between the Andante and the following Polonaise (in E flat major) except the factitious one of a formal and forced transition, with which the orchestra enters on the scene of action (Allegro molto, 3/4).  After sixteen bars of tutti, the pianoforte commences, unaccompanied, the polonaise.  Barring the short and in no way attractive and remarkable test’s, the orchestra plays a very subordinate and often silent role, being, indeed, hardly missed when the pianoforte part is. played alone.  The pronounced bravura character of the piece would warrant the supposition that it was written expressly for the concert-room, even if the orchestral accompaniments were not there to prove the fact.  A proud bearing, healthful vigour, and sprightly vivacity distinguish Chopin on this occasion.  But notwithstanding the brave appearance, one misses his best qualities.  This polonaise illustrates not only the most brilliant, but also the least lovable features of the Polish character—­ostentatiousness and exaggerated rhetoric.  In it Chopin is discovered posturing, dealing in phrases, and coquetting with sentimental affectations.  In short, the composer comes before us as a man of the world, intent on pleasing, and sure of himself and success.  The general airiness of the style is a particularly-noticeable feature of this piece of Chopin’s virtuosic period.

The first bars of the first (in C sharp minor) of the two Polonaises, Op. 26 (published in July, 1836), fall upon one’s ear like a decision of irresistible, inexorable fate.  Indignation flares up for a moment, and then dies away, leaving behind sufficient strength only for a dull stupor (beginning of the second part), deprecation, melting tenderness (the E major in the second part, and the closing bars of the first and second parts), and declarations of devotion (meno mosso).  While the first polonaise expresses weak timidity, sweet plaintiveness, and a looking for help from above, the second one (in E flat minor) speaks of physical force and self-reliance—­it is full of conspiracy and sedition.  The ill-suppressed murmurs of discontent, which may be compared to the ominous growls of a volcano, grow in loudness and intensity, till at last, with a rush and a wild shriek, there follows an explosion.  The thoughts flutter hither and thither, in anxious, helpless agitation.  Then martial sounds are heard—­a secret gathering of a few, which soon grows in number and in boldness.  Now they draw nearer; you distinguish the clatter of spurs and weapons, the clang of trumpets (D flat major).  Revenge and death are their watchwords, and with sullen determination they stare desolation in the face (the pedal F with the trebled part above).  After an interesting transition the first section returns.  In the meno mosso (B major) again a martial rhythm is heard; this time, however, the gathering is not one for revenge and death, but for battle and victory.  From the far-off distance the winds carry the message that tells of freedom and glory.  But what is this (the four bars before the tempo I.)?  Alas! the awakening from a dream.  Once more we hear those sombre sounds, the shriek and explosion, and so on.  Of the two Polonaises, Op. 26, the second is the grander, and the definiteness which distinguishes it from the vague first shows itself also in the form.