The third Sonata in B minor, op. 58, has more of that undefinable
"organic unity," yet, withal, it is not so powerful, so pathos-
breeding or so compact of thematic interest as its forerunner.
The first page, to the chromatic chords of the sixth, promises
much. There is a clear statement, a sound theme for developing
purposes, the crisp march of chord progressions, and then--the
edifice goes up in smoke. After wreathings and curlings of
passage work, and on the rim of despair, we witness the exquisite
budding of the melody in D. It is an aubade, a nocturne of the
morn--if the contradictory phrase be allowed. There is morning
freshness in its hue and scent, and, when it bursts, a parterre
of roses. The close of the section is inimitable. All the more
sorrow at what follows: wild disorder and the luxuriance called
tropical. When B major is compassed we sigh, for it augurs us a
return of delight. The ending is not that of a sonata, but a love
lyric. For Chopin is not the cool breadth and marmoreal majesty
of blank verse. He sonnets to perfection, but the epical air does
not fill his nostrils.
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