illiancy of
the details, that one again and again forgives and forgets their
shortcomings as wholes. But now let us look at these works a little more
closely.

The first-composed and last-published Concerto, the one in F minor,
Op. 21 (dedicated to Madame la Comtesse Delphine Potocka), opens with a
tutti of about seventy bars. When, after this, the pianoforte interrupts
the orchestra impatiently, and then takes up the first subject, it is
as if we were transported into another world and breathed a purer
atmosphere. First, there are some questions and expostulations, then the
composer unfolds a tale full of sweet melancholy in a strain of lovely,
tenderly-intertwined melody. With what inimitable grace he winds those
delicate garlands around the members of his melodic structure! How light
and airy the harmonic base on which it rests! But the contemplation of
his grief disturbs his equanimity more and more, and he begins to fret
and fume. In the second subject he seems to protest the truthfulness
and devotion of his heart, and concludes with a passage half upbraiding,
half beseeching, which is quite captivating, nay more, even bewitching
in its eloquent persuasiveness. Thus far, from the entrance of the
pianoforte, all was irreproachable. How charming if Chopin had allowed
himself to drift on the current of his fancy, and had left rules,
classifications, &c., to others! But no, he had resolved to write a
concerto, and must now put his hand to the rudder, and have done with
idle dreaming, at least for the present--unaware, alas, that the idle
dreamings of some people are worth more than their serious efforts.
Well, what is unpoetically called the working-out section--to call it
free fantasia in this instance would be mockery--reminds me of Goethe's
"Zauberlehrling," who said to himself in the absence of his master, "I
noted his words, works, and procedure, and, with strength of mind, I
also shall do wonders." How the apprentice conjured up the spirits, and
made them do his bidding; how, afterwards, he found he had forgotten the
formula with which to stop and banish them, and what were the consequent
sad results, the reader will, no doubt, remember. The customary
repetition of the first section of the movement calls for no remark.
Liszt cites the second movement (Larghetto, A flat major) of this work
as a specimen of the morceaux d'une surprenante grandeur to be found
in Chopin's concertos and sonatas, and mentions that the