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.
