the second subject--the first subject does not appear again in its
original form. To the close, which is like that of the corresponding
section in the first part (6/4), is added a coda (2/2) introducing the
characteristic motive of the first subject. In the scherzo, the grandest
movement and the climax of the sonata, the gloom and the threatening
power which rise to a higher and higher pitch become quite weird and
fear-inspiring; it affects one like lowering clouds, rolling of thunder,
and howling and whistling of the wind--to the latter, for instance, the
chromatic successions of chords of the sixth may not inappropriately
be likened. The piu lento is certainly one of the most scherzo-like
thoughts in Chopin's scherzos--so light and joyful, yet a volcano is
murmuring under this serenity. The return of this piu lento, after the
repeat of the first section, is very fine and beneficently refreshing,
like nature after a storm. The Marche funebre ranks among Chopin's
best-known and most highly-appreciated pieces. Liszt mentions it with
particular distinction, and grows justly eloquent over it. I do not
altogether understand Schumann's objection: "It is still more gloomy
than the scherzo," he says, "and contains even much that is repulsive;
in its place an adagio, perhaps in D flat, would have had an
incomparably finer effect." Out of the dull, stupefied brooding, which
is the fundamental mood of the first section, there rises once and again
(bars 7 and 8, and 11 and 12) a pitiable wailing, and then an outburst
of passionate appealing (the forte passage in D flat major), followed
by a sinking helplessness (the two bars with the shakes in the bass),
accompanied by moans and deep breathings. The two parts of the second
section are a rapturous gaze into the beatific regions of a beyond, a
vision of reunion of what for the time is severed. The last movement
may be counted among the curiosities of composition--a presto in B flat
minor of seventy-five bars, an endless series of triplets from beginning
to end in octaves. It calls up in one's mind the solitude and dreariness
of a desert. "The last movement is more like mockery than music," says
Schumann, but adds, truly and wisely--

and yet one confesses to one's self that also out of this
unmelodious and joyless movement a peculiar dismal spirit
breathes upon us, who keeps down with a strong hand that which
would revolt, so that we obey, as if we were charmed, without
m