Word For Dummies For Dummies

Computer Tech Dan Gookin

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/word-for-dummies-for-dummies-computer-tech-dan-g
ookin/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Word For Dummies For Dummies Computer Tech 1st Edition

Dan Gookin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/word-for-dummies-for-dummies-
computer-tech-1st-edition-dan-gookin/

Security Awareness For Dummies (For Dummies

(Computer/Tech)) Winkler

https://ebookmeta.com/product/security-awareness-for-dummies-for-
dummies-computer-tech-winkler/

ChatGPT For Dummies For Dummies Computer tech Baker Pam

https://ebookmeta.com/product/chatgpt-for-dummies-for-dummies-
computer-tech-baker-pam/

ChatGPT For Dummies For Dummies Computer tech Pam Baker

https://ebookmeta.com/product/chatgpt-for-dummies-for-dummies-
computer-tech-pam-baker/
Microsoft Teams For Dummies For Dummies Computer Tech
Rosemarie Withee

https://ebookmeta.com/product/microsoft-teams-for-dummies-for-
dummies-computer-tech-rosemarie-withee/

Chromebook For Dummies For Dummies Computer Tech Peter

H Gregory

https://ebookmeta.com/product/chromebook-for-dummies-for-dummies-
computer-tech-peter-h-gregory/

Computers For Seniors For Dummies For Dummies Computer

Tech 6th Edition Faithe Wempen

https://ebookmeta.com/product/computers-for-seniors-for-dummies-
for-dummies-computer-tech-6th-edition-faithe-wempen/

Algorithms For Dummies For Dummies Computer Tech 2nd

Edition John Paul Mueller

https://ebookmeta.com/product/algorithms-for-dummies-for-dummies-
computer-tech-2nd-edition-john-paul-mueller/

Troubleshooting and Maintaining PCs All in One For

Dummies Dan Gookin

https://ebookmeta.com/product/troubleshooting-and-maintaining-
pcs-all-in-one-for-dummies-dan-gookin/
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
power has generally been considered essential; namely, in the
sonatas. Of these there are three: an early one in C minor, published
posthumously; one in B-flat minor, opus 35; and one in B minor, opus
58.

The first of these is almost in no way representative of the composer.

It was completed by 1828 and sent to Vienna for publication; but it
did not appear in print until two years after Chopin’s death. Neither in
melodiousness nor in harmonic richness does it show the mark of his
genius. It is ordinary in treatment of the piano. One can hardly attach
even an historical significance to it, since works composed at or
about the same time give more than a suggestion of his future
greatness. For example, it was in connection with the contemporary
variations on Mozart’s aria, La ci darem la mano, that Schumann
wrote, ‘Hats off, gentlemen: a genius!’ It is true that the return of the
first theme, at the beginning of the last section of the first movement,
in B-flat minor instead of C minor, is at variance with conventional
usage; but this was by no means unprecedented. The 5/4 rhythm of
the Largo is evidently an attempt at originality; but it is self-
conscious, not spontaneous. In spite of these features the work goes
to prove only one thing: that in such a familiar and well-established
form as the sonata, Chopin at that time either dared not or felt he
should not trust to his own instinct, even as to the treatment of the
instrument.

But the other two sonatas are worthy of his full maturity, and they
show, like the Études, the Scherzi and the Ballades, the perfection
and sureness of his art of self-expression. And in thus revealing
himself he could not but be an innovator. He brought something new
to the sonata. Consequently the opinion that he is ill at ease in the
form, which may be interpreted to mean (or generally is so
interpreted) that he had not the intellectual grasp of music necessary
to the composing of a great sonata. This, it is to be feared, is one of
the ready-made opinions in music. There are many such at hand. A
few great critics have given the hint. Liszt, in writing of the concertos,
ventured to say that they showed plus de volonté que d’inspiration.
The remark has been applied to explain the uneasiness of the two
great sonatas. Mr. J. S. Shedlock in his book on the pianoforte
sonata wrote that ‘the real Chopin is to be found in his nocturnes,
mazurkas, and ballads, not in his sonatas.’ But, though it is nearly
absurd to pick from many supremely great works one that is superior
to the others, and we do not in the least wish to infer that Chopin’s B-
flat minor sonata is his masterpiece, we think it may be fairly
questioned whether he ever wrote anything greater. It is thoroughly
impregnated with his unique spirit. There is not a note of it that is not
of the ‘real’ Chopin. Furthermore, the B minor sonata is not less
thoroughly Chopin.

