, whirring,
unharmonized triplets are strangely disquieting, and can never be
mistaken for mere etude passage work. The movement is too sombre, its
curves too full of half-suppressed meanings, its rush and sub-human
growling too expressive of something that defies definition. Schumann
compares it to a "sphinx with a mocking smile." To Henri Barbadette
"C'est Lazare grattant de ses ongles la pierre de son tombeau," or,
like Mendelssohn, one may abhor it, yet it cannot be ignored. It has
Asiatic coloring, and to me seems like the wavering outlines of
light-tipped hills seen sharply en silhouette, behind which rises and
falls a faint, infernal glow. This art paints as many differing
pictures as there are imaginations for its sonorous background; not
alone the universal solvent, as Henry James thinks, it bridges the
vast, silent gulfs between human souls with its humming eloquence. This
sonata is not dedicated.

The third Sonata in B minor, op. 58, has more of that undefinable
"organic unity," yet, withal, it is not so powerful, so pathos-breeding
or so compact of thematic interest as its forerunner. The first page,
to the chromatic chords of the sixth, promises much. There is a clear
statement, a sound theme for developing purposes, the crisp march of
chord progressions, and then--the edifice goes up in smoke. After
wreathings and curlings of passage work, and on the rim of despair, we
witness the exquisite budding of the melody in D. It is an aubade, a
nocturne of the morn--if the contradictory phrase be allowed. There is
morning freshness in its hue and scent, and, when it bursts, a parterre
of roses. The close of the section is inimitable. All the more sorrow
at what follows: wild disorder and the luxuriance called tropical. When
B major is compassed we sigh, for it augurs us a return of delight. The
ending is not that of a sonata, but a love lyric. For Chopin is not the
cool breadth and marmoreal majesty of blank verse. He sonnets to
perfection, but the epical air does not fill his nostrils.

Vivacious, charming, light as a harebell in the soft breeze is the
Scherzo in E flat. It has a clear ring of the scherzo and harks back to
Weber in its impersonal, amiable hurry. The largo is tranquilly
beautiful, rich in its reverie, lovely in its tune. The trio is
reserved and hypnotic. The last movement, with its brilliancy and
force, is a favorite, but it lacks weight, and the entire sonata is, as
Niecks writes, "affiliated,