Author Archives: admin

The first biography of Scriabin: by Yulii Engel’ (1915) – an English translation with annotations by Simon Nicholls

ALEXANDER NIKOLAEVICH SCRIABIN

The first complete biography of Scriabin (1915)

Translated by Simon Nicholls

Translator’s Note:

Yulii Engel (1868–1927), a leading Moscow critic and musical writer, published this ‘outline’ in the Scriabin memorial edition of Muzykal’nyi sovremennik (‘Musical Contemporary’), a double issue (4–5) for December 1915–January 1916, p. 5–96. It was subsequently published separately. It is still a primary source of great importance, owing to Engel’s unvarnished clarity of exposition and the many contemporary witnesses available to him. The list of names as Engel gave them is reproduced below. As some of these names are obscure now in the west, while others are or have become illustrious, a  commented glossary has been prepared. Notes have been added to clarify identities and to correct a few details. Engel’s own notes are marked Y.E. Others are by the translator.

Glossary of Engel’s contributors:

Alexander Bryanchaninov, writer, a close friend who accompanied Scriabin on his visit to England; Emil Cooper, conductor of the premiere of The Poem of Ecstasy; Pyotr Jurgenson, music publisher, published Scriabin’s first and last works; Gyorgii Konyus, Scriabin’s first piano teacher apart from his aunt; Leon (Lev) Konyus, brother of Gyorgii, pianist and composer; Sergei Koussevitzky, publisher, patron, conductor, famous in the west in later years as conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra;  Mariya [Nemenova]-Lunts, pupil and friend; Margarita Morozova, patron, pupil and friend; Alexander Podgayetsky, close member of the Scriabin circle; Sergei Rachmaninov, conductor, composer, virtuoso pianist; Emilii Rozenov, mathematician, pianist, composer, pupil of Zverev and Safonov; Leonid Sabaneyev, member of Scriabin circle, trained scientist and musician, author of two books, a brochure and numerous articles about Scriabin; Vassilii Safonov, piano professor, conductor; Lyubov Scriabina, Scriabin’s aunt who brought him up and gave him his first instruction in music and general subjects; Tatyana Scriabina (de Schloezer), Scriabin’s partner. Theirs was what is known in Britain as a ‘common law’ marriage and the surname Scriabina, though granted by decree to the children they had together, was a courtesy title for her. Vera Ivanovna Scriabina (Isakovich), pianist, estranged wife of Scriabin;  Sergei Taneyev, composer, teacher; Princess Evgeniya Mikhailovna Shakhovskaya, early Russian aviatrix, follower of Rasputin; Boris de Schloezer, brother of Tatyana, close friend of Scriabin, author of a monograph about the composer (English edition: Scriabin: Artist and Mystic). 

Engel’s rare footnotes to his text are marked Y. E. All others are the present translator’s.

Yulii Engel’

ALEXANDER NIKOLAEVICH SCRIABIN

A biographical outline [1]

I. Family; years of childhood

Ancestors – Nikolai Alexandrovich Scriabin – Lyubov Petrovna Scriabin, her appearance, character, musical gift – their marriage – Birth of Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin – Death of his mother – father’s career – those who brought up Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin: Elizaveta Ivanovna Scriabina, Lyubov Alexandrovna Scriabin – music with Lyubov Alexandrovna Scriabina – attitude of his elders to Sasha – his character, activities, work – domestic theatre, ‘tragedies’ – first signs of musical gifts – love of musical instruments – inclinations towards  composition – ‘Lisa’ – beginning of musical ‘instruction’ – with Anton Rubinstein.

The Scriabins are an old family of the nobility, amongst whose members have always been many military people. The composer’s grandfather, Alexander Ivanovich Scriabin,[2] a colonel of artillery, lived in Moscow. From his marriage with Elizaveta Ivanovna Podchertkova he had eight children: seven sons and a daughter. The second of these sons, Nikolai Alexandrovich, was destined to become the father of the composer; the only daughter, Lyubov Alexandrovna, to be the closest of those bringing him up.

No member of the Scriabin family had dedicated himself to music, and evidently there were no outstanding musical gifts either. But nearly all of them had an ability for music. The composer’s father, all his uncles and his aunt were interested in music in one way or another. Some played from music, others by ear. The young boys studied at the cadets’ college, and there nearly all of them played in the orchestra, on the flute,  on the clarinet, on the cornet or violin. At Christmas and Easter they all met at home. Their father loved these noisy meetings, and so music resounded in the Scriabin household for whole days: they played, they sang, they danced. This music was, perhaps, often of a low standard in performance or repertoire, but it gave much pleasure to all, it proceeded merrily and in a friendly way. As will be evident later, Lyubov Alexandrovna studied music more seriously than anyone else in the family.

The composer’s father, Nikolai Alexandrovich, also played the piano and could read music; his musicality, though, could hardly be called outstanding. He was born in 1850 and educated in Moscow Gymnasium[3] no. 4. After graduating from there he entered the legal faculty of Moscow University. He was an energetic person, with a powerful character which towards the end became severe, almost despotic, concealing even his innate kindness from others. What he demanded had to be fulfilled.

As a student of the university, spending the summer as a guest on the estate of some friends (the Bernovs) he made the acquaintance of the pianist Lyubov Petrovna Shetinina, and it was she whom he married a few months later (probably at the beginning of 1871).[4]

Lyubov Petrovna was 22 years old at that time (she was born in 1849, coming into existence a year earlier than her husband.) Her father was the director of a State porcelain factory near Petrograd, her brother an artist, not without repute in his day, who spent his short life rather restlessly. Lyubov Petrovna, on leaving Leschetitzky’s class at Petrograd Conservatoire, was amongst the first students to graduate from there. She was considered to be his best pupil. On graduating, indeed, she received the ‘great artistic medal’.

As a student at the conservatoire she was a protégée of the Grand Princess Elena Pavlovna[5] owing to her outstanding abilities. The director of the Conservatoire, Anton Grigorievich Rubinstein, also got on with her very well. She called him ‘papasha’ and Nicolas Grigorievich Rubinstein ‘uncle’.

But, beyond music, Lyubov Petrovna was a very gifted person, responsive to everything, especially to questions of art. Her musical gifts, then, and her artistic characteristics as a composer she inherited from her mother; but from her father, surely, a strong will and persistence (to a high degree in matters of art; in other respects he was much more tractable).

Lyubov Petrovna’s significant, interesting face involuntarily attracted attention, but she could not be called a beauty. She had hair of an unusual ashen colour and black eyebrows. A large portrait of Lyubov Petrovna has been preserved, painted by her brother, the artist Shetinin. Latterly it always hung in Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin’s studio, above his writing table.[6] In the portrait is a young woman with a lively, open, sympathetic face, in the features of which – clearly soft, not prominent, but well-proportioned – there is a definite resemblance to the composer’s face at the same age.

On her graduation from the Conservatoire Lyubov Petrovna appeared in concerts in Petrograd and in provincial Russia. A programme printed on green silk has been preserved, of a concert she gave together with the singer Khvostova[7] on December 18 1870. Judging by the note, ‘Printed in the regional typographic works’, this concert took place in the provinces, in one of the principal towns (most likely in Saratov).[8] Lyubov Petrovna Shetinina appeared here in a demanding programme: she played two pieces by Liszt (the Fantasia on Rigoletto and a Hungarian Rhapsody), a Romance by Rubinstein and a Nocturne by Leschetitzky.

It was at about this time that Lyubov Petrovna and Nikolai Alexandrovich Scriabin were getting to know each other and becoming more intimate. Their marriage, though, was not destined to be long-lasting. Soon after their wedding the newly-weds moved to Saratov. Here Nikolai Alexandrovich tried being an advocate, a very tempting position then because of its novelty ­– there is no doubt that he did not work as a qualified lawyer, as he had left the university without completing the course. Probably, though, business in Saratov worked out poorly. In December 1871 the young couple set off for Moscow; by now it was clear that they had no intention of returning. At this period the time was approaching for Lyubov Petrovna to give birth to her first child. On the way, in the train, she became hot and several times went out onto the ploshadka,[9] breathed the frosty, windy air and immediately felt ill somehow. She was ill on arrival in Moscow and on the same day, at 2 in the morning, gave birth to a son, the future composer.

 This took place on December 25 exactly, on Christmas Day precisely. Later, Alexander Nikolaevich more than once pointed out this coincidence, attributing to it some special mystical significance. At that time, Alexander Nikolaevich’s parents lived close to the Pokrovsky barracks, in the Khiryakova house, which now does not exist. It was here, too, that Alexander Nikolaevich was born. He was christened on December 31 in the Сhurch of the three Holy Hierarchs at the Kulishki. As the birth certificate relates, the godparents were: Alexander Ivanovich Scriabin, colonel of artillery, i.e. the new-born child’s grandfather, and Maria Ivanovna Podchertkova, daughter of a naval lieutenant, i.e. the sister of the new-born’s grandmother.

Lyubov Petrovna recovered from the birth, but her illness seemed to be serious: a suspicious cough appeared after a few weeks, and the doctors diagnosed tuberculosis of the lungs. At first, the illness did not hinder Lyubov Petrovna from working at music; she played a lot, even preparing for concerts. During this time Nikolai Alexandrovich re-enrolled at university.

But the illness began to take on an ever more threatening turn. In September 1872, on the advice of the doctors, the patient was conveyed to South Tirol (Arco, a small town near Lake Garda). But even the last hope of a healing climate was not realised. In April 1873 Lyubov Petrovna died, in the arms of her husband, of the continuing consumption; it was there in Arco that they buried her. It should be mentioned that the children of Lyubov Petrovna’s sister all died of consumption.

After the death of his wife, Nikolai Alexandrovich graduated from university and afterwards moved to Petrograd, where he enrolled at the institute of foreign languages. It was hard to get into this institute, the breeding-ground for diplomatic representatives in the countries of the Orient. There were ten participants in all, enjoying various benefits and privileges. But, owing to his energy (he went himself to Prince Gorchakov),[10] Nikolai Alexandrovich got into the institute, graduated after two years (which was itself unusual) and took up the position of  dragoman[11] at the Russian embassy in Constantinople.

All of Nikolai Alexandrovich’s remaining foreign service took place in the East, in Turkey. After Constantinople he was vice-consul and consul (in Bitola, Adrianopolis, in Crete and elsewhere) and, finally, general consul in Erzerum. Clearly, he did not rise to a major position within the diplomatic profession. According to the accounts of those close to him, this came about because of his lack of compliance in relations with his ‘seniors’. However that may be, unfulfilled hopes rendered Nikolai Alexandrovich all the more reserved and severe. The latter quality was also fostered by the mores of the East, where everyone bowed to the Russian consul. Travelling from there to Moscow, he could not get used for a long time to the fact that passers-by bumped into him in the street as with anybody else. Earlier, before the Sublime Porte,[12] there was none of this.

About eight years after the death of Lyubov Petrovna (in about 1880) Nikolai Alexandrovich married for the second time: abroad, to a young Italian girl, Olga Ilinishna Fernandez. With her he had another four children: three sons (one died in the present war)[13] and a daughter. Amongst these children there were none with musical abilities. They were not even interested in music.

Every three years Nikolai Alexandrovich received four months’ leave and travelled with his family to Europe, spending his time in Russia, Switzerland and elsewhere. In this period he visited his son from the first marriage, and when the boy reached adolescence, sometimes took him along. On these occasions the lad had the chance to get to know his stepmother as well; she behaved very benevolently towards him. Toward the end of his life Nikolai Alexandrovich retired and settled in Switzerland, in Lausanne. It was here that he died on December 20 1914, just four months before his son’s death.

He evidently had little influence on the latter’s upbringing. They lived far from each other and rarely had the opportunity to spend time together.  In addition, Nikolai Alexandrovich was distant from art, in which his son had been from early years more and more consumingly interested. Their views on almost everything diverged, so that it was difficult for them to have discussions. Only at the end, when Alexander Nikolaevich became  a fully grown-up, mature person, more inclined to tolerance, his relations with his father took on a more intimate character. They began to see each other more often and by now could talk and argue in a friendly way; they rarely, though, completely agreed on anything. Not long before their deaths the two of them sought out the grave of Alexander Nikolaevich’s mother, Lyubov Petrovna Scriabina, in Arco.[14]

____________________

It was quite natural and inevitable  that Alexander Nikolaevich was not brought up by his father. In the house of his grandfather and grandmother the child was looked after from the very beginning in the comfort of a family, which he could not have had with his father, either when the latter was studying at the Institute or in distant Turkey. When his father married for the second time the lad was already ten years old. It would have been cruel to uproot him from his own  familiar surroundings, and besides, it was already time to send him to some educational establishment or other, for which purpose Turkey was once again not suitable. Thus the home of his grandfather and grandmother, where Alexander Nikolaevich was born and which he had then  not left for any length of time, completely replaced his parents’ home for him. At the beginning, while Alexander Nikolaevich’s grandfather was still alive, the lad did not require any material support from his father. When the grandfather died (1879) and his pension was reduced, Alexander’s father began to provide the means for his upkeep. But Alexander Nikolaevich was in reality brought up by his grandmother Elizaveta Ivanovna and especially by his aunt Lyubov Alexandrovna.

Elizaveta Ivanovna did not die until December 22 1915, just the other day,[15] in her ninety-third year.  She was a wise and outstanding woman; an upright, energetic, person of the old school, to whom, as they say, one bowed and went willingly. Her sister Mariya Ivanovna, Alexander Nikolaevich’s godmother, always lived with her. Thus it was that Alexander Nikolaevich had two grandmothers who loved him and cared for him equally.

Elizaveta Ivanovna’s only daughter Lyubov Alexandrovna always lived with her (and lives with her to this day).[16] When Alexander Nikolaevich was born she was twenty-one years old.

She was educated at the boarding-school of Larme and Maga, which occupied the very same building in which, after radical reconstruction, the Moscow Conservatoire is now situated. Lyubov Alexandrovna had a great love of music but never studied the basics. In boarding-school she usually had piano lessons from Moiss and Krall, but it was arranged that each boarder could only play the piano for half an hour per day. At the age of fourteen she started to go to the recently founded symphonic concerts of the Russian Musical Society, and this contributed greatly to her musical development. She greatly loved Beethoven and “maybe well, maybe badly, but I played many of his sonatas”. With her friend she played through all the Beethoven symphonies, and also other pieces which she obtained from a music library. Lyubov Alexandrovna never got used to studying anything “thoroughly”, but sometimes she played for whole days at a time and she read music well. Lyubov Alexandrovna’s music-making  was  “put into order” to some extent by Alexander Nikolaevich’s mother Lyubov Petrovna during those few months that they were allotted to live together. Lyubov Petrovna worked with Lyubov Alexandrovna at that time: “she got her to study a few Beethoven sonatas properly.” Without doubt, little Scriabin heard about all of this later.

Having graduated from the boarding school, Lyubov Alexandrovna prepared for the history course of the Ladies’ Gymnasium no. 3 with the help of Nikolai Alexandrovich (the brother who was older than her by two or three years was her closest friend).

From the moment that her beloved brother’s son appeared in the world, Lyubov Alexandrovna helped with his care. In the first three years of  Alexander Nikolaevich’s life he was cared for principally by his grandmother,  who had the essential experience for this which Lyubov Alexandrovna lacked. When the child reached the age of three Lyubov Alexandrovna completed his formative training “and begged the grandmother to give her over fully to Sasha’s care”, all the more so as this gave the grandmother more freedom for her complex obligations regarding the housekeeping. With her tender care and close concern Lyubov Alexandrovna took the place of a mother for Sasha,  and devoted her life to her foster-child and her mother. It was not by chance that to the end of his days Alexander Nikolaevich preserved his warmest and most grateful love for her and indeed for both his grandmothers.

Scriabin’s childhood was passed in these soft, feminine surroundings of the old patriarchal order. There is no doubt that this was connected to some extent with a degree of femininity in Scriabin’s character, even of a pampered nature, one might say, which was manifested even in his appearance and his manner. Later he himself regretted that the atmosphere in which he grew up lacked elements of masculinity.

The grandmother and the aunt adored their Sasha, and the source of their love was not just closeness of relation. This was a child who involuntarily attracted the sympathy of all who had to do with him: soft and at the same time persistent, fond and loving fondness, swift in comprehension and nervously sensitive to impressions. It was difficult to deny him anything. Neither grandmother nor aunt forbade him. They were delighted with all his fancies and tried to fulfil all his wishes. From childhood the lad was used to seeing that all he did found approval and that he was the centre of interest for those around him.

He had no child friends, indeed he did not like them, preferring to be with adults or to occupy himself with something or other. At the age of about five he learned his letters with his grandmother during the absence of his aunt, who was unconditionally obliged to “go away” or even to leave completely for a short time. Then Lyubov Alexandrovna began to work with him a little on reading, taught him writing and penmanship.[17] At about seven he could already read and write. One did not need to make him do anything – either during the lesson hour or anything else. He got on himself with whatever was appropriate and in general did not like to remain idle.

Despite this, however, he never liked to stay alone in a room.[18] Either someone sat with him, or his little table and chair were carried in to the older people’s room, and there, taking no notice of anyone, he got on with his own business: he looked at pictures, wrote, drew, pasted, did fretwork, – and all of these, usually, with great enthusiasm.

He brought elements of his own initiative into all these tasks; even then he worked from patterns and models of some kind. Once he conceived a wish to embroider on a tambour-frame, like his aunt. He was given canvases, threads, but he did not want to embroider on a ready-made pattern but to work out his own, which he then embroidered. Lyubov Alexandrovna preserved a cushion with this embroidery for a long time. He also made use of his fretsaw work for his own tasks (toy grand pianos).

But the lad showed individual and inexhaustible imagination in dramatic scenes, which he put on in his own room with the help of a toy theatre and, later, without it. The Scriabins had a subscription to the Bolshoi Theatre and early on, from the age of five, Lyubov Alexandrovna  also began taking her foster-child to the opera often. The lad fell passionately in love with the stage.  The family started buying  toy theatres with ready-made scenery, little figures and scenarios. But he was not particularly fond of ready-made scenarios; instead, he made up his own or tried to put on stage what he was reading. For example, once he dramatized Gogol’s ‘The Nose’. The spectators were his grandmother and aunt, who usually were delighted with the productions. Later he also began to construct something more like a real stage scene, even with wings at the sides.

Besides dramatisations of what he had read, he also put on his own original ‘tragedies’, partly in prose, partly in verse, which he began to compose at the age of about seven. While writing these ‘tragedies’ (always in the presence of other people, at his little table) he ‘became passionately enthusiastic, jumped up, began to declaim, gesticulating, sat down again and wrote further.’ With all this it often occurred that somewhere in Act Three (that is to say, long before the end, which, of course, was not supposed to occur till Act Five) none of the characters was left alive: they had either died of their own accord or had killed each other. ‘And then, grieved by this outcome which he himself had not expected, began to lament: “Aunt, there’s no-one left to act.”’

Scriabin’s childhood verses and plays were preserved for a long time by Lyubov Alexandrovna, but at the time of the great Moscow flood[19] they perished together with all his childhood letters (the whole correspondence with his father).

The lad’s musical abilities showed themselves very early – already at four, or, more accurately, in his fourth year. His aural ability and musical memory were already striking then. As a lad of five he could easily pick up everything he liked.

In 1877, at the time of the Russo-Turkish War, the boy, together with older boys, accompanied his uncle to the war; his uncle was serving in a regiment of the Izmailovsky guard. At the station an orchestra played a quadrille which was popular then, ‘Byushki’.

On returning home the lad picked it out on the piano; he was not yet six years old. Besides the piano, he also picked out what he heard on other instruments which came to hand: on the violin, on the guitar, on the ocarina.

In Sviblov, where the Scriabins were living at that time in a dacha, he put together something in the nature of an orchestra of little boys, giving each of them a mirliton,[20] a drum etc.