It may be reserved to the trained critical mind to decide what is great

art of any kind; but the decision as to what is great music must
ultimately rest with time and its changing voice of expression—the
general world. Upon no sonatas, except some of those of
Beethoven, does the public set such store as upon these two of
Chopin. The sonatas of Weber, Schubert, Schumann and Brahms
hold no such place in the general favor. In the case of the first three
of these men a looseness in the grasp of form is responsible for the
gradual degradation of their long works. It is logical to infer, then, that
a similar looseness is not evident in the sonatas of Chopin. At any
rate it has not yet become palpable to the public, whatever critics
may have said. And the sonatas have undergone and are still
undergoing a tremendous test. Therefore, however much men may
declare the intellectual weakness in Chopin’s music, one must
conclude that his instinct gave sufficient vitality even to his sonatas
to enable them, alone among sonatas, to hold their public place with
those of Beethoven. And it would seem that the undisputed
intellectual power of Brahms failed where the instinct of Chopin
succeeded.

Of course it will be urged in explanation of the popular acceptance of

the sonatas of Chopin, that they are eminently gratifying to the
pianist, suitable to the instrument, and consequently delicious to the
public. At the most this is but a grace which no other sonatas have in
so great measure. It is not a virtue by which alone music endures.
Music cannot last without a positive strength of form; and this, no
matter what the source of it, the Chopin sonatas have.

So then, what do men mean when they state, in the face of the
enduring strength and beauty of these works, that Chopin has shown
himself ill at ease in them? Chiefly that these sonatas are different
from those of Beethoven. For the most part they choose to condemn
the difference, rather than to understand and appreciate it. But if the
verdict of time is worthy of consideration, this difference is not
condemnable, and an analysis of it will bring us face to face with
Chopin the innovator, not Chopin the insufficient.

It is usually in the first movement of a sonata that a composer either

proves his skill or discloses his weakness. It is the first movements
of these two sonatas that are brought into question before the courts
of theory. They will be found to differ in at least two distinct if not
radical features from movements of similar form by Beethoven. First,
in the self-sufficient breadth and splendor of the second themes.
Through these themes the composer speaks with his most intense
meaning; on them the music soars to its highest, flaming pinnacle of
beauty. This is obviously at variance with what we may call the
classical procedure. Early in the evolution of the triplex form, a
powerful tendency became evident to give to the first theme a
vigorous, declarative character, and to the second a softer, more
songful one. The first theme usually dominated the movement, and
the development of its significance was the life and flow of the music.
Generally the second theme, by reason of its contrasting character,
served to accentuate the meanings of the first. Chopin handled his
material otherwise. Though he preserved in a measure the
conventional character of the two themes, the first undergoes no
logical development, but whirls here and there in a sort of
tempestuous chaos for which the second theme offers sublime
justification. Except in the opening measures, the first theme is given
no definite shape. Neither in the B-flat minor sonata nor in the B
minor sonata does it reappear at the beginning of the third section. In
the development section of both sonatas it is but a fragment tossed
here and there on stormy harmonies.
The result is of course a lack of logical coherence. But one may well
ask if the hot intensity of utterance has not welded the notes and
parts of these movements into a complete fusion, if there is need of
logic in such molten music.

