts and scenes of the imagination that appear and
vanish like dissolving views. One would wish to have a programme
of this piece. Without such assistance the D major section of the
impromptu is insignificant. We want to see, or at least to know,
who the persons that walk in the procession which the music
accompanies are. Some bars in the second half of this section
remind one of Schumann's "Fantasia" in C. After this section a
curious transition leads in again the theme, which first appeared
in F sharp major, in F major, and with a triplet accompaniment.
When F sharp major is once more reached, the theme is still
further varied (melodically), till at last the wondrous, fairy-
like phrase from the first section brings the piece to a
conclusion. This impromptu is inferior to the first, having less
pith in it; but its tender sweetness and euphony cannot be
denied. The idle forgetfulness of the more serious duties and the
deep miseries of life in the enjoyment of a dolce far niente
recalls Schubert and the "Fantasia," Op. 78, and other works of
his. In the "Troisieme Impromptu" (in G flat major), Op. 51, the
rhythmical motion and the melodical form of the two parts that
serpentine their lines in opposite directions remind one of the
first impromptu (in A flat), but the characters of these pieces
are otherwise very unlike. The earlier work is distinguished by a
brisk freshness; the later one by a feverish restlessness and
faint plaintiveness. After the irresolute flutter of the relaxing
and enervating chromatic progressions and successions of thirds
and sixths, the greater steadiness of the middle section, more
especially the subdued strength and passionate eloquence at the D
flat major, has a good effect. But here, too, the languid,
lamenting chromatic passing and auxiliary notes are not wanting,
and the anxious, breathless accompaniment does not make things
more cheerful. In short, the piece is very fine in its way, but
the unrelieved, or at least very insufficiently relieved,
morbidezza is anything but healthy. We may take note of the plain
chord progressions which intervene in the first and last sections
of the impromptu; such progressions are of frequent occurrence in
Chopin's works. Is there not something pleonastic in the title
"Fantaisie-Impromptu?" Whether the reader may think so or not, he
will agree with me that the fourth impromptu (in C sharp minor),
Op. 66, is the most valuable of the compositions published by
Fontana; indeed, it has become one of the favourites of the
pianoforte-playing world. Spontaneity of emotional expression and
effective treatment of the pianoforte distinguish the Fantaisie-
Impromptu. In the first section we have the restless, surging,
gushing semiquavers, carrying along with them a passionate,
urging melody, and the simultaneous waving triplet accompaniment;
in the second section, where the motion of the accompaniment is
on the whole preserved, the sonorous, expressive cantilena in D
flat major; the third section repeats the first, which it
supplements with a coda containing a reminiscence of the
cantilena of the second section, which calms the agitation of the
semiquavers. According to Fontana, Chopin composed this piece
about 1834. Why did he keep it in his portfolio? I suspect he
missed in it, more especially in the middle section, that degree
of distinction and perfection of detail which alone satisfied his
fastidious taste.

Among Chopin's nocturnes some of his most popular works are to be
found. Nay, the most widely-prevailing idea of his character as a
man and musician seems to have been derived from them. But the
idea thus formed is an erroneous one; these dulcet, effeminate
compositions illustrate only one side of the master's character,
and by no means the best or most interesting. Notwithstanding
such precious pearls as the two Nocturnes, Op. 37, and a few
others, Chopin shows himself greater both as a man and a musician
in every other class of pieces he has originated and cultivated,
more especially in his polonaises, ballades, and studies. That,
however, there is much to be admired in the class now under
consideration will be seen from the following brief comments on
the eighteen nocturnes (leaving out of account the one of the
year 1828 published by Fontana as Op. 72, No. 1, and already
discussed in an earlier chapter) which Chopin gave to the world--
Op. 9, Trois Nocturnes, in January, 1833; Op. 15, Trois
Nocturnes, in January, 1834; Op. 27, Deux Nocturnes, in May,
1836; Op. 32, Deux Nocturnes, December, 1837; Op. 37, Deux
Nocturnes, in May, 1840; Op. 48, Deux Nocturnes, in November,
1841; Op. 55, Deux Nocturnes, in August, 1844; and Op. 62, Deux
Nocturnes, in September, 1846. Rellstab remarked in 1833 of the
Trois Nocturnes, Op. 9, that Chopin, without borrowing directly
from Field, copied the latter's melody and manner of
accompaniment. There is some truth in this; only the word "copy"
is not the correct one. The younger received from the elder
artist the first impulse to write in this form, and naturally
adopted also something of his manner. On the whole, the
similitude is rather generic than specific. Even the contents of
Op. 9 give Chopin a just claim to originality; and the Field
reminiscences which are noticeable in Nos. 1 and 2 (most
strikingly in the commencement of No. 2) of the first set of
nocturnes will be looked for in vain in the subsequent ones.

