manticism like Keats and lifts us Shelley-wise
to transcendental azure. And his only apparatus a keyboard. As Schumann
wrote: "Chopin did not make his appearance by an orchestral army, as a
great genius is accustomed to do; he only possesses a small cohort, but
every soul belongs to him to the last hero."

Eight lines is this dance, yet its meanings are almost endless. No. 2,
in B minor, is called The Cuckoo by Kleczynski. It is sprightly and
with the lilt, notwithstanding its subtle progressions, of Mazovia. No.
3 in D flat is all animation, brightness and a determination to stay
out the dance. The alternate major-minor of the theme is truly Polish.
The graceful trio and canorous brilliancy of this dance make it a
favored number. The ending is epigrammatic. It comes so suddenly upon
us, our cortical cells pealing with the minor, that its very abruptness
is witty. One can see Chopin making a mocking moue as he wrote it.
Tschaikowsky borrowed the effect for the conclusion of the Chinoise in
a miniature orchestral suite. The fourth of this opus is in C sharp
minor. Again I feel like letting loose the dogs of enthusiasm. The
sharp rhythms and solid build of this ample work give it a massive
character. It is one of the big Mazurkas, and the ending, raw as it
is--consecutive, bare-faced fifths and sevenths--compasses its intended
meaning.

Opus 33 is a popular set. It begins with one in G sharp minor, which is
curt and rather depressing. The relief in B major is less real than it
seems--on paper. Moody, withal a tender-hearted Mazurka. No. 2, in D,
is bustling, graceful and full of unrestrained vitality. Bright and not
particularly profound, it was successfully arranged for voice by
Viardot-Garcia. The third of the opus, in C, is the one described by de
Lenz as almost precipitating a violent row between Chopin and
Meyerbeer. He had christened it the Epitaph of the Idea.

"Two-four," said Meyerbeer, after de Lenz played it. "Three-four,"
answered Chopin, flushing angrily. "Let me have it for a ballet in my
new opera and I'll show you," retorted Meyerbeer. "It's three-four,"
scolded Chopin, and played it himself. De Lenz says they parted coolly,
each holding to his opinion. Later, in St. Petersburg, Meyerbeer met
this gossip and told him that he loved Chopin. "I know no pianist, no
composer for the piano like him." Meyerbeer was wrong in his idea of
the tempo. Though Chopin slurs the last beat, it is there,
nevertheless. Th