They all sang through these mirlitons, and the five-year-old organiser and inspirer conducted with impassioned enthusiasm (some sort of waltz).[21]

He loved the piano passionately from his earliest years, and not only the music which came from it but the instrument itself. One of his favourite activities was to study the mechanism of the grand piano, its construction from the inside and the outside. He would climb under the piano, considering, listening and observing for a long time.

His favourite outing was – to the music shop. He usually went on this outing with his uncle who was already retired and living quietly in his own house, in the Zlatouskovsky pereulok (side-street). He was a gentle, quiet person who loved children very much. He died when the composer-to-be was six. Uncle and nephew were great friends. Almost every day, when the weather allowed, they set off on foot from the Zlatouskovsky pereulok to the Kuznetsky Most, to the music shop of Meikov, where, amongst other things, Lyubov Petrovna was enrolled in the music hire library.[22] Here Sasha was already well-known and a source of great interest. He cultivated and studied almost every instrument, and in the shop were not only pianos. Sometimes he sat down immediately at a piano and started to play something, improvising, and while he did so he was extremely satisfied if people listened to him with attention.

He also made tiny pianos with great enthusiasm and skill, making not only the lid, the pedals etc., but even the cross-stringing and something which represented the action. In this he was greatly helped by his skill with a fretsaw, which he had been very enthusiastic about at one time. The piano at home was for the child not an object but like something with a soul. When the instrument was being moved the lad was so agitated and frightened by the alarming groaning sounds that he would run off into another room, hide his head under a cushion and stay like that until the piano had been carried out of the house. Sometimes before going to sleep he would kiss the beloved piano as if it were an icon.

The lad showed inclinations towards composition almost from the moment that he first sat down at the piano. He would improvise, not understanding musical notation. In his child’s theatre he would put on not only dramas but also plays with singing, something in the nature of ‘operas’. The history of these is as follows.

At the age of about seven or eight Sasha Scriabin was taken to a children’s party at the house of acquaintances. One of the little girls, Leizinka (Lisa) Ivanova, clearly made a strong impression upon him; right there at the party he gave her a handkerchief of batiste,[23] one of a set which had been sent by his father from Paris. The next day Leizinka’s mother returned the handkerchief to Lyubov Alexandrovna – why break up the set! Thus it was that Sasha and Leizinka’s acquaintance ceased. But it had clearly left a trace in the lad’s soul; he composed an ‘opera’ on this occasion (with a similar romantic theme) and even called it ‘Lisa’.

There were days when he spent whole hours at the piano, contriving to rub holes in the soles of his shoes by means of the pedals. ‘And that’s how those soles burned up, they burn up’,  Lyubov Alexandrovna would sometimes complain. The purchase of new footwear for Sasha (and in general of everything new) threatened especial bother: when it was necessary to go to a shop, he always turned out to be busy with something or other, and to drag him there for a boring fitting was extremely difficult; it was necessary to bring things to the house and there to choose what was suitable.

Nonetheless, when Lyubov Alexandrovna tried to teach the lad musical notation the matter did not go as smoothly as expected. To delve into notation seemed boring to him, he did not have the patience, and he did not so much look at the notes as remember how the piece sounded when it was played. But in the house it was not acceptable to make him work at anything against his wish. Thus it was that one half of his musical literacy was faulty, and he had no wish whatever to play from notation, preferring to play everything by ear or to improvise.

When he was about seven he was taken to see Anton Rubinstein. ‘Don’t trouble the child’, Rubinstein said, ‘let him develop freely, with time everything will come of itself.’ These words encouraged Lyubov Alexandra even more not to make Sasha learn his notes, but to leave this matter to the natural course of events.  


[1] Materials for this outline were presented to me most willingly by the following, to whom I offer deep gratitude: A. N. Brianchaninov, E. A. Cooper, B. P. Jurgenson, G. E. Konyus, L. E. Konyus, S. A. Kussevitsky, M. S. Lunts, M. K. Morozova, A. A. Podgayetsky, S. V. Rachmaninov, E. K. Rozenov, L. L. Sabaneyev, V. I. Safonov, L. A. Scriabina, T. F. Scriabina, V. I. Scriabina, Princess  E. M. Shakhovskaya, B. F. Shlëtser [Boris de Schloezer],the late S. I. Taneyev. From printed sources I made use of biographical materials from the short work A. N. Scriabin and his creative work by E. O. Gunst and of the article by  L. Sabaneyev, ‘Scriabin and the idea of the Mystery’ (Voice of Moscow, April 1915). Y. E.

[2] 1811 – May 5, 1879. Y.E.

[3] English equivalent: grammar or secondary school.

[4] This uncertainty as to the marriage date is puzzling. Aunt Lyubov was very close to her brother (see below). It seems she would have known the date, unless the marriage was  in secret or, possibly, in haste.

[5] 1807–1873. Born in Germany as Princess Friederike Marie, she received the name Elena and adopted the patronymic Pavlovna on joining the Russian Orthodox church. Her father was Prince Paul of Württemburg. She married Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich of Russia. After his death in 1849 she became a noted patron of the arts, and in 1862 she founded the St. Petersburg Conservatoire with Anton Rubinstein.

[6] It is still there and can be studied by visitors to the Scriabin Museum, Moscow.

[7] Anna Pavlovna Polyakova-Khvostova (1846–1904), one of Tchaikovsky’s first interpreters in St Petersburg and the dedicatee of ‘None but the Lonely Heart’ (Net, tol’ko tot, kto znal). She had a considerable reputation as a performer of Russian music and became a respected teacher.

[8] Russia before 1929 was divided into gubernii (‘governances’; gubernator = ‘governor’) roughly equivalent to English counties. Saratov was a gubernskii gorod, a ‘provincial town’, meaning the principal town of the province.

[9] The small open platform at each end of the carriage.

[10] Prince Alexander Mikhailovich Gorchakov (1798–1883) was for more than thirty years the Russian Minister of foreign affairs and for twenty years Chancellor of the Russian Empire.

[11] Interpreter or guide.

[12] The Sublime or Ottoman Porte was the gate leading to the central government buildings of Istanbul. It became a metonym for the government of the Ottoman Empire.

[13] i.e. the First World War. The late Metropolitan Anthony of Surozh was descended from this branch of the family; he referred to A. N. Scriabin, writing to me, as his uncle.

[14] This expedition was described in a letter to Tatyana de Schloezer, his life-partner, by Alexander Nikolaevich. A. V. Kashperov, ed. A. N. Scriabin: Pis’ma [Letters]. Moscow: Muzyka, 1965/2003. p. 613–614. Before September 30 (old style) 1913. ‘I should like to share with you the complicated feeling which has possession of me. Complicated and new for me. But how? It is impossible to speak of it. I should like to communicate it in another way. I regret that you didn’t know the exact time of my visit to the cemetery, in that case I  am certain you would simply have seen all that I experienced at the dear grave. My little darling, I have been suffering much in these days [spent with his father] and the trip to Arco has brought me some relief. I shall tell you of this only when we meet again!’ 

[15] It will be remembered that the issue of Muzykal’nyi sovremennik in which Engel’s biography appeared went to press in January 1916 or possibly the end of 1915. The date on the title page is 1916, but it was common practice to sell journals at the end of the year with the next year’s date on them. This really was ‘just the other day’ for Engel.

[16] Further evidence that the note of Elizaveta Ivanovna’s death was added in haste at the last stage of preparation: this sentence was not brought into line with it.

[17]  Engel’s word is ‘kalligrafiya’, fine or beautiful writing. Scriabin’s handwriting as a young man was frequently hasty, but in maturity his formal, very individual  handwriting and his musical manuscripts were calligraphic masterpieces.

[18] Compare the notebook of 1904–5: ‘I alone exist, the apparent multiplicity is called up by my creative imagination. […] What horror to come to such a conclusion! I am alone!’ Nicholls and Pushkin, The Notebooks of Alexander Skryabin. New York: Oxford University Press, 2018, p 94.

[19] 1908.

[20] I have given the French equivalent for the Russian ‘paper flute’. The Encyclopaedia Britannica defines this instrument as ‘a device in which sound waves produced by the player’s voice or by an instrument vibrate a membrane, thereby imparting a buzzing quality to the vocal or instrumental sound.’ The Russians stretch paper over a short tube, down which one sings. The effect is very like a comb and paper or the modern kazoo. Tchaikovsky idealises it magically by means of three flutes in the ‘Danse des mirlitons’ from the  Nutcracker, locating the instrument in the world of childhood.

[21] In her own account of this incident (written later) Lyubov Petrovna recalled that the five-year-old Scriabin was appalled by the noise of his orchestra and vowed never again to subject himself to anything similar. Notebooks p. 8, quoting Lyubov Petrovna’s ‘Memoirs’ in S. Markus (ed.), A. N. Skryabin:1915–1940; Sbornik k 25-letiyu so dnya smerti. Moscow/Leningrad: State Music Publishers 1940 p.11.

[22] See above in the account of her time in the boarding-school.

[23] Fine linen or cotton.


The Evolution of Harmonic Style in Scriabin’s Oeuvre – forthcoming publication of a definitive study by composer Joseph Beer.

 

The Association is delighted to announce the imminent appearance of a treatise composed many years ago, by an outstanding practical musician – a composer –, treating Scriabin’s harmony from first to last in traditional terms. It is worth brushing up your French for Joseph Beer, and he will meet you more than halfway!

Scriabin Decoded:
A Groundbreaking Study by

“Suppressed Composer” Joseph Beer

The late “Suppressed Composer” Joseph Beer, whose works are currently coming back to the international operatic arena, defended his thesis, The Evolution of Harmonic Style in Scriabin’s Oeuvre (L’Évolution du Style Harmonique dans l’Œuvre de Scriabine) at the Sorbonne University before a jury headed by famed musicologist and philosopher Vladimir Jankélévitch. Beer received his doctorate degree on May 2, 1966, with “Very Honorable Mention and Felicitations of the Jury.”

Dr. Jankélévitch hailed the thesis as “the best study…, the most complete and the most rigorous, on Scriabin” and offered to preface a popularized version in print. But Beer’s sole passion was composition.

Fast-forward to 2024: the thesis is slated for publication featuring a Foreword by superstar piano virtuoso Daniil Trifonov and an Introduction by famed pianist Marc-André Hamelin, along with a Preface by leading Scriabin scholar Simon Nicholls.

An innovative, unique study “of a composer by a composer,” the thesis features a ground-breaking, extremely sophisticated and detailed harmonic analysis of Scriabin’s entire body of works – nothing short of astounding! It establishes Scriabin, on the basis of concrete examples of specific chords and passages, as a leading 20th century composing genius, the root cause of major innovations claimed by his contemporaries or successors.

Thesis Background

March 1938: A few days after the annexation of Austria to Germany, the brilliant young Polish-born composer Joseph Beer had to flee Vienna, where he had moved to study at the prestigious Hochschule für Musik with noted composition teacher Joseph Marx. He was on the brink of a major international career. His life threatened, he headed for Paris, thanks to Châtelet Opera director Maurice Lehmann who helped secure a French visa for him.

Beer’s brother, Dr. Joachim Beer (who had been sent from Poland to study medicine in the French medical epicenter of Strasbourg) also assisted by quickly registering Beer as a doctoral student at the Sorbonne University. Under great pressure to select a thesis topic within the shortest delays, Beer quickly threw the name “Scriabin.” 

And so it was. 

There were delays. World War II and the Holocaust intervened, and Beer lost everything: his career, his connections, and most importantly, his closest family members, namely his beloved parents and young sister. 

Also, after the war, Beer’s dissertation advisor, a former Nazi collaborator, kept creating roadblocks to the completion of the thesis, mailing it back several times with various requests for changes and overhauls. Beer got to the point where he was discouraged, on the verge of giving up. Urged by his loving, supportive spouse, the late Hanna Beer née Königsberg, his closest post-war associate of some 40 years, he persevered.

On May 2, 1966, twenty-eight years after initially registering as a doctoral student, Joseph Beer earned a Doctorate in Musicology from the Sorbonne University with Mention Très Honorable et Félicitations du Jury, the highest ranking attainable.

Scriabin Decoded: The Thesis

In this innovative, thought-provoking, one-of-a-kind study, the author-composer brilliantly decrypts Scriabin’s intricate harmonic structures. Painstakingly decoding the dense Scriabinian fabric composition by composition, he reveals by the same token, proof in hand, a new Scriabin, “one who will herald and contribute to foster a new musical concept.” 

First Section: Scriabin and his Universe

This First Section outlines the scope of the study, based on Scriabin’s diversified interests, as a “musician and philosopher, the creator of the ‘Mystery’ and the prophet of a Transfiguration of the World through the magic of arts in fusion”. 

It outlines Scriabin’s “Three Periods” of compositional technique, the First Period (1892-1903) being the longest albeit the least significant, when Scriabin is happy to “only be a musician.” 

The Second Period (1903-1910), to which Beer dedicates the bulk of his study, is Scriabin’s “phase of artistic maturity, […] his philosophic-mystical period”. It sees the blossoming of his unique concept of the “Mystery.” “Art becomes, for Scriabin, a magical force intended for a grandiose activity: transfiguration of humanity.” 

This is a period when “in search of unheard sonorities,” Scriabin composes Prometheus, when his famous “Mystic Chord – C- F♯- B♭-E-A-D – will take its definite form.” He uses optical science and the laws of acoustics to “certify the Promethean ladder-chord” – on which Beer will expound at length in the fifth and longest chapter of the thesis – in an attempt to lend his system scientific grounds1

The Third Period (1910-1915) “will see the mystical atmosphere intensify” with the composition of the last Sonatas, among which the White Mass (or 7th Sonata) and the Black Mass (9th Sonata). This period is characterized by “monochromy and harmonic depletion” and the introduction of other modes, of “almost atonal, symmetric octophonic ladder-chords.” The last Five Preludes (Op. 74) were composed during that Third Period and “enter already into a space of apparent atonality.” 

Chapter I: Lifeand Oeuvre

This chapter comprises approximately a tenth of the entire study. It is constituted of a short biographical essay on the pianist-composer, on his early trifold passion for music, mysticism and philosophy.

Delving mainly into the development of Scriabin’s compositional style and compositions, Beer also analyses the evolving mystical and philosophical considerations associated with them. Based on the “Formula,” “Art is a symbol of Divinity,” “Scriabin will arrive at his Doctrine of Salvation through Ecstasy, and of the Transfiguration of the World through the magic of music and the merging of all artforms”.

Concluding with a quote from Scriabin himself, “these are but theories. The best thing in the world is still music,” the author ends this chapter with an invitation to study “that which is undeniably the most important aspect of Scriabin: his music”.

Second Section Musical Style

Chapter II: Scriabin, a Composer of Harmony

In this Chapter, Beer justifies focusing on the topic of harmony in Scriabin’s work as being “the most significant and developed aspect of his oeuvre” – over the other two staples of the compositional triad, viz., melody and rhythm. Scriabin can be predominantly recognized based on his creative harmonies, such as the new chord formations he coined, e.g., “Synthetic,” “Central” or “Mystic.”

Chapter III: Tonal System

In this chapter, the author-composer provides a succinct overview of the history of classical harmony, starting from Jean-Philippe Rameau all the way to Chopin, Wagner, and on to serial music.


Beer makes a very important point: in the context of such evolution, Scriabin’s oeuvre “achieved a milestone the importance of which seems to have been forgotten nowadays, if it was ever acknowledged”. 


“In conjunction with the atonal movement, but independently from it, Scriabin will build ladder-like scales devoid of any tonic, chords featuring superimposed fourths, dissonances with no resolution, without the need for recording a severance from the tonal concept as we just defined it.” 


Citing among others six specific ways in which Scriabin contributed to “tonal emancipation,” including discussions around the “core of his harmony,” Beer states that “Scriabin’s oeuvre, the completion of which coincides with the starting point of the atonal-serial and dodecaphonic doctrine – will constitute an organic step in the development of music, carrying on the revolution undertaken by Beethoven.”

Chapter IV: First Period (1892-1903) (Musical Style)

Beer observes in this chapter that “Scriabin started within the confines of the classical tonal system.” His first pieces were written under the influence of Chopin, although they were already bearing their own idiosyncratic style which the author outlines among others through a detailed harmonic analysis of Scriabin’s first composition, the Waltz in F, Op. 1. In it, we see the start of what will ultimately become a “gradual proscription of the tonic.” 

“Conjunctly with the elimination of the consonance will come the progressive emancipation of the dissonance” states Beer, citing one of Scriabin’s favorite dissonances, the major 7th, as an example, and using, among others, specific measures from the 10th Prelude of the 24 Preludes (Op. 11) to prove his point. 

“Later on, the major 7th will be used as a stable dissonance… and thus, the notion of a dissonance according to its classical definition will start to lose its original significance… in a process which will eventually lead to the overhaul of the tonal system.”

Among dissonances which Scriabin favors, “we will soon be able to catch a glimpse (Op. 30) of the future Mystic Chord at its first stages” – while following the transformation of the role of the tonic and the dominant, we will see “the diatonic scale subject to a slow transformation which will lead to the six- or seven-tone harmonic ladder-like scales which lack any type of hierarchy or acoustic attraction from a tonal point of view.” 

Beer concludes with a bold, thought-provoking statement: “As a modern musician [Scriabin …] will have thus laid the foundation to the transformation of the structure of musical awareness.” 

Noteworthy: in this chapter can be found the first of what will be an astounding 196 musical examples – most of which written manually by the author-composer – excerpted from Scriabin’s works and used throughout the dissertation to establish or prove specific points.

Chapter V: Second Period(1903-1910)

In this Chapter, Beer tackles Scriabin’s second and most important period of composition which lasts from 1903 to 1910. He dedicates to it almost half of his study.

This is the period when the true Scriabin emerges. He starts to adopt his “Mystic Ideal” which will become “the main goal of his life”: “the ills of the world shall be vanquished thanks to Art which shall have the duty and the means to transform the World.” Scriabin has now selected his favorite form: a “Super-Cantata-Oratorio” of a hybrid liturgical-artistic nature.

The color of his music soon comes to mirror this inner change. The previously predominant minor mode gives way now to the major mode. “His desire for harmonic renewal […] will find its manifestation in […] the ‘Mystic Chord’. This cluster […] will first appear as a Dominant 7th or 9th chord with an ascending then descending fifth alteration.”

Eventually, “the descending alteration”, viz., the diminished fifth, “will be predominantly used in Scriabin’s compositions of the Second Period […]”. Used “in the dominant 7th and 9th chords and their derivatives… it will give his style its distinctive feature.”

In the meantime, the role of the tonic will decrease further and further. “The disintegration of tonality seems from now on quite advanced. Thus, the process of a progressive detachment from the functional tonal system will advance forward.”

Scriabin’s “Typical Chord,” born of alterations, appoggiaturas, and added notes, “will end up rendering Scriabin’s music monoharmonic” which will give his compositions their remarkable unity.

Beer introduces here Scriabin’s first major opus, the 4th Sonata (Op. 30). Ever since that composition, “the new chord will be found continuously marching throughout Scriabin’s pianistic and symphonic oeuvreto eventually find its own harmonic design by morphing through various forms which the author takes the time to meticulously outline along with specific examples and chord formations. 

Beer introduces innovative chords and their first appearance, such as the natural 11th chord, which first appears in Op. 43, Divine Poem (1905) or the Promethean “Chord-Mode” – or, later on, the “Harmony-Scale”.

In Prometheus, writes Beer, “Scriabin will endeavor to replace the tonal system with his own system, which he will title ‘Central’ or ‘Synthetic’”. This is a “specialization of the harmonic language into one sole, distinctive cluster.” Beer explains how, using specific chords (e.g., hexaphone chords and clusters, etc.) and harmonic structures excerpted from Prometheus, White Mass and other precise excerpts from Scriabin’s compositions. He traces the “loosening of tonal feeling” step-by-step through Scriabin’s compositions such as Op. 56.

Among thought-provoking revelations made by the author-composer are the flagging of clusters very similar to Scriabin’s found in Richard Strauss’ Salomé and Elektra — written however after Scriabin’s compositions such as the 6th Sonata (Op. 62). 

