The figuration is tropical,
and when the major is reached and those glancing thirty-seconds
so coyly assail us we realize the seductive charm of Chopin. The
reprise is still more festooned, and it is almost a relief when
the little, tender unison begins with its positive chord
assertions closing the period. Then follows a fascinating,
cadenced step, with lights and shades, sweet melancholy driving
before it joy and being routed itself, until the annunciation of
the first theme and the dying away of the dance, dancers and the
solid globe itself, as if earth had committed suicide for loss of
the sun. The last two bars could have been written only by
Chopin. They are ineffable sighs.
And now the chorus of praise begins to mount in burning octaves.
The C minor Mazurka, op. 30, is another of those wonderful,
heartfelt melodies of the master. What can I say of the deepening
feeling at the con anima! It stabs with its pathos. Here is the
poet Chopin, the poet who, with Burns, interprets the simple
strains of the folk, who blinds us with color and rich
romanticism like Keats and lifts us Shelley-wise to
transcendental azure.
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