Each set of Impromptus consists of four pieces. The title was not given to them by Schubert, but was added by the publishers of the first editions, the Haslingers of Vienna. Schumann suggested that the first, second, and fourth of the second set might be taken as three movements of a sonata in F minor. The first of these is very much after the manner of the first movements of Schubert’s sonatas; but the first section is not repeated, and the section which at first might suggest a real development section is repeated entirely at the end of the piece. The first impromptu of the first set is built on a single phrase. The quality of the music is legendary. A sharp preliminary G claims our attention, and then the story begins, _pianissimo_, a single voice, answered, as it were, by a chorus; and what this voice sings, or rather chants, is the burden of the rest. One might fancy the piece a series of variations but that there seems to be some story progressing with it. At times the theme is smooth and serene, as in the A-flat major section near the beginning, where it floats along over a rolling accompaniment. Later on it is passing through dark, wild forests. The agitated triplet octaves, inexorably on G, suggest the ‘Erl King.’ And so ever on, the same phrase, as if it were a lone soldier on his way through a land now wild and dreary, now sunny. During the last two pages the restless triplet figures are never still, and always they come back to beat on G. Just before the end the agitation stops, but still the G persists, in long octaves, and still the tramp of the soldier keeps on. What it may mean no one can tell. The impression is that the strange music continues on, long after our ears have heard it die away. The second impromptu is for the most part in a light and happy vein. There is a constant flow of triplet figures, wonderfully graceful and sinuous, over the simplest of accompaniments. A sudden change of mood, an abrupt modulation, usher in a section in the nature of a trio. There is a bold melody, greatly impassioned, very much after the manner of Schumann; a breadth of style and a power wholly different from the light figure-work which has preceded it. But back to the lighter mood the music comes again, back to the flow of exquisite, light sound, only to be brought once more to a sudden check. There is a short coda of greatest vehemence and brilliance. Here is salon music of a wholly new variety. It has nothing in common with the showy polonaises and rondos of Weber, nor yet with the sentimental nocturnes of Field. In fact, one would find it difficult to find its parallel elsewhere in the literature of pianoforte music, its strange combination of ingenuousness and grace and wild passion.