s are passionate, never philosophical.

All artists are androgynous; in Chopin the feminine often prevails, but
it must be noted that this quality is a distinguishing sign of
masculine lyric genius, for when he unbends, coquets and makes graceful
confessions or whimpers in lyric loveliness at fate, then his mother's
sex peeps out, a picture of the capricious, beautiful tyrannical Polish
woman. When he stiffens his soul, when Russia gets into his nostrils,
then the smoke and flame of his Polonaises, the tantalizing despair of
his Mazurkas are testimony to the strong man-soul in rebellion. But it
is often a psychical masquerade. The sag of melancholy is soon felt,
and the old Chopin, the subjective Chopin, wails afresh in melodic
moodiness.

That he could attempt far flights one may see in his B flat minor
Sonata, in his Scherzi, in several of the Ballades, above all in the F
minor Fantasie. In this great work the technical invention keeps pace
with the inspiration. It coheres, there is not a flaw in the
reverberating marble, not a rift in the idea. If Chopin, diseased to
death's door, could erect such a Palace of Dreams, what might not he
have dared had he been healthy? But forth from his misery came
sweetness and strength, like honey from the lion. He grew amazingly the
last ten years of his existence, grew with a promise that recalls
Keats, Shelley, Mozart, Schubert and the rest of the early slaughtered
angelic crew. His flame-like spirit waxed and waned in the gusty
surprises of a disappointed life. To the earth for consolation he bent
his ear and caught echoes of the cosmic comedy, the far-off laughter of
the hills, the lament of the sea and the mutterings of its depths.
These things with tales of sombre clouds and shining skies and
whisperings of strange creatures dancing timidly in pavonine twilights,
he traced upon the ivory keys of his instrument and the world was
richer for a poet. Chopin is not only the poet of the piano, he is also
the poet of music, the most poetic of composers. Compared with him Bach
seems a maker of solid polyphonic prose, Beethoven a scooper of stars,
a master of growling storms, Mozart a weaver of gay tapestries,
Schumann a divine stammerer. Schubert, alone of all the composers,
resembles him in his lyric prodigality. Both were masters of melody,
but Chopin was the master-workman of the two and polished, after
bending and beating, his theme fresh from the fire of his forge. He
knew that