Where Field smiles [said the above-mentioned critic], Chopin
makes a grinning grimace; where Field sighs, Chopin groans;
where Field shrugs his shoulders, Chopin twists his whole
body; where Field puts some seasoning into the food, Chopin
empties a handful of Cayenne pepper...In short, if one holds
Field's charming romances before a distorting concave mirror,
so that every delicate expression becomes a coarse one, one
gets Chopin's work...We implore Mr. Chopin to return to
nature.

Now, what remains of this statement after subtracting prejudices
and narrow-mindedness? Nothing but that Chopin is more varied and
passionate than Field, and has developed to the utmost some of
the means of expression used by the latter. No. 1 (in B flat
minor) of Op. 9 is pervaded by a voluptuous dreaminess and
cloying sweetness: it suggests twilight, the stillness of night,
and thoughts engendered thereby. The tone of sentiment and the
phraseology of No. 2 (in E fiat major) have been made so common
by fashionable salon composers that one cannot help suspecting
that it is not quite a natural tone--not a tone of true feeling,
but of sentimentality. The vulgar do not imitate the true and
noble, but the false and ostentatious. In this piece one breathes
drawing-room air, and ostentation of sentiment and affectation of
speech are native to that place. What, however, the imitations
often lack is present in every tone and motion of the original:
eloquence, grace, and genuine refinement.

[FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played the return of the principal subject in
a way very different from that in which it is printed, with a
great deal of ornamentation, and said that Chopin played it
always in that way. Also the cadence at the end of the nocturne
(Op. 9, No. 2) had a different form. But the composer very
frequently altered the ornamentions of his pieces or excogitated
alternative readings.]

