use of its
comparative freedom from technical difficulties. Although in the minor
mode there is mental strength in the piece, with its exotic scale of
the augmented second, and its trio is hearty. In the next, in C, we
find, besides the curious content, a mixture of tonalities--Lydian and
mediaeval church modes. Here the trio is occidental. The entire piece
leaves a vague impression of discontent, and the refrain recalls the
Russian bargemen's songs utilized at various times by Tschaikowsky.
Klindworth uses variants. There is also some editorial differences in
the metronomic markings, Mikuli being, according to Kullak, too slow.
Mention has not been made, as in the studies and preludes, of the tempi
of the Mazurkas. These compositions are so capricious, so varied, that
Chopin, I am sure, did not play any one of them twice alike. They are
creatures of moods, melodic air plants, swinging to the rhythms of any
vagrant breeze. The metronome is for the student, but metronome and
rubato are, as de Lenz would have said, mutually exclusive.

The third Mazurka of op. 24 is in A flat. It is pleasing, not deep, a
real dance with an ornamental coda. But the next! Ah! here is a gem, a
beautiful and exquisitely colored poem. In B flat minor, it sends out
prehensile filaments that entwine and draw us into the centre of a
wondrous melody, laden with rich odors, odors that almost intoxicate.
The figuration is tropical, and when the major is reached and those
glancing thirty-seconds so coyly assail us we realize the seductive
charm of Chopin. The reprise is still more festooned, and it is almost
a relief when the little, tender unison begins with its positive chord
assertions closing the period. Then follows a fascinating, cadenced
step, with lights and shades, sweet melancholy driving before it joy
and being routed itself, until the annunciation of the first theme and
the dying away of the dance, dancers and the solid globe itself, as if
earth had committed suicide for loss of the sun. The last two bars
could have been written only by Chopin. They are ineffable sighs.

And now the chorus of praise begins to mount in burning octaves. The C
minor Mazurka, op. 30, is another of those wonderful, heartfelt
melodies of the master. What can I say of the deepening feeling at the
con anima! It stabs with its pathos. Here is the poet Chopin, the poet
who, with Burns, interprets the simple strains of the folk, who blinds
us with color and rich ro