In the second place, the Chopin sonatas owe not a little of their
unique appearance to the composer’s great gift of harmony. The
foundation of the classical sonata form was harmonic, and, be it said
with due regard to exceptions, was rigid. Nothing was more
characteristic of it, both in the early and late stages of its use, than
the harmonic clearness of what one may call the approach to
themes, episodes, or sections, and the sharp definition of these
sections by what were fundamentally conventional cadences. Chopin
in his sonatas obliterated at least one of these sectional lines. It is
impossible to decide in the first movements where the middle section
ends and the last section begins. It is not only that the first theme
fails to make its reappearance. The harmonies surge on from the
development section into the last section with no trace of break in
their current. Even the cadences at the end of the first sections are
incomplete, and the modulations by which they progress sudden and
remote. Such procedures foretell unmistakably the endless
harmonies of Wagner. So does the treatment of the development
section in both sonatas, with the scattering of motives over never-
ending progressions of chords.

No sonatas, not even those of Beethoven, present such radical

variations from the accepted form; and naturally the question arises
whether such movements as these of Chopin’s are properly in
sonata form at all. One can only answer that Chopin named them
sonatas, and that they represent at least what he felt a sonata
should be. Mr. Shedlock has said of Beethoven that in aiming at a
higher organization, he actually became a disorganizer. One cannot
attribute such a conscious aim to Chopin; yet it is plain that his
instinct led him to the complete demolition of one or two of the
conventional restrictions of the sonata form.
Before leaving the sonatas there is a word to be said of Chopin’s
comprehension of the group of four movements as a whole. It is
such a comprehension on the part of a Beethoven that makes many
of his later sonatas and a few of his earlier ones indisputably grand.
In his case the successive dependence of the various movements on
each other is often made plain either by the actual merging of one
into the other, or by the employment of the same or cognate thematic
materials in all. Of such structural unity there is no trace in the two
great sonatas of Chopin. The separate movements are formally
complete in themselves, and not materially related. Any other union
between the separate movements of suite, sonata, or symphony, if,
indeed, it is not a matter of familiarity with the whole work, or of
respect for the composer, exists only in the mind of the hearer
according to his or her sensibilities. Of the Chopin sonatas that in B-
flat minor will probably impress most people as an impassioned and
powerful whole; that in B minor as less unified.

The Funeral March of the former has a double existence, one within
and one without the sonata. It is known that it was completed
perhaps before the sonata was thought of; and that certainly the
other movements were written in some sort of relation to it. The
finale which follows it cannot possibly be dissociated from the
sonata; and the first and second movements share a common
intensity of passion. Organic unity the series may not have, but its
phases of emotion lead, and almost blend, one into the other.

The two concertos, written as Chopin was on the verge of manhood,

have evidently not held, if ever they won, so high a place in
pianoforte literature as the two great sonatas. For one thing,
Chopin’s treatment of the orchestra is, according to most critics,
uninspired and unsatisfactory. But for another thing, their form is
conventional, and in submitting to a conventional ideal Chopin is
unquestionably ill at ease. Ten years later when he wrote the B-flat
minor sonata he was all past his age of submission, and made of the
form something new, shaped it fearlessly to his need of self-
expression. The Fantasia in F minor, written about this time (1840),
is longer than any single movements in the sonatas. Though
unconventional in structure it is none the less faultless.

There still remains a profoundly moving work of Chopin’s, which,

from the point of view of form, is astonishing. This is the Polonaise-
Fantaisie, opus 61, seemingly his last work for the piano in large
proportions. The Barcarolle, opus 60, was written probably about the
same time; and it is worthy of note that this perfect piece escapes
the grasp of most who would play it—i.e., interpret it in the only way
that music can be truly interpreted. The difficulty is usually ascribed
to its apparently rambling structure. But here, as in most cases
where the composer may seem to be at fault, the imperfection exists
in the player, not in the music. The right touch and the right quality of
fervid yet delicate poetic imagination will reveal in the Barcarolle a
poem in music of the most exquisite proportions. It is a work of
matchless beauty. But the Polonaise-Fantaisie is not lyrical; it is
intensely dramatic. It builds itself out of the strength, the weakness,
the despair of unnamed forces in conflict. It is the cry of Poland in
her agony, the pride of her people, crushed and tormented, in a
broken voice.

