and you come near to what Liszt really meant.  If the word is applicable at all to art, it can be applicable only to works which manifest a sustained and dominating intellectual power, such, for instance, as a fugue of Bach’s, a symphony of Beethoven’s, that is, to works radically different from those of Chopin.  Strictly speaking, the word, however, is not applicable to art, for art and science are not coextensive; nay, to some extent, are even inimical to each other.  Indeed, to call a work of art purely and simply “scientific,” is tantamount to saying that it is dry and uninspired by the muse.  In dwelling so long on this point my object was not so much to elucidate Liszt’s meaning as Chopin’s character as a composer.

Notwithstanding their many shortcomings, the concertos may be said to be the most satisfactory of Chopin’s works in the larger forms, or at least those that afford the greatest amount of enjoyment.  In some respects the concerto-form was more favourable than the sonata-form for the exercise of Chopin’s peculiar talent, in other respects it was less so.  The concerto-form admits of a far greater and freer display of the virtuosic capabilities of the pianoforte than the sonata-form, and does not necessitate the same strictness of logical structure, the same thorough working-out of the subject-matter.  But, on the other hand, it demands aptitude in writing for the orchestra and appropriately solid material.  Now, Chopin lacked such aptitude entirely, and the nature of his material accorded little with the size of the structure and the orchestral frame.  And, then, are not these confessions of intimate experiences, these moonlight sentimentalities, these listless dreams, &c., out of place in the gaslight glare of concert-rooms, crowded with audiences brought together to a great extent rather by ennui, vanity, and idle curiosity than by love of art?

The concerto is the least perfect species of the sonata genus; practical, not ideal, reasons have determined its form, which owes its distinctive features to the calculations of the virtuoso, not to the inspiration of the creative artist.  Romanticism does not take kindly to it.  Since Beethoven the form has been often modified, more especially the long introductory tutti omitted or cut short.  Chopin, however, adhered to the orthodox form, taking unmistakably Hummel for his model.  Indeed, Hummel’s concertos were Chopin’s model not only as regards structure, but also to a certain extent as regards the character of the several movements.  In the tutti’s of the first movement, and in the general complexion of the second (the slow) and the third (Rondo) movement, this discipleship is most apparent.  But while noting the resemblance, let us not overlook the difference.  If the bones are Hummel’s (which no doubt is an exaggeration of the fact), the flesh, blood, and soul are Chopin’s.  In his case adherence to the orthodox concerto-form was so much the more regrettable as writing for the orchestra was one of