Yet under Rubinstein's fingers it swelled and
diminished, and went singing into D, as if the instrument were an
organ. I suspected the inaudible changing of fingers on the note or
a sustaining pedal. It was wonderfully done.
The next nocturne, op. 27, No. I, brings us before a masterpiece.
With the possible exception of the C minor Nocturne, this one in
the sombre key of C sharp minor is the great essay in the form.
Kleczynski finds it "a description of a calm night at Venice,
where, after a scene of murder, the sea closes over a corpse and
continues to serve as a mirror to the moonlight." This is
melodramatic. Willeby analyzes it at length with the scholarly
fervor of an English organist. He finds the accompaniment to be
"mostly on a double pedal," and remarks that "higher art than
this one could not have if simplicity of means be a factor of
high art." The wide-meshed figure of the left hand supports a
morbid, persistent melody that grates on the nerves. From the piu
mosso the agitation increases, and here let me call to your
notice the Beethoven-ish quality of these bars, which continue
until the change of signature.
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