The clashing moods of the piece are not of the sort that can be
regulated and made orderly within even the expanded forms of
conventional art. The grief and despair, the wrath, the pity, the
unconquerable pride and hope of Chopin, shuddering like a great
harp in the wind of destruction that has swept over his country, here
demand and take on unfettered freedom of expression. The result is
a work which reaches over Liszt to the symphonic poems of modern
writers. It is probably not of historical importance; but it is of great
significance as testimony to Chopin’s constructive originality. Liszt
said of it that because of its ‘pathological contents,’ it must be
excluded from the realm of art. If Chopin had chosen to supplement
the piece with a few words as to its meaning, a program, as the
phrase goes, Liszt would have had to judge differently, or else by the
same token exclude other great works from the hallowed aristocracy
to which he denied this one entrance.
At the other extreme of Chopin’s achievements stand the twenty-four
Préludes. Some of these, like the eighth, fifteenth, sixteenth,
nineteenth, for example, are well-rounded and completed pieces,
which have not more of the spirit of improvisation which one
associates with the term ‘prelude’ than his longer works. But many
others are hardly more than fragments, or sketches, or
instantaneous impressions. In pieces of such length, form is of no
importance. What is perhaps unparalleled is their vividness. They
seem now like a veiled glow, fading into darkness, now like a
momentary flash from that region of secret fire in the light of which
Chopin ever lived.

So Chopin’s power of expression showed itself new, fine, and broad.

He is a master of presentation. There are but three or four of his
considerable works of which one may say that they show uncertainty
in judgment, an awkwardness in line, a clumsiness in balance. The
vast majority of his compositions are perfect in shape and form, and
flawlessly put together. If only we at this day might hear them unfold
through his magic fingers! For, no doubt, what seems weak or
unstable to the cautious judgment that relies upon standards of more
rational genius, seems so only because the key is lost that will open
to view the delicate machinery in all its perfect assemblage.

III
Chopin is second to no composer as a harmonist. In this respect, it
now seems he stands directly in line with Bach and Mozart. The
fabric of the music of all three is chromatic; but it is usually so
delicately woven that its richness is accepted almost unconsciously
by the listener. Like Bach, Chopin wanders where he will in the
harmonic field. Like Mozart, he is ineffably graceful and subtle. The
foundation of his music is a series of widely varied, yet blending
chords. He is rarely startling. His modulations are swift and flashing;
but they seldom if ever seem abrupt.
On the whole his music has few conspicuously unusual chords. The
crashing dissonances just before the end of the Scherzo in B minor
are exceptional. So are the wild bursts in the prelude in D minor. But
there are sequences of chords which, when analyzed, show an
amazing boldness. For example, the opening measures of the
scherzo in the B-flat minor sonata; the middle section of the study in
C minor; the swirl of chords before the coda in the F minor Ballade;
the long modulating passage between the A major and E-flat major
portions of the G minor Ballade; the whole of the study in broken
chords; and countless others.

He is fond of shifting the harmony down through chromatic steps, as

in the prelude in E minor and the mazurka, opus 17, No. 4. Rushes
of chromatic sixths and fourths, such as are in the E minor concerto,
at the beginning of the great polonaise in A-flat major, and the
scherzo of the B-flat minor sonata, are effects of color more than of
harmony. But he gets magnificent harmonic effects by sending wide,
whirring chords through half-steps down or up the scale, as in the
first meno mosso section of the scherzo in C-sharp minor, or in the
cadenza-style passage of the study, opus 10, No. 3. Yet again,
before the return of the first motives in the study, opus 25, No. 6,
there is a long cascade of diminished seventh chords. Sometimes he
leads his music through broader progressions, which are in effect
diatonic. The dropping of the music from its dramatic height in the C-
sharp minor portion of the ballade in A-flat major, the long
descending play with the triplet motive in the middle section of the
second scherzo, and all the second part of the scherzo in the B-flat
minor sonata offer examples of this bold harmonic stride.