The third is, like the preceding nocturne, exquisite salon music.
Little is said, but that little very prettily. Although the
atmosphere is close, impregnated with musk and other perfumes,
there is here no affectation. The concluding cadenza, that
twirling line, reads plainly "Frederic Chopin." Op. 15 shows a
higher degree of independence and poetic power than Op. 9. The
third (in G minor) of these nocturnes is the finest of the three.
The words languido e rubato describe well the wavering
pensiveness of the first portion of the nocturne, which finds its
expression in the indecision of the melodic progressions,
harmonies, and modulations. The second section is marked
religiose, and may be characterised as a trustful prayer,
conducive to calm and comfort. The Nocturnes in F major and F
sharp major, Op. 15, are more passionate than the one we just now
considered, at least in the middle sections. The serene, tender
Andante in F major, always sweet, and here and there with touches
of delicate playfulness, is interrupted by thoughts of impetuous
defiance, which give way to sobs and sighs, start up again with
equal violence, and at last die away into the first sweet, tender
serenity. The contrast between the languid dreaming and the fiery
upstarting is striking and effective, and the practical musician,
as well as the student of aesthetics, will do well to examine by
what means these various effects are produced. In the second
nocturne, F sharp major, the brightness and warmth of the world
without have penetrated into the world within. The fioriture flit
about as lightly as gossamer threads. The sweetly-sad longing of
the first section becomes more disquieting in the doppio
movimento, but the beneficial influence of the sun never quite
loses its power, and after a little there is a relapse into the
calmer mood, with a close like a hazy distance on a summer day.
The second (in D flat major) of Op. 27 was, no doubt, conceived
in a more auspicious moment than the first (in C sharp minor), of
which the extravagantly wide-meshed netting of the accompaniment
is the most noteworthy feature. [FOOTNOTE: In most of the pieces
where, as in this one, the left-hand accompaniment consists of an
undulating figure, Chopin wished it to be played very soft and
subdued. This is what Gutmann said.] As to the one in D flat,
nothing can equal the finish and delicacy of execution, the flow
of gentle feeling, lightly rippled by melancholy, and spreading
out here and there in smooth expansiveness. But all this
sweetness enervates; there is poison in it. We should not drink
in these thirds, sixths, &c., without taking an antidote of Bach
or Beethoven. Both the nocturnes of Op. 32 are pretty specimens
of Chopin's style of writing in the tender, calm, and dreamy
moods. Of the two (in B major and A flat major) I prefer the
quiet, pellucid first one. It is very simple, ornaments being
very sparingly introduced. The quietness and simplicity are,
however, at last disturbed by an interrupted cadence, sombre
sounds as of a kettle-drum, and a passionate recitative with
intervening abrupt chords. The second nocturne has less
originality and pith. Deux Nocturnes (in G minor and G major),
Op. 37, are two of the finest, I am inclined to say, the two
finest, of this class of Chopin's pieces; but they are of
contrasting natures. The first and last sections of the one in G
minor are plaintive and longing, and have a wailing
accompaniment; the chord progressions of the middle section glide
along hymn-like. [FOOTNOTE: Gutmann played this section quicker
than the rest, and said that Chopin forgot to mark the change of
movement.] Were it possible to praise one part more emphatically
than another without committing an injustice, I would speak of
the melodic exquisiteness of the first motive. But already I see
other parts rise reproachfully before my repentant conscience. A
beautiful sensuousness distinguishes the nocturne in G major: it
is luscious, soft, rounded, and not without a certain degree of
languor. The successions of thirds and, sixths, the semitone
progressions, the rocking motion, the modulations (note
especially those of the first section and the transition from
that to the second), all tend to express the essential character.
The second section in C major reappears in E major, after a
repetition of part of the first section; a few bars of the latter
and a reminiscence of the former conclude the nocturne. But let
us not tarry too long in the treacherous atmosphere of this Capua-
-it bewitches and unmans. The two nocturnes (in C minor and F
sharp minor) which form Op. 48 are not of the number of those
that occupy foremost places among their companions. Still, they
need not be despised. The melody of the C minor portion of the
first is very expressive, and the second has in the C sharp minor
portion the peculiar Chopinesque flebile dolcezza. In playing
these nocturnes there occurred to me a remark of Schumann's, made
when he reviewed some nocturnes by Count Wielhorski. He said, on
that occasion, that the quicker middle movements which Chopin
frequently introduces into his nocturnes are often weaker than
his first conceptions, meaning the first portions of the
nocturnes. Now, although the middle parts in the present
instances are, on the contrary, slower movements, yet the
judgment holds good; at least, with respect to the first
nocturne, the middle part of which has nothing to recommend it
but the effective use of a full and sonorous instrumentation, if
I may use this word in speaking of one instrument. The middle
part of the second (f, D flat, Molto piu lento), however, is much
finer; in it we meet again, as we did in some other nocturnes,
with soothing, simple chord progressions. When Gutmann studied
the C sharp minor nocturne with Chopin, the master told him that
the middle section (the Molto piu lento, in D flat major) should
be played as a recitative: "A tyrant commands" (the first two
chords), he said, "and the other asks for mercy." Regarding the
first nocturne (in F minor) of Op. 55, we will note only the
flebile dolcezza of the first and the last section, and the
inferiority of the more impassioned middle section. The second
nocturne (in E flat major) differs in form from the other
nocturnes in this, that it has no contrasting second section, the
melody flowing onward from begining to end in a uniform manner.
The monotony of the unrelieved sentimentality does not fail to
make itself felt. One is seized by an ever-increasing longing to
get out of this oppressive atmosphere, to feel the fresh breezes
and warm sunshine, to see smiling faces and the many-coloured
dress of Nature, to hear the rustling of leaves, the murmuring of
streams, and voices which have not yet lost the clear, sonorous
ring that joy in the present and hope in the future impart. The
two nocturnes, Op. 62, seem to owe their existence rather to the
sweet habit of activity than to inspiration. At any rate, the
tender flutings, trills, roulades, syncopations, &c., of the
first nocturne (in B major), and the sentimental declarations and
confused, monotonous agitation of the second (in E major), do not
interest me sufficiently to induce me to discuss their merits and
demerits.

