ons which have been
fostered concerning Chopin by shallow critics, and which brings us back
again for a moment to the question of Jumboism. I do not know whether
he was a German or a French critic who first wrote that Chopin,
although great in short pieces, was not great enough to master the
sonata form. Once in print, this silly opinion was repeated parrot-like
by scores of other critics. _How_ silly it is may be inferred from the
fact that such third-rate composerlings as Herz and Hummel were able to
write sonatas of the most approved pattern--and that, in fact, _any_
person with the least musical talent can learn in a few years to write
sonatas that are absolutely correct as regards form. And yet we are
asked to believe that Chopin, one of the most profound and original
musical thinkers the world has ever seen, could not write a correct
sonata! _Risum teneatis amici_! Chopin not able to master the sonata
form? The fact is, _the sonata form could not master him_. He felt
instinctively that it was too artificial to serve as a vehicle for the
expression of poetic thought; and his thoroughly original genius
therefore created the more plastic and malleable shorter forms which
have since been adopted by composers the world over. The few sonatas
which Chopin wrote do not deviate essentially from the orthodox
structure, but one feels constantly that he was hampered in his
movements by the artificial structure. Though they are full of genius,
like everything he composed, he did not write them _con amore_.
Concentration is one of Chopin's principal characteristics, and the
sonata favors diffuseness. Too much thematic beating out is the bane of
the sonata. A few bars of gold are worth more than many square yards of
gold leaf; and Chopin's bars are solid gold. Moreover, there is no
organic unity between the different parts of the sonata, whatever may
have been said to the contrary. The essentially artificial character of
the sonata is neatly illustrated by a simile used by Dr. Hanslick in
speaking of Chopin. "This composer," he said, "although highly and
peculiarly gifted, was never able to unite the fragrant flowers which
he scattered by handfuls, into beautiful wreaths." Dr. Hanslick intends
this as censure. I regard it as the greatest compliment he could have
paid him. A wreath may be very pretty in its way, but it is artificial.
The flowers are crushed and their fragrance does not blend. How much
lovelier is a single violet o