One may take up a handful of Chopin’s music almost at random and

find signs of his harmonic boldness, and there is hardly a line of it
which does not reveal his ever subtle power over chromatic
alterations. This is so fine and really so ever present as almost to
defy analysis. Yet one or two pages in which it is unusually
suggestive may be cited. All the first part of the scherzo in B minor,
particularly the second section of it, is but a play with chords which,
but for the unpleasant connotation of the word, might almost be said
to writhe, so are they twisted and interwoven by a ceaseless
alteration of their fundamental notes. By reason of this same
chromatic litheness, both the study in C major, opus 10, No. 7, and
the coda of the second ballade take on a shimmer of harmonic light.

The chromatic scale has often been used for a sort of windy or
surging effectiveness in pianoforte music. Witness the first
movement of Beethoven’s concerto in G major, Weber’s Rondo in C
major. But rarely in any music has it been used so melodiously as in
Chopin’s. Sometimes it is but a strand over which other strands are
woven, as in the colossal Étude in A minor; but even more
remarkable are those cases in which he contented himself with the
unadorned scale. The studies in A minor, opus 10, No. 2, and G-
sharp minor, opus 25, No. 6, rest upon the ordinary familiar
chromatic scale, perhaps the gaudiest of the virtuoso trappings; yet
even the first of these, in its frankly étude manner, has an
uncommon beauty, and the second has more than an earthly charm.
Neither study depends upon a vague, windy effect. Both demand
rather a distinct touch. We have then a chromatic scale in which the
separate notes are constantly audible throughout the entire piece, a
chromatic scale, turned by some alchemy of which Chopin alone
possessed the secret, into graceful melody.

It is in a sense this power in Chopin to turn every note to melody that

is the secret of the perfection of his style. We may pass over his
characteristics in the broader melody. These, like the qualities of
Bach’s, Mozart’s and Schubert’s melodies, are of an essence that
escapes words. The metaphor is perhaps sickly—but one may as
well attempt to catch firmly in words the fragrance of flowers. But the
power over a more subtle melody, what one might call an inner
melodiousness, is so striking in Chopin that it may not be passed at
least without special comment. Bach and Couperin possessed the
same kind of skill; and this, though manifested in almost radically
different forms, and applied upon a wholly different instrument,
makes their music unqualifiedly welcome upon the modern
pianoforte. In the case of Chopin, it was brought to bear upon our
own instrument, and wrought the perfect style for pianoforte music, a
style which conforms to the special qualities in the instrument of
which we have elsewhere spoken at length. (See Introduction.)

In Chopin accompaniment figures for the piano are brought to their

highest perfection. It may be fundamentally his choice of harmonies
that gives them a richness not to be found so generally in any other
music for the instrument. Here must lie the secret of the beauty of
certain passages, like that of the melodious second theme in the
scherzo in B-flat minor, where the accompaniment is only a series of
chords, the movement or rolling of which is not at all unusual. But in
the formation of figures there is often a distinction peculiar to Chopin
alone.

First one notices the wide spacing of the notes, the avoidance of all
thickness such as often makes the pianoforte music of Brahms
unsatisfactory from the point of view of the pianist. By means of
these widely spaced figures he obtains a sonority of after-sounds
from the piano in which the overtones and sympathetic vibrations
play a great part. It is never muddy or thick. There are many pages
of his music which show group after group of these figures employed
to give only a shimmering, not a distinct harmonic background to the
melody which he wishes to set forth. One remembers the nocturnes
in C-sharp minor and D-flat major, the study in A-flat major, opus 25,
No. 1, and countless passages in other works.
 Frédéric Chopin.

After the portrait by Ary Scheffler.

These undulating figures are no more than the Alberti bass,
developed to suit the piano. To the student they offer little more than
an example of wholly satisfactory spacing of notes on the keyboard.
But Chopin is rarely so simple. In almost all his accompaniments
based on broken chords he introduces something of an independent
spirit. This shows itself either in the suggestion of an inner melody
which here and there joins richly with the chief subject; or in the
accentuation of certain notes of harmonic significance. In neither
case does the accompaniment take on a definite line, as it so often
does in the music of Brahms. Particularly in the latter case, the
accompaniment is still vaguely sonorous, the separate notes not
more distinct than they must be to preserve a sense of gentle or
vigorous movement.

