This piece winds up with
extreme bravura.
The "lingering" mentioned by de Lenz is tempo rubato, so fatally
misunderstood by most Chopin players. De Lenz in a note quotes
Meyerbeer as saying--Meyerbeer, who quarrelled with Chopin about
the rhythm of a mazurka--"Can one reduce women to notation? They
would breed mischief, were they emancipated from the measure."
There is passion, refined and swelling, in the curves of this
most eloquent composition. It is Chopin at the supreme summit of
his art, an art alembicated, personal and intoxicating. I know of
nothing in music like the F minor Ballade. Bach in the Chromatic
Fantasia--be not deceived by its classical contours, it is music
hot from the soul--Beethoven in the first movement of the C sharp
minor Sonata, the arioso of the Sonata op. 110, and possibly
Schumann in the opening of his C major Fantaisie, are as
intimate, as personal as the F minor Ballade, which is as subtly
distinctive as the hands and smile of Lisa Gioconda. Its
inaccessible position preserves it from rude and irreverent
treatment.
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