discernible within the vaporous element—­of which Schumann says that “after listening to the study one feels as one does after a blissful vision, seen in a dream, which, already half-awake, one would fain bring back”:  [Footnote:  See the whole quotation, Vol.  I., p. 310.] and No. 12 (in C minor, Allegro molto con fuoco), in which the emotions rise not less than the waves of arpeggios (in both hands) which symbolise them.  Stephen Heller’s likings differ from Schumann’s.  Discussing Chopin’s Op. 25 in the Gazette musicale of February 24, 1839, he says:—­

What more do we require to pass one or several evenings in as perfect a happiness as possible?  As for me, I seek in this collection of poesy (this is the only name appropriate to the works of Chopin) some favourite pieces which I might fix in my memory rather than others.  Who could retain everything?  For this reason I have in my note book quite particularly marked the numbers 4, 5, and 7 of the present poems.  Of these twelve much-loved studies (every one of which has a charm of its own) these three numbers are those I prefer to all the rest.

In connection with the fourth, Heller points out that it reminds him of the first bar of the Kyrie (rather the Requiem aeternam) of Mozart’s Requiem.  And of the seventh study he remarks:—­

It engenders the sweetest sadness, the most enviable torments; and if in playing it one feels one’s self insensibly drawn towards mournful and melancholy ideas, it is a disposition of the soul which I prefer to all others.  Alas! how I love these sombre and mysterious dreams, and Chopin is the god who creates them.

This No. 7 (in C sharp minor, lento), a duet between a he and a she, of whom the former shows himself more talkative and emphatic than the latter, is, indeed, very sweet, but perhaps, also somewhat tiresomely monotonous, as such tete-a-tete naturally are to third parties.  As a contrast to No. 7, and in conclusion—­ leaving several aerial flights and other charming conceptions undiscussed—­I will yet mention the octave study, No. 10, which is a real pandemonium; for a while holier sounds intervene, but finally hell prevails.

The genesis of the Vingt-quatre Preludes, Op. 28, published in September, 1839, I have tried to elucidate in the twenty-first chapter.  I need, therefore, not discuss the question here.  The indefinite character and form of the prelude, no doubt, determined the choice of the title which, however, does not describe the contents of this opus.  Indeed, no one name could do so.  This heterogeneous collection of pieces reminds me of nothing so much as of an artist’s portfolio filled with drawings in all stages of advancement—­finished and unfinished, complete and incomplete compositions, sketches and mere memoranda, all mixed indiscriminately together.  The finished works were either too small or too slight to be sent into the world separately,