It must not be supposed that these notes, which accentuate

harmonic coloring, are literally to be emphasized. They are rarely
marked with accent signs. But Chopin has so placed them at the
height of the figure that they must stand out, even if played more
lightly than the notes with which they are associated. The
accompaniment of the second theme in the sonata in B minor,
especially the later portions of it where it is broken into groups of
sixteenth notes, offers proof of a subtlety in awakening a sensuous
volume of sound out of the piano which is at once vague and distinct,
that can hardly be matched.

As for the flashes of counter-melodies, of hidden strands of music

which enrich his accompaniments, we approach here into one of the
mysteries of Chopin’s genius. It is in suggesting these that the
technique of the pianist frequently fails. There is need of a touch at
once pointed and yet often as gentle as a breath. Sometimes these
magical notes are at the extremity of a wide space. Chopin has
written a study—opus 10, No. 9—which deals almost wholly with this
difficulty. Again they are concealed in the very middle of the figure,
as in parts of the accompaniment of the nocturne in D-flat major.
Finally there are accompaniments which are all elusive melody. How
many melodies are there, for example, within the accompaniment, if
so it may be called, of the nineteenth prelude; in the magnificent
passages of the fourth ballade, before the coda; in the first E-flat
major section of the first ballade? Even where figures have given
way in passages of utmost sonority to chords, there is a full melodic
life here and there. The accompanying chords in the big passages of
the Barcarolle, just before the end, have indeed almost a polyphonic
significance.

Here then is that inner melodiousness of Chopin’s music which goes

far towards making it the great work of art that it is. It is so little
explicit, often hardly more than suggested, so delicate and so
infinitely varied that one must for ever question just what the nature
of it is. Yet if one tries to analyze Chopin’s style, his treatment of the
keyboard, his unmatched grace and elegance and fervor, it is
precisely against this inner musical life that one must ultimately
come to pause. There are conceptions of emotion expressed in
pianoforte music which are perhaps grander than his because less
personal; there are other works for the piano that are more abstract
and seemingly therefore less capricious; but there is perhaps no
music which quite like his has called forth the full spirit of the most
mechanical of the string instruments.

Is it essentially polyphonic music? The first canon of the pianoforte

style is movement. That is a mechanical necessity. The strings must
be kept in vibration, constantly touched. In music so fine as Chopin’s
this movement must be found to have a beauty in itself. It must be
ever varied. It must take on an independent character of its own. So
far, in studying accompaniment figures, one finds in them an almost
never-absent suggestion of such a life. Perhaps one of the greatest
proofs of Chopin’s skill is that he rarely attempted more than to
suggest it. For he knew above all things his piano. He knew its great
power over chords and harmony, that music for it must first of all
bring out this richness of vibration of which it was capable. He knew
that the logical, consecutive movement of the polyphonic style left
his piano more than half dumb. Polyphony was no outlandish book to
him. Many an anecdote testifies to his worship of the ‘Well-Tempered
Clavichord’; many to his ability to reveal as few, perhaps no others,
have been able to do, the beauty of the preludes and fugues in it.
But in his own music he submerged polyphony, so to speak, just
beneath the sea of moving harmonies. Over and through the fine
silver network his harmonies swirl and flow like waters. Only now
and then a strand of it shines clear; but always its presence may be
seen, though its lines quiver and break.

Now and again one comes across measures in his music which do
more than hint at the sterling imitative style of the old masters, or
that show a grasp of that sort of logical technique which is able to
weave a single motive or two into various shapes, a highly
concentrated sort of music. These are neither more nor less beautiful
than other measures, and surely their value is the value of all his
music, not enhanced by the evidence of a highly respected technical
skill. The fourth ballade gives surprising examples of this intensive
art. The few measures in canonic style which bring back the principal
subject are worthy of study; but even more remarkable is the page of
music which precedes them. Here, following an episode in which the
steady rhythm of the whole great work takes on almost the gaiety of
a dance, we come upon music of the most profound character, fully
and sonorously scored, rich in harmony, expressive of passion. The
bass part is one variant of the chief subject, the treble part is
another. Here is skill of the sort that brings praise to Brahms; but in
the music of Chopin to mention it is hardly worth while, so little,
rather so entirely not at all, is it an end in itself.

