But, it may be asked, was not this languid monotony which results from the employment of these means just what Chopin intended?  The only reply that can be made to this otherwise unanswerable objection is, so much the worse for the artist’s art if he had such intentions.  Chopin’s description of the Adagio quoted above—­remember the beloved landscape, the beautiful memories, the moonlit spring night, and the muted violins—­hits off its character admirably.  Although Chopin himself designates the first Allegro as “vigorous”—­which in some passages, at least from the composer’s standpoint, we may admit it to be—­the fundamental mood of this movement is one closely allied to that which he says he intended to express in the Adagio.  Look at the first movement, and judge whether there are not in it more pale moonlight reveries than fresh morning thoughts.  Indeed, the latter, if not wholly absent, are confined to the introductory bars of the first subject and some passage-work.  Still, the movement is certainly not without beauty, although the themes appear somewhat bloodless, and the passages are less brilliant and piquant than those in the F minor Concerto.  Exquisite softness and tenderness distinguish the melodious parts, and Chopin’s peculiar coaxing tone is heard in the semiquaver passage marked tranquillo of the first subject.  The least palatable portion of the movement is the working-out section.  The pianoforte part therein reminds one too much of a study, without having the beauty of Chopin’s compositions thus entitled; and the orchestra amuses itself meanwhile with reminiscences of the principal motives.  Chopin’s procedure in this and similar cases is pretty much the same (F minor Concerto, Krakowiak, &c.), and recalls to my mind—­may the manes of the composer forgive me—­a malicious remark of Rellstab’s.  Speaking of the introduction to the Variations, Op. 2, he says:  “The composer pretends to be going to work out the theme.”  It is curious, and sad at the same time, to behold with what distinction Chopin treats the bassoon, and how he is repaid with mocking ingratitude.  But enough of the orchestral rabble.  The Adagio is very fine in its way, but such is its cloying sweetness that one longs for something bracing and active.  This desire the composer satisfies only partially in the last movement (Rondo vivace, 2-4, E major).  Nevertheless, he succeeds in putting us in good humour by his gaiety, pretty ways, and tricksy surprises (for instance, the modulations from E major to E flat major, and back again to E major).  We seem, however, rather to look on the play of fantoccini than the doings of men; in short, we feel here what we have felt more or less strongly throughout the whole work—­there is less intensity of life and consequently less of human interest in this than in the F minor Concerto.