One day Tausig, the great pianoforte-virtuoso, promised W. von
Lenz to play him Chopin's "Barcarolle," Op. 60 (published in
September, 1846), adding, "That is a performance which must not
be undertaken before more than two persons. I shall play you my
own self (meinen Menschen). I love the piece, but take it up only
rarely." Lenz, who did not know the barcarolle, thereupon went to
a music-shop and read it through attentively. The piece, however,
did not please him at all; it seemed to him a long movement in
the nocturne-style, a Babel of figuration on a lightly-laid
foundation. But he found that he had made a mistake, and, after
hearing it played by Tausig, confessed that the virtuoso had
infused into the "nine pages of enervating music, of one and the
same long-breathed rhythm (12/8), so much interest, so much
motion, and so much action," that he regretted the long piece was
not longer. And now let us hear what remarks Tausig made with
regard to the barcarolle:--

There are two persons concerned in the affair; it is a love-
scene in a discrete gondola; let us say this mise en scene is
the symbol of a lovers' meeting generally. This is expressed
in the thirds and sixths; the dualism of two notes (persons)
is maintained throughout; all is two-voiced, two-souled. In
this modulation here in C sharp major (superscribed dolce
sfogato), there are kiss and embrace! This is evident! When,
after three bars of introduction, the theme, lightly rocking
in the bass solo, enters in the fourth, this theme is
nevertheless made use of throughout the whole fabric only as
an accompaniment, and on this the cantilena in two parts is
laid; we have thus a continuous, tender dialogue.

Both Lenz's first and last impressions were correct. The form of
the barcarolle is that of most of Chopin's nocturnes--consisting
of three sections, of which the third is a modified repetition of
the first--only everything is on a larger scale, and more worked
out. Unfortunately, the contrast of the middle section is not
great enough to prevent the length, in spite of the excellence of
the contents, from being felt. Thus we must also subscribe to the
"nine pages of enervating music." Still, the barcarolle is one of
the most important of Chopin's compositions in the nocturne-
style. It has distinctive features which decidedly justify and
make valuable its existence. Local colouring is not wanting. The
first section reminded me of Schumann's saying that Chopin in his
melodies leans sometimes over Germany towards Italy. If properly
told, this love-laden romance cannot fail to produce effect.

Of the pieces that bear the name "Berceuse," Chopin's Op. 57
(published in June, 1845) is the finest, or at least one of the
finest and happiest conceptions. It rests on the harmonic basis
of tonic and dominant. The triad of the tonic and the chord of
the dominant seventh divide every bar between them in a brotherly
manner. Only in the twelfth and thirteenth bars from the end (the
whole piece contains seventy) the triad of the subdominant comes
forward, and gives a little breathing time to the triad of the
tonic, the chord of the dominant having already dropped off.
Well, on this basis Chopin builds, or let us rather say, on this
rocking harmonic fluid he sets afloat a charming melody, which is
soon joined by a self-willed second part. Afterwards, this melody
is dissolved into all kinds of fioriture, colorature, and other
trickeries, and they are of such fineness, subtlety, loveliness,
and gracefulness, that one is reminded of Queen Mab, who comes--

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman.
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces of the smallest spider's web;
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams;
Her whip of cricket's bone; the lash of film;
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat.

[FOOTNOTE: Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, I., iv., 59-68]

But who does not know the delightful description of the fairy in
her hazel-nut coach, and the amusing story of her frolics and
pranks? By-and-by the nimble motions of the colorature become
slower, and finally glide into the original form of the melody,
which, however, already after the third bar comes to a stand-
still, is resumed for a short phrase, then expires, after a long-
drawn chord of the dominant seventh, on the chord of the tonic,
and all is rest and silence. Alexandre Dumas fils speaks in the
"Affaire Clemenceau" of the "Berceuse" as--

this muted music [musique en sourdine] which penetrated little
by little the atmosphere and enveloped us in one and the same
sensation, comparable perhaps to that which follows a Turkish
bath, when all the senses are confounded in a general
apaisement, when the body, harmoniously broken, has no longer
any other wish than rest, and when, the soul, seeing all the
doors of its prison open, goes wherever it lists, but always
towards the Blue, into the dream-land.