Beer also reports Scriabin’s influence on Stravinsky’s Petrushka, and the presence of Scriabin’s sophisticated chords “at the trial stage” in Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande

“Let us point out,” he explains, “that the eight-tone-scale, used, after Scriabin, by Stravinsky and among others Bartók, has nowadays been duplicated and systematized under the phrase “limited transposition modes” par Olivier Messiaen.”

As always, Beer bases his statements on specific musical examples and excerpts.

 Chapter VI: Third Period (1910-1915)

We now move on to Scriabin’s third and last period in Chapter VI, which opens with a mention of the 9th Sonata, or Black Mass (Op. 68). This work marks a milestone “in the evolution of the Scriabinian oeuvre” which Beer delves into for several pages. 

It is indeed indicative of a stylistic change, marked by “the broadening of the ‘Promethean’ vocabulary […] on one end, and a more rigorous discipline aiming at the simplification of harmonic structures, on the other hand.”

Year 1914 will see Scriabin “entirely absorbed by the ‘Preliminary Action’ […], a sort of a raising of the curtain on this ‘Mystery’ which was supposed to be the crown jewel of his production” and around which all of his compositions of that year revolve, such as the last Five Preludes (Op. 74) – which the author-composer analyzes in great detail.

Ever aware of Scriabin’s innovating genius — Beer helps us realize that “while certain aspects of Scriabin’s oeuvre, such as the quest for a fusion of all arts, are reminiscent of Wagner and bear the influence of the Gesamtkunstwerk, the sensitivity of his harmonies, inherited from Chopin, and the continuous evolution of his profoundly creative language, will greatly contribute, and in a decisive manner, to the renewal of musical structures.”

 Conclusion

In this innovative, thought-provoking, one-of-a-kind study, the author-composer brilliantly decrypts Scriabin’s intricate harmonic structures. Painstakingly decoding the dense Scriabinian fabric composition by composition, he reveals by the same token, proof in hand, a new Scriabin, “easily recognizable from the originality of his harmonic discourse, the new chord formations which he, as it were, created and launched” – one whose heretofore unacknowledged innovations “have actually laid the foundation for the transformation of the structure of musical consciousness.”


Having brilliantly decoded some of the most hermetic of harmonic languages, Beer concludes his revelatory study with the following powerful words: “The spirit of [Scriabin’s] harmony […] will have shown to us that the author of Prometheus, while still belonging to the post-Romantic era, will have contributed through his oeuvre to the march of harmonic evolution through time.” He closes saying, “he will have paved the way, as of the very first decades of the 20th century, for the dawn of a new musical thought system and logic.”


 Bibliographical References

Extensive references include 5 bibliographies: a general chronology of Scriabin’s compositions, a list of monographs, studies, anthologies and encyclopedia excerpts (containing all the familiar names: Jules Combarieu, Leonid Sabaneev, Boris de Schloezer, Eaglefield Hull, Oskar Riesemann, Alfred Swann, Victor Belaieff, etc.) with and without annotations, a list of magazines and periodicals with and without annotations, and a list of Scriabin’s writings and correspondence. 

A list of the 196 examples by order of appearance has been compiled by the editor and added to the bibliographical references.

Editor’s Note

We hope this overview will have helped readers in gaining an idea of the scope of this colossal, masterful study of “a composer by a composer,” and that they will now be inspired to read such a study in its entirety! 

The innovative nature of this work, with its many in-depth analyses, examples and leading-edge discoveries, has the potential to change the view the world currently has of Alexander Scriabin. It is likely to upgrade him from the status of a fairly well-known composer to the well-deserved level of a major 20th composer, one who “participated in the transfiguration […] of musical language.” 

Based on a virtual presentation initially made by Béatrice Beer on October 10, 2022, for the Alexander Scriabin Memorial Museum International Scientific Conference titled: “Creative Heritage of A.N. Scriabin in the Context of the Artistic Culture of the 20th -21st Centuries” in celebration of the 150th anniversary of the A.N. Scriabin’s birth. Edited by Simon Nicholls

Photos of Joseph Beer: Courtesy of the Joseph & Hanna Beer Foundation

Photos of Musical Examples: Dr. Suzanne Beer, Courtesy of the Joseph & Hanna Beer Foundation

Drawing of Scriabin at the piano: Limited edition drawing of A.N. Scriabin at the piano by Leonid Pasternak (1909) gifted to Joseph Beer by Leonid Sabaneyev, Beer’s personal friend and copyist in Southern France.

More info at www.JosephBeerComposer.com

  1. Editorial note: Beer used the term échelle – ‘ladder’ – for non-diatonic scales devised by Scriabin which Beer considered to have less pull to the tonic than the major and minor, and ‘ladder-chord’ for a harmony involving the ‘ladder’ as a simultaneity. The Promethean chord is made out of the ‘ladder’ C-D-E-F♯-A-B♭. ↩︎

Yuri Kholopov: Scriabin and the Harmony of the Twentieth Century

Translated by Professor Philip Ewell, Hunter College and CUNY Graduate Centre

The Scriabin Association is most grateful to its American sister organisation, the Scriabin Society of America, for permission to reprint this important article in the excellent translation of Professor Philip Ewell from the Journal of the Scriabin Society of America 11/1 (2006-7) p.12 –27. Space forbids the inclusion of Professor Ewell’s introduction and commentary from that source, but as Professor Ewell studied with Kholopov the present editor has summarised his notes on Kholopov’s career. The article itself first appeared in Uchënye Zapiski 1, Moscow, Kompozitor, 1993, a compilation from the Scriabin Memorial Museum, Moscow (then the State Memorial Museum of Scriabin), put together by Olga Tompakova (p. 25–38).

Yuri Kholopov (1932–2003) is not a familiar name to the non-specialist English-speaking reader. As student, analyst and professor he was a major figure at the Moscow Conservatory. His interests ran from mediaeval music to the Soviet avant-garde figures of the twentieth century and he devised many new methods of musical analysis, as well as writing major theoretical textbooks.

S.N. Coventry 2024

Scriabin and the Harmony of the 20th Century

By Yuri Kholopov

Translation

  1. The era of Alexander Scriabin has long since passed us by: 105 years have passed since his first performance as a pianist in Moscow; it has been 95 years since his matriculation at the Moscow Conservatory; and 85 years have passed since the première of the Poem of Ecstasy, in New York. Scriabin represents the beginning of the century, and we are at its end.
  2. The main focus of Scriabin’s artistic interest was harmony. Subsequent generations of composers have, at times, buried this subject: “Harmony as a science about chords and chord sequences has had a brilliant, but short history,” remarked Igor Stravinsky, for example. But from time to time a wave of interest in Scriabin and his harmony reappears anew here in Russia and abroad. Naturally, the late period evokes a burning interest, but the entire path of the composer is informative. In a certain sense his innovations ccupy a key position in 20th-century harmony. Scriabin belongs to the pioneers of “new harmony”-he opened the door leading to the new harmony of our century.
  3. Many threads connect Scriabin with subsequent music: “a new sensation” (his favorite expression), and paths to a new paradigm and esthetic values; new compositional techniques, and artistic innovations; and the anticipation of historical paths of musical evolution, both in his own compositions (from a classical to a contemporary language), as well as in the compositions of others (that is, the general move toward the emancipation of dissonance, chromatic tonality, and a new harmonic functionality).
  4. On the whole, Scriabin’s oeuvre, from Op. 1 to Op. 74, represents a path to new music that is rare in purity, clarity, and inexorable logic. This path shows how a new esthetic conception and a new paradigm lead directly and immediately to the transformation of the harmonic system, step by step, opus by opus. Accordingly, all compositions of the composer can be grouped into three periods:

a) Opuses 1-29 – early period – 1886-1901;

b) Opuses 30-57 – middle period – 1903-1908;

c) Opuses 58-74 – late period – 1910-1914.

(Curiously, between successive periods there are one-year breaks in compositional activity; the same type of break occurs after the third period as well.) In the first period the traditions of Chopin and Liszt are obvious; the second period begins implementation of a new conception; while the third is stunning in its musical novelty.

5. The direct effect of this esthetic, progressive, and vivid evolution on his harmonic system consists of a gradual departure from “songs of the earth,” that is, from traditional contrasts of happiness and sadness, from public celebrations with their accompanying dances, and from intellectual torment with its sensitive drama. The minor mode is banished from his music. Later on in life Scriabin himself said: “The minor mode should disappear from the music!… Because art should be a celebration! And a celebration cannot be in minor.” The minor mode is “tiresome whining,” and “based on undertones. It goes down, and is weighted down all the time. It is regression, the downfall into materialism.”1 According to Scriabin, this “new sensation” emerges: light, illumination, audacious bursts, and the “dematerialization” of the spirit, soaring high into the air and outer space, a blinding flame of a universal cleansing fire, sounding light and illuminating sound, “such a light, resembling several suns suddenly shining!”2

6. Scriabin’s ideology persistently replaces traditional inertia. This evolution takes place in his middle period and, toward the late period, it completely illuminates the new global problem in 20th-century music, a problem of tonality. From Op. 30 to Op. 57, three processes that leave their mark on the evolution and the reorganization of Scriabin’s tonal system are in play:

a) Functional inversion;

b) Departure to the dominant; and

c) Transformation of the dominant to the basic stability, the tonic.

Functional inversion is a type of tonal tendency in late-romantic music in which the usual tonic keeps its formal supremacy, yet the center of artistic attention is displaced to other harmonies (as in the Prelude to Wagner’s Tristan). Scriabin’s Fourth Piano Sonata is an example of such a composition. At the beginning there is everything necessary for F# major, yet the tonic, in its pure form (that is, without dissonance), sounds only once on the lightest eighth note (in metrical measures of 12/8) [see the figure below trans. I. Then the tonality rises up by a fifth, and the dominant becomes the stability.

Figure: Scriabin’s Fourth Piano Sonata, beginning

7. Enigma, Op. 52, no. 2, is also such a composition in which the enigma, first and foremost, is a consequence of functional inversion: the tonic of D-flat major acquires the “status of an English queen”-she rules but does not govern. The dominant becomes the virtual focal point of harmonic activity; everything emanates from it, and everything returns to it. At the same time this virtual center of A-flat-7 is still not the tonic (herein lies the functional inversion); the essence of this music is on the sharp, sensual charm of languid yearning, without a relaxing resolution to the tonic, that is, a gravitation that cannot find an end (as Yavorsky claimed). This new distribution of functions gains further credence: that which, in reality, functions as a tonal center, as the actual tonic, at the same time becomes the nominal tonic. A new tonality arises with a new tonic (dissonant, audacious, ardent, and agitated), and a new functionality. Thus Scriabin formulates a new harmonic system that is already typical of the new music of the twentieth century. This system bears greater resemblance to Messiaen’s dissonant modality or to Schoenberg’s dodecaphony than to Scriabin’s own opuses 5, 8, or 11.

8. Neotonality is not the same as old tonality but, rather, is a different subject that uses the same root word. Accordingly, the new tonic is also a subject with different properties from the classical tonic. If a dominant-formed sonority completely loses its gravitation, it ceases to be a dominant, though it still has a striving and strained character. In Varvara Dernova’s writings, rich in thought and analysis, this moment is interpreted mechanically, such that it is impossible to agree with it, in late Scriabin there are no derived dominants “Da” and “Db,” but derived tonics “Ta” and “Tb” (if in the duplex mode), or “Ta, Tb, Tc, and Td” (if in the octatonic mode), or “Ta, Tb, and Tc” (if in the hexatonic mode3).” In the spirit of Yavorsky’s theories, in place of the inappropriate designations F# major and A major, it is necessary to use more appropriate signs: Fidim and Adim (octatonic) and Amax (hexatonic), for example. And in similar situations with the duplex-modal tritone of the fundamental bass, the basic tonic double is witnessed.

9. It is curious that Scriabin himself-in oral statements, in statements by musicologists (confirmed by Scriabin), and in his own publications–gave many answers to the question “what kind of tonic is in your compositions?”: Op. 60 (Prometheus) -F-sharp; Op. 62 (Sixth Sonata)-G; Op. 64 (Seventh Sonata) -F-sharp; Op. 65, no. 1 (Etude) -B, no. 2-C-sharp, no. 3-G; Op. 66 (Eighth Sonata)-A; Op. 69, no. 1 (Poem) -C, no. 2-D-flat. Many controversies regarding this question emerged because theorists approached neotonality through traditional tonality, not taking into consideration the enormous difference between the two. Furthermore, one must appreciate the courage of Scriabin the innovator, defiantly breaking with old compositional ideologies.

10. Not being a theorist, Scriabin formulated several new ideas. For instance, he suggested calling new functional relationships that are not similar to previous ones “polarities4.” According to Scriabin polar relationships were tritonal and also tertian in the octatonic mode (see Example 1). About this relationship, Scriabin said: “It is completely analogous to the tonic/dominant succession and cadence in the classical system, only on a different plane, a level higher.”5

Example 1. Scriabin’s Prometheus

11. The composer Scriabin suggested a new analytical method that was needed precisely for the new harmony of the 20th century and, more concretely, for a chromatic tonal system where the functions are not three (tonic, dominant, and subdominant), but all twelve. As researchers have discovered (e.g., Irina Vanechkina), the well-known enigmatic Luce part in the score of Prometheus is none other than a written-out two-voice texture comprised of a line of root tones of chords (the less lively voice).

To put it more simply, it is a harmonic analysis in which one line represents tonalities (they, naturally, change slowly), and the other represents chords (within each tonality there are many chordal changes). This divided two-voice texture is shown in Example 2.

With a score in hand one can verify that all fundamental tones of the well-known six-note Prometheus chord are actually fixed within the framework of the main tonality of Promethews, Frim. For comparison, examine the excerpt of an analysis by Hindemith of the first movement of his symphony, Mathis der Maler6 (see Example 3).

Example 2: Scriabin, Luce Part (as an analysis)

12. Another of Scriabin’s innovations pertains to how he does not equate a change in structure (of a chord or motive) with a change in tonality, as in the diatonic system of harmony. Compare the tonal prolongation in Example 2 with the functional changes of chords within a tonality, as in Example 1 (Scriabin’s analysis). Scriabin’s idea about the unification of the vertical and the horizontal -when speaking about “harmonic melody” and “melodic harmony,” or “harmony-melody” is quite interesting: “Harmony and melody are two sides of the same entity. Melody is harmony unfolded, and harmony is melody compacted. I already have in Prometheus harmony and melody as one the melodies are comprised of notes from the harmonies and vice versa.”7

Example 3: Hindemith, Unterweisung in Tonsatz

13. Scriabin was one of those composers who paved the way to twelve-tone and serial music. He himself never used second-Viennese dodecaphony, but his late ideas in particular parallel tendencies that lead to serial radicalism. Scriabin was not the only composer at the time trying to uncover paths to unknown lands. Both Roslavets’s “synthetic chord,” obviously following Scriabin’s principle of “tone center” in the early 1910s (as shown by Herman Erpf), and Stravinsky’s microserial fragment in Firebird (from rehearsal 29) represent the Russian path to serial and twelve tone music through the unification of the vertical with horizontal harmonic melodies based on a natural central chord from a modal, symmetrical scale8, through a “synthetic chord” as precursor of the series. This beautiful spectrum of ideas partly realized in Scriabin’s late com-positions, but mainly surviving in the sketches to his “Preliminary Act” and in reported statements of unequivocal authenticity-can be considered part of Scriabin’s legacy.

14. Stravinsky posed an intriguing question: “What type of music could such a person have composed had he lived into the 1920s?9” The period of compositional inactivity from 1914 to 1915 mentioned above seems to indicate that the composer was standing on the threshold of a new creative period. And, in point of fact, the sketches to the “Act” reveal, at times, new unfamiliar traits, for example, twelve-tone chords (see Examples 4a and 4b). In Example 4a there is a purely dodecaphonic chord, inasmuch as twelve tones are present without octave doublings. In the sixteen-note sonority in Example 4b, it is possible to see something still more unusual: four major-seventh chords arranged symmetrically by minor third, C-E-flat-F-sharp-A. And then, in each of the subchords, Scriabin strikes out the second note from the bottom as a doubled note (see Example); sixteen notes minus four equals twelve pitch classes without repetition and, what is more, this happens in periodic symmetry, which is reminiscent of Webern’s method of thinking (see the ending of his Variations, Op. 27).

15. Close at hand there is yet another surprise: for all his life Scriabin thought only in terms of chordal-harmonic tonality, yet in the next sketch modal thinking begins to show through, that is, thinking on a scalar basis (see Example 5). This is not at all different from the thinking of Messiaen when he writes of symmetrical scales, including the octatonic scale (see Example 5a), and variously combines his notes (see Example 5b), resulting in, among other things, distinctive incomplete scales (see the duplex minor in Examples 5c and 5d). 10The chords from Example 5e are clearly taken from the same scale (see Example 5a), except that all of the tones of the horizontal set are transformed into the vertical. Scriabin’s unification of the vertical and the horizontal here yields verticalities that earlier would have been uncharacteristic for the composer (even considering polychords constructed from uniform or varied subchords).

Example 5: Scriabin’s Modal Thinking

16. Several of Scriabin’s creative ideas came later on in life, and sometimes entirely unexpectedly. Not long after his death, the line to which Scriabin belonged (probably without his direct influence) gave rise to still more radical events like, for instance, Nikolai Obukhov’s “absolute harmony,” constructed from all twelve tones without repetition (from 1918, see Example 6, and compare to Example 4). 11 As far back as the 1920s, Yavorsky’s student, Sergei Protopopov, was using modal techniques: he takes a scale in the duplex-major mode (Yavorsky’s term) and combines, from its notes, multi-note unifunctional harmonies, with (naturally!) completely unified vertical and horizontal lines (see Example 7).

Example 6: Obukhov. “A krov?” (Oh blood!)
Example 7: S. Protopopov. Second Piano Sonata*

*Accidentals apply only to the notes they immediately precede.

**Bottom Brackets added by the author

17. Scriabin’s discoveries correspond with various events that have occurred in different ways right up to present times. The ideological conception of late Scriabin and the legacy of his last years deserve steadfast and detailed attention. However, one must simply lift the veil of mysticism and fantasy surrounding the author. Of course, Scriabin was, subjectively speaking, a mystic, and even such a coincidence as the date of his birth–December 25, Christmas day was interpreted by him as a sign of something higher. Yet if we approach his work not from the position of his mystical quasi-philosophy but from the fundamentals of his art, we find a master of the 20th century, endowed with sound, clear, and precise reasoning. One should sooner consider his mystical visions as a certain catalyst of musical progress, rather than as a basis of compositional content.

18. This compositional content is characterized by a striving to reorganize the world of the soul, to exclude the traditionally romantic “humanistic” or “too humanistic” elements in the vein of Chopin, Liszt, and Tchaikovsky, and to eliminate the romantic sentimentality of “sighs” and singing “lyricism.” Scriabin himself said, in his final years: “Now I have in my music no lyricism whatsoever–it’s a primitive sensation.12 He was spellbound by his cosmic mysticism, the eternity of the universe’s life, and the endlessness of worldly love. For the Mysterium Scriabin composed a “theme of fire” (used subsequently in the last section of the Seventh Sonata); in another case Scriabin wanted to have a “flight at the speed of light directly toward the sun, or, at the sun!” About the music from Scriabin’s late compositions, Asafev said: “Its main element is fire: from small-sized electric sparks and perfectly jingling fireflies, to the omnivorous fiery flames of the gloomy inferno of the earthly abyss and the ominous fire of cosmic suns. Fire, fire, fire… everywhere, fire.”13 This typological description is reminiscent of Olivier Messiaen, who praised the beauty of his own harmony in approximately the same way: “The brilliance of fiery swords” and “A race of turquoise planets.” As with Scriabin, Messiaen’s “mysticism” also blends with a sound compositional design.

