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Scriabin in Russian musicology and its background in Russian intellectual history
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Scriabin in Russian musicology and its background in Russian intellectual history
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Content
ALEXANDER SCRIABIN IN RUSSIAN MUSICOLOGY
AND ITS BACKGROUND IN RUSSIAN INTELLECTUAL HISTORY
by
Don Louis Wetzel
A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
University of Southern California
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(HISTORICAL MUSICOLOGY)
May 2009
Copyright 2009 Don Louis Wetzel
ii
Dedication
To my parents
iii
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I would like to express my profound gratitude to the members
of my dissertation committee: Bryan Simms (chair), Bruce Brown, Gerald Clausing,
Giulio Ongaro, and Daniel Pollack for their continuing support and advice. Also, I would
like to thank members of the USC Slavic Department, especially Tatiana Akishina and
Daria Shembel, for their generous help in proofreading the Russian-English translations.
Finally, I would like to thank my dear friends Klaus, Roland, Gottfried, Sam, Kurt, Willi,
Gudrun, Gisela, Eva, John and Jae for all their encouragement over the years.
iv
Table of Contents
Dedication ii
Acknowledgements iii
Abstract v
Preface vi
Chapter 1: A Survey of Writings on Scriabin 1
Chapter 2: Historical Context 36
Realism versus Romanticism 36
Slavophiles and Westernizers 45
The “Silver Age” of Russian Culture 60
The “World of Art” Movement 72
Chapter 3: Philosophical Perspectives 94
Prince Sergei Trubetskoi – Philosopher and Friend of Scriabin 100
Vladimir Solovyov and Vladimir Ivanov – Religion and Symbolism 111
Biographers of Scriabin: Leonid Sabaneyev and Boris de Schloezer 134
Chapter 4: Boris Asafyev and Arthur Lourié: Composer-Musicologists and their
Contribution to the Legacy of Scriabin 149
Chapter 5: Georgiy Plekhanov and Anatoly Lunacharsky.
Marxist Writers on Aesthetics and Scriabin’s Significance 186
Chapter 6: Scriabin’s Legacy in the Post-Revolutionary Era 218
Bibliography 248
Appendices: Translations 269
A. Sergei Trubetskoi – “On the Occasion of Scriabin’s Concert” 269
B. Leonid Sabaneyev – “Liszt and Scriabin” 274
C. Arthur Lourié – “Alexander Scriabin and Russian Music” 278
D. Georgiy Plekhanov – “Letter to Dr. Vladimir Bogorodski” 292
E. Anatoly Lunacharsky – “On Scriabin” 297
F. Nikolai Zhilyayev – “A. N. Scriabin and His Creative work” 307
G. Viktor Belyayev – “Scriabin and Modern Russian Music” 310
v
Abstract
The specialized writings by Russians of the early twentieth century on the
composer Alexander Scriabin reveal an astonishing diversity of critical, political, and
artistic viewpoints. The reasons for this variance can be found in the very personality of
the composer. The elusive qualities of Scriabin’s music and the ambiguous nature of his
ideas lent themselves well to this multivalence of interpretational standpoints. It was
exactly these traits that insured the durability of his music in the tumultuous first decades
of the twentieth century. The following dissertation discusses the social and philosophical
influences on Scriabin and contextualizes the reception and various attitudes in Russia
towards the composer.
In an era when ideology and polemics played an important role, a perpetual
conflict developed between the preservation of old values and the dissemination of new
ideas. The controversy raged between the conservative and the progressive elements,
realism and modernism, emotionalism and rationalism. Many of the creative minds in
Russia were caught in the crossfire and fell victim to it. However, the disarming beauty
of Scriabin’s music and his utopian ideals, although not entirely impervious to criticism,
provided the composer and his legacy with a certain inviolability which would guarantee
his survival within a highly unstable, metamorphic environment.
The period covered in the dissertation extends from the end of the nineteenth
century through the first three decades of the twentieth century, overlapping on occasion
the early years of Stalinism. Here, it has been necessary to make certain comparisons
with some later musicologists as well as those who were active before, during, and after
the early years of the Communist Revolution.
vi
Preface
This is a study of the historical events and philosophical thinking that shaped the
artistic development of Alexander Scriabin. It will reveal the profoundly Russian aspects
of his nature, which music historians have often overlooked heretofore. The study is
chronological, although for the most part, I have avoided Soviet musicology under
Stalin’s reign of terror from the mid-1930s. Such writings reflect the total control by the
Soviet government in artistic matters, placing them beyond the scope of this dissertation.
Moreover, by that time, Scriabin’s legacy in Russia was secure; Soviet musicians,
historians, and functionaries of the regime all regarded the composer as an inviolable
national icon on par with Glinka and Tchaikovsky.
Chapter One appraises the writings on Scriabin that have been readily accessible
in the West; these are for the most part in English and German. The survey reveals that
very little of this material has examined how the cultural and political history of
nineteenth-century Russia formed the context in which Scriabin developed artistically.
Further, the chapter illustrates that numerous critics, working within a narrow framework,
have presented a distorted image of the composer. Many of these writers have relied on
antiquated or unreliable sources. Others have based their information on dogma extracted
from the books and articles written by music scholars who were working under the
pressures of the totalitarian Soviet government. If Soviet scholars mentioned Russian
Symbolism and Futurism at all, they played down the significance of these cultural
movements in the creative world of Scriabin, dismissing them as decadent aberrations of
vii
pre-Revolutionary Russia. Until very recently, Scriabin scholarship in Russia has dealt
with the less controversial aspects of the composer’s creative work.
Chapter Two reviews significant historical events of nineteenth-century Russia
and weighs their impact on the political, literary, and artistic developments of that
country. The section examines Russia’s struggle for national identity and search for
lasting unity. These issues are reflected in the literature of the period which in turn had
major implications for later cultural movements in Russia. The interaction between
Russian national conservatism and progressive intellectual trends culminated in the
cultural period referred to as the “Silver Age.” It was the era in which Scriabin lived and
worked, and for this reason it receives special attention here.
Chapter Three looks at the origins of philosophy within Russia and traces its
development into the period of Scriabin. Here, religious tradition plays a major role.
Orthodoxy supplies the moral foundation upon which Russian philosophy is constructed.
One of the defining features of the latter is the sense that Russia has a unique and pre-
ordained role as moral leader to guide the entire world towards redemption. This section
illustrates how these ideas found their way into Scriabin’s mind and his creative
expression. Two of his most noted biographers, Leonid Sabaneyev and Boris de
Schloezer, interpret these issues, and their respective works receive comparative analyses
at the end of this chapter.
Chapter Four presents the assessments of two outstanding Russian music critics
who were also composers themselves, Boris Asafyev and Arthur Lourié. Both men,
advocates of modern music, contributed valuable essays on Scriabin that portray the
composer as a reflection of the period in which he was creatively active. Further, they
viii
analyze the composer’s work and explain his significance for the future of Russian music.
They interpret Scriabin’s music in a manner acceptable in the post-Revolutionary context.
Chapter Five examines Scriabin and his music from the point of view of Marxist
aesthetics. At the time of the Revolution, the two leading Marxist philosophers were
Georgiy Plekhanov and Anatoly Lunacharsky. This section explains their positions in
support of modern culture, and in particular Scriabin. It demonstrates how revolutionaries
were able to interpret the composer’s creative work in a manner that adhered to their
ideology and thereby sustained his legacy through the era of communism.
Chapter Six demonstrates how Russian musicians and critics of the early post-
Revolutionary period contributed to the enduring legacy of Scriabin. Among the evidence
here are testimonies from some of the most renowned figures in Russian music during the
first half of the twentieth century. Most importantly, this section reveals how Scriabin’s
ideas and compositional style continued to have an impact on the younger generation of
Russian composers.
Regarding the transliteration of Russian words, I observe the current trend to
simplify, omit diacritics, and make the text more accessible to a general audience. In
general, I follow the system of the United States Board on Geographic Names. I have
also avoided the confusing <’> which replaces the so-called “soft-sign” in Russian.
Elsewhere, I make abundant use of the letter “y” when it corresponds to that sound in the
Russian word. This will help the reader to render a correct pronunciation of the
transliterated words. The spellings of proper nouns that have been in common use –
especially the names of famous composers – remain untouched.
1
Chapter 1
Survey of Writings on Scriabin
The 1972 centenary of Alexander Scriabin’s birth witnessed intensified interest in the life
and creative works of the composer. Since that year, nearly 300 articles and books on him
have appeared throughout the world. Most noticeably, this upsurge has taken place in the
English-speaking countries. This is documented by an examination of the main
bibliographic sources in the field, in the compilations of Luigi Verdi and Daniel Bossard.
This so-called revival has astonished some musicologists;
1
in fact, it was an expansion of
the already existing interest and research in the field. During the tense period of Stalinism
and Zhdanovshchina (mid-1930s – mid-1950s) no fewer than twenty articles had
appeared in Sovyetskaya Muzyka either directly or indirectly mentioning Scriabin. In
Western Europe, the fascination with the composer did not abate after his sudden death in
1915, as some might be inclined to believe; on the contrary, this unexpected and shocking
event hastened a closer scrutiny of the whole Scriabin phenomenon. Subsequently, the
new situation prompted numerous articles and books to appear on the subject. Nowhere
was this more apparent than in England. The critical writings following historic
performances of Scriabin’s music there provide insight into the attitudes that developed
among English musicologists.
The Russian conductor Sergei Koussevitzky had introduced English audiences –
much as he had done for Russian audiences – to Scriabin’s orchestral works, in May
1
In his essay “Scriabin and the Superhuman,” Richard Taruskin has written that, “scholarly interest in
Scriabin has somewhat unexpectedly begun to revive....” in Defining Russia Musically: Historical and
Hermeneutical Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 312.
2
1909. There he led the London Symphony Orchestra in a performance of the composer’s
Symphony No. 1. According to Koussevitzky, the concert was “an immense success.”
2
One year later, the experience was the same when Koussevitzky conducted the Poem of
Ecstasy. In February 1913, the English conductor Sir Henry Wood (1869-1944) gave a
much anticipated performance of Scriabin’s Prometheus; the work was repeated
immediately to an astonishingly receptive audience.
3
The music historian Rosa
Newmarch (1857-1940) wrote to Scriabin:
The orchestra was full of enthusiasm. The impression was
terrific, the applause warm and enthusiastic. Wood had to
come out and take a bow three times (a thing unprecedented
for a premiere). It may be of interest to you that among the
people who listened to both performances I noticed
Mr. Bernard Shaw, who was one of the greatest enthusiasts
and applauded loudly, and also John Sargent, an artist, who
cried out: “We want to listen to ‘Prometheus’ for a third
time!” . . . You have managed to express something new,
ideal, deeply moving. I also believe you have made
enthusiastic friends here.
4
Responding to several invitations, Scriabin journeyed to England in March 1914
to conduct his works in person.
5
He was received with a warm welcome and an
overwhelming respect. In spite of some perplexed listeners and dissent among the more
conservative factions, the audience demonstrated its approval of the innovative sounds of
Prometheus. If there was any skepticism among the critics, it was far outweighed by the
enthusiasm of the audience. A writer for the Musical Times, E. A. Baughan, reported:
2
Quoted in Olga Tompakova, Zobushchiy k svyetu. Aleksandr Skriabin v Anglii [Calling to Light:
Alexander Scriabin in England] (Moscow: Muzyka, 1999), 27.
3
Ibid., 29. Tompakova includes five previously unpublished letters from Wood to Scriabin that testify to
the very cordial relationship between the two men.
4
Ibid., 32. From a letter from Rosa Newmarch to A. N. Scriabin, Feb. 3, 1913; preserved at the State
Memorial Scriabin Museum (SMSM) in Moscow; mf 26100, No. 859.
5
The London Concert Bureau Ibbs & Tillet arranged his concert tour of England. See Tompakova, 33.
3
On the 14
th
day of March in this year of grace Alexander
Scriabin’s ‘Prometheus’ was applauded with much enthusiasm
by a very large audience in the Queen’s Hall. . . . The audience
was composed of men and women accustomed to hear the best
music the world has made, and yet they accepted Scriabin.
The same audience had previously applauded Schönberg’s Five
Orchestral Pieces, so that it was at least consistent. You could
not read any reflection of that popular enthusiasm in the writings
of most professional critics. They either sat on the fence in aloof
amusement, or clambered down to throw a small pebble or two
at the daring composers. These facts are set down here as material
for the historian of the future, so that he shall not write of Scriabin
having been cast out by the London public. Nor should that
historian place too much reliance on the statements in the public
prints that the composer of ‘Prometheus’ was honoured by the
public because the public likes a new sensation.
6
In an article the following year, the musicologist Ernest Newman sought to clarify the
diverse reactions and opinions between the critics and the larger audience. He wrote:
[The British public] has an intuition – and a perfectly sound
one – that a person cannot become a world-figure in music
without there being something in him; and that something the
British public is willing, as a rule, to sample, without at all
committing itself in advance to liking it. This explains why
a certain number of people in England will go to hear a new
work by Strauss or Debussy or Puccini or Stravinsky or Scriabin,
while very few of them will to hear a new work by John Brown
or William Robinson.
7
Many of the period’s most eminent English music critics, however, wrote quite positively
in defense of Scriabin’s music and modernism. Among these early enthusiasts were Sir
William Henry Hadow (1859-1937) and Philip Heseltine (pseud. Peter Warlock, 1894-
1930). These two very different men – one an aristocrat, the other a bohemian – had at
least one thing in common: they were respectful of musical heritage while at the same
time able to perceive and acknowledge the important achievements of such men as
6
E. A. Baughan, “On the Modern Language of Music,” Musical Times 55, no. 854 (April 1, 1914): 231.
7
Ernest Newman, “The Public, the Critic, and the Native Composer,” Musical Times 56, no. 865 (March 1,
1915): 142.
4
Scriabin as part of the evolutionary development in music. Already in 1892, Hadow had
denounced the stance of reactionary pundits in his essay “Music and Musical Criticism:
A Discourse on Method.” He stated that “we entirely decline to believe the reiterated
assertion that the methods of today are wrong because they are not the methods of
yesterday.”
8
In 1910, the year in which Sergei Koussevitzky conducted the London
premiere of Scriabin’s Poème de l’extase, Hadow wrote that the composer’s music
is no laggard or timid art. . . . As his work proceeds it grows
more sonorous, more impetuous more passionate. . . . It is music
as free in thought and as vigorous as life, which has won strength,
the rough discipline and liberty, through reverence for law. . . .
Amid the younger composers of Europe there is none whose
present achievement holds out greater promise for the future.
9
Hadow continued to maintain this high esteem for the work of Scriabin throughout his
life. In 1924, he delivered a presentation in which he discussed the communality of
mysticism in the English and Russian characters. In this address he stated emphatically
that the composer was “the greatest of all recent Russians.”
10
Among those dissenters opposing the modernist sounds of Scriabin was Frederick
Corder (1852-1932) – composer, critic, and professor at the Royal Academy of Music.
11
Following Maestro Wood’s first performance of Scriabin’s Prometheus, Corder wrote a
sarcastic and reactionary article titled “Wagner and Super-Wagner.” In it he remarked,
8
William Henry Hadow, “Music and Musical Criticism – a discourse on Method,” Studies in Modern
Music (New York: Macmillan, 1892); cited in Colles, H. C., “William Henry Hadow (1859-1937),”
obituary in Musical Times 78, no. 1131 (May 1937): 404.
9
Cited in Stuart, Charles, “Fifty Years of Music Criticism,” Tempo New Ser., no. 19 (spring 1951): 14.
10
W. Henry Hadow, “The Balance of Expression and Design in Music (III),” Proceedings of the Musical
Association 50th Session (1923-1924): 96.
11
In the obituary of Frederick Corder which appeared in Musical Times on October 1, 1932, it is stated that
he had added “a new luster to the institution that he served. His class of instruction became famous, and for
a long period it was almost identified with the re-birth of British music and the rise of a new spirit of
adventure and independence among British composers.” Among his students were Granville Bantock,
Montague Phillips, and Arnold Bax.
5
“Now if Scriabine’s Prometheus is music, then it is idle to pretend that the other works
are also music, for you cannot name a point in which the two styles are not absolutely
contradictory.”
12
This naïve syllogism prompted the writer and composer Philip Heseltine
to respond defiantly with his article “Some Reflections on Modern Musical Criticism.”
Here he stated that “the ever-recurring spectacle of critics who, being totally unable to
keep pace with the musical thought of their day, seek to conceal their obtuseness by a
lofty cynicism and feeble attempts at humor, is becoming monotonous, to say the least of
it. The only humor in the situation lies in their own attitude.”
13
Deconstructing Corder’s
anti-Scriabin logic, Heseltine concludes that “it would be absurd to call anyone
unmusical because the music of Schönberg or Scriabine meant more to him than that of
Haydn or Beethoven, as it would be to call Mr. Corder unmusical for the taste he has
professed in his letter to the Musical Times.”
14
Three English scholars of Russian music who wrote extensively on Scriabin’s life
and works during the period from the 1910s are Arthur Eaglefield Hull (1876-1928),
Montagu Montagu-Nathan (1877-1958), and Alfred Swan (1890-1970). The year
following the death of Scriabin, Hull and Nathan published short guides to the piano
works of the composer. Subsequently, Hull incorporated his material into the book
Scriabin. A Great Russian Tone-Poet.
15
In a review later in the century, another English
musicologist, Gerald Abraham (1904-1988) referred to Hull as a “pretentious
charlatan. . . . who with characteristic impudence not merely wrote ‘Notes on the
12
Frederick Corder, “Wagner and Super-Wagner,” Musical Times 54, n. 841 (March 1, 1913): 172-73; 172.
13
Philip A. Heseltine, “Some Reflections on Modern Musical Criticism,” Musical Times 54, no. 848
(October 1, 1913): 652-54.
14
Ibid.
15
Arthur Eaglefield Hull, Scriabin. A Great Russian Tone-Poet (London: K. Paul, Trench, Trubner and
Co., Ltd., 1916).
6
Complete Pianoforte Works’ with Montagu-Nathan’s at his side but often lifted whole
phrases, even sentences, verbatim without acknowledgment. Nor was Montagu-Nathan
his only victim; someone had supplied him with translated excerpts from Evgeny Gunst’s
A. N. Skryabin i evo tvorchestvo [A. N. Scriabin and His Creative Work]. . . .”
16
Abraham
proceeded to cite one particularly blatant example of these violations. Notwithstanding
such accusations, Hull’s interest in modern music theory
17
led him initially to attempt
analyses of Scriabin’s harmony which he then presented to the English Musical
Association during its 43rd Session.
18
In this discussion he states that “we may safely say
that the case of Scriabin presents the first occasion on which a really great composer has
closely linked his music to the science of sound.”
19
Following this, Hull makes the point
that Scriabin “is nearly always credited with the invention of a new scale. This is
absolutely wrong. He invented new chords, that is all.”
20
Less analytical from the music-theoretical standpoint was the 1923 Scriabin
biography of Alfred Swan.
21
The author – himself a composer and fluent in Russian –
consulted original sources in the preparation of this book.
22
He describes many
interesting details of Scriabin’s personal life, but provides no musical examples in
support of his discussions. Swan’s book Russian Music, published posthumously in 1973,
contains a chapter “Scriabin and Rachmaninoff” in which he compares the styles of the
16
Gerald Abraham, review of Skryabin by Hugh MacDonald, Music and Letters 61, no. 1 (January 1980):
81-83.
17
Hull’s Modern Harmony: Its Explanation and Application (1915) was translated into several languages.
18
A. Eaglefield Hull, “Scriabin’s Scientific Derivation of Harmony versus Empirical Methods,”
Proceedings of the Musical Association 43rd Session (1916-1917): 17-28.
19
Ibid., 18.
20
Ibid., 19.
21
Alfred Swan, Scriabin (London: John Lane The Bodley Head Ltd., 1923).
22
The author, of English descent, was born in St. Petersburg, studied law at Oxford, and later returned to
his birth city to study music. He is the translator of Boris Asafyev’s 1930 book Russian Music from the
Beginning of the Nineteenth Century (Ann Arbor: J. W. Edwards, 1953).
7
two composers. He finds Rachmaninoff more diversified and influenced by folksong and
the sounds of the Russian Orthodox Church.
23
In a sweeping generalization typical of this
period, Swan describes all the early works of Scriabin as Chopinesque while disregarding
the profoundly Russian qualities in the music. He writes that Scriabin
had immersed himself so completely in the world of
Chopin, both as pianist and composer, that all those
who heard him, except Safonov,
24
expected little else. . . .
Strangely, there are no typical Russian idiomatic expressions
anywhere, either from folksong or from chant – a fact which
clearly reflects the hothouse atmosphere of his upbringing.
Wrapped up as he had been in his favorite western composers,
he apparently ignored all earlier developments in Russia.
25
Some contemporaneous as well as more recent scholarship discussed below has
examined these earlier works of Scriabin beyond the superficial hearing. It casts doubt on
Swan’s statements.
The decade of the twenties in England also witnessed a backlash against the
burgeoning cult of Scriabinists. This is nowhere more evident than in the extended essay
of Alexander Brent-Smith (1889-1950), “Some Reflections on the Work of Scriabin.”
26
In this article, the author accuses Scriabin of having been “musically unhinged, mentally
confused, illogical,”
27
and calls his later music “monotonous and senseless noise.”
28
Reacting against the new harmonic language, the religious conservative Brent-Smith
finds that one cannot disavow the common chord without restricting the range of
emotional expression. According to Brent-Smith, “with a limited vocabulary it is
23
Alfred Swan, Russian Music (New York: Norton, 1973), 147-54.
24
Vasili Safonov (1852-1918). Pianist, composer, and director of the Moscow Conservatory.
25
Swan, Russian Music, 152.
26
Alexander Brent-Smith, “Some Reflections on the Work of Scriabin,” Musical Times 67, no. 1001 (July
and August 1926): 593-5 and 692-94.
27
Ibid., 593.
28
Ibid., 594.
8
impossible to say anything that is really heart-felt.”
29
With an attitude of Victorian
prudery he rejects the implicit sexual nature of Scriabin’s music.
Throughout his work we notice the emphasis he lays
upon the sensual nature of his art – a never-far-distant,
quickly stirred eroticism. Indeed, the expression marks
in his tenth Sonata, when read consecutively, give an
unpleasant suggestion of grossness.
30
On the same grounds, one church community made an attempt to ban Scriabin’s Poem of
Ecstasy from a concert, citing the music “unsuitable for performance in a place of
Christian worship. . . . It is thoroughly morbid, erotic, and sensational in the worst sense
of these terms, and its performance at Gloucester [Cathedral] would create a most
undesirable precedent.”
31
Reactions and counter-reactions continued to play out in the
press. For example, one reader, Ernest Fennell, responded, “Mr. Brent-Smith’s burlesque
hardly does the composer justice. Placed in such a light of ridicule Holy Writ itself could
be made to look absurd. . . . It is quite possible that Mr. Brent-Smith is temperamentally
unable to appreciate such essentially un-English music. . . .”
32
Other well-known music historians in England proceeded to reassess the Scriabin
phenomenon. Cecil Gray (1895-1951) had less-than-kind words for the composer which
he expressed in his provocative book A Survey of Contemporary Music (1924).
33
The
author, praised for his profound musical knowledge and high literary talent,
34
makes the
following statement:
29
Ibid., 595.
30
Ibid., 694.
31
Cambrensis, “Scriabin’s Music and the Three Choirs Festival,” Musical Times 63, no. 948 (February 8,
1922): 124.
32
Ernest Fennell, “A Word for Scriabin,” Musical Times 67, no. 1003 (September 1, 1926): 833.
33
Cecil Gray, A Survey of Contemporary Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1924).
34
Hubert Foss, “Cecil Gray, 1895-1951,” Obituary in Musical Times 92, no. 1305 (November 1951): 496-
98.
9
Scriabine has given us synthetic music, musicine, a product
which bears much the same relation to music as margarine to butter,
and saccharine to sugar. . . . Scriabine’s music has all the
appearances of great art in the same way that culture pearls
have all the appearance of real pearls. . . . It satisfies
triumphantly all the more mechanical tests of criticism.
It has all the appearance of art. Everything is there except
the vital principle.
35
Following this negative opinion, the critic Michael Calvocoressi (1877-1944) later
attempted to explain the early fascination with Scriabin in his book A Survey of Russian
Music (1944, based on lectures given at Glasgow University in 1935).
36
In his assessment
of the situation, the author provides the following argument: “The critics and music-
lovers who, by nature or by virtue of their musical experiences, were best qualified to see
through Scriabin, had more important claims on their time and labor.”
37
Writing about the
music as though it were a disease epidemic, he concludes, “By now, it seems more than
likely that no new wave of uncritical Scriabinism will spread.”
38
Noteworthy is the fact
that Calvocoressi had been a very close associate of the impresario Sergei Diaghilev in
Paris, with whom Scriabin was on extremely poor terms.
39
There were other English musicologists during this period who presented a more
balanced assessment of Scriabin the composer; among them was Herbert Antcliffe (1875-
1964). He rejects the assertions of nearly all the earlier English music critics that Scriabin
was a style imitator especially of Chopin. In his opinion:
35
Gray, 155.
36
Michael Calvocoressi, A Survey of Russian Music (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin, 1944).
37
Ibid., 86.
38
Ibid., 87.
39
Scriabin to Diaghilev in conversation (Paris, 1907): “Let me remind you that I am actually a chosen
representative of Art itself. . . .whilst you, you are privileged to gallivant about its fringe. . . . But for the
likes of me such people as you would find it difficult to supply a reason for your existence! . . .”; quoted in
Arnold L. Haskell, in collaboration with Walter Nouvel, Diaghileff: His Artistic and Private Life (New
York: Simon and Schuster, 1935), 153.
10
Actually, Scriabin was not like anyone of the composers
with whom he has been compared, whatever details he may
have acquired from them; for he represents in himself and
in his work the opening phases of a new epoch in music.
If it can be said that he carried on the work of any previous
individual or any particular school, it was that of Liszt,
through whom he descended from the German classical school,
but whose ideas on programme music he developed quite
independently of other composers in France, Germany and England.
40
Admitting that it was still too early to determine Scriabin’s ultimate position in the
evolution of music, Antcliffe welcomed and admired wholeheartedly the composer’s
pioneering attempts to reach new methods of artistic expression. “He has like Bach,
Beethoven and Liszt opened up a new way.”
41
Following a description of Scriabin’s
major works for piano and orchestra, he summarizes:
We have to realize that the significance of his work
lies in its independence of mere technique, in its adoption
of both ancient and modern principles and its employment
of the means to hand. When we recognize how far beyond
his predecessors he was able to go with how little new
machinery, we shall then begin to realize his significance
and his position – great or small, but certainly individual
and at present unique – among the composers of the
last three centuries.
42
In spite of the controversy that had developed among the critics and historians
of this period, English conductors continued to perform the orchestral works of Scriabin,
especially The Poem of Ecstasy. Albert Coates (1882-1953), who had been a student of
Rimsky-Korsakov and a friend of Scriabin,
43
remained an advocate of the composer,
40
Herbert Antcliffe, “The Significance of Scriabin,” Musical Quarterly 10, no. 3 (July, 1924): 335.
41
Ibid., 336.
42
Ibid., 345.
43
Two letters from Scriabin addressed to Alexander Siloti and dated October 3 and 17, 1912, make
reference to plans to have Albert Coates conduct Prometheus in Berlin later that year. See Skriabin: Pisma
[Scriabin: Letters] edited by Kashperov (Moscow: Muzyka, 1965), 597-8.
11
performing his music in Western Europe and on tours of the United States.
44
Leopold
Stokowski (1882-1977) was another English conductor who kept the legacy of Scriabin
alive in Europe and later in the United States. The two Englishmen were also pioneers in
the earliest recordings of Scriabin’s orchestral works, which furthered the exposure and
fame of the composer. Coates recorded The Poem of Ecstasy already in 1920 with the
London Symphony Orchestra,
45
Stokowski recorded it in 1932 with the Philadelphia
Orchestra.
46
Discussing this same work in 1923, however, the chief music critic of the
London Times, Henry Colles refers to the “. . . real poverty of the music, once the first
glamour of its strange harmony has passed away.”
47
At the same time, though, he is
forced to admit:
Scriabin is a composer about whom it is futile to argue.
To some he is the evangelist of a new gospel; on others
his music produces the unpleasant effect which one
experiences on witnessing the hysterical outburst of
a neurotic person.
48
Noteworthy and somewhat ironic is the fact that Colles was a disciple of Hadow, who as
was stated above had held Scriabin in very high esteem.
49
In the following decade, Calvocoressi and Abraham collaborated on the book
Masters of Russian Music.
50
The two historians were considered the major authorities on
44
Richard Aldrich, music critic for the New York Times, wrote on Feb. 27,1922, following a performance
of the New York Symphony Orchestra, “. . .and Scriabin’s “Poème d’Extase” [was] repeated by request. . .
There was much enthusiasm for Mr. Coates, who was vigorously applauded.”
45
Albert Coates, dir., Poem of Ecstasy, Op. 54, by Alexander Scriabin, London Symphony Orchestra
(1920), 78 rpm: Columbia L1180-82; 65016-18D; re-released in 1978 as LP: Past Masters PM 11.
46
Leopold Stokowski, dir., Poem of Ecstasy, Op. 54, by Alexander Scriabin, Philadelphia Orchestra (1932),
78 rpm: RCA Victor 17195; re-released in 1993 as a CD: Pearl GEMM 9066.
47
Quoted in the New York Times; “London Critic Finds Scriabin ‘Cloying’,” 30 Sept. 1923, R3.
48
Ibid.
49
Richard Aldrich wrote, “. . . [Colles] is a graduate of Oxford University, where he attended Worcester
College and came largely under the influence of W. H. Hadow (now Sir W. H. Hadow), one of the most
genial and profound of contemporaneous musical writers and thinkers.” In “Guest Critic to Give Views of
Music Here,” New York Times, 7 October 1923, X6.
12
Russian music in England at that time. Both fluent in Russian, the scholars were able to
draw on and compile information from native sources. The two-volume work containing
the biographies of fourteen major Russian composers included a lengthy chapter – forty-
eight pages – on Scriabin written by Abraham. While the book was recognized as a major
contribution, the reviews of Masters of Russian Music were nevertheless mixed. William
McNaught (1883-1953), critic for The Musical Times – and later its chief editor – found
Abraham’s section on Scriabin to be “a first-rate study.”
51
In contrast, the English
musicologist and composer Edward Lockspeiser (1905-1973) thought the work to be too
“anecdotal,”
52
which, indeed, is the case; the work relies heavily on many of the stories
documented by one of Scriabin’s most important biographers, the Russian composer and
critic Yuli (Joel) Engel (1868-1927). Abroad, the French musicologist and composer
Paul-Marie Masson (1882-1954) recognized the importance of such biographical
information, but regretted the lack of “work analyses and aesthetic considerations.”
53
In
all fairness, however, Abraham did examine these aspects in his companion book of the
same period, Studies in Russian Music.
54
In this volume, he tends to emphasize non-
Russian traits not only in Scriabin, but also Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. He writes:
But it is in the manner of handling the very fabric of music,
and even more in the sources of inspiration, that we find men
50
M. D. Calvocoressi and Gerald Abraham, Masters of Russian Music (London: Duckworth; New York: A.
Knopf, 1936).
51
W. McN., review of Masters of Russian Music, by M. D. Calvocoressi and Gerald Abraham. Musical
Times 77, no. 1120 (June, 1936): 516-17.
52
E. Lockspeiser, review of Masters of Russian Music. Music and Letters 17, no. 3 (July, 1936): 263-64.
53
“Ces études veulent être strictement biographiques. On y chercherait en vain des analyses d’œuvres ou
des considérations esthétiques. Mais ces biographies ont été enrichies d’une foule de documents nouveaux,
provenant surtout de publications russes.” Paul-Marie Masson, review of Masters of Russian Music. Revue
de Musicologie 19, no. 65 (1938): 24.
54
Gerald Abraham, Studies in Russian Music (London: W. Reeves, 1936).
13
like Tchaikovsky, Scriabin and Rachmaninov ranging themselves
with Western musicians rather than with their compatriots.
55
It was perhaps with this in mind that the English musicologist Hugh Macdonald (b. 1940)
wrote, “. . . he [Abraham] held opinions (on Scriabin, for example) which are out of favor
today.”
56
The sustained attention and interest accorded Scriabin during the first quarter of
the twentieth century in England found no equivalent in other West European countries.
The hegemony of German musical culture before World War I was surely a major
contributing factor to this situation. Scriabin concertized in different cities in Germany on
several occasions, most notably Berlin and Leipzig, but his performances elicited more
skepticism than inspiration. The comments of several contemporaneous German writers
on music confirm these reactions. The composer and critic Oscar Köhler (1851-1917)
wrote that Scriabin was “following the paths of Debussy and even attempting to surpass
him in his harmonic and rhythmic peculiarities as he made apparent in his “Désir,” Opus
57.”
57
The assessment of the music historian Arthur Smolian (1856-1911) was even less
flattering. “. . . Indeed I attended the concert where Alexander Scriabin performed his
own works. He applied his cute Chopin-addictive and iridescent-concupiscent trifling
talent to several small works and unfortunately also to a sonata, without leaving any
55
Ibid., Ch. 1, “The Essence of Russian Music,” 5-6.
56
Hugh MacDonald, “Gerald Abraham (1904-1988),” obituary in 19
th
-Century Music 12, no. 2 (autumn
1988): 188-89.
57
“Dazu kommt noch, dass sich der Komponist in den Bahnen Debussys bewegt und diesen an
harmonischen und rhythmischen Absonderlichkeiten sogar zu übertreffen sucht, wie er in seinem ‘Desir’
Op. 57 deutlich zu erkennen gab.” Oscar Köhler, review of Scriabin’s Leipzig piano recital, Neue
Zeitschrift für Musik (Leipzig) February 24, 1911, vol. 9, p. 132; repr. in Christoph Hellmundt, Alexander
Skrjabin: Briefe (Leipzig: Reclam, 1988), 365.
14
deeper impression.”
58
Earlier in 1905, the composer and critic Walter Niemann (1876-
1953) had praised Scriabin as a piano composer; but as far as his orchestral works were
concerned, he dismissed them with the following negative explanation:
That such an intimately sensitive and exceedingly elegant
composer as Scriabin would be unable to produce anything
of lasting strength and value in the larger forms of a concerto
or symphony was already evident in his natural predisposition.
59
Noteworthy is the fact that Niemann, in contrast to many early critics, was able to cite
numerous instances of typically Russian stylistic influence in the works of Scriabin.
Further, in a reverse maneuver, he dared to suggest that Debussy had imitated Scriabin.
“. . . one passage (page 9, più vivo) in Scriabin’s Fantasy, Opus 28 [1900] reappears
almost literally in Debussy (finale to L’île joyeuse [1904]). . .”
60
One German musicologist and journalist who understood Scriabin and
endeavored to enlighten the German public about the composer during the early decades
of the century was Oskar von Riesemann (1880-1934). Born in Russia, he worked for a
German newspaper in Moscow and was a personal friend of Scriabin.
61
He translated
Scriabin’s notebooks from the years 1900-1906 into German, publishing them in 1924 as
Prometheische Phantasien.
62
Noteworthy is also his German translation of Istoriya
58
“. . . Wohl aber wohnte ich dem Konzert bei, in dem Alexander Scriabine als sein eigener Interpret sein
hübsches, Chopin-süchtiges und Farbenspiel-lüsternes Bagatelle-Talent in zahlreichen kleinen Stücken und
leider auch in einer Sonate aufsprühen machte, ohne damit irgendwie tiefer berühren zu können. . .” Arthur
Smolian, review of Scriabin’s Leipzig piano recital, Signale für die Musikalische Welt (Leipzig) 24
February 1911, No. 10, p. 392; repr. in Hellmundt, 365.
59
“Dass ein so intim fühlender, überaus feinnerviger Tonpoet wie Scriàbine in den grossen Formen des
Konzerts und der Symphonie nichts von dauernder Durchschlagskraft und bleiben Werte schaffen würde,
lag in seiner Naturanlage schon begründet.” Walter Niemann, “Alexander Scriàbine,” Neue Zeitschrift für
Musik 40 (September 27, 1905): 757-60.
60
“. . . eine Stelle (S. 9, più vivo) in Scriàbines ‘Phantasie’ op. 28 kehrt fast wörtlich bei Debussy (Schluss
der ‘L’île joyeuse’) wieder . . .” Ibid., 757.
61
Hellmundt, 433.
62
Alexander Skrjabin, Prometheische Phantasien, trans. and ed. Oskar von Riesemann (Stuttgart: Deutsche
Verlagsanstalt, 1924).
15
Russkoi Muzyki [The History of Russian Music] by Leonid Sabaneyev (1881-1968),
which contains information about the composer’s musical and spiritual development.
63
The following decade witnessed increased interest in theoretical aspects of
Scriabin’s music in the German-speaking countries. In 1935, the German music critic and
musicologist Hans Heinz Stuckenschmidt (1901-1988), otherwise a recognized scholar
on Schoenberg and Stravinsky, produced a thematic-structural analysis of Scriabin’s Fifth
Sonata in F-sharp minor, Op. 53. This essay was published in the Schweizerische
Musikzeitung. The author explained that beyond the thematic and harmonic aspects, the
one-movement structure serves to accommodate the programmatic content of the work;
he cites precedents for such compositional methods. “From this programmatic idea can
be explained the basic one-movement structure in Scriabin. Single-movement sonata
forms, which have existed since Beethoven (C-sharp minor Quartet), are nothing
extraordinary in the new music. Liszt and Richard Strauss were also ahead of Scriabin.”
64
During the same year, in Switzerland, the musicologist Paul Dickenmann (1905-?)
published his book Die Entwicklung der Harmonik bei Skrjabin
65
using a Kurthian
approach to analysis by which aspects of philosophy are applied.
Also from 1935 is the well-known essay “Geschichtliche Vorform der
Zwölftontechnik” by the Polish musicologist Zofia Lissa (1908-1980). She maintained
that, “The harmonic technique of Scriabin’s later works demonstrates in their method of
63
Leonid Sabaneyev, Geschichte der Russischen Music, trans. and ed. Oskar von Riesemann (Leipzig:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1926; repr. Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1982).
64
“Aus dieser programmatischen Idee erklärt sich bei Skrjabin auch die prinzipielle Einsätzgkeit.
Einsätzige Sonatenformen sind seit Beethoven (Cis-Moll-Quartett!) nichts Seltenes. Auch Liszt und
Richard Strauß sind Skrjabin darin vorangegangen.” Hans Heinz Stuckenschmidt, “Skrjabins Fis-Moll-
Sonate, Op. 53,” Schweizerische Musikzeitung und Sängerblatt (Zurich) April 15, 1935, No. 8, pp. 293-97.
65
Paul Dickenmann, Die Entwicklung der Harmonik bei Skrjabin, (Bern: P. Haupt, 1935).
16
construction extensive analogies with the twelve-tone technique.”
66
According to Lissa,
Scriabin employs a structural technique for his compositions that she calls a “System des
Klangzentrums.” In this system, a chordal harmony provides the basis for an entire piece
including its melodic formations. Lissa also maintains that the so-called Prometheus
chord of Scriabin’s symphonic poem, Op. 60, is not the only Klangzentrum that the
composer used for his later works. In this opinion, she stands at odds with leading music
scholars such as Karatygin, Asafyev, Sabaneyev, and Schloezer. In her essay, Lissa also
cites two major differences between the technique of Scriabin and that of Schoenberg.
First, Scriabin’s Klangzentren are made up six tones – not twelve – and share some
features with the scales of the tonal era. Second, Scriabin’s melodies need not follow a
consistent order or tone row. According to Lissa, the common aspect between the
systems of Scriabin and Schoenberg lies in their synthetic nature. In terms of their
origins, however, she views Scriabin’s scales as more chordal (vertical) and
Schoenberg’s as more melodic (linear).
67
After 1935, the twentieth anniversary of Scriabin’ death, one notices a sharp
decline in the scholarly literature on the composer published in Western Europe.
Economic and political crises certainly had led to nationalist sentiment, but above all, the
essential art of Scriabin, Russian in its very nature, gradually, though not permanently,
lost its appeal in the West. This was, however, not the case in the East – in the Soviet
Union. The historic reasons for this will be clarified in the chapters that follow.
66
“Die harmonische Technik der späteren Werke Skrjabins zeigt nun in ihren Aufbaumethoden
weitgehende Analogien mit der Zwölftontechnik.” Zofia Lissa, “Geschichtliche Vorform der
zwölftontechnik” [Historical Prototype of Twelve-Tone Technique], Acta Musicologica 7, no. 1 (Leipzig:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1935): 15-21; 18.
67
Ibid., 19-21.
17
During the period of National Socialism, World War II, and immediately
following, no major books or essays on the subject of Scriabin appeared even in German.
In the 1950s, however, the composer once again became topical. The Russian biography
of the composer by the eminent Soviet musicologist Lev Danilyevich (1912-1980),
viewed the composer from an entirely socialist standpoint, and was translated into
German.
68
Other writings of Soviet Scriabin scholars were also translated into German
and other languages. In this context, the work of Arnold Alshvang (1898-1960) deserves
mention. His essay “Die Stellung Skrjabins in der Geschichte,” published in 1964,
examines the interaction of musical influences of various composers – in particular,
Chopin, Liszt, und Debussy – that played a role his creative development.
69
For example,
he emphasized, “The assertion that Scriabin’s piano works of the last decade of the
nineteenth century are bound up exclusively in the Chopinesque mindscape is utterly one-
sided.”
70
In other countries of Western Europe, the appreciation of Scriabin’s music during
the first half of the twentieth century remained at a rather steady and moderate level.
France, however, represents a special case. A large community of Russian musical
émigrés was living in Paris. One would imagine that Scriabin’s music could have
achieved the same enormous success that it had enjoyed in Moscow and St. Petersburg.
This was the case during his first tours of the1890s. Later, however, as Diaghilev
dominated and determined the path of Russian musical life in Paris with opera and ballet,
68
Lev, Danilevich, A. N. Scriabin (Moscow: Muzgiz, 1953); German trans. Margarete Hoffmann (Leipzig:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1954).
69
Arnold Alshvang, “Die Stellung Skrjabins in der Geschichte” Beiträge zur Musikwissenschaft 6, no. 2
(Berlin: Verlag Neue Musik, 1964): 143-50.
70
“Die Behauptung, Skrjabins Klavierwerke aus dem letzten Jahrzehnt des 19. Jahrhunderts seien
ausschließlich der Vorstellungswelt Chopins verpflichtet, ist jedoch mindestens einseitg.” Ibid., 143.
18
Scriabin’s music lost some of its attractiveness. By 1921, the composer’s brother-in-law,
Boris de Schloezer (1881-1969), who was then living in Paris, published a lengthy article
on Scriabin in which he wrote the following: “. . . France continues to ignore one of the
greatest masters of Russian music, while it acclaims and idolizes so many others.”
71
Among other Scriabin scholars who immigrated to France was Leonid Sabaneyev
(to be discussed in detail in a later chapter). He left Russia in 1926 as a consequence of
the political and cultural upheaval. Living in Paris, he was free to express his evaluations
of Russian musical culture even more forcefully than he had already done under the
increasingly repressive climate of the USSR. Another famous Russian musician-
immigrant, the violinist Nathan Milstein, reminisced about his encounters in Paris with
the famous musicologist:
Sabaneyev, whom I had met back in Moscow, didn’t look
too glamorous either: he wore a cheap suit and generally
seemed pathetic. He even smelled bad. It was hard to believe
that in Russia this man had been one of our most influential critics,
a man whose reviews decided the fate of many musicians. . . .
Sabaneyev had a brilliant and caustic pen. . . .
72
Along with Boris de Schloezer, the critic Sabaneyev contributed to keeping alive in the
West the memory of Alexander Scriabin. He published many articles in French and
English on the composer and included a chapter on him in his book Modern Russian
Composers.
73
His magnum opus Vospominaniya o Scriabina [Reminiscences about
71
“. . . la France continue à ignorer un des maîtres les plus grands de la musique russe, tandis que tant
d’autres y sont accueillis et consacrés.” Boris de Schloezer, “Alexandre Scriabine,” Revue Musicale 9 (July
1, 1921): 28-46; 29.
72
Nathan Milstein and Solomon Volkov, trans. from the Russian by Antonina W. Bouis, From Russia to
the West: The Musical Memoirs and Reminiscences of Nathan Milstein (New York: Limelight Editions,
1991), 74
73
Leonid Sabaneyev, Modern Russian Composers, trans. from the Russian by Judah A. Joffe (Freeport,
NY: Books for Libraries Press, Inc., 1927, repr., 1967).
19
Scriabin] has appeared recently in a German translation.
74
It is now the most often quoted
source for the study of Scriabin.
Scriabin scholarship in recent years has encompassed several broad areas
including cultural, political, music theoretical, aesthetic and religious-philosophical
studies. Music historians have been conducting biographical research, examining various
memoirs and correspondences; these have shed light on Scriabin as a pedagogue, his
relationship to fellow musicians, and his attitude toward other composers. The most
complete collection of letters available was published in Moscow in 1965 under the
editorship of Alexei Kashperov, a leading Soviet musicologist. A significant number of
these letters also appeared in the Reclam, Leipzig German edition, 1988, translated and
edited by Christoph Hellmundt. The correspondence between Scriabin and his mecaenas
Mitrofan Belyayev (1836-1904) was published separately in St. Petersburg in 1922,
edited by the renowned ethnomusicologist Viktor Belyayev.
75
Following the death of
Mitrofan Belyayev, Scriabin found material support from the wealthy Moscovite
Margarita Morozova. The two corresponded regularly from 1904 through the end of
1908. Many of these letters were preserved and are contained in the volume by
Kashperov. From year 1908 onwards, the composer was financially secure, through a
generous annual stipend from the conductor-impresario Sergei Koussevitzky (1874-1971)
and through concert honoraria resulting from growing international recognition.
74
Leonid Sabanejew, Erinnerungen an Alexander Skrjabin, trans. Ernst Kuhn (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn,
2005).
75
Viktor Belyayev, Perepiska [Correspondence] A. N. Skriabina i M. P. Beliaeva. 1894-1903 (St.
Petersburg: Gosudarstvennaia akademicheskaia filarmoniia [State Academy of the Philharmonic], 1922).
20
Following the break with Koussevitzky in 1911,
76
however, Scriabin was largely
dependent upon himself for his livelihood and that of his family. Although by that time
he could sustain himself through royalties from concerts and score publications, after his
death in 1915 his family relied on the generosity of members of the Scriabin Society and
the magnanimity of men such as Koussevitzky
77
and Rachmaninoff, who saved the
family from destitution. The American Scriabin biographer Faubion Bowers has
indicated in his book that no letters between the composer and Koussevitzky survived;
78
indeed, none were published in the Kashperov edition, but some do exist in the
correspondence collection of the Serge Koussevitzky Archive at the Music Division,
Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.
79
The problematic relationships and mixed attitudes between Scriabin and his
famous contemporaries Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov and Igor Stravinsky are well-known.
Scriabin’s influence on the latter as well as the younger generation of composers,
Prokofiev, Myaskovsky, and Shostakovich, has been pointed out frequently.
80
This
subject area, though, is now being re-examined by such noted scholars as Larry Sitsky
and Peter Deane Roberts. In an earlier case, shortly after the death of Scriabin, Rimsky’s
widow, Nadezhda, had attempted to reinterpret and clarify her husband’s negative
76
A conflict arose between Scriabin and Koussevitsky in which the latter had reinforced his demands on
performance and publication rights that had been verbally established, to the dismay of the composer. See
Leonid Sabaneyev, Reminiscences about Scriabin (Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1925), 97-112.
77
Nicolas Slonimsky, Writings on Music, Vol. 2: Russian and Soviet Music and Composers (New York:
Routledge, 2004), 52.
78
“Koussevitzky in a fit of disgust destroyed all correspondence from Scriabin, a remarkable gesture for
that self-conscious era when everyone thought everyone else a genius and that the future held high stakes of
fame and value for all of them.” See Faubion Bowers, Scriabin, 2nd revised edition (Mineola, NY: Dover,
1996; orig. pub. in Palo Alto: Kodansha Intl., 1969), Book 3, 224.
79
The Serge Koussevitzky Archive, Correspondence Box-Folder 54/26-27.
80
See, for example, Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917-1981 (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1972; expanded and republished 1983), passim.
21
comments about Scriabin found in his autobiography.
81
She maintained that these had
nothing to do personally with Scriabin, whom she and her husband found to be a very
gracious human being.
82
Elsewhere, Shostakovich’s comments about an “unhealthy
eroticism”
83
in Scriabin must also be viewed not as a true assessment, but one which the
still young composer felt necessary to make for the sake of self-preservation during a
time in the 1930s when his own music would soon be under attack from the authorities of
an increasingly repressive regime. Shostakovich’s own Symphony No. 1 (1925) and
Piano Sonata No. 1 (1926) show occasional traces of Scriabin’s influence in their scoring
and gesture. Later, in1972, Shostakovich assumed the chairmanship of the Scriabin
Centenary Commission and prepared the opening address for the occasion. “The work of
Alexander Scriabin is close and dear to us, his compatriots, men and women of the first
socialist country which opened up new horizons for humanity in the twentieth century.”
84
More recently, Richard Taruskin has revisited and scrutinized more closely the
Scriabin-Stravinsky constellation. He has suggested that the latter’s negative opinion of
Scriabin
85
was a result of unreciprocated respect. Stravinsky received little esteem from
the famous modernist composer from Moscow.
86
Indeed, Scriabin appears to have been
indifferent towards the music of all his contemporaries. That with which he was familiar
81
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakoff, My Musical Life, trans. Judah A. Joffe (New York: A. Knopf, 1923).
82
N. N. Rimskaja-Korssakow, “Rimskij-Korssakow und Skrjabin,” in Österreichische Musikzeitschrift
(October/November 1950), 221-24; originally written in 1915 shortly after the death of Scriabin this
memoir was translated into German from Sovyetskaya Muzyka no. 5 (1950).
83
Rose Lee, “Dimitri Szostakovitch: Young Russian Composer Tells of Linking Politics with Creative
Work,” New York Times December 20, 1931; article dated Moscow, Dec. 5, 1931.
84
Facsimile of the original Russian autograph handwritten by Shostakovich available online at
http://members.bellatlantic.net/~restemey/Scriabin/ScriabinShostCritlarge.GIF
85
Stravinsky: “. . . Scriabin isn’t a musician at all. . . . I never liked him as a composer, and don’t see that a
musician can possibly like him.” Leonid Sabaneyev, “Beseda so Stravinskom” [Conversation with
Stravinsky], Zhisn’ iskusstva [Life of Art] (Leningrad) June 14, 1927; quoted in Stephen Walsh, Stravinsky:
A Creative Spring: Russia and France, 1882-1934 (New York: A. Knopf, 1999), 449.
86
Richard Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra, vol.
1 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 797.
22
was for the most part presented to him by his tag-along friend, the mathematician-
composer Leonid Sabaneyev.
87
Scriabin’s commentaries were published in the latter’s
book on the composer, in which compositions of both Stravinsky and Prokofiev were
dismissed with the verdict “minimum of creativity.”
88
Scriabin had been ostensibly very
disparaging in nearly all his judgments. Recently, Taruskin has uncovered evidence that
indicates Scriabin’s influence was not only present in Stravinsky’s earliest piano works,
for example, the Piano Etudes, Op. 7 (1908); his analyses substantiate a continuation of
the influence through the orchestral works Firebird (1910), Zvezdoliki (King of the Stars,
1911-12; text by the Russian Mystic-Symbolist poet Konstantin Balmont [1867-1942], a
friend of Scriabin), and even into Petrushka (1911).
89
Among other Russian composers,
this influence can also be found in the very early works of Prokofiev (as in the Piano
Sonata, Op. 1 and the Piano Pieces, Op. 4) and more obviously in the symphonies of the
composer Nikolai Myaskovsky, who is less known in the West. Beyond Russia’s borders,
an association with Scriabin’s compositional style and harmony, and various aspects of
mysticism and synaesthesia, can be found in the creative work of the French composer
Olivier Messiaen. In America, Scriabin’s stylistic influence has been identified in the
works of Charles Griffes, Ruth Crawford, and some early compositions of Aaron
Copland.
90
The issue of Scriabin’s enduring influence, now a major theme in contemporary
musicological research, is a subject dealt with in the following chapters. It is also a topic
87
Leonid Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya o Skriabine [Reminiscences of Scriabin] (Moscow: State Music
Publishers, 1925).
88
“Minimum tvorchestvo ” [“Minimum of creativity”], Scriabin quoted in Sabaneyev, 288.
89
Taruskin, Stravinsky, 795.
90
See Peter Dickinson, “Copland: Early, Late and More Biography,” Musical Times 131, no. 1773
(November 1990): 582-85.
23
discussed in David Haas’s 1998 published dissertation, Leningrad’s Modernists: Studies
in Composition and Musical Thought, 1917-1932.
91
In this study, the author emphasizes,
among other things, the significant role played by the St. Petersburg pianist, composer
and theory professor Vladimir Shcherbachyov (1887-1952) in perpetuating the stylistic
legacy of Scriabin. Shcherbachyov had played the celesta part in the St. Petersburg
premiere of Scriabin’s Prometheus,
92
a work described by Haas as “the quintessential
work of Silver Age syncretism.”
93
Later, Shcherbachyov established a new method of
teaching composition in Leningrad – the “Shcherbachyov School” – which incorporated
ideas of Scriabin and developed these among other into a direction referred to in Russian
as Polistilistika (polystylism). This new style, according to Haas, subsequently influenced
the compositional styles of Mosolov, Popov, Shostakovich
94
, Schnittke, and others.
95
The tradition of including Scriabin in the theory curriculum at the Leningrad
Conservatory continued in the classes of Prof. Mikhail Mikhailov.
96
The Russian-
American musicologist Boris Schwarz (1906-1983) witnessed one such session in 1962
and reported:
Because of my limited stay in Leningrad, I visited only a
few classes in order to have more time for personal interviews.
I remember an hour in Mikhail Mikhailov’s class on Scriabin
as a fascinating experience. Under discussion was Scriabin’s
late period, and the examples played in class demonstrated
91
David Edwin Haas, Leningrad’s Modernists: Studies in Composition and Musical Thought, 1917-1932
(New York: Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., 1998).
92
Alexander Ivashkin, “Letter from Moscow Post October Soviet Art: Canon and Symbol,” Musical
Quarterly 74, no. 2 (1990): 303-17.
93
Haas, 108.
94
Haas examines certain affinities in the thematic structure and lyricism between Scriabin’s Third
Symphony, “The Divine Poem,” and Shostakovich’s First Symphony. See Haas, Chapter. 7: 155-75.
95
Ivashkin, 311.
96
Mikhailov has written a biography of Scriabin (Leningrad: Muzyka, 1966) and a research essay,
“The National Sources in Scriabin’s Early Works,” in Russian Music at the Border of the 20th Century
(Leningrad: Muzyka, 1966).
24
anew how far ahead of his time this master had been.
Mikhailov traced Scriabin’s relationship to Debussy; and
though the older Soviet generation (especially Prokofiev
and Shostakovich) was anti-Scriabin, Mikhailov felt a certain
influence in the second movement of Shostakovish’s First
Symphony. Prokofiev even dedicated one of his early pieces
to Scriabin. A satisfactory analysis of Scriabin’s late period
is still lacking, Mikhailov said, though Yavorsky’s theories
have contributed to his understanding.
97
Schwarz, a violinist and conductor as well as musicologist, made several research trips to
USSR from his post at Queens College, New York. His book Music and Musical Life in
Soviet Russia, 1917-1981, an ASCAP winner, provides much first-hand knowledge of the
evolution of music under the former communist regime. The work includes
contemporaneous attitudes concerning the pre-Revolutionary music of the Silver Age to
which Scriabin belongs. It is also a valuable bibliographic reference source. In the book
there is no noticeably negative influence regarding Scriabin remaining from Schwarz’s
period of studies with Paul Henry Lang at Columbia University. In his 1941 book Music
in Western Civilization, Lang had propagated a very disparaging assessment of Scriabin’s
position in music history. Towards the end of this encyclopedic interdisciplinary study,
Lang examined the state of music in a section titled “The Decline of the West”? His
comments on Scriabin and his music – tantamount to a diagnosis of mental illness – are
the following:
Experiment then became the final aim, as is so tragically demonstrated in
the works of Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915), whose whole art, nay whole
life, was a mere experiment, a supernatural dream, and whose mind,
possessed by demonic forces, penetrated deeper and deeper into the mire
of mystical speculations, hallucinations, and dementia.
98
97
Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917-1981 (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1972; expanded and republished 1983), 388.
98
Paul Henry Lang, Music in Western Civilization (New York: W. W. Norton, 1941), 1025.
25
He continued to dismiss Scriabin’s late orchestral work Prometheus, Op. 60, on whose
harmony all of the composer’s subsequent pieces are based, as an “unruly maze of
tones.”
99
Music-history textbooks in English-speaking countries in the second half of the
twentieth century have tended to treat the case of Scriabin more kindly and in a manner
comparatively more reasonable and less biased than in Lang’s monumental opus. They
have recognized the importance of Scriabin’s historical position. Whatever opinions the
authors hold regarding the significance of Scriabin’s philosophical wanderings, they have
attempted to explain him in the context of the musical evolution of Russia before, during,
and after the Silver Age. But books on Russian music published in the West have avoided
the very confusing world of Russian Symbolism and its effects on Scriabin. Most of these
volumes address the topic peripherally, touching on mysticism, but do not give a clear
explanation of either. Instead, they deal with incontrovertible biographical details and
stylistic comparisons.
In the 1950s, Richard Leonard wrote a survey of Russian music in which he
dedicated a complete chapter – fifteen pages – to the topic of Alexander Scriabin. It
includes the usual characterizations of a composer “so dazzled by his divine
hallucinations that he lost touch with reality,” writing second-rate Chopinesque pieces,
and caught up in a transition between Romanticism and Modernism.
100
However, the
author did credit Scriabin with having provided his country with the first substantial
piano literature by any Russian composer.
101
99
Ibid., 1026.
100
Richard Anthony Leonard, A History of Russian Music (London: Jarrolds, 1956), 211.
101
Ibid., 225.
26
The next book on Russian music to appear in English was by James Bakst.
