f them,
picked out at random. No. 4 is a little poem the exquisitely-sweet
languid pensiveness of which defies description. The composer seems to
be absorbed in the narrow sphere of his ego, from which the wide, noisy
world is for the time being shut out. In No. 6 we have, no doubt, the
one of which George Sand said that it occurred to Chopin one evening
while rain was falling, and that it "precipitates the soul into a
frightful depression." [FOOTNOTE: See George Sand's account and
description in Chapter XXI., p. 43.] How wonderfully the contending
rhythms of the accompaniment, and the fitful, jerky course of the
melody, depict in No. 8 a state of anxiety and agitation! The premature
conclusion of that bright vivacious thing No. 11 fills one with regret.
Of the beautifully-melodious No. 13, the piu lento and the peculiar
closing bars are especially noteworthy. No. 14 invites a comparison with
the finale of the B flat minor Sonata. In the middle section (in C sharp
minor) of the following number (in D flat major), one of the larger
pieces, rises before one's mind the cloistered court of the monastery
of Valdemosa, and a procession of monks chanting lugubrious prayers, and
carrying in the dark hours of night their departed brother to his last
resting-place. It reminds one of the words of George Sand, that the
monastery was to Chopin full of terrors and phantoms. This C sharp minor
portion of No. 15 affects one like an oppressive dream; the re-entrance
of the opening D flat major, which dispels the dreadful nightmare, comes
upon one with the smiling freshness of dear, familiar nature--only
after these horrors of the imagination can its serene beauty be fully
appreciated. No. 17, another developed piece, strikes one as akin to
Mendelssohn's Songs without Words. I must not omit to mention No. 21,
one of the finest of the collection, with its calming cantilena and
palpitating quaver figure. Besides the set of twenty-four preludes, Op.
28, Chopin published a single one, Op. 45, which appeared in December,
1841. This composition deserves its name better than almost anyone of
the twenty-four; still, I would rather call it an improvisata. It seems
unpremeditated, a heedless outpouring when sitting at the piano in a
lonely, dreary hour, perhaps in the twilight. The quaver figure rises
aspiringly, and the sustained parts swell out proudly. The piquant
cadenza forestalls in the progression of diminished chords favourite
effects of so