19. The legacy of Scriabin the aesthete lies in the assimilation into music of philosophical problems such as the problem of time: “Music mesmerizes time; it is possible to completely stop time with music.” “Rhythm is a spell of time.” “The creative spirit, by means of rhythm, evokes time itself and is governed by it.”14 Scriabin was prepared to incorporate this into his own work. Preludes Nos. 2 and 4, from Op. 74, conjure up some kind of new Scriabin-like ideas of a “Fourth Period.” The Second Prelude, according to Scriabin, is “death,” “that appearance of the Feminine, which leads to reunification,” “a supreme peace, a white sound, indeed, the prelude lasts entire centuries, it sounds eternally, for millions of years.”15 The beginning of this “eternal” prelude is shown in Example 8. The idea of cutting oneself off from the flow of time also has something in common with Stockhausen’s concept of “meditative music”: “Stimmung’ is meditative music. Time is removed (ist aufgehoben) »16

Example 8: Scriabin, Prelude, op. 74, no. 2

20. Igor Stravinsky, who could be considered Scriabin’s polar opposite, sometimes imitated Scriabin’s ideas. Mimicking Scriabin, who renounced sentimental lyricism, Stravinsky confirmed that “a composition is something completely new and different in relation to what can be called the feelings of the composer.”17 Scriabin said that “I’ve always recognized that mathematics should play a big role in composition. Sometimes I have an entire computation going on when I compose, a computation of form. “18 While Stravinsky said that musical form is “a lot closer to mathematics than it is to literature… the method of compositional thought is not that different from mathematical thought.»19 Scriabin also said that “It’s necessary for the form of a composition to turn out perfectly, like a ball or a crystal,” so that it finds a “bridge between music and geometry.20 Stravinsky: “Musical form is mathematical, if for no other reason than it’s ideal.”21 Scriabin, considering his harmony to be functioning at a “higher level,” adopted the term “polarity” of sonorities. Stravinsky, remaining in the framework of tonality yet not the tonality of the 18th century, adopted the idea of an “acoustic polarity.”22 In Stravinsky we find the terms: “polar tone,” “pole of attraction,” and “polarity,” which simply repeat what Scriabin was saying.23

21. The calculability and the mathematical element of Scriabin’s form, right down to the number of measures, is reminiscent of some formal aspects of the music of Alban Berg, for instance, in the Lyric Suite, where an intimate subject is codified in strictly calculated proportions of musical form. Scriabin’s “crystal” is often compared with several compositions by Webern, for example, his Symphonie, Op. 21. It would be impossible to imagine such mathematical ideas in the music of, say, Tchaikovsky.

(By the way, Taneev a composer who, it would seem, was the exact opposite of Scriabin–anticipated composing with calculations of this sort.)

22. The type of sonority itself, such an important parameter in 20th-century harmony, is distinctively expressed in Scriabin’s music, and it opens up one of the lines of its further development, until the present time. While analyzing Webern’s Op. 5, no. 1, Victor Bobrovsky identifies two opposing tendencies in music of the twentieth century a tendency toward barbarism and another toward sophistication and compares the middle of the piece (mm. 7-10) with the second introductory theme of Scriabin’s Fifth Piano Sonata.24

23. Having emerged as one of the pioneers of harmony, Scriabin created his own world of sounds, whose qualities are grace, flawless adjustability, and invariable beauty of expression. Semen Bogatyrev said something to the effect that “in his entire life Scriabin never wrote one wrong note.” This type of sonority from Scriabin can also serve as a beautiful stylistic reference point in the contemporary study of harmony while mastering its complex techniques: twelve-tone, dissonant-modal, acoustic, and free atonal harmony.

24. Some of Scriabin’s ideas anticipate acoustic music and multimedia, for instance, the mixture of a musical sound with a nonmusical one: “I.. will have whispers… After all, a whisper has never been used as a sound before. The whisper of a huge mass of people, the whisper of a chorus.” “Melody begins with sounds, and then it continues… for example, in gestures, or it begins in a sound but continues as a line of lights. “25

Scriabin dreamed of some kind of dramatic performance made up of sound, color, light, aromas, spells, and motion of forms. Once he said, “Silence is also a sound… In silence there is sound. And a rest always sounds… I think that there could even be a composition consisting entirely of silence. 26 In light of this, it is possible to view the ideas of time associated with the post-war avant-garde, such as “zero sound” or “sounding rests,” as borrowings from Scriabin. And then the well known silent piece by Cage, 4’33”, can be viewed simply as a manifestation of Scriabin’s intention. In his Mysterium he wanted there to be “notes that will not actually sound, but will need to be imagined,”27 like the “counterpoint of sound and silence” that Pierre Boulez once used to describe the music of Webern.

25. Having gotten a hearty laugh over the collection A Slap in the Face of the Public Taste (Moscow 1913), Scriabin nevertheless approved of the poetry of Velimir Khlebnikov, whose neologisms proved to be in line with the literary aspirations of the composer himself.28 Scriabin wanted to use his own new words in the text of the “Preliminary Act,” such as “lubviinyi” and “molninyi.” It seemed to Scriabin that “every word is its own harmony,” and he thought that “it’s possible to create new words, as we create new harmonies and forms in music. “29

26. Finally, having listened attentively to acoustically pure upper overtones that deviate from a tempered tuning system, Scriabin sensed the space between contiguous notes of the chromatic scale and heard the possibility of microtonality. He said “the tempered tuning system already feels cramped to me,” and “the time has come to destroy” temperament. Microtonality is not new in music: quarter tones have been around for over 2,500 years. But in the new circuit of 20th-century music, microtonality is one of the extreme modal-harmonic means of composition. In 1925 Ivan Vyshnegradski composed his First String Quartet in quarter tones. Its first sonority, played by all four instruments, is the quarter-tone cluster C1, С≠1, C≠1, and C##’!

Today, microtonality is a frequently occurring phenomenon in music.

27. Stravinsky once wrote about the creative process: “At its basis, every work assumes something like an appetite, which gives rise to the anticipation of discovery.”30 To a high degree, Scriabin was endowed with the capacity for such artistic discoveries.

Having broken through, in his striving harmonic evolution of 1903 to 1910, to “new shores” of harmony, and thanks to the audacity of his “mystic” insight (leaving aside considerations of the shackles of inertia), he saw new harmonic opportunities, and saw and heard not only complicated harmonies of a traditional pitch-class type like twelve-tone chords, but also sonorous harmonic timbres, or timbral harmonies. He also noticed the boundaries of the harmonic world, beyond which harmonic timbres turn into light, colors, smells, and gestures. The legacy of this great Russian composer will surely last in the long and problematic development of music.

28. The era of Alexander Scriabin has long since passed us by. Yet his ideas and artistic discoveries have been developed widely in music of the twentieth century. Now, at the end of the century, we better understand that which seemed to be, at the beginning of the century, an unrestrained randomness of a solipsistic fantasy.

Alexander Scriabin is surely closer to us now than he was in the 1930s or 1940s.

– Yuri Kholopov

  1. Leonid Sabaneev, Vospominania o Skriabine (Recollections of Scriabin) (Moscow 1925): 227-28. ↩︎
  2. Ibid., 62. ↩︎
  3. Varvara Dernova, Garmonia Skriabina (The Harmony of Scriabin) (Leningrad 1968). See also: Varvara Dernova, “Garmoniia Skriabina,” in the published collection A. N. Scriabin (Moscow 1973): 381.
    In particular, see the final cadence of Op. 74, no. 4, in which it seems there is no existing tonic D. ↩︎
  4. Sabaneev, 46-48, 223, 224. See also the published collection A. N. Scriabin, 425, 538. ↩︎
  5. Ibid., 224. This is Sabaneev’s retelling; apparently, Scriabin said “to the tonic/dominant succession” since the “tonic pole” is the second chord in Ex. 1 and not the first. ↩︎
  6. Paul Hindemith, Unterweisung im Tonsatz, Part 1 (Mainz 1940): 257. ↩︎
  7. Sabaneev, 223. ↩︎
  8. See Zofia Lissa, “Geschichtliche Vorform der Zwölftontechnik,” Acta Musicologica VII (1935), no. 1. ↩︎
  9. Igor Stravinsky, Dialogi Dialogues) (Leningrad 1971): 47. ↩︎
  10. By the way, it would be completely possible to account for the melody of the first secondary theme area in the Finale of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Trio according to this duplex-minor scale, transposing it from C minor to A minor. ↩︎
  11. See Gottfried Eberle, Zwischen Tonalität: Studien zur Harmonik Alexander Skrabin [sic] (München-Salzburg 1978); and “Alexander Skrjabin und Skrjabinisten,” [sic] Musik-Konzepte [sic], nos. 32/33 (Sep. 1983). [The correct title of Eberle’s book is Zwischen Tonalität und Atonalität. Studien zur Harmonik Alexander Skriabins. The correct titles of the article and of the compilation in which it appears are “Alexander Skriabin und die Skriabinisten” and Musik-Konzebte–trans.] ↩︎
  12. 12 Sabaneev, 223. ↩︎
  13. Boris Asaflev, “Skriabin. Opyt kharakteristiki” (Scriabin: the Experience of Characteristics), in the published collection A. N. Scriabin (Petrograd 1921): 53. ↩︎
  14. Sabaneev, 25. ↩︎
  15. Ibid., 270. ↩︎
  16. Karlheinz Stockhausen, Texte zur elektronischen und instrumentalen Musik, vol. I (Cologne 1963): 18. ↩︎
  17. Stravinsky, 215. ↩︎
  18. Sabaneev, 105. ↩︎
  19. Stravinsky, 228. ↩︎
  20. Sabaneev, 105, 254. ↩︎
  21. Stravinsky, 228. ↩︎
  22. Igor Stravinsky, Khronika moey zhizni (Chronicle of My Life) (Leningrad 1963): 185. Apparently, Stravinskv’s “polarity” is none other than a translation from Russian of the term “stability.” ↩︎
  23. Igor Stravinsky, “Mysli iz ‘muzikal’noy poetiki” (Thoughts from “musical poetics”), in the published collection I. E. Stravinsky (Moscow 1973): 29-31. ↩︎
  24. Victor Bobrovsky, Funktsional’nye osnovy muzykal’noi formy (Functional bases of musical form),
    (Moscow 1970): 306-7. ↩︎
  25. Sabaneev, 206. ↩︎
  26. Ibid., 288. ↩︎
  27. Ibid., 188. ↩︎
  28. Velimir Khlebnikov, Tvorenia (Works) (Moscow 1987): 51-56. ↩︎
  29. Sabaneev, 250. ↩︎
  30. Stravinsky, Mysli.., 31. ↩︎

Scriabin the Conservative Innovator

A rhythmic detail in Scriabin’s Sonata no. 6

Emil Medtner (1872-1936), critic, writer and conservative, brother of the composer, wrote press criticisms of Scriabin that could be fairly harsh, especially as regards a lack of physical strength in the sound, under the pseudonyms of ‘Wolfing’ and Э. For example (Muzyka IV.38, March 2 1913): 

​Without even mentioning the fact that Scriabin’s gifts do not correspond to [the demands of] the ​Great Hall of the Nobles’ Society [now the Hall of Columns in the building still known as the House ​of Unions, with a façade on Okhotnyi Ryad] one can  say with assurance that his gifts are not suitable ​either to certain definable pieces in excessively fast tempi (obviously to the seventh sonata) or to ​pieces demanding a big sound.[But later in the review:] By the end of the evening, Scriabin seemed ​to have mastered the instrument to the extent that some things even scintillated (Etrangeté, Poème​Satanique, played incomparably from the point of view of the rhythm, which was iron-hard to the ​point of ecstasy).

‘Э’ spoke less harshly of Scriabin the composer. In Modernism and Music (1912) he distinguishes between “modernists” and “Innovators”: the second group, he said, “only partly broke the bounds of tradition”. In presenting a copy of the book to Scriabin he referred to tradition periphrastically as “that higher will which unites us who think differently.” The Sixth Sonata was written in 1911–12, and certainly was the most startling piano work of Scriabin up to that point. A small detail in the coda, which might suggest itself more readily to minds (and hands) accustomed to playing the Chopin études as well as the later Scriabin repertoire, gives an example of how radical rethinking of simple means gives an effect which is entirely new.

Here, nearly at the end of the sonata, is the “delirious dance” into which “Terror” merges, the famous place where Scriabin writes a top d which the keyboard doesn’t contain, but which is demanded by the harmony (the first chord of m. 365 is identical with the second chord of m. 366 – all these chords are formed from segments of the octatonic scale . )

One of the difficulties is co-ordinating the left-hand rhythm with the right. Both should be light, the right-hand chords like crisp snow, the left a muffled steady tread. The left should be heard to play in a steady three to the right hand’s four (notated as two bars of two beats). A sure-fire method for early-stage practice will be to count 1,2,3,4,5,6,/1,2,3, 4,5,6/etc. for the left hand’s three and 1,2,3,4,5,6/ for the right hand’s four. Medtner’s ‘iron to the point ofecstasy’ should apply here in the rhythm.

While the pianist is engaged with this task, the study by Chopin in E minor op. 25 no. 5 may come to mind – the middle, major mode section.

Chopin Etude op 25 no 5 E min. mm. 81–84. Schirmer/Mikuli

Here, as in the Scriabin example, the right hand has four groups of three in the same time as the left hand’s three groups of four. It does not sound as a cross-rhythm, except a little in the fourth bar, but it comes over clearly as such if the pianist is practising the right hand part in chords (which brings it closer to the Scriabin example.) There is, of course, a further difference. In accordance with the Symbolist principle of suggesting rather than revealing, Scriabin’s left hand plays in hemiola (1,–,3,/–,2,–) etc) – as in a deux-temps waltz, the famous episode in the Schumann piano concerto finale for example. Thus a principle (a favourite word of Scriabin’s which he always pronounced as in French) was transformed, remoulded, to produce something to which applies another favourite expression for Scriabin: ‘A new nastroenie’ [mood, atmosphere].

With thanks to Professor Wei-Ling Cheong who endorsed this idea at an early stage.

Any and all subsequent errors are of course mine.

Simon Nicholls

Interview on YouTube with Mira T. Sundara Rajan, ‘Scriabin’s Ecstatic Soundworld’.

Podcast Interview with Mira T. Sundara Rajan, ‘Scriabin’s Ecstatic Soundworld’.

From Joint Chairman Simon Nicholls:

I was recently interviewed on the subject of Scriabin by Mira T. Sundara Rajan for her podcast. She is a most remarkable lady: she plays the piano expertly; she is also expert in Indian culture including Indian song. Mira is a great grand-daughter of the distinguished Tamil poet C. Subramania Bharati (1882-1921). Bharati is a National Poet of India and was a very progressive thinker. Mira has edited an important selection of his original writings in English for Penguin India. She is also an internationally renowned expert on copyright law and advocate for artists. She holds a Doctorate in Law from Oxford University.

The interview is available at:

Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-ecstatic-sound-world-of-alexander-scriabin/id1723723726?i=1000649674363

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/1oK66LFx3qVirICpx30KJF?si=ad987de8b9504e02

Podcast Homepage: https://womanofculturepodcast.com/the-ecstatic-sound-world-of-alexander-scriabin-with-simon-nicholls-pianist-and-translator-of-skryabins-notebooks

Mira’s website is: https://professormira.com.

Do listen in!

Simon Nicholls

Virginie Déjos: Excerpt from: Analyse et interprétation des six dernièressonates pour piano d’Alexandre Scriabine

Introduction

The Association is grateful to Dr. Virginie Déjos for permission to publish a short translated excerpt from her doctoral dissertation, Analyse et interprétation des six dernières sonates d’Alexandre Scriabine. The whole thesis is available in French online and is strongly recommended to the serious reader: https://www.academia.edu/48901920/DEJOS_Virginie_2014_These)

To the present writer and translator, Dr. Déjos’s work is distinguished from the numerous scholarly works on Scriabin by its profound musical insight, which reflects the depth and breadth of her musical experience as scholar, pianist and conductor, all of it at the highest level. I selected the extract given, a choice which Dr. Déjos approved, because of its clarity as to what Scriabin’s late music might ‘mean’, and how  it ‘means’ – a difficult question often asked by listeners. A short biography follows:

Virginie Déjos is a versatile musician with extensive experience as both a pianist and a conductor. Her most notable musical engagements to date include collaborations with Radio France, the Lübeck Opera, and the Staatsoper Stuttgart, where she served as a pianist and assistant conductor for Cornelius Meister, Marc Piollet, Stefano Montanari, Sofi Janin, Alexander Myrat, Ryusuke Numaijiri, and Titus Engel. Currently, she holds the position of Choir Director at the Stadttheater Heidelberg.

Virginie Déjos earned her Master of Music in Piano Performance with high distinction from the Royal Conservatory of Brussels under the guidance of Professor Evgeny Mogilevsky, and a conducting diploma from the Ecole Normale de Musique de Paris. Additionally, she obtained her doctorate from Paris Sorbonne University, where she also served as a teacher.

She is a laureate of the international Scriabin Competition and the Piano Competition of Île de France. She also achieved success in the international Lied and Melodie competition in Gordes with soprano Déborah Attal. In 2016, she was awarded a scholarship from the Paris Cercle Wagner.

As a conductor, Virginie Déjos has led numerous symphony concerts with choir and orchestra in Paris, including performances with Choeur Harmonia and Orchestre Lyrique de Paris, as well as the premiere performance of Rémi Guillard’s Requiem in La Madeleine. She has conducted Benjamin Britten’s opera The Little Sweep, Kurt Weill’s Der Jasager at the Rochefort Theater directed by Olivier Dhénin, and Wagner’s Rheingold in Vendôme staged by Pierre Thirion-Vallet. In 2022, she conducted a new production of Philipp Glass’s Les Enfants terribles staged by Corina Tetzel at the Stuttgart Opera.

As a pianist, she frequently performs as a soloist, in recitals, and collaboratively in chamber music. Recent engagements include the opening recital of the Ruhrtriennale 2021, concerts at the Stuttgart Liederhalle, Liederabend at the Stuttgart Staatsoper, Liederabend at Vilnius Philharmonie, and chamber music concerts for the Nuremberg Bridging Arts Festival. With the Staatsorchester Stuttgart, she has performed as a soloist in Les oiseaux exotiques and the Quatuor pour la fin du temps during the Messiaen Festival. Her concerts have been broadcast by BR Klassik and LRT Lithuanian Radio and Television.

As an avid ambassador for music by French composers, Virginie Dejos, in collaboration with the Institut Français Stuttgart, founded in 2021 a chamber music festival, and recorded French composers with members of the Stuttgart Staatsorchester.

Virginie Déjos: Excerpt from: Analyse et interprétation des six dernièressonates pour piano d’Alexandre Scriabine  (Doctoral Dissertation, Sorbonne, 2014)

(French original available on line: https://www.academia.edu/48901920/DEJOS_Virginie_2014_These)

From Part 1: Scriabin and Russian Symbolism/ Chapter 1: The musical figures

2. Listening to the sonatas (p.11)

Listening concentratedly to the last six sonatas, the musical language seems absolutely unique. In listening, the impression emerges of music which, born from nothingness, progressively advances step by step to an ecstatic climax. [Boris de] Schloezer points to an interesting scheme which corresponds in its broad outline to the overall perception of the form of Scriabin’s sonatas and symphonic works. He defines this perception as follows:

​languor [tomlenieanguish],longing, impetuous striving, dance, ecstasy  and  ​transfiguration.

[12]This schema almost describes a formal principle in the last sonatas:

​[…] all Scriabin’s works, beginning with the Third Piano Sonata and ending with the ​Tenth Piano Sonata, are built according to a uniform succession  of states – languor ​[tomlenie, anguish], longing, impetuous striving, dance, ecstasy and transfiguration.