102
Here, too, the topic of Scriabin received a separate chapter. Its eleven pages contain the
usual biographical information, but this book on the whole smacks of socialist ideology.
Bakst seemed intent on discrediting Scriabin’s personal beliefs and those of the entire
pre-Revolutionary era in which he lived. But on the whole, the composer is ultimately
forgiven, because “Scriabin’s music was a reaction and protest against Russian social
conditions of his time.”
103
In reviewing this book, Boris Schwarz stated, “Professor
Bakst’s concept of Russian music closely parallels the views held by Soviet
musicologists. . . .”
104
Schwarz also found that Bakst’s low appraisal of Scriabin was
unsuitable.
If Tchaikovsky has been overrated, Scriabin is underrated.
It may well be true that ‘Scriabin’s music ignored intonations
which express Russian life and social realities’ and that his
philosophy ‘is an anachronism in Russian culture.’ Far more
important than his obscure philosophy is Scriabin’s purely
musical significance: he broke the stranglehold of narrow
nationalism and prepared Russian music for a concept of
non-tonality, a development that was abruptly terminated
by his early death in 1915. The affinity between Scriabin
and Schoenberg has been brought out by Russian and Polish
musicologists some decades ago but is overlooked in this book.
105
The “obscure philosophy” reference by Schwarz is also quite typical for the period in
which he wrote this review. Russian Symbolism was still a suppressed topic associated
with bourgeois decadence. Anathema to official dogma, its impact on the creativity of
102
James Bakst, A History of Russian-Soviet Music (New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1962, repr.
1966).
103
Ibid., 271.
104
Boris Schwarz, review of A History of Russian-Soviet Music, by James Bakst, JAMS 20, no. 2 (summer,
1967): 304-7.
105
Ibid., 306.
27
Scriabin could not be discussed. In spite of certain objections, Schwarz found Bakst’s
book to be “thought-provoking” and an overall valuable contribution if read “critically.”
Neither Bakst nor Leonard provided musical examples to support their positions.
This was also the case with a third study, Gerald Seaman’s History of Russian Music
106
from the same period. In a 1969 review, Malcolm Brown assessed this work alongside
that of Leonard. Brown wrote that Seaman “almost wholly extracted, by way of direct
paraphrase and verbatim quotation, from the music history textbook prepared under the
editorship of Professor Mikhail Pekelis and used widely during the 1940s in Soviet
Russian conservatories and music schools.”
107
On the other hand, he criticized Leonard,
who “relies essentially on the standard secondary literature in English for his history. . . .
Unfortunately, a number of these old standard studies were outdated at best or at worst
inexact when Leonard turned to them.”
108
Ultimately, Brown dismissed both of these
works as inadequate, stating “neither Gerald Seaman nor Richard Leonard has succeeded
in satisfying the need for a modern, critical, comprehensive history of Russian music in
English.”
109
The next major study of Russian music printed in English did not appear until
2002. Translated from the original Dutch version (1996), Francis Maes’s A History of
Russian Music: from Kamarinskaya to Babi Yar traces the history of the country’s music
from Glinka’s orchestral fantasy (1848) through Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony
(1962). Chapter Nine covers the Silver Age, providing a basic overview of the period
106
Gerald Seaman, History of Russian Music (New York: Praeger, 1967).
107
Malcolm Brown, review of History of Russian Music, by Gerald Seaman, and A History of Russian
Music, by Richard Leonard, Notes 26, no. 1 (Sept., 1969): 24-26.
108
Ibid., 26.
109
Ibid.
28
with no new information. As with the books mentioned above, Maes’s survey,
unfortunately, contains no music examples. His book has received mixed reviews. Gerald
Seaman has chastised Maes for his exclusive use of secondary, non-Russian sources, the
disregard of many Russian sources that exist in English translation, and the heavy
reliance on the writings of his mentor, Richard Taruskin.
110
As an example, Seaman
points out that Maes has neglected to mention Nikolai Findeisen (1868-1928), “the
brilliant progenitor of Russian musicology, whose long-lasting and immensely influential
Russkaya muzykal’naya gazeta (Russian Musical Gazette), regarded by some as one of
the most remarkable musical periodicals ever produced, performed an invaluable task in
publishing critical articles on aesthetics and the development of Russian music.”
111
Indeed, correspondence between Scriabin and Findeisen testifies to the unusually high
esteem in which the composer held the Russian journalist.
112
The Dutch historian Willem
Vijvers also draws attention to the inherent dangers of imbalance in Maes’s presentation
of the material. “By ignoring most of the recent research in other countries and
concentrating on Taruskin’s publications, he presents a biased view.”
113
Graciously,
though, Vijvers concluded that “we should be grateful that a single-volume history of
Russian music is finally available in English. Readers who feel daunted by Taruskin’s
writings should give it a try. However, Maes should have looked further for sources on
Russian music in general.” Maes did, in any case, devote nine pages of his book to
Scriabin, presenting the composer in the broad cultural context of Russia’s Silver Age in
110
Gerald Seaman, review of A History of Russian Music: From Karaminskaya to Babi Yar, by Francis
Maes, Slavic Review 61, no. 4 (winter 2002): 885-86.
111
Ibid., 886.
112
See Pisma [Letters] edited by Kashperov for correspondence, esp. 1907, between Scriabin and
Findeisen.
113
Willem Vijvers, review of A History of Russian Music: From Karaminskaya to Babi Yar, by Francis
Maes, Musical Times 144, no. 1882 (spring 2003): 72-73.
29
which Symbolism played such a decisive role. Briefly, he mentions Solovyov, Bely,
Ivanov, and attempts to clarify the concept theurgy.
In reference to the period of Russian Symbolism and Scriabin, three significant
essays in English were published in the 1970s. Martin Cooper outlined and explained the
impact that the Russian Symbolist poets had on contemporaneous thinking and Scriabin’s
musical creativity.
114
Malcolm Brown wrote an essay in which he focused more
specifically on the synthetic and theurgic aspects of Russian Symbolism in the first
decade of the twentieth century and the interaction between the literary and musical
representatives of the movement.
115
Ralph Matlaw pursued these issues further in his
article “Scriabin and Russian Symbolism,”
116
in which he traced the relevant religious
historical background and demonstrated its effect on Scriabin’s synthetic ritual theater.
He also took account of Scriabin’s texts from notebooks as indications of the creative
developments in the composer’s late period. More recently, Susanna Garcia has
attempted to apply the Symbolist aesthetic in her analysis of the composer’s last sonatas.
In her article “Scriabin’s Symbolist Plot Archetype in the Late Piano Sonatas,” Garcia
defined the composer’s Symbolist vocabulary and demonstrated how this could explain
the narrative line in these last works within a sonata-allegro structure.
117
The
recapitulations represent in sound the symbolic return of the “Eternal Feminine” (the
earthbound secondary themes) to the “Masculine” (divine primary themes). This re-
establishes the original unity following a phase of “dematerialization.” This process is a
114
Martin Cooper, “Aleksandr Skryabin and Russian Renaissance,” Studi Musicali 1, no. 2 (1972): 327-56.
115
Malcolm Brown, “Skriabin and Russian ‘Mystic’ Symbolism,” 19th-Century Music 3 (July, 1979): 42-
51.
116
Ralph E. Matlaw, “Scriabin and Russian Symbolism,” Comparative Literature 31, no. 1 (winter, 1979):
1-23.
117
Susanna Garcia, “Scriabin’s Symbolist Plot Archetype in the Late Piano Sonatas,” 19th-Century Music
23, no.3 (spring, 2000): 273-300.
30
musical synthesis following those same ideas that were especially fundamental to the
second generation of Russian Symbolist writers, poets, and philosophers.
The concept of synthesis of the various art forms central to Russian Symbolism
has also been explored in the recent literature. In his book Russian Opera and the
Symbolist Movement, Simon Morrison has investigated this topic extensively.
118
Chapter
Three, “Scriabin and Theurgy,” is devoted to the philosophical background and
development of the composer’s monumental schemes, Preparatory Act and Mysterium.
119
Morrison has emphasized here the importance of the Germans Kant, Schopenhauer,
Wagner, and Nietzsche as well as the Russians V. Solovyov and V. Ivanov in the
evolution of Scriabin’s ideas. In the introduction to the book, Morrison underscored the
importance of Andrei Bely’s landmark essay “On Theurgy,” which appeared in the
Russian Symbolist journal Novy Put’ [New Path].
120
Morrison has provided a brief
historical account and definition of theurgy tracing its origins back to the philosopher
Iamblichus. He has explained Scriabin’s position as the poet-artist-musician and
demiurge, divinely chosen to facilitate the apocalyptic event. The chapter contains
diagrams, music analyses, and, most valuably, numerous translations from the
composer’s notebooks.
Directly associated with Symbolism is the harmony of Scriabin based on the
composer’s so-called “mystic chord.” There were numerous attempts throughout the
twentieth century to crack Scriabin’s harmonic code. Jay Reise’s essay “Late Skriabin:
118
Simon Morrison, Russian Opera and the Symbolist Movement (Berkeley: University of California Press,
2002).
119
Ibid., 184-241.
120
Ibid., 7-9.
31
Some Principles behind the Style” is exceptional in its manner of presentation.
121
Reise
exposes the weaknesses in the arguments of the theorists Sabaneyev, Dernova, Eberle,
and Perle and examines their theories of overtones, whole-tones, atonality, chromaticism,
serialism, and octatonicism. Reise makes several important points, supporting these with
numerous examples from Scriabin’s work. He states, “Because the symmetrical scales are
derived from the tonal vocabulary, and because Skriabin treats them as diatonic units
colored by the non-diatonic pitches, his approach cannot be accurately described as serial
but rather as chromatically modal.”
122
In the article’s summary, Reise also concludes,
“Skriabin’s basic procedures for pitch organization can be simply and briefly stated: four
of the six tones of the mystic chord form a French sixth, while the other two function as
‘chromatic’ notes depending on whether a given passage is in the octatonic or whole-tone
scale.”
123
The period of Russian Symbolism presented numerous problems for the post-
Revolutionary regime. The three decades of the Silver Age could not simply be erased
from the pages of cultural or political history of Russia. In many ways they provided a
foundation for the period to come. In this area of research, two recent publications
deserve mention. In his book Music of the Repressed Russian Avant-Garde, 1900-1929
Larry Sitsky has compiled a collection of some thirty biographies of Russian musicians
during the given period.
124
He has also provided valuable information on many lesser-
known composers, analyzed and listed their works. The influence of Scriabin is topical
121
Jay Reise, “Late Skriabin: Some Principles behind the Style,” 19th-Century Music 6, no. 3 (spring
1983): 220-31.
122
Ibid., 227.
123
Ibid., 231.
124
Larry Sitsky, Music of the Repressed Russian Avant-Garde, 1900-1929 (Westport: Greenwood Press,
1994).
32
throughout the entire survey. For example, Chapter 3, “Alexei V. Stanchinskiy: The
Diatonic Webern,” compares the similarities of the piano etudes of this composer with
those of Scriabin’s Opus 8. Each chapter contains an abundance of music examples to
support the claims of the author. Conspicuously missing, however, is an extended
discussion of the position of Reinhold Glière (1875-1956), who taught at the Moscow
Conservatory and whose Third Symphony (Ilya Murometz, 1911) betrays the late-
Romantic Scriabinesque harmony found in Poème de l’extase. Importantly, Sitsky has
included an examination of Sergei Protopopov (1893-1954), a composer and conductor
whose style derives from late Scriabin. He has stated that Protopopov’s “contribution to
the piano literature must be seen as a possible extension of Scriabin’s thought.” Sitsky
also emphasizes in regard to the structure of Protopopov’s piano sonatas that the
composer was a fanatic adherent to Boleslav Yavorsky’s theories of “modal rhythm,”
125
popular in the first half of the twentieth century.
In another recent book, Music for the Revolution: Musicians and Power in Early
Soviet Russia, Amy Nelson analyzes the interactions between the various cultural and
political factions and demonstrates the impact on musical life. This work contains
valuable information on the structural hierarchy of internal state organizations such as
Narkompros. Nelson points out an important conflict within official cultural policy:
dissolution of traditional harmony in the works of modernist composers could be viewed
either as a “new point of departure” or “decadence” associated with pre-Revolutionary
125
See Gordon D. McQuere, “The Theories of Boleslav Yavorsky,” Russian Theoretical Thought in Music
(Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983), 109-64.
33
bourgeois society.
126
In this context she discusses the position of the composer,
theoretician and critic Boris Asafyev (1884-1949),
127
his role in promoting modernism,
reforming music education, and diplomatic maneuvering in protecting the lives and
legacies of fellow composers within the structure of a totalitarian system. Other
distinguished historians and critics discussed in the pages of the book include Leonid
Sabaneyev (1881-1968), Vladimir Derzhanovski (1881-1942), Viktor Belyayev (1888-
1968), Mikhail Ivanov-Boretsky (1874-1936), and Konstantin Alekseyevich Kuznetsov
(1883-1953).
128
Of these scholars, only Sabaneyev immigrated to the West.
Among the Russian musicologists who immigrated to the United States, two
prominent names deserve mention: Nicolas Slonimsky (1894-1995) and Andrei
Olkhovsky (1900-?). In a collection of Slonimsky’s writings published in 2004, an article
on Scriabin from 1969 was included.
129
It contains some interesting personal anecdotes –
Slonimsky had been a board member of the Kiev Scriabin Society and friend of the
composer’s family before his departure in 1923. Unfortunately, his retrospective outside
view of the Scriabin situation under the Soviet regime does not give a completely
accurate account. He viewed Scriabin as an isolated phenomenon with little influence.
Andrei Olkhovsky, a dissident musicologist who left the Soviet Union in 1942, lived and
worked in the United States from 1949, gave perhaps a more accurate assessment of the
126
Amy Nelson, Music for the Revolution: Musicians and Power in Early Soviet Russia (University Park:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), 54.
127
Three important books of Boris Asafyev are available in English translation: Russian Music from the
Beginning of the Nineteenth Century, trans., Alfred Swan (Ann Arbor: Edwards Brothers, Inc., 1953);
A Book About Stravinsky, trans. Richard F. French (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982); Musical Form
as Process, trans. and com. James Robert Tull (Ann Arbor: UMI, 1985).
128
Least known in the West, Konstantin Alekseyevich Kuznetsov is the author of a book of musical
portraits of Russian composers, a history of Russian music, and a monograph on the life of Glinka.
129
Slonimsky, “Alexander Scriabin,” in Writings, 48-56; orig. pub. in Boston Symphony Orchestra
program book, 1969. In this essay the author stated that he accompanied the rescue team that retrieved the
body of Scriabin’s son Julian who drowned in the Dnepr River in 1918.
34
appreciation of Scriabin after the Revolution. In his book Music Under the Soviets: The
Agony of an Art (1955) he stated, “In the process of developing modernism in music
Scriabin played a major role, not merely in Russian music.”
130
In this context Olkhovsky
also emphasized Scriabin’s philosophical leanings as significant in overcoming past
musical traditions.
131
Mention should be made here also of Olkhovsky’s son Yuri,
professor emeritus at Georgetown University;
132
his book on the controversial art-music
critic Vladimir Stasov (1824-1906) reassesses the latter’s position and influence in the
history of Russian music. Music authorities in the Soviet Union had presented Stasov
continually as an unwavering proponent of Realism –Socialist, of course – publishing
only selectively his writings. This attitude had been more or less adopted by
musicologists in the West. Yuri Olkhovsky corrected this by offering a more balanced
view of Stasov.
The relaxation of strict ideological guidelines during the period of Glasnost under
Gorbachev and the final collapse of the USSR led musicologists in Russia to become
increasingly more interested in Scriabin’s relationship with the country’s Symbolist
writers of the Silver Age. The eminent Soviet musicologist Olga Mikhailovna
Tompakova, who up until this period had one major credit to her name – the monograph
on the Stalinist composer Ivan Dzerzhinsky (1909-1978)
133
– has written a chronicle of
the life of Scriabin (1985). It contains less of the state ideology that characterized the
standard Scriabin biography of Lev Danilyevich (1953), or even in the later one of Igor
130
Andrey Olkhovsky, Music under the Soviets: The Agony of an Art (New York: Praeger, 1955), 25.
131
Ibid., 26.
132
Yuri Olkhovsky, Vladimir Stasov and Russian National Culture (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press,
1983).
133
Dzerzhinsky’s opera TikhiyDon [The Quiet Don] (1935) had received the official approval of Stalin.
See Anna Ferenc, “Music in the Socialist State” in Neil Edmunds, ed., Soviet Music and Society under
Lenin and Stalin: The Baton and Sickle (New York: Routledge, 2004), 8-18.
35
Belza (1982). Tompakova, in contrast, has included information on Symbolism and,
indeed, has recently (1995) published a series of small brochures on the subject (among
her many for visitors to the Scriabin Museum, Moscow). Each booklet is separately
devoted to one of Scriabin’s Symbolist friends – Balmont, Baltrushaitis, and Ivanov –
and discusses his relationship to the composer.
Beyond the research of Symbolism, but not unrelated, is the interaction between
light and sound. The phenomenon synaesthesia with which several Russian artists and
composers were purportedly endowed (Rimsky-Korsakov, Scriabin, Kandinsky), has
been an area of active research at the Prometheus Institute of the University of Kazan in
the Russian Federation. An official website is maintained and supported by a grant from
the Russian Foundation for Humanitarian Research at http://prometheus.kai.ru. Many of
the articles and research reports – notably those of Bulat Galeyev and Irina Vanetschkina
– are available at the website. Some of these have appeared also in the English-language
art periodical Leonardo and contain information relevant to the latest research on
Scriabin.
36
Chapter 2
Historical Context
Realism versus Romanticism.
The several decades of the nineteenth century preceding the extraordinary
appearance of Alexander Scriabin were characterized by a forceful movement in Russian
literary and intellectual circles away from the legacy of eighteenth-century Classicism
through a relatively brief period of a quasi-imitative-import Romanticism into the starkly
controversial and highly consequential era of Russian Realism. Indeed, the last-
mentioned term often became nothing less than a euphemism for the revolutionary
movement that was to impact the country for the next 150 years. In spite of certain
reactionary trends against Realism as found, for example, in the Russian version of
Symbolism of the late nineteenth/early twentieth century, the former never truly lost
momentum, but instead found expression in various styles of Modernism and Futurism.
Thus, nineteenth-century Russia witnessed and experienced an interaction of those
constituent elements characteristic of Romanticism, Realism, and Modernism that then
later merged together. This confluence and subsequent amalgamation of seemingly
opposing aesthetics manifested themselves and found an outlet of artistic expression in
the composer-philosopher Alexander Scriabin. The creative and philosophical
ambiguities so often cited in discourse about his work and personality represent the result
of this phenomenon and have since lent themselves well towards manifold critical
interpretations. In spite of these various and often conflicting opinions held by critics
37
regarding the inherent depth and value of the composer’s works, none of these critics
have denied the immense impact of Scriabin on Russian music.
To perceive and evaluate more clearly the diversity of critical positions taken by
Russian scholars in the early twentieth century, it is necessary to develop a cogent
retrospective understanding of the evolution of literary, social, and musical criticism in
nineteenth-century Russia. From the ages of the so-called “cultural despots” Peter the
Great (1672-1725) and Catherine the Great (1729-1796), musical activity in Russia had
been determined largely by Western European schools – mainly German and Italian,
which literally set the tone in the capital of St. Petersburg. This influence also continued
throughout the nineteenth century, but no longer unchecked and without opposition. In
this respect, a watershed date in the history of modern Russian cultural criticism was the
year 1812.
During 1812, the Russians managed to repel the Napoleonic forces from their
country and to secure the immediate future of their Tsarist Empire. Aside from the
geopolitical consequences, the war had set in motion a national trend towards self-
awareness, pride, and identity. Russians began to confront their own self-image in its all-
encompassing reality. Here, too, is to be found the root of conflict with Romanticism,
which will be discussed below. If Russians were not willing to let themselves be
conquered, divided, and occupied politically, why should they allow this to occur
culturally? New guidelines needed to be established for the purpose of self-preservation.
A distinction needed to be established between that which was innately Russian and that
which was of European import or adulterated by such. This gradually led to the mid-
century conflict between Slavophiles and Westernizers (Russian: Zapadniki).
38
In spite of the French military campaign into Russia and subsequent debacle, the
ideas of the Enlightenment and various concepts of social reforms and liberty continued
to develop under the relatively liberal Tsar Alexander I (1777-1825), who through his
defeat of Napoleon came to be known as the “Savior of Europe.” During the latter part of
his reign, from approximately 1816 until his death in 1825, the movement later to become
known as “Decemberism” – the month of a failed coup-d’état – attempted to bring a
legislative form of government to Russia. The “Decembrists,” headed by Nikita
Muraviev in the north (St. Petersburg) and Pavel Pestel in the south (Kiev), were
members of the educated aristocracy, who formed into secret societies similar to those of
the Freemasons. They may have in detail disagreed with one another, but their ultimate
goal was the abolition of the autocratic form of government and serfdom, a system of
bondage not unlike that in the southern states of the United States before the Civil War.
Taking advantage of disturbances brought about by the interregnum separating the reigns
of Alexander I and Nicholas I, the rebels attempted a coup d’état, but alas failed and were
swiftly dealt with by the following regime. Thus, there began a period of repression that
proved instructive for Stalinist forces one hundred years later.
Under Nicholas I (1796-1855), the techniques of repression, and in particular
those employed by the notorious secret police, the so-called “Third Department,” had the
original goal of stabilizing the traditional powers of the Tsarist regime at a time when the
European countries in the West were expanding the boundaries of freedom and
establishing legislative forms of government.
1
These measures produced enormous
pressure, which sought and found a release in artistic-literary creativity. Consequently,
1
P. S. Squire, The Third Department: The Establishment and Practices of the Political Police in the Russia
of Nicholas I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 48.
39
the earlier Romantic portrayal of courtly life was soon contrasted with the truly desolate
conditions found in Russian society. The writer Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841), twice
arrested, convicted, and banished, alludes to the atmosphere of state surveillance in
verses composed during his exile:
Farewell, unwashed Russia
Land of slaves, land of masters,
Both you, sky-blue uniforms,
And thou, nation subservient to them
Perhaps, beyond the Caucasian hills
I shall conceal myself from thy tsars,
From their all-seeing eye,
From their all-hearing ears.
2
It was also in Lermontov’s most celebrated novel, A Hero of Our Time (1840), that we
experience how deeply Realism had penetrated and textured the works of Russian
Romanticism. T. J. Binyon describes the novel as a “romantic tale in a realistic frame.”
3
In the “Author’s Introduction,” Lermontov states:
A Hero of Our Time, gentlemen, is indeed a portrait,
but not of a simple individual; it is a portrait composed of
all the vices of our generation in the fullness of their development.
You will tell me again that a man cannot be as bad as all that;
and I shall tell you that since you have believed in the possibility
of so many tragic and romantic villains having existed, why can
you not believe in the reality of Pechorin? If you have admired
fictions far more frightful and hideous, why does this character,
even as fiction, find no quarter with you? Is it not, perchance,
because there is more truth in this character than you would
desire there to be?
You will say that morality gains nothing from this. I beg
your pardon. People have been fed enough sweetmeats;
it has given them indigestion: they need some bitter medicine,
some caustic truths. However, do not think after this that the
author of this book ever had the proud dream of becoming
a reformer of mankind’s vices. The Lord preserve him from
2
Quoted in Squire, 235.
3
T. J. Binyon, “Introduction” to Lemontov’s A Hero of Our Time (New York: Knopf, 1992), 7.
40
such benightedness! He merely found it amusing to draw
modern man such as he understood him, such as he met him
– too often, unfortunately, for him and you. Suffice it that the
disease has been pointed out; goodness knows how to cure it.
4
Realism in its artistic-literary expression has been placed incorrectly later in the
century by numerous scholars. However, it actually appears to have developed almost
simultaneously as part of a Russian Romantic-Realist hybrid. In his History of Russian-
Soviet Music, James Bakst writes in his chapter on musical trends 1860-1900, “Literature
describing Russian life and social conditions began to appear. In 1880, Dostoevsky
completed The Brothers Karamazov.”
5
In truth, Feodor Dostoevsky (1821-81) had
already shown the horrible face of human suffering in Russia at a much earlier date in his
writings – at the latest during his period of internment from 1850 to 1854 at the notorious
Omsk Prison in Siberia.
6
In accordance with the repressive measures under Tsar Nicholas
I, the writer had been arrested on April 22, 1849 for having attended and observed
meetings of the radical socialist group known as the Petrashevsky Circle.
7
A few years
earlier, in 1846, his first novel Poor Folk appeared, which was praised for its “social text”
by the “Father of Russian Realism” Vissarion Belinsky (1811-48).
8
Between 1836 and
1842, Nikolai Gogol (1809-52), comic writer of the grotesque and model for the later
Austrian writer Franz Kafka, composed Part One of what is now considered to be one of
4
Lermontov, “Author’s Introduction,” A Hero of Our Time (New York: Knopf, 1992), 15-16.
5
James Bakst, A History of Russian-Soviet Music (New York: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1962), 99.
6
W. Bruce Lincoln, Between Heaven and Hell (New York: Penguin, 1998), 159.
7
Liza Knapp, ed. and transl., Dostoevsky as Reformer: The Petrashevsky Case (Ann Arbor: Ardis, 1987).
8
Robert Belknap, “Dostoevsky,” in Victor Terras, ed., Handbook of Russian Literature (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1985), 103.
41
the great prose novels of Russian Romanticism, Dead Souls. Belinsky interpreted this
work, however, as “a realistic indictment of contemporary Russia.”
9
The transitional period from Romantic Idealism into Realism is referred to as the
Natural School. In his article on this topic and in reference to Dead Souls, John
Schillinger writes, “Though Gogol’s characters were more grotesque than realistic,
Belinsky used them to make the point that Russian reality was indeed grim.”
10
Both
Gogol and Dostoevsky may be considered exponents of the phenomenon of Russian
Romantic Realism characterized by “a pursuit of the metaphysical and the fantastic, the
frequent use of symbols, a tendency to seek out the extremes of the human condition, and
vestiges of stylization along the lines of traditional genres.”
11
Here is anticipated the clear
parallel found later towards the end of the nineteenth century in the creative musical work
of Alexander Scriabin, which will be analyzed below in the varying positions of the
critics commenting on his works.
Taking a retrospective view even further back, one can consider the title figure in
one of the great Russian literary works, Eugene Onegin (1833) by the national poet
Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837). Onegin, although a fictional character, is the realistic
representation of an individual in the contemporaneous Russian aristocratic society. In
this verse novel, Pushkin juxtaposes the polarities of Romanticism and Realism –
phenomena that led to the serious conflicts in the author’s own life. In 1836, the year
before his fatal death in a duel similar to Onegin’s, Pushkin founded the literary journal
Sovremennik (The Contemporary). At first leaning towards Romanticism, it subsequently
9
Abbott Gleason, European and Muscovite: Ivan Kireevsky and the Origins of Slavophilism (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1972), 191.
10
John Schillinger, “Natural School,” in Terras, 294.
11
Terras, 376.
42
became one of the most important press organs for the radical Realist writers and was
finally closed down thirty years later in 1866, since it was seen as representing a threat to
the government of the “Reform Tsar” Alexander II.
12
The leaders of the Realist
movement sought revolutionary social reform, which stood in conflict with the gradual
transitional reforms being implemented by the imperial government. The abolition of
serfdom had recently (1861) precipitated a major change in the structure of Russian
society and the long-term developments could not yet be predicted. Nearly all of the great
thinkers in Russia had been opposed to this state-sanctioned form of slavery.
Following in the footsteps of the Westernizer Belinsky and his concepts of
Realism was the so-called trio of “civic” writers: Nikolai Dobrolyubov (1836-61),
Nikolai Chernyshevsky (1828-89), and Dmitry Pisarev (1840-68). In its extreme form
known as Nihilism, Realism emphasizes scientific rationalism and the complete
emancipation of the individual. Of course, the views promulgated here stood in direct
conflict with the traditional social values of contemporaneous Russia and were
vehemently opposed by the Slavophiles, whose trust in faith and confidence in the
teachings of Eastern Orthodoxy as the purist form of Christianity were viewed as the
salvation not only of their homeland and culture, but of the entire world. Both
Westernizers and Slavophiles sought a formal construct to bring about a social utopia.
Although they held this ideal in common, their paths leading to it were fundamentally
different.
The three leading figures of the mid-nineteenth-century Slavophile movement
were Alexei Khomyakov (1804-60), Ivan Kireevsky (1806-56), and Konstantin Aksakov
12
Sigmund Birkenmayer, “Sovremennik,” in Terras, 445.
43
(1817-60). These thinkers furthered the concepts of organic collectivism (sobornost),
communality (obshchinnost), and faith (vyera), which were based on the communion of
love as laid down in Eastern Orthodoxy. They glorified the Russian peasantry (narod) as
defenders of these traditions and sought a return to the conditions of pre-Petrine times,
i.e., before the country had fallen under the influence of Western Europe and especially
the trends of German philosophical thought. In particular, the idea of sobornost as
developed by Khomyakov deserves special mention. It found its way later into the
metaphysical theories of the mystic Vladimir Solovyov (1853-1900), which were to
influence the Russian Symbolists. In turn, the Symbolists were to have an enormous
impact on the life and creative thinking of Scriabin. In contradistinction to individualism
as promoted by the Realists, the Slavophile doctrine of sobornost offered a path towards
universality through which fraternal communion would culminate in the apotheosis of
mankind. In his book The Religious Philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov, Jonathan Sutton
writes:
At the far end of the spectrum from isolation and individuation
stands sobornost. Sobornost is a central theme underlying the
thought of Dostoevsky and Solovyov. It is an ideal standard of
unanimity and community by which to measure all human
relations. Dostoevsky and Solovyov both believed that, if followed
in the true spirit, the Gospel teachings allow us to draw sufficiently
close to that ideal standard to experience a deeply transformative
reorientation of our human, initially self-assertive will.
13
Neither Dostoevsky nor Solovyov may be considered staunch followers of the Slavophile
movement. Indeed, Dostoevsky promoted a reconciliation between the two factions of
Westernism and Slavophilism in the so-called “Pochva” Movement – a return to the
13
Jonathan Sutton, The Religious Philosophy of VladimirSolovyov: Towards a Reassessment (London:
MacMillan Press, 1988), 190.
44
“Soil.”
14
For his part, Solovyov found truth in the writings of the Realist Chernyshevsky
and viewed art as having an objective function. Developing this further, however, in the
spiritual and metaphysical realm, Solovyov maintained that the true artist endowed with
creative ability possessed transformative powers. This phenomenon, known as theurgy,
found its way into the mind of Scriabin and became an outlet in his creativity. This is the
subject of a recent book by Marina Lobanova
15
and will be discussed further in the
context of Symbolist writers. The philosophical teachings of Vladimir Solovyov derived
from the progressive-revolutionary positions of the Realist-Westernizers as well as the
idealist-reactionary positions of the Romantic-Slavophiles. The fronts were not clearly
demarcated, but were characterized by contradiction, ambiguity, and – to some degree –
personal rivalry. It was in this atmosphere of contention that Russian music criticism
evolved during the nineteenth century. Just as the basis of much inquiry and discourse in
politics, art, and literature had been “How Russian is Russia?” and “How Russian should
Russia be?” in order to preserve its national identity and traits (narodnichestvo), so, too,
the conflict of Russianism and Westernism in music became topical in the intellectual
communities. Whether Russia was to re-isolate itself and pursue an indigenous musical
culture free from foreign influence, or succumb entirely to the external pressure
emanating from Europe – which for the most part meant Germany – led to intense
debates. Indeed, this situation ultimately determined the diverging aesthetic directions of
musical development in Russia.
14
Andrzej Walicki, The Slavophile controversy: History of a Conservative Utopia in Nineteenth-Century
Russian Thought, trans. Hilda Andrews-Rusiecka (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), 531.
15
Marina Lobanova, Mystiker,Magier, Theosoph, Theurg: Alexander Skrjabin und seine Zeit (Hamburg:
Bockel Verlag, 2004).
45
Slavophiles and Westernizers.
The 1860s experienced an intense polemical battle of aesthetics between two
opposing groups. On the one side were the reactionary-conservatives; on the other were
the progressives. The first group was made up of European-educated artists – for the most
part under German influence – who sought to establish a conservatory system for the
training of future Russian musicians and composers. At the head of this group was the
pianist Anton Rubinstein, who enjoyed the support of the Russian nobility and
aristocracy, and in particular that of the aristocratic art patroness the Grand Duchess
Elena Pavlovna, a German by birth.
16
Under Rubinstein’s leadership, the Russian
Musical Society (RMS) was created in 1859 and granted a charter for a college of music.
In September, 1862, the doors opened to Russia’s first conservatory of music.
17
In fear
that this foreign-modeled, German-style institution could potentially undermine the
inchoate national character and direction of a “New Russian School of Music,” the
pianist-composer Mily Balakirev (1837-1910) and renowned choral director Gavril
Lomakin (1812-1885) founded the so-called Free Music School (FMS) during the same
year to compete with the aesthetic ideals of the former.
18
Officially, it was opened as a
free school of singing, but the concept behind it was to promote and secure the aesthetic
ideals of the nationally oriented group of individuals who adhered to the doctrine of
musical Slavophilism and emphasized artistic Realism.
19
It is ironic that the Russian
“Father of Realism,” Vissarion Belinsky, was actually a Westernizer opposed to the
16
Robert Ridenour, Nationalism, Modernism, and Personal Rivalry in 19th-Century Russian Music (Ann
Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1981), 151.
17
Ibid., 38.
18
Ibid., 33.
19
Ibid., 127.
46
Romantic notions of the literary Slavophiles. His involvement shows the ambiguities in
the aesthetics and unclear dividing lines which separated the two musical camps.
In the years prior to the founding of the RMS Conservatory, Anton Rubinstein
had been actively campaigning towards achieving the goal of a music school in St.
Petersburg. In the international press he uttered disparaging views on the state of music in
Russia. He regarded any endeavor to establish a so-called “national school of music” as a
quest doomed to failure. In an article published in Vienna in 1855, Rubinstein speaks of
the “unfortunate attempts” of Mikhail Glinka, “the father of Russian music,” to compose
national opera – A Life for the Tsar and Ruslan and Ludmilla. In opera, he writes, “every
element of feeling, such as passion of love, jealousy, revenge, cheer, sadness, etc. are
[sic] common to all peoples of the earth, and therefore a musical setting of these universal
feelings must carry in it not a national sound, but a world sound.”
20
In addition,
Rubinstein wrote that these two works “suffered from a sick state of monotony.”
21
Incensed at the brutal criticism, Glinka countered with a barrage of anti-semitic verbal
attacks against Rubinstein, referring to him as that “impudent yid.”
22
Unaffected,
Rubinstein continued his campaign to argue for a professional school of music in which
future artists would receive a structured education following a pre-determined
curriculum. As the establishment of such seemed imminent, he wrote yet another article
on the subject, “Music in Russia,”
23
in which he stated that presently “only amateurs are
engaged in music in Russia.” This, of course, harvested the displeasure of the national
20
Anton Rubinstein, “Die Componisten Rußland’s,” Blätter für Musik, Theater und Kunst 33 (May 1855).
“Denn jedes der Oper innewohnende Gefühlselement, wie die Leidenschaft der Liebe, Eifersucht,
Rachsucht, Heiterkeit, Trübsinn usw., sind allen Völkern der Erde eigen, daher die Inmusiksetzung dieser
universellen Gefühle nicht einen Volkston, sondern einen Weltton an sich tragen müssen.”
21
Ibid.
22
“ дерск о го жида,” quoted in Boris Asafyev, Anton Rubinshtein (Moscow: State Publishers, 1929): 61.
23
A. Rubinstein, “Music in Russia,” Vek 1 (1861), repr. in Asafyev, Rubinshtein, 87-92.
47
school, among its members the official aesthetic advisor and propaganda critic Vladimir
Stasov (1824-1906). The latter maintained that true artists needed no conservatory
training. In response to Rubinstein’s exposé, Stasov wrote a sobering counter-argument
including the following statements:
The establishment of conservatories and progress in art are
by no means synonymous. Even if not one, but many
conservatories were to be set up here, there is no certainty
that this would really benefit art. On the contrary, such
a step might even prove harmful. . . . Nowadays the prevailing
opinion in Europe is that academies and conservatories serve
only as a breeding ground for mediocrities and help to perpetuate
deleterious artistic ideas and tastes. Because of this, in the
matter of art education, the best minds are seeking ways of
getting along without ‘higher’ educational institutions. . . .
The conservatories in Italy and France did not raise the musical
level of those countries; they did not further musical education
or even produce the valuable school of teachers they were
expected to. In Germany the golden age of music preceded the
establishment of the conservatories; all of her greatest talents
were educated outside of them. . . . The time has come to stop
transplanting foreign institutions to our country and to give
some thought to what would really be beneficial and suitable
to our soil and our national character.
24
Nearly everything associated with Anton Rubinstein was anathema to the Slavophiles of
the Balakirev Circle, the majority of whom felt threatened by his power and influence.
Stasov, who was an important spokesperson for the group and wrote cleverly in a
deceivingly balanced but biased manner, was highly critical of Rubinstein.
Notwithstanding the greatness of Rubinstein the pianist, Stasov went so far as to assess
24
From an article originally published in 1861 in the periodical Severnaya Pchela [The Northern Bee],
Stasov quotes himself in his essay “Twenty-five Years of Russian Art: Our Music,” Vestnik Evropï
[European Bulletin] (October 1883), English trans. by Florence Jonas in Gerald Abraham, ed., Vladimir
Vasilevich Stasov: Selected Essays on Music (New York: Praeger, 1968): 66-116. This essay is well known
among scholars and often referred to simply as “Nåsha Muzyka” [Our Music].
48
most of his musical compositions and those of his student and disciple Peter Tchaikovsky
as mediocre:
Rubinstein had no talent whatsoever for writing in the Russian
national style. . . . Tchaikovsky is an incomparably more gifted
composer than Rubinstein, but, as in the case of his teacher,
the Conservatory, academic training, eclecticism and
overworking of musical materials laid its dread, destructive
hand on him. Of his total output, a few works are first-rate
and highly original; the remainder are mediocre or weak.
25
Soon after the founding of the RMS Conservatory in St. Petersburg, yet another
conservatory was established in Moscow in 1866 by Rubinstein’s brother, Nikolai. Here
is where Alexander Scriabin was later to receive his “higher” education and become part
of the faculty. Soon disillusioned, however, with this position, which he had for the most
part occupied for an income, Scriabin resigned after a brief tenure as professor of piano
from 1898 to 1902. What Vladimir Stasov may have thought about Scriabin’s early work
as a composer is not documented. Through letters of the composer, though, it is known
that the two men were on friendly terms through the connection of Scriabin’s maecenas,
Mitrofan Belyayev (1836-1904). In March of 1906, seven months before his death,
Stasov wrote a very flattering letter to Scriabin congratulating him on the success of the
Russian premiere (February 23 [March 8], 1906) of his Symphony No. 3, The Divine
Poem, in St. Petersburg:
With this Symphony you have come a long way!
You are already a great musician. In the very genre, setting,
shape, form, and content with which the symphony
has been constructed, no one among us has ever achieved this!
Of course, there are smacks of Richard Wagner here and there,
but there is an enormous amount of Scriabin himself.
What tasks! What a scheme! What strength and what a build-up!
How much passion and poetry in the 2nd movement (Voluptés)!
25
Ibid., 112.
49
And the orchestra — how marvelous, mighty and full of
strength, at times tender and charming, then once again radiant!
Yes, you have here among the Russians already a lot of
supporters and admirers.
26
In his essay “Our Music,” Stasov identifies four features as characteristic of the New
Russian School: “open-mindedness – the absence of preconceptions and blind faith;
constant search for national character; the oriental element distinguishes the new Russian
school; and a strong predilection for ‘programmatic music.’ ”
27
Stasov was especially
skeptical about academicism. He viewed as necessary the acceptance and cultivation of
the folksong element of the Russian musical heritage as well as the confrontation with
historical and contemporaneous Realism – material and spiritual. He maintained that all
Russian composers who had an understanding of their Eastern heritage incorporated this
aspect into their work. Above all, identifying many of the great works of European
composers as also being programmatic – some of Beethoven, Weber, Mendelssohn, Liszt
and Wagner – Stasov declares that “virtually all Russian symphonic music is
programmatic.” If one bears all this in mind, Stasov obviously saw in Scriabin’s Divine
Poem (1904) a programmatic symphony and a national work that incorporated all the
ideas of the New Russian School. It combined spiritual Realism with oriental mysticism
and presented these in a non-traditional form. The Symphony is in three tautly
interconnected movements labeled in French as follows: 1. “Luttes” (Struggles), 2.
26
С етой симфонию Вы силъно вы росли! Вы уже совсе м бо льшо й музыкант стали. В таком род е,
складе, виде, форме и со дер ж ании, как с о здана эта си мфо ния, у нас ещё никто не писал! Ко нечно,
тут ещё не ма ло Ри харда Вагнер а, но то же тут есть уже мног о, громадно много и самого Александра
Скр я абина. Какие задачи! Како й план! Какая сила и какой склад! Ско л ъко ст ра сти и по эзии во II- й
части (Voluptés)! Но и ор кестр – как о й чу десный, мо гучий, сильный, ино гда нежный и оба я телн ый,
ино гда блестящий! Да, у Вас теперь ес ть, среди Русски х, уже мног о стор о нников и почитателей.
Excerpt from a letter written by Vladimir Stasov to Scriabin, dated February 28 (March 13), 1906, reprinted
in A. Kasperov, ed., A. Scriabin: Pisma [Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965): 415-16.
27
Stasov, “Our Music,” 67-75.
50
“Voluptés” (Delights), and 3. “Jeu Divin” (Divine Play). In the programmatic
construction, these movements portray the stepwise ascent of an individual hero into the
spiritual realm of reality and ultimately the transformation into oneness with the
universe.
28
The story reveals the composer’s preoccupation with the stages leading
towards a state of deification found in Eastern thought as disseminated in the mystic
writings of the Ukrainian theosophist Helena Blavatsky (The Secret Doctrine, 1888), the
German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (Also sprach Zarathustra, 1883-89), and the
Russian theologian-philosopher Vladimir Solovyov (Godmanhood, 1877-84). To some
analysts, this may seem to be a retrograde form of Romantic Idealism and stand in
opposition to the Realist doctrines of the musical Slavophile movement, but the concepts
of spiritual unity and the amelioration of mankind were open to manifold interpretations.
For example, the freedom of the individual to assume control in order to improve himself
as well as the surrounding environment and society belongs to the anthropocentric
theories of Realism expounded by the Zapadnik (Westernizer) Belinsky who, as stated
above, exercised a major influence on Stasov. This form of enlightenment, however,
contradicts that form which allows for the human being to be guided by a higher force
through the various stages of spiritual sublimation while at the same time relinquishing
the self-assertiveness of the natural ego. The phenomenon of this conflict as observed in
the Russian context is rooted in the control over and the suppression of the individual’s
28
As with many musical scores of Scriabin, this one is abundantly interspersed with programmatic
indications and directions in French for the performer’s awareness and proper interpretation of the work.
Scriabin did not write out an exact storyline to his symphony. His female companion Tatiana de Schloezer,
however, prepared a brief narrative for the audience to follow at the world premiere in Paris on May 29,
1905. See “Letter to Margarita Morozova, May 24 [June 6], 1905” in Alexander Kashperov, ed.,
A. Skriabin. Pisma [A. Scriabin. Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965), 371-72; see also: Maya
Pritzker, liner notes to Scriabin, Alexander. Symphony No. 3. USSR Symphony Orchestra, cond. Evgeni
Svetlanov. Digital disc. Russian Disc, 11 0058, 1992.
51
mind in service to the Eastern Orthodox Church as well as to the autocratic form of
government, Tsarism, and its support system – the Russian institution of slavery known
as serfdom. Together, the church and state formed a symbiosis of strange bedfellows in
the vying for control and sustaining of their respective existences.
29
The friction that
arose between the church and state on one side and society on the other – not unlike that
in medieval Europe – acted catalytically to produce conditions that helped contribute to
the formation of Realism in literature and the arts.
Therefore, one aspect of Realism was the rejection of authority. In musical terms,
this corresponded to the concept of open-mindedness and rejection of academicism as a
tenet of the New Russian School. In their aesthetic directions, Stasov and the musical
Slavophiles respected the past, but they saw themselves no longer bound to follow any
archaic rules belonging to it. Concerning Scriabin, Stasov had recognized both the
independence of mind and the future-oriented compositional style of the iconoclast
composer; these supported his theories and earned his approval and praise. And yet, the
transcendental nature of the program specified in a composition such as the Divine Poem
would indicate a reliance on some omnipotent guiding force. At the same time, there
exists the main theme of self-assertiveness, which reappears as a symbolic Leitmotiv
throughout the work, indicating the aspiring powers of the individual to attain a sublime
state of being, a reintegration into spiritual wholeness. In this sense, Scriabin’s symphony
is a musical representation of the general conflict that existed in Russian culture in the
second half of the nineteenth century. On one side, there was the ideology of Realism as
29
Marc Szeftel, “Church and State in Imperial Russia,” in Robert L. Nichols, and Theofanis George
Stavrou, eds., Russian Orthodoxy under the Old Regime (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
1978): 127-41.
52
it was understood in musical Slavophilism with its bent towards Western-advocated
individualism propagated by the revolutionary Russian Intelligentsia.
30
On the other side
of the spectrum stood the Romantic Idealism of literary Slavophilism which advocated
the submission to higher authority. The foundations of this Romantic Idealism lay in the
blind faith of Eastern Orthodoxy with its concept of sublime spiritual community
(obshchinnost) and conciliarity (sobornost) based on transcendental thought.
Ironically, the initial adherents of Russian Idealism were part of a secret Moscow
coterie known as the “The Society of Wisdom Lovers” (Obshchestvo Lyubomudria,
1823-25). The group was strongly influenced by the German transcendental philosopher
Friedrich Schelling (1775-1854); this mystic-idealist thinker had maintained that
“consciousness itself was the only immediate object of knowledge.”
31
Stasov in his
enthusiastic, often exaggerated, yet sober analyses involving music criticism would have
rejected such ideas so apparently irrational and unrealistic in their approach. Avoiding
this facet of Scriabin’s creative world, Stasov left behind no commentary on the
programmatic indications written into the score of The Divine Poem such as ivresse
débordante (overflowing intoxication), Divin lumineux (divinely radiant), and joie
sublime extatique (sublime ecstatic joy). Nevertheless, a case can be made for the
30
In his essay “The Russian Émigré-Journal Versty,” Willem G. Weststeijn states, “The term intelligentsia
does not coincide with that of the ‘intellectuals’ but has to be seen in a much broader scope. The great mass
of teachers, telegraphists, doctors and even professors does not belong to it. The same holds true for law-
abiding officials and conservatives. The Russian intelligentsia is characterized, according to E. Bogdanov,
by two important features. Those belonging to this group have a certain ideal, which is based on a
theoretical world view. This theoretical world view – and this is the second characteristic of the Russian
intelligentsia – is, it is true, rationalistic, but at the same time ‘groundless’ (bezpo čvennyj), that is to say, it
is not connected with daily life, with national culture and national religion, with the state, class and all
organically grown social institutions. The mainstream of the Russian intelligentsia flows from Belinskij to
the narodniki and from the narodniki to the later revolutionaries.” Appears in Sophie Levie, ed., Reviews,
Zeitschriften, Revues, Avant Garde, Critical Studies 9 (1994): 182.
31
Anthony Flew, ed., “Schelling, Friedrich,” in A Dictionary of Philosophy (New York: Gramercy Books,
1999; reprint, New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984): 314-15.
53
realistic portrayal of human emotion that found a musical outlet of expression in the
Symphony. Also, the struggles (Luttes) of the individual in the material world and the
overcoming of adversity must have found sympathy with Stasov. For him, this would
have corresponded to the real world of Russian people (the narod) outside of the concert-
hall who were fighting daily for their survival in an oppressive social-political
environment. For the Realists, in contrast to the Idealists, music was to reflect truth – the
concrete, the objective, the verifiable facts in the world surrounding them. They rejected
the idea that music was formed solely out of the imagination as something singularly
absolute. In this, they vehemently opposed the views expressed by the Czech-Austrian
music critic and scholar Eduard Hanslick (1825-1904) in his comprehensive treatise On
the Beautiful in Music, which emphatically explained that music was absolute in itself
without extraneous relations.
32
The musical realists of the Balakirev Circle and, in
particular their spokesperson Stasov, cited instead the importance of vocal music that
reflected in the closest manner possible the true essence and meaning conveyed in the
text of poetry. In this respect, Stasov declared that Alexander Dargomizhsky (1813-69)
was the “Father of Musical Realism”
33
for his ingenious ability to write declamatory
recitative that followed so closely the lines of text being set to music. Referring to
Dargomizhsky’s opera The Stone Guest, based on the tale of Don Juan, he writes that
realistic expression attained such power, finish, and artistry
in this opera that it inaugurated a new era in music and will,
without any doubt, serve as the basis for the future
development of music, for European Zukunftsmusik. The
‘music of the future’ is not to be found in Wagner’s opera,
32
The treatise was translated into Russian О музыка льно- прекр а скном (Moscow, 1895) by one of the
leading music critics of the opposition party, Herman Laroche (1845-1904), who represented the
conservative-reactionary ideas of Rubinstein, his former teacher.
33
Stasov, “Nåsha Muzyka,” 80.
54
but rather in Dargomizhsky’s Stone Guest. Wagner’s
operas contain few seeds that bear promise for the future;
they are too limited and lacking in talent. The Stone Guest
is the brilliant cornerstone of the new period of music
drama.
34
For all his disparagement of the German master – “Wagner had little talent, was
extremely affected and completely devoid of a gift for realistic recitative”
35
– it is once
again ironic and inconsistent to praise a work of Scriabin, The Divine Poem, which is the
most Wagnerian in style of all the works the Russian tone poet ever created. The Divine
Poem has monumental design and instrumental texture, and a Wagnerian motivic
structure. All it lacks is the vocal element, which for the Realists represented the closest
medium for the expression of truth in music. Scriabin, for his part, was not a composer of
opera or song; his First Symphony and Prometheus include sections for chorus. In the
second work, also referred to as the Poem of Fire, he dispenses with words in the vocal
parts – an indication that any textual program could hinder the emotional and spiritual
meaning that music alone can express. Scriabin was an instrumental composer.
Notwithstanding his enormous but dilettante interests in philosophy and literature as well
as his attempts to write a libretto for a future opera project, his concepts for a narrative
program in his music remained purely instrumental. Nevertheless, Scriabin’s music was
programmatic and followed an important principle trait of the New Russian School
which, according to Stasov, identified it as national.
Stasov demanded absolute allegiance to the ‘cause célèbre’ of a national idiom in
Russian musical art. This meant above all Realism portrayed within a programmatic
34
Ibid.
35
Ibid.
55
framework. The member-protégés of the Balakirev Circle
36
adhered to this doctrine,
especially the composers Modest Mussorgsky (1839-81) and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov
(1844-1908). Stasov praised Mussorgsky for being together with Dargomizhsky the
“leading exponent of realism in our country.”
37
Mussorgsky, too, was a master of
declamatory recitative and the programmatic element found expression in the composer’s
treatment of “historical realism” in which was represented the “true spirit” of the Russian
people.
38
In one of Stasov’s most euphoric statements, he condemns all those who “did
not understand that realistic opera is the opera of the future and that Dargomizhsky and
Mussorgsky were the immortal creators of this great manner of expression, which will
someday be adopted by the entire musical world.”
39
The fact that non-realistic “fantastic”
and “fairytale” elements (as in the opera The Snow Maiden, 1881) played such a major
role in the compositions of Rimsky-Korsakov appeared to be of lesser consequence to
Stasov. He instead found the beautiful orchestral coloring of the composer and his use of
folksongs to be representative of aspects of the Russian nationality (narodnost). The
Eastern element in terms of both melody and harmony as an important trait of the New
Russian School manifested itself most clearly later in Rimsky-Korsakov’s symphonic
poem Scheherazade of 1888.
Another composer of the group whose works incorporated these realistic aspects
was Alexander Borodin (1833-1887), most notably in his opera of “historic Realism”
36
This group had been labeled the “Moguchaya Kuchka” [Mighty Handful] in an article written by Stasov
in May 1867 following the so-called “Slavic Concert” on the occasion of the First Slav Congress. “May
God grant that our Slavic guests never forget today’s concert; may God grant that they forever keep a
memory of how much poetry , feeling, talent, and skill there was in the small but already mighty group
[moguchaya kuchka] of Russian musicians.” Quoted in Yuri Olkhovsky, Vladimir Stasov and Russian
National Culture, Russian Music Studies 6 (Ann Arbor: UMI Press, 1983), 96.
37
Stasov, Nåsha Muzyka, 101.
38
Ibid., 102.
39
Ibid., 104.
56
Prince Igor (1874-87, based on a national epic) and the symphonic tone poem In the
Steppes of Central Asia. Elsewhere, Stasov praises the latter composer’s gift for melody –
which he defines as a continuation of the passion found in Glinka – and in customary
exaggeration labels his composition The Sea as possibly “the most magnificent song in
all of European music.
40
Twenty years separate these outbursts of enthusiasm and those
in which in his twilight years he expressed the same for Scriabin. Stasov had searched
throughout his life to find in all aspects of Russian art those features that distinguished it
from the European.
41
In the twilight of his years, though, he appears to have become
somewhat less militant, if still remaining dogmatic and possessing a talent for invective
prose. This is apparent in his last published article, “A Friendly Commemoration,”
42
in
which he scathingly exposes the fallacies in the opinions and arguments of two fellow
critics, Mikhail Ivanov (1849-1927) and Alexander Koptyayev (1868-1941),
43
who had
written characterizations of Robert Schumann with which Stasov did not agree.
Perhaps the most important critic after Stasov representing the Balakirev Circle –
the ‘Five,’ as it was also known – was one of its own composer-members, César Cui
(1835-1918). As a proponent of the aesthetics of the New Russian School he was quite
outspoken, but his own compositions were marked by a certain reserve and tenderness,
perhaps indicative of his French heritage – his father had been a soldier in Napoleon’s
invading army. Stasov wrote of him: “Because he himself had little propensity for writing
in the national vein, Cui never fully understood or appreciated ‘nationalism’ in the works
40
Ibid., 109.
41
‘European’ is used in most writings on Russian culture at this time to indicate ‘Western European.’
42
Stasov, Selected Essays, 195-99.
43
Koptyayev was a composer, but foremost a critic who wrote negative and positive articles about Scriabin
and most notably a monograph on the latter which was published in 1916 in St. Petersburg.
57
of others. His gifts were too exclusively lyrical, too exclusively psychological.”
44
This
characterization is quite applicable and is surely the reason why Cui had difficulty
esteeming the explosive passion often present those of Scriabin’s works reminiscent of
Liszt and Wagner. A more recent commentary by Ate ş Orga highlights the discrepancies
between the musical tastes of the Balakirev Circle as defended by Cui and the actual style
of his own compositions, which for the most part were salon miniatures. “Technically
undemanding, romantically clichéd, harmonically conventional, tonally unsurprising,
more diatonic than chromatic, concerned with horizons of lyricism untouched by modal
pathos or tragic intensity, it has more in common stylistically with Tchaikovsky or
Rubinstein than Mussorgsky or Balakirev.
45
The bravura of a Liapunov, the angst of a
Rachmaninov, the headily erotic, spiritual incense of a Scriabin are domains beyond its
experience.”
46
In conversation Cui told Stasov that he found Scriabin’s music “Not so
bad, but monotonous and nothing special.”
47
Publicly, in his concert reviews, he was
more conciliatory and supportive of the promising young composer, comparing his work
to Chopin’s, but he criticized Scriabin as a performing artist.
44
Stasov, Nåsha Muzyka, 97.
45
This is a very pointed statement, considering Cui’s own negative assessments of Rubinstein and
Tchaikovsky. In 1880, Cui published in France the first book abroad on the state of music in Russia titled
La musique en Russie (Paris: Fischbacher, 1880). He devotes one chapter to the two named composers.
Regarding Rubinstein he writes, “La poésie, la profondeur, lui manquent souvent, mais le lieu commun y
abonde, et c’est là son défaut principal. Les belles pages, quand il s’en trouve dans ses œuvres, sont presque
absorbées par le lieu commun . . .” He ends his description by commenting, “pour nous résumer en deux
mots, nous dirons que Rubinstein est un infatigable compositeur de second ordre, qui ne fera pas époque, et
qui n’exercera que peu d’influence sur les destinées futures de l’art.” Concerning Tchaikovsky, he
patronizingly states, “Ses thèmes sont charmants pour la plupart: ils manquent de puissance, de profondeur
et de grandeur, mais leur caractère élégiaque, mélancholique, rêveur, est très attrayant; et des tournures de
phrases que l’auteur affectionne leur donnent un certain cachet d’individualité.” And after many lines
criticizing the composer’s inabilities at producing dramatic music, he finishes by saying, “Malgré tout cela,
le succès des ouvrages si chaleureusement protégés n’a été que médiocre.”
46
Ate ş Orga, from liner notes in César Cui: 25 Preludes, Op. 64. Jeffrey Biegel, piano. Compact disc.
Marco Polo, 8.223496, 1993.
47
“C крябин— да, недур н о, но одн о о бразн о и ничего ос об ен н о нет!!” From comments in a letter from
Stasov to Beliaeff dated February 26, 1895, reprinted in Skriabin: Pisma [Letters], 92.
58
He is imbued with the soul of Chopin. . . Listening to
many of his compositions it is indeed possible to think
that we are hearing unpublished works of Chopin. . . .
As a pianist, though, Mr. Scriabin is significantly weaker
than as a composer. His playing is nervous, non-rhythmical,
and at times obscure, with the exaggeration of piano
and forte effects.
48
As in the case of Stasov, Cui was also unforgiving towards those Russian critics
of the opposition as well as the composers in whom he found the future ideal of music.
First and foremost among these critics was Alexander Serov (1820-1871) who formerly
had been a friend and student colleague of Stasov. Serov’s espousal of Wagner later
provoked the unformidable wrath of Stasov and other members of the Balakirev Circle
including Cui.
49
Stasov wrote:
As a music critic, Serov was amazingly inconsistent.
