, a duet between a HE and a SHE,
of whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic than the
latter, is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also somewhat tiresomely
monotonous, as such tete-a-tete naturally are to third parties. As a
contrast to No. 7, and in conclusion--leaving several aerial flights and
other charming conceptions undiscussed--I will yet mention the octave
study, No. 10, which is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds
intervene, but finally hell prevails.

The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in
September, 1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first chapter.
I need, therefore, not discuss the question here. The indefinite
character and form of the prelude, no doubt, determined the choice of
the title which, however, does not describe the contents of this OPUS.
Indeed, no ONE name could do so. This heterogeneous collection of pieces
reminds me of nothing so much as of an artist's portfolio filled with
drawings in all stages of advancement--finished and unfinished, complete
and incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed
indiscriminately together. The finished works were either too small or
too slight to be sent into the world separately, and the right mood for
developing, completing, and giving the last touch to the rest was gone,
and could not be found again. Schumann, after expressing his admiration
for these preludes, as well he might, adds: "This book contains morbid,
feverish, and repellent matter." I do not think that there is much that
could justly be called repellent; but the morbidity and feverishness of
a considerable portion must be admitted.

I described the preludes [writes Schumann] as remarkable. To
confess the truth, I expected they would be executed like the
studies, in the grandest style. Almost the reverse is the
case; they are sketches, commencements of studies, or, if you
will, ruins, single eagle-wings, all strangely mixed together.
But in his fine nonpareil there stands in every piece:--
"Frederick Chopin wrote it." One recognises him by the violent
breathing during the rests. He is, and remains, the proudest
poet-mind of the time.

The almost infinite and infinitely-varied beauties collected in this
treasure-trove denominated Vingt-quatre Preludes could only be done
justice to by a minute analysis, for which, however, there is no room
here. I must content myself with a word or two about a few o