Schloezer describes Scriabin’s musical forms in poetical terms. As we listen, a form in movement, generated by the first chord, is created. And yet the sonata form is very precise. The last six sonatas all respect, within a single movement,  the form of a classical sonata first movement with an exposition, a development and a recapitulation. Schloezer, who was close at hand during the composition of several works, bears witness to the composer’s manner of working.  Scriabin would start with a very precise initial phase, establishing the plan and form of the work:

​His work progressed simultaneously in all directions, developing from different points ​of departure according to a plan worked out in the most minute details. This plan, ​which determined the general form of a musical composition and its structure, ​whether it be a sonata, a symphony, or a tone poem, was sketched by Scriabin in ​advance, when the thematic material was only beginning to shape itself. He followed ​this plan with unswerving logic, never deviating from it. Thus he worked on the whole ​piece at the same time; it was constructed in all directions at once, starting from ​different points, according to a plan elaborated in its smallest details. This plan, which ​determined the form of the musical work, the detailed constructional form of a ​sonata, a symphony or a poème, was always worked out by Scriabin in advance, at ​the moment when he was just marking down the thematic material on the paper. And ​he followed the plan with scrupulous exactness, hardly ever modifying it under  any ​circumstances, and following it with imperturbable logic.

Schloezer adds that Scriabin never modified his plan and preferred ‘to sacrifice some of his abundant materials’, compensating in this way for his not very rational nature. Scriabin insisted on the absolute, primordial necessity of self-limitation, of imposing frameworks. His great precision is revealed by the neatness of the designs of the construction, which are revealed by analysis. The musicologist Manfred Kelkel dedicated an important part of his thesis to the study of Scriabin’s sonata-forms; it is remarkable for proposing a schematisation of the form according to very strict rules concerning the proportions of number and symmetries. While listening, however, these proportions are not identifiable, and Schloezer’s first description comes to mind. The poetical terms he employs:[13] ‘desire’, ‘flight’, ‘dance’, describe the musical themes most closely according to their reality as sound. The music responds to this kind of listening: as our listening allows the music its head,the figures and themes become metaphors in sound.

3. Idea-images

Thematic material in Scriabin’s sonatas does not develop in long melodic lines. This fact is rare enough in a Russian composer to be worthy of emphasis. Besides, there are very few piano pieces by Scriabin in which it is possible to identify a genuine melody. The music is principally constructed and structured from and around what I shall name figures to emphasise  the metaphorical aspect in the elaboration of the thematic material. These figures are very short, composed of a few notes and clearly identifiable to the listener.

Boris de Schloezer speaks of the ‘idea-image’ to evoke the act of creation as experienced by Scriabin. The work would appear to the composer in its completed unity, simultaneously in the forms of sound and of colour: ‘he liked to call this image a “sounding body” possessing a colour of its own.’ If, for Schloezer, the term ‘idea-image’ evokes the overall unity of the work, I am referring to it here in order to describe the nature of the thematic material of the work at a more ‘local’ level. This idea of a ‘theme-image’ makes it possible to grasp the importance of the association between the musical idea of the works, i.e. the thematic material, and what they represent, what they evoke: the image. The musical material is conceived as a metaphor in sound. With this concept of the idea-image Scriabin turns away from pure music – the very idea of it is profoundly displeasing to him: ‘I cannot understand how, even now in our era, how it is still possible to write something which is “just music.” That is so uninteresting!’

Six idea-images are presented in the exposition of each of the last sonatas. The progress of the sonata, constructed  as a gradual ascent towards a final ecstasy – the culminating point of the work – is structured around their successive transformations. They are superimposed over each other, forming a developed counterpoint.

The idea-images are the musical figures which constitute the thematic material of Scriabin’s sonatas, often associated in the scores with written indications in a metaphorical [14]style which lead us back to Schloezer’sdescription (flight, dance). They have often been compared with Wagner’s leitmotives. This is a valid juxtaposition to the extent that Wagner and Liszt were incontestably the models for Scriabin, but the leitmotive and the idea-image differ in certain respects. With Wagner the musical leitmotive is immediately associated either with the presence of one of the characters (for example, the horn motive in Siegfried) or a physical element (the love potion in Tristan or Valhalla in the Ring), with a dominant emotion (desire in Tristan) or else the evocation of one of the elements (fire in Die Walküre). If, in Wagner, the association is made directly by the simultaneity of the scenic action and of the music – at least at the first appearance of the leitmotive(discounting the orchestral preludes) – (for example, the motive of the giants in Rheingold is played every time one of the giants appears or when Fasolt or Fafner is evoked), in Scriabin, who composes only for piano or orchestra, on the contrary, the visual support is absent. By its morphology, its intervals, its rhythm, the idea-image calls us to an immediate correspondence. Further: in Schloezer’s view, Scriabin did not seek to ‘imitate’ a concept, but the idea and the music came from the same intuition. The sound image and its visual equivalent occurred to him simultaneously. Scriabin was a synaesthete and therefore heard music in colours, in sound-colours. Speaking of the Fifth Sonata, Scriabin described a ‘being of sound and colour’ which, he said, had been revealed to him and of which he had only to ‘lift the veil to make it visible to others’:

​He observed it in his inner self and at the same time separate from him, or rather ​above him […] During the process of composition he felt as though he were ​projecting a three-dimensional body on a flat surface, stretching and flattening in ​time and space a prophetic vision that saw and heard it from the inside and at the ​same time separately, above him […] While composing he had the feeling that he ​was projecting a three-dimensional body that he experienced as an instant ​revelation, simplifying and at the same time impoverishing it. The integral vision

​that he perceived with his entire being, in which all the human senses participated,

​he reduced to a system of sounds, thus utilizing only one sensory medium. He also ​said that in the apperception of this primary vision he did not feel that he was ​merely a passive recipient, but was at all times creatively active.

The universe of correspondences assembled by Scriabin appeals to a common ground of reference between composer and audience. Certain points of reference have their origin in current associations, others have more subtle foundations, a musical origin. To the first category belongs, for example, the idea of flight, commonly associated with lightness, ascent, speed, freedom. It is translated into music via groups of quick, rising grace notes in the upperregister, associated with the idea  [15] of height. For the second category, that of idea-images with a musical reference point, one of the best examples is to be found in the Ninth Sonata: [mus. ex. 1]

Mus. ex. 1

The sonata’s sub-title, ‘Black Mass’, leads us to associate the figure (the repeated notes in the low register) with a feeling of anxiety  or a disquieting person – the latter, all the more easily because it seems to have been inspired directly by the theme generally associated with the character ofMephistopheles in Liszt’s piano sonata: [mus. ex. 2]

Mus. ex. 2

In Scriabin, the idea-image is not only a metaphor in sound, but, like the leitmotives in Wagner’s operas, acts like a signal for the listener, announcing to him, for example the arrival of a character. For Scriabin, as for Wagner,certain figures, like that of the call, alert the listener on their reappearance because they are instantly memorised. The notion of the idea-image and the particular resonance it encounters in the other arts calls for a rapprochement with the works of the Russian symbolist poets. At this period, the limits between sound, language and image demand to be overcome and the artists are drawn to researching in a new direction, tending towards a fusion of the arts.

Biography of Scriabin (1915) By Yulii Engel, Chapter VII

VII. Back in Russia

(1909-1915)

In Moscow – a concert of decisive significance (I.R.M.O.): the first performance of The Poem of Ecstasy – the orchestra – the public – other concerts – Brussels –  final return to Moscow – first appearance in Koussevitzky’s concerts – tour down the Volga – Leonid Sabaneyev –  first performance of Prometheus –  the break with Koussevitzky – Scriabin at his dacha – the series of concerts from 1911 to 1912 – Scriabin’s attitude to concert-giving –  Alexander Siloti – Boris Jurgenson – Trip around Holland – Scriabin at home – his attitude to exterior conditions; tastes, habits – Attitude to others’ music, to himself – How Scriabin composed, his attitude to his  own works – A further series of  concerts – England – Alexander Brianchaninov – The  Mystery – The evolution of the idea of the Mystery –  Preparations for India – The Preliminary Action – its score, participants, text – Jurgis Baltrušaitis – Vyacheslav Ivanov – the last concerts – illness – death – funeral – what was the reason? – better that way for him…

Many new alarms and joys awaited Scriabin in Moscow; some of these were not at all connected with art, but rather with the changed circumstances in the family and with his relations (his grandmother and aunt greeted him with the old fondness and love), and his friends (some of his previous friends now became distant with him, but new friends also appeared.)

But his artistic alarms and joys occupied him more deeply and with stronger emotion: how would the Divine Poem and the Poem of Ecstasy  sound, works which he, as the composer, was now going to hear performed for the first time? How would the Muscovites react to this unprecedented music, which was new to them?

The programme for the I.R.M. O. concert of works by Scriabin (February 21, 1909) contained the Divine Poem, the Fifth Sonata played by the composer and the Poem of Ecstasy – each with the annotation ‘first performance’. 

In the concert programme, a thematic analysis of the Divine Poem1 was prefaced by a few lines of general introduction. After these came the analysis, combined with a philosophical commentary. Here is that introduction:

The Divine Poem represents the evolution of the spirit – the spirit freeing itself from the horrors of despair, from all of its past, filled with mysterious images and beliefs, which it has overcome and destroys in order at last to achieve the affirmation of ecstasy of its divine ‘I’.

The programme stated the following about the Poem of Ecstasy:

Scriabin’s Poem of Ecstasy is the joy of free activity. The Universe (= the Spirit) is eternal creativity without external aim, with no motive – a divine play with worlds. The creative 

Spirit, the Universe at play, is unaware of this itself, knowing only that its creation is absolute; [74] it has subdued itself to a purpose, by its own creation it has made the means. But the more strongly the pulse of life beats, the quicker its rhythms hurry, the more clearly does the Spirit know that it is nothing but creativity through and through, sufficient unto itself, that its life is play. And when the Spirit, having reached the highest exaltation of activity, having, so to speak, wrested it from the embraces of expediency and relativity, fully experiences its essence, which is free activity, then ecstasy will begin2.

The orchestra, strengthened to dimensions unique amongst those demanded by Scriabin’s scores3, and its director Emil Cooper prepared in the sweat of their brows for a uniquely laborious, demanding concert. Instead of the usual two to three rehearsals, six were taken.

The extra means required were provided by a member of the directors’ board of the I.R.M.O.  – Margarita Morozova (the I.R.M.O. had previously specified the conditions of Scriabin’s concert, so that he should not demand extra expenses). 

One rehearsal was for strings alone, another for the wind. In the Third Symphony the orchestra quickly worked things out and arrived at a conception of the piece. Things were less easy in the Poem of Ecstasy, especially with the wind sections. In general the strings got round the music more easily, as the principal thread of the development of musical thought was mostly concentrated in their parts (as usual with Scriabin). But, through the complexity of the music itself, the treatment of the wind instruments  in this work became more significant in itself. Thus, for example, ‘the oboe, the flute and the clarinet on p. 40–42 of the score [passage beginning one bar after fig. 13, p.62/63 – 72/73 of Eulenberg min.score] are given such figurations (the theme in diminution) in a high tessitura that’ (in the words of Emil Cooper) ‘the musicians (very fine musicians) could not play them as they should be played. They blew into their instruments, but only an approximation emerged of what is indicated. And it was hard to blame them. In the fortissimo ensemble this detail, nevertheless, has no importance in the fundamental expression, for it gets lost in the general impression.’

But, in the general rehearsal, the wind players acquired more and more of a taste for the Poem of Ecstasy  and, by the end, it interested them greatly – some were delighted with it.

Generally speaking, orchestral musicians behave ‘like a clerk grown grey [75]in orders4’, quietly staring at their music desks, – but in this case, conscious of something unprecedented, epoch-making,  they were unusually alert.

The composer himself was in raptures over the actual sonorities of the Poem of Ecstasy, which he himself was verifying for the first time; he said that all his intentions had been realised and that there were many things which exceeded his expectations. 

The nearer the concert came, the tenser became the mood, even of the members of the public (of whom there were more and more) attending the rehearsals. One could see almost all the musicians of Moscow there (many with copies of the score), but also many people who did not usually attend rehearsals, such was the eager general interest aroused by Scriabin’s music even before its ‘official’ performance. It is hard to describe the excitement which reigned at these rehearsals. Sometimes people who were not acquainted started talking to each other, argued furiously or delightedly shook hands; there were also more effusive scenes of excitement and enthusiasm.

It was the same on the evening of the concert itself; it is true that emotion was shown, not so openly, (the circumstances of a concert being much more official than in a rehearsal) but on an even larger scale, as the Great Hall of the Conservatory was absolutely full. However various the shades of reaction to the new work might be, one thing was clear: the composer’s talent had developed massively during his absence from Moscow; before him were opening unprecedented perspectives of some kind, new worlds where no-one had yet been before him.

And the predominant attitude, even amongst those who did not like everything about Scriabin, was empathetic. The orchestra, the public and the critics all saluted the composer.

The concert produced a complete sensation not only in the musical world,  but also in non-musical circles; it was repeated a week later (for the benefit of widows and orphans of musicians.) Contrary to the old proverb, the prophet was honoured – if not universally – in his native land5

On this same visit Scriabin appeared with success in a chamber concert of the I. R. M. O., 

where he played his own piano compositions (Fifth Sonata), at an evening of the ‘Aesthetic’ Society6, and in his own concert in the hall of the Synodal College7 (Third Sonata), organised in the closest co-operation with the ‘Aesthetic’ Society.

The Scriabins stayed in Moscow for about two months; during  this time they lived in the Koussevitzkys’ house. The Koussevitzkys travelled away from Moscow soon after the

Scriabins’ arrival, and therefore could not attend Scriabin’s concerts. During this period the Scriabins often met with Maria [Nemenova]–Lunts, Margarita Morozova, Leonid Pasternak,  Lev and Gyorgii Conyus and others.

[76] Before the Moscow performance, the Poem of Ecstasy  was given its first performance in St. Petersburg in a concert by the court orchestra, conducted by Hugo Wahrlich, and again in one of the Belyayev concerts (Jan 31, 1909), conducted by Felix Blumenfeld. In this concert, in which works by other composers were also played, Scriabin also appeared as pianist (playing the Fifth Sonata.)

Besides this, a Scriabin evening was arranged in the editorial offices of [the journal] Apollon [Apollo], to which came representatives of the musical, artistic and literary worlds of St. Petersburg.  Here, after several years’ separation, Scriabin met with Lyadov; also with Rimsky-Korsakov, his family, and others. Here too he met Vyacheslav Ivanov for the first time, and this first meeting was the beginning of their closer acquaintance.

In St. Petersburg, too,  the impression given by the Poem of Ecstasy  was exceptional; here, as before, colossal power was felt in the work, but the press reaction was more negative and harsh than in Moscow. One thing could not be doubted: despite his long absence, Scriabin had friends in his homeland, had listeners who held a high opinion of him, and there was a numerous and attentive public for many of his works – in a word, everything which he had never had abroad to such a degree and in such a coherent network. And, naturally, the question arose: would it not be better to resettle completely in his native Moscow? And, in principle, this question was resolved. 

For the time being, the Scriabins returned to Brussels, and there he and the family lived till the end of the year. There Scriabin conceived Prometheus, composed the Poème op.59 [no.1] and other works.   

At the end of the year, December 2nd 1909, the first performance of the Poem of Ecstasy took place (directed by A. Khesin); the press reviews, whether or not sympathetic to the work, mentioned the magnificence of Scriabin’s conception, and, in general, the uncommon flight of his imagination. Three months later the Poem of Ecstasy  was performed again in Berlin, conducted this time by Koussevitzky; this performance met with a better reception from the public than had the first.

The Scriabins arrived in Moscow early in January 1910 – but this time with the firm intent to stay for good. Alexander Nikolaevich was fated to compose his last, daring works here,  ascending to the final, most audacious dreams… These final years are exposed to the general gaze; they are still too close to us for everything to be discussed in detail at the present time…

On their arrival in Moscow the Scriabins settled as a family for the time being in the ‘Knyazhnyi dvor’ [‘the Prince’s Court’] (by the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour). Apart from seeing previous friends and acquaintances they often met here with Koussevitzky and with old friends of  Alexander Nikolaevich: the Monighettis, Prince E. M. Shakhovskoi, Oskar von [77]Riesemann, Alexander  Podgaetsky, Alexander Mozer, L. G. Mark, Nikolai Medtner,  Alexander Goldenweiser, N.K. Averino, A. Mogilevsky and others.

In Moscow, shortly before Scriabin’s departure, the Divine Poem was performed under the direction of Oskar Fried in Koussevitsky’s sixth concert (this was his first year of concerts). The composer was present at the performance, and received a triumphal ovation both from the public and from the performers. In the programme of this concert (January 20th 1910) an extra Koussevitzky concert was announced, for February 10th of that year – in three weeks’ time. It was to be exclusively of Scriabin’s own works, and would include both Prometheus, the Poem of Fire  (for the first time) and some Symphonic Dances (also for the first time).

However, it turned out that neither Prometheus nor the Dances were ready, and they were not performed. It  cannot even be stated regarding the  Dances  that they were ‘not ready’: they did not even exist on paper, though the composer played a lot of music from them. That, indeed, was why they did not get written down8… Clearly, in this case Scriabin was repeating what usually happened with his new large-scale works: their appearance was ‘delayed’. 

Listeners to the extra concert of February 10th thus did not hear new works from Scriabin (the Poem of Ecstasy and some piano works were performed.) But the composer’s reception was extremely enthusiastic – both from Koussevitzky and the musicians and from the public.

Soon afterwards Alexander Nikolaevich (together with Tatyana Fyodorovna) took part in a grand artistic trip, organised in an unprecedented way. This was Koussevitzky’s famous tour down the Volga with the orchestra of the Imperial Bolshoi Theatre (later trips took place with Koussevitzky’s own orchestra). The thought was a happy one, both for the towns along the Volga, where good symphonic music was heard well performed (in the majority of cases, for the first time) and for those taking part in the tour. They spent almost the whole time on the steamer ‘No.1’, owned by the Kamensky brothers, leaving it only for concerts and strolls. The Volga stretched before them in its full beauty; May was in full flower; business was profitable; the public were friendly, their veins not yet poisoned with doubt or division. For those reasons all the participants retain such good memories of the tour.

The trip lasted from April 21st to May 25th. In all, nineteen concerts were given in eleven towns (Tver, Rybinsk, Yaroslavl, Kostroma, Simbirsk, Nizhnyi Novgorod, Kazan, Saratov, Tsaritsyn [now Volgograd], Astrakhan, Samara.)

Scriabin appeared in all these concerts, playing his piano concerto and, as encores, pieces from his early and middle periods. The steamer also conveyed a Bechstein grand specially made for the trip, on which Scriabin played9.

[78]

Scriabin and his family spent  the summer  of 1910 on the Mark estate, near the station for that estate (the line for Savyolovskaya etc.)10 Here the score of Prometheus was finished. 

That summer the Divine Poem was performed for the first time in Odessa (in the symphonic concerts which take place during the fair11.)

On returning to Moscow the Scriabins settled  in the Maly Tolstoy pereulok (side street), in the Oltarzhevsky building12. Here their third and last child was born (a daughter, Marina.)

In this season (1910–11) Koussevitzky already had his own orchestra, which made it easier for him to organise symphony concerts in parallel in Moscow and in St Petersburg. Scriabin also appeared in connection with these concerts – both as composer and as pianist – in both major cities.

Scriabin and Leonid Sabaneyev’s close acquaintance also dates from this time; Sabaneyev is one of Scriabin’s keenest disciples and supporters in the press13. As Scriabin had found in de Schloezer not only one of those who expressed the composer’s ideas, but also, in part, a helper in their establishment, so Sabaneyev now similarly became Scriabin’s associate in the areas of musical theory and acoustics, which in the composer’s last [orchestral] work, Prometheus, are subject to a complete revolution.

Others who became more closely acquainted with Scriabin at that time were Alexander Podgaetsky14, who had moved to Moscow, Dr. Vladimir Bogorodsky15, Nikolai Zhilyaev16, Jurgis Baltrušaitis17, the princes Gagarin, the princes Trubetskoy18, Vera Lermontova19, and also the artist Nikolai Shperling20, who soon became Scriabin’s intimate friend. The composer valued him highly. Shperling, whom Scriabin characterised as ‘possessed21’, gave the composer his small [medium-sized trans.] painting  ‘The Eastern Sage’; Scriabin hung it in his flat above the writing table.