Lacking principle, he continually wavered right and
left. . . . In the first half of his life his views on music
were progressive. This was the best and most important
period of his career as a critic. At that time he rendered
a great service to our public, championing sound principles
and good, honest music. But this did not last long, only
from 1851 to 1858.
50
During the second period of his critical
activity, that is, from 1858 to 1871, he became an out-and-out
conservative and reactionary. Throughout both periods
he displayed more wit than wisdom.
51
48
“Он насквозь пр о никнут ду хом Ш о пена. . . Слушая мин о гие его п рои зведен и я, мо жно, прав о,
думать, что мы слушаем неизданные со чинения Шо пена. . . Как пианист г. Скр я бин значительно
слабее ко мп оз и тора. Иг ра ег о нер вная, не р и тмичная, по вре м енам неясная, с п р еувеличением
эффектов piano и forte.” Originally published in Нед е л я [Weekly] 11 (March 1895): 353-54. Reprinted in
Skriabin: Pisma [Letters], 93.
49
Robert Ridenour explains with circumstantial evidence how the split between Stasov and Serov may
have been aggravated through non-musical issues. Vladimir Stasov had a love affair with Serov’s sister
Sofia and became the father of her daughter Nadezhda. Including information from Lebedev, Andrei and
Aleksandr Solodovnikov, Vladimir Vasil’evich Stasov: Zhizn’ i tvorchestvo [Vladimir Vasilevich Stasov:
life and work] (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1976), 86; quoted in Ridenour, Robert, Nationalism, Modernism, and
Personal Rivalry in 19th-Century Russian Music (Ann Arbor: 1981): 94-95.
50
In 1858, Serov met Wagner in Germany. Ridenour, 88.
51
Stasov, Nåsha Muzyka, 87
59
Cui had come to the same conclusion. “Serov has hardly left a mark on criticism and has
exercised little influence. This is because of the lack of stability in his judgments. He was
a man of spontaneous rapture.”
52
And Cui, himself, later became the target of similar
verbal assaults dealt out by Stasov:
But around 1874, Cui’s writing changed considerably.
He became less bold, gave way on many of his views,
repudiated some, modified some, withdrew others, and
began to find talent in many undeserving musicians
and works. In short, from an exponent of progress he
became an exponent of moderate, even excessively
moderate liberalism. His criteria in matters of musical
composition – form, melody, harmony and rhythm –
began to approximate to [sic] those of the conservatives.
On the whole, his standards deteriorated and in many
respects sank to the level of the commonplace.
53
So, just as Serov, who had been an advocate of Realist-Nationalism and critical of
Rubinstein, had in the eyes of Stasov become apostate to the cause, so too, now Cui was
guilty of defection. In actuality, this was indicative of the tenuousness and varying
interpretations associated with the original aesthetics of the Balakirev Circle. Ironically,
this was characteristic of the individualism of the member composers, which was
considered a positive attribute, and the idea that they were indeed “free artists” and not
products of mediocrity spawned from a system of conservatories. Once again, the
discrepancies in attitudes are made clear by the fact that individualism was associated
with Western values and idea of community with those of the East. In this situation,
however, the New Russian School had attempted to incorporate both in order to produce
a tightly-knit group of uniquely individual composers adhering to a common set of values
52
Cui, La Musique en Russie, 156. “Séroff n’a presque pas marqué dans la critique et n’a pour ainsi dire
point exercé d’influence. C’est qu’il y avait peu de stabilité dans ses jugements; c’était l’homme des
entraînements instantanés.”
53
Stasov, Nåsha Muzyka, 100-1.
60
which were non-academic, but national-realist. Scriabin could be interpreted as both by
virtue of his unique forward-looking style of composition and his rejection of the
conservatory as a place to train the future artists of the music trade. It was not until
Scriabin had released himself from the shackles of the Moscow Conservatory and the
strictly conservative training that he had received from Arensky and Taneyev that his
boldly inventive nature as a composer truly began to evolve.
The “Silver Age.”
Contrary to common perception, Realism continued to evolve during that period
referred to as the “Silver Age” – the last cultural flowering of Tsarist Russia. The time in
question encompasses approximately the reigns of the last two Tsars, that of Alexander
III (1881-94) and that of Nicholas II (1894-1917). It was during this period that
Alexander Scriabin developed as pianist and composer, assimilating all the
contemporaneous ideas manifested in their various forms – art, science, and religious
philosophy. These influences would congeal in such a manner to form his unique creative
identity. His artistic development was moving in step with the times that were marked by
interplay between the material and spiritual sides of reality. The Russian artist Vassily
Kandinsky (1866, Moscow–1944, Paris) addressed this dichotomy in his monumental
study of 1911, Über das Geistige in der Kunst (On the Spiritual in Art). In it he poses
several questions regarding this issue:
Is everything material? Or is everthing spiritual?
Can the distinctions we make between matter and spirit
be relative modifications of one or the other?
54
54
Wassily Kandinsky, translated by M. Sadler, Concerning the Spiritual in Art (New York: Dover, 1977,
repr. London: Constable and Company Ltd., 1914), 9.
61
This question was often raised during that era. From a material standpoint, the focus on
Realism as a driving aesthetic force in the artistic and literary communities of Russia
started to wane by the fin de siècle. In a period of industrial advancement, men began to
seek solutions to existential problems elsewhere. The intellectual concentration on
Realism redirected itself from the material into the spiritual realm. This development in a
peculiarly Russia form became the singularly most important influencing factor in the
world of Scriabin the composer.
Many of the paths leading towards spiritual realism – enlightenment and
transcendence from the material world – came from the religious teachings of Russian
Orthodoxy, which had provided a bulwark for the state and helped sustain its existence.
Those who adhered to the traditional doctrines regarded the new paths as decadent and
their purveyors and disciples as deviant heretics. These latter individuals, however, also
rejected the recent results of industrialization and scientific advancements, for the
concepts of materialism, capitalist economy and Darwinism
55
assaulted those aspects of
community and divine eternity grounded in Orthodoxy. Chaos appeared on the horizon
and thoughts of a forthcoming apocalypse abounded. These ideas found their way into the
period literature and subsequently into the philosophy and music of Scriabin – hence, the
focus in the last years of his life on the grand project Mysterium.
The movement towards spiritual realism resulted from the deplorable social
conditions in Russia at the time. This had led to increased revolutionary activity which in
turn was combated with severe reactionary measures. The established order was under
55
Oleg Maslenikov, The Frenzied Poets: Andrey Biely and the Russian Symbolists (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1952), 4. “The doctrine of Darwinism, which was beginning successfully to penetrate the
consciousness of the average educated Russian, added to his spiritual discomfiture.”
62
attack and necessary means were employed to suppress the renegades. Censorship, which
had become comparatively relaxed during the reign of Alexander II, was forcefully
reinstated after his assassination. In addition, persecution of Jews
56
and non-Orthodox
Christian sects
57
followed.
For centuries, the Russian Empire had been able to sustain itself structurally
through the unifying forces of an autocratic state and state religion, of which the Tsar was
the “supreme defender.”
58
Consequently, the ideas of wholeness, oneness, and
community became historically important and represented an important aspect of life in
the minds of most Russian citizens, the majority of whom were illiterate peasants living
in a type of commune referred to as the obshchina.
59
Communal thinking remained in the
psyche throughout the political and cultural upheaval characterizing the last decades of
the monarchy. Paradoxically, the despotic government seeking to maintain unity among
56
Richard Charques, The Twilight of Imperial Russia (London: Phoenix House, 1958), 44-45. “The
harshest persecution of all was aimed at the Jews. Both Alexander III and his principal advisors were
rabidly anti-semitic. The raw nationalist element in anti-semitism was reinforced by the presence of Jews in
the ranks of the revolutionary terrorists. The murder of Alexander II had evoked instantaneous Jewish
pogroms in Kiev, Odessa and elsewhere, not seldom with police connivance, and a spate of anti-Jewish
decrees followed. The Jewish pale of settlement – a legacy of the partitions of Poland – was still further
restricted. Jews were forbidden henceforth to acquire rural property, which was interpreted by many
communes as an instruction to expel all Jews from their midst. Quotas for Jews were introduced in all
universities and secondary schools, even the secondary schools within the pale. Jews were excluded from
the legal profession and from the lists of zemstvo (local government representative body) and town duma
electors. In 1891-2 the Grand-Duke Sergei Alexandrovich celebrated his appointment as governor-general
of Moscow by the summary expulsion of some twenty thousand Jews from the city. In an even more candid
gesture of persecution, the adoption by Jews of Christian first names, a normal proceeding in educated
families, was declared a criminal offence.”
57
Among these sects were the Skoptzy (castrati) and Khlysty (flagellants). The latter “practiced the
attainment of divine grace through sin in ecstatic rituals” and there is circumstantial evidence that indicates
that the notorious monk Grigory Rasputin may have been at one time a member of this sect. See Edvard
Radzinsky, The Rasputin File (New York: Doubleday, 2000), 230-33. Less radical sects included the so-
called Old Believers who adhered to original doctrines of the church. Others were the Doukhobors,
Lipovans, and Molokans many of whom emigrated to avoid persecution.
58
John Curtiss, Church and State in Russia: The Last Years of the Empire, 1900-1917. (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1940), 35.
59
This institution provided the basis for the Slavophile philosophy of spiritual community, obshchinost’, as
developed by Alexei Khomyakov.
63
the people through repression disintegrated under the unifying will of the masses seeking
emancipation, both physically and spiritually. Simultaneously, the will towards liberation
also saw a rise in individual expression. The dynamic interaction between the individual
and the broader masses is what Count Leo Tolstoy attempted to explain in his
monumental essay “What is Art” (1898). For art to be great, Tolstoy maintained that it
must be intelligible to the majority of mankind and from a moral standpoint convey a
pure spiritual message, which he describes as coming from the sincerity of its creator.
Thus, Tolstoy constructed a paradigm to describe a great work of art: individuality,
clearness, and sincerity.
60
He then gauged the quality of art according to these three
determining factors and referred to a work’s “infectiousness” as the “one indubitable sign
distinguishing real art from its counterfeit.”
61
Important here was the idea of spiritual
unity and communion so strongly embedded in the minds of most Russians. According to
Tolstoy, the true work of art must provide a “feeling of joy and of spiritual union”
between its creator and the perceiver.
62
These are goals to which Scriabin later aspired
and in part through means of artistic synthesis. Formerly, Richard Wagner had
endeavored to achieve the same and his influence had been strongly sensed in Russia
towards the end of the nineteenth century. Tolstoy, however, rejected the concept of
artistic synthesis, citing the impossibility of a simultaneous equality among the
components, i.e., the inability for all to “appear in full strength.”
63
From a statistical
standpoint, no one can deny the “infectiousness” of Wagner’s music among the masses,
60
Leo Tolstoy, “What is Art?” [1898], English trans. Aylmer Maude, (London: Oxford University Press,
1930), 227.
61
Ibid.
62
Ibid.
63
Ibid., 204.
64
nor that of Scriabin in Russia and his still-increasing international appeal.
Notwithstanding, Tolstoy describes Wagner’s music in the most pejorative terms and
specifically calls Der Ring des Nibelungen “a model work of counterfeit art so gross as to
be even ridiculous.”
64
Had Tolstoy lived to experience the later period of Scriabin, he
would surely have assessed the works of the Russian composer in a similar manner or
perhaps found it necessary to revise his definition of “infectiousness.” During the time in
question, though, he censured everything which did not correspond to his concept of
morality influenced by Christian ethics. In this his conscience would not allow him to
spare even the Eastern Orthodox Church and for this denunciation of church and state
65
he himself was censured and officially excommunicated in 1901.
66
This criticism of
church – and hence state – earned him the epithet from Nicholas II of Russia’s “evil
genius.”
67
The Tsar sought to unite the peoples of the empire through oppression.
Tolstoy, as later Scriabin, saw in art a means to unite humanity spiritually and understood
this as an evolutionary process. In his own words:
As the evolution of knowledge proceeds by truer and
more necessary knowledge dislodging and replacing what
was mistaken and unnecessary, so the evolution of feeling
proceeds by means of art – feelings less kind and less
necessary for the well-being of mankind being replaced by
others kinder and more needful for that end. That is the
purpose of art. And speaking now of the feelings which are
its subject-matter, the more art fulfils that purpose the better
the art, and the less it fulfils it the worse the art.
68
64
Ibid., 207.
65
Leo Tolstoy states, “The sanctification of political power by Christianity is blasphemy; it is the negation
of Christianity.” Quoted from the author’s essay, “Church and State” [1879], reprinted in I Cannot Be
Silent: Writings Politics, Art and Religion by Leo Tolstoy (Bristol: The Bristol Press, 1989). 49.
66
Charques, 204-5.
67
Ibid.
68
Tolstoy, “What is Art?,” 231.
65
Tolstoy’s condemnation of state religion did not hinder him from developing a morality-
based concept of art based on the teachings of Christianity. He emphasized the necessity
for art to be universal in order to create and maintain a brotherhood of mankind. He
states:
The expression unite men with God and with one another
may seem obscure to people accustomed to the misuse of
these words that is so customary, but the words have a
perfectly clear meaning nevertheless. They indicate that
the Christian union of man (in contradiction to the partial,
exclusive, union of only certain men) is that which unites
all without exception. Art, all art, has this characteristic,
that it unites people. Every art causes those to whom the
artist’s feeling is transmitted to unite in soul with the artist
and also with all who receive the same impression.
But non-Christian art while uniting some people, makes
that very union a cause of separation between these
united people and others; so that union of this kind is
often a source not merely of division but even of enmity
towards others. . . .Christian art, that is, the art of our time,
should be catholic in the original meaning of the word,
that is, universal, and therefore it should unite all men. . . .
69
For Tolstoy, the value of a universal work, whether it be literature, art, architecture or
music, is determined by its ability to achieve broad appeal both in the present and future.
In this he emphasizes the importance of clarity and comprehensibility. For example:
Melody – every melody – is free and may be understood
of all men; but as soon as it is bound up with a particular
harmony, it ceases to be accessible except to people
trained to such harmony, and it becomes strange, not only
to common men of another nationality, but to all who do
not belong to the circle whose members have accustomed
themselves to certain forms of harmonization. So that music,
like poetry, travels in a vicious circle. Trivial and exclusive
melodies, in order to make them attractive, are laden with
harmonic, rhythmic and orchestral complications and thus
become yet more exclusive, and far from being universal
69
Ibid., 238-40.
66
are not even national, that is, they are not comprehensible
to the whole people, but only to some people.
70
Complexity does not necessarily preclude a capacity to communicate, though, as the
extract above would lead one to think. Tolstoy himself was compelled to admit this,
citing in his essay some of the major works of great writers and composers. It is often in
the novelty and complexity of a work that one can identify its uniqueness as a
masterpiece and the individuality and genius of its author. This was true in the case of
Alexander Scriabin, although, ironically the composer emphasized the importance of
simplicity. Boris Pasternak (1890-1960),
71
as a young admirer of Scriabin, relates to us in
his autobiographical sketch of 1931, Safe Conduct, the following anecdote recounting his
visit to Scriabin in 1908:
We walked up and down the salon. He kept putting his hand
on my shoulder or taking me by the arm. He was talking of the
harmfulness of improvisation, of when and why and how one
should write. As models of the simplicity one should always
aspire to, he mentioned his own new sonatas, which were
notorious for their difficulty. Examples of a reprehensible
complexity he found in the most platitudinous parlor songs.
I was not disturbed by the paradox in this comparison. I agreed
that lack of personality was a more complex thing than personality;
that an unguarded prolixity seemed accessible because it was
without content; that because we are corrupted by the emptiness
of clichés, we think, when after long desuetude we come across
something unprecedentedly rich in content, that that is the only
formal pretentiousness. Imperceptibly he moved on to more
definite exhortations.
72
70
Ibid., 245.
71
Boris Pasternak, who received in 1957 the Nobel Prize in literature for Doctor Zhivago, was the son of
the noted Russian painter Leonid Pasternak, who created numerous illustrations of Alexander Scriabin. The
memoirs of the painter, a close friend of Leo Tolstoy, were published in 1982 in English translation by
Quartet Books, London. Part Three of the collection is dedicated entirely to his encounters with Tolstoy.
72
Boris Pasternak, Safe Conduct, in Selected Writings and Letters, translated from the Russian by
Catherine Judelson (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1990): 99-100.
67
What Scriabin’s musical compositions – especially the later ones – may lack in
immediacy of clarity and comprehensibility is equalized by the convincing expression of
individuality and sincerity of their author. His music reflects his personal conviction and
sense of mission, which he sought to fulfill on earth. For Tolstoy, “sincerity” was the
most important in the paradigm of three conditions necessary to create “infectiousness”
and he believed that it was exactly the “sincerity” which would “impel the artist to find
clear expression for the feeling which he wishes to transmit.”
73
He identified this quality
as an attribute characteristic of peasant art, but entirely lacking in what he terms “upper-
class art,” the latter “produced by artists actuated by personal aims of covetousness or
vanity.”
74
Whether Scriabin’s aspirations to transform the world spiritually can be viewed
as vanity or magnanimity on the part of the composer has been disputed and will be
treated below in another context. Notwithstanding Tolstoy’s reservations concerning the
value of “upper class art,” the following positive appraisal of Scriabin’s music is
indicative of the high esteem in which he held the composer: “How sincere it is, and
sincerity above all is truly precious. From this single piece you can tell he is a great artist
. . . .”
75
The transcendental quality especially of his later works possesses universal
appeal. It is this which Tolstoy also valued in art and found works of “temporary and
local interest” to be less universal.
76
These do not speak to all mankind since they lack
spiritual realism. In criticizing much of the world literature, Tolstoy stated:
73
Ibid., 230.
74
Ibid.
75
Following Scriabin’s début in St. Petersburg on March 7, 1895, Tolstoy extended to the composer an
invitation to perform at his estate Yasnaya Polyana which he accepted. Tolstoy made the above remark to
his private secretary, Valentin Bulgakov (1887-1966) after having heard Scriabin perform one of his
preludes. Cited in Faubion Bowers, Scriabin (New York: Dover, 1966), 197.
76
Tolstoy, 246.
68
It is therefore impossible in modern literature to indicate
works fully satisfying the demands of universality. Such
works as exist are to a great extent spoilt by what is usually
called [material] ‘realism’, but would be better termed
‘provincialism’, in art.
77
In material ‘realism’ one is interpreting the immediate surrounding physical environment.
Ironically, this would describe the style of Tolstoy’s two best-known novels, Anna
Karenina and War and Peace, in which tradition and local color could be termed
‘provincialism.’ And, are the many salon pieces of Scriabin – for example the Mazurkas
– to be interpreted according to Tolstoy as ‘provincial’ in their style?
Although drawing from a different source, the importance of religion as a
foundation in art has the spiritual aspect in common with the theories and creative work
of Scriabin. Yet, in Scriabin’s mind, the spiritual was synonymous with the metaphysical
and it is here that the world concepts of the two men significantly diverge from one
another. Diverse sources indicate that Tolstoy and Scriabin met on various occasions. To
some degree, Scriabin must have been familiar with Tolstoy’s works, though he had
nothing positive to say about him.
78
Pasternak remembered, “He [Scriabin] used to argue
with my father about life, art, Good and Evil, he attacked Tolstoy, propagated the idea of
the Übermensch, amoralism and Nietzscheism.”
79
Leonid Sabaneyev (1881-1968) also
recalls incidents of Scriabin railing against Tolstoy – the paternal moral conscience of the
Russian nation. According to Scriabin, “As far as religion is concerned, he [Tolstoy]
embodies the typical rationalist! It’s an utter scandal and dilettantism! There is not a drop
77
Ibid., 245.
78
Works of Tolstoy are listed in the inventory of books remaining in Scriabin’s personal library.
79
Boris Pasternak, “Autobiographical Sketch 1959” reprinted in Boris Pasternak: Selected Writings and
Letters (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1990), 257. This was the second of two autobiographical essays by
Boris Pasternak in which he discussed his encounters with Scriabin. The first essay, “A Safe Conduct”
(1931), reflects more emotionally the extreme infatuation with which the author embraced Scriabin.
69
of mysticism in him! He doesn’t even understand the meaning of mysticism!”
80
Scriabin
was not alone in his assessment and rejection of Tolstoy’s moral preachings and dogma.
The assignment of the negative epithet “typical rationalist” was supported by numerous
members of the contemporaneous Russian Symbolist community and, in particular,
Vyacheslav Ivanov (1866-1949), whose essays on Scriabin and his relationship to the
composer will be discussed later. His analytically based lecture-eulogy “Lev Tolstoy and
Culture” immediately following the death of the writer in 1910 was indicative of the
progressive attitudes rejecting that which was viewed among avant-gardists as
anachronistic morality. Ivanov states that “. . . hardly a single one of Tolstoy’s
instructional tenets is accepted in our day or will subsequently be accepted by a
significant number of people.”
81
He further explains that Tolstoy’s “faith in the
rationality of good” is incompatible with genuine artistic creativity. In deconstructing
Tolstoyan morality, Ivanov presents an analysis of the writer that is in every way
antithetical to Scriabin’s concepts of spirituality. Ivanov speaks of Tolstoy’s “non-
acceptance of the world of Dionysus” – a central point in Scriabin’s creativity. This
“ascetic attitude” of Tolstoy towards culture inhibits artistic creativity and stands in
marked contrast to Scriabin’s divine inspiration.
The pathos of Tolstoy the artist is primarily that of disclosing
and exposing; inwardly it is therefore an antinomical and an essentially
antiartistic principle. For an artistic genius is called to reveal the
noumenal in the clothing of the phenomenon. Moreover, the energy of
artistic symbolism does not wish to leave intellectual essences of the
spiritual world only incompletely incarnated, nor to push them beyond
80
Quoted in L. L. Sabaneyev, Vospominania o Skriabine (Moscow: State Publishing House, 1925, repr.
Klassik 21, 2000), 185.
81
Viacheslav Ivanov, “Lev Tolstoy and Culture” (1910), in Michael Wachtel, ed., Selected Essays:
Viacheslav Ivanov, trans. Robert Bird, (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2001), 200-10.
70
the limits of incarnation; instead, it wishes to present them in a
transfigured incarnation, as if in resurrected flesh that is at the same time
the most real flesh and the actual essence itself.
82
For Ivanov, Tolstoy’s morality suppresses the natural instinct and intuition which are
necessary elements of creativity. He finds Tolstoy’s morality to be based on empirical
knowledge, which as an inhibiting factor forms a stagnant barrier towards attaining
mystic enlightenment. In other words, the path from material realism towards spiritual
realism (Ivanov uses the Latin phrase a realibus ad realiora – from the real to the more
real) can only be achieved through a creative force that does not exist in Tolstoy’s
worldview. It is the mystical aspect of Scriabin’s creativity that in part identifies him as a
Russian artist and distinguishes him from the more cosmopolitan Tolstoy. Ivanov
maintains, “Tolstoy is not a direct expression of our national element; he is more a
product of our cosmopolitan culture, of our social elite, than our national depths.”
83
The
lack of mysticism in Tolstoy is a fundamental difference between him and Scriabin. It is
indeed the mystical element in fin-de-siècle Russian Symbolism – contemporaneously
this word is synonymous with Décadence – that separates it from its French counterpart
found in the works of Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Maeterlinck, for example.
Mysticism as an aspect of spiritual realism was very much in vogue during the fin
de siècle. Along with the influential teachings of Vladimir Solovyov (1853-1900) came
the esoteric mystic-philosophical doctrines of the Ukrainians Helena Blavatsky (1831-
1891) and Georgiy Gurdjieff (1877-1949). Both promoted the idea of universal
brotherhood and found a large following in the artistic intellectual sectors of Russian
society and throughout the world. In particular, Blavatsky’s Theosophy (Divine Wisdom)
82
Ibid., 203.
83
Ibid., 205.
71
appealed to the widespread fears of imminent Apocalypse in Russia during the Silver
Age. “Theosophical notions of world catastrophe, cleansing destruction, suffering, and
the building of a new, superior culture in which Russia would play a leading role were
variants on the same messianic theme dear to Russian god-seekers (idealists) and god-
builders (rationalists) alike.”
84
Scriabin stood under the influence of Theosophy to
varying degrees throughout the last ten years of his life. In a letter addressed to his lover
Tatiana de Schloezer, he writes, “ ‘The Key to Theosophy’ [by Blavatsky] is a
remarkable book. You would be astonished how much it has in common with me.”
85
It is
here that Scriabin learned about the seven levels of being leading to Divinity – hence,
also, one of the important factors of the Seventh Piano Sonata – his favorite. The number
seven plays a significant role in Christianity, Judaism, and Hinduism. Especially the last
influenced Blavatsky and it was her conception of the world that subsequently impacted
to a significant degree Scriabin’s own philosophy of life and artistic creativity.
In Chapter 25, “The Mysteries of the Hebdomad” in the book The Secret Doctrine,
Blavatsky explains extensively the symbolic meaning of seven. Regarding science, she
wrote:
It is the knowledge of the natural laws that make of
seven the root nature-number, so to say, in the manifested
world – at any rate in our present terrestrial life-cycle –
and the wonderful comprehension of its workings, that
unveiled to the ancients so many of the mysteries of
nature. . . . To demonstrate more clearly the seven in
Nature, it may be added that not only does the number
seven govern the periodicity of the phenomena of life,
but that it is also found dominating the series of chemical
84
Maria Carlson, “Fashionable Occultism: The World of Russian Composer Aleksandr Scriabin,” in The
Journal of the International Institute 17, no. 3 (spring-summer 2000): 1, 18-20.
85
“La Clef de la Théosophie за мечательная книга. Ты буд е шь удивлена, до какой с тепена близко ко
мне.
72
elements, and equally paramount in the world of sound
and in that of colour as revealed to us by the spectroscope.
This number is the factor, sine qua non, in the production
of occult astral phenomena.
86
Scriabin eagerly assimilated this esoteric material. Leonid Sabaneyev writes, “He
believed Blavatsky like a child believes its parents.”
87
Scriabin’s belief in Blavatsky’s
“Theory of Seven Races” is also confirmed in the biography of the composer written by
his brother-in-law Boris de Schloezer (1884-1969):
Having accepted this postulate, Scriabin reorganized
in his own terms the entire history of humanity, of
which the cycle of his own psychic life was a particular
case. This gave him a key to the understanding of
world history.
88
This theory would also provide the basis for Scriabin’s final project, Mysterium.
The “World of Art” Movement.
The “World of Art” (Mir Iskusstva) was a foundation and movement organized in
1897-8 under the leadership of the exceptional Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev
(1872-1929). Chief among its goals was the identification of current trends – national and
international – in the areas of art, literature and music, masterpieces of which were
presented and discussed at exhibitions and in the highly acclaimed journal of the group
titled Mir Iskusstva. As early as 1899, an article reviewing the phenomenon of Scriabin
86
Helen Blavatsky, The Secret Doctrine: The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy (London: The
Theosophical Publishing Company, Limited, 1888; repr. Pasadena, California: Theosophical University
Press, 1988), 621 and 627.
87
Leonid Sabaneyev, Vospominania o Skriabine [Reminiscences about Scriabin] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo
Muzyka, 1925), 95.
88
Boris de Schloezer, Scriabin. Artist and Mystic, trans. Nicolas Slonimsky (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1987; originally published Berlin: Grani, 1923), 68.
73
appeared in the periodical.
89
One should mention here that Diaghilev was familiar with
and enchanted by Scriabin’s new music, but attempts to collaborate with the composer
never succeeded; the temperamental personalities of the two men were not compatible. In
all, the movement sustained itself a brief six years before it succumbed to internal
conflict and financial pressures. The following lines describe the context in which the
“World of Art” came into existence.
By 1900, sustained oppression had led to intense, stylistically new forms of
expression in the literary and artistic communities of Russia. Social criticism, however,
as previously put forth from the 1860s into the 1880s in the writings of the material
realists and as represented in the works of the peredvizhniki (Wanderers, realist painters),
had become repetitive and lost a certain dynamic effect in the message these artists
wished to convey. It was in this sense that the Russian Modernist painter Wassily
Kandinsky (1866-1944) later referred to the peredvizhniki as “parrots and slaves.”
90
Diaghilev, as leader of the “World of Art” movement and editor of its journal (1898-
1904), had already decried the realist painters, citing their lack of individuality.
91
Decades before, the Wanderers had rebelled against the stagnant, conservative teaching
styles and requirements of the Russian Art Academy in St. Petersburg; now, they, too,
were being rebelled against by those who viewed their style as outmoded.
89
Alexander Koptyayev (1868-1941), noted Russian music critic, composer, and later author of a
monograph on Scriabin (St. Petersburg, 1916), contributed a short sketch on the composer under the
heading “Muzykalniye Portrety. A. Skriabin” [“Musical Portraits. A. Scriabin”]. It includes biographical
information and a characterization of Scriabin’s works to date. Among other, he cites the influences of
Chopin and Schumann, notes the ecstatic nature of the music, and expresses astonishment at the “new
chaos of rhythmic figures.” Mir Iskusstva 7-8 (1899): 67-70.
90
Vasily Kandinsky, “Kuda idët ‘novoe’ iskusstvo?” [“Where is ‘new’ art going?”] in Odesskie novosti,
Odessa, February 9, 1911, 3, quoted in John Bowlt, The Silver Age: Russian Art of the Early Twentieth
Century and the “World of Art” Group, ORP Studies in Russian Art History (Newtonville, MA: Oriental
Research Partners, 1979), 16.
91
Ibid., 69-75.
74
The “World of Art” was composed of an eclectic group of artists, writers, and to a
lesser extent, musicians. The individuals in the movement held many different
philosophies. It is exactly their individualism that can best characterize its make-up – a
rejection of the conformity and dogmatism of the Realists. Members of the “World of
Art” expressed in their works a spiritual rather than concrete reality. The “World of Art”
avoided the provincialism of earlier nationalist organizations – such as the Kuchka – by
promoting broader understanding of foreign styles as well as acceptance and appreciation
of indigenous ones. John Bowlt stresses the non-dogmatic outlook of the “World of Art”:
True, the World of Art emphasized the visual and
performing arts, but it was in touch with the leading
representatives of all the humanistic disciplines and
acted as a platform for the cross-fertilization of aesthetic
concepts. Consequently, the World of Art accommodated
the most varied artistic phenomena. . . . Most of the
World of Art artists distanced themselves from the
pressing demands of social and political reality…
their logo, “Art is Free, Life is Paralyzed,” embodied
their conception of art as an expression of the spirit that
transcended the harsh realities of everyday existence….
The emphasis of the World of Art on the autonomy of the
artifact does not justify a universal application of the term
“art for art’s sake.” Indeed, while promoting the symbolist
pantheon of Ibsen, Nietzsche, Solovyov, and Oscar Wilde,
the World of Art also acknowledged the achievements
of the realists Repin and Tolstoy as well as the transcendental
idealism of Bely and V. Ivanov. In other words, the World of Art
served as a cultural intersection, rather than as the advocate of
a single idea….The World of Art artists looked backward
rather than forward, although their ‘retrospective dreams’
were not limited to any one historical epoch.
92
The last sentence would seem to contradict the styles found in Russian Symbolism
(discussed in more detail in the following chapter), which represented an evolutionary
92
John Bowlt, “Art,” in Nicholas Rzhevsky, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Modern Russian Culture
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998,), 210-13.
75
forestage to the later Russian avant-garde and which played such an important role in the
development of Scriabin’s theories and musical creativity. Bowlt describes the
retrospective aspect, however, in pointing to the “Symbolists’ demand that humankind
recapture an earlier and more pristine condition.”
93
This interpretation also corresponds to
the Nietzschean concept of “eternal return.”
94
In the opening issues of the World of Art journal, Diaghilev defends the
movement in a series of four articles under the title “Complicated Questions.”
95
These
represented a kind of manifesto in which Diaghilev claims that artistic creativity should
be free of all external restrictions and should reflect the true essence of the artist’s
individuality. In other words, art should not be shackled by the conventions of the past.
Individuality meant freedom, which represented the progressive – not retrospective –
aspect of the movement.
96
This direction had its roots in the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche and the
Russian Nihilist Dmitri Pisarev (1840-68). The latter emphasized the freedom and
development of the individual as leading towards an improvement of society as a whole.
Closely related to the concept of individualism are the ideas surrounding Messianism and
the prophet-leadership that were infiltrating Russian intellectual thought throughout this
93
Ibid., 213.
94
Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy. In her 1986 book Nietzsche in Russia, Bernice Rosenthal mentions the
gradual lifting of the ban on Nietzsche’s works in Russia from 1898. See the “Introduction,” page 11.
95
These essays are available online at www.hrionline.ac.uk as part of the “Russian Visual Arts project.” In
the Introduction, Alexey Makhrov states, “The authorship of the manifesto is disputed: although signed by
Sergei Diaghilev, the articles are now attributed to the journal’s co-editor and Diaghilev’s cousin Dmitrii
Filosofov. This attribution is based on the evidence found in the memoirs of Walter Nouvel, a member of
the World of Art group, and supprted by the observation that other articles by Diaghilev display little
interest in the philosophic, social and theoretical issues which pervade these editorial articles.
96
The fact that some members of the “World of Art,” in particular Alexandre Benois and Konstantin
Somov, found inspiration in past cultures, is not an indication of any regressive movement, but rather a
search for the wholeness and reintegration which was to become a goal of the Symbolist movement.
76
period. Descriptive terms such as “heroic iconoclasm” and “rational egoism” are
associated with this philosophy. The development of the individual would benefit and
unite society. Diaghilev writes, “Yes, the air is laden with ideas like a priceless fragrance
that fills the hearts of all who wish to accept it and to unite through it with the hearts of
others in the most elevated communion of the spirit.”
97
A basic tenet of Diaghilev’s
“World of Art’ was inclusiveness, not exclusiveness. The movement sought unity
through synthesis of ideas and art, a fundamental aim which predominated especially
among the second generation of Russian Symbolists during the first decade of the
twentieth century. These included Andrei Bely and Vyacheslav Ivanov, two men who
figured significantly in the intellectual development of Scriabin.
Russian Symbolism, especially the first generation of the 1890s, became to some
synonymous with decadence, a term that Diaghilev found insulting and rejected
decisively. Criticizing the instability of conflicting artistic directions of the nineteenth
century, he maintained that nothing in the past could justify a present so-called decay.
“They left us a century that consisted of nothing but a mosaic of contradictory tendencies,
where school fought with school, and generations with generations, where the power and
significance of whole tendencies were defined not over the course of eras, but in years.”
98
Nowhere in Russia and Europe could he perceive any pinnacle of firmly established
traditions in the recent past. “This heterogeneous history of the century’s artistic life had
its major source in the dreadful instability of the aesthetic principle and demands of the
age. They were never, not even for a moment, firmly established.” After elaborating
97
Sergei Diaghilev, “Complicated Questions: Our Supposed Decline,” trans. Robert Russell (Online:
Russian Visual Arts Project, 2002), 1; available from http://hrionline.ac.uk/rva/texts/diaghilev/dia01/dia01-
a.html.
98
Ibid., 2.
77
extensively on the many conflicting directions, he concludes, “How unbelievably ill-
informed it is to speak of our decline. There is no decline and there can be none, because
there is nothing for us to decline from.”
99
This statement defended the “World of Art”
organization against the attacks launched by the conservative camp of ideologues,
including Vladimir Stasov. Reviewing the opening issues of the World of Art journal,
Stasov wrote a scathing article titled “The Poor in Spirit”
100
in which he decried the
“absurdities, outrage, and filth” as decadence, a “disgusting influenza” transplanted from
the West. “Was it here in Russia that the words ‘decadent’ and ‘decadents’ were coined?
Never. They were invented in the West, and their purpose was to brand a sect that the
majority of people found disgusting, repellent, and insupportable because it represented
ugliness, a perversion and distortion of nature, the worship of that which is insane in
content and incoherent in form.” Having deplored the contemporaneous Western literary
figures and painters as well as those infected in Russia, having referred to Diaghilev as
the “editor of dekadentshchina,” Stasov concludes the essay with the following rhetorical
questions and advice. “Is it not appalling, all this talentless, decadent gibberish? Must we
in truth exchange our former art – healthy, true to the nature of life, truthful, profound,
sincere – for such nonsense and rubbish? It would be like putting the whole world en
masse in an insane asylum, a house for idiots. But enough. Let everything healthy in the
human brain that has not yet been distorted declare uncompromising hostility towards
this worthless decadence!”
99
Ibid., 6.
100
Vladimir Stasov, “Nishchie Dukhom,” Novosti i Birzhevaia Gazeta, No. 5, April 5, 1899. Reprinted in
V. V. V. Stasov. Izbrannye Sochineniia. Zhivopis’, Skul’ptura, Muzyka (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1952), 3: 232-
38. Reprinted in translation as “The Poor in Spirit,” by Wendy R. Salmond, guest editor, Experiment: A
Journal of Russian Culture, vol. 7 (2001), 233-40.
78
Stasov wished to promote literature, art, and music that would conform to the
nationalist ideas, styles, and doctrines of Slavophilism noted above, combined with the
social, i.e., utilitarian, purpose established in the 1860s. Long before the aesthetic conflict
rose with the “World of Art,” Stasov had written, “. . . there can scarcely be many today
who would consider it degrading for ‘true art’ to serve the aims of everyday utility.”
101
In the second half of the nineteenth century, the so-called peredvizhniki [Wanderers] had
rebelled against the prescribed methods of the St. Petersburg Art Academy. Now, the
style of the Wanderers – typically landscape painting lacking original inspiration, but also
“critical realism” showing the dire circumstances of common people – befell a similar
stagnancy, which precipitated this subsequent revolt. For his part, Diaghilev could
recognize superior quality in the work of certain artists of the past, but he perceived no
outstanding heights of achievement in the recent movements; for this reason he rejected
any criticism of decadence. On the contrary, those who would continue to work
repetitively in the older, stagnant styles were subject to decay and were therefore in his
view the actual decadents. Nevertheless, Diaghilev did preserve the artistic heritage at the
exhibitions and in the journal of the “World of Art” – for example, the Realist paintings
of Ilya Repin (1844-1930) and Viktor Vasnetsov (1848-1926) were represented initially –
but he actively promoted the forward-looking works of the young Symbolists, especially
painters, but also poets and musicians. In this respect, Sergei Diaghilev was looking away
from Saint Petersburg – the base of the “World of Art” movement – towards Moscow.
Speaking irreverently in 1899, he referred to the former as “a city of artistic gossiping,
101
V. Stasov, in a letter to the Editorial Board of St. Petersburg News, 1874, reprinted online in the Russian
Visual Arts Project, translated by Carol Adlam, 2002. Available at:
http://www.hrionline.ac.uk/rva/texts/stasov/stas03/stas03.html.
79
academic professors, and Friday watercolor classes.”
102
In general, St. Petersburg
remained a more conservative city in comparison to Moscow. Although there existed an
internal dynamic of opposing viewpoints, the city lingered behind Moscow in its artistic
development, especially in regard to Symbolism. This is perhaps to be found in the
mystic element of the movement, which was partly rooted in the teachings of Eastern
Orthodoxy, the center of which in Russia was Moscow. Alexander Benois made the point
clearly in 1907 when he reviewed an art exhibition in St. Petersburg. He stated, “Hitherto,
we in St. Petersburg have not had any ‘formal’ Symbolists. Well, now they have
appeared. In more progressive Moscow, they have existed already for several years….”
103
This statement citing differences between the two cities helps to explain why mystic
Symbolism influenced the later creative development of Scriabin, a native Muscovite. A
trend towards Symbolism had also existed in St. Petersburg earlier, but it tended to
manifest itself predominantly in the field of literature as exemplified in the works of
Dmitry Merezhkovsky (1865-1941).
104
Some of Merezhkovsky’s writings appeared early
on in the World of Art journal – another indication of Diaghilev’s interest in presenting
new directions of thought and creativity.
The non-dogmatic outlook of Diaghilev and the “World of Art” circle
accommodated Symbolism as innovation. For them, innovation could be found in
102
Sergei Diaghilev, “Illiustratsii k Pushkinu,” Mir iskusstva, no. 16 (St. Petersburg, 1899), 35; quoted in
Stuart R. Grover, “The World of Art Movement in Russia,” Russian Review, 32, no. 1 (Jan., 1973), 34.
103
Alexander Benois, “Dnevnik khudozhnika” [Art Diary/Journal] in Moskovskii ezhenedelnik [Moscow
Weekly] 17 November 1907; quoted in John Bowlt, “Through the Glass Darkly: Images of Decadence in
Early Twentieth-Century Russian Art,” Journal of Contemporary History, 17, no. 1 Decadence (Jan.,
1982), 102.
104
Dmitry Merezhkovsky wrote an essay in 1893 titled “On the Causes of the Present Decline and the New
Currents of Contemporary Russian Literature” in which he describes some basic ideas of the developing
Russian Symbolism. A detailed discussion of the essay can be found in Ralph Matlaw, “The Manifesto of
Russian Symbolism” in The Slavic and East European Journal, vol. 1, no. 3 (autumn, 1957), 177-91.
80
individuality. Diaghilev emphasized this topic strongly in the “Complicated
Questions.”
105
“One of the greatest merits of our times is to recognize individuality under
every guise and at every epoch,” he said.
106
In this sense, Diaghilev was aware of the
individuality in Scriabin’s creativity and later included the composer’s Piano Concerto on
his programs of Russian music in Paris, 1907.
107
Elsewhere, despite the eclectic nature
among the members and representatives in the “World of Art” exhibitions and journal,
the notion of individualism was undeniably an important point in common. One notable
exception, however, was Alexandre Benois, who took issue with the idea in an essay in
1906 titled “Heresies in Art.”
108
In it he writes, “Individualism is a heresy because, above
all, it denies communion.”
109
Closely related to the topic of individualism was the concept of l’art pour l’art
(art for art’s sake).
110
Rejecting any pre-conceived notions of what art should be, the
latter was based on the belief that art was in and of itself the sole purpose for its
existence; there was no further reason for its existence, and least of all utilitarianism.
Diaghilev deals with this issue ambiguously in part two of the “Complicated Questions”
105
In practical business terms, he also realized that the controversy surrounding innovation could draw
attention and was therefore a marketable item as proven by the many triumphs he enjoyed in Russia and
later in Paris and elsewhere in the West.
106
Quoted in Arnold L.Haskell, in collaboration with Walter Nouvel, Diaghileff:His Artistic and Private
Life (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1935), 87.
107
Some sources, such as Sigfried Schibli, state that Diaghilev had engaged Scriabin to play his Piano
Concerto, when in fact it was performed by Josef Hofmann. Scriabin had just arrived in Paris returning
from New York shortly before the performance.
108
A. Benois. This article appeared in 1906 in the Moscow Symbolist journal Zolotoe Runo [The Golden
Fleece]. It is reprinted in English online at Russian Visual Arts, available at
http://www.hrionline.ac.uk/rva/texts/benois/ben01/benois.html.
109
The word “communion” [sobornost] is important here because it reflects the religious renaissance taking
place in Russia parallel to the rise of Symbolism at the turn of the century. These issues will be discussed in
the following chapter.
110
Although this French expression is attributed to the Swiss scholar Benjamin Constant (1768-1830), it
was found in his diary entry of February 10, 1804 on a visit to Weimar, where he spent evenings in the
company of the Schelling and Schiller. In his article “The Beginnings of l’art pour l’art” (1953), John
Wilcox traces meaning of the expression back to a misreading of Judgments of Kant.
81
under the subtitle “Eternal Conflict.” On the one hand, he rejects Chernyshevsky and
Tolstoy for demanding, respectively, a social and religious purpose of art.
111
On the other
hand, he writes, “Who can deny the social significance of art, that old and indisputable
truth? But the requirement that art be responsive to our affairs, our concerns, our
emotions – this is a very dangerous thing . . . .” Further, he declares that “The great
strength of art consists precisely in the fact that it is an aim in itself, it is useful only in
itself, and – the main thing – it is free. Art cannot be without ideas, just as it cannot be
without form or without color, but none of these elements can or should be deliberately
inserted into it without destroying the harmony of its parts.”
112
Not all of the many
diverse artists and literary figures associated with the “World of Art” were in agreement
with the above statements attributed to Diaghilev. This fact draws attention to the
unstable nature of the organization and is surely, aside from later financial difficulties, a
reason for the demise of its journal in 1904 after only a brief six years in existence.
113
Still, the comprehensive nature of the “World of Art” caused an enormous impact in
many areas of contemporaneous culture and criticism. The representations of so many
stylistic directions in art and the discussions of these demonstrate that, in reality, art was
serving a purpose in society. In this respect, l’art pour l’art and individualism could be
interpreted not necessarily as decadence, but as a reaction against the status quo. They
served as catalysts to move the evolution of art forward as a commentary on the social
111
Diaghilev, “Complicated Questions: Eternal Conflict,” 2.
112
Ibid. In contrast to Diaghilev’s aesthetic premise, Scriabin inserted extra-musical ideas especially into
his later works intending to achieve goals beyond purely aesthetic beauty and pleasure. In this respect, he
was following the second generation of Russian Symbolists, many of whom had been contributors to the
“World of Art.”
113
Igor Grabar (1871-1960), a member of the “World of Art,” states, “There was never . . . . a moment
when the ‘World of Art’ presented a common, united front, whether political, social or even purely
artistic.” From his autobiography Moya Zhizn [My Life], 178; quoted in Bowlt, The Silver Age, 64.
82
situation and as a directional guide into the future. For Diaghilev, art should serve
society, but not according to any given set of rules. In this respect, it cannot be
established that the “World of Art” was based on the motto l’art pour l’art, as some
scholars of the Silver Age have contended.
114
Subjectivity, one’s personal emotional feelings towards an object or idea is
associated with the concept of individualism.
115
At the turn of the century, subjectivity
infused new ideas into outdated methods of criticism. Diaghilev treats this topic in
section four of the “Complicated Questions.” No longer were historical facts and
comparisons to be employed or tolerated. Works – literary, artist, musical – were to be
examined and judged on their own intrinsic value and according to the unique
sensitivities of the individual viewer or listener. “One of the major merits of our time, our
generation, is precisely the ability to sense the individual personality….”
116
Just as the
new individual creativity should discard the rules of the past, so to should the new
criticism follow a subjective approach in order to gain access into the artist’s soul and
evaluate his creative work. Evaluating the “development of the artistic personality” and
the “accord between the artist and the viewer” are for Diaghilev essential to the new
criticism. In his opinion, “the desire to turn criticism into a science will never succeed in
resolving the issue of the relative value of talent.”
117
According to Diaghilev, criticism
114
Stuart Grover states that “the journal took as its motto ‘art for art’s sake.’ ” See Grover, 32. In fact, the
motto was “Art is Free, Life is Paralyzed.”
115
According to the Russian Symbolist Vyacheslav Ivanov, “Individualism is a phenomenon of the
subjective consciousness.” This deduction is made in his essay “The Crisis of Individualism” [“Krizis
individualizma,” 1905] in A Revolution of the Spirit: Crisis of Value in Russia, 1890-1924, ed. Bernice
Glatzer Rosenthal and Martha Bohachevsky-Chomiak, trans. Marian Schwartz, (New York: Fordham
University Press, 1990), 171.
116
Diaghilev, “Complicated Questions: The Principles of Artistic Evaluation,” Russian Visual Arts Project,
2.
117
Ibid., 4.
83
of the recent past had been reduced to “pedantic classification” and would lose its
significance in the future. In metaphorical terms he states, “Whereas subjective criticism
diagnoses, objective criticism categorizes the illness and records it in a book of scientific
statistics, reacting with complete indifference to the facts that it has established.”
118
The
same criteria for evaluation – unbiased, non-prejudicial – should be applied equally to
works of the past, present, and future. Artist and critic alike should be free of those
constraints imposed on the previous generations. Neither should fall victim to any
subjugation of conformity. Throughout the nineteenth century criticism dealing with both
the visual and musical arts had developed into a pattern of focusing on comparative
analysis within the historical context, theoretical analysis, and especially nationalist
aspects. For Diaghilev, though, criticism needed to go beyond mere categorization; it had
to assess the inner value of a work of art, the latter being an object created independently
from any factors of historical influence. He states:
In our whole attitude to art we first of all required
independence and freedom; and if we left ourselves the
freedom to judge, we granted the artist complete creative
freedom. We rejected any hint of the non-independence of
art, and our point of departure was man himself, as a
uniquely free creature. All possible surrounding frames had
to be removed. Nature, imagination, truth, content, form,
the picturesque, nationalism – all had to be viewed through
the prism of personality.
119
Moreover, criticism should now serve a dual purpose, to guide the public and to guide the
artist.
120
But guidance, by definition, means direction according to guidelines, or
118
Ibid.
119
Ibid., 5.
120
“It was in that practical guidance, in speaking to the painter as well as to his public, that Diaghilev was
unique, and it is there that one can truly claim for him a creative gift. Criticism at that point ceases to be
academic.” Haskell and Nouvel, Diaghileff, 88.
84
following once again a set of rules. Consequently, guidance must in corresponding
degree inhibit the freedom of creativity and the unconstrained reaction to creativity. This
dual purpose in criticism was in no uncertain terms a novel approach and had not been
restricted to the visual arts. For example, in 1856, four decades before the “World of Art”
movement, the music critic Feofil Tolstoy (1810-1881) had commented:
Criticism is not written for amusement. It is intended
for a twofold purpose: to clarify for readers the composer’s
thoughts, and to indicate to the composer himself what is
defective in his work. Criticism which does not achieve
this dual aim is useless; it is impossible to achieve it without
detailed analysis in both artistic and technical respects.
121
In contrast, defending the positive aspect of unity represented in the notion of
community, Vyacheslav Ivanov cautions against such excessive freedom.
122
But freedom is terrible. Where is the guarantee that
it will not make the freed man an apostate from
the whole and that he will not get lost in the
wilderness of his own isolation?
123
In this, Ivanov aligned himself with Benois, who believed that individualism would lead
to “artistic enslavement.”
124
For these men, an artist needs to work within a given
framework. Benois wrote:
True art survives only where there still exists a certain
mass of ‘subordinating factors’ (frequently unbeknownst
to the artists themselves), only where artists gather to serve
around a familiar dogma: only, in a word, where individualism
is sacrificed to what used to be called a ‘school.’
125
121
Feofil Tolstoy, “Analysis of A. S. Dargomizhsky’s Rusalka,” The Northern Bee (St. Petersburg), 1856,
repr. in Stuart Campbell, ed., Russians on Russian Music, 1830-1880: An Anthology (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 57.
122
Ivanov was acquainted with many contributors of the “World of Art,” but was not directly affiliated.
Indeed, he lived abroad in Western Europe – Greece, Italy, and Switzerland – during the entire lifespan of
the original movement (1898-1904). Ivanov returned to Russia in 1905, settling initially in St. Petersburg.
123
Ivanov, “The Crisis of Individualism,” 166.
124
Benois, 1.
85
In contrast, the composer Peter Tchaikovsky, who was also active as a newspaper
reviewer, opposed the classification and depersonalization of artists into such schools, but
at the same time emphasized the necessity of having a solid understanding of traditions
and compositional techniques. Twenty years before Diaghilev published his manifesto,
Tchaikovsky sent a letter to his patroness Nadezhda von Meck in which he names in
pejorative terms the so-called “Moguchaya Kuchka” (“The Mighty Handful,” including
the composers Balakirev, Musorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui, and Borodin) a “mutual
admiration society.”
126
He complained that “the whole set suffered from one-sidedness,
lack of individuality, and mannerisms . . . had no sound basis, that their mockery of the
schools and the classical masters, their denial of authority and of the masterpieces, was
nothing but ignorance.”
127
Diaghilev, notwithstanding his respect for the Symbolist writers and philosophers,
was too much a man of business to appreciate the profound consequences of a doctrine of
unbridled freedom, which in his assessment provided a basis for the further evolution of
innovative artistic expression. As a capitalist of the arts, Diaghilev was concerned with
promoting things that were original and fashionable; for him, the more freedom granted
to the artist, the more unusual and novel the resulting product. It is this attitude which
later led the Marxist theoretician Georgiy Plekhanov to comment that “art for art’s sake
has become art for money’s sake.”
128
Political commentators in Russia during that era
125
Ibid., 1-2.
126
Peter Tchaikovsky, in a letter to Nadezhda von Meck dated San Remo, December 24, 1877; reprinted in
Fisk, Josiah, ed., Composers on Music: Eight Centuries of Writings (Boston: Northeastern University Press,
2nd ed., 1997; 1st ed. Pantheon Books, 1956), 152.
127
Ibid., 152-53.
128
George Plekhanov, Art and Society, 1912, English version by Granville Hicks (New York: Critics
Group, 1936), 92.
86
such as Plekhanov were often themselves philosophers well-versed in the criticism of
contemporaneous artistic creativity. This will be examined further in Chapter Five.
Related to individualism was the major concern of nationalism and to what degree
and how it could be expressed in a work of art. It was an aspect that aroused the passions
of major critical writers in Russia, especially since the time of Mikhail Glinka (1804-
1857), whom they credited with being the undisputed father of Russian music. This was
not only a point of discussion in major works of Glinka’s such as the operas A Life for the
Tsar (1836) and Ruslan and Ludmila (1842); the works of other composers of that period
and later were measured against the stylistic and technical features of the master’s works.
The influential Russian music theoretician and critic Herman Laroche (1845-1904) made
this point in an 1873 article titled “Russian Musical Composition in Our Day.” In it, he
praised the recitative style of Glinka as being distinctly national in style and also drew
attention to the composer’s unique use of double counterpoint. Citing Glinka’s impact on
other Russian composers, he commented, “With a few exceptions, the Russian composers
who have embarked on a public career since the 1850s have all shown traces of Glinka’s
influence, although this influence has made itself felt in very different ways on the
various natures. Glinka is the Russian Mozart; his genius has not only depth but also
breadth – it was diverse, it embraced much.”
129
The near idol worship of Glinka had
already found expression in the writings of earlier music critics in Russia, among them
two towering figures – archrivals among themselves – Alexander Serov (1820-1871) and
Vladimir Stasov. Evaluating the merits of Glinka’s operas, Serov stated, “Our whole
theory of national identity (narodnost) in operatic music has to rest on Glinka’s works as
129
German [Herman] Laroche, “Russian Musical Composition in Our Day,” The Voice 329 (November 28,
1873); reprinted in Campbell, 260.
87
its foundation-stone. The entire future development of the art of music in Russia is
intimately and inseparably bound up with Glinka’s scores.”
130
In the composition of
Ruslan, Glinka had demonstrated that he possessed a gift – unique among his countrymen
of the time – of incorporating many diverse styles of Russia and Western Europe into a
convincingly unified work – most specifically, native folksong and old church music on
the one hand, and German counterpoint and Italian and French opera styles on the other.
Glinka’s achievements in operatic composition set a national precedent. Under his
influence, both the contemporaneous and future generation of Russian composers
attempted to emulate him, imitating his eclectic style. Their works were evaluated in
consequence according to the standard established in Ruslan. Even Serov, renowned
mainly as a music critic, created two notable operas, Judith (1863) and Rogneda (1865),
into which he, too, attempted to incorporate national and international styles – especially
Italian, which earned him the scorn of another composer-critic, César Cui. Richard
Taruskin points out in his discussion of Serov’s operas that “ ‘Italianism,’ for the likes of
Cui, had become merely a generalized term or mode of abuse.”
131
Serov the critic
endeavored to apply absolutely logical scientific methods in his reviews and analyses of
musical works, this notwithstanding his principle that “Music is an art of expressiveness .
. . . the language of the soul, a reflection of man’s psychological changes, and of inner
spiritual and emotional life.”
132
Regarding the purpose of music criticism, Serov found
130
Alexander Serov, “A Life for the Tsar and Ruslan und Lyudmila,” Russian World 67 (1860); reprinted
in Campbell, 104.
131
Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 229.
132
Alexander Serov, quoted in Bakst, 89; repr. from Groman, A. and D. Zhitomirsky, J. Keldish, M.
Pekelis, Istoriya Russkoy Muziki [History of Russian Music], vol. 2 (Moscow, 1940), 45.
88
that “the main objective is to educate the musical taste of the public.”
133
This, of course,
stands in contrast to the dual purpose of criticism cited above in the opinions of Feofil
Tolstoy and Diaghilev. Furthermore, the fact that Serov finds fundamental criticism to be
“inseparable from purely technical details, and thus from musical examples”
134
is an
untenable argument; it assumes, then, that the general public will have a basic education
in music theory that would allow it to understand his analyses. Laroche implied this very
point when he commented, “Not a single autodidact however gifted, not a single youth
who all of a sudden imagined himself wiser than all good and bad conservatories, can
turn himself into a true, profound Wagnerian – and it is the education of such immature
adherents that Mr. Serov seeks, albeit in vain.”
135
Serov also stated that “only a
comparative anatomy of music can provide a solid buttress for music criticism, revealing
for it realms of inexhaustible riches which are as yet scarcely touched.”
136
It is the
disjunct, non-theoretical, non-systematic style of criticism pervasive in the writings of
Vladimir Stasov that gathered the ire of Serov. In his review of Ruslan, Serov uses his
talents as a gifted essayist not only to analyze the work in a convincing manner, but also
to discredit all of Stasov’s argumentation in favor of the work. According to Serov, he
lacked objectivity and failed to apply in his analyses the method of ‘organic criticism.’
137
For his exaggerated praise of Glinka, Serov labeled Stasov a panegyrist whose
133
Ibid.
134
Campbell, 105.
135
Herman Laroche, “A Note on Mr. Serov’s Lectures on Music,” letter to the editor of The Northern Bee,
no. 110 (May 8, 1864), 559; repr. in Campbell, 89.
136
Serov, “The Role of a Single Motive Through the Whole of Glinka’s Opera ‘A Life for the Tsar,’ ”
Theatrical and Musical Herald 49 (December 13, 1859), 186-92; repr. in Campbell, 94-104.
137
This is a term coined by the poet and literary critic Apollon Grigoriev, with whom Serov was a friend.
See Campbell, 89.
89
uninformed writing was the result of a “paroxysm of rapture.”
138
Serov especially
attacked Stasov’s opinion according to which after Ruslan, “Glinka has only two rivals in
the world of opera – Gluck and Mozart.”
139
Whether to a greater or lesser degree, most Russian composers and critics of the
nineteenth century were profoundly concerned with the issue of nationalism as a factor in
artistic creation. Here, the relevant question arose as to what extent this should play a role
in a given work of art and how it should be expressed there. The composer-critic Dmitry
Struysky (1806-1856) explained the futility of inserting folksongs into a work in order to
bestow it with a national identity (narodnost).
