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.
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