tle eluding of hard and fast rules that distinguishes the
efforts of the masters from the machine work of apprentices and
academic monsters. Because it is no servile copy of the Mozart Sonata,
the F sharp minor of Brahms is a piece of original art. Beethoven at
first trod in the well blazed path of Haydn, but study his second
period, and it sounds the big Beethoven note. There is no final court
of appeal in the matter of musical form, and there is none in the
matter of literary style. The history of the sonata is the history of
musical evolution. Every great composer, Schubert included, added to
the form, filed here, chipped away there, introduced lawlessness where
reigned prim order--witness the Schumann F sharp minor Sonata--and then
came Chopin.

The Chopin sonata has caused almost as much warfare as the Wagner music
drama. It is all the more ludicrous, for Chopin never wrote but one
piano sonata that has a classical complexion: in C minor, op. 4, and it
was composed as early as 1828. Not published until July, 1851, it
demonstrates without a possibility of doubt that the composer had no
sympathy with the form. He tried so hard and failed so dismally that it
is a relief when the second and third sonatas are reached, for in them
there are only traces of formal beauty and organic unity. But then
there is much Chopin, while little of his precious essence is to be
tasted in the first sonata.

Chopin wrote of the C minor Sonata: "As a pupil I dedicated it to
Elsner," and--oh, the irony of criticism!--it was praised by the
critics because not so revolutionary as the Variations, op. 2. This,
too, despite the larghetto in five-four time. The first movement is
wheezing and all but lifeless. One asks in astonishment what Chopin is
doing in this gallery. And it is technically difficult. The menuetto is
excellent, its trio being a faint approach to Beethoven in color. The
unaccustomed rhythm of the slow movement is irritating. Our young
Chopin does not move about as freely as Benjamin Godard in the scherzo
of his violin and piano sonata in the same bizarre rhythm. Niecks sees
naught but barren waste in the finale. I disagree with him. There is
the breath of a stirring spirit, an imitative attempt that is more
diverting than the other movements. Above all there is movement, and
the close is vigorous, though banal. The sonata is the dullest music
penned by Chopin, but as a whole it hangs together as a sonata better
than its two s