140
This method of quotation, which he
refers to as “counterfeiting,” might appeal to a largely uneducated public attending
musical performances, but it in no way makes a piece national. Consequently, he utilizes
two terms peculiar to the Russian language in order to differentiate between what he
considers to be genuine national identity (narodnost) and the false, or simple national
identity of the common people (prostonarodnost).
141
“. . . our public decides on the basis
of a momentary impression, and not in accordance with the laws of criticism.”
142
For
Struysky, fashion could not be the determining factor in establishing national identity.
Finally, he concludes that, “Music has least need of national identity among all the arts
since by its essence it is the common language of mankind and since it has its own form
which is the least reliant upon the contemporary age.”
143
138
Ibid., 127.
139
Ibid., 106, repeated 127.
140
Dmitry Yuryevich Struysky, “A Few Words about National Identity in Music,” Literary Gazette no. 6
(February 8, 1842), 113-15; repr. in Campbell, 43-47.
141
Ibid., 46.
142
Ibid., 47.
143
Ibid.
90
Important in the relationship to Diaghilev’s “World of Art” as well as the critical
evaluations of Scriabin is the comment of Struysky that “A truly national poet or artist
never seeks national identity, but writes simply, giving expression to what is in his heart
in an elegant form.” This is a characterization that is applicable to the official members of
the “World of Art” as well as those artists who were represented in the exhibitions of the
organization and in the pages of its journal. This includes Scriabin, an inherently Russian
composer despite all testimonies to the contrary citing influences of Chopin, Wagner and
Liszt. Scriabin’s music, to borrow the phrase of Struysky, “has no pretensions and does
not go out of fashion.”
144
Diaghilev would have agreed with this assessment; for him, true
nationalism was an “unconscious” and “involuntary” expression of the artist’s internal
being;
145
it could not be the product of a calculated or planned-out strategy. He
emphasized that, “Nationalism that is held as a principle is a mask and a sign of lack of
respect for the nation. All the crudity of our art in particular flows from this false search:
as if, just by wishing it, you could capture the Russian spirit and convey its essence!”
146
Following this conviction, Diaghilev looked towards Moscow, its provinces, and the local
art colony on Savva Mamontov’s estate, Abramtsevo. In these places he recognized that
artistic activity was producing works reflective of the true national spirit and not
contrived in an affected manner that had resulted from the cultural battles and conflicts
raging in St. Petersburg. In the northern capital city, the pervasive influence of Western
European culture represented to those of Slavophile inclination, such as the critic Stasov,
a menace that threatened to destroy the country’s national identity. In musical terms, this
144
Ibid.
145
Diaghilev, “Complicated Questions,” part four, 5.
146
Ibid.
91
had been playing itself out in the struggle between the Conservatory connected with the
Russian Music Society and the Free Music School, both located in St. Petersburg.
Irrespective of their enmity toward each others’ views, Stasov and Diaghilev were both
concerned with securing and protecting a nationalist style in Russia art and music. In the
case of Diaghilev, however, an all-inclusive, non-confrontational approach provided the
basis of his personal philosophy and determined the key direction of his organization, the
“World of Art.” In this respect both he and Mamontov were in accord; they recognized
the importance of exposing Russian artists and the Russian public in general to the latest
trends in the West.
147
Neither viewed this as a threat that would some day jeopardize the
national identity or extinguish the Russian spirit. Diaghilev wrote, “The true Russian
nature is too elastic to break under the influence of the west.”
148
Bringing many diverse
styles together became the hallmark of the “World of Art” movement. This has led one of
the foremost scholars in the area of “Silver Age” research, John Bowlt, to claim that,
“This aspiration towards synthesism was perhaps the greatest legacy of the ‘World of
Art.’ ”
149
Synthesis – consolidating various art forms – existed as a concept in Russia
already before the “World of Art”; the tendency had prevailed there through the better
part of the nineteenth century. In the works of Glinka discussed above there had been an
eclecticism present that could classify the composer as a synthesist.
150
Later, the
influence of Wagner in Russia was to play a significant role in this respect; it would
147
Some of the artists under Mamontov’s patronage were sent abroad to familiarize them with international
styles. See Grover, 30.
148
Diaghilev, “Complicated Questions,” part four, 6.
149
John Bowlt, The Silver Age, 64.
150
Richard Leonard, A History of Russian Music (London: Jarrolds, 1956), 50.
92
affect the positions of all the critics and composers working in the second half of the
nineteenth century into the beginning of the twentieth. During this period, synthesism
would determine the direction of thinking of the Symbolists, the main musical exponent
of whom was Alexander Scriabin.
Viewed on a grand scale, synthesism can apply to the historical situation of art
and literature at the turn of the century. The philosopher-poet Andrei Bely (1884-1930)
described the development in Hegelian terms. The period of Positivism represented the
thesis followed by a reaction, the antithesis, of the so-called and disputed period of
Decadence
151
; the synthesis of the two manifested itself in the phenomenon known as
Symbolism. Russian scholar John Elsworth explains Bely’s position in the following
way:
For in its emphasis on only one aspect of man’s
nature, decadence was no more capable than
positivism of becoming the basis of a new organic
culture. The solution to this problem is to be found
in the synthesis of these opposing ideologies, the
philosophy that arises from their conflict – Symbolism.
152
The whole construct, however, presupposed that a condition of decadence existed, which,
as explained above, was emphatically denied by Diaghilev.
The concept of synthesism came to touch nearly every aspect of life in Russia –
culturally and politically. It was perceived as a manifestation of some not yet attainable
wholeness, i.e., all-unity. For example, bringing the East and West together was a major
151
John Bowlt writes, “According to Igor Grabar, the term was introduced to Russia by his brother,
Vladimir, in an article “Parnasstsy i Dekadany” [“Parnassians and Decadents”] published in Moscow in
January, 1889. See The Silver Age, 92
152
John Elsworth, “Andrei Bely’s Theory of Symbolism,” in Barnes, Christopher J., ed., Studies in
Twentieth Century Russian Literature (New York: Harper and Row, 1976), 24-25. Elsworth cites A. Bely,
Nachalo Veka [The Beginning of the Century] (Moscow-Leningrad, 1933), 112.
93
concern in religious-philosophical circles; they viewed it as an assigned task to be
accomplished with Russia in the messianic role of spiritual leadership. Before this could
happen, however, internal conflicts on many levels, emanating especially from the
country’s two main cities, needed to be confronted. In broadly stated terms, positions in
rational, conservative St. Petersburg and irrational, yet progressive Moscow would need
to be reconciled. Although representatives of both camps found themselves in each city,
the general tendency followed the above scheme. The differences have been cited and
explained by numerous experts in the field. The art being produced in St. Petersburg, for
example, tended to lean on a formal accuracy emphasizing a linear and graphic aspect; in
Moscow, art was more centered around the manipulation of color, which was thought to
be able to depict more the inner life and soul of the artist.
94
Chapter 3
Philosophical Perspectives
The development of Russian philosophy throughout the nineteenth century, amid diverse
ideologies, provided the intellectual and historical context that made the cultural
phenomenon of Alexander Scriabin possible. The concept of unity – and specifically re-
unification – that played a central role in the composer’s creativity was pervasive in
Russian thinking of the decades preceding Scriabin’s appearance. Unity, interpreted
variously in terms such as ‘wholeness,’ ‘oneness,’ ‘absolute,’ ‘pan-unity,’ ‘all-unity,’
‘ecumenism,’ ‘sobornost’ (conciliarity), ‘sbornost’ (collectivism)
1
, leads back to the
teachings of the Eastern Church. This feature distinguishes Orthodoxy from Roman
Catholicism, which emphasizes the individual. The concept of unity provides the
background for the various directions of thought and polemics that characterize Russian
criticism of Scriabin. Like a main thread, unity runs through numerous philosophical
writings – religious, social, political, aesthetic – of all the major Russian thinkers from
that time into the twentieth century. The persistent and tight focus on unity is also a factor
distinguishing Russian philosophy from its West European counterparts.
Until the second quarter of the nineteenth century Russia did not possess a
national school of philosophy. Ideas that were discussed in intellectual circles drew
predominantly on the teachings of German philosophers, in particular Kant, Fichte,
Schelling, and Hegel. This situation changed abruptly with the publication in 1836 of the
first so-called Philosophical Letter of Pyotr Chaadayev (1794-1856). In this long exposé,
1
The word sbornost is an invented word altered from sbornik (collection) as a euphonious contrast to
sobornost.
95
the author characterizes Russia’s position in the world in very negative terms. Discussing
the isolation of Russia, he writes:
It is one of the most deplorable traits of our peculiar civilization
that we are still discovering truths which other peoples, even
some much less advanced than we, have taken for granted. The
reason is that we have never marched with the other peoples.
We do not belong to any of the great families of the human race;
we are neither of the West nor of the East, and we have not the
traditions of either. Placed, as it were, outside of time, we have
not been touched by the universal education of the human race. . . .
But where are our wise men, may I ask, where are our philosophers?
Who has ever thought for us, who thinks for us today? And yet,
placed between the two great divisions of the world, between the
East and the West, resting one elbow on China and the other on
Germany, we ought to combine in ourselves the two great principles
of human intelligence, imagination and reason, and fuse in our
civilization the history of all parts of the globe. But that is not the
role Providence has assigned to us. On the contrary, It seems to have
given no thought to our destiny. Excluding us from Its beneficient
influence on the minds of men, It has left us entirely to ourselves;
It would have none of us, and It has taught us nothing.
2
Chaadayev’s inflammatory statements, which Alexander Herzen described as a “shot
ringing out in a dark night,”
3
marked the beginning of intense debate and can be
considered one main impetus in the development of a national school of philosophy in
Russia. In spite of his negative assessment, Chaadayev sees a future mission for the
Russian nation, one that is based specifically on Christianity. He calls upon the Russian
people to reaffirm their religious beliefs as a means to release them from the shackles of
foreign influence and to establish their own identity and future success. He writes:
2
Pyotr Chaadayev, “Letters on the Philosophy of History: First Letter,” in Marc Raeff, ed., Russian
Intellectual History: An Anthology (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1978; originally published
New York: Harcourt, Brace, & World, Inc., 1966), 160-73. This letter, one of eight, was written in French
in 1829, but first translated and published in Russian in 1836. As a result, under Tsar Nicholas I Chaadayev
was declared insane and placed under house arrest, the censor dismissed, and the journal Teleskop in which
the letter was published, suspended. See Vassili Zenkovsky, A History of Russian Philosophy, vol. 1 (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1967; originally published London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd.,
1953), 150.
3
Zenkovsky, 150.
96
The weakness of our faith or the inadequacy of our dogma
has kept us out of this universal movement in which the
social concept of Christianity was formulated and developed,
relegating us to the category of peoples who are to profit only
indirectly and very late from the full effects of Christianity,
we must seek by every means at our command to revive our
faith and to give ourselves a truly Christian impetus; for
everything in Europe was achieved through Christianity.
4
Parallel to this admonishment, Chaadayev found Orthodoxy, the original Christianity, at
the root of Russia’s backwardness. In contrast to Roman Catholicism, which placed
emphasis on the individual, thereby providing a context for dialogue and exchange of
ideas, the rigidity of Orthodoxy tolerated no deviation from the established dogma
considered inviolable by the Eastern Church fathers. Such attempts were regarded as
heresy. This stifling of intellectual development, of natural evolution, had facilitated the
subsequent willingness of Russia to import cultural and philosophical ideas from the
West. It was time now for Russia to mature in order to assume an equal role among
civilized nations. This could only occur through the interaction of ideas.
The whole history of modern society takes place in the realm
of opinion. Consequently, true education lies there. Initially
organized on that basis, modern society has progressed solely
through thought. Its interests have always followed, and never
preceded, ideas. Opinions have always given rise to interests,
and never interests to opinions. All its political revolutions were,
in principle, moral revolutions. Men sought the truth, and found
freedom and prosperity. This is the explanation of the phenomenon
ofmodern society and its civilization; it would otherwise be
incomprehensible.
5
Chaadayev also analyzed Russia’s past isolation as a stage perhaps necessary for its
future role in the world – the redemption of mankind.
4
Raeff, 170.
5
Ibid.
97
We may be said to be an exception among peoples. We are
one of those nations which do not appear to be an integral
part of the human race, but exist only in order to teach some
great lesson to the world.
6
The idea expressed here is an example of another aspect of Russian philosophy that
gained momentum during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries – Messianism. It
manifested itself both in a chauvinistic nationalism as well as universalism and appeared
in many colorations, both sacred and secular. The concepts of world theocracy and of
communism, for example, describe forms of totalitarian states striving towards
universalism. It was also the idea of Messianism that later would seize the mind of
Scriabin and influence his creativity. This was not unusual at that time and cannot be
attributed to any pathological disorder of the composer. Many Russia thinkers of the
nineteenth century had validated the existence of their country and hence themselves
through the idea of a preordained mission that would unite humanity and all humanity
with God, the Absolute. In his letters of 1835 addressed to the eminent Russian novelist
Ivan Turgenyev (1818-1883), Chaadayev writes:
. . . Russia has been summoned to an immense intellectual
career: she must, one day, provide a solution for all the questions
which have been debated in Europe. . . . We are destined to teach
Europe an infinity of things which she could not understand
without us. . . .Such is the logical result of our long solitude. . . .
Our universal mission has begun.
7
It was during this period that a schism occurred in Russian society. Two camps
developed: one leaning towards the teachings of the West, referred to as the
Westernizers; the other a purely nationalist movement, referred to as the Slavophiles.
6
Ibid., 164.
7
Quoted in Zenkovsky, 168.
98
From Chaadayev’s comments, one might ascertain that his position appealed to the
Slavophiles; and initially it did. But later they realized that he was a Westernizer aligned
with Russian literary critic Vissarion Belinsky (1811-1848) and they rejected him
completely. Chaadayev admired the historical achievements of the West, which he
attributed to the guidance of Roman Catholicism, and viewed the Pope as ‘a visible sign
of unity.’
8
For Chaadeyev, unity meant and presupposed the ‘unity of the church.’
9
Among the leading Slavophiles of the mid-nineteenth century, the idea of unity is
expressed in the term sobornost (conciliarity). The word refers to a spiritual community,
but has been subject to various interpretations. The concept indicating an “organic
togetherness” was developed extensively in the writings of Alexsei Khomyakov (1804-
1860). He completely rejected the idea of individualism associated with Western thought.
“The isolated individual is marked by complete impotence and irreconcilable discord.”
10
For Khomyakov, sobornost was an ideological component of Orthodoxy. It signified
unity in freedom, the latter representing the truth found solely in the teachings of the
Eastern Church.
11
Here the concept had an ecclesiological meaning, i.e., referring to the
function of the church, and was incompatible with later secular ideas associated with
collectivism. Sobornost also provided the only foundation for the acquisition of
knowledge. “The truth is inaccessible to individual thinkers. It is accessible only to an
aggregate of thinkers, bound together by love.”
12
Khomyakov’s doctrine of sobornost
provided the basis for further investigation found in the writings of the most important
8
Ibid., 165.
9
Ibid.
10
Khomyakov, quoted in Zenkovsky, 189.
11
Andrzej de Lazari and Ivan Esaulov, “Sobornost,” in Andrzej de Lazari, ed., Ideas in Russia, vol. 1
(Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Semper, 1999), 369-81.
12
Khomyakov, quoted in Zenkovsky, 191.
99
Russian philosophers including Vladimir Solovyov (1853-1900), Sergei Bulgakov (1871-
1944), and Nikolai Berdyayev (1874-1948). It is significant that the latter two, disciples
of Solovyov, were in frequent contact with Scriabin after the composer’s return to
Moscow in 1910 up until the time of his death. There does not appear to be any
documented evidence, however, that indicates Scriabin ever met Solovyov. But he was
familiar with his work, which will be discussed below.
Vladimir Solovyov is regarded as the most significant Russian philosopher. His
influence on contemporaries and future generations is undisputed. The encomiums have
been numerous. One eminent Russian philosopher, Nikolai Lossky (1870-1965),
characterized his fellow countryman as “the first to create an original Russian system of
philosophy and to lay the foundation of a whole school of Russian religious and
philosophical thought which is still growing and developing.”
13
The importance of
Solovyov’s writings was demonstrated by the immense undertaking on the centennial of
his birth to translate them into German, a task requiring just over a quarter of a century.
14
Drawing on the doctrine of sobornost, Solovyov promoted the idea of unity of mankind
in the form of a world theocracy. As with Khomyakov, his theories were based in
Christianity, but in contrast to the former, Solovyov sought reconciliation and
reunification of the Eastern and Western churches, hence a fusing of ideas to bring about
unity. Thus, among the many aspects of his philosophy, Hegelian dialectics and synthesis
13
Nikolai Lossky, History of Russian Philosophy (New York: International Universities Press, Inc., 1951),
133.
14
Deutsche Gesamtausgabe der Werke von Wladimir Solowjew, vols. 1-8 (Freiburg: Erich Wewel Verlag,
1953-1980).
100
assumed a major role.
15
It is in the concept of sobornost and the synthetic method
employed to achieve this goal of unity that we find the connection between Solovyov and
Scriabin. Some scholars have analyzed the composer’s final project, Mysterium, left
incomplete by his untimely death, as an act of sobornost.
16
Prince Sergei Trubetskoi – Philosopher and Friend of Scriabin.
Philosophical ideas influenced Scriabin from adolescence until the time of his
death. Indeed, he collected ideas, assimilating many of them into what one could call a
highly personal intellectual position. Calling it “philosophy” would be in this case
perhaps inappropriate, since his concept of the world lacked the solid continual
development of an idea or ideas – an approach one finds present in traditional
philosophy. This situation, however, was not unusual in Russia during the time of
Scriabin. Prince Sergei Nikolaevich Trubetskoi (1865-1905), professor of the history of
philosophy at Moscow University and close friend of the composer, observed:
For [Russians] have never gone through scientific training,
and random, arbitrary philosophizing is the norm. Our
philosophical views are often determined by chance readings
and arguments and by traits of the character and the education
[of their proponents]. What is missing is the regularizing
discipline of the mind.
17
15
In the Soviet Encyclopedia of Philosophy (1970 edition), nearly equal coverage is dedicated to Solovyov
as to Friedrich Engels, testifying to the prominent role he played in the development of Russian philosophy.
Solovyov is praised as a “dialectic and utopian-progressive philosopher.” See Wilhelm Goerdt, Russische
Philosophie: Zugänge und Durchblicke (Freiburg/Munich: Verlag Karl Alber, 1984), 474-75.
16
“Die Sobornost-Handlung” in Lobanova, Marina, Mystiker, Magier, Theosoph, Theurg: Alexander
Skrjabin und seine Zeit (Hamburg: von Bockel Verlag, 2004), 123-41.
17
Sergei N. Trubetskoi, Sobranie Sochinenii [Collected Works], vol. 2 (Moscow : L. M. Lopatin, 1907-
1912), 2; quoted in Bohachevsky-Chomiak, Martha, Sergei N. Trubetskoi: An Intellectual Among the
Intelligentsia in Prerevolutionary Russia (Belmont, MA: Nordland Publishing Company, 1976), 40.
101
One might view such a provocative statement as an over-generalization of a nation’s
incapacity to study and develop philosophical directions, but it is duly applicable with
regard to Scriabin. The composer himself was aware of the deficiency in his intellectual
training, according to Leonid Sabaneyev. The latter relates one conversation in which
Scriabin lamented, “I am simply a layman. One cannot mention it to anyone, but my
entire education I received in the Cadet Corps with merely four years of middle school!
It is an utter scandal!”
18
This statement provides one logical reason for Scriabin’s
cultivation of friendship more frequently with contemporaneous philosophers than with
other musicians and composers. The former group acted as a substitute for the education
he missed during his adolescence. Sabaneyev’s grounding in both areas, for example,
placed him in the advantageous position of being able to interact with Scriabin on a
regular basis. In an article published in 1931, he recalled, “Scriabin was an untrained,
amateur philosopher, though real philosophers were at times amazed at the truth and
power of his sentiments.”
19
At the same time, however, he classifies Scriabin among
other great Russian minds of the nineteenth century. “His was the perturbed and inquiring
soul of the typically Russian thinker, such as Dostoevsky and Vladimir Solovyov, who
states his problems with childlike fearlessness and dares to gaze into the abyss.”
20
In fact,
it was Solovyov, father of the Russian Neo-Christian movement, whose very strong
influence on the Russian Symbolist poets and religious transcendentalist thinkers
indirectly impacted Scriabin’s personal direction of thought and musical creativity.
18
Leonid Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya o Skriabine [Reminiscences of Scriabin] (Moscow: State Publishing
House, 1925; repr. Moscow: Klassika 21, 2000), 211.
19
Sabaneyev, “Scriabin and the Idea of a Religious Art,” 72, no. 1063 Musical Times (Sept. 1931): 791.
20
Ibid.
102
The link between Russia’s greatest philosopher Solovyov and Scriabin is found
initially in the composer’s friendship with Prince Trubetskoi, which began around 1898.
21
Vladimir Solovyov was a founding member of the Moscow Psychological Society of
which Sergei Trubetskoi and his brother Evgeny, both philosophers, were members.
Notwithstanding the official designation, the society was primarily a venue for the
discussion of philosophical questions, providing an atmosphere less susceptible to
government censorship.
22
Trubetskoi introduced Scriabin into the society, where he, too,
became a member and was able to familiarize himself with contemporaneous
philosophical issues and interact with some of the great intellectual minds of Moscow.
But there is no evidence among the numerous biographies or collected correspondence
that support an actual meeting of Scriabin and Solovyov. According to the testimonies of
both Sabaneyev and the composer’s brother-in-law, Boris de Schloezer, Scriabin found
the fundamentally Christian premises of Solovyov’s thinking opposed to his own. In his
biography on Scriabin, Schloezer writes:
He felt equally out of sympathy with the religious mysticism of
Vladimir Solovyov and spoke of it with a certain condescension
and even derision. Religiosity was to him at that time a symptom
of weakness of will, and he equated mysticism with superstition.
23
21
The Soviet musicologist Igor Belsa names without further citation 1898 as the first year of contact
between Trubetskoi and Scriabin. See Igor Belsa, Skrjabin, German trans. Christoph Hellmundt (Berlin:
Verlag Neue Musik, 1986; originally published Moscow: Muzyka, 1982), 110. This is plausible in that
Trubetskoi was familiar enough with Scriabin to write a review of the Moscow premiere of the composer’s
Piano Concerto on March 12, 1899. This article was published in the Moscow Courier. See Faubion
Bowers, Scriabin (New York: Dover, 1996, second revised edition; originally published Palo Alto:
Kodansha, 1969), 260.
22
“This society, despite its name, was the largest and longest-lasting philosophical society in the modern
Russian Empire. It was founded in 1885 by a group of largely liberal scholars who were interested in
establishing an additional forum for the intellectuals, as well as in popularizing the study of psychology.
They hoped that this new discipline, untainted with political implications, would be less mistrusted by the
government than philosophy, with its tradition of alleged collusion with revolutionary doctrines.” See
Bohachevsky-Chomiak, 66.
23
Boris de Schloezer, Scriabin: Artist and Mystic, trans. Nicolas Slonimsky (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1987, originally published Berlin: Grani, 1923), 65.
103
Any rejection of mysticism on the part of Scriabin can only have been associated with his
complete rejection of Christianity during that period. This form of religion stood in
conflict with his own aspirations regarding his grand vision of the Mysterium, an
apocalyptic act involving the transfiguration of mankind. Sabaneyev demonstrates this
point emphatically when quoting Scriabin:
As peculiar as it may seem, Christianity attempts to involve
mankind in the material sense in order to draw it away from
its mystic origins. If you observe, it is exactly with Christianity
that our great cultural age begins, that which we call civilization.
Everything here is interconnected. That is why Christian mysticism
appears so material and primitive compared to the mysticism of
other races. Today, Christianity has served its purpose and
should vanish. The purpose of the Mysterium and Christianity
stand somehow diametrically opposed to one another and
pursue opposite goals.
24
Later in his life the composer himself would be consumed by mystic ideas, not however
drawn from Christianity, but from Theosophy and Indian culture. His final opus,
Mysterium, can be characterized as a mystic project.
The main thread running through the writings of Solovyov, “all-unity,” does find
common ground in the thinking of Scriabin. A future utopia, the attainment of
“wholeness,” found expression in the work of both men. In 1888, Solovyov wrote,
“Universal history is nothing other than the realization of utopias. . . .”
25
But the utopia
that he envisioned was world theocracy under Christian domination, which is tantamount
to collectivism under the leadership of God. In contrast, Scriabin’s vision represented the
“dematerialization” of mankind returning to the “wholeness,” which is divinity. This
24
Alexander Scriabin, quoted in Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 191-92.
25
Vladimir Solovyov, from his pamphlet L’idée russe (1888, in French) quoted in Frank, S. L., ed., A
Solovyov Anthology (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1974; originally published, London: SCM Press Ltd.,
1950), 18.
104
provided the ideological basis for the works he composed in his middle and late periods.
Initially, the Russian newspapers referred to Scriabin’s Third Symphony, Le divin
poème (1903), as the composer’s Philosophical Symphony.
26
The music here symbolized
the reunification of man with the “divine” as the composer had idealized in his
philosophy.
In their utopian endeavors towards unity, Solovyov and Scriabin were futurists, a
fact recognized and appreciated by later generations of Russian philosophers.
Scriabin’s regard for the world as it appears to us at the
present time was conditioned by his vision of the future,
of a world that ought to be, of a world that will assume
a new form inconceivable to our senses.
27
Neither man could accept the status quo in their society. They rejected the Positivism of
the second half of the nineteenth century. Its emphasis on individual achievement posed a
hindrance towards the future spiritual unification of mankind. This subject matter
provided the content of Solovyov’s master’s thesis (1874), titled The Crisis of Western
Philosophy: Against the Positivists. This thesis attacks rational philosophy as darkness
and “death in life” and it calls for a renewal of Christian faith.
28
In this work, Solovyov
exposes the weaknesses of rationalism and empiricism in proving that “both equally deny
the being of the known itself as well as of the knower, transferring the whole truth into
the act of cognition.”
29
Though not a Christian, Scriabin would later dismiss any rational
analysis introduced in debate to undermine his own arguments and positions. “As a
26
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 25.
27
Schloezer, 57.
28
Lossky, 82.
29
Vladimir Solovyov, The Crisis of Western Philosophy; quoted in Peter Zouboff, Godmanhood as the
Main Idea of the Philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov (Poughkeepsie: Harmon Printing House, 1944), 46.
105
rationalist you cannot understand what I have to say.”
30
On the other hand, both Scriabin
and Solovyov used rationalist thinking to justify their respective irrational idealistic
constructs. Ultimately, there was faith which could be introduced to substantiate the
metaphysical. Having observed the composer in discussion, Schloezer writes:
This faith, which excluded all compromise, was generated
by the irrational impulse which possessed him and which
he tried to rationalize, an impulse that demanded its realization
in himself. He never doubted the absolute truth and importance
of the inner voice that he heard in his soul. When it was questioned,
he responded as a fanatic, refusing to grant any concessions
and categorically dismissing all arguments by referring to
his own inner experience as an ultimo ratio.
31
In search of a system leading towards absolute unity, the composer and the philosopher
attempted to consolidate reason and faith. Solovyov wrote, “The aim of my work is to
justify the faith of our fathers, to raise it to a new level of rational consciousness, to show
that the ancient faith . . . coincides with eternal and universal truth.”
32
Solovyov and
Scriabin worked actively towards achieving their utopian goals. It is a characteristic
feature of Russian philosophy to move beyond passive commentary and attempt the
realization of ideas – a project science.
33
In this respect, Scriabin’s creative activity
reflects some of the ideas found in Solovyov’s works. In his essay “The Meaning of Art,”
Solovyov writes:
The final task of perfect art is to realize the absolute ideal
not in imagination only but in very deed – to spiritualize
and transfigure our actual life. If it be said that such a task
30
Schloezer, 62.
31
Ibid., 59-60.
32
Vladimir Solovyov, from The History and Future of Theocracy; quoted in Zenkovsky, 490.
33
Fedor Stepun (1884-1965), Mystische Weltschau: Fünf Gestalten des russischen Symbolismus (Munich:
Carl Hanser, 1964), 63.
106
transcends the limits of art, the question may well be asked,
who has laid down those limits?
34
In his attempt to create his final work, Mysterium, Scriabin was defying any set limits.
Both men died early deaths, however, leaving their dreams of unity unfulfilled. Scriabin,
who had continually rejected the Christian-dominated parameters of Solovyov’s
philosophy, began in his later years to read and absorb some of the latter’s eschatological
ideas, applying them to the Mysterium.
35
In the last few years before his death, Solovyov
had distanced himself from his earlier hopes of universal theocracy and concerned
himself with an apocalyptic end to the world.
36
This position now resonated with Scriabin
and his vision of a “dematerialization” process leading back to the complete “wholeness,”
the ultimate goal of the Mysterium.
37
As fantastic as this may seem, the concept was not
unique or peculiar to Scriabin. The Russian philosopher Lev Karsavin (1882-1952) dealt
with “dematerialization” extensively in his metaphysical theory of dynamic ontology
describing the three stages: 1. primal unity, 2. disjoining, and 3. reunification.
38
The
material philosophers George Plekhanov and Vladimir Lenin were also familiar with
these contemporaneous theories. Here, science, philosophy, and religion came
tangentially close to one another.
In attempting to reconcile philosophy and religion, Sergei Trubetskoi provided a
link between the ideas of Solovyov and Scriabin. Advocating the goal of all-unity and
continuing to develop the theory of sobornost, he was a disciple of Solovyov. The latter
34
Vladimir Solovyov, “The Meaning of Art,” in Frank, S. L., ed., A Solovyov Anthology (Westport:
Greenwood Press, 1974; originally published London: SCM Press Ltd., 1950), 149.
35
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 318.
36
Zenkovsky, 478.
37
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 278.
38
Zenkovsky, 845-46.
107
had pleaded already for a “universal synthesis of science, philosophy and religion” in his
Crisis of Western Philosophy.
39
In contrast to Solovyov, however, Trubetskoi did not
dismiss completely the abstract theories of knowledge as laid out by the German
philosopher Immanuel Kant; instead, the latter’s mixture of transcendental and critical
thought provided a foundation for the further development of Trubetskoi’s own ideas and
those of contemporaneous Russian philosophers.
Communality and brotherly love also proved to be defining features of his
philosophy, which he applied practically in daily life.
40
As with Solovyov, though, his
religious convictions presented an obstacle between him and Scriabin. For Trubetskoi,
the Christian God was necessary in order to achieve “wholeness.”
41
Scriabin
acknowledged a higher being, but would seldom refer to it as God, using instead terms
such as “the eternal” and “the infinite.”
42
Further, Scriabin and Solovyov had difficulty
admitting rationalism into their metaphysical constructs of all-unity, but Trubetskoi
recognized its importance. Under the prevailing influence of Kant and as a Russian neo-
idealist, he applied rationalist thinking to one of his most important works, “The
Foundations of Idealism”:
If authentic being is knowable even in part, it accords
with the laws of our reason – the general logical laws of
our thought; consequently, these general logical forms,
the categories to which our thought is subject, are at the
same time the inner laws, forms, and categories of authentic
being. The logical principle of our knowledge is at the
same time the universal principle of the authentic being
which we know.
43
39
Zenkovsky, 487.
40
Bohachevsky-Chomiak, 42.
41
Ibid., 27.
42
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 140-41.
43
Sergei Trubetskoi, quoted in Zenkovsky, 800.
108
Trubetskoi’s neo-idealism, therefore, did not dismiss bluntly all aspects of positivism.
But it did recognize limitations in positivist theory; these should be addressed by a
philosophy of consciousness in which the personal, the collective, and the absolute are all
interconnected.
44
In his essay “On the Nature of Human Consciousness” (1889),
Trubetskoi states, “The question of the nature of consciousness is the principal question
of philosophy, not only of psychology; for in consciousness we know everything that we
know.” This general line of reasoning was typical for Trubetskoi, who attempted to
reconcile and unify the scientific methods with ideas of religion. For him there were three
ways of knowing reality: empirically, rationally, and through faith.
45
Scriabin, too,
attempted to justify his personal philosophy using a scientific method; beyond this was
the refuge of faith – to accept that without metaphysics there are facts that cannot be
explained with empirical evidence. Recently, one philosophy scholar, Randall Poole, has
pointed out that “Transcendental idealism corroborates one of Trubetskoi’s central ideas,
that being in itself must be taken on faith since it cannot be theoretically proved.”
46
Without faith – and for Trubetskoi this meant Orthodoxy – the concept of the universal
whole based on inner consciousness could not exist. Here, too, one can perceive the
characteristic ambiguity in Scriabin’s reasoning that later would help to preserve his
posthumous cultural fame in Russian-Soviet society. On the one hand, he rejected
rationalism as incompatible with understanding his theories of “dematerialization”; on the
other hand, he sought to apply rationalism to explain and justify his fantastic ideas. The
44
Randall A. Poole, “The Neo-Idealist Reception of Kant in the Moscow Psychological Society,” Journal
of the History of Ideas, 60, no.2 (April 1999): 320.
45
L. J. Schein, “S. N. Trubetskoi’s Weltanschauung,” Russian Review, 24, no. 2 (April, 1965): 128-37.
46
Poole, 325.
109
near fanaticism and obsession with which the composer would pursue these ideas came
years after the death of Trubetskoi.
In the meantime and under the influence of the prince, Scriabin continued to
attend the meetings of the Moscow Psychological Society, expanding his knowledge of
the history and techniques of philosophical inquiry. In addition, Trubetskoi’s musical
interests – he and his wife Praskovya were amateur pianists – also provided a basis for an
intimate friendship in which ideas could be actively exchanged.
47
From this period, too,
proceeds Scriabin’s knowledge of Kant, whose influence on the Russian neo-idealists is
now an undisputed fact. Discussing this subject, Randall Poole states:
Trubetskoi’s emphasis on the necessary autonomy and
equal rights of the relative and absolute spheres is a distinctly
Kantian insight which deeply informed not only theoretical
but also social philosophy among neo-idealists in the
Moscow Psychological Society.
48
Scriabin’s initial fascination with Kant’s transcendental idealism led the composer to
attempt proselytizing his less informed friends. In a letter dated April 3 (16), 1904 to his
wealthy student and patroness, Margarita Morozova (1873-1958), Scriabin advised:
You must become acquainted with Kant as soon as possible
as well as some Fichte, Schelling and Hegel, at least through
a general book on the history of philosophy. The Fouillée text
book is not very good. German philosophy is not presented
well in it. Get ahold of the History of Modern Philosophy by
Überweg-Heinze. Although this work is somewhat clumsy,
it is complete and easy to take in at first glance, which for
the time being is the most important thing for you. Using the
Kuno Fischer book, you can become acquainted with Kant.
47
Scriabin’s aunt Lyubov recalled in her memoirs, “Trubetskoi would always place his chair near to the
piano and listen two or three hours at a time while Sasha [Alexander] would be working on a new piece or
preparing a recital. And of course, this would in no way hinder them from carrying on long conversations
afterwards.” Quoted in Belsa, 114.
48
Poole, 330.
110
When you know all that, it will be easier for me to work with
you and then you will soon understand my theory.
49
The above comments indicate that Scriabin attached much importance to Kant at this
time and attempted at least to assimilate some of the philosopher's ideas into his
creativity.
50
The degree to which Trubetskoi played a role here cannot be determined
exactly. Gradually, though, Scriabin distanced himself from Kant as he became more
familiar with the mystical ideas associated with Theosophy and then through his
acquaintance with the ideas of other German philosophers, particularly Johann Fichte
(1762-1814).
51
The testimony (1941) of the philosopher Boris Focht (1875-1946), a
student of Sergei Trubetskoi and a lifelong friend of Scriabin, provides evidence of the
composer’s later aversion to Kant and enthusiasm for Fichte.
52
After several years apart,
the two men came together again in Moscow in 1910. They engaged in heated discussion
concerning ontological questions and the function of the musical genius. Scriabin
informed Focht immediately, “I have a high regard for Fichte, whose ideas seem to me
decisive and reformative. I have given musical expression to the main principle of the
49
Alexander Scriabin, in A. Kashperov., ed., A Scriabin: Pisma [Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka,
1965), 307. The theory to which Scriabin referred in the last sentence concerned his orchestral composition
Poème de l’extase (1904-7). The philosophical idea in this work was again the return to unity, here through
a confluence of the masculine and feminine elements, i.e., leading back to an androgynous whole.
Solovyov, too, had treated the topic of androgyny extensively in his essay “The Meaning of Love” (1892-
4), a work that would have significant impact on the two generations of Russian Symbolist thinkers.
50
Scriabin does not discuss the application of Kantian theories to his work. It may be inferred, however,
that he drew on Kant’s methods of rationalism and empiricism to legitimize his own creative efforts.
51
In September, 1904, Scriabin attended the Geneva International Congress of Philosophy, where he
became familiar with the works of Fichte. Sigfried Schibli has demonstrated the influence of Fichte on
Scriabin during this period. See Schibli, Alexander Skrjabin und seine Musik (Munich: Piper, 1983), 285-
86.
52
Boris Focht, “Filosofia Muziki A. N. Skriabin” [The Philosophy of the Music of A. N. Scriabin], in
Skriabin: Chelovyek, Khudozhnik, Mislitel [Scriabin: Man, Artist, Thinker] (Moscow: The Scriabin State
Memorial Museum, 1994), 201-25. In this essay (202), Focht flatters himself in recalling the following
remark by Scriabin: “As for Sergei Nikolaevich Trubetskoi, what a loss! I decided that after his death
[1905] I could discuss only with you the larger philosophical issues.” The fact that the name Boris Focht is
not found in any other primary sources of Scriabin literature leads one to valuate such a comment written
25 years after the composer’s own death with a certain caution.
111
Fichtean philosophy: the ‘I.’ ”
53
In regard to Fichte’s predecessor, Scriabin now believed
that “Kantian transcendental idealism with a closed system of categories posed a clear
hindrance for the understanding of universal being.”
54
In other words, according to
Scriabin the teachings of Kant prevented achieving the “wholeness,” or sobornost, which
represented not only to the composer, but generations of Russian thinkers before and after
him, the ultimate goal.
Vladimir Solovyov and Vladimir Ivanov – Religion and Symbolism.
The attempts to achieve unity – sobornost – in Russia took place on different
levels. This utopian ideal came to be referred to as the “Russian Idea” and is found in the
writings of, among others, Dostoevsky, Solovyov, Ivanov, and Berdyayev. The diverse
interpretations of the concept – religious, nationalist, political, and mystic-erotic-
symbolist – united the Russian thinkers in a way that reflects the original Orthodox
definition of sobornost – freedom and unity in diversity. In practice, however, the
diversity was less apparent; this was exhibited in the contentious argumentation among
Russian clerics, philosophers, and political figures in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries. Still, there was an overall sense that Russia had a special mission to fulfill in
the world, for which Dostoevsky coined the phrase “universal panhuman unification.”
55
As mentioned above, Solovyov aspired towards a “universal theocracy.” Russian
philosophy was driven steadily by the varying ideas of unification in a determined effort
53
Ibid., 202.
54
Ibid., 211.
55
James Scanlan, Dostoevsky the Thinker (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2004), 198.
112
to reach the final objective – “wholeness.” The messianic role that Russia was to perform
also found cultural expression in the form of mystic symbolism in poetry, art, and music.
Another link connecting the ideas of Solovyov to Scriabin was formed by the
Russian poet and philosopher Viacheslav Ivanov (1866-1949). Ivanov belonged to the
second generation of Russian Symbolist poets. This group distinguished itself from the
first in the application of art as a means to an end beyond mere pleasure; in other words it
dissociated itself from the French aesthetic principle l’art pour l’art, which was the
identifying trait of the first generation of Russian Symbolists. This latter group embodied
the Russian version of the phenomenon known as décadence during the fin de siècle.
Ivanov described decadence as
The feeling of an underlying oneness with the central tradition
of a high culture coupled with an arrogant and burdensome
sense of being the last of a line. In other words, decadence is
an enervated memory, its promotive capacity gone, without
the power to enable us to partake in our forefathers’ creative
experience, no longer able to encourage creativity.
56
These lines explain Ivanov’s reluctance to accept the French Symbolists, with whom, he
states, “we have neither an historical nor an ideological reason for joining forces.
57
For
Ivanov, “culture is not only monumental but initiatory in character.”
58
In this respect, his
position was close to that of Scriabin. Art was more than beauty; it served a higher
purpose.
56
Viacheslav Ivanov, in a letter (July 4, 1920) to Mikhail Gershenzon, Correspondence Across a Room
(Marlboro, VT: The Marlboro Press, 1984; originally published, St. Petersburg, 1920), 27.
57
Vyacheslav Ivanov, “Thoughts on Symbolism,” Russian Literature Triquarterly, ed. Carl and Ellendea
Proffer, trans. Samuel D. Cioran (1972): 151-58.
58
Ibid.
113
Ivanov and Scriabin had met each other in St. Petersburg in 1909,
59
but became
exceptionally close friends during the last two years of the composer’s life, as both men
were then living in Moscow. As evidence of his devotion to the composer, Ivanov was
among those who assisted watching over Scriabin during the days leading up to his death
in 1915. Subsequently, the poet-philosopher wrote a sonnet in memory of the composer:
Music has been orphaned. And with her
Poetry, her sister, has been orphaned.
The magic flower was extinguished at the border
Of their contiguous kingdoms – and night fell darker
Onto the shore where the mysterious ark
Of new-created days flamed up. The robe of the body
Has smoldered from the spirit’s fine lightning,
Giving up its fire to the Source of fires.
Did Fate, hovering as a vigilant eagle, seize
The holy possession from audacious Prometheus?
Or was the earth inflamed by the tongue of heaven?
Who can say: conqueror or conquered
Is he for whom – mute with the graveyard of wonders –
The palace of the Muses mourns with the whisper of laurels.
60
Scriabin had already adopted Ivanov’s rhythmic and structural style of verse while
developing a text for his last work, The Preparatory Act.
61
Scriabin also remarked on the
similarity between the structural form of the sonnet and various preludes he had
composed.
62
Simultaneously, however, he rejected the recurrent saturation of symbols
present in Ivanov’s poetry.
59
Scriabin was in St. Petersburg in January of 1909 for that city’s premiere of his Poème de l’extase.
60
The sonnet was shortly afterward incorporated into Ivanov’s essay “Scriabin’s View of Art.” This is
included in Selected Essays: Viacheslav Ivanov, trans. Robert Bird (Evanston: Northwestern University
Press, 2001), 211-28. See also Michael Wachtel, “The ‘Responsive Poetics’ of Vja česlav Ivanov,” Russian
Literature: Special Issue: Vja česlav Ivanov, ed. W. G. Weststeijn, 44, no. 3 (October 1, 1998): 303-15.
61
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 332.
62
Ibid.
114
The use of artistic pictures should be reduced to a minimum.
Such an accumulation of symbols and images that one finds,
for example, in the work of Viacheslav Ivanov are to me
unacceptable; they weigh down too heavily on the senses.
63
It is, in fact, a turgid style that informs the writings of most Russia Symbolist poets.
The difficulty lies in understanding words which may sound pleasant, but whose
symbolic meaning is unclear. One finds this style in other writings of Ivanov, including
the triptych “Scriabin’s View of Art” (1915), “Scriabin as a National Composer” (1916),
and “Scriabin and the Spirit of Revolution” (1917). He delivered these as speeches at
various meetings of the first Scriabin Society, of which he was a founding member.
64
In
all three essays, Ivanov establishes the importance of Scriabin in both the contemporary
and future context of Russia and the world.
In the first essay, “Scriabin’s View of Art,” Ivanov repudiates all the negative
judgments characterizing the composer as a neurotic egotistical megalomaniac. Quite the
contrary, he portrays Scriabin in altruistic terms as an artist-hero and theurgist ordained to
lead mankind back to the primal unity. In defense of the composer he writes:
The ambition of hungry pride and lustful arrogance clouds the soul
and is unable to coexist with the childlike clarity, the joyful trust
in life and people, that I observed in Scriabin and that I recognize as
the distinctive and captivating mark of all true genius, of a spirit that is
divinely abundant and consoled by its own plenitude.
65
In his assessment of Scriabin, he recognizes humility, benevolence, and musical genius as
the defining qualities that could enable the composer to achieve his ultimate goal of
63
Ibid., 333.
64
Ivanov wrote several other texts on Scriabin that were not published during the poet’s lifetime.
According to Marina Kostalevsky, these have been included recently in Pamjatniki Kultury [Monuments of
Culture], ed. I. A. Mylnikova (Leningrad: Nauka, 1985), 88-119. See Marina Kostalevsky, “The Birth of
Poetry from the Spirit of Criticism: Ivanov on Scriabin,” Russian Literature, Special Issue: Vja česlav
Ivanov, W. G. Weststeijn, ed., 44, no. 3 (October 1, 1998): 317-29.
65
Selected Essays, 212.
115
returning to the state of divine wholeness. In this sense, the artist becomes a means to an
end, and artistic creativity leads to the higher reality. Here, Ivanov formulated the Latin
phrase a realibus ad realiora (from the real to the more real) as one cornerstone of his
Symbolist rhetoric.
66
This ascent to God – spiritual reality or divinity – he termed
“evolution,” the opposite of “involution,” which he explains as “immersion into the
depths of matter.”
67
It is significant that these exact words found an echo in the
vocabulary that Scriabin used to describe his own creative endeavors. For example, in a
conversation with his confidant Leonid Sabaneyev in the autumn of 1914, he stated:
In the Preparatory Act there will be a very complex
system of movements with upward and downward
processions that should symbolize the involution and
the evolution; in other words, the descent of the spirit
into matter followed by renewed unification.
68
It was Ivanov, too, who reinforced the idea of sobornost in the mind of Scriabin. Ivanov
along with Trubetskoi and others had been disciples of Vladimir Solovyov. The latter had
disseminated the concept of all-unity (vsyo-edinstvo) into an entire generation of Russian
religious philosophers and symbolist poets. It was the utopian idea of a community of
mankind which found general appeal among the contemporaneous and subsequent
generations in Russia. The word sobornost, for which there is no exact equivalent in the
English language, can be variously interpreted as collectivity and community, and it has
been applied according to the needs of the speaker or writer. Ivanov distinguishes
emphatically between a spiritual community, sobornost, and a secular popular
community, narodnost. He defines sobornost as “a collective assertion of the ultimate
66
Ivanov, “On the Limits of Art,” in Selected Essays, 78-79.
67
Selected Essays, 226.
68
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 333.
116
freedom.”
69
In other words, this represents a communal action with the goal of attaining
absolute unity. This theory influenced Scriabin as he worked towards developing his
concept of the final mystery, a liturgical act to reunite mankind with divinity, the
absolute. Ivanov writes, “. . . for art is in truth a sacred thing and collectivity
[sobornost].”
70
A transition was occurring in the world perception of the composer who
had a few years before composed the Prometheus, an apotheosis of self-aggrandizement,
individualism, following the path of involution. Scriabin became more focused now on
evolution, i.e., the spiritualization aspect. Ironic is the fact that Ivanov, a noted scholar of
Hellenic studies, initially had become fascinated with Scriabin based on the composer’s
Promethean spirit; at the time, the poet-philosopher had been working on his own play
Prometheus, published later in 1916. Meanwhile, Leonid Sabaneyev witnessed the power
of Ivanov’s erudition and its steady influence on Scriabin. In reference to his final
project, Sabaneyev noted:
Moreover, I had the impression that under Vyacheslav Ivanov’s
influence Scriabin had begun to assume a position that was
more mystical and less naturalistic. From about January 1913,
I noticed in him a different attitude towards the entire Mysterium
project and the concept of the “creative world spirit.” Earlier,
everything had been clear; this “spirit” had been none other than
he himself; the Mysterium had been his own highly personal affair.
Now, this was no longer so unequivocal. It was as though
Scriabin had extended his personality and would think hereafter
in terms beyond the limits and framework of human existence.
71
The artist’s previous solipsism, in part the product of his earlier preoccupation with the
theories of Fichte, had now yielded to the theurgic visions of the leading theorist of
69
Ivanov, Po zvezdam [By the Stars, 1909], excerpt quoted in James West, Russian Symbolism: A Study of
Vyacheslav Ivanov and the Russian Symbolist Aesthetic (London: Methuen & Co. Ltd.: 1970), 70.
70
Ivanov, “Thoughts on Symbolism,” 157.
71
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 251.
117
Russian Symbolism. Indeed, the composer could conceive, design, and provide the
creative framework for implementing the Mysterium; its realization, however, leading to
the transfiguration of the world, would require an act of sobornost. In this, Scriabin
gradually became aware of his own limitations.
And yet, I simply cannot produce it alone. I need others,
who will experience it together with me; otherwise,
no Mysterium is possible. With the help of music there must arise
a creative act of spiritual community [sobornoe tvorchestvo].
72
But Scriabin continued to view himself in the position of the designated one, the prophet,
the Messiah, the conductor to whom Fate had revealed the conditions for further
evolution and the act of reunification. Involution increasingly assumed a very negative
connotation in the mind of the composer. It was no longer the dispersion of golden rays
emanating from an absolute source. For him it represented everything repugnant in the
material world. Most shocking in this regard are his opinions concerning Jewry in music.
In the dialectical relationship between involution and evolution, Scriabin stated:
All Jews live in their sensory perception. They have no true
sense of mysticism and cannot have it at all. For them,
everything essential exists in that which is material:
material well-being, material sensuality, and physical ecstasy.
The purpose of their role is to preserve and expand this
side of the organism of humanity. During the present
process of involution, the role they are playing must be
inevitably quite large; one perceives neither anything
peculiar or bad yet. When then later the process of evolution
commences leading toward dematerialization, their role will terminate. . .
By the way, in music they represent the idea of materialism:
their creativity is reduced to a minimum. Among Jews, there
are hardly any composers; instead, though, there are numerous
interpreters and a materialistic approach to art in the most varied
72
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 315.
118
directions. This expresses itself among them in a sensual, physiologically
passionate tone-production, in a certain art-mercantilism.
Yet, without Jews music would not survive. You know yourself,
Leonid Leonidovich, that an orchestra in which there are no Jews
always sounds terrible dry. . . somehow lacking interest. A good
orchestral sound develops first then when at least 15 percent of
the string and wind players are Jews.
73
Such comments regarding materialism were not directed solely against Jews. In many
cases, Scriabin protested vehemently against composers and performers, deeming their
artistry materialistic if it did not conform to his personal taste and philosophical vision.
Repulsed by the work of the young Prokofiev, Scriabin raged:
What filth! . . . The sad thing about it is that this music, in fact,
reflects a certain something quite well; but this something is
simply awful. Here, the materialization of sound has actually
already occurred.
74
Further, Scriabin found that the majority of fellow pianists performing his works failed to
comprehend and produce the necessary tone quality required for a proper and convincing
interpretation. Disheartened, Scriabin queried:
Why do they all play my pieces with this material-like,
lyrical tone as though these had been written by Tchaikovsky
or Rachmaninov? Here, there should be at the very most
a minimum of material essence. These pianists understand
nothing of the intensity and intoxication of tone, though
already present then begins to change through some stirring
of emotion or sentiment.
75
For Scriabin, nineteenth-century Russian Romanticism reflected the materialistic world.
73
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 281-82.
74
Ibid., 288.
75
Ibid., 298.
119
The burgeoning individualism of that era had now spent itself and mankind was
floundering in a period of decadence. In the move away from individualism –
“dematerialization” – Scriabin had found in Ivanov a close friend and a comrade in arms.
Ivanov played a decisive role in affirming Scriabin’s ambitions towards the
Mysterium. To achieve this act of sobornost, one would need to overcome individualism.
Ivanov had discussed this issue already in his essay “The Crisis of Individualism”
(1905).
76
In this essay, Ivanov traces the intensification of individualism from the
Renaissance through towards its hyperexpression in the work of Nietzsche. “Never before
has the primacy of the individual been propagated with such enthusiasm as in our
times.”
77
Ivanov repudiates Nietzschean “Superman”-individualism in favor of collective
solidarity. “Individualism is aristocratism; but aristocracy has become obsolete.”
78
Ivanov
perceives a transformation in progress, one moving from Faustian individualism towards
a Beethovenian “celebration of collectivity.”
79
He assesses the contemporaneous situation
in the world as part of an ongoing process.
In its contemporary, involuntary, and unconscious metamorphosis,
individualism has assimilated the features of collectivity; it is a sign
that a certain synthesis of the personal and the collective principles
is being worked out in the laboratory of life.
80
Ivanov wrote these words during the year of the first Russian Revolution, 1905. They
would find broad appeal in both religious-philosophical as well as politically liberal
76
Vyachslav Ivanov, “The Crisis of Individualism,” ed. Bernice Glatzer-Rosenthal and Martha
Bohachevsky-Chomiak, trans. Marian Schwartz A Revolution of the Spirit: Crisis of Value in Russia, 1890-
1924 (New York: Fordham University Press, 1990), 163-73; originally published in Voprosy Zhizni
[Problems of Life], 9 (1905); later pub. in Ivanov collection, Po Zvezdam [By the Stars] (St. Petersburg:
Izdatelstvo “Ory,” 1909).
77
Ibid., 169.
78
Ibid., 170.
79
Ibid., 171.
80
Ibid.
120
circles of that generation and the ones to follow. The book in which this essay on
individualism appeared, Po Zvezdam (By the Stars, 1909), is one of two that Ivanov had
autographed and presented to Scriabin.
81
The composer read this on his famous 1910
Volga concert tour arranged by Koussevitzky.
82
In retrospect, Ivanov would emphasize the communal aspect of Scriabin’s work;
the strength of his will to be able to renounce his own and submit to the will of the
absolute all-unity. During the period of the 1917 Russian Revolution, Ivanov sought to
draw parallels between the creative nature of the composer and the present turmoil in the
country. On October 24, 1917, he delivered a speech to the Scriabin Society in Moscow,
later published as “Scriabin and the Spirit of the Revolution.” In this work, he states:
In a solemn affirmation of his penetration into the world
beyond, Scriabin did not speak the language of the
individual will, rather with the choral sound of the all-unity
that he had elevated from the depths.
83
Ivanov proclaims Scriabin to be a truly national composer following in the peculiarly
Russian tradition of community. He is a “democrat” and a “patriot” and is duly aware of
his position as a “creator of the ‘Russian Idea,’ ” i.e., the universal community for which
the Russians had seen themselves in a messianic role. Ivanov predicts:
Should the revolution that we are now experiencing prove
itself to be truly a great Russian revolution – a suffering and
painful birth of the ‘independent Russian Idea’ – the future
historian will acknowledge Scriabin to be one of its spiritual
progenitors; and in this very revolution perhaps the first measures
of his unwritten Mysterium.
84
81
The other book was Cor Ardens, now property of the Scriabin Memorial Library.
82
Ellen von Tiedeböhl, correspondent for the Stuttgart Neue Musikzeitung, testifies that Scriabin had
recommended and loaned the book to her while on the Volga trip in 1910. See “Memories of Scriabin’s
Volga Tour,” Monthly Musical Record 56 (June, 1926): 168-69.
83
Vyacheslav Ivanov, “Skriabin i duch revolutsii” [“Scriabin and the Spirit of the Revolution”], in
Viacheslav Ivanov: Sobranie Sochinenii [Vyacheslav Ivanov: Collected Works], vol. 3 (Brussels: Foyer
Oriental Chrétien, 1979), 190-94.
121
The “Russian Idea” mentioned above is closely related to sobornost; it can possess a both
secular and spiritual connotation, a humanist as well as mystic purpose. Solovyov had
demonstrated this already in a brochure written in French, titled L’idée russe (1888), in
which he proposed a triumvirate of God, the Pope, and the Tsar, which would unite and
rule the world. The idea, though, was not intended to impose a nationalist will on the rest
of the world, but rather to deliver it from its present state of strife and disunity. The
notion of Moscow – and therefore Russia – as a “Third Rome” had simmered already in
the minds of clergy and state officials since the fifteenth century. It is therefore not
surprising that the concept would be expressed in the writings of the Slavophiles and
religious philosophers of the nineteenth century, and in particular among the followers of
Solovyov. The messianic visions were developed further by Ivanov, who directly
influenced Scriabin. The composer incorporated these ideas into his own scheme; they
reinforced his commitment towards a unifying communal art and defined him as a truly
Russian artist. This perception of Scriabin, the artist-philosopher, found its way then into
the contemporaneous and posthumous attitudes towards the composer in Russia. The
unifying purpose of art, poetry, and music reflected the principles of late Russian
Symbolism and bonded the two men together. Ivanov considered this in retrospect as he
wrote:
It transpired that his theoretical postulates concerning
sobornost, the choral rite, and the calling of art grew
organically out of basic intuitions similar to my own:
we found a common language. I recall with reverent
gratitude the intensification of our friendship, which
became one of the significant facets of my life.
85
84
Ibid., 194.
85
Ivanov, Essays, 222.
122
During the last two years of Scriabin’s life, Ivanov had been a frequent visitor at the
composer’s home in Moscow. Scriabin was profoundly inspired by his interpretation of
the world. He claimed, “He stands as close to me and my ideas as no one else!”
86
The two men agreed that unity among the art-forms should form the basis for a
final mystery. The reunification of man and transfiguration of the world would result
from this ritual act; what Ivanov termed vsyo-iskusstvo [all-art] would play a decisive role
in the return to vsyo-edinstvo [all-unity]. Here, the two men found a precedent in the
choral rites of ancient Greece and in the related idea of the Gesamtkunstwerk of Richard
Wagner. In spite of his fascination with the German composer, Scriabin took issue with
the theatrical aspect of his creative work. Problematic for him was the separation between
the performers and the audience which blocked the unifying element and purpose. He
claimed:
Theatre and stage materialize art; they are an expression for the
splitting up of unity into polarities. Due to the stage, the spectators
and listeners become separated from what is taking place instead of
being drawn into the action. In my work there will be no theatre!
Even Wagner, in spite of his genius, could not surmount the theatrical
aspect and stage because he did not understand what was at stake.
He did not know that the whole problem lies in this division.
It prevents unity and ensures that not an experience, but a mere
performance is possible. . . . Only in the Mysterium will the stage be
eliminated. In the Mysterium there will be neither spectators, nor
listeners.