Finally there are pages of his music in which the movement of his
accompaniment are so free and extended, or so interwoven with
what seems the chief idea, that one is at loss to classify them as to
style. These it seems to us are the result of his finest art of writing for
the piano. In some cases it is easy to speak of the accompaniment
as an arabesque, with the implied meaning that, delicately and
carefully as it has been shaped and perfected, it remains of
secondary importance. So, for instance, with the little prelude in G
major, and, to a somewhat greater extent, the study in C minor, opus
10, No. 12. But the prelude in D major is a net of sounds from which
nothing but shimmering harmony shines out, though there are two
voices for ever entwining about each other. Which is melody and
which accompaniment in the prelude in F major? What is going on
within the prelude in F-sharp minor, that outwardly seems but a
broad melody with whirring accompaniment? At last, in the later
works, one comes across accompaniments running from top to
bottom of the keyboard, every note of which is but part of a melody.
Take as examples of this art the following passages from the fourth
scherzo:

These few measures are typical of the essence of the keyboard,

rather the pianoforte, style of Chopin, a style showing a grace and
flexibility highly characteristic of his music in general. One finds such
art only very rarely in the works of other composers since the time of
Bach and Couperin, as, for example, in the second Intermezzo in the
second number of the Kreisleriana and at the end of Brahms’
Caprice in F-sharp minor, opus 76, No. 1. It is the sort of music
which sounds best on the pianoforte, which cannot give the same
effect on any other instrument nor by any combination of
instruments. There are the constant movement which is necessary to
keep the piano vibrating, and the richness of harmony which belongs
to no other single instrument except the organ. The homogeneous
nature of the scale gives to the runs a continuity of line and of color
that is almost uniquely proper to the piano. The single notes of the
runs drop with the bell-like quality which likewise belongs only to this
instrument. At last it must be noted how the sound of it all floats and
changes. This is strikingly a sonority of after-sounds.

In the case of the above selection from the Scherzo this is obtained
by the arrangement of chords with the broad melody of the left hand.
Of the six chords that are struck four are left to vibrate during two
measures; that is to say, that five-sixths of their value is given only in
after-sounds. Against this tonal background are arranged the rapidly
moving notes of the right hand, which a careful study will show
accentuates in varying fashion the floating harmonies of the left. So
that the whole passage has not only a vague shimmer but a
sparkling radiance as well.

In the following selection from the same piece it will be noticed that
this sonority is built up by the movement of the accompanying
figures which at the same time sprinkle their own mist with sparks. It
is like the passage of a faint comet through the sky, leaving a trail of
apparently substantial light. And here this drifting light of sound
resolves itself into definite harmonies, in the third, fifth, seventh,
ninth, fourteenth and fifteenth measures. The substantial harmonies
of the passage are very obviously established by the chords in the
left hand part; but it is the movement of the right hand that makes
them glow and darken as it were. In those measures not mentioned
above, this movement seems to weave a mist about these
harmonies, which, in the measures we have numbered, clears for an
instant and lets the light through. And that the notes in this
movement which have such an harmonic clarity may be not so much
emphasized as retained is one of the fine points in the playing of
Chopin which the unskilled player is likely wholly to miss, and with it
the elusive subtlety of Chopin.

The ordinary pianoforte style of running figuration generally is made

up of simple arpeggios or scales. Liszt does not often show himself
master of more than such. It is only Chopin who envelopes his
harmonies in such an exquisitely spun thread of melody. The last
measures of the Barcarolle show such a thread of pure gold, woven
and twisted as no other composer for the piano has been able to
spin.