countesses and princesses of Chopin!  For Niecks, who could not at first discern its worth, it suggests a Titan in commotion.  It is Titanic; the torso of some Faust-like dream, it is Chopin’s Faust.  A macabre march, containing some dangerous dissonances, gravely ushers us to ascending staircases of triplets, only to precipitate us to the very abysses of the piano.  That first subject, is it not almost as ethically puissant and passionate as Beethoven in his F minor Sonata?  Chopin’s lack of tenaciousness is visible here.  Beethoven would have built a cathedral on such a foundational scheme, but Chopin, ever prodigal in his melody making, dashes impetuously to the A flat episode, that heroic love chant, erroneously marked dolce and played with the effeminacies of a salon.  Three times does it resound in this strange Hall of Glancing Mirrors, yet not once should it be caressed.  The bronze fingers of a Tausig are needed.  Now are arching the triplets to the great, thrilling song, beginning in C minor, and then the octaves, in contrary motion, split wide asunder the very earth.  After terrific chordal reverberations there is the rapid retreat of vague armies, and once again is begun the ascent of the rolling triplets to inaccessible heights, and the first theme sounds in C minor.  The modulation lifts to G flat, only to drop to abysmal depths.  What mighty, desperate cause is being espoused?  When peace is presaged in the key of B, is this the prize for which strive these agonized hosts?  Is some forlorn princess locked behind these solemn, inaccessible bars?  For a few moments there is contentment beyond all price.  Then the warring tribe of triplets recommence, after clamorous G flat octaves reeling from the stars to the sea of the first theme.  Another rush into D flat ensues, the song of C minor reappears in F minor, and the miracle is repeated.  Oracular octaves quake the cellarage of the palace, the warriors hurry by, their measured tramp is audible after they vanish, and the triplets obscure their retreat with chromatic vapors.  Then an adagio in this fantastic old world tale—­the curtain prepares to descend—­a faint, sweet voice sings a short, appealing cadenza, and after billowing A flat arpeggios, soft, great hummocks of tone, two giant chords are sounded, and the Ballade of Love and War is over.  Who conquers?  Is the Lady with the Green Eyes and Moon White Face rescued?  Or is all this a De Quincey’s Dream Fugue translated into tone—­a sonorous, awesome vision?  Like De Quincey, it suggests the apparition of the empire of fear, the fear that is secretly felt with dreams, wherein the spirit expands to the drummings of infinite space.