87
Nevertheless, Scriabin highly esteemed Wagner, who, among all composers, came closest
to the former’s concept of sobornost art. Speaking with Sabaneyev about the positions of
Beethoven and Wagner, Scriabin exclaimed:
86
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 189.
87
Ibid., 186.
123
Wagner stands much closer to us because he is already
not so classical. Moreover, he possesses much more magic,
much more mysticism. . . .
88
Scriabin’s preoccupation with the Mysterium, an act to promote unification, was
not unique in the Russian artistic-literary circles of the time. Some of the great
contemporaneous theatre directors were experimenting with new ways to overcome the
stagnant “presentational” form of stage productions that predominated in nineteenth-
century Russia. The means to achieve this goal differed greatly, though. Here, as with
Wagner, unification of the arts did not necessarily lead to the unity of mankind.
Early pioneers pursuing the revolutionary experiments in theatre were prominent
figures such as Konstantin Stanislavski (1863-1938), Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko
(1858-1943) – founders of the realist Moscow Art Theater in 1898, Vsyevolod
Meyerhold (1874-1940) – founder of the Meyerhold Theater, and Alexander Tairov
(1885-1950) – founder of the Moscow Chamber Theater. All were familiar with the
theoretical writings of Ivanov and tried to incorporate in various ways a spiritual idealism
into their work. In spite of being an advocate of realism, even Stanislavski stated, “nine-
tenths of the labor of an actor, nine-tenths of everything lies in beginning to live and feel
the role spiritually.”
89
Meyerhold and Tairov were respected close friends of Scriabin. Although
artistically at odds with one another – one a Bolshevist, the other an elitist – they rejected
the realist approach associated with Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danchenko, which saw
88
Ibid., 190.
89
Quoted in William Kuhlke, “Introduction” to Alexander Tairov, Notes of a Director (Coral Gables, FL:
University of Miami Press, 1969; originally published as Zapiski rezhissyora, Moscow: Publication of the
Chamber Theater, 1921; first German translation as Das entfesselte Theater. Aufzeichnungen eines
Regisseurs, Potsdam: Verlag Gustav Kiepenheuer, 1923), 23. Kuhlke designates Tairov’s book “one of the
major documents in the history of modern theatre.” See Supra, 38.
124
art merely as an imitation of nature and not as a part of life itself. Moreover, stage art
according to this philosophy still kept the audience separated from the action on stage.
During his trip to St. Petersburg in November 1913, Scriabin attended Meyerhold’s
Studio Theater and was fascinated by the communal aspect of the director’s presentations
of Greek tragedy.
90
An autographed copy of Meyerhold’s book On Theater (1913) is also
in the personal library at the composer’s home, now the Scriabin State Museum. For his
part, Tairov was able to juxtapose and explain clearly Scriabin’s position in the context of
developments in the Russian avant-garde theater. Tairov rejected the intrusion of the
spectator as an untrained dilettante in a communal (sobornoe) action – a theatrical style
that was characteristic of Meyerhold. But Tairov did respect Scriabin’s version of a pre-
rehearsed mass participation. Referring back to the composer in his 1921 book Notes of a
Director, Tairov writes:
In my view the famous concept of “preparatory action,”
which the genius Scriabin was working on, is on a completely
different plane. He also dreamed of the communal participation
of the spectator, but with that insight of the genuine artist
which was so intrinsic a part of his nature, he gave to it a
precisely ordered character. In order to be admitted to the
“action,” the spectator had to be a specially prepared “initiate,”
he had to be robed in special dress, etc., etc. . . . . If you examine
Scriabin’s artistic goals, refracting them through the prism
of pure theatrical art, you will see that in the end there was
to have been achieved not an action with the active participation
of the spectator, but action with the orderly, previously rehearsed
participation of the masses without any elements of chance whatever –
masses which, in fact, had ceased to be spectators and had become
participants in the action, just as they had to a lesser degree in
productions with large mass scenes (for instance Reinhardt’s
Oedipus Rex).
91
90
M. P. Pryashnikova and O. M. Tompakova, eds., Letopis Zhizni i Tvorchestva A. N. Skriabin [Chronicle
of the Life and Creative Work of A. N. Scriabin] (Moscow: Muzyka, 1985), 221-22.
91
Alexander Tairov, Notes of a Director (Coral Gables, Florida: University of Miami Press, 1969;
originally published as Zapiski rezhissyora, Moscow: Publication of the Chamber Theater, 1921; first
125
Tairov was highly critical of the experiments involving communal action, which he
identified as the “basic element of socialist theater.”
92
In spite of his own desire to
produce a new “synthetic” theater, he states, “That communal participation of the
spectator, about which the ideologists of the socialist theatre dream, is possible not in the
theatre but in folk festivals, which, of course, are also characterized to a greater or lesser
degree by an element of theatricalism.”
93
It was in this respect that he and Meyerhold
differed most significantly. In an effort to create a communal action, the latter abandoned
the stage proscenium, a technique that would have appealed indeed to the sobornost ideas
of Ivanov and Scriabin. Meyerhold’s experiments, but which carried certain political
overtones that stood in marked contrast to the reasoning of the philosopher and composer.
In an extensive analysis of Russian theatre in the early twentieth century, William Kuhlke
observes that Stanislavski and Meyerhold stood at opposite ends of the spectrum –
realism and symbolism, respectively.
94
For the one, art is imitation; for the other, art is
symbol. Tairov found a path down the middle that he termed “synthetic” and later “neo-
realism.” Kuhlke explains:
Tairov recognized that theatrical art takes place neither
solely on the stage, as was the premise of the realistic
theatre, nor solely in the mind of the audience, as was the
symbolist-oriented premise of the stylized theatre, but in
the dynamic interaction between the spectator and the
perceived work of art. In order to successfully achieve such
interaction, in order to accomplish the necessary affective
communication, neither aesthetically pleasing empty forms
nor moving but formless emotionalizing was fully competent.
German translation as Das Entfesselte Theater. Aufzeichnungen eines Regisseurs, Potsdam: Verlag Gustav
Keipenheuer, 1923), 139.
92
Ibid., 136.
93
Ibid., 139.
94
William Kuhlke, “Introduction,” supra, 25.
126
Only both together, form and emotion, “emotionally saturated
form,” could achieve fully this dynamic contact which was
the secret of theatrical art. . . This, then was that synthesis
which Tairov thought could lead the theatre out of the bog
of realistic soul-searching, around the nettle trap of empty
formalism, and onto the path toward a joyfully creative
“true” art of the theatre.
95
In contrast, Tairov repudiated all attempts “by the innovators of contemporary theatre,”
and especially Meyerhold, to create not communal action, but rather “nonsense and
chaos.”
96
He clearly rejects the position taken by Ivanov in this matter:
Among ideologists and theoreticians of the theatre,
Vyacheslav Ivanov attaches the greatest significance to
the participation of the spectator. He considers that the
essential element of the theatre is its communal nature,
that theatrical activity is essentially communal action, and
that the decline of the contemporary theatre is to be explained
chiefly by the absence of communion – that the spectator,
separated from the stage by the footlights, has become anemic,
acting only as a witness to the action being carried out. . . I say no.
I suggest that the communal aspect of theatre has never been
the distinguishing feature of its being to such an extent. . . .
While being unquestionably characteristic of a whole line
of phenomena of the human spirit, communal action is at
the same time least of all characteristic of theatre. On the
contrary, when it does appear, it is a destructive rather than
constructive element.
97
Tairov continues his examination of the state of Russian theater by criticizing his
contemporaries for their “antiquarian urge” to resurrect the theater of the past. For
Tairov, theater should continue to evolve as an independent art form. He finishes with the
exclamation, “Long live the footlights!”
98
It was indeed the footlights, however, that
Scriabin condemned as a hindrance towards realizing his final project, the Mysterium.
95
Ibid., 29.
96
Tairov, 141.
97
Ibid., 132-34.
98
Ibid., 142.
127
Notwithstanding this significant objection, the composer remained intrigued by the
direction Tairov was taking in developing his “synthetic” theater and praised his
avoidance of naturalist tendencies. According to Sabaneyev, the composer and his wife,
Tatiana, attended enthusiastically all the premieres at Tairov’s “Chamber Theatre.”
99
But
this contradicts the recollections of the composer’s brother-in-law, Boris de Schloezer,
who cites an ostensible “aversion,” “intolerance,” and “hostility” on the part of Scriabin
towards stage productions.
100
Schloezer states, “He rarely went to the theater even as a
young man, and toward the end of his life he almost ceased to attend any theatrical
performances.”
101
Ironically, Scriabin found that certain aspects of Tairov’s theater
productions were somehow – and definitely in a positive sense – not theatrical.
102
The
choreography fascinated him and in this respect the excellent work of Tairov’s wife,
Alisa Koonen; she was cast in the title role of Shakuntala, an old Indian drama.
103
This
appealed to Scriabin, especially on account of his evolving attraction toward Eastern
cultures and religions, which arose from his contacts with the Theosophists at home and
abroad. Ultimately, he considered India to be the ideal place for the Mysterium.
Sabaneyev recounts one evening in 1912 together with Scriabin when the composer
played a planned “bell passage” from the Mysterium. Scriabin explained:
You know, that is a summons which sounds from the bells
and is directed towards all of mankind. Upon this call,
everyone will travel to India to the temple. They will be
drawn to India because there lies the cradle of humanity
99
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 278.
100
Schloezer, 186.
101
Ibid.
102
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 278.
103
Written in Sanskrit by the Hindu poet Kalidasa (dates unknown; possibly fourth century A.D.);
translated into Russian by the Symbolist poet Konstantin Balmont (1867-1942); later, it became the subject
of the opera La leggenda di Sakuntala (1921) by Franco Alfano (1875-1954), the Italian composer who
completed Puccini’s Turandot.
128
and from there they had taken their leave. In India therefore
they will also end their journey. The construction of the
Temple will be likewise part of the Mysterium.
104
At this point, it should be mentioned that Indian culture, by virtue of its spiritual
foundations, was exerting a strong influence on literary-theatrical circles in Moscow. For
example, Stanislavsky, although he was working at the other end of the spectrum,
employed Yogic elements into his realist approach to theater, thereby lending it a
spiritual aspect.
105
The founder and spiritual leader of Universal Sufism, Hazrat Inayat
Khan (1882-1927), was living and lecturing in Moscow during the years 1913-14.
106
He
was introduced to Scriabin at the home of Viacheslav Ivanov.
107
The two men
encountered each other on several subsequent occasions, during which they had the
opportunity to exchange and contrast their respective viewpoints. Referring later to the
Inayat Khan, Scriabin exclaimed, “He radiates such magnanimity and calmness! That is
exactly what is missing here in our shallow, hectic culture.”
108
Recalling one discussion
with Scriabin, the Inayat Khan quotes the composer: “Something is missing in our music;
it has become so mechanical. The whole process of composition nowadays is mechanical.
How can we introduce a spirit into it?”
109
Pondering the legacy of Scriabin, the Inayat
Khan states, “I have often thought that if Scriabin, with his fine character and beautiful
personality, had lived longer, he could have introduced a new strain of music into the
104
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 95.
105
See R. Andrew White, “Stanislavsky and Ramacharaka: The Influence of Yoga and Turn-of-the-Century
Occultism on the System” 47, no. 1 Theatre Survey (May 2006): 73-92.
106
See Hazrat Inayat Khan, “Biography, Autobiography, Journal and Anecdotes,”
http://wahiduddin.net/mv2/bio/Autobiography_4.htm .
107
Ibid.
108
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 200.
109
Hazrat Inayat Khan, The Music of Life (New Lebanon, NY: Omega Publications, 1988; originally
published 1983; compiled from previously published and unpublished material), 341.
129
modern world . . . . Will someone else try to do what Scriabin wanted? When there is a
need, if there is a real desire for its fulfillment, that fulfillment must come.”
110
Aside from
the mystic element, the composer ultimately lost interest in the Inayet Khan because the
latter’s music and the connection between Sufism and Islam did not appeal to him.
111
Nevertheless, Scriabin retained his enthusiasm for the mystic India, where he had hoped
to produce the future Mysterium. Later, though, in conversation with Sabaneyev, Scriabin
stated, “It is not the real India that I need, Leonid Leonidovich. I need an impulse that
drives me forward. India is not just a geographical concept; it exists rather as a certain
idea.”
112
Sabaneyev also states that during the summer of 1913, Scriabin, embracing
further aspects of Hindu culture, pursued enthusiastically a regimen of Yoga breathing
exercises according to the instruction manuals of Yogi Ramacharaka.
113
This physical
training and the spirituality associated with Eastern religion and culture, along with its
connection to the avant-garde theater in Russia, were to help lead Scriabin on the path
towards his final project, Mysterium. Sabaneyev, who witnessed these developments
firsthand, remained skeptical. Shortly thereafter, his skepticism was confirmed. He
writes, “As I expected, these experiments did not last long. Alexander Nikolaevich was
simply not able to occupy himself with anything for a longer period of time aside from
his compositional work. Already in the autumn [1913], as I saw him in Moscow again,
there was no more talk of Yoga. . .”
114
In a rare moment of concurrence with his frequent
adversary Sabaneyev, Boris de Schloezer recounts another relative story indicative of
110
Ibid., 342.
111
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 201.
112
Ibid., 342.
113
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 273. Yogi Ramacharaka is the pseudonym of the American attorney,
author, and publisher William Walker Atkinson (1862-1932).
114
Ibid.
130
Scriabin’s lack of perseverance. Looking for further means to unite the celebrants of the
Mysterium, Scriabin selected Sanskrit, the liturgical language of Hindu. Schloezer writes,
“He even purchased a Sanskrit grammar and began to study it, but soon gave it up when
he realized that it would take too much time.”
115
The preconditions and logistical
problems of producing the Mysterium in India or anywhere were clearly insurmountable
even if Scriabin did not want to concede this fact. The composer was convinced that he
alone had been chosen to fulfill this task. He classified himself among the outstanding
men of history who were preordained to create noble works of art. In one of many
recorded conversations with Sabaneyev [1911], the composer questioned:
I ask myself why this idea should have been
revealed to me if I am not the one to carry it out?
And I feel as though I have the strength to do it.
An exact idea always reveals itself to that person
for whom it has been destined: The idea of the
Ninth Symphony was revealed to Beethoven and the
idea of the Nibelungen was revealed to Wagner.
I have substantial reasons for this opinion,
but I cannot and should not discuss everything.
116
In the following years, Scriabin remained firm in his intentions. He was unyielding
towards any implied opposition, but nevertheless sought reassurance. In 1914, he stated
to Sabaneyev, “Of course, the Mysterium is my task because it was revealed to me. That
alone proves that it must be carried out by me.”
117
This insecurity is reconfirmed in a
similar passage in Schloezer’s biography of the composer:
Does not the fact that this mystery was revealed
to me prove conclusively that I, and no one else,
have the power to bring about this fulfillment?
It is unthinkable that another person would be able
115
Schloezer, 259.
116
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 175.
117
Ibid., 335.
131
to follow my design, to understand my central purpose!
I was the first to behold the ultimate vision, and
I must be the one to reveal it!
118
Interpreting Scriabin’s Mysterium concept, Schloezer cites its role as the “overthrow of
theater, to destroy theatricality, externally and internally.”
119
In its duality – actor
performing for spectator – theater stood diametrically opposed to that principle of unity,
which informed Scriabin’s creative thought. The Mysterium would re-establish this unity.
The universal union was synonymous with universal ecstasy, which would lead to
absolute freedom. Schloezer explains this further, “But the idea of a cosmic ecstasy must
by necessity exclude the roles of actor and spectator.”
120
The Mysterium was to be a
religious act, but theater for Scriabin represented something “antireligious and thus
sinful.”
121
Schloezer quotes Scriabin, who sharply criticized the state of modern society:
“Our entire society is being converted into a theatrical production.”
122
The statement
agrees with the position of Tairov mentioned above. Both he and Scriabin opposed the
“theatricalization of the world.”
123
Referring to this particular phenomenon, Schloezer
employs the phrase, “surrogate of life.”
124
He writes:
The function of theater is to offer us solace, to provide
distraction, to delude us, poor prisoners of life, and
intoxicate us with stimulants in order to create an
artificial, illusory paradise on earth.
125
Scriabin abhorred this aspect of theater and sought to liberate the “poor prisoners of life.”
118
Schloezer, 146.
119
Ibid., 189-90.
120
Ibid., 184.
121
Ibid., 188.
122
Ibid.
123
Tairov, 139.
124
Ibid., 187.
125
Ibid.
132
But in contrast, Sabaneyev wrote, “Scriabin had, in fact, a rather strong and profound
sensitivity for the theater and everything theatrical regardless of his overall repudiation.
He could actually be enthusiastic about the achievements of the theater art.”
126
In
particular, the expression of pantomime and ballet was inspiring to him.
127
Sabaneyev
suspected that possibly Scriabin had somehow imagined his orchestral works Poème de
l’extase and Prometheus as ballet compositions.
128
In any case, he writes, “The rejection
of the theater was nothing other than his own extreme theoretical construct, while in
reality he felt associated with the theater; merely some contingencies had prompted him
to avoid contacts with this sphere/area.”
129
Theater dialogue, for example, represented the
material phenomenal world he endeavored to overcome, whereas the Russian Symbolist
poetry reflected the noumenal world beyond – hence the latter’s planned incorporation
into the concept of the Mysterium. Dance, too, and its sister component pantomime were
also aspects of the theater that Scriabin viewed as suitable for the final project. This, too,
explains his infatuation with certain celebrated dancers of the day, such as the above
mentioned Alisa Koonen (1889-1974), the ballerina Sofia Feodorova (1879-1963), and
the American sensation Isadora Duncan (1877-1927), who spent some time in Russia. In
his Reminiscences of Scriabin, Sabaneyev recounts numerous anecdotes of Scriabin
regarding the composer’s Mysterium project, but always remained a detached observer.
Sabaneyev describes himself as “a friend of Scriabin and observer of his life.”
130
Schloezer, on the other hand, gives the impression of being an enthusiastic analyst and
126
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 187.
127
Ibid.
128
Ibid., 188. John Cranko (1927-1973) choreographed Poème de l’extase for the Stuttgart Ballet in 1970.
129
Ibid.
130
Ibid., 299.
133
disseminator of the composer’s religious mystic views and ready to participate in the
final act. Indeed, he devotes more than one hundred pages of his biography on the
composer to the Mysterium project. Confessing his own limited interest in the Mysterium
project, Sabaneyev acknowledges the difference between his own position and that of
Schloezer. He writes:
Boris Schloezer dealt seriously in detail with this
project of Scriabin. Probably that is why there is
more material from him on this subject. He found
out more about this quite simply because he was
more interested in it. For me it was fully adequate
to become acquainted with some of the essential
issues and to comprehend the fundamental
psychology of the whole thing. That was then all.
131
Sabaneyev’s observations led him to the conclusion that the composer’s obsessive
behavior regarding his project was rooted in some mental disorder. He wondered, “Could
it not be that this grandiose Mysterium ultimately represents merely the material to be
placed in the hands of a psychiatrist?”
132
During winter 1912-13 the discussion shifted to
the more realistic project of L’acte préalable, a kind of prelude to the Mysterium.
Scriabin’s circle of friends dubbed this alternative the “innocuous Mysterium.”
133
Sabaneyev assumes that the new project – a “retreat” – resulted from the many
conversations Scriabin had had with him, Schloezer, and other mystic friends including
Vyacheslav Ivanov and a certain Dr. Vladimir Bogorodski.
134
131
Ibid., 248.
132
Ibid.
133
Ibid., 250.
134
Ibid., 251.
134
Scriabin’s Biographers: Leonid Sabaneyev and Boris de Schloezer.
Two of the early leading biographers of Scriabin were Leonid Sabaneyev and
Boris de Schloezer. The intertwined relationships between the two men and the composer
stemmed originally from Moscow academic music circles. In the case of Boris de
Schloezer, family connections were involved. His sister Tatiana later became the second
wife of Scriabin. Their uncle Paul Schloezer (1840-1898) had been a piano professor at
the Moscow Conservatory and coincidentally was the teacher of Leonid Sabaneyev and
his brother Boris Sabaneyev (1880-1918).
135
Earlier, the mothers of Scriabin and Boris
Schloezer had studied piano with Theodor Leschetizky (1830-1915) in St. Petersburg.
136
Leonid Sabaneyev and Boris de Schloezer made the acquaintance of Scriabin
already during the 1890s. Yet it wasn’t until many years later that the two men had the
opportunity to observe the composer on a more intimate level. During the first decade of
the new century, contact had been sporadic; Scriabin was either frequently on tour or
living abroad – mainly in Switzerland. The very few preserved letters existing between
Scriabin and these men suggests that their contacts were sparse. These letters
nevertheless prove incontrovertibly the high esteem in which the composer held the two
men. In particular, the correspondence with Schloezer attests to an early harmony of
minds. In the summer of 1903 Scriabin wrote, “If you only knew how much I need to
speak with you sometimes about musical as well as philosophical issues!”
137
Similarly, in
135
Boris Sabaneyev became an organist and professor at the Moscow Conservatory.
136
Gun-Britt Kohler, Boris de Schloezer (1881-1969). Wege aus der russischen Emigration (Cologne:
Böhlau Verlag, 2003), 8. Leschetizky taught at the St. Petersburg Conservatory from 1852 to 1878.
137
A. Kasperov, ed., A. Scriabin: Pisma [Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965): 289.
135
the summer of 1911, Scriabin wrote to Sabaneyev, “How much I would enjoy speaking
with you; there is so much to discuss!”
138
It was after Scriabin’s final return to Moscow in 1910 that his later biographers
would have the opportunity to interact with him regularly. In the case of Sabaneyev, this
was nearly on a daily basis; he was a permanent fixture in the Scriabin household,
accepted almost as part of the family. Indeed, he emphasizes this fact variously in an
apparent later effort to establish his position as the most expertly informed pundit among
the Scriabinists. He writes, “I was completely at home in the Scriabin circle and firmly
considered one of them.”
139
Schloezer was already integrated into the family by virtue of
his sister’s common-law relationship to the composer, which had solidified in 1904. Both
men had nearly unrestrained access to Scriabin during the last five years of his life. It was
their posthumous characterizations of the composer and interpretations of his ideas that
became a source of conflict and irreconcilable differences between them.
Following the death of Scriabin on April 27, 1915, the artistic intellectual
community in Russia, and especially in Moscow, was in mourning over the unexpected
tragedy. Tributes in the form of poems, articles, and monographs appeared eulogizing the
composer and the dreams and accomplishments of his short life. In 1916, on the first
anniversary of Scriabin’s death, Sabaneyev’s extended monograph was presented. He
described it not as a traditional biography, but rather “an expression of my personal
attitude towards his thinking and work.”
140
Received initially with grace, the book
encountered negative criticism shortly afterwards. It had revealed itself to be inconsistent
138
Ibid., 574.
139
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 143.
140
Sabaneyev, Scriabin (Moscow: Skorpion, 1916), viii.
136
with the mystical views of the composer and the newly formed Scriabin Society, of
which Sabaneyev had been a founding member. In the version of events later retold by its
author, those in authority in the Society – including the composer’s wife Tatiana de
Schloezer (1883-1922) and the first chairperson Princess Marina Gagarina (1877-1924,
sister of Prince Sergei Trubetskoi) – damned Sabaneyev as a “heretic.”
141
In spite of this,
a second printing of the book – the same in content but slightly reworked – appeared in
1923. This reprint is not to be confused with the Reminiscences of Scriabin that he
published two years later, in 1925. This latter book is structured in a Boswellian style;
142
it unfolds sectionally as annotated conversation interspersed with extensive commentary.
In consequence of the negative reaction following the earlier monograph, Sabaneyev
exposes here methodically a personal dialogue with the composer in an effort to redeem
and present himself as an objective witness and hence reliable authority on the
composer’s life, ideas, and creativity. To solidify this position, Sabaneyev resorts to
personal attacks on his would-be rivals, and in particular Boris de Schloezer. The latter’s
own book on the composer had been published abroad in the immigrant press in Berlin,
also in 1923.
143
It was in part critical of Sabaneyev’s depiction of Scriabin; this led to the
conflict between the two men discussed below.
Sabaneyev’s 1916 monograph appears to be that of a somewhat reserved and
detached analytical observer. It does not venture into a discussion of Scriabin’s personal
contacts. Neither does it draw on any extra-musical issues, for example political views;
these latter were incorporated into Sabaneyev’s second book (1925), which dwells on the
141
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 368.
142
After James Boswell (1740-1795), whose 1791 biography on Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) was unique
at the time for its inclusion of personal conversations that the author had previously had with his subject.
143
Boris de Schloezer, Scriabin (Berlin: Grani, 1923).
137
composer’s eschatological ideas, i.e., his apocalyptic visions relating to the Mysterium.
The 1916 document traces more Scriabin’s artistic development and describes his
creative processes and historical position within the Russian musical establishment. In
this work, Sabaneyev acknowledges Scriabin as “a great man and outstanding artist. . . .
whose imagination was directed at something grandiose of which no one had previously
dreamed.”
144
He rejects, however, the suggestion that Scriabin was a revolutionary artist;
this opinion was stressed recurrently in the writings of other contemporaneous thinkers,
especially political ideologues, to justify the composer’s legacy during a period of
national upheaval. Elsewhere, the non-political Boris de Schloezer presented in his
numerous writings an image of Scriabin as a revolutionary. “Scriabin believed in the
disparate nature of the historical process, a view typical of his revolutionary state of
mind; he sensed gaping chasms in the fabric of reality that had to be spanned by leaps
and bounds.”
145
On the contrary, Sabaneyev perceives Scriabin as a “profoundly organic
and evolutionary phenomenon.”
146
In the last pages of the book, however, the author
summarizes the essence of Scriabin, portraying him as a maverick, an iconoclast who
revered neither those composers who preceded him preparing his way, nor his
contemporaries.
147
According to Sabaneyev, Scriabin detested the “bourgeois pessimism”
of Tchaikovsky, could not tolerate Richard Strauss, assailed Schoenberg and his disciples
for their “lack of intuition and laborious tinkering,” and in spite of the impressive
orchestral color, he faulted the new French composers for their “distance from mysticism,
144
Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 66.
145
Schloezer, Scriabin, Eng. trans., Nicholas Slonimsky (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 96.
146
Ibid., 248.
147
The Russian-Soviet musicologist speaks of Sabaneyev’s “sharp paradoxical thinking.” See B. V.
Asaf’ev (Igor Glebov), Russian Music. From the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century, trans. Alfred J.
Swan (Ann Arbor: J. W. Edwards, 1953; originally published, Moscow-Leningrad: “Academia” Press,
1930), 274.
138
lack of form, and plagiarizing of Russian works.”
148
“The old music was for him
irretrievably dead. His interest in it was of purely historical nature.”
149
An exception
could be found still in the music and person of Richard Wagner. Scriabin took issue with
his theatrical productions, but Wagner’s ideas regarding synthesis of the arts and the
incorporation of mysticism and mythology as a basis for creativity appealed to him.
According to Sabaneyev, Wagner’s “Feuerzauber” from Die Walküre (Act III) served as
a major inspiration for the creation of Scriabin’s last orchestral work, the “Light
Symphony,” i.e., Prometheus.
150
Certain sections of Sabaneyev’s 1916 book prompted a stern rebuttal by
Schloezer. The subject matter dealt with Scriabin’s notion of the magic power of art and
various ideas concerning Orphism and theurgy. Both men admit in their writings to the
importance of these concepts in the composer’s development. Sabaneyev writes that
sometime between 1899 and 1901 Scriabin became conscious of the fact that “his own
path in art would be the Orphic path,” i.e., one upon which he, the artist, would exercise
magical powers.
151
Schloezer writes:
The myth of Orpheus was Scriabin’s favorite legend;
to him it represented the vestigial remembrance of a
historic man who once wielded great power, the true
nature and significance of which has been lost . . . .
Scriabin believed that he was the first to rescue this magic
from the long night of oblivion and restore its power . . . .
Indeed, he regarded himself as Orpheus, wielding power
through his art over both the psychic and physical worlds. . . .
It was thanks to this self-identification with Orpheus that
Scriabin was able to form the idea of the Mysterium.
152
148
Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 252-53.
149
Ibid., 251.
150
Ibid., 255.
151
Ibid., 68
152
Schloezer, 234-35.
139
Sabaneyev devoted two extensive chapters of his 1916 book to this material, which
Schloezer subsequently viewed as a misrepresentation of Scriabin’s concept of art. In
particular, Sabaneyev’s emphasis on the satanic element in the composer’s world became
controversial. Schloezer maintains that Scriabin was an altruistic person whose sole
inspiration was the divine. He cites the following passage from Sabaneyev’s book and
proceeds to deconstruct it and expose its supposed fallacies:
Art is a sorcerer, possessing a magical power over the
human mind, acting by means of a mysterious, incantatory,
rhythmic force manifested in it and transmitted directly
from the substance of the creator’s will. This rhythmic force
enhances immeasurably the magical power of art. Just as regular
beats, however weak, can set in motion a huge bell; just as the
periodic vibrations of a sounding body are capable of destroying
solid objects by a steadily increasing amplitude, so psychic
vibrations, set in motion by an interplay of sounds, lights, and
other sensory impressions, can be reinforced so enormously as
to precipitate a veritable psychic storm. The power of art is
immense in this respect. The impact of art on the psyche may be
of a purely aesthetic nature, but it may be powerful enough
to induce a catharsis, inner illumination, and purification; in its
most extreme manifestations it will generate a state of artistic
ecstasy. Just as there are two types of magic, white and black,
so the magic power of art may be psychically benign or malignant.
If it results in an inner illumination, the effect of such an art
becomes theurgic. Once we accept the principle of effective
action on the psychic plane, each performance of a work of art
becomes an act of magic, a sacrament. Both the creator of a work
of art and its performer become magicians, or votaries, who stir
psychological storms and cast spells upon the souls of men.
Such a theurgic art, leading toward a catharsis and ecstasy, may
become either a liturgical act or an act of Satanism, according
to the direction taken by its effective action.
153
Schloezer dismisses unequivocally the thesis that the magic power of art can be
“alternately benign and malignant.”
154
He states that it is “impossible to imagine that
153
Ibid., 237.
140
Scriabin could describe any art as an act of Satanism, for in Scriabin’s belief a work of art
is inherently incapable of serving the forces of darkness.” Schloezer here imputes
negative qualities into Satanism. He rejects the suggestion that the polarity of good and
evil as a construct played a role in the creative mind of Scriabin. He cannot accept the
idea that the composer’s Ninth Sonata, nicknamed “The Black Mass,” could have been
inspired by any dark forces active in the composer’s mind.
155
Unyielding, he claims:
No aesthetically valid work of art can ever be likened to a
Black Mass, even one that reveals obvious demoniac or
satanic traits, as Liszt’s ‘Mephisto Waltz.’ In the alembic
of art, a Black Mass is inevitably converted into a White Mass . . . .
[The music of Scriabin’s Ninth Piano Sonata] transfigures
man by introducing harmony, order, and form into the deepest
recesses of his soul; it exorcises the dark and evil forces –
which to Scriabin possessed an objective existence – and
compels them to assume an image of divinity, thus divesting
them of malevolent power and elevating them to a superior
state of being.
156
In contrast, Sabaneyev submits that the satanic element is present in much of the
Scriabin’s creative output. He claims to hear, and more specifically, to recognize, even
among the liturgical sounds of the Seventh Sonata, nicknamed “The White Mass,” the
“physiognomy of Satan.”
157
According to Sabaneyev, Scriabin viewed Satan, or the
diabolical, as the source of active creativity. In his 1925 book, he quotes the composer:
“Satan is the yeast of the universe through which all idleness stasis is prevented. He
embodies the principle of activity, the principle of movement.”
158
The words of the
composer prove a convincing means to disqualify the opinion of Schloezer. Scriabin
154
Ibid., 239.
155
Ibid.
156
Ibid., 248.
157
Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 63.
158
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 141.
141
ventures so far as to identify himself with the devil. Referring back to his youth, he
reminisced, “Even back then there was something devilish about me!”
159
A penchant for the diabolical not only strongly informed the period in which
Scriabin lived, but also belonged to the Russian cultural legacy of the nineteenth century.
The national poets Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) and Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841)
wrote poetry using the subject matter of demons. The latter’s poem “The Demon”
provided the basis for Anton Rubinstein’s opera of the same name (1875). It is only
logical that this very long tradition would carry over into the period of Russian
Symbolism in both art and literature. For example, one finds this in the works of Fedor
Sologub (The Petty Demon, 1907) and Andrei Bely (Chapter 5 of The Silver Dove, titled
“Demons” 1909). Alexander Blok writes in his book Spirit of Music, “Every promoter of
culture is a demon, cursing the earth and devising wings in order to fly away from it.”
160
As a Symbolist composer, Scriabin transferred this metaphorical imagery into sound in
many of his works. Sabaneyev relates how Scriabin proudly demonstrated the speed of
the second movement of the Fourth Sonata. The composer exclaimed, “I wish to play it
even faster, at maximum tempo, at the limit of what is possible . . . . so that it appears to
be a flight at the speed of light, like a flight directly into the sun!”
161
Flight, i.e., the
winged element, finds itself frequently as a point of discussion in the writings of many
eminent Scriabin scholars. Elsewhere, in the Russian visual arts of that period, winged
demons are themes in the works of many famous painters, most notably Mikhail Vrubel
(1856-1910). Vrubel’s works appeared in the first issue of the Russian symbolist journal
159
Ibid., 241.
160
Alexander Blok, The Spirit of Music, trans. I. Freiman (Westport, CT: Hyperion Press, Inc., 1973; First
English pub. London: Lindsay Drummond Ltd., 1946; Orig. Russian, St. Petersburg: 1918), 51.
161
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 297.
142
Golden Fleece. This Moscow journal was sponsored and edited by the wealthy financier
Nikolai Riabushinsky (1876-1951) who also promoted the 1907 painting competition for
the best depiction of the devil.
162
In summation, the period’s fascination with the
diabolical informed to a significant degree areas of Russian Symbolism and doubtlessly
impacted Scriabin’s artistic thinking and creativity.
In his response to Sabaneyev’s analyses, Schloezer seems not to want to
acknowledge the fact that the diabolical had indeed played a decisive role in Scriabin’s
creative mind. His bias leads him to view Scriabin as consummately benevolent – an
untenable position when considering the ever-surfacing appearance of the devil in the
composer’s music, accompanied by textual support. In opposition to Sabaneyev,
Schloezer attempts to weaken the argument for the presence of the satanic in Scriabin’s
creative work. He cites the following lines from Sabaneyev:
In diabolism, I find the solution to many puzzles in Scriabin’s
life and in his spiritual tragedy . . . . Undoubtedly, the entire
spiritual and creative physiognomy of Scriabin’s consciousness
was conditioned by Satanism . . . . Considering the entire
aggregate of Scriabin’s spiritual elements, as reflected in his
philosophy and his art, we are astounded and shocked to behold
the visage of Satan, born of the confluence of all constituent
parts of Scriabin’s nature.
163
Schloezer deems Sabaneyev’s line of thinking “preposterous” and assigns to him the
“misapprehension of the true meaning of the creative effort in art.”
164
He cautiously
admits that there is an occasional presence of the diabolical in Scriabin’s works, but
insists emphatically that its appearance forms merely a contrasting ingredient within an
162
John Bowlt, The Silver Age.Russian Art of the Early Twentieth Century and the ‘World of Art’ Group
(Newtonville, MA: Oriental Research Partners, 1979), 265.
163
Quoted in Schloezer, Scriabin. Artist and Mystic, p. 138; extracted from Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 72-73.
164
Ibid., 138-39.
143
otherwise benign context. In defense of Sabaneyev, though, one does not sense this in the
quite well-known examples of the Poème satanique or the “Black Mass.” Writing about
these two works in his Reminiscences (1925), Sabaneyev once again lets the composer
speak for himself: “In the Ninth Sonata, I ventured much farther than previously into the
Satanic realm . . . . Here one encounters the truly sinister . . . . In the Poème, I didn’t have
an actual Satan, but one of the lesser demons. . . . Now things have become serious.”
165
Sabaneyev continues to explain that Scriabin’s musical portrayal of Satan represented
above all the idea of insincerity.
166
A rebuttal by Schloezer to this report is not recorded.
Associated with the diabolism in Scriabin, according to Sabaneyev, is the erotic
element. He views this along with the exotic, bizarre, unusual, and the morbid, too as a
further extension of the ideas of Franz Liszt, whom he labels the “satanic abbot.”
167
Sabaneyev compared Scriabin and Liszt in an essay in 1911. He states:
As for the spirit of the great composer of “The Mephisto Waltz,”
it found its legacy in the music of Scriabin. . . . One does not need
to be insightful to see characteristic similarities between the
“Mephisto Waltz” and the “Poème satanique.” Eroticism and
some vivid, “truly satanic” insincerity (not in the bad sense
in this case, but in the good sense – so as it must be) is heard in
both works. “Mephisto” consists of a more primitive, simply
constructed material, incomparably more ordinary – but their
spirit is the same – a spirit or orgiastic satanity, the one that
already in more primitive forms is embodied in Liszt’s rhapsodies,
and which in Scriabin evolved into the idea of the gigantic dimensions
of Prometheus – the creative-destructive principles of the universe.
168
In their erotic moments, both Liszt and Scriabin demonstrate extremely pronounced
artistic individualism, a defining trait of Satanism – the source of creative energy. As
165
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 163.
166
Ibid.
167
Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 71.
168
Sabaneyev, “Liszt and Scriabin,” Muzyka 45 (Moscow, October 8, 1911; repr. Journal of the Scriabin
Society of America, winter 2001-2): 86-93. See appendix for the complete translation.
144
elsewhere, Schloezer understates in this case the intensity of Scriabin’s preoccupation
with sexuality. In the most positive terms he states:
Scriabin relished the free interplay of his senses, colored by
a subtle but profound eroticism. . . but his sensuality was never
coarse; it was marked by the same winged quality that
characterized his longings, feelings, and creative impulses.
Despite its strength and intensity, his sensuality was free
of carnal materialism; it was indeed infused with a spiritual quality.
169
His eroticism was imbued with sexuality without absorbing
external elements; it seemed to probe deeper into itself, so that
sexual gratification gradually assumed the character of altruistic love.
A creator, Scriabin reasoned, does not limit himself to sensual delights
in the act of creation; he also loves his creatures. He not only enjoys
taking possession of another life, as one picks a flower, but
overflowing with abundance, he enjoys giving life to his creations,
impregnating them with the joy of being.
170
In his 1925 Reminiscences, Sabaneyev describes in more explicit terms Scriabin’s
penchant for the erotic element and reacts defiantly against his adversary Schloezer. In
defense of his position he states the following:
He [Scriabin] liked bizarre, extravagant moods and especially
prickling eroticism. . . . A psychological inflection of the
Satanic was present in Scriabin and at the same time dominant.
The objections brought forward by Scriabinists of various
coloring under the leadership of by Boris Schloezer are
completely insubstantial. Of course, I never thought for a
moment that Scriabin in composing the Ninth Sonata was
letting “living devils leap around the room”; this accusation
of Schloezer led the Scriabinists in 1916 to believe I had
committed an affront against their master. At no time did I
ever go so far with my statements. That he [Scriabin], though,
found himself altogether under the power of satanic fantasies
and medieval ideas is for me an absolutely indisputable fact.
171
169
Schloezer, Scriabin, 131.
170
Ibid., 212-13.
171
Scriabin, Vospominaniya, 142.
145
Sabaneyev emphasizes his position throughout the book, with corroborating evidence
from discussions he had had with Scriabin. He recounts, for example, Scriabin’s frequent
demonstrations at the composer’s home at the piano. He played passages out of the
Seventh Sonata and fragments of the forthcoming Mysterium, commenting explicitly on
the similarities between the works and the human act of love. According to Sabaneyev,
Scriabin stated, “Our sexual act is nothing other than the prefiguration of the Mysterium,
the same process, but tossed about in billions of reflections of individual small
polarities.”
172
Scriabin recognized in himself the parallels between creative energy and
male virility. This is the subject once again towards the end of Sabaneyev’s
Reminiscences. The year is 1914. Here Scriabin states, “I have been convinced for a long
time that there is a close connection between the creative act and eroticism. I know that
my own drive towards creating is a consequence of the physiological traits of sexual
arousal.”
173
The artist is therefore an individual stimulated towards creation physically
and intellectually.
The artistic stimulus – desire, will, and resolve – finds its source of energy in the
satanic sphere, according to Sabaneyev. Yet it is here that he identified an inner conflict
in the personality of Scriabin. According to this, the composer as an artistic individual is
by nature satanic. But in order to unite with the Divine, the artist needs to overcome his
own individuality – solipsism. It is somehow paradoxical that the satanic force – by
nature rebellious – is the required energy necessary to consummate a relationship of
oneness with the Divine, also referred to as the Unique or the Absolute. Sabaneyev
writes, “In him began an eternal struggle between the artist as Satanist and the spiritual
172
Ibid., 124.
173
Ibid., 337.
146
desire to subjugate Satan and the need for unification.”
174
Ironically, the resulting unity
can only be achieved through the prior dynamic action of the individual, the one capable
of carrying out the ritual of “dematerialisation.” For Scriabin, this ritual was his planned
Mysterium, an act of sobornost. The exact indivisible moment was ecstasy – the
confluence of individual beings rejoining the Divine Being. For all his writing about
altruism and reciprocal love in Scriabin’s ideology, Schloezer makes it clear to the reader
that the composer never could overcome his individuality.
175
It appears that the composer
could not reconcile selflessness with selfishness, a subject area in which Schloezer
himself was quite knowledgeable.
176
Of Scriabin’s initial sentiments he writes:
Ecstasy was for him an act of individual self-assertion; it comes
to pass in a realm where individuality reigns supreme. Rather
than accept liberation through dissolution in chaos or fusion
with the Deity, Scriabin proclaimed the deification of individuality,
which legislates for itself, limits itself by sportive play, and
builds and destroys its own norms, obeying only the momentary
whims that dictate its sovereign laws.
177
Sabaneyev dismissed much of what Schloezer had to say as the convoluted speech of a
self-indulgent, pretentious sage. In his 1925 book he speaks of Schloezer’s “unbelievably
stilted language,” “stilted words,” “chaotic erudition,” and “plagiarism.”
178
He gloats
174
Sabaneyev, Scriabin, 73.
175
Russian Symbolists considered overcoming individuality in the form of extended love relationships an
ethical goal in modern society. In the early years of the twentieth century in Russia, numerous love
triangles developed among famous literary figures, artists, and musicians. To name a few: Dmitri
Merezhkovski–Zinaida Gippius–Dmitri Filosofov; Alexander Blok–Andrei Bely–Liubov Medeleyeva-
Blok; Viacheslav Ivanov–Lidia Zinoveva-Annibal–Sergei Gorodetski; Nikolai Medtner–Emil Medtner–
Anna Mikhailovna-Bratenskaya.. See M. Lobanova, op. cit., 179. Valery Bryusov’s The Fiery Angel, after
which Prokofiev composed his opera, is based on the love triangle of Bryusov-Andrei Bely-Nina
Petrovskaya. See Harlow Robinson, “Flirting with Decadence,” Opera Quarterly 8 (1991): 1-7.
176
Schloezer received his Ph.D. in 1901 from the University of Brussels. His dissertation topic: “Egoisme.”
177
Schloezer, 224.
178
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 31, 35, 139, 196. The author relates a story according to which Sergei
Taneyev discovered passages in Friedrich Schiller’s letters that Schloezer had plagiarized in program notes
for a performance of Scriabin’s Poème de l’extase. But this exposure was not as damaging as Sabaneyev’s
own experience in December 1916. According to a famous anecdote, he wrote a devastating review of
147
over Schloezer’s apparent loss of prestige when Viacheslav Ivanov began to visit
Scriabin more frequently. “Meanwhile, I soon had the impression that the emergence of
Viacheslav Ivanov with his contrived argumentation was damaging the reputation of
Boris Schloezer in the eyes of Scriabin. Ivanov knew quite well how to express
everything in an appealing manner from a literary standpoint, scientifically correct, and
with taste.”
179
For Sabaneyev, the music of Scriabin remained the foremost issue. As a
positivist, he could not indulge the Symbolist rhetoric. He states emphatically, “Scriabin
as an artist and composer speaks much too much for itself that it would be necessary to
augment his importance with dubious values from whatever source.”
180
The reasons for
this statement in the introduction to his 1925 book could be twofold. Sabaneyev was, of
course, a cultivated man firmly grounded in mathematics and the natural sciences who
felt compelled to distance himself from mystic Symbolism. At the same time, though, he
had to be politically cautious in order to protect his positions in the various cultural
institutions of the new communist government.
Up to the Revolution, both Sabaneyev and Schloezer continued to endorse the
legacy of Scriabin in Russia. In 1919 Schloezer immigrated to France, where he found
work as a journalist. Sabaneyev, who had made countless enemies in Russia through his
caustic style of writing, immigrated to France in 1926. Both found it difficult to promote
the music of Scriabin in a country that was then attuned to Neoclassicism and wanted
Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite, which had been withdrawn from the program at the last moment. Sabaneyev did
not know this because he had not bothered to attend the concert. His lack of judgment compromised his
integrity for years to come. See Nicholas Slonimsky, Lexicon of Musical Invective (Seattle: University of
Washington Press, 1994, originally published 1953), 129; and Sergei Prokofiev Diaries. 1915-1923. Behind
the Mask, trans. Anthony Phillips (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008), 172. Quite likely, Sabaneyev
included the plagiarism anecdote in order to preempt any future counter-assaults from Schloezer.
179
Sabaneyev, Vospominaniya, 197.
180
Ibid., 6.
148
little to do with the perceived neuroses of a pre-revolutionary world. Russia continued to
appreciate and learn from Scriabin’s music, but his two staunchest advocates were
declared enemies of the people and the authorities removed their books from the state
libraries. Following official ideology, even prominent music personalities were
compelled to denounce them. Heinrich Neuhaus states, “Such mystics and obscurantists
like L. Sabaneyev and B. F. Schloezer have done Scriabin enormous damage.”
181
181
Quoted in M. Lobanova, op. cit., 15.
149
Chapter 4
Boris Asafyev and Arthur Lourié
Composer-Musicologists and their Contribution to the Legacy of Scriabin
Alexander Scriabin’s death in 1915 precipitated an outpouring of eulogies from
prominent Russian musicians and critics. Among these was the relatively young gifted
pianist and composer Boris Vladimirovich Asafyev (1884-1949).
1
Comparatively
speaking, he had not written much music criticism up to this time. Nor was Asafyev
associated with the Scriabin clique in Moscow; he was based in St. Petersburg
(Leningrad) for much of his life. His reputation as an eminent Russian-Soviet
musicologist was established only in the 1920s.
2
In 1918, though, Asafyev published
already an essay titled “Pathways into the Future” in which he included a discussion of
the position of Scriabin in Russian music history; here he attempted to evaluate and
contextualize his works amid those of other Russian composers.
3
He does not mention the
name Sabaneyev or Schloezer (both Moscovites), but contradicts their positions in this
essay. Conversely, they do not mention Asafyev in their writings before or after
Scriabin’s death. Sabaneyev and Schloezer, regardless of their diverging views were
intrigued by Scriabin’s late style and ambitions. For Asafyev, however, Scriabin’s later
1
Asafyev worked as a rehearsal pianist at the Maryinsky Theater in St. Petersburg from 1910. He is well
known in Russia for the numerous ballet suites he composed from this period to the end of his life.
2
Some have compared his position as a musicologist to that of Theodor Adorno in the West. See
Detlef Gojowy, “Zum Bild und Vermächtnis von Boris Assafjew,” introductory essay in the German
edition of Boris Asafyev, Die Musik in Rußland. Von 1800 bis zur Oktoberrevolution 1917; series: Musik
Konkret 9 (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn, 1998; orig. Russian, Leningrad: Muzyka), XI.
3
Boris Asafyev, “Pathways into the Future,” in Boris Asafyev (1884-1949) and Petr Souvchinskii (1892-
1985), Melos. Kniga o muzyke [Melos. Book on Music], (St. Petersburg, 1918), 50-96; trans. Stuart
Campbell in Russians on Russian music. 1880-1917, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 234-
58.
150
aspirations in life rendered the composer artistically impotent. “Scriabin’s priesthood led
him to passivity of will and instability of symphonism:
4
continuity of musical
consciousness is unthinkable where there is no tireless aspiration towards self-will
(awareness of oneself as a centre) and where creativity is reduced to a ritual.”
5
This is
clearly an assault on the concept of the Mysterium where the composer must sacrifice his
will in a liturgical act of sobornost (spiritual community) in order to re-establish unity
with the Divine. Asafyev, as a composer with a solid understanding of music theory,
finds this stasis manifested already in Scriabin’s 1910 symphonic poem Prometheus. He
points out that the foundational chord robs the work of any truly dynamic quality. He
writes, “It is interesting that his symphonic intensity weakens along the path towards the
spectral, and that the extremity of his creative audacities – Prometheus – is a static
composition without development or fluency. The new sonority, the heightened harmonic
sphere, initially led to error and created an illusion of movement. But there is almost no
movement. Only the piano part hits at impulses of the will, but everything else round
about resounds in the immobility of a swirling fog.”
6
Asafyev hears a continual
weakening of intensity from Scriabin’s first symphonic works through to Prometheus. In
a comparison, he finds the opposite to have occurred in the works of Tchaikovsky – the
composer he admired most. He states, “. . . on the contrary, in Tchaikovsky that tension
rises and is concentrated in the Sixth Symphony with tremendous power.”
7
Asafyev had
4
Asafyev writes, “It is pointless to define symphonism, just as it is impossible to define the concept of the
picturesque, of the truly poetic, of musical sound, etc.” in Asafyev, “Temptations and Triumph” (1917),
quoted in David Haas, Leningrad’s Modernists. Studies in Composition and Musical Thought. 1917-1932,
American University Studies, Series 20: Fine Arts, 31 (New York: Peter Lang, 1998), 75.
5
Asafyev, “Pathways,” op. cit., 248.
6
Ibid., 240.
7
Ibid., 248.
151
the highest praise for Tchaikovsky’s last symphony; it is “the sole genuine symphony
after Beethoven and the sole symphony of the Russian intelligentsia.”
8
In spite of this polarity, i.e., the contrary development of tension throughout their
respective orchestral works, Asafyev finds a point of communality between the two
composers: “They are [so] enclosed, unrepeatable and undevelopable, that their
individuality does not even allow a school.”
9
He identifies similarities in their emotional
chemistry, i.e., how they experience and process various stimuli. He states, “It is not
without reason that there is a parallel to the music of Tchaikovsky as regards rhythmic,
dynamic and thematic linearity in the most symphonic moments of Scriabin’s music.” In
contrast, though, Asafyev cites Tchaikovsky’s sustained connection to the human
element, whereas Scriabin in his opinion, “apparently surmounted the barriers of human
consciousness.”
10
Most of all, Asafyev hears much of the music of the two composers as
subjective, which he identifies as positive expression of the individual will. In the case of
Scriabin, however, this gradually transformed into a “distinctive objectivism.”
11
This he
contrasts with the “passionless objectivism” of Rimsky-Korsakov (Asafyev’s former
teacher!) and Alexander Glazunov (“Borodin’s heir”), whose music he could not
tolerate.
12
For him these composers were the epitome of the Belyayevite aesthetic which
he describes in disparaging terms; for him, this musical style of Rimsky-Korsakov is a
8
Ibid., 240. Further, in reference to Asafyev’s fondness of this work and position of musicologist in a
socialist state, Nicolas Slonimsky writes, “A lover of Tchaikovsky’s music, he had to resort to tortured
dialectics in order to justify his high opinion of the Pathétique: ‘there is no more dramatically powerful
work, in which the tragedy of a sensitive, creatively gifted personality, choking in the unhealthy social
atmosphere and transferring the drama of life into his inner world, is bared so strikingly.’ ” In Nicolas
Slonimsky, review of Russian Music from the Beginning of the Nineteenth Century, by Boris Asafyev,
Musical Quarterly 40, no. 3 (July 1954): 425-30; 426.
9
Asafyev, “Pathways,” 242.
10
Ibid., 241.
11
Ibid., 249.
12
Ibid.
152
mere stencil from which all others can trace. Asafyev condemns Rimsky-Korsakov
stating, “He is the inculcator and educator of the cult of static sonority where formulas
take the place of living fabric and where music is thought of exclusively as if confined to
two dimensions.”
13
Correspondingly, Scriabin found also the musical style of the St.
Petersburg composer and professor as well as his imitators tedious. As one example, both
Asafyev and Scriabin faulted early works of Stravinsky, a student of Rimsky-Korsakov,
for their apparent stylistic residue of the master. In derogatory terms, Scriabin referred to
Stravinsky’s early work as “the usual Rimsky-Korsakstvo.”
14
This commentary of
Scriabin followed several years after the death Rimsky-Korsakov. Formerly, Scriabin had
been on excellent terms with Rimsky-Korsakov and visited him at his home in St.
Petersburg.
15
The latter conducted the premiere of Scriabin’s Rêverie in St. Petersburg
and was ostensibly a fellow synaesthete. Elsewhere, as a board member he reviewed
Scriabin’s works for publication through the M. P. Belyayev Endowment.
16
As for
Asafyev, he had always hoped to study composition with Rimsky-Korsakov and the
latter’s death in 1908 prompted him to leave the St. Petersburg Conservatory without
finishing his course of studies. It appears that Asafyev and Scriabin shared a peculiar
ambivalence concerning Russian Romanticism and Modernism. On the other hand, their
respective aspirations followed different paths. Where Scriabin sought recognition as a
13
Ibid., 246.
14
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 288.
15
Ibid., 289.
16
Documented in the Scriabin correspondence.
153
thinker beyond the mere occupation of a composer, Asafyev wished to become the latter
and questioned his own competence as a technical writer on music.
17
It is quite likely that Asafyev would have met Scriabin in St. Petersburg through
Rimsky-Korsakov, but there is no indication of that this happened in the available
documents.
18
Another possibility for meeting would have been through the art historian
and critic Vladimir Stasov (1824-1906), with whom Asafyev worked and learned the
library and archival sciences at the St. Petersburg Public Library during a period starting
in 1904.
19
During the previous ten years, Stasov had become an increasingly enthusiastic
supporter of Scriabin and was in regular contact with the composer.
20
In any case,
Asafyev would have had the opportunity to hear all of Scriabin’s orchestral works and
most of the piano pieces in St. Petersburg, the city of the composer’s maecenas and
publisher, Mitrofan Belyayev (1836-1904).
By the time Asafyev began critical writing in 1914, he was completely familiar
with the music and ideas of Scriabin. He could analyze the composer’s position in the
national as well as international context. His principal interest, however, lay in the
17
Nicolas Slonimsky writes, “As a composer, Asafyev totally lacked individuality. Not even his most
ardent admirers in Russia would seriously claim distinction for his music. It is as a scholar and critic that
Asafyev is to be evaluated. He was not sure of his place in musical scholarship and regarded himself as a
musical observer. ‘I am not a musicologist,’ he wrote to Kabalevsky from Leningrad in August 1942; ‘My
so-called discoveries are made by the creative mind of a musician.’ ” Op. cit., 425. Elsewhere, Sergei
Prokofiev writes in his diary (February 3, 1908), “Arensky’s Nal and Damayanti (1904) is a thoroughly
bad opera! . . Worse than Asafyev!” in Sergei Prokofiev. Diaries. 1907-1914. Prodigious Youth, trans.
Anthony Phillips (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006), 39.
18
Asafyev began his music studies at the St. Petersburg Conservatory through the personal suggestion and
encouragement of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. See Andreas Wehrmeyer, “Einige Anmerkungen zu Boris
Assafjews Buch ‘Die Musik in Russland,’ ” in Boris Assafyev, Die Musik in Russland, ed. and trans. Ernst
Kuhn, Musik Konkret 9 (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn, 1998), 396.
19
Ibid.
20
In the earliest of several letters to Stasov dated Paris, December 1 (13), 1897, Scriabin thanks Stasov
profusely for the award notification of the monetary “Glinka Prize” and requests to know who the secret
benefactor is, who turns out to be Mitrofan Belyayev (1836-1904). In Skriabin. Pisma [Letters], ed. A.
Kashperov (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965), 186.
154
musical culture of his native country. Slonimsky writes, “…the explanation of Asafyev’s
great renown as a writer . . . lies in his complete absorption in the subject of Russian
music, his passionate desire to communicate his own deep feeling to the reader.”
21
In this
commitment, he sought to maintain his integrity during the 1920s conflicts between the
ACM
22
and RAPM,
23
and then later during the severe era of Stalinism and
Zhdanovshchina.
24
In somewhat emotional rhetoric, the Russian émigré-musician-writer
Andrei Olkhovsky offers the following assessment:
During the twenties Asafyev as a leading adherent, inspirer
and director of contemporary music was subjected to such
fierce attacks from the leaders of RAPM [Russian Association
of Proletarian Musicians] that it is hard to understand how this
extremely sensitive man could have endured it. To anyone who
was connected in any way with Asafyev or who had carefully
read his works it was unmistakably clear that his world outlook
and his musical aesthetic conceptions, those which he professed
himself and which he persistently implanted in his pupils,
did not change one iota during his entire career of almost half a
century, half of it under the harsh conditions of Soviet reality.
25
Asafyev’s monograph Scriabin (1921) appears to contradict these sentiments. For example,
his reappraisal of the composer’s symphonic poem Prometheus, subtitled Poem of Fire, is
at odds with what he had written in the article of 1918. Now, in the monograph, he praises
the dynamic nature of the orchestral work identifying Scriabin with the title hero as a
“symbol of rebirth.”
26
Asafyev perceives the work in one sense as an extension of
Wagner’s Ring des Nibelungen with opposing symbolic meanings of fire. “Wagner’s fire
21
Nicolas Slonimsky, review of Asafyev: Russian Music, 427.
22
Association of Contemporary Music, Moscow; LACM, Leningrad affiliation of same.
23
Russian Association of Proletarian Musicians, Moscow; founded originally by students in 1923 and
existed until 1932.
24
Repressive cultural doctrine named after Andrei Zhdanov (1896-1948), hardline politician under Stalin.
25
Andrey Olkhovsky (1900 - ?), Music under the Soviet: The Agony of an Art (New York: Frederick A.
Praeger, 1955), 81-82.
26
Boris Asafyev, Skriabin. Opyt Kharakteristiki [Scriabin. Characteristics of his Works], (St. Petersburg:
Svetozar, 1921, rep., 1923), 44.
