beginning of the second is a comfortless waste.  Things mend with the re-entrance of the subsidiary part of the second subject (now in D flat major), which, after being dwelt upon for some time and varied, disappears, and is followed by a repetition of portions of the first subject, the whole second subject (in B major), and the closing period, which is prolonged by a coda to make the close more emphatic and satisfying.  A light and graceful quaver figure winds with now rippling, now waving motion through the first and third sections of the scherzo; in the contrasting second section, with the sustained accompaniment and the melody in one of the middle parts, the entrance of the bright A major, after the gloom of the preceding bars, is very effective.  The third movement has the character of a nocturne, and as such cannot fail to be admired.  In the visionary dreaming of the long middle section we imagine the composer with dilated eyes and rapture in his look—­it is rather a reverie than a composition.  The finale surrounds us with an emotional atmosphere somewhat akin to that of the first movement, but more agitated.  After eight bold introductory bars with piercing dissonances begins the first subject, which, with its rhythmically differently-accompanied repetition, is the most important constituent of the movement.  The rest, although finely polished, is somewhat insignificant.  In short, this is the old story, plus de volonte que d’inspiration, that is to say, inspiration of the right sort.  And also, plus de volonte que de savoir-faire.

There is one work of Chopin’s to which Liszt’s dictum, plus de volnte que d’inspiratio, applies in all, and even more than all its force.  I allude to the Sonata (in G minor) for piano and violoncello, Op. 65 (published in September, 1847), in which hardly anything else but effort, painful effort, manifests itself.  The first and last movements are immense wildernesses with only here and there a small flower.  The middle movements, a Scherzo and an Andante, do not rise to the dignity of a sonata, and, moreover, lack distinction, especially the slow movement, a nocturne-like dialogue between the two instruments.  As to the beauties—­such as the first subject of the first movement (at the entrance of the violoncello), the opening bars of the Scherzo, part of the andante, &c.—­they are merely beginnings, springs that lose themselves soon in a sandy waste.  Hence I have not the heart to controvert Moscheles who, in his diary, says some cutting things about this work:  “In composition Chopin proves that he has only isolated happy thoughts which he does not know how to work up into a rounded whole.  In the just published sonata with violoncello I find often passages which sound as if someone were preluding on the piano and knocked at all the keys to learn whether euphony was at home.” [Footnote:  Aus Moscheles’ Leben; Vol.  II., p. 171.] An entry of the year 1850 runs as follows:  “But a trial of patience of another kind is imposed on me