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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.


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