155
signifies destruction and downfall. Scriabin’s fire is rebirth and re-creation. Wagner’s fire
is ultimately the result of evolution. Scriabin’s fire represents a beginning, a point of
departure, the creation of the world beyond that of mankind. . . .”
27
Here, Asafyev has
departed from his earlier criticism of the work’s static harmony. He now writes, “Having
created Prometheus and with it a new world of sound, Scriabin crossed over into a sphere
of endless possibilities. And how much music will appear in the future based on it!”
28
Another aspect of the monograph distinguishing it from the earlier article is the
assessment of Scriabin’s spiritual development and its impact on his creativity. The
earlier work intentionally avoids discussion of his religious and philosophical ideology.
There, Asafyev writes, “…the Scriabin Societies take sufficient trouble over it.” In the
monograph, however, Asafyev acknowledges Scriabin as a musician-philosopher and
incorporates the spiritual topics into the discussion. “His philosophy is a philosophy of a
musician-creator, endeavoring to understand in the imagery of words the nature of
musical creation.”
29
Asafyev elaborates extensively on Scriabin’s ideological
development using a metaphorical language that some observers have found excessive.
30
The author’s purpose here is to make the material accessible to a broader audience in a
manner it can understand. He writes, “I will try to explain this without using the language
of a specialist or technical terms.”
31
While avoiding technical parlance, he offers instead
to the reader a somewhat aureate version of Scriabin’s intentions. For example, in
illustrating the essence of the composer’s music, he claims, “Neither depression nor
27
Ibid., 45-46.
28
Ibid., 48.
29
Ibid., 22.
30
“Asafyev was a master of luxuriant prose and was too often entangled in his own metaphors.” See
Nicolas Slonimsky, op. cit., 426.
31
Asafyev, Skriabin, 26.
156
despair is found in this music. Scriabin believes in the sun and no matter how many
clouds or fog would obscure the rays of light, Scriabin knows the path to them; it is the
path to ecstasy, the path to joy, to intoxicating intellect and to the unbridled spirit.”
32
Asafyev himself was aware of the difficulties in expressing his ideas clearly.
33
More
noteworthy here, though, is the revision of his earlier ideas about Scriabin that appeared
in 1918.
34
There, he speaks of Scriabin’s submission to a higher power, of the composer’s
“flight to the unknown.”
35
In general, he warns of the dangers of relinquishing one’s own
will “towards subservience to religious feebleness (theosophy).”
36
In the earlier script, he
states, “Scriabin has no will; therefore there is no symphonism, no continuity of musical
consciousness, though there is all the same an impersonal, insane dissolution in the
sphere which to him is concrete and ideal.”
37
Later, in 1921 he conveys a message of the
strength of Scriabin’s convictions and the nobleness of his aspirations:
Scriabin’s proud idea about a man-god placed the human spirit
in the center of the world, as the sun of the universe. Scriabin
went to the sun not in order to worship it as did sorcerors of
the East. He went to merge with the sun, to become the sun himself.
The philosophy of Scriabin is a line of transfigurations, sublimations
of the spirit (evolution of consciousness) from one center
towards a new center, a tireless creation of worlds and the aspiration
from them to ecstasy, towards merging with the universe. Scriabin
dreamed about a mighty individual, who would know all, and having
endured all would through his own will direct the course of the worlds.
38
32
Ibid., 14.
33
“I am greatly aggrieved by my inability to develop a fine literary style, and I am fully aware of the
turgidity of my writing.” From the preface to the second volume of his book Musical Form as a Process,
quoted in Slonimsky, op. cit., 425.
34
Detlef Gojowy speaks of Asafyev’s numerous transformations [mannigfache Umwandlungen]
throughout the latter’s writing career. See Gojowy, op. cit., p. XIV.
35
Asafyev, “Pathways,” op. cit., 249.
36
Ibid., 256.
37
Ibid., 241.
38
Asafyev, Skriabin, 8.
157
In the 1918 article, he comments on the poetic quality of Scriabin’s music and of its
potential as one redeeming factor. He predicts, “The concretization of Scriabin’s musical
inheritance can even lead in the direction of turning poetic quality into symphonism, that
is to the return to the dominance of the personal element asserting one’s own will far
above anything else.”
39
In 1921, there is no longer any doubt expressed about the strength
of Scriabin’s will. Here, Asafyev invokes the name of Russia’s greatest literary figure,
Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837), in order to corroborate his claims. Quoting a section
from Pushkin’s drama Mozart and Salieri, he writes:
Hearing the music of Mozart, Salieri says
What profoundness!
What boldness and what harmony!
You, Mozart, are God and don’t know it yourself;
I know it, I! . . .
Scriabin heeds the secret confession that escaped the lips
of Pushkin. He confirmed the divinity of the creative mind
of man and boldly set off on pre-planned pathways telling
himself: I know that I am God. The summits of creative
ascent are accessible to me. I will experience the creative
ecstasy, the most sublime joy of confluence with the universe,
created by me, my understanding and experience, by my will.
That is how Scriabin would have the right to speak about himself.
And the meaning of his diary entries contains these ideas.
“I am the sun.”
40
Asafyev demonstrates here Scriabin’s self-appraisal as God incarnate, establishing the
power of his will and his unique and outstanding position among composers. The strong,
assertive will, so important to artistic individuality, is also essential to Asafyev’s
understanding of symphonism, which requires dynamic struggle of forces. Here, he no
longer speaks of weak immobility or of a static vertical nature of Scriabin’s harmony.
39
Ibid., 249.
40
Asafyev, Skriabin, op. cit., 38.
158
In citing the differences between Russian and West European music, Asafyev
names the horizontal importance found in his country’s folk melodies. He condemns the
“weak-willed ‘vertical’ petrification”
41
which he associates with Western harmony and
the established forms such as sonata which he says “stifles free musical speech.”
42
In the
1918 article, he does not yet acknowledge Scriabin’s achievements in liberating himself
from these traditional confinements; this he does in a more technical discussion
mentioned below. Asafyev views Russia’s earlier reliance on imported fixed forms as a
hindrance towards internal musical development and at some level a suppression of
national identity. “The essential dependence of Russian music on classical German
music, whose disciple and foster-child she is, consists in cultivating obsolete formal
schemes.”
43
He insists that form should be a “living continual synthesis.”
44
On this point,
Asafyev remains consistent in his music theoretical judgment throughout his life.
In spite of the outside factors influencing the music of Russia, Asafyev maintains
that the works of its great composers retain the natural flexibility present in the country’s
folksongs. He identifies their lyricism (napevnost) and song-like character (pesennost)
which have found the way into Russian art music.
45
Here, Asafyev does not stop short of
including the music of Scriabin, although the latter composed no noteworthy songs and,
in general, was not interested in his country’s folksong heritage. An influence is still
present, though, according to Asafyev. In his book Russian Music from the Beginning of
the Nineteenth Century (1928), he writes the following:
41
Asafyev, “Pathways,” op. cit., 252.
42
Ibid., 245.
43
Ibid., 256.
44
Ibid.
45
Ibid., 254.
159
There is also something of Russia, and of Moscow, that
the piano music of Rachmaninov, Medtner, and Scriabin
has in common – something that we also find in Tchaikovsky,
Taneyev, and Arensky. In spite of a careful cultivation
of the “vertical,” i.e. harmonic texture, their music is largely
directed by melody – emotionally expressive and pianistically
plastic. Melody builds up and sets their music in motion,
since otherwise, without this stimulus, it would turn into
harmonic improvisations on a tonal basis, and nothing more.
46
The independent melodic element, therefore, marks the dynamic forward movement in
music that Asafyev views as one particularly identifiable feature of truly Russian music.
Scriabin and the other above-named composers to whom he attributes this quality are
associated with the Moscow Conservatory. Therefore, it is peculiar that Asafyev in the
previous year, 1927, in an article titled “Ten Years of Russian Symphonic Music,”
47
juxtaposes the elements cited above as traits of the Leningrad aesthetic direction with the
less indigenous, more “derivative” style which he finds characteristic of Moscow. He
writes, “Melos and linearism [linearnost’] are the basis for the creative work of
Leningrad’s new composers.”
48
Asafyev’s ambivalence towards Moscow is apparent in his varying assessments of
its composers, and in particular Scriabin. In spite of his monograph celebrating the
composer, he displays his personal disapproval in lesser-known documents. For example,
in an official report to the Repertoire Commission of the Leningrad Theater on May 30,
1929, he extols the accomplishments of the eminent Moscovite composer Alexander
46
Boris Asafyev, Russkaya muzyka ot nachala XIX stoletiya [Russian Music from the Beginning of the
Nineteenth Century], trans. Alfred J. Swan (Ann Arbor: J. W. Edwards, 1953; orig. Moscow-Leningrad:
Academia, 1930), 250. In his introduction, Swan calls Asafyev “the Russian counterpart of Ernest
Newman” (p. vii) and of the book states, “This is musical criticism of the highest type, without the slightest
amateurishness, or attempt at popularization.” (p. viii).
47
Igor Glebov [Boris Asafyev] , “Russkaya simfonicheskaya muzyka za 10 let” [Ten Years of Russian
Symphonic Music], Muzyka i revoliutsiya, 11 (1927): 20-29; quoted in Haas, op. cit., 40.
48
Ibid.
160
Mosolov in a way that denigrates the legacy of Scriabin. He writes, “Alexander Mosolov
is one of the few musicians in Moscow who do not swim along in the unhealthy
Scriabinist aesthetics.”
49
Based in Leningrad, Asafyev had been able to observe the
musical activities there closely and was inclined to view that city as the center and
driving force of Russian modernism. He was, indeed, aware of musical developments in
Moscow, but as in other areas of art and literature, a certain rivalry continued to exist
between the two cities and this becomes apparent occasionally in his writings.
50
In the article of 1918, Asafyev claims that the extreme individuality of Scriabin
would not permit the development of a school.
51
Later, in 1928 he acknowledges his
impact on numerous outstanding composers of the older and younger generations. He
speaks of the Scriabinisms in the music of Reinhold Glière (1874-1956).
52
In the late
works of Anatoly Lyadov (1855-1914) and the middle period of Alexei Stanchinsky
(1888-1914), he cites Scriabin’s influence. In the earlier article, he speaks of Scriabin’s
lack of symphonism; now, he emphasizes its positive presence in the composer’s piano
works. In 1918, he writes about limitations and “naïve symmetricality” of sonata form
that does not “withstand individual violations.”
53
By contrast, in 1928 Asafyev praises
Scriabin’s achievements in this genre; he does this in a superlative manner that is
reminiscent of the esoteric dimensions of Russian Symbolism:
49
Quoted in Gojowy, op. cit., XVII.
50
In 1943, Asafyev moved to Moscow, where he became director of the music research division of the
Conservatory and later president of the composers’ union of the USSR.
51
Viacheslav Karatygin (1875-1925), a St. Petersburg critic whom Asafyev held in high esteem – he writes
positively of him in Russian Music (pp. 274-75) – observes the situation oppositely; Karatygin discusses
this in an article published a few years earlier. Of several named Russian composers he writes, “Not one
has so far established a school. Scriabin represents a relative exception.” See “The most recent trends in
Russian Music,” Northern Notes 6-7 (1914): 141-53; repr. in Stuart Campbell, op. cit., 224-33, here: 232.
52
Asafyev, Russian Music, 319.
53
Asafyev, “Pathways,” 245.
161
The highest point in the evolution of the Russian sonata
between 1893 and 1913 are the ten piano sonatas of Scriabin,
in which the composer steadily rose in his creative development,
and contemplated more and more decisively a complete
“dematerialization” of the musical tissue, in the sense of
turning it into a transmissive medium as movable as air and
as intangible as human thought.
54
Where earlier Asafyev speaks of Scriabin’s weakness of will and stagnancy of the
“Promethean” harmony pervasive in his later works, he now claims that Scriabin’s
Sonatas six through ten (1911-13) “represent the ultimate perfection of his classic style
with a complete freedom from any influences alien to his spiritualized musical perception
and his heightened aural keenness.”
55
In Scriabin’s music, Asafyev perceives a fusion of
the vertical and horizontal elements. “The melodic design grew more and more
capricious, breakable or zigzag-like, while the ‘verticals’ (harmonies) were either
cemented more firmly, or became more transparent and aerial.”
56
And notwithstanding
Scriabin’s ostensibly irrational philosophical world of thought, Asafyev commends the
composer’s “logical system of a combination of sounds;”
57
this he attributes partly to the
traditions that developed in the composer’s hometown and which were grounded in the
teaching methods of Sergei Taneyev (1856-1915) whose “rationally built-up system of
thought derived from the evolution of music, and the forms in which musical creation
manifested itself.”
58
Asafyev states, “It will not appear too exaggerated to say that in the
rationalistic tendencies of the Moscow musical culture of the pre-revolutionary epoch a
54
Asafyev, Russian Music, 254.
55
Ibid.
56
Ibid., 257.
57
Ibid., 262.
58
Ibid., 260.
162
firm basis was set for its further organizationally powerful evolution.”
59
Asafyev no
longer dwells on the strictures of sonata form; it is no longer an obsolete structure that
has reached an impasse. He elaborates rather on its potential for further unfolding.
Consequently, he views Scriabin’s work in the genre as an important contribution
towards this forward-moving organic process. “The further construction of the sonata in
the Moscow musical culture did not stop at Scriabin, but continues to break through in
various directions with various composers up to our times, as one of the characteristic
signs of chamber music creation.”
60
Here, Asafyev names the composers Nikolai
Myaskovsky (1881-1950)
61
and Samuil Feinberg (1890-1962).
62
One may find traces of
Scriabin in their works, but in this respect, particularly those in the piano compositions of
Feinberg are noteworthy.
63
Recognizing this influence in his works, Asafyev writes, “The
cycle of the ecstatic sonatas (six) of Feinberg
64
– sonatas that make a deep impression by
their pianistically breathtaking lyrical improvisationalism – shows how brilliantly one
could still vary the prerequisites set by Scriabin. . .”
65
The later opinions of Asafyev mentioned above indicate a re-assessment of
Scriabin’s position as a Russian composer. It appears, though, that he sought to make
certain adjustments that harmonized more accurately with the political and cultural
transformations taking place during the early years of the Soviet Union. This was perhaps
59
Ibid., 262-63.
60
Ibid.
61
Student of Anatoli Lyadov and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov in St. Petersburg. Myaskovsky later taught at
Moscow Conservatory and was a member of the ACM.
62
Student of Nikolai Zhilyayev (1881-1938) – a friend of Scriabin – at Moscow Conservatory. Feinberg
later taught there, too.
63
Significant is the fact that these two composers were recipients of the “Stalin Prize” which testifies not
only to their contributions in musical composition, but also indirectly to the enduring influence and respect
of Scriabin during that period.
64
Feinberg composed 12 piano sonatas by the end of his life.
65
Asafyev, Russian Music, op. cit., 265.
163
unavoidable, but at the same time could not have presented any major obstacle in view of
the author’s own tendentious attitude towards revolutionary philosophy. In 1934 he
admits, “For the straightening out of my mental processes, after a long period of
romantically Utopian formalistic meanderings, I am obligated exclusively to my study of
dialectical and historical materialism, and above all to the creative administrative
building of our country by the All-Union Communist Party and its leaders of genius.”
66
In his writings on Scriabin, Asafyev accounts for the social aspects of the
composer’s creative work. In “Pathways into the Future,” written in the year after the
Revolution, the author interprets the appearance of Scriabin at one level as a beacon of
hope for mankind, seemingly comparable to that of the major socialist philosophers. He
reflects on the significance of the composer’s arrival at this juncture in time and poses
several rhetorical questions about the future: “The phenomenon of Scriabin is a historic
wonder; can it really be possible to understand his whole biography in the midst of grey,
tedious Russian ordinariness? Or is it only in conditions of such reality that aspirations to
such themes as Scriabin raised up can be born? But what path leads on from them?”
67
For
these questions he offers no immediate answers.
In the 1921 monograph, Asafyev traces Scriabin’s artistic development as a
steady movement towards revolution which he claims is the essence of Scriabin’s final
dream. “The depth of the revolution, to which Scriabin was heading in his ultimate goal,
was based on a solid and stable conviction of the musician that the power of music is
infinite and that a mighty personality having created new music will shake the world and
66
Quoted in Nicolas Slonimsky, op. cit., 425.
67
Asafyev, “Pathways,” 241.
164
will accomplish in it a spontaneous shift of calamitous nature.”
68
This, Asafyev explains,
was the driving force behind Scriabin’s creativity; but the dream remained unfulfilled.
The author draws comparisons between it and the social political circumstances in Russia
during that period. In reference to Scriabin’s final ambition he writes, “The Mysterium is
a worldly revolution, the end of the visible world, but in the trembling of joyous renewal,
and not in the trembling of horror.”
69
In this study of the characteristics of Scriabin’s
work, its modern nature, Asafyev admonishes the contemporaneous society for its lack of
recognition of the important relevance that Scriabin’s late works have for the future of
humanity. At this time and in defense of Scriabin, Asafyev is revealing himself as a fierce
advocate of Modernism. He does not use the term “symphonism,” but explains Scriabin’s
music in a compelling manner using a cogent language designed for the psyche of the
revolutionary audience. He writes,
In struggle and division is the essence of life. Without them
there is stagnation and inertia. From this comes the passionate
tension in the music of Scriabin, the trembling and nervousness
of it and a seeming fear of standstill, a fear of rigidity. Even
purely contemplative moments of this music are full of an
inexpressible gravitation upwards. If one deeply experiences
and feels its expressiveness, one can compare the internal
uplift and rapture stimulated by it with an internal feeling
of the process of growth – a blossoming forth.
70
According to Asafyev, Scriabin was ahead of his own contemporaries and therefore was
“in essence, more contemporary than the rest of us.”
71
He stresses the importance for all
Russians to learn to appreciate Scriabin’s music and not to treat it as “some sort of
dessert. . . . It is important to understand that in our times the spiritual power and
68
Asafyev, Skriabin, 31.
69
Ibid., 47.
70
Ibid., 23-24.
71
Ibid., 44.
165
influence of music on our psyche is many more times stronger than that of the word.”
72
The sense of urgency pervasive in the writing style of the 1921 monograph reflects the
spirit of the initial years following the Revolution. In contrast, the character of the 1928
book is perhaps more tempered, though in no way less passionate. Still, one senses in the
writing style here a less liberal and more cautious approach in the presentation of
material. Careful not to dampen the legacy of Scriabin, Asafyev is nevertheless highly
critical of the pre-revolutionary period in which the composer lived and of which he, too,
is a product. He speaks of an “intellectual milieu that surrounded Scriabin”
73
without
including him directly. He implies that a decadent atmosphere prevailed during that
period without using the term “decadent.” At the same time, he indicates that it was
exactly this atmosphere that provided Scriabin the stimuli necessary for his creativity. In
summary, Asafyev praises Scriabin’s musical achievements using fashionable rhetoric
consonant with the social ideology of the period. Speaking of Scriabin’s music, he writes,
It knew no repose, conventionality, vulgarity, inert attitude to life.
The music of Scriabin is an irresistible and deeply human desire
for freedom, joy, enjoyment of life. In it there is a mutual
co-existence of an everlasting discontent and an exertion of
the utmost powers – and it continues to live as a witness of the
best aspirations of the epoch, in which it was an “explosive”
and turbulent element of culture.
74
The description above is indicative of the dynamic nature of Scriabin’s music – the
ingredient that Asafyev finds to be an essential element true “symphonism.”
72
Ibid.
73
Asafyev, Russian Music, 177.
74
Ibid.
166
Asafyev’s appreciation of Scriabin’s music and his ability to place it in a
historically and socially relevant context align him with other contemporaneous music
critics and certain political ideologues. They will be discussed in the following section.
Arthur Lourié and his Contribution to the Legacy of Scriabin:
Arthur Sergeyevich Vincent Lourié (Naum Israilevich Lurye, 1892-1966),
75
as in
the case of Boris Asafyev, was a composer and critic active in St. Petersburg. Likewise,
he was a firm advocate of Russian Modernism, including the music of Scriabin. At the
same time, both Lourié and Asafyev shared a common appreciation of the musical
heritage of the past. Lourié emphasizes this in his 1941 article “Musings on Music” when
he claims, “In music the past and the future are held together by the present, thanks to our
memory.”
76
Concerning the personal relationship between Lourié and Asafyev, the
assessments have varied. The German musicologist Detlef Gojowy characterizes the
professional rapport between the two men as close but guarded:
According to various sources, Lourié and Asafyev followed
similar paths. There were even signs of mutual esteem; yet all
the more apparent were their personal differences. Between
the two composers and music aestheticians, a rapport of
suspicious rivalry seems to have prevailed.
77
Lourié’s close personal friend and biographer Irina Graham recalls a warmer connection
between the two:
75
Most sources list Lourié’s birth year as 1892. An exception to this is the Grove Dictionary of Music
article (2001) by Giovanni Camajani and Detlef Gojowy who give 1891. “Arthur” and “Vincent” were
added in 1913 upon his conversion from Judaism to Christianity for his admiration of the German
philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer and for his love of the painter Vincent van Gogh. His original Jewish
given name with patronimic was “Naum Israilevich.”
76
Arthur Lourié, “Musings on Music,” Musical Quarterly 27, no. 2 (April, 1941): 235-42; 242.
77
Detlef Gojowy, “Zum Bild und Vermächtnis von Boris Assafjew,” introductory essay in Boris Assafjew,
Die Musik in Rußland, Musik-Konkret 9 (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn, 1998; orig. Russian pub., Leningrad:
Academia Press, 1930), XVII.
167
He was a close friend of Asafyev. Lourié admired very much
his musicological works. And Asafyev dedicated to him his
first publication with the inscription: “To Arthur Sergeyevich
Lourié, who has shown me my way.”
78
Lourié is better known than Asafyev internationally because, following the
example of many fellow countrymen, he defected to the West; he did this in 1922, five
years after the October Revolution. His later association with Stravinsky also contributed
significantly to his international recognition. Though not as prolific as Asafyev, the
author and composer Lourié was successful in having many of his own articles, books,
and musical works published in Europe and the United States.
79
Some important concepts
of Asafyev concerning the essence of musical expression find a resonance in Lourié’s
essays.
80
Asafyev, for example, describes “symphonism” (simfonizm) not in reference to
genre or medium, but in the following terms: “a stream of musical consciousness
[nepreryvnost muzykalnogo soznaniya] within the sphere of sounds yet to come.”
81
In a
lecture on Scriabin shortly before his emigration, Lourié similarly emphasizes the
Asafyevian “symphonism” in the work of Scriabin in the context of the composer’s
“active religious experience.”
82
Here, Lourié states, “Scriabin, the only Symbolist of
Russian music, was also nearly the only symphonist. . . The symphonic element is
78
Irina Graham, “Arthur Sergeevic Lourié – Biographische Notizen,” Hindemith Jahrbuch 8 (Mainz:
Schott, 1979): 186-207; 199.
79
Very few of Asafyev’s musical compositions were ever published. They remain archived in St.
Petersburg. See Tatyana Dmitryeva-Mey, “Chronological Index of Asafyev’s Works” in Boris Asafyev,
Izbrannye trudy [Selected works], Vol. 5 (Moscow: State Publishing House, 1957), 350-79.
80
For a summary explanation of Asafyev’s most notable ideas – intonatsiya, melos, polyphony, linearism,
and symphonism – consult David Haas, Leningrad’s Modernists. Studies in Composition and Musical
Thought, 1917-1932, American University Studies, Series 20, Fine Arts, vol. 31 (New York: Peter Lang.
1998), 53-80.
81
Ibid., 75-76.
82
Arthur Lourié, “At the Crossroads:2 Culture and Music,” excerpt from a lecture before the St. Petersburg
“Free Philosophical Association” in November, 1921; repr. in Strelets 3 (St. Petersburg, 1922): 170-74;
German trans., Karla Hielscher, Musik-Konzepte 32/33 (Munich: Edition Text + Kritik, 1983), 123-26; 124.
168
unthinkable without his development in the sphere of active religious thinking.”
83
Here,
the appreciation of religious mysticism as a connecting factor between the two composers
is apparent. Lourié proceeds to discuss also the song element (pesennost) – he does not
yet use Asafyev’s term “melos”
84
– in Scriabin’s earlier works such as the First
Symphony and the Piano Concerto. He speaks of the composer’s subsequent painstaking
liberation from this “pseudo-tradition of Russian music,”
85
and summarizes Asafyev’s
concepts with the following statement:
The path that began with Scriabin, when one considers his
powerful achievements, is the path towards pure symphonism,
built upon the song-like and instrumental foundations of the
primal element of Russia music – upon the essence of
musical experience and evocation.
86
The assimilation and appropriation of the philosophical and creative ideas of other
individuals seems to have been an extraordinary and life-long talent of Lourié. He
possessed an uncanny ability to adapt to his surroundings and reinvent himself in such
ways that always served his immediate interests – in both the professional and private
spheres.
87
Ultimately, Lourié became an intriguing and extremely controversial
personality. Leonid Sabaneyev, a historian not known for his integrity, eloquently
characterizes Lourié as opportunist, as “that restless musician whose biography is almost
more interesting than his compositions. An exquisite aesthete, a highly cultured and
83
Ibid., 124.
84
In 1929, Lourié distinguishes between “melody” and “melos” with definitions that appear to be taken
(borrowed?) from Asafyev. Lourié writes, “Melody is a progression in which the function of the interval
disappears. . . Melos is the sonorous whole, the circulation in the musical organism. . .” See Lourié, “An
Inquiry into Melody,” Modern Music 7 (Dec. 1929– Jan. 1930): 3-11; 10.
85
Lourié, “Crossroads,” 125.
86
Ibid., 126.
87
Examining his relationship with Stravinsky, Stephen Walsh refers to Lourié as an “intellectual
opportunist.” See Walsh, Stravinsky. A Creative Spring. Russia and France, 1882-1932 (New York: Alfred
Knopf, 1999), 461.
169
extremely clever man, he possesses that quality of ‘moral anarchism’ which in Russia so
often overtakes even men of standing. . . The life of no other Russian composer is so
fantastic, so full of the element of adventure.”
88
Still, Sabaneyev expressed gratitude,
depicting Lourié as a hero of the Revolution. Sabaneyev praises him as the appointed
head of MUZO
89
for his untiring and determined efforts to secure and protect Russian
modern music during the period of civil war following the Bolshevik takeover. At the
same time, Sabaneyev is also perceptive enough to recognize Lourié’s expedient
methods. With a restrained touch of sarcasm, he writes,
Lourier brought order into the musical life of Russia, being
guided by the incisive politics of the musical left wing – it
was the period when the political views of the left were
mixed up with artistic ideas, together forming one “touching
chord of misunderstanding.” However, let us be just to Lourier,
who at least did a great deal to preserve a number of musical
treasures which otherwise would have perished in the storms
of the revolution; and let us forgive him for having published,
at the expense of the State, too many, perhaps, of his own
compositions, ultra-‘left,’ futuristic in their very approach to
music, and sometimes adventurously attempting to establish
some sort of connection with the revolution.
90
88
Sabaneyev, “Three Russian Composers in Paris,” Musical Times 68, no. 1016 (October 1, 1927): 882-84.
Lourié had numerous love affairs with highly celebrated married women including both wives of the
famous Russian painter Sergei Sudeikin, Olga and Vera (the latter was later the wife of Stravinsky). Most
notorious was his affair with the “Soul of the Silver Age,” Anna Akhmatova, who left her husband, the poet
Nikolai Gumilov, to cohabitate in a love triangle with Lourié and Olga. For his part in this relationship,
Lourié separated from his first wife, the Polish pianist Jadwiga Cibólska with whom he had a daughter,
Anne. Probably to finance his life abroad, Lourié married in Paris in 1924, his second wife, the wealthy ex-
publisher Tamara Persitz, a Russian Jewess to whom he later explained the advantages of conversion.
Finally, in 1939, Lourié took as his third and last wife the widowed Elizabeta Alekseyevna, Countess
Belevsky-Zhukovsky (Moscow 1896 – Princeton 1975) securing himself a position of nobility in the House
of Romanov. Yet, his love for Anna Akhmatova, whom he never saw again, apparently never ceased. For
more information on Lourié’s personal life, consult Elaine Feinstein, Anna of All the Russias. The Life of
Anna Akhmatova (New York: Knopf, 2006; orig. pub. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 2005) and Caryl
Emerson, “Artur Vincent Lourié’s The Black Moor of Peter the Great: Exotic Ancestor as Twentieth
Century Opera,” in Catharine Theimer Nepomnyashchy, Nicole Svobodny, and Ludmilla A. Trigos, eds.,
Under the Sky of My Africa. Alexander Pushkin and Blackness (Evanston: Northwestern University Press,
2006), 332-67.
89
Music Division of the State Commissariat of the Enlightenment.
90
Sabaneyev, “Three Composers,” 883.
170
The fellow émigré Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953) was less forgiving towards Lourié; he
would not speak with him when the two were students at the St. Petersburg Conservatory
and later denounced him as a “scoundrel” and a “swine.”
91
The thirteen-year personal
relationship and professional collaboration between Lourié and Stravinsky in Paris (1924-
37) also soured to the point where Stravinsky would not even mention his name, even in
his 1936 autobiography.
92
Nicolas Slonimsky characterizes Lourié as “a musician of great
culture, but totally lacking in integrity of purpose.”
93
In his diary, he questions Lourié’s
forthrightness because of the latter’s disavowal of Judaism.
94
Furthermore, he criticizes
Lourié’s dilettantism in the area of philosophy – an aspect in common with Scriabin.
95
91
In a diary entry from December 16, 1922, Prokofiev implies that Lourié had lied to him in Berlin about
having secured Prokofiev’s manuscripts and documents from the latter’s abandoned St. Petersburg
apartment. He writes, “I was in rage: at Asafyev, for not having rescued and preserved the papers in time;
at that scoundrel Lourié for not giving him permission to do so when he, Lourié, had the power…” In a
footnote to this diary entry is a reference to a letter dated February 6, 1923 from Prokofiev to Nikolai
Mayaskovsky: “The score of my Second Concerto perished in the looting of my Petersburg apartment,
because that swine whom you so courteously refer to as Artur Sergeyevich would not, at the time he had
the power to do so, provide Asafyev with the official documents he needed to remove my manuscripts from
the apartment and keep them safe.” From Sergei Prokofiev: Diaries 1915-1923. Behind the Mask, trans.
Anthony Phillips (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008), 691-4. The circumstances surrounding this
incident are not clear. Factual is the disappearance of many Prokofiev manuscripts including the early 1903
opera “The Feast in the Time of the Plague” after Pushkin. César Cui had also composed an opera in 1902
under the same title. Curiously, an opera (1935) under the same title is listed among the works of Lourié.
Concerning the Second Piano Concerto, Prokofiev adds in the same diary entry, “This does not matter
greatly, because Mama brought the piano score with her from Kislovodsk, in addition to which I wanted in
any case to revise and re-orchestrate it, the only problem being that this will now take much longer.”
92
On a professional level, Lourié was not always convinced of Stravinsky’s directions of creativity. For
example, in 1929 Lourié wrote that, “Les Noces is so constructed as to prevent the hearing of the music
itself. . . the listener is held under the constant physical influence of rhythm. . . melody is totally
submerged.” (“An Inquiry into Melody,” Modern Music 7 [Dec. 1929 – Jan. 1930]: 3-11; 7). Elsewhere,
Felix Roziner states, “Later in life, Lourié commented that he regarded Stravinsky as a man of great talent,
but not as a genius.” See Felix Roziner, “The Slender Lyre. Artur Lourié and His Music,” Bostonia (Fall
1992): 24-41, 86-87: 38. On a personal level, a severe and irreconcilable conflict arose when Lourié sided
with Stravinsky’s children from the latter’s first marriage in their position against their father’s pending
marriage to Vera von Bosse (de Bosset) Sudeikina. See Roziner, 38.
93
Nicolas Slonimsky, Writings on Music, 2, Ch. 15 (New York: Routledge, 2004; Ch. 15 orig. pub.,
Research Bulletin on the Soviet Union, New York, April 30, 1937): 128.
94
In his autobiography, Nicolas Slonimsky refers to Arthur Lourié as “a Russian Jew who for some
unfathomable reason described himself as ‘of a Catholic family for many generations.’ ” See Nicolas
Slonimsky, Perfect Pitch. A Life Story (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 99.
95
Ibid. “Being a philosopher by inclination, if not by academic training, Lourié filled his book [the
Koussevitzky biography of 1931] with nebulous speculations about matters metaphysical.”
171
Coming from various corners, the numerous testimonies against Lourié’s moral character
suffice to be admitted as credible evidence; it appears the composer-musician indeed on
occasion succumbed to vice and lapses of good judgment.
Whether or not the harsh criticisms aimed against Lourié and his moral character
are justified, his commitment towards the legacy of Scriabin deserves praise. In his
position as commissar of MUZO, he was instrumental in elevating Scriabin to the status
of a national icon.
Lourié’s admiration of Scriabin’s work is already apparent in the former’s own
compositions. His early Cinq préludes fragiles, Op. 1 (1908-10), are an example. They
reflect a style in harmony more akin to Debussy (use of whole-tone and static in nature),
but the gesture of flight found in many of Scriabin’s compositions is clearly present here.
Lourié’s Deux poèmes [Two poems], op. 8 (1912), are another case in point. Stylistically,
they represent a cross between Scriabin and French Impressionism, but, additionally,
Lourié has chosen here typically Scriabinesque titles: 1. Essor [Soaring] and 2. Ivresse
[Intoxication]. These recall the indications frequently marked in the musical scores of
Scriabin. For example, in the latter’s Seventh Sonata one finds the following expressive
markings: ailé [winged] and vol joyeux [joyous flight]. Describing Lourié’s piano music,
Oskar von Riesemann hears it as “lisping and stammering in Scriabin’s manner.”
96
Carl
Engel contradicts this position; in defense of Lourié’s music he states, “I believe that of
all these Soviet composers he is among the two or three whose work is least slavishly
aping the later formulas of Scriabin, which make so much of this music simple
96
Quoted in Carl Engel, “Views and Reviews,” Musical Quarterly 10, no. 4 (October, 1924): 622-33; 627.
172
decalcomania.”
97
The differing perceptions here cannot disguise the fact that there are
certain similarities between the musical works of Scriabin and those of Lourié that one
cannot overlook.
The works that Scriabin composed from the early twentieth century to his death in
1915 coincided with the second wave of Russian Symbolism. This movement overlapped
with the beginnings of Russian Futurism of which Lourié was to become a leading
exponent.
98
Personally, he considered himself the Russian Pratella.
99
In part, Lourié
possessed an affinity towards Scriabin based on their common forward-looking attitude
towards art. Both were attracted to the new expanded tonal and coloristic resources in
music including set harmony and vocal effects.
100
For example, Lourié employs a
wordless chorus in Symphonic Cantata (text by Alexander Blok), in a manner similar to
Scriabin’s symphonic poem Prometheus, where syllables similarly replace words.
101
It
should be noted that Russian poets of Symbolism and Futurism often used words and
syllables purely for their acoustic beauty rather than any intended meaning.
102
Worthy of
97
Ibid.
98
From circa 1912, Lourié had come under the influence of Nikolai Kulbin (1868-1917), the “Father of
Russian Futurism.” This title is often assigned to the painter David Burliuk (1882-1967). In his memoirs,
“Nash Marsh” (Our March), Lourié writes, “Nikolai Ivanovich loved me and took me everywhere.” Quoted
in Detlef Gojowy, Arthur Lourié und der russische Futurismus (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 1993), 34, 55;
memoirs orig. pub., Novyi Zhurnal [The New Review, New York] 94 (1969): 127-42.
99
See Larry Sitsky, Music of the Repressed Russian Avant-Garde (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1994),
101. Francesco Pratella (1880-1955) was an Italian Futurist, composer, and musicologist.
100
Lourié experimented with twelve-tone music as early as 1912 and wrote about quarter-tone music in the
Futurist journal Strelets [The Archer] 1 (March 1915).
101
There is a possible connection here to Russian Futurist poetry in which the technique referred to as
“Zaumism” (za + um = beyond reason) is employed. Syllables and neologisms replace established words
such that the listener perceives meaning through intuition as opposed to rational thought. Mikhail
Matyushin’s Futurist opera Victory over the Sun (1913) is constructed on such a libretto by Aleksei
Kruchenykh (1886-1968), who coined the word “Zaum.” See Vladimir Markov, Russian Futurism: A
History (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968).
102
Notwithstanding this similarity, one scholar in this field, Vahan Barooshian observes, “Unlike the
Russian Symbolists, who valued the poetic word for its suggestive powers, ideas and the creation of myths,
the Russian Futurists saw the poetic word as an end in itself, without any reference to either meaning or
173
mention in this context are the names of the second generation Symbolist poets Andrei
Bely (1880-1934), Alexander Blok (1880-1921), and the Futurist poets Velimir
Khlebnikov (1885-1922) and Alexei Kruchenykh (1886-1968). For these poets, “Sound
makes the word alive.”
103
Indeed the two schools, Symbolism and Futurism, intersected
each other most intensely in the years 1908-1912; and this was to have a significant
impact on Scriabin’s creativity.
104
The composer was quite aware of developments in the
realm of Futurist poetry and assimilated some of these ideas into his own philosophy
which would liberate man from the shackles of convention. In this, he was a musical
Symbolist-Futurist. The composer found the creation of new words in Russian Futurist
poetry, Zaumism,
105
to be parallel to the development of new harmonies. As evidenced in
the following statement, the syllables and neologisms in the works of Khlebnikov were
especially appealing to Scriabin and it became the latter’s intention to create new words
for his L’acte préalable [Prefatory Act]. In a 1914 conversation with Sabaneyev, Scriabin
commented,
One can invent new words the way we find new harmonies
and forms in music. The word must become much more flexible
than it is today. Languages have become petrified; they no
longer move and have no life. There is nothing worse than
the language of our intelligentsia. . . . Language must regain
its earlier freedom, when still every individual was a creator
of words. I would like to introduce many new words into my
L’acte préalable. . . . In language just as in music, there
exist developmental laws. The word, comparable to a chord,
becomes increasingly more complex through the assimilation
reality.” See Barooshian, “Futurism,” Handbook of Russian Literature, ed. Victor Terras (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1985), 161-64; 161.
103
Markov, 127.
104
Markov writes, “Those who were to call themselves futurists could not withstand the impact of their
symbolist ‘fathers;’ individual futurists and whole futurist groups made their debuts as imitators of
symbolism or as neo-symbolists (or decadents).” Ibid. 2.
105
Scriabin may have known this term, but this is not documented in his discussions or writings.
174
of more and more overtones. I have the impression that
each individual word is similar to a harmonic construction. . .
106
The Futurists’ linguistic experiments have relevance to Dadaism and Italian Futurism in
the West, but the Russians developed along their own separate and distinctive lines.
Khlebnikov emphasized that the Russians were the true originators of such ideas:
“We’ve been jumping into the future since 1905!”
107
According to Sabaneyev, Scriabin
was already familiar with the 1912 Russian Futurist manifesto-almanac, “A Slap in the
Face of Public Taste.”
108
He found the document entertaining and relevant to his own
developing project and even memorized some texts contained in it.
109
By the spring of
1914, Scriabin had been experimenting with new words for more than two years. To
Sabaneyev, he admits:
These are completely new words. . . I believe I have accomplished
the task; I have created my new language. . . It will soon be ready.
By the summer I will have concluded this part and by the autumn
everything else. The Prefatory Act should be completely ready by
next season.
110
For Scriabin as evidenced in his remarks to Sabaneyev, and likewise for the Russian
Futurists, the idea of creating new words signified liberation and a move towards the
development of a universal language. This in turn would unify mankind and lead to the
establishment of a new world order based on the legacy of Sobornost.
106
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 290.
107
Quoted in Markov, 157. The reference is to the First Revolution in Russia. The Italian Futurist
manifesto, written in 1908, appeared in Le Figaro on February 20, 1909.
108
Authored by Futurist literary friends of Lourié: David Burliuk (“The Father of Russian Futurism,” 1882-
1967), Velimir Khlebnikov (1885-1922), Alexei Kruchenykh (1886-1968), and Vladimir Mayakovsky
(1893-1930). These men would gather at the “Stray Dog Café,” probably the most famous meeting place in
St. Petersburg for avant-garde artists and poets. It was here, too, that Lourié first met Anna Akhmatova.
Sergei Sudeikin painted the interior and it was here in 1914 that Marinetti made his presentations on Italian
Futurism. The venue existed from 1912 to 1915 when the authorities shut it down following the outbreak of
World War I. See Catherine Ciepiela, “Introduction,” The Stray Dog Cabaret. A Book of Russian Poems,
trans. Paul Schmidt (New York: New York Review of Books, 2007), 7-23 of Intro.
109
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 290.
110
Ibid., 294. At the time of Scriabin’s death in April 1915, no part of The Prefatory Act was complete.
175
The mystic element provides a link between Russian Symbolism and Futurism
and it connects Scriabin to both movements. Russian mysticism also distinguishes these
movements from French Symbolism and Italian Futurism. This becomes particularly
clear in one of several Russian Futurist manifestos, of which Lourié was a signatory. In a
backlash following the visit to Russia in 1914 of the Italian Futurist Filippo Marinetti
(1876-1944)
111
, several Russians including Lourié held a protest forum in which they
read their new manifesto, “We and the West.” In this address, the Russian Futurists
sought forcefully to distance themselves from the positions of Marinetti and in general to
distinguish and separate themselves from all of Western Europe. Instead, the Russians
were identifying themselves with the East in the sense that they sought a future utopia
based on the values of spiritual community and universality.
112
Reflecting on this Russian
attitude, the historian Vladimir Markov describes a situation of irreconcilable
differences.
113
The following lines from the manifesto support this evaluation:
The West is unable to understand the East, having lost the idea
of the precise limits of art (philosophical and aesthetic issues
are mixed up with methods of artistic representation). The
European art is archaic. In Europe, there is no new art; and
there can be no new art because the latter is built upon
cosmic elements. In contrast, all art in the West is territorial
[ территориально]. Until now, the only country that has
no territorial art is Russia. . .
114
The puzzling contradiction here lies in the fact that the Russian groups would reject the
immediate past while constructing a future on traditional foundations (legacies) of the
111
Marinetti later became politically involved with Italian Fascism. According to some sources, Marinetti’s
next visit to Russia was in an Italian military division during the WW II at Stalingrad, where he was taken
prisoner. See Markov, 158 and 401.
112
One difference between Russian and Italian Futurists was the fact that only the former rejected war and
any form of violence as a means towards achieving their goals.
113
Markov, 156.
114
“My i Zapad’ ” [“We and the West”], facsimile and German translation in Gojowy, Lourié, 96-97.
176
distant past. For example, the Russian Symbolists and Futurists accepted aspects of
mysticism that had long been a part of their culture. They respected the members of some
older religious sects in Russia in whose ecstatic rituals believers would speak in tongues,
in a language understood only by the Divine Being.
115
Here, the enigmatic sounds of
communication are parallel to zaum – the transrational poetry of Russian Futurism. Their
desire to connect with the beyond and become an integral part of the cosmos was the
same idea of reunification with the Divine that Scriabin sought to achieve in his final
opus, the Mysterium. The Russian literary historian Boris Eichenbaum (1886-1959) states
that Symbolism and Futurism form “no simple antithesis,” but rather a complicated
interconnection in which the latter assimilated quite a lot from the former.
116
Within this
complex fabric of Russian avant-garde movements, the various constituent groups felt a
moral obligation to guide humanity down a path of enlightenment in an act of
Messianism – an idea imbedded in the Russian psyche for centuries and echoing one of
the fundamental precepts of Slavophilism described above. This moral sense of a spiritual
mission soon adapted itself easily into the role of a political mission.
It was in front of this socio-cultural backdrop – an amalgamation of the artistic
ideals of Russian Symbolism and Russian Futurism followed by auspicious political
conditions – that Lourié assumed his role of music commissioner among the Bolsheviks.
He had welcomed the October Revolution and was on favorable terms with prominent
figures of the new system, including Anatoly Lunacharsky (1875-1933), the first Soviet
Commissar of the Enlightenment. In this capacity, Lourié promoted young composers,
115
Markov, 127 and 398.
116
Boris Eichenbaum, O po ėzii [On Poetry] (Leningrad: State Publishing House, 1969), 83; cited in Marina
Lobanova, Mystiker. Magier. Theosoph. Theurg. Alexander Skrjabin und seine Zeit (Hamburg: Von Bockel
Verlag, 2004), 262-63.
177
advanced the cause of Modernism, helped to install a network of music schools, and
created the orchestra that would later become known as the Leningrad Philharmonic.
117
During this early post-Revolutionary period, Lourié penned two significant
documents devoted to Scriabin. They were written a year and a half apart from one
another, in 1920 and 1921 respectively. Each is a testament to Lourié’s shrewd ability to
assess the tenor of his surroundings at any time and under any circumstances. He presents
his views and arguments in a manner both compelling and acceptable to his respective
audiences. Stephen Walsh speaks of Lourié’s clever skills “in the craft of tendentious
exegesis.”
118
The method of presenting material in the two Scriabin essays provides
evidence of his style.
The first essay, “Scriabin and Russian Music,” had its origin as a speech delivered
by Lourié in Moscow in April, 1920 commemorating the fifth anniversary of the
composer’s death. It was subsequently published in 1921 by the State Publishing House
of the Soviet Union in St. Petersburg. Lourié describes Scriabin as a Russian composer
who, in spite of an assimilation of Western European musical influences, never abandons
that hereditary emotional element of his Eastern ancestry. The author proclaims Scriabin
a national cultural icon comparable to Tchaikovsky in his greatness and significance as a
composer. Notwithstanding all the past controversies during Scriabin’s lifetime regarding
his music and philosophy, “Scriabin has become the cultural property of Russian art.”
119
Lourié discusses Scriabin as a unique phenomenon. He stresses the importance of
Scriabin’s origins in Moscow – a city that traditionally nurtures artistic individualism and
117
Feinstein, “Anna,” 93.
118
Walsh, Stravinsky, 459.
119
Artur Lurye, “Skriabin i russkaya muzyka” [“Scriabin and Russian Music”], (St. Petersburg: State
Publishing House, 1921), 4. See appendix.
178
has produced Tchaikovsky, Taneyev, Rachmaninov, and Medtner as well. “Not one of
them is constrained by the other in any way or by any basic Russian school.”
120
This
situation he contrasts with St. Petersburg – the former capital and home to the national
School which began with Mikhail Glinka (1804-1857).
121
Lourié further explains that
Scriabin made “an unconscious break with the Russian national school. . . . and with the
unrestrained impulse of an innovator, was striving toward new shores and new paths.”
122
The apparent tendency here is to associate Scriabin’s ambitions and efforts with those of
the ideologues of the Revolution. The composer does not liberate himself entirely from
his musical heritage, though. Lourié hails Scriabin, for example, as one who “healed a
decaying Western European music by infusing into it the fresh blood of the enormous,
spontaneous temperament of a Russian musician.”
123
Again, one can observe in Lourié’s
essay the underlying sense of mission to assist and guide the rest of the world onto the
correct path. Lourié praises the beauty of Scriabin’s musical compositions, but minimizes
the importance of the accompanying programs. The intrinsic value alone has been their
salvation. Although himself fundamentally a mystic, Lourié realized that the philosophy
of Scriabin could not be acceptable to the new Soviet ideology, which sought to free itself
from religious mysticism and suppress any other concepts associated with the former
bourgeois society. In his defense of Scriabin, Lourié states:
All those indictments that could have been aimed at
Scriabin’s ideology hardly concerned his music. Scriabin was
and is above all a musician. His world outlook is to a
considerable extent a reflection of the trends in some
sections of philosophical, literary and artistic circles
120
Ibid., 6.
121
Ibid.
122
Ibid., 7-8.
123
Ibid., 8.
179
of his time, which he only condensed and brought to a
certain persistence and intensity. His work lives on outside
the circle of those ideas, which proved to be fatal for most
of his contemporaries whose works faded together with the
bogged-down artistic trends of their times. This did not apply to
him, though. In the perceptions of his work, his music can also
be in a narrow sense non-programmatic, just as the music of any
one of the great masters of the past.
124
Lourié attempts to align Scriabin and his creative path with the directions of the new
Soviet society. He establishes Scriabin’s sense of purpose and tenacity as qualities
consonant with the ideals of the new world. His persistent effort to move forward towards
his final goal, the Mysterium, is compatible with the revolutionary dynamics and the idea
of unity among the Soviet peoples. In developing this point of view, Lourié states,
“Scriabin claimed that his symphonies were national [the source is not cited] and he
regarded them as steps ascending towards the final completion of his idea of the
Mysterium, a national collective action.”
125
Just as the Soviet people had overcome
Tsarism and the former bourgeois society, so too had Scriabin overcome “the scholastic
stagnation, conventional schematicism of musical forms, and emotional atrophy of
obsolete sound material.”
126
To accomplish this task, it was necessary for the artist to be
endowed with a bold Spirit. Comparing the composer to contemporary revolutionaries,
Lourié summarizes:
The rebelliousness of Scriabin and his audacious idea,
which lighted up his work with Luciferian fire and
inflamed his life, will perhaps in the future serve as
a threshold and key to understanding our own days.
It will be established that the symphonies of Scriabin
124
Ibid., 11.
125
Ibid., 12. It should be noted that the Russian word translated here as “collective” is соборны й
[soborniy], an adjective that can also imply a spiritual community.
126
Ibid.
180
are prophetic harbingers of music, the sound of which
has filled all our lives.
127
With these lines Lourié combines mystic religious Symbolism with Futurism, and
simultaneously offers an appeal to the revolutionary minds of that epoch.
During 1921, the year in which the above essay was written, the pressure on
Lourié from Proletkult – a non-governmental organization opposed to Modernism and
artistic freedom in general – had increased significantly. Although he continued to enjoy
the support of Lunacharsky, Lourié encountered opposition from various factions
involved in music performance and pedagogy. Ultimately, this situation became so acute
that Lunacharsky had to intervene and negotiate an agreement.
128
In her memoirs of
Lourié, Irina Graham retells the following incident:
The innovations of Lourié drew opposition from all sides,
particularly among older musicians at the Moscow Conservatory.
Ippolitov-Ivanov
129
and Goldenweiser
130
were especially annoyed.
Both sent a complaint directly to Lenin. Lourié later recalled,
“I received a summons from Lenin. He stood up from his desk
and came towards me. He said nothing about the Moscow slander.
Lenin wanted to know about my work and plans in general. I was
thrilled and spent nearly two hours there explaining to him
all facets of my work. Upon departure, he said, ‘if you ever need
anything, contact me directly. Write a simple note; it will reach me. . .’ ”
After this meeting with Lenin, the old men stopped pestering Lourié.
Instead, conflicts arose with the unions.
131
The older guard sought to retain its freedom and resented heavy-handed bureaucracy. The
younger generation tended to support a democratization of the arts, dismantle an elitist
structure, and move towards a de-intellectualization. Under these circumstances, the
127
Ibid., 19.
128
See Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, enlarged edition: 1917-81, (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1983), 25-26.
129
Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov (1859-1935), composer, conductor, and professor at Moscow Conservatory.
130
Alexander Goldenweiser (1875-1961), pianist, composer, and professor at Moscow Conservatory.
131
Graham, “Lourié,” 205-6.
181
music commissar Lourié found it increasingly difficult to support a Modernist musical
culture that could not entirely break with the past. In this atmosphere, he composed his
next essay on Scriabin.
In November, 1921, Lourié held a lecture before the St. Petersburg “Free
Philosophical Association.” The printed version appeared in the following year, 1922, in
the Futurist journal Strelets [Archer]
132
under the title “At the Crossroads: Culture and
Music.” An extended passage of the presentation deals with Scriabin’s position in the
contemporaneous setting. Later Lourié wrote, “I read a paper in which I tried to formulate
the problems of musical art in their historical aspect, so far as a historical estimate in
regard to the heritage bequeathed by Scriabin and Debussy was then possible. The period
during which they had been the leaders of the new movement in music had only just
come to an end, and their creative work was still a living force.”
133
Again here Lourié
expresses an opinion similar to that of Asafyev; namely that Scriabin’s creativity is so
complete in itself that “there exists no possibility for a further organic unfolding. . . .”
134
Acknowledging Scriabin’s important achievements, he simultaneously criticizes recent
and futile attempts to emulate him. He makes the following observation:
The young generation of Russian musicians is intoxicated
with the influence of Scriabin; and for most of them this
influence is quite damaging. Through today’s fascination
with the music of Scriabin, most of the young musicians
have succumb to a blind and hopeless imitation of Scriabin,
whereby they are not at all in the position to recognize his
achievements in sound painting and the principles of his
musical forms. On the contrary, they understand him either
132
Russian Futurist almanac, serial, 1915-22.
133
Lourié, Sergei Koussevitzky and His Epoch (New York: Knopf, 1931), 132.
134
Lourié, “Crossroads,” 125.
182
in a narrow sense or not at all. For them, he embodies the
entire world of music.
135
On the one hand, Lourié presents here the positive image of Scriabin as a cultural asset;
the composer and his contributions should be revered. On the other hand, Lourié feels
compelled within the new revolutionary world to admonish the younger musicians; he
must lead them onto a path that conforms to the contemporaneous ideology of the
socialist state. In this regard, he had to act cautiously himself in order not to expose his
personal and deeply held religious beliefs within a system that would not tolerate them.
136
Viewed from this angle, it was also necessary for Lourié to distance himself from the
mystic aspects of Scriabin’s creativity although he most likely shared some of these
beliefs as evidenced from his own earlier and later compositional work.
137
It was above all the religious aspect that Lourié found appealing in Scriabin and
Russian music in general. Ten years into exile, Lourié perceived all the more acutely
those features that seem to distinguish the East from the West. In an article that he wrote
in 1932, Lourié offered the following summary:
Brotherly cooperation and an inward sense of responsibility
to one another have always been the watchwords of the
Russian school; spiritual solidarity, and not the disintegration
and indifference so characteristic of the Western Europe
of today. So long as this principle of national cohesion – not
for self but for Russia – exists, so long will the school endure.
138
Conciliarity within the arts and society would ultimately prevail. Yet, in the meantime,
the inability to reconcile the political and cultural trends in Russia inevitably drove
135
Ibid.
136
Larry Sitsky has written, “It becomes clearer now why Lourié left Russia at the height of his influence
and success. . . . He could not feel any sympathy for the machine age, or for the antireligious movement of
the Soviet government.” See Sitsky, Russian Avant-garde, 105.
137
Noteworthy here is Lourié’s Concerto Spirituale, 1928-9; premiered in New York City, 1930.
138
Lourié, “The Russian School,” Musical Quarterly 18, no. 4 (October 1932): 519-29; 529.
183
Lourié into exile. The expanded political control over the arts, for which Lourié had
significant responsibility, resulted in the loss of artistic freedom and initiated a tendency
towards banality. Individual expression had to forfeit its position of primary importance.
Artificially controlled and monitored, creativity became subordinate to the needs of the
state. In retrospect many years later, Lourié could see that Russian Futurism had detached
itself partially from the past only to become the temporary tool exploited by an inhumane
system of government. Under these conditions, though, Futurism could not sustain itself
permanently because it was indeed connected to the cultural heritage of Russia.
Explaining the interconnection of cultural movements within his country, Lourié
states, “The birth of a new psychology in Russia does not break the bonds between the
past of the nation and its present, in spite of appearances; and, at the end of the tale, the
‘new’ will find itself indissolubly linked to the ‘old.’ ”
139
Indirectly, he provides here an
argument for the enduring legacy of Scriabin in Russia and the Soviet Union. In spite of
Scriabin’s questionable mystic affiliations, Lourié cites the importance of religion as a
necessity for moral guidance in all aspects social and artistic culture. Within this
framework he states, “The indispensability of a work of art depends solely on its spiritual
content.”
140
Lourié thus contends that a significant part of the success of Scriabin’s work
is its spirituality and its continuity. It is linked to a long tradition of humanity in Russia
stemming from its religious origins. Speaking of Scriabin’s historical position in music,
Lourié claims, “The vestiges of the ardour and enthusiasm of his soul will forever remain
139
Lourié, review of Eight Soviet Composers, by Gerald Abraham, Musical Quarterly 31, no. 1 (January
1945): 127-29; 129.
140
Lourié, “The Crisis of Form,” Music and Letters 14, no. 2 (April, 1933): 95-103; 101.
184
indelible. Scriabin was one of the last of those artists for whom the spirit of music was
the spirit of humanistic culture.”
141
After his departure in 1922, Lourié never again returned to Russia. As in the case
of Sabaneyev, the Soviet government considered him a traitor. Its meticulous machinery
successfully expunged his name and accomplishments from the annals of Russian music
history.
142
In the West, Lourié was able to rely for many years on the assistance of
colleagues such as Stravinsky and Koussevitzky. After the latter’s death in 1951, Lourié,
unable alone to promote himself successfully in the United States, fell into obscurity up
until his own death.
143
During his time in exile, Lourié never completely renounced the utopian idealistic
side of Socialism or Modernism, but he became increasingly more critical of trends in
contemporary music which he understood to be a reflection of dehumanization in
society.
144
In Lourié’s perception of music history, Scriabin represented a bulwark
against such developments because he embodied true spirituality. One could sense this in
the man as well as his music. Lourié writes, “The power of his charm was veritably
unlimited. This, the true Orphic enchantment, will never be forgotten by those who heard
141
Lourié, Koussevitzky, 131.
142
Soviet publications into the 1980s do not mention Lourié. The purge extended into the Soviet satellite
countries as well. For example, Karl Laux does not discuss Lourié in his book Die Musik in Rußland und in
der Sowjetunion (Berlin, GDR: Henschelverlag, 1958).
143
During the ten years following the death of Koussevitzky, Lourié and his third wife Elizaveta lived in
extreme poverty in New York City. This was a stark contrast to the privileged childhood that Lourié had
enjoyed in St. Petersburg, where his father had been a wealthy timber merchant. Thanks to a trust fund
established in 1961 by the French Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain (1882-1973) and his wife Raissa
(1883-1960, a Ukrainian mystic), the Louriés were able to come live in Princeton, NJ in a house owned by
Maritain. There, they no longer suffered want of material needs. Lourié and his wife are buried in the
cemetery near St. Paul’s Church in Princeton, where the couple had been devout parish members. For a
detailed discussion, see Roziner, “Slender Lyre,” 86-87.
