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 to complete his "wailing
Iliads" the strong hand of the reviser was necessary, and he also
realized that nothing is more difficult for the genius than to
retain his gift. Of all natures the most prone to pessimism,
procrastination and vanity, the artist is most apt to become
ennuied. It is not easy to flame always at the focus, to burn
fiercely with the central fire.
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