Scriabin gave two piano recitals in the autumn of 1910, one in St. Petersburg (November 22nd), the other in Moscow (December 14th), both in the Great Halls of  the Council of Nobility22. In these concerts pieces up to op. 52 were performed.

On November 27th the Moscow section of the Imperial Russian Musical Society celebrated its 50th anniversary with a jubilee concert (directed by Emil Cooper), consisting of works by leading composers who had emerged from the Moscow Conservatoire. These were: Sergei Taneyev’s cantata St. John of Damascus, Scriabin’s Divine Poem and Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto. 

In the spring of 1911 Scriabin gave two piano recitals abroad, in Leipzig on February 24th and February 27th in Berlin, whose programmes were of works up to opus 52 (Third Sonata and others.)

[79] But that season’s most significant musical event in Scriabin’s life was the first performance of Prometheus, in the Scriabin symphony concert directed by Koussevitzky (March 2nd 1911). This performance represented unusual difficulties. For a start, the score of Prometheus demands, besides a symphony in sound, a symphony in colours, which correspond with the sounds. To represent the colours a line marked luce was introduced into the score, and a special instrument was necessary to perform what was indicated on this line – a clavier à lumières, a ‘light keyboard’. According to Scriabin, what was printed for this instrument in the score did not entirely correspond with Scriabin’s concept – it was a simplification. But the introduction of ‘light’ into the performance of Prometheus, even in this form, presented unusual difficulties. Alexander Mozer23 took a major part in the attempts to overcome these difficulties, but in the end they proved to be insurmountable (principally as concerned finance) and Prometheus was performed without the inclusion of ‘light’, although its possibility is foreseen in the score. 

But even disregarding the ‘light’, Prometheus was also a feat of special difficulty for the conductor: just as the composer’s very concept here was new and unusual, so was his musical language new and complicated24.  Whereas in the première of Le poème de l’extase six rehearsals had been required instead of the usual maximum of three, for Prometheus  nine were required. The orchestra, to say nothing of the conducting of Koussevitsky, applied themselves to the task with a full concentration of strength and attention.

The performance was extremely good and, in any case, gave the maximum  that was possible under such circumstances. Scriabin took the piano part25.

No-one in the public was indifferent; everybody recognised the new work’s significance and its unusual character, but there was none of that unanimous and immediate elation which had occurred two years previously at the first performance of Le poème de l’extase. The majority did not comprehend the work. A minority eagerly applauded it; another section, smaller still, hissed, which had not occurred at all two years ago. And in the press, along with articles defending the work, sharp attacks on Scriabin appeared, such as there had not been previously (at least in Moscow). 

A rift between Scriabin and Koussevitzky occurred soon after the performance of Prometheus.  Officially speaking, this rift occurred on account of ambiguities  [80] concerning Scriabin’s participation in a proposed cycle of concerts by Koussevitzky in Moscow and St Petersburg. But essentially this disagreement was only a contributory cause, the final touch, whereas the rift had been developing earlier. On the occasion of their first trip to Moscow, Scriabin and Koussevitsky were on the friendliest of terms; nothing disturbed their intimacy. But, gradually, elements of disharmony also began to penetrate into these relations, disharmony rooted in the constraints each had to tolerate under the influence, voluntary or involuntary, of the other. In the end these disagreements led to  complete dissension26.

The Scriabins spent that summer near Kashira27, on the Karpov estate ‘Obraztsovo’. Here were conceived, amongst other things, the sonatas 6–10.

Scriabin usually journeyed to a dacha with the intention of stopping work, of relaxing with the help of the ‘country way of life’ and so on. But one week went by, then another, and he was still working as he had in town, dragging out the work schedule, going to bed late and so on. He wanted to possess all of the morning, the evening, the sun, the stars. He expected to make a feast of nature as he did of life. But at the same time, face to face with nature, he often felt in some way that he was not at his ease. For example, he could never bring himself to sit or to lie down directly on the grass; there had to be some sort of mat28; he didn’t want to go walking if a thunderstorm might be expected; he was very frightened of grass- and water-snakes, and other creatures of that sort. ‘A dilettante of nature’ – thus one of his close friends speaks of him, adding: ‘Scriabin in the countryside gave a strange impression, amongst the peasants of Kashira, with his English suit, white trousers, speaking French – there was something ‘irrational’ about that.’ 

In the autumn, amid worries about means of existence, it was time to think about giving more concerts. 

 F. E. Keil (of the firm of Diederichs) took part in organising this matter. He also took care of the ‘front-of-house’ aspect of the concerts. In some towns, some concerts were given at the invitation of the local section of the I.R.M.O. and under their name; in others the concerts were independently organised. In the season of 1911–1912,  such [81] concerts were given in Odessa (October 8th 1911), Ekaterinoslav [now Dnipro, Ukraine] (October 11th, 1911), Vilnius [now capital of Lithuania] (November 11th, 1911),  Minsk (November 13th), Taganrog (January 8th, 1912), Novocherkassk (January 9th), Rostov-on-Don (January 11th), Ekaterinodar [now Krasnodar] (January 15th; two days before the concert a lecture was read by Anatolii Drozdov29,  Kazan (March 11th 1912), and other places. In these concerts Scriabin played his early and middle-period compositions (the Second Sonata was played almost everywhere) and only rarely something new.

Tatyana Fyodorovna invariably travelled with Alexander Nikolaevich to all these concerts. She had come to most of the preceding concerts and afterwards it was the same, right through to the many concerts of the final period. Exceptions were rare: for example, in the trip to Rostov-on-Don and nearby towns Alexander Podgaetsky was Alexander Nikolaevich’s companion30

The material necessity of such numerous concerts, taking away Scriabin’s time and powers from creative work, depressed him from one aspect. But there was also something pleasant for Scriabin in them; it was not accidental that he now found it much easier to overcome his distaste for concert-giving than he had in the first years (indeed, through until his time abroad.) The varying of everyday work surroundings by what was different, new, unusual was pleasant. Pleasant, too, to feel everywhere the attention paid to him, the love felt for him. This attention and love were as if unexpected for Scriabin – between these occasions he forgot about them somehow.  Before every concert, even in the provinces, not to mention capital cities, he would become agitated, alarmed, and then, being met with an enthusiastic welcome, he seemed surprised. ‘Oh, you see, they still love me!’ ‘Life must be a festival’, Scriabin was always saying, and the more that concerts created this festive mood the more he was actually attracted to them.  After a concert he loved to sit somewhere in a restaurant, over a glass of wine or tea31, in lively, informal conversation, in which it was not unusual for new local acquaintances to take part.

Besides his usual annual concert in Moscow, Scriabin  also took part that season in a symphony concert of the Philharmonic Society (December 10th , 1911)32, in which Rachmaninov conducted Scriabin’s First Symphony and directed the orchestra in Scriabin’s performance of his own F-sharp minor piano concerto. 

Essentially, Scriabin’s concerts in St Petersburg were transferred to the management of Alexander Siloti, who from now on became an eager publicist for Scriabin’s compositions (which could hardly have been said of the previous period.) Thus a friendship developed between Scriabin and Siloti and Siloti’s family circle. On November 5th 1911 Prometheus  was performed, with Scriabin’s participation, in one of Siloti’s symphonic concerts; the rest of the programme included  the Second Symphony and the F-sharp minor concerto. During this visit by Scriabin to St. Petersburg [82] Alexander Golovin began to paint his portrait33.

The artist did not manage to finish the portrait; he thought of finishing it during Scriabin’s next visit, but this this was not to be.

The first performance in Germany of Prometheus was given in Germany on March 12th (in Bremen, in a concert of the Philharmonic Society, directed by Ernst Wendel)34.

In February 1912, through negotiations by Siloti, Scriabin entered into a partnership with the firm of P. Jurgenson, which published his works from that time on. Now it was necessary for him to deal with the new owners of the firm, B. P.  and G. P. Jurgenson. They contracted to pay him 6,000 roubles per year against the works he would write (a greater amount than that offered  under Belaieff’s conditions.) Over and above the honorarium a certain percentage depending on the number  of copies sold was to be available to the composer. The contract was for four years, i.e., a longer time than was allotted for Scriabin to go on living…35 Scriabin was on the best of terms with B. P. and G. P. Jurgenson at all times.

The Scriabins spent 1912 in Switzerland, in Beatenburg, then lived a country life near Brussels for about six weeks. Scriabin felt splendidly well here. 

From thence they set off on a concert tour through Holland – the tour was arranged, in part, by Siloti. These were symphonic concerts consisting purely of works by Scriabin, who also took part as concerto soloist. Wilhelm Mengelberg (from Amsterdam), one of the best conductors of our day, who had also appeared in Russia also and was enthusiastic about Scriabin’s music, directed. The first concert took place on October 27 1912 (as one of the series, ‘Het Concertgebouw’). Prometheus, the First Symphony, the piano concerto and other pieces for piano solo were performed.

‘At first’, Tatyana Scriabina recounts, ‘it was proposed that Prometheus be performed without chorus (there  were certainly no lights.) But after conversations with Alexander Nikolaevich  a certain lady, the representative of a choral society, became so interested in him and his music that she used all the means at her disposal to attract a choir – and she did obtain one.

The choir, on their own initiative, even brought flowers for Alexander Nikolaevich and organized a celebratory ovation for him. All in all the concert had great success, and Mengelberg, who had supervised  the whole programme, even Prometheus, did a great deal towards this success. The Dutch are cold in temperament and undistinguished in appearance, but musical and cultured. They got on [83] well with Alexander Nikolaevich – all were respectful, and some even complimentary.’ 

The remaining concerts were given in The Hague, Harlem (October 28) and Frankfurt am Main (Nov.1). On the occasion of these concerts the local press often quoted the article by Oskar von Rieseman on Prometheus in the Signal of Leipzig. These concerts constituted a real festival for Alexander Nikolaevich, and after them his usual nerves in public appearances somehow left him for the main part.

The Scriabins returned from abroad in November 1912, with Tatyana’s mother and moved to 11, Bolshoy Nikolo-Peskovsky side-street (on the Arbat); Alexander Nikolaevich lived out the last years before his death.

In these years ‘home’ began to mean considerably more to Alexander Nikolaevich than it had done. Now he became, one may say without exaggeration, a stay-at-home. He loved society as before, but he preferred that friends should gather at his place, which indeed happened almost every day, often right through till midnight. He loved to dine at  a well-laid table with wine poured into glasses, to sit round the samovar – in a word, everything festive, everything to raise the spirits, a ‘banquet of life’. 

After dinner, to distract his thoughts from work, he would eagerly occupy himself with laying out a game of Patience, keeping up a light conversation as he did so. He also played chess.

He loved decoration of good quality and old-fashioned things. He loved people to be well-dressed, loved everything around him to be beautiful and orderly. In general he was very sensitive to outward refinement, but sometimes he confused the exterior with the interior, and in any case he was no judge of faces – he was not able to figure out people  from their outward appearance. 

In the words of A. N. Bryanchaninov36, Scriabin was particular about the outward physical side of life to the point of pedantry; taking a sideways look, this sometimes seemed evident to a maniacal degree37.

[84]Certain changes became noticeable during the last few years in Scriabin’s attitude to people. Of course, fundamental character traits – expansiveness, sociability, openness, the absence of arrière-pensée – dwelled in him as before, but large areas of reserve, sometimes even of impenetrability, were nonetheless noticeable already; already there was no longer a limitless willingness to play his works and to unfold his ideas on the first request, even at the first meeting38.

If Scriabin had also had a high opinion of himself earlier, now this trait – of self-intoxication, self-worship – became even stronger and deeper, though this trait was combined, as before, with the greatest courtesy and gentleness even to outsiders, not to speak of closer acquaintances. Coarse language, shouting or crudeness he could not bear even in other people.

With the years, Alexander Nikolaevich’s handwriting also changed significantly. It became more characteristic, more individual; large, bold, flowing, without significant pressure, but strong, defined letters; each one standing, so to speak, alone, but all together they gave the impression of a firm, strict regiment.

The attitude to the music of others – almost to all of it – now became even more estranged than before. In Bach, whom Scriabin had previously estimated highly, he began to distinguish calculation, dryness. But sometimes he placed him above Beethoven, whose forms, however, had always delighted him, even when he had come to think him completely outmoded as a composer. He valued Liszt as an artist and a person, but not as a composer; Wagner he also valued more as an artist and thinker than as a musician. But all the same the music of Wagner – as one amongst very few – was still capable of delighting him absolutely. For example, [85] the ‘magic fire music’scene [Die Walküre] brought him to some kind of ecstatic condition and set ablaze his dream of the unification of the arts in the Mystery. At the performance of Götterdämmerung Scriabin actually wept.

Amongst the Russian composers he valued Mussorgsky most of all – for his talent, for his interior quality. He regarded it as a plus that Mussorgsky was able to renounce classical German forms, as a minus that he neither understood nor accepted Wagner. He considered Mussorgsky a national composer – himself, by the way, he considered to be national twice over. He also valued Rimsky-Korsakov, though he thought that R-K had less purely musical talent than Tchaikovsky. But Tchaikovsky he considered to be ‘an excessively provincial nature’ and therefore did not love him, whereas Rimsky-Korsakov had ‘delicacy, upflight’.

Amongst the Russian poets he especially loved Tyutchev, Balmont, Bryusov, Vyacheslav Ivanov, Baltrušaitis.

With such an attitude towards the music of others, it did not suit him to play a lot of new things, to work at them with discrimination or selectivity, and maybe it was for this reason he did not have  any remarkable ability to sight–read. ‘If I had to take an examination in sight–reading’, he said, ‘I’d break down in a Kuhlau sonata’ (reported by Gyorgii Konyus).

From music he wanted the same aristocratic character as in life. Every detail of  everything in  life did not have to be reproduced in music. That would be workaday, he said even in youth. What was necessary was only the special, the extreme, the ecstatic. This extremity of spirit should correspond to an extremity in the forms of expression.

Scriabin’s inclination in this direction became defined very early on and he rejected any attempt to alter it. ‘Playing his little early Preludes’, relates Lev Konyus, ‘Scriabin always lingered with pleasure over the most ‘acute’ episodes. And he went further and further in this direction, concentrating and expanding this acuity, which again he so admired and brought out in so many episodes which stood out in high relief in this sense. One may follow this line of intensification to the end; this it was which led him to Prometheus and to the last works.’

The final ideal  of form for Scriabin, according to Alexander Podgaetsky, was dematerialisation.

He spoke eagerly of  a work as complete when only a movement or even an episode was finished; he played embryos of a piece, a few bars, one harmony. Clearly this helped him to nourish a work within himself, to form it, and for that reason, when he finally came to pen and paper he wrote the majority of it (especially works for piano) straight down [86] without alterations. In doing so, however, he often left a definite number of bars or even pages. Not always knowing what would be there, Scriabin always knew that it would be there and how much would be there. All this did not hinder his tormenting himself sometimes for whole days over some detail or other.

He attributed great importance to the outward appearance of his scores. He knew with certainty why, in his synthetic harmonies, f-flat should be written and not e, etc.39 But here, as in other cases, he found that  ‘with classical methods his music could not be approached.’

His latest work usually seemed the best of all to him. In general, he lived only for the present and for that reason, maybe, he took no interest in the arrangements of his works, however much they may have been his favourites in their time – after all,  that was all in the past already. Thus, he was not interested in looking through the arrangements of his Poem of Ecstasy (for two pianos, four hands) and Third Symphony (for piano duet), made by Lev Konyus, before publication.

On Scriabin’s scores the publishers set: arrangement for pianoforte by the composer –– price (left blank), as, clearly, they felt they had a right to hope that such an arrangement by the composer would be provided40.  But Scriabin, clearly, was so much taken up with the present and turned away from what was past that it was as if these arrangements didn’t exist (the only exception was the Piano Concerto).

But of course there were works which he loved to a greater or lesser extent. Amongst the last works the Seventh Sonata (‘White Mass’, as he called it – the last approach to the Mystery) was a favourite above all. He rated the Eighth Sonata highly for its harmonic achievements; he could not completely master the Sixth and Tenth. The work Vers la Flamme op. 72 was also intended, at first, to be a sonata.

The quantity of  the audience enlivening the concerts of the 1912-1913 season was rather less than in the previous and ensuing seasons. In December Scriabin appeared in St.Petersburg, in Siloti’s concert season: a symphonic concert and two chamber concerts. On February 1st Prometheus was performed for the first time in London – twice over, in the Queen’s Hall, under Wood’s direction. As everywhere, Prometheus attracted the most profound interest, expressed later in an invitation to Scriabin to come to London.

The Scriabins spent the summer of 1913 on the Oka, near Aleksin, at Petrovskoe, the estate belonging to Ber. That summer, Alexander Nikolaevich was particularly lively and pleased with life. Yurgis Baltrušaitis was also living there en famille. Alexander Podgaetsky,  Leonid Sabaneev, and the artist Shperling also visited.

As the season arrived, the concert tours stretched out again: Minsk (November 10), Kiev (Nov.23), Vilnius (November 14 – a symphonic concert in which Scriabin took part),  Elizavetgrad [now Kropvynytskii] (November 26), Kishinev (January 29, 1914), [87] Odessa (January 31), Nikolaev (February 2nd), Kherson (February 4th) and others. In the autumn, at the time of the concerts, Alexander Nikolaev said several times: ‘One thing, I feel that I am beginning to make a name for myself.’  

But the most interesting concert tour of this year turned out to be the one to London. Scriabin set off on this trip with Alexander Bryanchaninov, who had already travelled with him once before, in Paris in 1898 at the time of Scriabin’s concerts there. After that they did not meet again until 1907, when they began to meet up in Petrograd at the time of Scriabin’s visits to that city. Bryanchaninov was obliged to travel to London on his own business, and Scriabin was all the more glad to have a companion who was already well acquainted with both the English way of life and the language. Scriabin tried to study the English language but did not get very far.

Scriabin spent about five weeks in England, in February and March 1914. Soon after his arrival in London a small boil appeared on his face, in the same place where an infection would reappear a year later when it was Scriabin’s fate to die. But in London that particular infection (in a much less severe form than in Moscow: a boil, not a carbuncle) disappeared quite satisfactorily. It was not even necessary to cancel a single concert. 

Scriabin appeared in a symphony concert in the Queen’s Hall under the direction of Wood and in piano recitals (2nd–14th March). In the symphony concert Scriabin’s piano concerto and Prometheus were performed along with works by Beethoven, Richard Strauss and Wagner. It made an enormous impression, though it was a great help that Prometheus  had  been performed twice over in the previous season (before the same public)41. On the whole, the press reacted to Prometheus as to an extreme phenomenon, and indeed there was no shortage of ecstatic reviews. Scriabin’s piano recitals also achieved a very great success. Discussions arose as to Scriabin’s coming to England again in the following year, and for a whole series of concerts. [88]

All of this further strengthened Scriabin’s sympathetic feelings towards England, feelings which were born under the influence of the closest knowledge of the country. He often repeated that England was ahead of humanity. ‘The rhythm of life here is more defined’, he would say, ‘the relations between people more hopeful, more honest; here they value leaders and are able to follow them. For this reason it is also easiest of all to introduce new things. All that is needed is for them to grasp a new idea, and once it is grasped, the will-power for its fulfilment  will be found.’

Professor Meyers of Cambridge University also made a strong impression on Scriabin. As a physicist, Professor Meyers was working on the question of a scale of colours and, knowing of the proposed role of light and colour in Prometheus, came urgently from Cambridge to London to hear the work. There was no light or colour in the performance of Prometheus42, but Scriabin got to know Meyers and later made a special visit to him in Cambridge. Everything Scriabin saw in Cambridge especially disposed him to bow to England and to the whole structure of life there. 