144
Lourié, “The De-Humanization of Music,” Ramparts (New York, January 1965): 39.
185
him.”
145
Elsewhere, among the last publications of Lourié was a French book printed in
1966 – the year of his death. It contains a collection of essays he had written throughout
his life.
146
Included here is an undated short reflection titled Une Vision de Scriabine. In
this writing, Lourié reminisces on the unique beauty of Scriabin’s playing – its
otherworldly sound. He also comments that “The problem with performing Scriabin
could be explained by the fact that it is born out of improvisation rather than composing.
Music represented for him an act of magic and his piano playing was pure inspiration.”
147
From these last observations, one can see that Lourié definitely found a spiritual dynamic
in Scriabin’s creativity that, in his opinion (as explained above), both validated the
artist’s work and secured his enduring appeal.
145
Lourié, Koussevitzky, 131.
146
Lourié, Profanation et Sanctification du Temps. Journal Musical. Saint-Pétersbourg – Paris – New York
1910 - 1960 (Paris : Desclée de Brouwer, 1966).
147
Ibid., 152-53.
186
Chapter 5
Georgiy Plekhanov and Anatoly Lunacharsky
Marxist Writers on Aesthetics and Scriabin’s Significance
Russia in the early years of the twentieth century witnessed the development of an
economic theory that Karl Marx (1818-1883) and Friedrich Engels (1820-1895) had
called Historical Materialism.
1
As a socio-political thinker analyzing problems of class
struggle, though, Marx did not develop an aesthetic theory per se.
2
In the opening pages
of his anthology Marxism and Arts, Maynard Solomon establishes this point
unequivocally: “There is no ‘original’ Marxist aesthetics for later Marxists to apply. The
history of Marxist aesthetics has been the history of the unfolding of the possible
applications of Marxist ideas and categories to the arts and to the theory of art.”
3
But
Marx’s scattered comments and remarks indicate that he was an advocate of creative
freedom and opposed any form of censorship.
4
In other words, art should not be
controlled or manipulated for any purpose. Solomon observes, “Nowhere in Marx or
Engels is there a demand that art create artificial exemplary models or serve purely
utilitarian ends. On the contrary, Engels specifically opposed tendentiousness in art and
1
The study of economics in social development culminating in the inevitable collapse of capitalism. The
exact designation “Historical Materialism” is attributed to the philosopher Friedrich Engels.
2
Victor Terras, “Marxism in Russian Literary theory and Criticism,” Handbook of Russian Literature
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985), 275-76. Marx’s ideas were further developed and incorporated
into the aesthetic theories of many other philosophers such as György Lukács (1885-1971), Theodor
Adorno (1903-1969), and Georgiy Plekhanov (1856-1918).
3
Maynard Solomon, ed., “General Introduction: Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels,” Marxism and Art:
Essays Classic and Contemporary (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1979), 5.
4
Vladimir Lenin would later adopt a similar position under which the liberal post-Revolutionary artistic
life in Russia continued to flourish initially. This was in part a reaction against the repressive and
widespread censorship in Tsarist Russia.
187
Marx believed that bias interferes with the pursuit of truth.”
5
In the generations of
Marxist thinkers that followed, these positions would give rise to much political and
cultural controversy. Already during the years prior to the Revolution, Russian
philosophers attempted to develop and apply an aesthetic direction based on Marx’s
theories. Among them were two of the most eminent critical thinkers of the time, Georgiy
Plekhanov (1856-1918) and Anatoly Lunacharsky (1875-1933). Their admiration for
Scriabin and ability to interpret his creative output within a Marxist context would have a
significant impact on the enduring legacy of the composer. These contributions are
described below.
During his life, Marx’s philosophical teachings were virtually unknown in Russia.
Contemporaneous conditions did not permit the free exchange of ideas across borders.
Moreover, at that time, the autocratic system of government under the Tsar was
confronting severe internal crises that were threatening to destabilize the country. The
mid-1850s saw the Crimean War, which revealed Russia’s military incompetence; in the
1860s, under increasing pressure from the country’s socialist intellectuals, serfdom was
abolished; in the 1870s, populism, inspired by goals of an agrarian form of socialism,
emerged as a movement among the peasantry. Simultaneously, positivism, a movement
rooted in scientific developments and industrialization, was leading to a new kind of
slavery – that of the urban working class. Many Russian intellectuals who supported
extended rights of the peasantry and opposed the growing enslavement of the urban
factory workers found themselves at odds with the imperial government and sought
refuge abroad.
5
Solomon, 237.
188
Those émigrés belonging to the enlightened Russian intelligentsia remained an
active intellectual force outside of their country. They interacted with like-minded
thinkers in Western Europe and under the less oppressive conditions there became better
informed about the various directions of socio-political philosophy. It was under these
circumstances during the last two decades of the nineteenth century that a community of
Russian Marxists developed outside of their own country. The leading exponent of this
group was Georgiy Plekhanov (1856-1918), considered the “The Father of Russian
Marxism.” It was his emphatic statements in 1889 at the fourth congress of the Second
International
6
held in London that caused Western Europe to take notice of the new and
serious social tendencies that were developing in Russia. In his speech, Plekhanov
prophesized, “The revolution in Russia will triumph as a working-class movement or not
at all.”
7
From 1880 onward, Plekhanov spent nearly the rest of his life exiled in Western
Europe, mainly in Switzerland.
8
During this period, he assimilated the ideas of Marx and
sought to apply them to the situation in contemporaneous Russia. The historian Samuel
Baron writes, “In Plekhanov’s person the best traditions of the Russian intelligentsia
fused with the broader stream of European Marxism to produce both a vigorous political
movement and a strikingly impressive intellectual output.”
9
According to Marx and his
disciple Plekhanov, the immorality of the exploitation of the working class – akin to
6
Socialist organization founded 1886 in Paris; disbanded 1916. It replaced the IWA (International
Workingmen’s Association, also known as the First International), which had existed 1864-76.
7
Quoted in Samuel H. Baron, Plekhanov. The Father of Russian Marxism (London: Routledge and Kegan
Paul, 1963), 163; originally published in Plekhanov, Sochineniia [Works], 2nd ed., D. Riazanov, ed., 24
vols. (Moscow: State Publishing House, 1923-27; vol. 24, 320.
8
Not until the overthrow of Tsarist government in 1917 did Plekhanov return to Russia.
9
Samuel Baron, “Between Marx and Lenin: Georgy Plekhanov,” in Samuel H. Baron, Plekhanov in
Russian History and Soviet Historiography (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995), 3-16; 3; first
published in Soviet Survey 32 (April-June, 1960): 1-8.
189
slavery – would in time lead internally to the collapse of capitalism; this in turn would
open the door towards a “utopian kingdom of freedom.”
10
Plekhanov sought universal
equality achieved through a moral awareness. Just equality would lead to the replacement
of world capitalism with communism as defined by Marx. This, however, would not and
should not occur forcibly, but gradually and non-violently. Plekhanov abhorred violence
as a means to an end; for this reason, he distanced himself from the earlier Populists and
later both the Mensheviks and Bolsheviks, all of whom on various occasions had resorted
to terrorist activities. Plekhanov was a revolutionary, albeit a peaceful one.
Plekhanov’s long sojourn in Western Europe intersected the period when Scriabin
and his family were living abroad. During the years 1906 and 1907 the two men were
neighbors in Geneva, though they had already met one another in Bogliasco, Italy, a
small coastal village near Genoa. They became close friends, engaging in cordial, but
many times also heated discussions relevant to politics and aesthetics. Plekhanov and
Scriabin were both altruists, but the former in relation to the visible world and the latter
in relation to the world beyond. They learned much from each other, but they were also
equally unyielding when it came to defending their respective positions. According to
Sabaneyev, “During this time, he [Scriabin] discussed with Plekhanov methods of
argumentation and he [Scriabin] believed now that he could comprehend the thought
processes of his opponents and destroy their arguments with the help of logic.”
11
For his
part, Plekhanov also praised Scriabin’s perceptiveness in debates: “With Alexander
Nikolaevich, there was much pleasure in argumentation because he had a capacity for the
10
Vasily Zenkovsky, A History of Russian Philosophy, vol. 2 (New York: Columbia University Press,
1953), 739.
11
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 200.
190
astonishingly quick and complete assimilation of the thoughts of his opponent.”
12
Plekhanov also introduced Scriabin to the ideas of socialism. Recalling this period some
years later, Scriabin, according to Sabaneyev, claimed,
I have studied these issues extensively. I have even read the
Capital of Marx in its entirety. In former times, I even believed
in such a possibility of organizing human society. Even today,
I still believe in it, but realize that that cannot be the final goal;
it represents rather merely an intermediate stage. . . .
13
Plekhanov admitted years later that Scriabin had indeed grasped certain ideas of Marxism
even more thoroughly than some of its most convinced advocates. “He had succeeded so
well in understanding its essence that he was able to handle this doctrine far better than
many of the staunch Marxists in Russia as well as abroad.”
14
In contrast however,
Plekhanov could not accept any of Scriabin’s ideas that concerned the sphere of the
supernatural. Sabaneyev recalled Plekhanov making light of Scriabin’s mystic religiosity:
Plekhanov, of all people, was the very first to hear this out of
the mouth of Scriabin. The famous leader of social democracy
upon hearing this information from Scriabin developed the habit of
expressing his thanks in a taunting ironic manner every time the two
would meet. “Thank you today, Alexander Nikolaevich!” “What for,
Georgy Valentinovich?” “Yesterday you prepared for us such
wonderful weather…”
15
Such playful sarcasm did not adversely affect the friendly relationship between the two
men; yet neither man could influence the other to such a degree that he would capitulate
and be willing to alter his opinion. One was grounded solidly in the realm of materialism,
12
Georgiy Plekhanov, “Letter to Dr. Vladimir Vasilevich Bogorodski,” dated San Remo, Italy, May 9,
1916; reprinted in G. V. Plekhanov – Literary Criticism (Moscow: Zhurnalno-Gazetnoye Obedineniye
[Magazine-Press Union], 1933), 163-69; 164.
13
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 192.
14
Plekhanov, “letter,” 165.
15
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 195.
191
the other in the spiritual; this would not change. In his biography on the composer, Boris
de Schloezer writes,
Despite the fact that they formed a close acquaintance
– almost a friendship – despite the respect and admiration
that Scriabin had for Plekhanov, the latter remained spiritually
alien to him. Scriabin was antagonistic to Plekhanov’s materialistic
philosophy, which he regarded as a peculiarly crude and rudimentary
form of realism and substantialism. His ideas were repugnant
to him, for they constricted, in his opinion, the free flight of
his creative imagination. . . . Economic and political upheavals,
however spectacular, had for Scriabin only a secondary
importance, for he posited the supremacy of the spiritual
life, in opposition to Plekhanov’s basic thesis that consciousness
is determined by environment.
16
Plekhanov influenced Scriabin nevertheless in such a way that the latter – who always
attempted to apply the ideas of others to his own world vision – could reinterpret the
former’s ideas to correspond to his own concept of “involution” and “evolution,” one
signifying the descending materialization, the other ascending spiritualization. In these
terms, Scriabin reviewed the situation of the world in 1914 after the outbreak of WW I in
a conversation with Sabaneyev:
We are standing before a terrible period that is bringing
with it the victory of the prosaic, the reign of materialism
and the total loss of the spiritual. A time is confronting us
where machines will come into the home, a century of
electricity, and mercantile interests, a time where there will be
space for nothing else; it will be a time that falls chronologically
together with the victory of socialism. . . . I already spoke about
this in 1905 with Plekhanov and he agreed with me wholeheartedly.
17
Scriabin viewed the world as headed in a negative direction – towards the nadir of
materialism – which he thought was a necessary stage before evolution, i.e., the inverse
16
Boris de Schloezer, Scriabin. Artist and Mystic, trans. from the Russian by Nicolas Slonimsky (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1987; originally published Berlin: Grani, 1923), 66.
17
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 318. Here, however, Sabaneyev claims to know from other un-named sources
that Plekhanov was not altogether in agreement with Scriabin.
192
movement towards the spiritual, or the divine, could commence. Plekhanov, a positivist
who had studied earth science at the Mining Institute in St. Petersburg,
18
could not accept
such a fantastic representation of events. In spite of their differences, though, that which
united the two men was a profound sense of optimism and desire to lead mankind
towards a utopian state.
From a moral standpoint, the Slavic notion of sobornost (variously interpreted as
conciliarity, collectivity, synaxis, but perhaps most accurately as a spiritual community of
mankind) played an equally important role in the world outlooks of both men. The idea of
social solidarity, long imbedded in the Russian traditions – both pagan and Christian –
was likewise firmly entrenched in the minds of the country’s citizens. This rendered the
entire society, and in particular the intelligentsia, susceptible to the ideas of socialism,
populism, and later communism. Inevitably, this sense of community found expression in
the aesthetic views of Plekhanov and Scriabin. Both men were brought up in the Russian
Orthodox faith; and although they departed from the official church, its teachings
concerning man’s responsibility towards his fellow man would remain with them.
19
This
moral commitment is documented in their various writings. Notwithstanding his interest
in the Marxist theories of economic materialist development, religious influence does
pervade certain areas of Plekhanov’s writing. The concept of the spiritual community, or
sobornost, receives special attention in what is perhaps Plekhanov’s best-known essay
18
Baron, Plekhanov. The Father of Russian Marxism, 9-10. Explaining Plekhanov’s choice to study mining
engineering, the author writes, “Science appeared to be one of the most likely ways to improve the popular
welfare.”
19
Baron (op. cit., 6-8) states that Plekhanov’s break with traditional religion coincided with his entry into
the Voronezh Military Academy that he attended from 1866 to 1873.
193
concerning aesthetics, “Art and Society” (Iskusstvo i obshchestvennaya zhizny, 1912-13).
In this extended essay, the author states:
Only that which promotes communion between men
can be the basis of a work of art. . . . Art is a means of
spiritual communion among men, and the nobler the
sentiment it conveys, the better will it fulfill its mission
of spiritual communion.
20
This position of thought is not far removed from Scriabin’s vision of the Mysterium,
which was to be a monumental act of sobornost. A fundamental goal of unity informs the
aspirations of both men; yet the desired means and results diverge from one another
significantly. The difference here lies in the fact that Plekhanov envisioned a future
utopia on earth – a classless society in the Marxist sense – whereas Scriabin’s final
objective was a reunification of mankind with the Divine. Both speak of liberation from
the fetters of human unrest, a topic portrayed vividly in their respective works. For
example, in Scriabin’s Third Symphony, Le poème divin, the title of the first movement,
Luttes (Struggle), refers to the trials of the human soul in liberating itself from the
material sphere and returning to the “Absolute.” For his part, Plekhanov was concerned
with the liberation of the oppressed working class, the proletariat. He attempted to
interweave this subject matter into his aesthetic theories. Plekhanov views the function of
art not only as a reflection of a particular society, but as an energizing element in that
society’s development. The literary scholar Victor Terras states that “Plekhanov thus
deals with art as a superstructure of the socio-economic base.”
21
Plekhanov was an
adherent of the utilitarian concept of art, which he describes as “the tendency to regard
20
Georgiy Plekhanov, “Art and Society” (1912), trans. Granville Hicks, Art and Society (New York: Critics
Group, 1936), 54, 65. The essay appears in a book titled the same. The latter is a collection of essays.
21
Terras, “Plekhanov,” in Handbook of Russian Literature, 343.
194
the function of art as a judgment on the phenomena of life and a readiness to participate
in social struggles.”
22
He sees purposefulness in all art and rejects any imputed status of
“absolute.” In his essay Plekhanov reaffirms the thesis of the Russian literary critic
Vissarion Belinsky (1811-1848), which states that “pure art, or, as the philosophers say,
absolute art, never existed.”
23
Plekhanov also leans on Darwinian theories when he
emphasizes that “pure art” cannot exist; here in his materialistic view, Plekhanov believes
that all art and aesthetic ideals are products of biological and historical conditioning.
24
Most important here, though, is the author’s assertion that art in all its manifestations
stems from ideas generated from that artist’s physical environment. This particular line of
reasoning clearly placed him at odds with Scriabin. For the latter, art was also produced
through those ideas generated from the artist’s environment, albeit, the intangible
spiritual one – a world in which the composer had immersed himself. Still, on one level,
Plekhanov’s materialistic views can be interpreted also spiritually; he was a humanist
whose life’s work was infused with the moral decency codified in the teachings of
Christianity. Conversely, Scriabin attempted to corroborate his spiritualist views with
material science. For example, he analogized his concept of dematerialization – the
ascent to the Divine – to the disintegration of atoms in scientific theory. Notwithstanding
his hostility towards Positivism and its foundations in logical science, he manipulated its
ideas to his advantage. In a conversation around 1911, Scriabin presented the following
speculations to Sabaneyev:
22
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 48. Plekhanov attributes the phrase “judgment on the phenomena of life”
to the dissertation, Life and Aesthetics by Nikolay Chernyshevsky (1828-1889); 38.
23
Ibid., 56.
24
Ibid., 57. Plekhanov discusses in detail Darwin in relation to aesthetics also in an earlier essay titled
“Historical Materialism and the Arts” (1899).
195
The disintegration of atoms was from the standpoint
of earlier science an absurdity, was it not? Meanwhile,
it is a generally accepted fact that atoms can return to
something immaterial. . . From here, it is just a step further
towards recognition of the possibility of dematerialization.
There are substances much finer than that of gas. And beyond
this lies the spiritual realm.
25
Applying scientific analysis to transcendental concepts was unacceptable to Plekhanov.
The spiritual realm here, if it indeed existed, would belong to the world of infinity. Such
a vision of the universe was opposed to the theories of Plekhanov, who said, “In science
we deal only with the ‘finite.’ ”
26
That which conjoined the respective positions of Plekhanov and Scriabin – if only
tangentially – was a mutual belief in the positive utilitarian feature of art. Both men
resolutely dismissed the idea of l’art pour l’art. In fact, this is the primary thesis of
Plekhanov’s essay “Art and Society.” For him, art is functional; it is intimately wed with
social development and class struggle.
27
Plekhanov acknowledges the existence of “art
for art’s sake” as a phenomenon; yet, for him it is nothing more than a malady of
bourgeois social conditions; it is a manifestation of the artist’s despair. Following these
observations, he concludes, “The tendency towards ‘art for art’s sake’ arises when
discord exists between the artist and his social environment. . . . Whenever artists are in
conflict with the society in which they live, they incline to the theory of ‘art for art’s
sake.’ ”
28
The artist becomes isolated and hence produces something with no social
25
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 176.
26
Plekhanov, The Role of the Individual in History (London: Lawrence and Wishart, Ltd., 1976; first
English edition 1940), 39.
27
To assign a utilitarian purpose to art is therefore compatible with the later concept of “socialist realism”
advocated by the Soviet politician Andrei Zhdanov (1896-1948); yet, it contradicts Karl Marx’s earlier
defense of creative freedom. This incongruity was a source of internal conflict regarding the cultural
policies of the Soviet Union.
28
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 43, 47.
196
function; it has therefore no value and forfeits its legitimacy as a work of art. Plekhanov
believed that in the future this mode of conflict would cease to exist. “Under socialism,
the theory of ‘art for art’s sake’ will be logically impossible.”
29
For Scriabin, the value
and legitimacy of genuine art lay in its capacity to lead mankind not only into such
interim conditions as Plekhanov’s material socialism, but also to a world more real; to
invoke Viacheslav Ivanov’s phrase: a realibus ad realiora. It is therefore ironic that
Scriabin, for all his desire and conscious efforts to identify himself with his fellow men as
common reflections of the world “Spirit,” would simultaneously alienate himself from
the larger part of society. Yet, immersed in his fantastic symbolic designs in search of
sobornost, he gradually became withdrawn from his environment. It is perhaps this noble
struggle to overcome individualism and to seek unity that made the composer so
appealing to Plekhanov as a socialist philosopher. In one passage of “Art and Society,”
the latter discusses the incongruity:
We find, then, that under present social conditions
the theory of ‘art for art’s sake’ does not yield very
luscious fruits. The extreme individualism of the epoch
of bourgeois decadence shuts artists off from the sources
of true inspiration. It sets up a barrier, screening
tumultuous social events and condemning them to
endless confusion over their petty personal experiences
and morbid fantasies. The net result of such rumination
is art which not only bears no relation to any kind
of beauty, but which is obviously absurd, and justifiable
only through a sophistic distortion of the idealist
theory of knowledge.
30
Art – if it may still be called such under these circumstances – is therefore void according
to Plekhanov because it lacks social purpose by virtue of its isolation. Scriabin, too, was
29
Ibid., 90.
30
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 87-88.
197
sequestered in his visionary world to a certain degree, but he was not unaware of or
entirely detached from his surroundings. His interpretation of them, though, was strongly
influenced by mystic symbolists because their theories provided reinforcement for his
own ambitious projects. On the other hand, the practical materialist Plekhanov did not
acknowledge mysticism or the second-generation Symbolists subscribing to it. Yet,
through them, Scriabin had learned to disengage himself to a certain degree from the self-
aggrandizement that had characterized his middle years. Foremost among these later
Symbolist friends was Viacheslav Ivanov, discussed above. Ivanov’s further development
of Solovyov’s “all-unity” concept permitted little room for any valid theory of
individualism. Ivanov’s ideas were well-suited to the Revolutionary cause in Russia.
According to these ideas, the single man should suppress personal desire for the
collective good. Further, Scriabin counted among his intimates Sergei Bulgakov (1871-
1944); according to this Symbolist, “all-unity” could be achieved only through
overcoming individualism.
31
The ideas of Bulgakov had a profound impact on Scriabin,
as witnessed once again by Sabaneyev:
Bulgakov was an absolute specialist in the area
of sobornost, which was intended to play such an
important role in Scriabin’s theoretical constructs.
As a former social democrat who had converted to
mysticism, Bulgakov was especially dear to Scriabin.
For in the person of Bulgakov, Scriabin believed he
could recognize the embodiment of his ideas and visions.
These amounted to the following: the material, i.e,
socialist level, constitutes an interim stage to pass
through on the way to a higher, “mystic” level.
32
31
Bulgakov presents this theory in his trilogy, O Bogocheloviechestvie [On Godmanhood] (Paris: YMCA
Press, 1933). A brief discussion of Bulgakov’s concepts and their influence on Scriabin can be found also
in Marina Lobanova, Mystiker, Magiker, Theosoph, Theurg. Alexander Skrjabin und seine Zeit (Hamburg:
von Bockel Verlag, 2004) 56-57.
32
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 192.
198
Plekhanov associated all these men of Symbolism with bourgeois decadence. And yet,
although they decried individualism and advanced the cause of unity, their ultimate goals
were in harmony with certain aspects of his socialist theory – above all, that of sobornost.
Ambiguous and problematic for Plekhanov, though, was their grounding in religious
mysticism, against which he vehemently protested. For all his humanist notions of
sobornost and aspirations of social equality, he was a man of sound logic; he was a
theorist who relied on the empirical scientific method and would accept nothing less than
proven facts. Consequently and unequivocally, Plekhanov rejected mysticism; it lacked
form because its content was vague. He states, “Mysticism, too, is an idea, but dark and
formless, like a fog, ever in mortal enmity with reason.”
33
Interestingly, Scriabin used the
same terminology in musical descriptions. For example, explaining the program of the
Seventh Sonata, he speaks of “pure mysticism,” in describing the entrance of the second
theme, and then of “mystic fog before the face of the sun” in another passage.
34
In the
opinion of Plekhanov, the mystics confidently based theses and goals upon the vagueness
of their ideas. He observes, “The mystic is not only ready to make statements, but to offer
proofs. But his statements are incomplete and his proofs have as a point of departure the
denial of common sense.”
35
For Plekhanov, the advancement of society can function
solely on the basis of sound reason, the faculty of which can sense the utility of an object
– and be it in the form of a beautiful work of art. He states, “Utility is perceived by
reason; beauty by intuition. . . . And yet there is utility in the beautiful. It lies, however, at
33
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 63.
34
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 158.
35
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 63.
199
the basis of esthetic enjoyment. . . .”
36
Still, Plekhanov could not recognize any profound
social purpose in the creations of the Mystic Symbolists. In his view, these belonged to
the waning era of decadence; they advocated false ideas and what they produced was
inferior as a result of their erroneous dogma. He underscores in his essay, “When a work
of art is based upon a fallacious idea, inherent contradictions inevitably cause a
degeneration of its esthetic quality.”
37
This does not account, of course, for his
assessment of Scriabin’s music, which he found to be extraordinary.
Plekhanov could identify with various attributes of the musical work of Scriabin.
During the period of their friendship, the composer was working diligently on his Poème
de l’extase. Plekhanov found the music “grandiose in its dimension.”
38
In his judgment,
“Scriabin’s music is a reflection of our revolutionary age expressed through the
temperament and world outlook of an idealist-mystic.”
39
In reference to Plekhanov’s
perception here, the Swiss musicologist Sigfried Schibli notes that the textless, non-
political programs of Scriabin’s music allow for an interpretation suitable to the
revolutionary context.
40
Plekhanov had difficulties, though, in reconciling the beauty and purpose of
Scriabin’s music with the direction of the composer’s mystic philosophy of the world.
Plekhanov’s wife, Rosalie Markovna (1856-1949), would later recall this dissonance in a
memorial essay presented on the occasion of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
36
Plekhanov, “French Drama and Painting of the Eighteenth Century,” in Art and Society, 34.
37
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 66.
38
Quoted in Ye. Rudakova and A. I. Kandinsky, Scriabin, trans. Tatyana Chistyakova (Neptune City, NJ:
Paganiniana Publications, Inc., 1984), 88.
39
Quoted in Arnold Alshwang, “Zhizny i tvorchestvo A. N. Skriabina” [The Life and Work of A. N.
Scriabin], in A. N. Skriabin: Sbornik Statey [A. N. Scriabin: Collection of Articles] (Moscow: Sovyetskiy
Kompozitor, 1973), 61-159; 100.
40
Sigfried Schibli, Alexander Skrjabin und seine Musik (Munich: Piper, 1983), 274.
200
composer’s death. Recounting an evening together in 1906 with Scriabin in Geneva, she
wrote:
We all listened to him [Scriabin] with interest. . . . Plekhanov
had his eyes fixed on him, listening attentively to the evolving
ideas of this genius composer. When Alexander Nikolaevich
finished his explanations, Georgiy Valentinovich said ‘Thank you’
and politely stated, “Alexander Nikolayevich, what you have
unraveled here before us is pure, unadulterated mysticism.
You have read, even studied, and discussed over and over
Marx and Marxism. How unfortunate that this reading did not
an effect upon you. You have remained the same incorrigible
mystic that you were in Bogliasco.”
41
At that time in 1906, Scriabin was convinced still of his unique role in the evolution of
mankind. He was overtaken and possessed by a sense of self-importance. Such egoism
was an anathema to Plekhanov. Scriabin viewed the entire world as nothing more than a
construct of his own mind. Such ideas were quite typical, though, of his time; they
exemplified an extension of the Nietzschean influence that had penetrated and found its
niche in Russian intellectual thought during the fin de siècle.
42
The epitome of this
ideology found its expression in the egotistical concept of “self-sacrifice for the sake of
the future,” to which Scriabin had subscribed. During this period, the composer fancied
himself a sverkhchelovek (superman) – the Russian version of Nietzsche’s Übermensch.
Scriabin’s credo was: “We construct the world through our creative spirit and through our
will.”
43
From the materialist standpoint, Plekhanov could only reject this idealist “fog”
that he sensed had robbed the period’s art and literature of their clarity. He advocated a
41
Rosalie M. Plekhanova, “Vospominania o Skriabina” [Reminiscences about Scriabin] in Alexandr
Nikolayevich Skriabin. Sbornik k 25-Letiyu so Dnya Smerti [Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin. Anthology for
the 25th Anniversary of his Death] (Moscow: State Music Publishing House, 1940), 65-75; 75.
42
Bernice Glatzer Rosenthal, ed., Nietzsche in Russia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986).
43
R. Plekhanova, “Vospominania,” 69.
201
transparent awareness of and interaction with one’s environment in order to produce
works of genuine social value. In obvious defiance of Nietzschean philosophy, he writes:
He whose relation to the world is such that he considers
his own ego the sole reality must inevitably become
ideologically impoverished, lacking not only ideas,
but the means of acquiring them. Just as starving men
stifle their hunger pangs with grass and weeds, so do
those in want of clear ideas satisfy themselves with
obscure substitutes for ideas, substitutes drawn from
mysticism, symbolism, and other “isms” characteristic
of epochs of decay. . . . The idea that our ego is the sole
reality has always been the basis of subjective idealism;
but it required the unbounded individualism of the period
of decline of the bourgeoisie to convert this idea, not only
into an egoistic rule of conduct, governing the relations
between men, each of whom “loves himself like God”
(the bourgeoisie has never been distinguished for excessive
altruism), but also into a theoretical basis for the new
aesthetics.
44
Therefore, in the mind of Scriabin, Mystic Symbolism was providing a path into the
future; but for Plekhanov, it was already the end of one path of development, representing
the erosion of bourgeois society. Still, it furnished the composer the stimulus to create the
works of art that Plekhanov nevertheless found appealing and relevant to social evolution
and improvement. After the death of Scriabin, he would write, “Only those who knew the
deceased more closely could explain exactly the kind of psychological channels of
influence through which Scriabin’s philosophical views spread into his artistic work. But
the fact of this influence is for me beyond the slightest doubt.”
45
As antipodes – Plekhanov a materialist, Scriabin an idealist – both men were
nevertheless united in their search for the emancipation of mankind. There is no evidence
to support any disagreement between them regarding the need for political reform in
44
Plekhanov, “Art and Society,” 85.
45
Plekhanov, “Letter,” 166.
202
Russia. Both welcomed the pending revolution in their mother country. They
collaborated in organizing a benefit concert for Russian political exiles living in Western
Europe, thus actively putting art in the service of mankind. For this occasion, Scriabin
performed a piano recital of his own works in the concert hall of the Geneva
Conservatory.
46
He later wrote to his patroness in Moscow, Margarita Morozova, that the
recital was “an enormous success.”
47
Meanwhile, Scriabin demonstrated to Plekhanov
that his musical works of art possessed revolutionary ideological content, regardless
whether the latter was in agreement with it. In writing about Scriabin’s intentions,
Plekhanov states:
Scriabin wanted to express in his music not this or that
mood, rather an entire world outlook that he sought
to cultivate on all sides. It would be absolutely irrelevant
here to raise again the old question whether music could be
in general an art able to express abstract concepts. Suffice
it to say that even in this case our opinions diverged and
that from here a lot of disputes arose between us as well.
48
The fact that the letter of 1916 from which the above passage is drawn was reprinted and
cited several times throughout the Soviet era is highly indicative; it is a testament to the
importance the authorities laid on the association of Scriabin with the leading Russian
Marxist philosopher Plekhanov. The composer lived and worked during the period of
political instability leading up to the Revolution. And Plekhanov honors his legacy here
when he emphasizes in the same letter:
Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin was a son of his times.
Modifying the well-known expression of Hegel concerning
46
The concert took place on Saturday, June 30, 1906. A facsimile of the program is included in the 1940
commemorative anthology cited above, 71.
47
Scriabin, “Letter to Margarita Morozova, August 27, 1906” in A. Kashperov, ed., A. Skriabin. Pisma [A.
Scriabin. Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka [Music Publishing House], 1965), 426-28.
48
Plekhanov, “Letter,” 166.
203
philosophy, one can say that Scriabin’s work was his time
expressed in sounds.
49
A contemporary and fellow countryman of Plekhanov, some twenty years his
junior, was the Marxist philosopher Anatoly Lunacharsky (1875-1933). Both men were
members of the exile community of Russian socialists living in Western Europe. Initially,
Lunacharsky came to Zurich as a student. He had read Plekhanov already and held him in
the highest esteem. In Zurich, he sought contact with the latter through a mutual Russian
Revolutionary comrade, Pavel Axelrod (1850-1928).
50
Later, in a short essay in his book
Revolutionary Silhouettes, Lunacharsky would use superlatives in his characterization of
Plekhanov. “Plekhanov was an absolutely incomparable conversationalist in the brilliance
of his wit, the wealth of his knowledge, the ease with which he could mobilize the most
enormous concentration of mental power on any subject. The Germans have a word
‘geistreich’ – rich of mind. It exactly describes Plekhanov.”
51
This is how he remembered
the latter, although the two men had become politically estranged on the path towards the
Revolution. Near the end of his essay, Lunacharsky writes:
After Plekhanov defected from the revolutionary cause,
after his deviation into social-patriotism, I never saw him
again. . . In the final analysis even our great differences,
as they are transmuted into the stuff of history, largely drop
from the scales whilst the brilliant aspects of Plekhanov’s
character will endure forever.
52
49
Ibid., 167.
50
Russian Marxist revolutionary; member of the Mensheviks.
51
Anatoly Lunacharsky, “Plekhanov,” Revolutionary Silhouettes (New York: Hill and Wang, 1968; repr.
from Penguin Press, 1967; originally published in the USSR in 1923; other Soviet editions: 1919, 1924,
1965), 87. It should be noted that the omission of any mention of Josef Stalin among the profiles contained
in this book was perceived by many in the Soviet Union as an affront and led to a ban on publication of this
and other writings of Lunacharsky for nearly forty years.
52
Ibid., 95.
204
Both men, in spite of their political differences, remained united in their appreciation of
the Russian and European cultural heritage. In the spring of 1917, the year of the
Revolution, the two returned to their homeland, where Plekhanov died during the
following year. In commemoration, Lunacharsky wrote the following lines:
I remember with enthusiasm our long conversations
and arguments on philosophical and literary themes,
in the course of which I often forgot the problem. . .
as, charmed, I listened to this artistic speech, full of
quotations, reminiscences, metaphors, in a word,
adorned like some many-colored, invaluable
incrustation. Georgii Valentinovich’s memory was
vast, resourceful, amazing, and every conversation
with him always enriched you while at the same time
giving absorbing pleasure.
53
Like Plekhanov, Lunacharsky wrote extensively on matters concerning literature,
art, and music. It is noteworthy that many of his essays are devoted to composers of the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Like much of his writing, these relate to social
progress and, in particular, the revolutionary cause in Russia. They include profiles of
leading Russian, German, Austrian, and French composers: Beethoven, Schubert,
Berlioz, Wagner, Strauss, Mussorgsky, and Scriabin, among others. One of the later
essays is a commemorative piece honoring Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908),
whose musical style – as mentioned before – Scriabin had rejected as bromidic and
outdated. Here it is especially remarkable that Lunacharsky is able to present an image of
a notably and academically conservative composer from a progressive angle. The St.
Petersburg Conservatory Professor Rimsky-Korsakov, indeed, contributed little to the
development of music in the early twentieth century; nevertheless, he did apply subject
53
Quoted in Baron, Plekhanov. The Father of Russian Marxism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1963),
258; originally published in Lunacharsky, “Pamiati G. V. Plekhanova” [Memories of G. V. Plekhanov],
Plamia [Flames] 7 (1918): 3.
205
material and melodic and stylistic elements to his works drawn from and reflecting the
life of the narod (common people). Here, emphasis on the importance of musical culture
among the broad masses – in contrast to that of the bourgeois aristocracy – indicated for
Lunacharsky a significant step forward towards reconciling social differences and
simultaneously a move towards the final goal of a classless society. Perhaps more than
any other revolutionary writer Lunacharsky underscored the importance of music as an
element in the overall conditioning and formation of a given societal structure. Similar to
Plekhanov, he stood under Darwinian influence; this is apparent in his essay The
Experience of Positive Aesthetics (1903). One observer writes, “In his treatise on
aesthetics, he not only tried to combine empirio-criticism with dialectical materialism,
but he strongly emphasized the biological and physiological basis of aesthetic
sensitivity.”
54
After the October Revolution in 1917, Vladimir Lenin assigned to
Lunacharsky the position of Commissar of the Prosveshcheniye (Enlightenment), the
department for which was designated Narkompros (People’s Commissariat of the
Enlightenment).
55
For all activists involved in the Revolution, there was little question
that the enormously cultivated philosopher Lunacharsky should assume this role;
although Lenin personally harbored initial misgivings about his competence as an
administrator.
56
From another angle, it is perhaps surprising that Lenin would so readily
choose Lunacharsky for a position in the government because the two had become
politically and philosophically alienated as early as 1908. Shortly after the Revolution,
though, Lunacharsky wrote, “Of course there was a great discord between myself and
54
Isaac Deutscher, “Introduction” to Lunacharsky, Revolutionary Silhouettes, 12.
55
The designation “ministry” for all governmental departments was abolished because it smacked of fore-
revolutionary imperialism.
56
See Isaac Deutscher, “Introduction,” 18.
206
Lenin. He approached all issues as a man of political action with an immense audacity of
spirit, as a tactician and indeed as a political leader of genius, whereas my approach was
that of the philosopher, or, to put it more accurately, the poet of the revolution.”
57
Nevertheless, Lunacharsky conscientiously assumed his new role in the government. The
daunting task he immediately set before himself was the elevation of the Russian
peasantry in matters of general education as well as artistic cultivation.
One way in which Lunacharsky sought to educate the population in the culture of
serious music was to promote lecture concerts throughout the country. In these activities
he set an example through frequent personal participation. Here was the purpose of the
first of three exceptional essays that Lunacharsky dedicated to the subject of Scriabin.
The work titled “On Scriabin” appeared in the journal Kultura Teatra on May 20, 1921.
The article had its origin as a speech that Lunacharsky had delivered in Moscow’s
Bolshoi Theatre on May 8, 1921; the occasion was a cycle of concerts dedicated to the
symphonic works of Scriabin, under the direction of Emil Albertovich Cooper.
58
And
although the Bolshoi Theatre was no longer a venue frequented exclusively by cultivated
members of the Russian aristocracy, Lunacharsky’s speech on Scriabin still tends to
address a more sophisticated group of listeners. The speech reveals an advanced
analytical style in describing Scriabin and his music; and this formal style was more than
likely incomprehensible to the uneducated members of the proletariat, the group to whom
in part the talk was directed.
Lunacharsky begins his presentation by identifying himself as a poet and
philosopher who naturally is attracted to music. He states, “The musical creative work is
57
Ibid., 13.
58
Russian conductor, born in Kherson, 1877; died in New York, 1960.
207
first and foremost poetry in that profound sense to which points the very etymology of
this word.”
59
Then, establishing a further connection between himself, music, and
Scriabin, he claims that every musical work is philosophical “in the sense that it is
reacting to greater feelings more or less related to a man’s thoughts about the world.”
60
Lunacharsky also attempts to create a rapport with his audience, identifying himself with
them as a fellow revolutionary in order to guide them into the music of Scriabin and
explain its social significance.
In his speech, Lunacharsky compares Scriabin to three great German minds of the
nineteenth century: Beethoven, Schopenhauer, and Wagner. According to Lunacharsky,
the Russian composer possesses the most outstanding virtues of these men – an aspiration
towards brotherhood and unity and the will to achieve this goal. In particular,
Lunacharsky explains how Scriabin was able to go beyond the pessimistic pantheism that
he, Lunacharsky, finds characteristic of Schopenhauer and Wagner. Of Scriabin he says,
“His pessimism transforms itself gradually into exultant optimism.”
61
Speaking of the
visible world, Lunacharsky alludes to Schopenhauer: “All this is great unhappiness and
horror, something from which one needs to escape.”
62
In sharp contrast to this statement,
he then quotes from Scriabin: “It is wonderful; it is fascinating; for I sense with my entire
heart that I am one from among the offspring of the complete spirit. . . .”
63
Lunacharsky
cites these positions in an effort to inspire the audience to listen to the music in a certain
way; to instill social values in the audience. The concerts were not merely for listening
59
Lunacharsky, “O Skriabine” [On Scriabin] in Lunacharsky, V Mire Muzyki [In the World of Music]
(Moscow: Sovyetskiy Kompozitor, 1971; originally published in Teatra kultura, May, 1921), 89-95; 89.
60
Ibid.
61
Ibid., 90.
62
Ibid., 91.
63
Ibid.
208
pleasure: there was also a didactic purpose. Lunacharsky portrays Scriabin as an artist
who in the last years of his life was overcoming the Romantic idealism typical of the
subjective individual; he was ultimately on the path towards objective realism. Looking
through notebooks of the composer, he found the following statement regarding the
Mysterium: “So, I realized that I was mistaken. If I recognize that the spirit created the
whole world and he lives in all ‘I’s, then I am not alone. We all see one and the same
world. It is necessary to change everybody’s view of the world in order for it to be
changed.”
64
Lunacharsky’s selective insertion of Scriabin’s own words is intentional, with the
goal of corroborating the tenets of communism according to which one needs to sacrifice
his position of individuality for the good of the community. Following the long period of
violent civil war in Russia, it was urgently necessary to reconcile all opposing social
sectors for the sake of political and economical stability.
65
Lunacharsky cites Scriabin’s
process of intellectual development as an example in order to motivate these various
groups towards cooperation. He states:
According to Scriabin’s deep conviction, even when two
people with different ideas confront one another as enemies,
each believing identically that he holds the truth, there is a
kind of plane where they are still brothers and are able to
respect each other. They are the expression of ideas and
wills of humans striving towards a harmonious world. But,
if each of us possesses a belief, sincerity, and conviction,
then even in struggle we are the constructors of what
represents human culture or history of the spirit.
66
64
Ibid., 93.
65
Lunacharsky’s efforts here coincide with the implementation of the NEP (New Economic Policy), an
interim attempt to counteract growing discontent in Soviet society through the liberalization of government
market and trade policies.
66
Lunacharsky, “O Skriabine,” 94.
209
Lunacharsky continues to draw a line from Beethoven’s ambitions of universal
brotherhood through Scriabin’s envisioned act of sobornost – the Mysterium – to the
Bolshevik designs of world communism. He fashions Beethoven and Scriabin as heroes
of mankind and prophets of a future “peace and harmony;”
67
and subsequently, the
Bolsheviks are to proceed onward as executors of this will. Citing an earlier concert
lecture, Lunacharsky states:
I employed, speaking about Scriabin, almost those very
expressions in speaking about Beethoven, which one
hundred years ago also called for joy, enlightenment,
and harmonization, so that the hearts of millions would
beat together. If I said that Beethoven, a teacher of life,
is absolutely necessary for us, especially in a time such
as ours so full of turbulence and contradiction, and in
particular for that architect of his own happiness who in
torments is creating a new world for the laboring people,
then Scriabin is also extremely necessary for us.
68
Lunacharsky indicates to his audience that Scriabin’s spiritual imagination guided him
onto a path of social conscience and helped him to forge ideas in his mind that would
result in a world unity. For Lunacharsky, the new Soviet citizens should not become
constricted in present adversity, but should remain focused on attaining social equality.
He tried to make clear to his audience that these goals are what Scriabin intended to
achieve through his creative work; that the composer found music the most suitable
means of expression to convey such ideas; that Scriabin’s “internal view of the world and
prophetic wisdom was not simply ahead of, but twice beyond the rest of Russian music of
67
Ibid., 92.
68
Ibid., 94.
210
his time.”
69
Lunacharsky’s audience should listen to Scriabin as a herald of the
Revolution.
The topics of revolution and socialism once again inform the content of
Lunacharsky’s second essay concerning the composer, “Taneyev and Scriabin.” It is a
commemorative work written for the tenth anniversary of the deaths of the two Russian
composers; both died in 1915.
70
It originally appeared in the journal Novyi mir (New
World), issue number six, June, 1925. This particular article was reprinted later numerous
times from 1958 onwards. Its importance for the Soviet authorities as a historical cultural
document is also underscored by the fact that it was reissued also in English and German
versions for circulation abroad.
71
Here, Lunacharsky contrasts the lives, natures, and
music of two of the most revered composers in Russia during the late nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries.
The essay “Taneyev and Scriabin” reveals itself as a tract on socialist thought. It
is more profoundly philosophical than his first essay on Scriabin. Here, Lunacharsky
indulges the reader in an intensely socio-aesthetic analytical work in which he presents
and contrasts both composers from a revolutionary standpoint. He endeavors to explain
how two seemingly different composers can be viewed as socially active creative artists.
Tracing their respective developments, Lunacharsky draws a parallel between Taneyev
and Scriabin, supplying evidence on how each represents an opposite end of the same
69
Ibid.
70
Various sources report that Taneyev (1856-1915) caught a severe cold while attending Scriabin’s funeral
in April, 1915 and ultimately died from the resulting complications two months later in June.
71
The English version used here appears in the book A. Lunacharsky. On Literature and Art (Moscow:
Progress State Publishing House, 1965; repr. 1973), 107-25. The German version appears in Lunacharsky.
Musik und Revolution (Leipzig: Verlag Philipp Reclam, 1985), 93-113; also available in the series Musik-
Konzepte, vol. 32/33, Aleksandr Skrjabin und die Skrjabinisten (Munich: Edition Text + Kritik, GmbH,
1983), 26-41.
211
spectrum. “We are faced with two streams of music: the objectively-architectural (epic
would be more correct) and the emotionally-sensuous, or lyric.”
72
These represent
Taneyev and Scriabin, respectively.
Lunacharsky states that although music is the expression of human emotions,
Taneyev applies careful restraint in his musical style.
73
His work is a dignified expression
of these human emotions – a result of his gentlemanly background.
74
In this respect, he
chastises those who commit the error of misjudging Taneyev;
75
the latter is in no way a
man “devoid of passion.”
76
Lunacharsky explains that Taneyev as an “architect of music”
understands his craft so well that he can draw on and convey the entire spectrum of
human emotions in his creative work without resorting to vulgarity or banality. His
knowledge and skill permit him to create “a beautiful, convincing, logical and shining
structure.”
77
Lunacharsky classifies Taneyev as a formalist, but a particular kind not to be
confused with the common variety. Lunacharsky loathes this latter type, which he
describes in the following lines:
The individual formalism of an artist-competitor in an
era of the decay of the ruling classes takes on the nature
of a mad race for originality, ostentation and affectation.
This race for originality is all the more disgusting, because
the eccentrics are not after originality of thought or emotion,
but solely after originality of form, i.e., after a bizarre effect,
shock value and sometimes even sensational nonsense.
78
72
Lunacharsky, “Taneyev and Scriabin,” 111.
73
Ibid., 120.
74
Taneyev, a student of Tchaikovsky, was well-known and beloved for his dignity and kindness, but also
his candid judgment. He was a teacher of Scriabin, Rachmaninov, Medtner, Glière, and also Sabaneyev.
The latter wrote a book of reminiscences about his teacher recently republished: Vospominania o Taneeve
[Reminiscences about Taneyev] (Moscow: Klassika 21, 2003).
75
Lunacharsky, “Taneyev and Scriabin,” 107.
76
Ibid., 110.
77
Ibid., 120.
78
Ibid., 122.
212
Lunacharsky describes the formalism of Taneyev as part of a historic and, above all,
organic evolution. Adhering to a socialist ideology founded in sobornost, Lunacharsky
states that Taneyev regards music as
a product of the collective creative effort of a people,
then of generations of skilled masters, of entire guilds,
and, finally, of a number of brilliant individuals who
lived, however, in an organic era, who did not jump
from place to place, but derived their logical conclusions
from the work of their predecessors in a gigantic,
collective, objective undertaking.
79
Lunacharsky observes that in the “architectural music” of Taneyev, form and content
interpenetrate one another to such a degree that the musical form itself possesses meaning
and therefore also social significance. It is here that Lunacharsky finds a common link to
Scriabin. Each composer in his artistic creativity demonstrated social conscience.
Lunacharsky sees a “social force” reflected in the works of Scriabin.
80
He rejects
allegations that the composer suffered from an internal mental disorder that revealed
itself in his artistic creativity. “Essentially, he was a very sane and intelligent man.”
81
Further, Lunacharsky emphasizes that Scriabin had liberated himself from “the extremes
of individualism” and was subsequently on the path towards socialism. Through this
process he developed a personal philosophy, which he then translated into musical
expression. Lunacharsky writes, “He imbued this subjective music, owing to the
peculiarities of his philosophy, with social and even universal force.”
82
Lunacharsky
perceives Scriabin as having existed in an environment of decay in which individualism
thrives as a refuge. He proposes that the composer himself had recognized the situation as
79
Ibid., 123.
80
Ibid., 118.
81
Ibid.
82
Ibid., 119.
213
such; Scriabin realized that in order to overcome this state of hopelessness, he must first
overcome the individualism to which he had submitted himself. Lunacharsky did not
have the opportunity – as did Plekhanov – to discuss any such issues with Scriabin
personally. And so in this sense, he writes:
Naturally, I do not have direct proof of this, but I think
that Scriabin, channeling his thoughts towards a healthy
outlook on life (from subjectivity to objectivity, which
could have later taken him from idealism to materialism),
was forced once again to translate his hopes and plans
from the language of mood into social language.
83
In this context, Lunacharsky views the Russian Revolution of 1905 as the major catalyst
that spurred forth the socialist thought processes in the composer’s mind. It did not matter
that Scriabin was no longer living in Russia at that time; many of the Russian
revolutionaries were living abroad. Lunacharsky writes:
Scriabin was possessed by a tremendous desire for social,
national and even cosmic dimensions, which came of his
belonging to a nation which had gone through the great
revolution of 1905 and was now on the way towards the
greatest of all revolutions.
Indeed, the events at that time left an indelible mark in his psyche. In the words of
Scriabin: “This revolution is bringing the arrival of the desired moment ever closer.”
84
According to Lunacharsky, Scriabin found the contemporaneous upheaval necessary in
order to move forward and achieve “universal calm and order.”
85
He views Scriabin as a
83
Ibid.
84
Letter dated Geneva, April 18 (May 1), 1906 to Scriabin’s patroness, Margarita Morozova. In Kashperov,
ed., Skriabin. Pisma [Scriabin. Letters], (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965), 422-23.
85
Lunacharsky, “Taneyev and Scriabin,” 117.
214
great revolutionary in his music and world outlook, representing the tradition of
Beethoven, and following the path of Lenin – “the world’s greatest revolutionary.”
86
Lunacharsky does not discuss Scriabin’s negative relationship to the music of Beethoven
and perhaps he was not even aware of it. For Scriabin, Beethoven was already an
anachronism.
87
Important for Lunacharsky, though, was the fact that at another level the
two composers were kindred spirits in their quest for a community of mankind,
sobornost, in which freedom and justice prevailed.
In summarizing the social contributions of Taneyev and Scriabin, Lunarcharsky
implies that the former was a stable composer – the product of gradual artistic evolution –
who understood and further developed the “rational forms” because “these belonged to
some higher unity.”
88
In contrast, Scriabin possesses volatility and a desire for
accelerated development, and above all “revolutionary passion.”
89
In a panegyric towards
the end of his essay, Lunacharsky claims:
For the present, we will not find a more passionate musical
language, not only in Russian music, but perhaps in all of
world music, than the language of Scriabin in such of his
works as Prometheus and others similar to it.
90
Finally, Lunacharsky challenges his readership as “enemies of the pseudo-democratic
chaos of capitalism” to recognize the social significance of Taneyev and Scriabin and to
uphold their legacy.
91
86
Ibid., 123.
87
During the same year, 1925, as Lunacharsky’s essay “Taneyev and Scriabin” appeared, Leonid
Sabaneyev published his Reminiscences on Scriabin. In the latter work, the author notes Scriabin’s negative
assessment of Beethoven’s work and Classical music in general: “What is the reason for it? It almost makes
me sick. All this tonic and dominant . . .” See Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 119.
88
Lunacharsky, “Taneyev and Scriabin,” 124.
89
Ibid.
90
Ibid.
91
Ibid., 125.
215
Lunacharsky wrote his third essay on Scriabin in 1930 as he was nearing the end
of his own life.
92
One of his last works devoted to music, it was titled “The Significance
of Scriabin for our Times.” It appeared in the small thirty-six-page booklet, Alexander
Nikolayevich Scriabin and His Museum.
93
For the most part, it develops further the ideas
upon which he previously had expounded in the first two essays discussed above.
Lunacharsky explains that an artist has the capacity to react with more heightened
sensitivity to his surroundings, once again relying on Darwinian theories of
environmental impact. Praising Scriabin, Lunacharsky claims that the composer
possessed keen artistic perception – an attribute that allowed him to react positively to the
events occurring around him during the pre-Revolutionary period. The exposure to these
events were processed mentally and found expression in his creative work. Lunacharsky
states:
Scriabin was extraordinarily brilliant in his marked
individuality. The art historians of the old school would
say that his creative work could be dictated only by his
artistic nature. We are of another opinion. We believe that
the artistic nature signifies first of all an immense keenness
towards what is happening all around and that it [nature]
increases and not decreases the dependency of a personality
on society. The artistic nature signifies an organic necessity
of perception of the surroundings. The artistic nature strives
towards converting this into a certain (in this case – since the
discussion is about a musician – into a musical) creative form,
and to communicate in this special form one’s experiences
to the whole world.
94
92
Although Lunacharsky had written most of his larger philosophical works well before the Russian
Revolution of 1917, he composed the majority of his essays on music during the following period.
93
Lunacharsky, “Znacheniye Skriabina dlya nachego vremeni” [The Significance of Scriabin for our
Times], in A. V. Lunacharskiy. V mire muzyki [A. V. Lunacharsky. The World of Music], 2nd ed. only
(Moscow: Sovietskiy Kompositor, 1971; not in 1958 ed.), 396-401; originally published in D. G. Pershin,
ed., Aleksandr Nikolayevich Skriabin i ego muzey [Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin and His Museum]
(Moscow: Izdatelstvo MONO, 1930), 8-14. Also included in the 1930 booklet: Nikolai Zhilyayev, “Short
Biography of A. N. Scriabin.”
94
Ibid., 396.
216
Assessing Scriabin’s acute awareness of his environment, Lunacharsky compares the
composer to a storm petrel; he was “one of those artists who feel the approaching storm,
the accumulation of electricity in the atmosphere, and react to these alarming
symptoms.”
95
From 1905 onward, according to Lunacharsky, Scriabin developed an
increasingly pronounced social conscience determined by the era in which he lived.
In this essay, Lunacharsky traces again the impact of the events and ideas of the
early twentieth century on the formation of Scriabin’s revolutionary philosophy. Here,
however, his comparison of the Russian composer with Beethoven receives more
scrutiny. Lunacharsky believes that the proletariat is strongly attracted to the expression
of virility in the German’s work; Scriabin’s music, however, although an expression of an
effete and high-strung composer, reflected strongly the volatility in the atmosphere of
pre-Revolutionary Russia. Therefore, his music could be clearly viewed as relevant to the
contemporaneous social conditions. According to Lunacharsky, Scriabin let himself be
driven by his impulses to even “greater revolutionary flight” than did Beethoven.
96
Both
men were musical innovators, but, in the opinion of Lunacharsky, Scriabin would
constitute the ideal model for future composers of the twentieth century. He formulates
this in the following terms:
We will understand then that Scriabin is very close and
related to us and that musicians who will create new music
– music in an era of movement towards socialism; in an era
95
Ibid.
96
Besides including recurring references to Beethoven in his numerous essays, Lunacharsky wrote at least
five essays exclusively devoted to the German composer. Especially noteworthy is the 1927 essay on the
centenary of Beethoven’s death in which he discusses the composer’s relevance to contemporaneous Soviet
culture.
“Betkhoven i sovremennost” (Beethoven and Contemporaneity) was originally published in Krasnoy
Gazete (Red Gazette) 63 (Leningrad: March 8, 1927): 4; repr. in Lunacharskiy. V Mire Muzyki, 329-31.
217
of realization of socialism – will be able to study and learn
an extraordinary amount from Scriabin.
97
In summary, Lunacharsky suggests that future composers of the Soviet Union use the
State Scriabin Museum, the composer’s former home, as a center for research. They
should find here a place in which to familiarize themselves with the socialist ideals of the
revolutionary composer Alexander Scriabin and to seek inspiration for the further
development of socialist-oriented music in the twentieth century.
The importance of the emphasis that Lunacharsky placed on the relationship
between music and revolution cannot be overstated. He contends that the two are
inalienably related. They are analogous to one another. This is in fact the thesis of his
1926 essay “Music and Revolution.”
98
Here, Lunacharsky says that one must view
revolution as one hears a symphony; its beauty can be understood only in its entirety.
99
For him the struggle in revolution is comparable to the tensions between dissonance and
consonance in music; both are seeking an end to conflict – some final resolution in unity.
“With impetuous tempo, the Revolution is pressing forward towards a solution to the
crucial problem of social existence. Herein lies its unsurpassable musicality.”
100
And for
Lunacharsky, therein lay the revolutionary spirit of Scriabin’s music.
97
Ibid., 104
98
Lunacharsky, “Muzyka i revolutsiya” [Music and Revolution], originally published as “Velikiye sestry”
[Great Sisters] in the periodical of the same name, Musika i revolutsiya 1 (Moscow: January, 1926): 14-19;
repr. Lunacharskiy. V mire muzyki, 121-28.
99
Ibid., 122.
100
Ibid., 124.
218
Chapter 6
Scriabin’s Legacy in the Post-Revolutionary Era
The political instability in Russia following the October Revolution and the end of World
War I – the period known as “war communism” and more accurately characterized as a
civil war – permitted the stabilization of the cultural community. Art and music at this
time did not represent an immanent threat to society. On the contrary, cultural
contributions had quite a palliative effect in a time of upheaval. They were also not the
immediate and urgent concerns of Lenin, and for this reason it was not necessary for him
to intervene directly or indirectly during the initial formation of Narkompros under
Commissar Lunacharsky. The latter enjoyed the unwavering support of the party
chairman and could proceed with his liberal policies; these in turn allowed him to
consolidate his departmental power and unite the cultural community in the sense of
mutual acceptance and in the spirit of sobornost. Under these conditions, the legacy of
Scriabin could continue to flourish without any threat of exclusion based on new cultural
doctrines.
