ascinating and
feminine, the poetic Paderewski, de Pachmann the fantastic, subtle
Joseffy, and Rosenthal a phenomenon.

A world-great pianist was this Frederic Francois Chopin. He played as
he composed: uniquely. All testimony is emphatic as to this. Scales
that were pearls, a touch rich, sweet, supple and singing and a
technique that knew no difficulties, these were part of Chopin's
equipment as a pianist. He spiritualized the timbre of his instrument
until it became transformed into something strange, something remote
from its original nature. His pianissimo was an enchanting whisper, his
forte seemed powerful by contrast so numberless were the gradations, so
widely varied his dynamics. The fairylike quality of his play, his
diaphanous harmonies, his liquid tone, his pedalling--all were the work
of a genius and a lifetime; and the appealing humanity he infused into
his touch, gave his listeners a delight that bordered on the
supernatural. So the accounts, critical, professional and personal
read. There must have been a hypnotic quality in his performances that
transported his audience wherever the poet willed. Indeed the stories
told wear an air of enthusiasm that borders on the exaggerated, on the
fantastic. Crystalline pearls falling on red hot velvet-or did Scudo
write this of Liszt?--infinite nuance and the mingling of silvery
bells,--these are a few of the least exuberant notices. Was it not
Heine who called "Thalberg a king, Liszt a prophet, Chopin a poet, Herz
an advocate, Kalkbrenner a minstrel, Madame Pleyel a sibyl, and
Doehler--a pianist"? The limpidity, the smoothness and ease of Chopin's
playing were, after all, on the physical plane. It was the poetic
melancholy, the grandeur, above all the imaginative lift, that were
more in evidence than mere sensuous sweetness. Chopin had, we know, his
salon side when he played with elegance, brilliancy and coquetry. But
he had dark moments when the keyboard was too small, his ideas too big
for utterance. Then he astounded, thrilled his auditors. They were rare
moments. His mood-versatility was reproduced in his endless colorings
and capricious rhythms. The instrument vibrated with these new,
nameless effects like the violin in Paganini's hands. It was ravishing.
He was called the Ariel, the Undine of the piano. There was something
imponderable, fluid, vaporous, evanescent in his music that eluded
analysis and eluded all but hard-headed critics. This novelty was the