Also in London Scriabin met with Mr. Meed (Blavatskaya’s secretary)43

Scriabin rejoiced at the rapprochement between Russia and England, for at the moment there is everything there that we [Russians] lack: order, will, culture. But on the other hand in Russia there is everything else, and above all talent. Speaking of the war he often said that with it a new era was beginning, that the time was coming, at last, for Russia also to speak her word in the world development of art and culture – the future belongs to her44.

In the summer of 1914 the Scriabins were living in a dacha  in the Moscow area, close to Podolsk. Here the text of the Preliminary Action, conceived one year before,was written.

This Preliminary Action was to have been the outer door to the Mystery, the concept of which had for a long time become the central thought in Scriabin’s life.

Scriabin first began to speak about the Mystery in Switzerland, but the development of thought about it can be followed much earlier, perhaps already in the First Symphony [the appeal of the soloists to the chorus in the finale:] (Pridite, vsye narody mira) [‘Come, all peoples of the world’]. Even before the departure for Switzerland, Scriabin spoke of the dream of uniting all people, of some festival of humanity, for which amongst other things an orchestra would be necessary. Most suitable of all for this festival, he said at that time, would be Switzerland. While he was abroad the confused dreams of the Mystery began to take ever more clearly defined shape and colour; in this process a strong influence came from the enthusiasm with Theosophical doctrines which at that time was occupying Scriabin.

[89] Earlier on – says Sabaneyev – Scriabin clung more to Theosophical formulae and even terminology, but in the final years an inclination towards his own lines of thought began to be noticeable, and, at the same time, a movement towards deeper and more primeval formulae in the spirit of the Upanishads. Essentially the idea of the Mystery is an apocalyptic idea. According to the occult theory, our race45 must disappear and be succeeded by another, just as other races of humans have disappeared…The Mystery is also a final revelation of the life of the race, a liminal act, a great mystical cataclysm dividing one race from another46.

In such a Mystery all the creative manifestations of the spirit of the  race it is concerned with, and which were formerly separated in the frameworks of the individual art-forms, will be united. Dance and music, word and sounds, scents and colours must all serve to that atmosphere of striving from which will be born the last perfection in this life, the last ecstasy. In the Mystery there will be neither listeners nor spectators, for this ‘action’ will not be artistic but religious; a liturgy in the forms of art. And Scriabin considered himself  to be the one ‘consecrated’ to the feat of creating the Mystery.

This liturgical action, however, – Sabaneyev continues – is only the preliminary entrance to the Mystery itself, which in essence will start later and will develop in forms of which it is impossible to speak.  The moment of creative collective ecstasy will come, and in consciousness of the moment of harmony the physical plane of our consciousness will vanish, a world-wide cataclysm will begin47.

The Mystery was the favourite subject of Scriabin’s conversation in the final years. Initiating whomever it might be into his treasured dream, Scriabin usually began ‘from the creation of the world’. There too was the history of the emergence of [90]humanity, and all the stages of its development, and the succession of the races, right through to Scriabin and the coming mystery. Social life – he said – must go through art and only then rise to the ideal. The world will purify itself by means of art. In this too Scriabin considered himself to be chosen.

However, in the last period he did not speak of the mystery to everyone, but only to chosen ones who had convinced him by their individual trust48.

While in Switzerland Scriabin already began to name India, as the cradle of contemporary humanity, as the cradle of contemporary humanity, the motherland of mystical learning. This part of his dream remained unchanged.

The dome of the temple for the mystery had to be a hemisphere. Together with its reflection in the water it would create the form of a sphere, the most perfect of all forms.

He was already speaking of India and of a dome in this shape in 1904. At the same period he was saying: ‘I shall not die – I shall suffocate in ecstasy after the mystery.’

The messianic point of view later became much more defined in Scriabin. Once, not long before his death, he got into an argument with one of his close friends about who was the central Messiah. The arguers could not agree; each relied on his own spiritual (interior) experience. Scriabin proved that Christ was not the central Messiah ‘of our race’ (according to Theosophical  terminology). The central Messiah was the one who would create the terminating chord of our race, uniting it with the Spirit. Among other things, Scriabin insisted on the primacy of a talent for revelation. ‘Of course’, he would say, ‘experience and exercise in the yogas can also yield results – but that is the path of the ungifted; a spiritual genius, however, can achieve revelation straight away without exercises.’

It is curious that already in the notebooks of his youth Scriabin is conscious, almost prophetically dreaming, of world ecstasy, the Messiah and the Mystery: ‘I don’t know where to turn for the joy which fills me. If the world could only receive just a drop of that delight with which I overflow, the world would suffocate in bliss!’49

However, according to Scriabin, the world must be prepared in advance for the Mystery in order to receive it.  That the world was not ready for this was difficult even for the creator of the dream of the Mystery  to deny, but in his enthusiasm for his idea, he proposed that soon – perhaps after a few years – everything would change.

A great social wave would pass over humanity and would mix with a mystical wave, would purify the world for the great cataclysm. And he would [91]meet the wave as  the first seed of the world change which would prepare for the Mystery.

The plan for a trip to India had been devised before the war. There he was to unite himself to the ancient centres of occultism, to take in a great inspirational breath for the Mystery, but also to take some initial practical steps towards it there. For example, there was talk of buying land for the temple. People used jokingly to object to him, ‘There the snakes are poisonous, there are many lice’ (two things of which Scriabin was terribly afraid; however, he loved snakes in theory, even considering their bites as capable of giving pleasure.) He would answer, also jokingly: ‘But there are many orchids there’, but it was in dead earnest that he considered the plan for an Action in India. While he was in London he bought himself a solar topi  and other things essential to travel in the East, discussed the matter of tickets with a Travel Bureau, worked out a route etc., and probably the trip would have taken place had it not been for the war…

‘Everything that was best in his creative work’, says Sabaneyev, ‘he gave over to the Mystery, but as new images, even more perfect, emerged, he increasingly used the previous material of the Mystery in other musical works. Thus the majority of his large-scale works were created: they were all composed from the material of the Mystery, they were all ‘fragments’ of it. 

The Mystery itself constantly grew and became more complex, in Scriabin’s dreams; in fact, it was retreating further and further into the mist of the future.

And so, at last, in order to prepare himself and others more closely for the Mystery, the Preliminary Action was also devised. This was to have been, so to speak, a ‘try-out experiment’ for the Mystery; in the words of Alexander Podgaetsky, a sort of rehearsal for the Mystery, something like an oratorio, not a secret rite but a spiritual exercise, not a High Mass but a low mass.

But in the Preliminary Action there was to be no ‘public’ but only participants. How, though, could this kind of co-operation be made compatible with the complexity of the  Preliminary Action’s concept, in which all the arts were to be mingled in unprecedented associations and juxtapositions? In such complexity that not only would one voice  counterpoint another, not only different would elements of one art be in counterpoint, but one art and its elements with another art and its elements! A line, for example, would begin as melody and finish as a movement in three-dimensional space50.

The question of the participants – and there would be around 2000 of them – presented special difficulty. And Scriabin was always thinking about this. To whom should the ‘prophesying’ element of the Preliminary Action be delegated? To Chaliapin? Who should be in charge of the dances? Karsavina? Indeed, was hers the right genre of dancing?51 Scriabin [92] said that neither Chaliapin nor Karsavina would be suitable to the Mystery; it needed people of the same level of talent, but who were ‘initiates’.  But where were they to be found? Where should the remainder of this mass of people be obtained? Should not courses be opened? Should not something about this be printed in the papers? And then, how should things be done without disturbing the esoteric elements? And where should all of this happen? Surely, in the Assembly of the Nobility (Blagorodnoe sobranie)?52 Scriabin was always enthusiastic about ‘people with practical energies’, but now, he was especially dreaming of them: ‘I need such people!’

In the last period – especially after the trip to England – Scriabin inclined to the thought that after Russia the most suitable place for the realisation of the Preliminary Action was England. 

Scriabin greeted the outbreak of  war in the summer of 1914 with enthusiasm. He was writing the text of the Preliminary Action at this time, and expected the war to rarefy the stagnant world atmosphere and create new colossal shifts within mankind – and this was exactly what was needed for the Preliminary Action.

Towards the end of 1914 all the main work on the text of the Preliminary Action had been done. In the language of this text Scriabin was striving towards alliterations, to rhythms which would be as free as the tides of the sea – the rhythms of aural impressions. A few stanzas found their way into the Preliminary Action  from Scriabin’s early opera [libretto] (on the theme of an artist’s life) which had been written before 1905. He wrote the Preliminary Action under immense tension and enthusiasm, as if under pressure from some force, hurrying so that the work would be carried through to the end. And only when it had been brought to its conclusion did Scriabin breathe freely. ‘Well, now it’s in a condition to be published even if I die!’53

Scriabin read the text of the Preliminary Action through to Baltrušaitis and Ivanov in Moscow. Both poets had become his closest friends in recent years (Baltrušaitis earlier, Ivanov later.) Scriabin not only loved them as people whom it was a deep spiritual need to spend time with, but also valued them highly as poets and as judges in poetical matters.

For this reason it was with some trepidation that he handed over to them his poetical child. ‘My musical position is secure,’ he would say, ‘there no-one will better me! But, well, in poetry…’ He was all the happier when the verses of the Preliminary Action were received by both poets with the warmest sympathy and approval. The joyful agitation with which his first successful practical steps on the path towards completing the Preliminary Action filled Scriabin was so strong that he could not sleep that night for dreaming and constructing further plans.

Scriabin also appeared in concerts while working on the text of the Preliminary Action.

[93] He gave an important concert in aid of the war-wounded on November 22, 1914; from another concert given on January 27 1915 half the collection was given to the same cause (for Serbia). Flammes sombres [op. 73 no. 2] was performed for the first time at this concert. After this Scriabin set off to give concerts in Petrograd54. There two recitals (February 12 and 16) were scheduled. Both were enormous successes (the Tenth Sonata was performed in the second concert), so that a third additional concert was scheduled in the Small Hall of the Conservatoire (April 2.)

This concert, [February 16], filled with triumphs, was destined to be Scriabin’s last. Here is the programme of this fateful concert:55

I
2 preludes op. 35: nos.2 and 1.
4 preludes, op.37: B-flat minor, F-sharp major,  E major, G major
Prelude op. 39 no.3
Mazurka in E-major, op. 25 [no.4]
Etude [in B-flat minor] op. 8 no. 11


II
Sonata No. 3


III
Nuances op. 56 no. 3
Danse languide op. 51 no. 4
2 preludes op. 74: No. 4, No. 1 (first performance)
2 danses op. 73: a) Guirlandes (first performance) b) Flammes sombres
Prelude op. 74 no. 2
Etrangeté op. 63 no. 2
Sonata no. 4

On Scriabin’s return from Petrograd a meeting with Boris Jurgenson56 awaited him. Here there was to be a discussion about the publishing of the Prefatory Action – not only of the text but also of the score. The score was not yet to hand, as work on it had not yet even been begun. But in the winter Scriabin was already saying that everything was ready in his head and he could finish it in about eight months. Now, coming to an agreement with Boris Jurgenson  in preparation for their meeting, he said that he hoped to finish the score of the Preliminary Action towards autumn. He also said that in the score there would be special signs for all the arts: for sounds and also for mime, rhythm, light, movement, even processions and groups57. He spoke too of the cover of the edition: he liked the [94] French style of edition and French type-faces had been shown to him in Paris58. But this meeting did not take place. 

Neither did the charitable concert with Scriabin’s participation scheduled for  April 11 take place, though posters for it were already pasted up all over Moscow.

On Saturday April 4 Scriabin returned from Petrograd. Two days later he felt unwell and on April 7 took to his bed with a small boil on his upper lip. At first this complaint did not disturb anyone unduly, all the more so as an exactly similar boil had disappeared quite satisfactorily a year ago. But later the malignancy of the enlarged growth began to be more and more defined. Scriabin’s temperature rose ominously. 

In view of this, the doctors treating Scriabin, his friend Alexander Bogorodsky and N. Shelkan, invited Professor I. Spizharnov for a consultation on April 11. The position, with regard to the general spread of infection from the boil and a temperature over 40º, was found to be very dangerous. A number of incisions on the face were made and other measures were taken. But the temperature did not fall. Suppurating inflammations spread more widely on the face.  On the evening of the 12th Professor A. V. Martynov was also invited to consult. The  position was assessed as extremely severe but not hopeless. Another incision was made.

On the 13th, from the morning on, the swelling shrank noticeably and the patient felt relatively well. For a moment hope of improvement flared up. But at twelve the patient began to complain of chest pains and a doctor who had been invited, Dr. D. Pletnev, diagnosed infection of the pleura59. The patient constantly became more agitated. In the evening a new consultation acknowledged the situation to be hopeless…

At one in the morning the patient began to lose consciousness. At three the Last Rites were administered and from then on consciousness did not return.

On April 14, at five minutes past eight in the morning, Scriabin was no more…60

[95] The next day the coffin with the body of the deceased was carried across to the church of St. Nicolas on the Sands, situated right opposite Scriabin’s flat and the most prominent thing to be seen through the windows of his workroom. The liturgy for the dead was scheduled for the morning of the 16th. The church could accommodate only a few of all those who had gathered to pay their respects to the memory of the departed. The whole district surrounding the church  was filled with people. A great number of young people were present.

The priest V. Nekrasov gave a heartfelt  address beside the coffin; it impressed itself upon the spirit. At two the coffin was carried out of the church by friends of the departed. The sad procession moved through the Arbat, Plyushy and Tsaritsynsky streets to the Novodevichy Monastery.  In front of the coffin on three carts wreaths were carried and  brought to the  grave of the deceased. All along the way the participants sang Easter chants and ‘Eternal Memory’. At the gates of the monastery a choir of a thousand voices – the participants’ – joined forces with the monastery choir. The procession moved towards the new, still hardly open, cemetery of the Novodevichy Monastery. Here, on the right, was prepared the place for Scriabin’s eternal rest…

The coffin was lowered into the grave. A burial mound arose, with an oaken cross and the inscription: ‘Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin. Died April 14 1915.’ The grave was covered with branches of yew on which the wreaths were placed. One of the wreaths was inscribed: ‘To Prometheus, who united us with heavenly fire and accepted death in it for our sake.’ The weather was gloomy, bitter all the time: rain and snow. We did not disperse for a long time. We waited through the speeches, but no-one took it upon themselves to break the silence. Not till five did the crowd of many thousands begin to leave the cemetery.

–ooOOoo–

Almost all cultivated people in Russia responded to the death of Scriabin, despite the tumult of wartime stormy circumstances. And from nearly all of these countless initial responses, from whomever they might come, sounded one general note, complaining or  indignant: Why?!! Why this death in the full flower of powers and ideas – the death of a genius who had already, with a creative eye, penetrated wondrously gleaming worlds unseen by us, before whose frightening greatness everything he had created previously must fade, as does the glow which proclaims the sun before the face of the Sun itself`?

[96] Yet in the commands of Fate there is a wisdom higher than a direct answer to that ‘why’.

‘Genius always leaves the world at the right time’ – it was not for nothing that the creator of Prometheus spoke thus in connection with the death of Pushkin. And, if Scriabin’s death is a misfortune for art, yet for him personally it may, perhaps, have been good fortune.

However one considers the fantastical and grandiose dream of the Mystery, one thing is clear: ‘on the plane of our life’ it is unrealizable! Even the Preliminary Action is unrealizable to the extent that it was meant as ‘an experiment for the Mystery’, and not simply a theatrical or concert event of a new kind61.

What torturous, hopeless disappointment was awaiting Scriabin as he prepared himself for personal participation in the Preliminary Action  and the Mystery! He would have come to grief  at the fateful wall of everyday existence, in which the world is so strong, and over the holy insanity  of dreamers…

Fate did not give Scriabin this  bitter cup to drink. The singer of youth and ecstasy died young, ardent, full of delightful intoxications, leaving to the world the beautiful, imperishable legend of his unrealizable, unrealised dream.

Yulii Engel.