None of Chopin's compositions surpass in masterliness of form and
beauty and poetry of contents his ballades. In them he attains, I
think, the acme of his power as an artist. It is much to be
regretted that they are only four in number--Op. 23, published in
June, 1836; Op. 38, in September, 1840; Op. 47, in November,
1841; and Op 52, in December, 1843. When Schumann reviewed the
second ballade he wrote: "Chopin has already written a piece
under the same title, one of his wildest and most individual
compositions." Schumann relates also that the poems of Mickiewicz
incited Chopin to write his ballades, which information he got
from the Polish composer himself. He adds significantly: "A poet,
again, might easily write words to them [Chopin's ballades]. They
move the innermost depth of the soul." Indeed, the "Ballade" (in
G minor), Op. 23, is all over quivering with intensest feeling,
full of sighs, sobs, groans, and passionate ebullitions. The
seven introductory bars (Lento) begin firm, ponderous, and loud,
but gradually become looser, lighter, and softer, terminating
with a dissonant chord, which some editors have thought fit to
correct. [FOOTNOTE: For the correctness of the suspected note we
have the testimony of pupils--Gutmann, Mikuli, &c.] Yet this
dissonant E flat may be said to be the emotional key-note of the
whole poem. It is a questioning thought that, like a sudden pain,
shoots through mind and body. And now the story-teller begins his
simple but pathetic tale, heaving every now and then a sigh.
After the ritenuto the matter becomes more affecting; the sighs
and groans, yet for a while kept under restraint, grow louder
with the increasing agitation, till at last the whole being is
moved to its very depths. On the uproar of the passions follows a
delicious calm that descends like a heavenly vision (meno mosso,
E flat major). But this does not last, and before long there
comes, in the train of the first theme, an outburst of passion
with mighty upheavings and fearful lulls that presage new
eruptions. Thus the ballade rises and falls on the sea of passion
till a mad, reckless rush (presto con fuoco) brings it to a
conclusion. Schumann tells us a rather interesting fact in his
notice of the "Deuxieme Ballade" (in F major), Op. 38. He heard
Chopin play it in Leipzig before its publication, and at that
time the passionate middle parts did not exist, and the piece
closed in F major, now it closes in A minor. Schumann's opinion
of this ballade is, that as a work of art it stands below the
first, yet is not less fantastic and geistreich. If two such
wholly dissimilar things can be compared and weighed in this
fashion, Schumann is very likely right; but I rather think they
cannot. The second ballade possesses beauties in no way inferior
to those of the first. What can be finer than the simple strains
of the opening section! They sound as if they had been drawn from
the people's storehouse of song. The entrance of the presto
surprises, and seems out of keeping with what precedes; but what
we hear after the return of the tempo primo--the development of
those simple strains, or rather the cogitations on them--
justifies the presence of the presto. The second appearance of
the latter leads to an urging, restless coda in A minor, which
closes in the same key and pianissimo with a few bars of the
simple, serene, now veiled, first strain. The "Troisieme Ballade"
(in A flat major), Op. 47, does not equal its sisters in
emotional intensity, at any rate, not in emotional
tumultuousness. On this occasion the composer shows himself in a
fundamentally caressing mood. But the fine gradations, the
iridescence of feeling, mocks at verbal definition. Insinuation
and persuasion cannot be more irresistible, grace and affection
more seductive. Over everything in melody, harmony, and rhythm,
there is suffused a most exquisite elegance. A quiver of
excitement runs through the whole piece. The syncopations,
reversions of accent, silences on accented parts of the bar
(sighs and suspended respiration, felicitously expressed), which
occur very frequently in this ballade, give much charm and
piquancy to it. As an example, I may mention the bewitching
subject in F major of the second section. The appearances of this
subject in different keys and in a new guise are also very
effective. Indeed, one cannot but be struck with wonder at the
ease, refinement, and success with which Chopin handles here the
form, while in almost every work in the larger forms we find him
floundering lamentably. It would be foolish and presumptuous to
pronounce this or that one of the ballades the finest; but one
may safely say that the fourth (in F minor), Op. 52, is fully
worthy of her sisters. The emotional key-note of the piece is
longing sadness, and this key-note is well preserved throughout;
there are no long or distant excursions from it. The variations
of the principal subject are more emphatic restatements of it:
the first is more impressive than the original, the second more
eloquently beseeching than either of them. I resist, though with
difficulty, the temptation to point out in detail the interesting
course of the composer's thoughts, and proceed at once to the
coda which, palpitating and swelling with passion, concludes the
fourth and, alas! last ballade.