  1. At that time concert programmes very often consisted of ‘thematic analysis’, i.e. a list of the main themes with music examples in staff notation. ↩︎
  2. Before the concert an article by Schloezer about Scriabin and his music appeared in the ‘Russkie Vedomosti’ (No. 42, 1909). In this article, prepared for the public with the concert in view, Schloezer gives a commentary on the Poem of Ecstasy on his own account, almost literally the same as that introduced here. Clearly, this commentary is from the same hand – and most likely is sanctioned by Scriabin. Something similar applies to the Third Sonata, the commentary to which we give on p. [65], written by Tatyana Scriabina. The commentary in French on the Divine Poem also stems from here (cf. p. [58]). Y. E. ↩︎
  3. The score of the Poem of Ecstasy  specifies four instruments in each woodwind group, eight horns, four trumpets, three trombones and tuba, every possible kind of percussion instrument (including tam-tam, campanelli  [chime-bells], tubular bells and so on,) two harps, celeste, organ, and a specially large string section. For the Moscow performance of the Divine Poem Scriabin added parts for timpani and cymbals. Y.E. [To be more precise, Scriabin requested a number of changes in a letter to Alexander Koptyayev on December 5th (Western calendar), 1909. These were for a performance by Nikisch. The timpani part was modified, and the cymbals were added. Pis’ma p. 542 n. 2. A. P. Koptyayev, A.N. Skryabin. Kharakteristika, 60–68. Scriabin: Collected Works. I/3 (Muzyka/Jurgenson, 2013). Comments: ‘The work’s history’ (Valentina Rubtsova): 302–3. Trans.] ↩︎
  4. A quotation from Pushkin’s Boris Godunov. ↩︎
  5. Biblical quotation: Mark 6:4, ‘A prophet is not without honour, but in his own country, and among his own kin, and in his own house.’ Engel’s Jewish heritage, perhaps, explains his taking this for a proverb.  ↩︎
  6. The Society for Free Aesthetics (Obshchestvo svobodnoi èstetiki) existed in Moscow from 1906–1917. Its members included Andrei Belyi and Valery Bryusov. ↩︎
  7. The Synodal College of Ecclesiastical Singing (Sinodal’noe uchilishche tserkovnogo peniya) was founded in the 1860s. It occupied a building in  Bolshaya Nikitskaya ulitsa now known as the Dom Kolichyëvikh. In 1918 it was reformed as the State National Choral Academy. ↩︎
  8. Could Rachmaninov have remembered these late ‘non-arrivals’ when deciding to design his own final work as the Symphonic Dances ? ↩︎
  9. The firm of Diederichs (piano dealers) presented Scriabin with the piano after the tour; it remained his favourite instrument and is preserved in the Scriabin Memorial Museum. ↩︎
  10. The railway station of Mark was opened in 1900. It comes within the ‘Central Diameters’ of Moscow Railways, and trains run from the Belorusskaya station in Moscow. Mark is named after a German entrepreneur and philanthropist, Hugo Mark. His family owned the nearby estate of Arkhangelskoe. ↩︎
  11. The word used by Engel means ‘exhibition’, but it is not clear what exhibition is being referred to. Baedeker’s Russia (1914) refers to daily  ‘fairs’ (p.398). A contemporary website, od.vgorode.ua>vystavky (accessed Sept. 27th 2023) refers to ‘exhibitions’ of cats, dogs, flowers, stones etc., which English people would  more readily refer to, like Baedeker, as ‘fairs’. The Letopis’(Letopis’ zhizni i tvorchestva [chronicle of life and creative work] A.N. Skryabina, M. P. Pryashnikova and O.M. Tompakova, comp.Moscow, Muzyka, 1985)refers to a performance of the Divine Poem in the summer of 1910 under Georg Schneevoigt in Kiev (p. 181): this concert  may well be connected with the one mentioned by Engel. ↩︎
  12. Vyacheslav Oltarzhevsky (1880–1966) was a young architect who graduated in 1908 and was occupied at this period with the design of houses for rent; the architectural style was turning from Art Nouveau to neo-classicism. Much later, despite a troubled relationship with the Soviet regime which led to some years in the camps, Oltarzhevsky designed such characteristic  Moscow high-rise buildings as the Ukraina hotel (1953–1957) ↩︎
  13. At this period Sabaneyev published a large number of articles in musical journals in enthusiastic support of Scriabin. At the latter’s death, though, Sabaneyev’s attitude progressively and swiftly changed to something much more critical and detached, later employing a tone of amused irony in the Reminiscences (1925). ↩︎
  14. n. 37 chap. 6. ↩︎
  15. A medical doctor who treated him in his final illness. ↩︎
  16. Zhilyaev (1881–1938) was a very remarkable musician who, having discussed misprints and various errors  in Scriabin scores with the composer, was able to play a major role in the establishment of a new, complete and corrected Scriabin edition in the 1920s and 30s. He had been on the staff of Marshal Tukhachevsky in the Civil War and this led to his arrest and execution in the 1930s. Konstantin Igumnov’s name replaced Zhilyaev’s when a three-volume edition of Scriabin’s piano works came out in the 1940s–50s. Zhilyaev was ‘rehabilitated’ in 1961. ↩︎
  17. Jurgis Baltrušaitis (1873-1944) was a Lithuanian poet, writing both in Lithuanian and in Russian. He included some verses in memory of Scriabin in his collection Liliya i Serp  (The Lily and the Sickle). ↩︎
  18. Prince Sergei Trubetskoy (1862–1905) had been Scriabin’s philosophical mentor. His sister Marina Nikolaevna (1874–1924) married into the distinguished and numerous noble family of the Gagarins. Yevgenyi Nikolaevich (religious philosopher,1863–1920) and Nikolai Sergeyevich (linguist and historian, 1890–1938) are the other princes of the Trubetskoy family indicated by chronology to have been likely to attend, though N. S. would have been a very young man. Princes are more numerous in pre-Tsarist Russia than in the English aristocracy; and though the Trubetskoys were very rich, Russian history and literature teaches that the rank of prince was no guarantee of wealth. ↩︎
  19. Vera Nikolaevna Lermontova was the sister of Sergei Trubetskoy. ↩︎
  20. Nikolai Viktorovich Shperling (1881–?after 1945) Artist, several of whose canvases hang in the Scriabin Museum. His work expresses his interest in occultism in a Symbolist style. For a long time he was thought to have perished in the First World War, but he had made his way across Europe into Greece, where he lived until after the end of the Second World War as an illustrator. ↩︎
  21. The Russian word oderzhmyi can mean ‘obsessed’ or ‘possessed’, in the second meaning as by a familiar demon. The title of Dostoevsky’s novel Demons has sometimes been translated euphemistically as ‘The Possessed’. ↩︎
  22. The hall in St Petersburg retains its old name, the one Moscow keeps the Soviet name ‘House of the Unions.’ ↩︎
  23. Professor Alexander Edmundovich Mozer, professor of electrotechnics at the Moscow Higher Education Faculty. ↩︎
  24. To the orchestral means demanded by Le poème de l’extase  are added in Prometheus:  piano, the part for which has the character of a solo within the ensemble, and a mixed choir which sings without words, partly bouche fermée, partly on vowels. We have already mentioned the clavier à lumières. Y. E. [It has been demonstrated by Anna Gawboy and Marina Lobanova that the syllables sung by the choir are varying combinations from Blavatskaya’s ‘magic word’ EAOOHOO , which she intended to convey a concept of all-oneness.] Trans. ↩︎
  25. Apart from other things, Koussevitzky studied Scriabin’s works not only from the scores, but from performance on the piano by their composer and others. Y.E. ↩︎
  26. Even after the rift, Koussevitzky continued to perform Scriabin’s works in his concerts, although less frequently than previously.For example, in the season of 1911–12 Prometheus was played, with [Robert] Lorta [1885–1938, French pianist, pupil of Louis Dièmer] playing the piano part; in the 1912-13 season Le poème de l’extase was performed; in 1914, Le poème de l’extase and the Third Symphony. The ‘Symphony Concerts for General Admission’, arranged and performed by Koussevitsky in the season of 1912-13, also included one work by Scriabin per year. Y.E.  ↩︎
  27. Kashira is a town on the Oka river, 71 miles south of Moscow. The Karpovs were an old aristocratic family ↩︎
  28. Two photographs of Scriabin with Tatyana, Mozer and Sabaneyev  sitting on the ground overlooking the Oka river show this not to be invariably true. Neither  conforms to the description of Scriabin’s costume given a little further on. Such exaggerations seem to be typical of Sabaneyev, who may be the friend consulted here. He has a passage in the Vospominaniya [memoirs]of 1925 which is very similar (Moscow, Klassika XXI, p.269).  ↩︎
  29. Anatolii Nikolaevich Drozdov (1883–1950), pianist, pedagogue, composer and critic. ↩︎
  30. Tatyana Fyodorovna seems to have been wisely concerned that Scriabin, notoriously incapable in practical matters, should not travel alone. ↩︎
  31. Tea is drunk in Russia from a glass, either with lemon or with jam. ↩︎
  32. Formed in 1883 by Pyotr Shostakovich, this existed until 1918. ↩︎
  33. Alexander Yakovlevich Golovin (1863-1930), painter and stage designer. His three-quarter length portrait of Scriabin is oddly wooden and ineffective compared with his theatrical paintings of Chaliapin and the flair shown in his numerous works, perhaps because of the reason given by Engel’below. ↩︎
  34. Ernst Wendel (1876–1938), violinist (teacher of Georg Kulenkampff, leader of Chicago Symphony for one season, 1896–7) and conductor (musical director of the Bremen Philharmonic,1909–1935.) ↩︎
  35. The last opus of Scriabin published by Russian Music Publishers was 64; the first was 55. Apart from Scriabin’s early works, Jurgenson were able to publish the opuses from 65 – 74. ↩︎
  36. Alexander Nikolaevich Bryanchaninov (1874-1918?) Social activist, editor and publisher of the magazine Novoe zveno [‘New Link’]. ↩︎
  37. ‘Once’, Bryanchaninov relates, ‘we were riding to the station; on the way Scriabin noted that he had left  his comb in the hotel and demanded we go back for it, even though there was a danger we would miss the train – nothing would induce him to use anyone else’s. Luckily the comb turned out to be in his pocket. In a seeming forecast of his death, Alexander Nikolaevich had a terrible fear of  cuts, bacillae, all kinds of ‘bugs’ etc. For this reason he always wore gloves in the street, didn’t handle money without wearing gloves, avoided ill people and burials. E.K. Rozenov remembers a case relevant to this, which relates to the years of Scriabin’s youth. Scriabin was spending the summer at the Rozenov estate. There were scrambled eggs for breakfast. Scriabin took fright at eating them: ‘Scrambled…that means they haven’t been boiled…The chicken might have consumption!’ It sufficed for a  pirozhka to fall from the dish to the table-cloth for him to refuse to eat it straight away; bacteria might attack him suddenly! Such cases were constantly repeated.
    Nonetheless, in moments of especial enthusiasm Alexander Nikolaevich forgot even bacteria. When he was ready to eat a proper meal in a proper place he did not think about such things at all.
    According to a habit retained from his ‘cotton-wool’ childhood, he was very frightened of draughts,
    even in the summer. He was extremely fussy about illnesses, and always eagerly took the maximum prescription from the doctor – sometimes even more than the maximum. Y.E. ↩︎
  38. For example, the following story from Tatyana Fyodorovna, which relates to 1905, paints a picture of such willingness. It occurred in Paris, after the first performance of the Divine Poem (May, 1905). After dinner, Alexander Nikolaevich and Tatyana Fyodorovna were travelling back home. It was already late. But Alexander Nikolaevich, who was excited and stimulated, asked the coachman where it was possible to continue dining. The coachman took them to a café-restaurant. There Alexander Nikolaevich offered the waiter champagne and conversed with him. ‘I have written a symphony… but I am dreaming of greater things – when all peoples will flow together in a general festival, etc., etc.’ The waiter gave rare replies and at the end congratulated his interlocutor: ‘Bon bourgeois!’ Y.E. [The bons bourgeois were the middle stratum of the middle class, professional people, tradesmen – neither petits nor hauts bourgeois. Playing on the ‘bon’ as meaning ‘well-meaning’, ‘worthy’,‘innocent’, Honoré Daumier (1808-1879) made ‘Les Bons Bourgeois’ a collective title for a series of kindly mocking cartoons of this class with their aspirations, their money worries, and their leisure occupations (and associated catastrophes.)]  ↩︎
  39. In this connection the tonalities named [by Scriabin]for the three études op. 65 are interesting [B-flat major, C-sharp major, G major]. Y.E. ↩︎
  40. The acknowledgement of Konyus must, though, have been put in at an early period. ↩︎
  41. It should also not be forgotten that earlier, in 1909, Sergei Koussevitzky performed Scriabin’s First Symphony in London (the first time a work by Scriabin had been performed in England.) The following year, when Koussevitzky was invited to London to conduct one of the London Symphony Orchestra’s concerts, he put the Poem of Ecstasy on the programme. This work was at first crossed off the programme presented by the London Symphony Orchestra who instituted discussions with Koussevitzky. Koussevitzky, however, insisted on his standpoint and the Poem of Ecstasy was restored. Before the first rehearsal he turned to the orchestra members with the following words: ‘Perhaps this music will not immediately be to your liking, but I promise that a few years hence you will be proud to remember that you were the first to play it!  After the concert some representatives of the orchestra declared to Koussevitzky: ‘those few years have already passed, and we are glad that we performed the ‘Poem of Ecstasy!’ Y.E. ↩︎
  42. The first practical experiment of a performance of Prometheus with lights (though only an approximate one) was made in New York by Modeste Altschuler (shortly before Scriabin’s death). A large screen was placed behind the orchestra; the screen was illuminated in various colours and meanwhile the orchestra could be seen playing with the screen forming a background. Y.E. ↩︎
  43. Recte Weed, secretary of the Theosophical Society. Blavatskaya had died in 1891. ↩︎
  44. Scriabin’s thoughts echo Dostoevsky’s famous Address in Memory of Pushkin (1880). ↩︎
  45. Scriabin adhered to Blavatskaya’s doctrine of races succeeding one another in time, something quite different from the discredited notions that we now see put forward as ‘racial theory’. ↩︎
  46. Once again Sabaneyev’s exposition shows that Scriabin, following Blavatskaya, is dealing with a theory of races of developing qualities which succeed one another in time. The ‘racial theory’ proposing that one ‘race’ is superior to another in the same time-span is quite distinct from this. ↩︎
  47. Here is Sabaneyev’s account, following Scriabin, of the metaphysical foundation of the idea of the Mystery. The Spirit (the creative principle) feels within itself the primal  principle of  polarization of masculine and feminine, active and passive, will and opposition to will.  The last-named principle, which is sluggish and inert, is crystallised into the immobility of materialised forms, into the World with all its manifold phenomena. Separated polarity and differentiation is the loss of contact with divinity (in art, the dividing of separate outgrowths, which were  formerly united, and the development of each of them separately). With the achievement of maximum polarization a striving towards to its opposite, unification – The World’s love for the Spirit  and vice versa, the mystical Eros. The aim of separation has been achieved: the creative essence  is imprinted upon material, and the process of dematerialisation  begins, of unification (on the artistic plane, the unification of the separate arts, their synthesis). Unification is achieved by means of a Mystery – of a mystical action of the caresses of the Spirit and the World. This action is consummated by mystic unification, which will be revealed in a form that cannot now be understood. It will be universal Death and new Life, a world-wide cataclysm which will destroy the physical plane.  The plane of the Mystery is the artistic remembering or reliving by the participants of their entire previous history of the Spirit, of the process of materialisation. Y.E. [A good example of what Goldenweiser described as Sabaneyev acting as Mohammed to Scriabin’s Allah. Trans.] ↩︎
  48. Alexander Podgaetsky relates that on the third day of  their acquaintance (in 1906, in Brussels) Scriabin already began to speak with him about the overcoming of materiality, of the mystery, of a collective action (o sobornom deistvie), of India. Scriabin spoke of himself as at the nerve-centre [‘on the hearth’] of dematerialisation. ‘My will – is inevitability (the highest wisdom of Being)’, he would say. Y.E. ↩︎
  49. Slightly altered from the statement at the end of the Opera Libretto. Russkie propilei VI, p. 132. The Notebooks of Scriabin (Nicholls/Pushkin), p.61.  ↩︎
  50. Scriabin’s concept (a variant of Symbolist theories of equivalence) as described by Engel’ seems to anticipate elements of Hermann Hesse’s Glass Bead Game (Glasperlenspiel/Magister Ludi) (1931-43).  ↩︎
  51. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Mlada (1889–90) demands a number of ‘mimes’ as well as dancers to represent the ghosts of Cleopatra and of ancient deities. The mime-art of  Vera Karalli, an outstanding trained dancer, as shown in the silent films of Yevgenyi Bauer (notably After Death, 1915), may be relevant in trying to understand the kind of ‘dance-mime’ being hinted at.  ↩︎
  52. This building, at the corner of Okhotny Ryad (‘Hunter’s Row’) and Bolshaya Dimitrovkaya, has been known since 1917 as ‘The House of the Unions’. It is a place for solemn gatherings and prestigious concerts also take place there. There is a humorous touch about such an ideal ‘action’ being scheduled in something concrete like the ‘House of the Unions’, as we might imagine it being ‘put on’ at the Methodist Central Hall. ↩︎
  53. The text was not published until 1919 in Russkie propilei VI. Readers of the present account would not have known, as Engel’ may not have, that the text was finished in a rough version; a revised version, polished in some stylistic details and with the lines assigned to characters, was left incomplete. But the line attributed to Scriabin may be intended to pave the way for publication. ↩︎
  54. Engel’ refers to the city as ‘Petrograd’ throughout, as would have been natural to him. St. Petersburg was referred to as ‘Petrograd’ from 1914 as part of the struggle against German cultural dominance. It was renamed as ‘Leningrad’ in 1924, and reverted to ‘St. Petersburg’ in 1991. ↩︎
  55. The tripartite scheme was normal at that period.  ↩︎
  56. The publishing house of Jurgenson was founded by Pyotr Jurgenson in 1861. On his death his son Boris took over as head. After the revolution the firm became Muzyka. ↩︎
  57. A hint of this exists in the ‘fair copy’ of the Preliminary Action at the bottom of p. 236 in Russkie propilei, p.159 in The Notebooks of Alexander Skryabin. The marks there seem to suggest a wordless ululation, though Scriabin left no hint as to their performance. ↩︎
  58. Scriabin left only the text of the Preliminary Action  and a few disjointed, enigmatic fragments in musical notation. What remains is [1915]being prepared for a publication committee, which consists of: Tatyana Scriabina, Jurgis Baltrušaitis,Alexander Bryanchaninov,  Vyacheslav Ivanov, Alexander Podgayetsky. On the committee for the publishing of Scriabin’s posthumous works are: Tatyana Scriabina, Alexander Goldenweiser, Evgenyi Gunst, Nikolai Zhilyayev, Leonid Sabanayev, Sergei Rachmaninov. Y. E. [We do not know what the ‘French editions’ were which appealed to Scriabin; but he appears to have wanted his work to be clearly distinguishable from other Jurgenson publications. It will be remembered that Prometheus had a cover featuring a design by Jean Delville.Trans.] ↩︎
  59. It will be remembered that in childhood measles was complicated by pleuritis. ↩︎
  60. For a long time he bore the illness mildly – but remember that it was necessary to undergo three torturous operations. The incisions on his face, the wounds and wrinkles, also tortured him because they spoiled the refined appearance which he loved so much.
    On Wednesday, April 8, with a temperature already at 40.4º, he said: ‘Suffering is inevitable. It’s all right. I was right when I said this before. And  now that I am suffering I feel splendid.’ On April 7 he wrote down two musical ideas on the back of a letter he had received – his last composition on this earth (they were found afterwards in his pocket)…
    He was worried what would happen about the concert tours in the provinces that had been announced, and that he would be sued for breach of contract.
    But then, after six doctors had seen him and he must have realised that the situation was extremely dangerous, he didn’t ask: ‘Why are they all here?’ That shows he was expecting something fateful… Y.E. ↩︎
  61. That is not to say that, had the music of the Preliminary Action been written down, it would not have been possible to ‘stage’ as a kind of mimed, danced cantata. Recent attempts to do this for Bach’s Matthew and John Passions indicate the sort of direction this could have taken. [Trans.] ↩︎

Recordings and films revised November 2023

5th Sonata – Hamelin

7th sonata – Richter

10th sonata – Yuja Wang

Vers la flamme – Vladimir Horowitz

Etudes – Richter

Complete Preludes – Dmitri Alexeev

Fantasy – Kristina Miller

Poeme satanique – Peter Laul

How to Sound Like Scriabin – Nahre Sol

Thick Air: Scriabin Nocturne in F sharp minor op 5 no 1 analysed and played by Henrik Kilhamn

Towards the Light/Calculation and Ecstasy (1996) by Oliver Becker

Scriabin Etude op 42 no 5 played by Minsun Kim

Scriabin Association Honorary President

DMITRI ALEXEEV

​The sudden and tragic death from COVID of Aleksandr Serafimovich ​​Scriabin robbed Russia of a valuable worker in the field of music and ​​of Scriabin research. Those of us who knew him still mourn him. But we turn with delight to the news that Dmitri Alexeev has agreed to take ​​up the post. Our Honorary President lends the glamour of his name to ​​the Association. His undoubted deep knowledge of Scriabin is evidenced ​​by the superb complete collection of Scriabin’s solo music he has ​​​recorded for Brilliant Classics (6 CDs); and many other recordings, ​​​including all the Rachmaninov Preludes and Chopin Mazurkas, bear ​​​witness to his inheritance of the highest and most excellent traditions ​​in Russian piano playing. His concert activity is world-wide but he has ​​endeared himself to British audiences by his appearances in UK. A similar ​​British/international cachet marks his work as Professor of Piano in the Royal College of Music, London.
We celebrate and welcome him!

​​​​​​​​Simon Nicholls

Russian pianist Dmitri Alexeev is one of the world’s most highly regarded artists. His critically acclaimed recitals on the world’s leading concert stages and concer- to appearances with the most prestigious orchestras have secured his position as one of “the most remarkable pianists of the day” (Daily Telegraph).

He has performed in all major concert halls around the world and has performed with all leading orchestras such as the Berlin Philharmonic, Chicago Symphony Orchestra, Philadelphia Orchestra, Royal Concertgebouw of Amsterdam, the five London orchestras, Orchestre de Paris, Israel Philharmonic and the Munich Bavarian Radio Orchestra amongst others. He has worked with conductors such as Ashkenazy, Boulez, Dorati, Giulini, Jansons, Muti, Pappano, Rozhdestvensky, Salonen, Svetlanov, Temirkanov, Tilson Thomas and Klaus Tennstedt amongst many others.

Alexeev has been a juror for many of the world’s most prestigious International Piano Competitions, including the Leeds, Chopin (Warsaw), Van Cliburn, San- tander, Beethoven (Vienna) and Tchaikovsky (Moscow) International Piano Com- petition. He regularly gives masterclasses around the world. .

Alexeev has made many fine recordings for EMI, BMG, Virgin Classics, Hyperion and Russian labels. Following his Virgin Classics recording of the complete Rachmaninov Preludes, which won the Edison Award in the Netherlands, BBC Music Magazine described him as “a pianist at once aristocratic, grand and con- fessionally poetic. This is an inspiring disc.” His recording of the complete Chopin Mazurkas was released in 2014. A recording that Gramophone Magazine referred to as “one of the best recordings of the Chopin Mazurkas that have appeared in the past three-quarters of a century – one of the best alongside those of Rubin- stein and Yakov Flier.“

His recordings of complete Scriabin’s works for piano solo were released by Bril- liant Classics in 2022.

Alexeev’s two piano transcriptions of works by Shostakovich, Stravinsky and Gershwin as well as a his transcription of Brahms’ Ballade for Viola and Piano were recently published.