Scriabin’s position as a composer who followed new revolutionary paths lent
itself well to the new social context. His early death contributed to the perception of him
as a national hero worthy of highest respect. Those who rejoiced in the overthrow of
Tsarism and welcomed the Revolution could easily present Scriabin as a legendary figure
for the younger generation of musicians to emulate. The composer’s association with the
former bourgeois society played here less a role than did his artistic creations, which
219
many Soviet citizens now viewed as pointing towards the utopian future. Those who
knew and revered Scriabin during his lifetime and remained in Russia after the
Revolution felt at liberty to uphold his legacy in music; they did so regardless of how
they judged his philosophical doctrines of unity, although the latter ideas were not so far
out of line with those of world communism. Pianists who had known Scriabin continued
to play his music in their recitals; composers created new works influenced by his style;
conductors who had premiered his works included Scriabin’s symphonic works on their
programs; musicologists who had known the composer personally sought to analyze
Scriabin’s position in history and in contemporaneous Russia. All of this was possible
during the first twelve years following the Revolution. The liberal policies deemed
necessary to further unity – sobornost – during this time of revolution simultaneously
created a favorable atmosphere conducive to artistic freedom. These circumstances
served to strengthen the memory of Scriabin and contributed to the composer’s
posthumous influence.
Among the leading Russian pianists who promoted Scriabin’s music during this
period, Alexander Goldenweiser (1875-1961) deserves mention. Three years younger
than Scriabin, he was also a composer and studied composition with the same professors
at the Moscow conservatory, Sergei Taneyev and Anton Arensky. In 1907, he gave the
first public performance of Scriabin’s Fantasie, op. 28, six years after its composition. In
1909, he was among the founding members of the “Circle of Scriabinists.” In a letter
dated Brussels, November 2 (15), 1909, Scriabin expressed his joy over the fact that
Goldenweiser had helped to establish the new group.
220
I am taking this opportunity, dear Alexander Borisovich,
to thank you most warmly for your participation and to
express my joy that you have joined the circle. I embrace
you heartily and ask that you convey my warm regards
to Anna Alexeyevna.
1
Following the death of the composer in 1915, he was once again a founding member –
this time as vice-president – of the new Moscow “Scriabin Society.”
2
During the 1920s
and 1930s, he acted as president of the group. According to the official biographical
information supplied by the Soviet government, Goldenweiser appears to have welcomed
the Revolution or at least reconciled himself to cooperating with the new regime:
In the first years following the October Revolution,
Goldenweiser concertized along with other performing
artists in factories, schools, and for units of the Red Army.
He composed a number of new works. As member of the
Music Council of the City of Moscow, he played an active
role in the preparation and direction of the musical
propaganda activities in the capital. From the years 1918
to 1921 and 1932 to 1934 he was president of the Conservatory.
3
Although he wrote no extended essays or books on the composer, Goldenweiser
kept the memory of Scriabin alive through performance and the presentation of shorter
speeches and articles on commemorative occasions. For example, in 1925 Goldenweiser
wrote an article for the tenth anniversary of Scriabin’s death. It appeared under the title
“Aleksandr Nikolayevich Skriabin” in the journal Iskusstvo Trudyashchimsya [Art of the
Working People] and then a short time later in translation under the title “Scriabin as
1
In Kasperov, ed., A. Skriabin. Pisma [Alexander Scriabin. Letters] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965),
536-37. Anna Alexeyevna (1881-1929), pianist and translator, was the wife of Alexander Goldenweiser.
2
According to Leonid Sabaneyev, Princess Marina Gagarina (1877-1924) was the first president of the
Scriabin Society. She was the sister of the Russian philosopher Prince Sergei Trubetskoi (1862-1905). See
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 367.
3
Herbert Sahling, ed., Notate zur Pianistik. Aufsätze sowjetischer Klavierpädagogen und Interpreten
[Notes on Pianism. Essays of Soviet Piano Pedagogues and Performers] German trans., Christof Rüger
(Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1976), 206; orig., Voprosy fortepiannogo ispolnitelstva [Issues
of Piano Performance] (Moscow: Muzyka, 1965-73) and Masterstvo muzykanta-ispolnitelya [The Skill of
the Performing Musician] (Moscow: Sovietski Kompositor, 1972).
221
Innovator: An Anniversary Estimate” in Musical America.
4
Goldenweiser’s assessment
of Scriabin ten years after the composer’s death reflects the general sentiments in Russia
at the time. He writes, “The judgment of history, already recorded in the case of Scriabin,
has unreservedly allocated to him a place in the first ranks of the musical Olympus.”
5
Goldenweiser counts Scriabin among the musical innovators, “who were perfect masters
of the technical achievements of that very past which they wanted to overcome.”
6
Goldenweiser emphasizes the “revolutionary” aspect in Scriabin’s creativity, which he
locates in the “domain of harmony.” Yet very importantly, he explains that the composer
himself realized the limitations of his “Promethean” chord. Goldenweiser states, “The
Ninth and particularly the Tenth Sonata constitute the most valuable attempts [of
Scriabin] at finding a synthesis between the new chords and the ‘old’ language of
harmony.”
7
Goldenweiser relegates Scriabin’s “mystical phantasmagoria” to a position if
not irrelevant, at least of lesser consequence.
8
More importantly, he perceives the
composer’s life work as belonging universally to the most progressive, forward-looking
4
Goldenweiser, “Aleksandr Nikolayevich Skriabin” in Iskusstvo Trudyashchimsya [Art of the Working
People] 22 (April 26, 1925): 2-3; “Scriabin as Innovator: An Anniversary Estimate” in Musical America
42, no. 12 (July 11, 1925): 12.
5
Ibid.
6
Ibid.
7
Ibid.
8
The trend in Soviet Russia’s appreciation of Scriabin was marked by a gradual dissociation of the
composer’s musical achievements from the pervasive mystical ideas of pre-Revolutionary society.
Additionally, it should be noted that throughout their life-long friendship, Goldenweiser never fully
subscribed to Scriabin’s mystic ideology. On the contrary, as far as any noumenal ideas were concerned,
Goldenweiser adhered to the more traditional religious sentiments of Tolstoy, with whom he was also very
closely associated for several years leading up to the latter’s death in 1910. In 1922-23, Goldenweiser
published his two-volume work of reminiscences about Tolstoy, Vblizi Tolstogo [Near Tolstoy]. This
affection towards Tolstoy was a point of contention between Goldenweiser and Scriabin. According to
Sabaneyev, “Goldenweiser was ideologically far removed from the world of Scriabin in that he was an
enthusiastic follower of Leo Tolstoy’s teachings. Scriabin, on the other hand, was a staunch opponent to
these teachings.” See Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 185. In contrast, Tolstoy was a great admirer of Scriabin.
See Goldenweiser, Vblizi Tolstogo, vol. 2 (Moscow: Kooperativnoye Izdatelstvo, 1923), 255; also, “Lyev
Tolstoy i muzyka” [“Leo Tolstoy and Music”] in Literaturnoye Nasledstvo [Literary Heritage] 37-38
(Moscow: Akademiya nauk SSSR [Academy of Sciences of the USSR], 1939), 591-94.
222
tendencies in twentieth-century music. He writes, “On the day of the tenth anniversary of
his death, April 27, the world, nevertheless, confidently honored Scriabin’s memory as
not only one of the greatest composers of Russia, but also as one of the most noted
creators in modern musical art in any country.”
9
Goldenweiser remained convinced that
Scriabin as a forerunner of the musical avant-garde would continue to influence the
younger generation of composers and all listeners of serious music. According to
documentation preserved at the Scriabin State Museum in Moscow, Goldenweiser stated,
“Scriabin’s music has such brilliant power, such truly revolutionary audacity, that its
impact on a contemporary audience cannot be anything but fruitful.”
10
Among the many celebrated pianists who studied with Goldenweiser, the one who
became most conspicuous in his advocacy of Scriabin was Samuil Feinberg (1890-1962).
Regarded as one of the founders of the modern Russian school of piano performance, he
was an excellent interpreter of Scriabin’s works, approaching the composer’s own style
of playing. An unnamed Soviet critic writes,
As a performer and composer, Feinberg was a very distinct
musical personality. Characteristic of his playing was an
emotionally convincing style of interpretation, filled with
strong contrasts. His command of the instrument was marked
by extraordinary tonal refinement, subtle and very sensitive
rhythmic agogic formation of the musical work. Feinberg
was a highly individual performer and his playing was
filled with great artistic sincerity. As a composer, his work
was linked to Scriabin and Medtner and most regarded him
as one of the best interpreters of Scriabin’s piano music.
11
9
Goldenweiser, 12.
10
Goldenweiser, quoted in Ye. Rudakova and A. I. Kandinsky, eds., Scriabin, trans. Tatyana Chistyakova
(Neptune City, NJ, Paganiniana Publications, Inc., 1984), 125; see VAAP, Copyright Agency of the Soviet
Union, for the original Russian language manuscript.
11
Notate zur Pianistik, 207.
223
Feinberg’s book Pianism as Art belongs to the most important documents of piano
performance of the twentieth century.
12
In this analytical book, Feinberg deals
extensively with the interpretation of Scriabin’s piano compositions, indicating the
stylistic levels to which young apprentice pianists should aspire when approaching the
works of the composer. In particular, Feinberg emphasizes Scriabin’s skillful control of
the pedal:
He
refined methods of composition to such a degree
of perfection and exquisiteness that his creative work
touches extreme boundaries, beyond which there is a
mystery of sound that has not yet been discovered . . .
a creative non-existence. Scriabin approached this
border by such devices as complicated polyrhythm,
hidden thematicism, and an exquisite use of the pedal –
so delicate and subtle that a simple pedal change may
appear primitive or even rough. Accuracy in notating
pedal marks – already difficult with Chopin’s style – is
thus almost inconceivable to achieve Scriabin’s sound
properly. As a result, he largely refused to enter pedal
markings in his manuscripts.
13
Feinberg understood well the intentions of Scriabin. And indeed, Feinberg was among the
few pianists of whose performances Scriabin approved.
14
Feinberg’s own piano compositions demonstrate a further development of
Scriabin’s style especially apparent in the sonatas; they are often single movements based
on monothematicism and technically very demanding for the performer. Leonid
Sabaneyev points out some distinguishing features between the two composers. He
observes that
12
Samuil Feinberg, Pianizm kak iskusstvo [Pianism as Art] (Moscow: State Publishing House, 1965; 2nd
ed., 1969). Recently, this work has been the subject of a DMA dissertation with English translation by
Maxim Anikushin at the Manhattan School of Music, 2008.
13
Feinberg, Pianizm, 107-8; quoted in Robert Rimm, The Composer-Pianists. Hamelin and The Eight
(Portland: Amadeus Press, 2002), 109-10.
14
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 298.
224
Feinberg’s exaltation is not the joyousness of Scriabin,
but a nightmare frenzy, a whirlwind of weird hallucinations
forged into images of sound. It is something akin to
Schumann, that first romantic seer in music, and through
Feinberg’s compositions flashes the Schumann of Kreisleriana,
and Nachtstücke, the Schumann who in the depths of his
spirit and creative art was psychopathic. . . The similarity to
Scriabin upon closer examination proves perhaps to be
no more than the little “something” which Scriabin himself
drew from Schumann.
15
Additionally, Sabaneyev points out that the depth of feeling present in the music of
Feinberg is indeed frequently “philosophical,” and not “merely philosophically
decorated”
16
as in the case of Scriabin. In common, the two composers expressed an
affinity towards the otherworldly atmosphere and mystic states. Here, Feinberg carries
Scriabin’s experiments a step further. Sabaneyev credits Feinberg with being the “creator
of the original theory of unintoned sounds, or sounds imagined, which the performer
merely ‘thinks of in addition’ to what he plays, coloring whatever is to be heard into
entirely different tones.”
17
This concept did not escape the most eminent critics of the
period. The renowned Russian musicologist Victor Belyayev (1888-1968) – he was not
directly related to Scriabin’s former mecaenas, the publisher Mitrofan Belyayev – wrote
about a similar phenomenon in his 1925 article on Feinberg. Claiming the composer to be
the legitimate heir to Scriabin and “the most outstanding of modern Russian composers
for the pianoforte,” he wrote:
Feinberg’s capacity of dematerializing sound is one
of his most remarkable peculiarities, for in playing
over the keyboard he seems to produce tones from
the instrument not so much with the help of his fingers,
15
Leonid Sabaneyev, Modern Russian Composers, trans., Judah A. Joffe (Freeport, NY: Books for
Libraries Press, 1971; first pub. 1927), 164-65.
16
Ibid., 166.
17
Ibid., 167.
225
as by some hypnotic aid, having no relation to any
material method of producing sounds from the piano.
In this connection he proves himself a master, in that
he knows how to sound the overtones without touching
them, as he has shown in his Prelude for piano, Op. 15, No. 3
(published by the Universal Edition, Vienna).
18
Belyayev, in contrast to other critics such as Asafyev, was convinced that Scriabin’s
compositional style was not restricted to the composer; he believed it could be further
developed and that exactly Feinberg was on such a path. Belyayev refers to this tendency
in Russian music as Scriabinismus. He states:
The chief representative of Scriabinismus is, undoubtedly,
that highly gifted and fine composer Samuel Feinberg.
It is very difficult to develop the creative principles of
great genius, which Scriabin was, further. And Feinberg
does it, and does it, not as a simple follower of Scriabin,
but as the very developer of his creative and harmonical ideas.
19
Feinberg was an acclaimed pianist noted for his technique, infallible memory and
stamina. He performed on various occasions the entire set of Scriabin’s piano sonatas.
It was not, however, until Scriabin’s last year that Feinberg himself began composing his
own piano sonatas, of which there would be twelve. According to Belyayev, the initial
inspiration towards composition came in 1909 when Feinberg heard Scriabin’s Fifth
Piano Sonata and the Poème de l’extase for the first time.
20
In fact, Feinberg’s early
sonatas reflect the style of these middle-period works of Scriabin. Here, the prevailing
stylistic feature in composition that seems to interconnect Feinberg and Scriabin as well
as most other Russian composers of this period is an enduring Romanticism. This is not
18
Victor Belyayev, “Samuel Feinberg,” The Sackbut 5 (1924-5): 326-29; 327.
19
Victor Belyayev, “Russia: Present Tendencies,” The Sackbut 6 (1925-6): 46-49; 48-49.
20
Belyayev, “Feinberg,” 326.
226
to say, though, that Russia was lagging behind the trends in Western Europe, according to
a 1927 study by Sabaneyev. Here, he writes:
Formalism and estheticism, which desire to create
the fashionable taste of the epoch, are in reality
observed chiefly in certain German and French
composers, and there only. As regards Russia,
it is beyond doubt that the eradication of Romanticism
in music is well-nigh impossible. . . In the realm of
art, whatever “survives” is right.
21
As a composer, Feinberg continued on the path of Scriabin; yet, his works proved to be
so extremely challenging both in their technical and expressive demands that in spite of
their attractiveness they were not immediately accessible to other performers. Feinberg
was also according to Sabaneyev a typically Russian composer in that he “loathed self-
advertising.”
22
Still, in a writing style no less elevated than that of Victor Belyayev,
Sabaneyev claims that Feinberg “is one of the ‘great possessed,’ an integral and original
type, who stands out like a peak in contemporary Russian music.” Finally, it should be
noted that along with his piano studies with Goldenweiser, Feinberg also pursued
composition at the Moscow Conservatory with a close friend of Scriabin, the pianist and
composer Nikolai Zhilyayev (1881-1938). It is most likely that through these contacts
Feinberg as a young man had the opportunity to perform for Scriabin, about which
Sabaneyev writes in his memoirs.
Following his six-year sojourn in Western Europe – primarily in Switzerland –
Scriabin returned to Russia in 1910 as an internationally renowned composer. It was
21
Sabaneyev, Modern Russian Composers, 169. Peculiar here is the fact that Sabaneyev devotes another
chapter of this book to Nikolai Roslavets (1881-1944), in which he discusses early formalism in the
musical arts in Russia. For example, he writes, “Roslavets is in his essence an esthetic formalist, an
inventor of bizarre tonal designs behind which he does not wish any other substance to be seen, priding
himself on his anti-emotionalism and formalism.” Ibid., 203.
22
Ibid., 170.
227
during this latter period of his life that he cultivated the friendship of the extraordinarily
versatile Zhilyayev. Recalling the year 1911, Sabaneyev writes that Zhilyayev was one of
the truly sincere admirers of Scriabin and his work.
23
Although two years prior, in 1909,
Zhilyayev wrote a scathing review of the Moscow premiere of the Poème de l’extase.
Having stated earlier in his article that “A. N. Scriabin possesses an enormous and
original gift,” he brusquely dismissed the symphonic poem as “chaos, . . . a picture of
morbid fantasy.”
24
His candid assessments, though, did not prevent Zhilyayev from
developing a respect for Scriabin and a genuine affinity towards his music. As Sabaneyev
states, Zhilyayev was a balanced observer and could be honest and very direct when
expressing his opinions to Scriabin.
25
Like Scriabin, Zhilyayev was a pianist who had also studied composition at the
Moscow Conservatory with the venerable professor Sergei Taneyev. And like Scriabin,
he too taught for some time at the Conservatory.
26
Zhilyayev is also well remembered for
his scholarly activities as a musicologist and was a founding member of the Moscow
Scriabin Society. During the 1920s, he was an editor at Musgiz, the state publishing
house. In 1929, he reconstructed and arranged Scriabin’s first work intended for
orchestra, the “Symphonic Allegro” in D minor dating from the year 1896 (also known as
the Poème symphonique and listed by Universal Edition as WoO 24).
27
Zhilyayev was
23
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 123.
24
Zhilyayev, “A. N. Skriabin i ego tvorchestvo” [“A. N. Scriabin and His Creative Work”], 1909 concert
review from Moscow reprinted in N. S. Zhilyayev. Literaturno-muzykalnoye naslediye [N. S. Zhilyayev.
Literary-Musical Legacy] (Moscow: Muzyka, 1984), 114-16.
25
Sabaneyev, Vospominania, 316.
26
Several of Zhilyayev’s students became prominent Soviet composers. Besides Samuil Feinberg,
noteworthy are Alexei Stanchinsky (1888-1914) and Anatoly Alexandrov (1888-1982), all of whom
showed influences of Scriabin in their work.
27
Previously, in 1926, Sabaneyev and Zhilyayev collaborated in preparing a two-hand piano reduction
version (pub. 1927 by Bessel Verlag, 1929 by the State Publishing House of the USSR; pub. also in 1929 in
228
also actively involved during the 1920s in editing the first official Soviet edition of
Scriabin’s complete works for piano. In summation, Zhilyayev’s appreciation of Scriabin
and recognition of the latter’s important role in Russian music history was undoubtedly
based on his own varied talents as a pianist, composer, pedagogue, critic, and editor. In
turn, this versatility can be traced further back to Zhilyayev’s training with another
member of the Moscow Conservatory staff, Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov (1859-1935); he
too had the opportunity to observe and analyze Scriabin’s artistic development and rise to
celebrity.
As a composition professor at the Moscow Conservatory from 1893 and as the
director of the institution from 1905 to 1924, Ippolitov-Ivanov was one of the most
distinguished figures in the music community in Russia during his lifetime. A former
pupil of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, he later belonged
to the conservative wing of musicians at the Moscow Conservatory. His grace, prudence,
and diplomacy were notable traits of his character; these surely served him well in
weathering the post-Revolutionary era and maneuvering through the new governmental
bureaucracy.
28
From this standpoint, he evaluated Scriabin’s artistic creativity and
position in Russian music history.
Vienna by Universal Edition as Sinfonische Dichtung für Orchester d-moll). Later, the Russian-Soviet
conductor Alexander Gauk (1893-1963) was the the editor of the revised 1949 Moscow publication of this
now well-known orchestral work. The date 1949 is here also significant; it indicates that Soviet authorities
under the worst terror circumstances of Zhdanovshchina approved of the continued promotion of Scriabin’s
work. Noteworthy is also the fact that Scriabin had incorporated thematic material from the Poème
symphonique into his Third Symphony, Le poème divin.
28
Relevant here is the fact that his father was in the employ of the Imperial Palace in St. Petersburg.
Ippolitov-Ivanov interacted closely with Narkompros. From the mid-1920s through the early years of
Stalin, he was conductor of the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow.
229
In the year before his death, Ippolitov-Ivanov published his memoirs, Fifty Years
of Russian Music in my Recollections (1934).
29
In this book, he devotes an entire chapter
to the phenomenon of Scriabin. Initially, he presents a candid perception of the composer
and his music, citing attributes that one finds mentioned elsewhere in various biographies
and articles. For example, Ippolitov-Ivanov discusses Scriabin’s disregard for certain
opinions of Conservatory composition professors Sergei Taneyev and Anton Arensky.
These teachers reflected the academic conservatism advocated by Ippolitov-Ivanov and
which Scriabin repudiated.
30
Elsewhere, Ippolitov-Ivanov finds that a highly-charged
emotional element is present in all the work of Scriabin; and that the composer himself is
the embodiment of this strong emotion through his restless forward ambitions.
31
According to Ippolitov-Ivanov, it was above all this forward-driving aspect of Scriabin’s
creativity that had such an immense impact on the younger generation of Russian
composers. He writes, “Upon the death of Scriabin, his name became a downright symbol
for the forward momentum of the youth: ‘By all means forward; and only forward!’ ”
32
As a conservative reared in the music traditions of the nineteenth century, Ippolitov-
Ivanov cautions against the dangers of innovation as advocated in the saying above. He
states:
Slogans of this kind, however, are not a driving force
for art, but rather a restraint. Progress in art is always
based on the unshakable laws of continuity, such that
it [art] retains its universal intelligibility for everyone.
If its intelligibility is lost just one single time, this
29
Mikhail Ippolitov-Ivanov, 50 Let russkoi muzyki v moikh vospominaniyakh [50 Years of Russian Music
in my Recollections] (Moscow: State Music Publishers, 1934), 114-16; German trans.: Meine Erinnerungen
an 50 Jahre russischer Musik [My Recollections of 50 Years of Russian Music] (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn,
1993), 189-91.
30
Ibid., 189.
31
Ibid.
32
Ibid., 191.
230
signifies the end of its impact and hence a dead-end for
its further development. For this reason, the musical
works of innovators are of general interest always only
within certain boundaries – those in which they are
intelligible for everyone. The decision to what extent
such works will have lasting endurance is an issue of
time itself – the final judge of men and creations.
33
Reading between the lines, Ippolitov-Ivanov on the one hand appears to be providing a
plausible explanation for the enduring impact of Scriabin; on the other hand, he appears
to be appeasing a state whose cultural ideology viewed it increasingly necessary to make
art and music accessible and comprehensible to all people of the new classless Soviet
society.
34
For the most part, Ippolitov-Ivanov was opposed to the proletarianization of art,
but advocated a national music based on folksong.
35
In this sense, he could not identify
himself as a composer with the later-period works of Scriabin; he nevertheless
acknowledged the latter as a great musical genius and pioneer in the continuing
development of Russian music. It should be noted here that a common feature exists
among the state-sponsored music for the proletariat, Ippolitov-Ivanov’s conservative
promotion of national folk-music, and Scriabin’s last compositions founded on single-
chord harmony. One perceives a continual search for unification of mankind among these
diverse aesthetic directions. The reasons for this phenomenon are historically linked to
33
Ibid.
34
State cultural ideology was already an issue addressed by Ippolitov-Ivanov in an earlier article, “Muzyka
dlya vsekh” [“Music for Everyone”] in the monthly proletarian journal Zemlya i fabrika [Earth and factory]
(Moscow: 1928).
35
See Dorothea Redepenning, “Ippolitow-Ivanow – ein Konservativer zwischen Tradition und Anpassung”
in Ippolitov-Ivanov, Meine Erinnerungen an 50 Jahre russischer Musik (Berlin: Verlag Ernst Kuhn, 1993),
13-34. Here, Redepenning quotes Ippolitov-Ivanov who says, “The masses are demanding not short, worn-
out phrases and trendy outcries, but rather the broad melodies that inform the essence of folk-music.” Ibid.,
32. Regarding Ippolitov-Ivanov’s own vocal compositions, Leonid Sabaneyev attacks the former’s naïve
conservativism and writes in his customarily disparaging tone, “He remains ever faithful to his inexacting
but melodious style which is within the grasp of wide circles of the public.” See Sabaneyev, Modern
Russian Composers, 220.
231
the Russian psyche; the yearning for spiritual community – Sobornost – and the moral
sense of mission to attain this goal are inherent in all these trends.
The desire to reconcile inflexible conservative and liberal progressive tendencies
became a defining characteristic of the music community during the 1920s in Russia.
Also, the political turmoil created new circumstances that some artists welcomed while
others loathed them. Working under the new conditions was in any case difficult for most
artists and musicians. The musicologist Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov, son of the composer,
gives a frank assessment of the situation in an article written in 1924. Without referring to
the government division by name, his comments appear to be a nearly direct assault on
the organization of Narkompros under the leadership of Lunacharsky. In his evaluation,
Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov states:
The years of the great Revolution have had such a
disastrous effect on the musical culture in Russia . . .
The position of most Russian composers of today is most
deplorable . . . The tendency to popularize music and to
render it accessible to all classes of the people . . . . had
no definite plan, no reliable personality to carry this through,
and again, the shortage of money hampered these originally
well-meant aspirations, and made them degenerate very soon.
Fortunately, this period of enforced enlightenment is over
now, and we are beginning to carry through the above-mentioned
aspirations more carefully, with more feeling of responsibility,
special attention being attributed to questions of musical
education, and the part music is to have at the schools, boarding
houses and numerous educational institutions for children.
36
Between the time of Scriabin’s death and the October Revolution, Andrei Rimsky-
Korsakov was the editor of the magazine Muzykalniy sovremennik (Musical
Contemporary) in St. Petersburg. To honor the first anniversary of Scriabin’s death, he
36
Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov, “Comments on Contemporary Musical Life in Soviet-Russia,” The Sackbut 5
(London: 1924-5): 83-85.
232
compiled an issue dedicated to the composer; it included contributions of biographical
and aesthetic content by noted Scriabin scholars Sabaneyev, Schloezer, and Engel among
others. As a critic, Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov had been an enthusiastic supporter of
Scriabin and modern music in general.
37
His periodical then folded in the wake of the
Revolution and subsequent government take-over of cultural and journalistic institutions.
Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov was compelled to take a position as an archivist at the same
Leningrad Public Library where Stasov had worked earlier. It is possible that his personal
fate played a role here in presenting such a bleak portrait of the cultural situation in post-
Revolutionary Russia. On the whole, however, modernism among the artists and
musicians was receiving support from the government because it was particularly that
cultural group in society that connected with the radical utopian ideology of communism;
the modern artists welcomed the new situation as long as a certain level of autonomy
could be preserved for themselves.
38
Other notable scholars of music offered a positive interpretation of the post-
Revolutionary cultural situation. Among these was the musicologist Yevgeny Braudo
(1882-1939). According to biographical information supplied by the periodical Modern
Music, Braudo was also a prominent Russian art critic and lecturer on aesthetics at
Moscow University.
39
In an article published in 1925, Braudo emphasizes the enormous
strides in theory and research that Russian musicology ostensibly has made just since the
37
Among other music modernists, Andrei Rimsky-Korsakov was also a friend of Stravinsky; he was also
the dedicatee of the composer’s “Firebird.”
38
See Sheila Fitzpatrick, The Commissariat of Enlightenment (London: Cambridge University Press,
1970), 120.
39
Modern Music (January-February, 1933): front matter; no page number.
233
October Revolution.
40
He proudly advertises here his recently published two-volume
General History of Music.
41
A champion of modernism in music, he was especially
devoted to the music of Roslavets and Scriabin. An equal interest in music and painting
drew him especially to Scriabin’s preoccupation with the correlations between tones and
colors.
42
Braudo reports that among the most recent projects during the mid-1920s was
the decipherment and analysis of the available sound recordings of Scriabin; the goal of
the research was to advance the understanding of performance practice and to understand
what the composer’s specific intentions were regarding the interpretation of his works.
Braudo also announces that the correspondence of several Russian composers, including
Scriabin, had recently been published in cooperation with the Petersburg Philharmonic.
43
In general, Braudo finds that music research and education has improved significantly at
all levels and views this as a positive indication of future developments.
In agreement with the above prognosis is the internationally renowned Russian
musicologist Victor Belyayev (1888-1968). He dismisses the notion of a lasting negative
impact of the Revolution on Russian musical life as unfounded and presumptuous.
Primarily active in the field of ethnomusicology, Belyayev conducted research in other
areas of music as well. From 1908 to 1914 he studied composition with Glazunov and
Lyadov at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, where he too later became a professor of
music theory. From 1922 he was in Moscow interacting with government agencies and
40
Yevgeny Braudo, “Musikwissenschaft und Musikbildung in Sowjet-Russland,” Melos 4, no. 9 (April 1,
1925): 438-45.
41
Braudo, Vseobshchaya istoriya muzyki [General History of Music] in two volumes (Leningrad: State
Publishing House, 1922 and 1925).
42
See Marina Lobanova, Mystiker, Magier, Theosoph, Theurg. Alexander Skrjabin und seine Zeit
(Hamburg: von Bockel Verlag, 2004), 259-60.
43
Braudo, “Musikwissenschaft,” 443. The author is referring to Perepiska A. N. Skriabina i M. P.
Belyayeva. 1894 – 1903 [Correspondence between A. N. Scriabin and M. P. Belyayev] (Petrograd: State
Academic Philharmoniya, 1922).
234
holding various positions in music; there, for example, he became a founding member of
the Association for Contemporary Music (ACM). Belyayev was also a prolific writer and
throughout his life contributed articles to many of the most prestigious international
periodicals on music. For these he wrote mainly about contemporary music and
composers in the Soviet Union.
44
On one occasion, he submitted an article (discussed
below) characterizing the enduring impact of Scriabin on the new generation of Russian-
Soviet composers.
In March, 1925, the Austrian music periodical Musikblätter des Anbruch released
a special issue devoted entirely to aspects of musical life in Russia. Belyayev contributed
four articles to this edition, one of which was titled “Skrjabin und die moderne russische
Musik.”
45
This article contains some of the points expressed by Belyayev already in his
1923 article “Skriabin i budushcheye russkoy muziki” [Scriabin and the Future of
Russian Music]. In the Anbruch article, though, he presents them in a somewhat
condensed form and directs them towards a foreign German-speaking audience. In the
Russian version, Belyayev explains in more detail the evolution of harmony leading up to
Scriabin. In the German article, Belyayev appears more concerned about convincing his
readership of the overwhelming significance of Scriabin for the future of Russian music
and that of the entire world. In spite of an imposed isolation from the rest of the world
since the Revolution, Russian musical life has continued to flourish; it has done so to a
great extent due to the innovative paths laid down by Scriabin, according to Belyayev.
46
44
Barbara Krader, “Viktor Mikhailovich Beliaev,” Ethnomusicology 12, no. 1 (January 1968): 86-100.
45
Belyayev, “Skrjabin und die moderne russische Musik,” Musikblätter des Anbruch (March, 1925):138-
43.
46
In another article of the same 1925 issue of Anbruch, “Die Moskauer Vereinigung für moderne Musik,”
Belyayev places the blame for this cultural and political isolation of Russia clearly with the Western
235
Belyayev devotes the opening paragraphs of his Scriabin article to an
acknowledgment of the historical achievements of Western Europe in the area of music
theory and composition. Specifically, he praises the harmonic developments manifested
in the works of Scarlatti, Beethoven, and Wagner. Belyayev then proceeds to make a case
for modern Russia, which in his opinion is now assuming the leading role in the world as
far as music theory and composition are concerned. For example, he credits the German
theorist Hugo Riemann (1849-1919) with having developed insights into tonal functions;
he then asserts that Riemann’s method was inadequate and recently surpassed by the
more clearly defined results produced of the Russian theorist Boleslav Yavorsky.
47
Belyayev perceives Scriabin to be the greatest composer of the world since
Wagner.
48
He states:
After Wagner, Scriabin was the first who climbed
upwards on the ladder of harmonic language. His
progress was daring and determined by history.
Scriabin, an absolute genius, placed Russian music
through his discoveries at least in relation to the
development of musical language on the same level
with the Germans, who up until then undoubtedly
held the dominant role. This condition appears
to be the decisive factor regarding the evaluation
of Scriabin’s influence on modern Russian music
and the appraisal of him in general.
49
According to Belyayev, the fact that Scriabin was a genius prevented the composer from
having established a school. For Belyayev, true genius cannot be imitated.
50
He states,
European countries that “have been less than well-disposed in their attitude towards the new domestic
situation in Russia since the October Revolution.” Ibid., 129.
47
Ibid., 139. Belyayev does not explain his position. He states, “Unfortunately, I cannot elaborate on this in
detail here.” Ibid. For detailed information on Boleslav Yavorsky’s music theories, see Gordon McQuere,
Russian Theoretical Thought in Music (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983).
48
Belyayev skirts past the developments of Igor Stravinsky and Arnold Schoenberg in this context. He
states, “I will need to bypass these for the time being, because they do not fall within the scope of my topic
here.” Ibid., 141.
49
Ibid., 140.
236
“Geniuses have no epigones and cannot have them.” He explains further that the actual
influence exerted by Scriabin on his contemporaries and subsequent generation has been
indirect in its nature. In this context, Belyayev relates an amusing anecdote by his earlier
composition professor at the St. Petersburg Conservatory. Alexander Glazunov (1865-
1936), a member of the Romantic conservative “New Russian School,” ostensibly told
Belyayev that he [Glazunov] had “inserted the Scriabin [mystic] chord into his work in
such a way that ‘no one could ever recognize it.’ ”
51
Among other Romantic composers
whose exemplary works Belyayev mentions are Lyadov (Grimace, op. 64 and other later
works) and Rachmaninov (the last Romances, op. 38).
Belyayev explains further that literally none of the recent composers in Russia –
whether prominent or lesser known – has managed to elude the almighty impact of
Scriabin’s style. He lists their names and cites the specific works where the influence is
most apparent. In his opinion, the stylistic development in both Stravinsky and Prokofiev
would be unimaginable without the force of Scriabin. In the case of Stravinsky, Belyayev
clarifies that “this influence now appears considerably ‘reprocessed’ and is no longer as
unadulterated as it was previously.”
52
In the music of Prokofiev, Belyayev identifies an
amalgamation of styles in which Scriabin coexists prominently alongside of Mussorgsky
and Rimsky-Korsakov. He cites the opera The Love for Three Oranges as an example.
Belyayev also names Nikolai Myaskovsky (1881-1950), a composer who in his opinion
has emancipated himself from the influence of Scriabin; however, upon closer scrutiny –
for example in the Seventh Symphony – one can hear “concealed points of contact”
50
Belyayev’s colleagues Vyacheslav Karatygin (1875-1925) and Boris Asafyev (1884-1949) already had
expressed similar opinions about Scriabin in 1914 and 1918 respectively. See above.
51
Op. cit., 141.
52
Ibid., 142.
237
between the two artists.
53
Among composers affected by Scriabin but lesser known
outside of Russia, Belyayev writes about Vladimir Kryukov (1902-1960).
54
In his opera
The King on the Square (based on the play by the Russian Symbolist poet Alexander
Blok), Belyayev identifies “Scriabin’s refinement with Wagner’s thematic treatment.”
55
Further, a composer about whom Belyayev often has written is Samuil Feinberg
(discussed above). The author emphasizes here that Feinberg is assimilating and
developing further the stylistic achievements of Scriabin. Consequently, he stands “in the
best sense under the influence of Scriabin.
56
Belyayev cites the above examples as proof that Scriabin has left an indelible
mark on Russian musical culture. He interprets the Scriabin phenomenon as an “organic
development” that will endure unabated. The composer’s influence will continue to thrive
as though planted on “new and virgin soil.”
57
According to Belyayev, Scriabin was part
of the musical progress in Russia and now has become synonymous with this progress.
Belyayev draws attention to the fact that the majority of Russia’s talented artists
had by no means departed from their country. Uninformed writers abroad, according to
him, have propagated a false impression of the domestic cultural landscape of Russia
since the Revolution. Belyayev writes, “The reports in the foreign press about the musical
activity [in Russia] are incomplete, inexact, and sometimes even fantastical and in no
way contribute to a correct representation [of the facts]. Furthermore, the famous Russian
composers active in [Western] Europe are diverting attention from the situation at
53
Ibid.
54
Not the former KGB chief of similar name and spelling.
55
Op. cit., 143.
56
Ibid., 142.
57
Ibid., 143.
238
home.”
58
This is a significant observation in that the musicians in the areas of
performance and scholarship who remained in Russia were able to and did indeed
contribute to stabilizing the legacy of Scriabin.
Many performing musicians remaining in Russia had known Scriabin personally
and premiered the composer’s works. Among these contemporaries, for example, was the
conductor Felix Blumenfeld (1863-1931) who led the Russian premiere of Symphony
No. 3, Le poème divin (St. Petersburg, February 23, 1906). Several letters provide
evidence that Scriabin held him in the highest esteem. Following the Petersburg
performance mentioned above, which Scriabin could not attend, the composer wrote from
Geneva, Switzerland to Blumenfeld, “Please accept my sincere and deep gratitude for the
excellent performance of my symphony about which I have read in several newspapers
and letters from friends. You accomplished a miracle having performed it after merely
two rehearsals – an almost incredible feat!”
59
The two men remained on good terms to
the end of Scriabin’s life. Following the Revolution, Blumenfeld continued to conduct,
contributing to the establishment of a Scriabin tradition in addition to his teaching duties
as professor at the Kiev Conservatory (1918-22) and Moscow Conservatory (1922-31).
Following in this Scriabin tradition were the notable conductors Nikolai Golovanov
(1891-1953) and Alexander Gauk (1893-1963).
60
58
Belyayev, “Musikschaffen in Russland,” Musikblätter des Anbruch (June-July, 1923): 118.
59
Scriabin, “Letter to F. M. Blumenfeld” dated Geneva, March 15 [28], 1906; in A. Kashperov, ed., Pisma
Skriabina [Letters of Scriabin] (Moscow: Izdatelstvo Muzyka, 1965), 416-17.
60
Nikolai Golovanov, director of the Moscow Radio Orchestra (1937-53) and Bolshoi Theater (1948-53),
is remembered through his recordings of the complete Scriabin Symphonies and Piano Concerto with the
acclaimed pianist and pedagogue Heinrich Neuhaus (1888-1964). Alexander Gauk was Golovanov’s
successor at the Moscow Radio Orchestra and recorded the Scriabin Piano Concerto with Samuil Feinberg.
He also edited in 1949 a new publication of Scriabin’s early “Symphonic Poem in D Minor” (1896-99).
239
Pianists closely associated with Scriabin during his lifetime and whose playing
the composer revered continued performing and teaching his music. Especially
noteworthy are three pianists who were among the co-founders in 1909 of the first society
promoting the music and ideas of the composer, the so-called “Scriabin Circle”: Maria
Nemenova-Lunz (1879-1954), student of Scriabin at the Moscow Conservatory and later
professor there; Yelena Bekman-Shcherbina (1882-1951), later professor at the Moscow
Conservatory; and Mark Meychik (1880-1950), famous for having given the premiere of
Scriabin’s Piano Sonata No. 5 (Moscow, November 18, 1908). Subsequently, they were
members of the Moscow Scriabin Society which established itself immediately following
the death of the composer.
61
During commemorative years, the three pianists wrote short
memoirs about their encounters with Scriabin.
62
These were among the many testimonies
that performers and research scholars continued to write about the composer.
Although Scriabin’s two internationally famous biographers, Schloezer and
Sabaneyev, followed the path of emigration, 1920 and 1926 respectively, many other
writers remained. The eminent critics and editors Nikolai Findeisen (1868-1928) and
Vladimir Derzhanovsky (1881-1942), who had interacted with Scriabin during his
lifetime, continued to promote interest in the composer’s music after 1915. Findeisen,
founding editor-in-chief of the Russian Musical Gazette (St. Petersburg, 1894-1918),
61
Nemenova-Lunz and Bekman-Shcherbina held advisory positions. See D. G. Pershin, ed., Aleksandr
Nikolayevich i ego muzey [Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin and his Museum] (Moscow: Izdaniye Mono,
1930), 38.
62
Nemenova-Lunz, (tenth anniversary of Scriabin’s death) in the journal Iskusstvo Trudyashchimsya [Art
for the Workers] (1922): 3-4; Meychik, (twentieth anniversary) Skriabin. Ocherk zhizni i tvorchestvo
[Scriabin. An Essay on his Life and Work] (Moscow: Muzgiz, 1935); Bekman-Shcherbina, (twenty-fifth
anniversary) Aleksandr Nikolayevich Skriabin. Sbornik k 25-letiyu so dnya smerty [Alexander Nikolayevich
Scriabin. A Collection of Articles on the 25th Anniversary of his Death] (Moscow: State Music Publishers,
1940), 62-64.
240
published two special issues in 1915 containing autobiographical notes of Scriabin.
63
Derzhanovsky was among the original members of the “Scriabin Circle” and in 1909 had
helped to establish the “Evenings of Contemporary Music.”
64
Additionally, he was the
founding editor-in-chief of Muzyka (Moscow, 1910-16) to which Sabaneyev contributed
numerous articles on Scriabin. It was this periodical that produced the most significant
collection of memorial writings following the composer’s death.
65
Further, the notable
music critic from this period Vyacheslav Karatygin (1875-1925), who initially had
written skeptically about Scriabin, came to be one of his greatest admirers towards the
end of the composer’s life. By 1915 he had drawn the following comparison between
Scriabin, Stravinsky, and Prokofiev:
Which of the Russian composer-innovators mentioned should
be assigned first place? Which of them is the dominant musical
influence over the young generation of Russian composers?
Scriabin, of course! His exceptional natural creative gift borders
on genius and he usually comes before us as a composer and an
artist of the utmost sincerity, profundity and uncommon originality
of harmonic thought.
66
63
Russian Musical Gazette 17-18 (1915): 327-; Scriabin had corresponded earlier with Findeisen in
December, 1907 from Lausanne, Switzerland. In the two letters, he had supplied autobiographical
information to date along with a photograph and brief notes to a few of his musical compositions. Perhaps
most important, though, is Scriabin’s explanation for his sojourn in Western Europe: “I preferred to move
abroad because life in Russia, and particularly Moscow, was not conducive to the fulfillment of my task –
with our [Russian] inability to adjust to the times and to develop the necessary discipline.” See Kashperov,
Letters, 486-87, 492-93.
64
Based on the successful model established in St. Petersburg (1901-12), the Moscow society also sought
to introduce recent music by Western European composers – Debussy, Ravel, Strauss, and Schoenberg,
among others – as well as Russian composers, notably Stravinsky, to the local audiences. Derzhanovsky
and co-founder Konstantin Saradzhev (conductor and member of the first “Scriabin Circle,” 1877-1954)
were both champions of Scriabin’s music. It is quite possible that one heard the latter’s music at the
Moscow “Evenings,” although documentation is not readily available to confirm this.
65
Muzyka, Nos. 220 and 221 (1915). Among the authors are Leonid Sabaneyev, Boris Asafyev, Yevgeny
Gunst, Vyacheslav Ivanov, and Boheslav Yavorsky.
66
Vyacheslav Karatygin, “Noveshchiya teshcheniya v russkoy muzyke” [“The Most Recent Trends in
Russian Music”], Severnye Zapiski [Northern Notes] 4, no. 2 (1915): 99-109; repr. and trans. in Stuart
Campbell, ed. and trans., Russians on Russian Music, 1880-1917. An Anthology (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003), 224-33; 225.
241
Immediately following the death of Scriabin, Karatygin composed a monograph on him,
outlining his creative path and praising the composer as the most interesting figure in the
history of Russian music.
67
“Russian Music has known no other name that calls forth
greater passion and intense interest than the name of Scriabin!”
68
The enthusiastic support that Scriabin’s music continued to draw from the
majority of professional musicians and critics in Russia as well as from the general public
increased during the 1920s to a level against which no opposition could prevail. His
music spoke to a people whose social aspirations and futurist intentions were grounded in
a long tradition of searching for spiritual unity and equality among men. Most Russian
composers of the younger generation shared this tradition and viewed Scriabin as a
genius worth emulating. Through his music, they could connect with the past and at the
same time look forward into the future. Even those who initially out of a competitive
spirit – Stravinsky – or out of a justifiable fear – Shostakovich – had spoken derogatorily
about Scriabin later revised their opinions and conceded his importance for the further
development of Russian music.
69
Nor did the unstable political situation at the time
prevent this evolution. On the contrary, official policy welcomed progressive tendencies
in the arts, and music in particular. Under the prevailing conditions in Russia during the
1920s, Scriabin’s music not only became less controversial, but strengthened its position
as an integral part of Russian-Soviet culture.
67
Karatygin, Skriabin. Ocherk [Scriabin. An Essay] (St. Petersburg: Izdaniya N. Y. Butkovskoy, 1915).
68
Ibid.
69
Richard Taruskin explains that Stravinsky’s antipathy towards Scriabin had come from a “feeling of
inferiority.” This was based on the fact that he had not received recognition in his native Russia comparable
to that Scriabin had enjoyed. The frustration finally subsided when he [Stravinsky] “belatedly experienced
a Russian triumph of his own in 1962.” Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions, vol. 1 (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 1996), 799.
242
Indeed, although proletarianization under Soviet rule affected musical culture, it
did not have a negative impact on the interest in or appreciation of Scriabin’s music. A
case in point is the article “Nuzhen li nam Skriabin?” [“Do we need Scriabin?”], by the
anti-modernist Soviet music critic Nikolai Malkov (1882-1942, pseudonym: Islamey) that
appeared in 1930 in the proletarian cultural journal Rabochiy i teatr [Workers and Art]
(1924-1937).
70
In his commentary, Malkov decidedly rejects Scriabin’s interest in
mysticism and the theosophical teachings of Helene Blavatsky, but praises his music for
its social aspects and association with the revolutionary cause of the Soviet people.
Elsewhere, during the course of its existence, the official music journal of the Soviet
Union, Sovyetskaya Muzyka (1933-1991), published approximately seventy articles
concerning Scriabin’s music and his position in Soviet culture; more than twenty of these
appeared during the Stalinist era. This situation was unique to Russia and presents a stark
contrast to the waning interest in Scriabin during the same period in Western Europe. In
an article appearing 1932 in the English music periodical The Chesterian, Terence White
observes, “The taste of the musical world is the most treacherous of all passing charms,
and Scriabin, whose art excited once its critical interest, is now, by artist and layman
alike, almost entirely neglected.”
71
As demonstrated above, this was definitely not the
case in Russia. There, the musical establishment had nearly canonized Scriabin; at least
to the degree that as a national cultural hero he had become unimpeachable.
70
Nikolai Malkov (1882-1942) – not to be confused with the Russian conductor and Scriabin enthusiast
Nikolai Malko (1883-1961) – had been the senior music critic of the Narkompros journal Zhizn Iskusstva
[Art Life] (1918-1929). During the 1920s, he was a major opponent of the progressive, open-minded Soviet
musicologist Boris Asafyev. Malkov died of starvation in the siege of Leningrad during WW II.
71
Terence White, “Alexander Scriabin,” The Chesterian 13, no. 104 (July, 1932): 213-17.
243
The now solid and transparent support of Scriabin in Russia was nowhere more
manifest than in the composer community. This demonstrated itself overtly during the
period of cultural oppression led by Andrei Zhdanov (1896-1948) and known as
Zhdanovshchina (1946-53). In his book Musical Uproar in Moscow (1949), Alexander
Worth describes how the leading members of the “Composers’ Union” repelled an
attempted assault on the legacy of Scriabin. During 1948, Soviet cultural policy under
Josef Stalin (1878-1953) and Andrey Zhdanov intensified its attack on the modernist so-
called “formalism” of leading Soviet composers. The reputation of Scriabin, the
modernist national hero who was no longer alive, had remained for the most part
unscathed during this repressive campaign. Still, in his report of the events of 1948,
Worth relates the following episode:
If ever there was a composer who suffered from all
the vices which Zhdanov attributed to Shostakovich,
Prokofiev, Khachaturian, and Miaskovsky, it was
surely Skriabin . . . But no! Skriabin was sacrosanct –
a classic . . . But when somebody called Steinpress
very reasonably pointed out in an article in Soviet
Literature, at the height of the controversy, that if
ever there was a degenerate formalist of the worst
sort, it was Skriabin and that Soviet listeners should
be saved from the degrading experience of having to
listen to him, the “low-brow” pundits of the Composers’
Union rose like one man to the defense of Skriabin,
and publicly called the ludicrously consistent and
over-zealous Mr. Steinpress an ass.
72
This act of solidarity on the part of the most eminent contemporaneous composers of the
Soviet Union further solidified Scriabin’s inviolable position as the leading figure in
modern Russian music history.
72
Alexander Worth, Musical Uproar in Moscow (London: Turnstile Press, 1949), 32.
244
The Soviet state’s growing positive attitude towards Scriabin manifested itself in
remarkable fashion again after the period of Stalin’s repression. In 1961, the government
permitted the choice of the composer’s symphonic work Poème de l’extase to accompany
the first manned space flight. The state authorities viewed it appropriate to pair the
achievements of the cultural hero Scriabin with those of the cosmonaut hero Yuri
Gagarin (1934-1968). The state radio broadcast the music of Scriabin during the one-
hour-and-forty-eight-minute flight and according to official sources even transmitted the
music into the orbiting spacecraft.
73
By 1972 – the centennial year of the composer’s birth – Scriabin’s music was
experiencing a world-wide renaissance.
74
It was, however, in Russia, and in particular in
Moscow – the composer’s hometown – that the celebrations were most significant. There,
the 1971-1972 concert season was dedicated to the music of Scriabin. On January 6,
1972, a gala evening commemorating the composer’s one-hundredth birthday (Gregorian
calendar) was held in The Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory. Among those in
attendance were the country’s most prominent musical artists. Dmitri Shostakovich, who
decades earlier in a conformist mode had branded Scriabin “our bitterest musical
enemy,”
75
was chairman of the event’s organizing committee. Now nearing the end of his
73
Harlow Robinson, “Music,” in Nicholas Rzhevsky, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Modern Russian
Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 236-63; 257.
74
See Martin Cooper, “Aleksandr Skryabin and the Russian Renaissance,” Studi Musicali 1, no. 2 (1972):
327-56; E. Rubbra, “The Resurgence of Scriabin,” The Listener 83, no. 26 (1970): 289; Gösta Neuwirth,
“Zur Alexander-Skrjabin-Renaissance,” Österreichische Musikzeitschrift 33, no. 9 (1978): 421-35.
75
Quoted in Rose Lee, “Dmitri Szostakovitch. Young Russian Composer Tells of Linking Politics with
Creative Work,” New York Times (December 20, 1931): X8. Today, a clinical analyst might identify
Shostakovich’s statements as a symptom of “Stockholm Syndrome” in which the victim identifies with his
tormentors – in this case, the Stalinist regime.
245
own life, Shostakovich had prepared the opening speech for the celebratory occasion.
76
In
the address, he made the following remarks indicating a complete reversal of his earlier
statements:
Scriabin is close to us today not only as a herald of the
purifying revolutionary storm but also as a musical
innovator who strove to open up new sources of musical
expression, new ways of influencing the audience. And
he succeeded in creating an exceptionally original
musical language, a unique world of sound images.
His contemporaries were shaken by the boldness of his
harmonies, the whimsicality of his rhythms, the beauty
of his melodies, imbued now with enchanting lyricism,
now with vibrant strength. But today, after several
decades, we clearly see that his innovation was deeply
rooted in tradition, in the best sense of the word, in the
achievements of the great classics of Russian and world
music. That is why we realize now what a deep trace
Scriabin’s quests and discoveries have left, what an
influence he had even on those composers whose
development took a very different course. We are
grateful to Scriabin for extending the boundaries of our
art by his inexhaustible fantasy and his brilliant talent.
We also cherish him for his faith in the transformative
power of art, in its ability to ennoble the human soul,
to bring harmony to people’s lives. Of course, in the
harsh conditions of the early years of his century, his
faith remained an unattainable, although radiant, dream.
It was the Great Revolution that not only brought
freedom to the people but also liberated Art and enabled
it to fulfill the glorious mission that was the dream and
the passionate belief of the great Russian musician
Alexander Scriabin!
77
The speech is tainted with political dogma and pandering to the communist regime, but
the basic tenor of the writing is clear: Scriabin’s creativity reflected not only the cultural
76
The composer Rodion Shchedrin (b. 1932) read the address of Shostakovich, who could not attend
because of illness. See Rudakova, Scriabin, 131.
77
Excerpt from the original typewritten copy of Shostakovich’s speech located in the archives of the
Mikhail Glinka State Central Museum of Musical Culture in Moscow. It has been translated and printed in
its entirety in Rudakova, Scriabin, 131-34.
246
traditions of Russia’s past; it continued them as part of an organic evolution in music and,
not least, its message was consonant with the revolutionary and social mindset of the
contemporaneous situation in the Soviet Union. In Scriabin’s music resonated the
century-old cultural values of a society and simultaneously its aspirations for the future.
Above all, the quest for unity in various forms was a fundamental aspect of
Russian, and later Soviet, culture. It manifested itself in religion, philosophy, politics, and
art. For centuries, sensitivity for the value of cohesiveness in Russian society had
contributed to the stability of the country. As explained earlier, the triangular
constellation of orthodoxy, autocracy, and nationality became the structural foundation
unifying the Russian territories during the Tsarist period. Later, during the nineteenth
century, the sense of spiritual unity – sobornost – found its way into the newly
developing area of Russian philosophy and, by extension, further into the artistic sectors
of society defining the directions of these respective fields. The idea of human
brotherhood – a concept that has contributed significantly to the enormous appreciation
of Beethoven among all Russians – became a cultural standard in Russian intellectual
circles. This explains to a certain degree the penetration of Russian philosophical ideas
dealing with unity into the musical creativity of Scriabin.
Scriabin’s music was Russian in its core, expressing the will and soul of a nation.
Leading Russian figures in the most diverse fields – religion, philosophy, science, art,
literature, music, and politics – realized the national and universal significance of this
phenomenal composer. Indeed, they contributed toward establishing his legacy as a
national cultural hero through numerous testimonies in speech and writing and actively
promoting his music in concert performances. And yet, as demonstrated earlier, the
247
ambiguous nature of Scriabin’s music rendered it susceptible to very diverse
interpretations. This was perhaps most apparent in the diverging views of the composer’s
two most notable biographers, Leonid Sabaneyev and Boris de Schloezer. Ironically, as
explained earlier, another Scriabin proponent, the pianist and pedagogue Heinrich
Neuhaus, dismissed both of these men as damaging figures in the history of Scriabin
scholarship: “Such mystics and obscurantists as L. Sabaneyev and B. F. Schloezer have
done enormous damage to Scriabin.”
78
This indicates how even the most informed
individuals could be at odds in their perceptions of the composer. This played out well
over time in the preservation of Scriabin’s legacy as one of the greatest of all Russian
composers. In the speech he prepared for the Scriabin Centennial, Dmitri Shostakovich
addresses this very issue. He writes,
It seems to me extremely appropriate to apply to
Scriabin, to his contradictory and complicated
character, the famous lines of his contemporary,
Alexander Blok:
Forgive his gloom, his desolation,
For that is not his hidden might.
He is a child of good and light,
He is the joy of liberation!
79
78
Heinrich Neuhaus, “Zametki o Skriabina (k 40-letiyu so dnya smerty)” [“Notes on Scriabin (on the 40th
anniversary of his death)] in Heinrich Neuhaus, Razmysleniya, vospominania, dnevniki. Pisma k
roditelyam [Thoughts, Memoirs, Diaries. Letters to my Parents] (Moscow: State Publishers, 1983). 204-8;
rep. Marina Lobanova, Mystiker, Magier, Theosoph, Theurg. Alexander Skrjabin unde seine Zeit
(Hamburg: von Bockel Verlag, 2004), 15.
79
Quoted in Rudakova, 134.
248
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Ltd., 1953. Reprint, New York: Columbia University Press, 1967.
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Zhdanov, Andrei. Essays on Literature, Philosophy, and Music. New York: International
Publishers, 1950.
Zhilyayev, Nikolai. “A. N. Scriabin and his Creative Work” (1909). Translated by D. L.
Wetzel. Journal of The Scriabin Society of America 11, no. 1 (winter 2006-07): 82-
87.
Zouboff, Peter. Godmanhood as the Main Idea of the Philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov.
Poughkeepsie: Harmon Printing House, 1944.
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Appendix A
Prince Sergei Nikolaevich Trubetskoi
(1862–1905)
“On the Occasion of Scriabin’s Concert”
Moscow Courier no. 63 (1902)
Please permit me, a layman in the field of music, to say a few words on the
occasion of the upcoming concert of Mr. Scriabin, the young Russian composer. His
already large body of work, possessing quite a lot of different, highly outstanding virtues,
has still not found appropriate appreciation either among the inveterate connoisseurs of
art or among the majority of our audience.
In Moscow, there are more than a few so-called “Moscow Celebrities” in all areas
of art, literature and science. Among such celebrities there are some veritable talents who
not uncommonly and systematically become corrupted by their admirers and patrons.
These are the talents and imaginary geniuses serving the hopes of small circles; they end
up being flowers without blossoms. Ultimately, there are simply people who confuse
eccentrics with talent. That is how it has always been here in Russia – the stifling social
atmosphere of narrow-mindedness and ill-bred taste of the patrons who set the tone.
There are many other reasons for this not even worth mentioning.
One notices among Moscovites genuine talents who are not part of the “Moscow
Celebrities.” This always serves as a sign of the freshness, the originality of talent, its
worthiness, and seriousness. Such talent is undoubtedly present in Mr. Scriabin. In spite
of his young age, he has been publishing his piano works for many years now. These
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have revealed from year to year that his musical creativity is maturing and developing.
The larger part of his work is written for piano and based on its outstanding value it could
spread to broader circles if our public were more open-minded and their tastes not
defined by prejudice and routine. The works of Mr. Scriabin distinguish themselves
namely in that they do not follow a pattern and are free from all those vain pursuits of
outward success. One has to listen carefully in order to understand this peculiar and
intimate lyricism with which they are imbued; to appreciate the elegance, richness of
harmony, and decorative skill informing the works. Consequently, one can reconcile
these qualities with the unusual complexity of some of the works. This complexity is not
artificial or affected; it does not serve as a mask for some lack of substance, but is a
logical result of musical thought, which endeavors to put into form and express authentic
complex material. The originality of Mr. Scriabin is sincere. He has his own definitive
artistic physiognomy. His manner and style manifest themselves as individual traits,
which through closer scrutiny become more immediately apparent. His works, in spite of
their complexity, are entirely sincere; the composer has written them without considering
the opinions of any particular group of people and not knowing any other court of
judgment than his own artistic conscience. He is not conforming to the demands of the
public, but is bringing forward in these compositions his own new and highly demanding
set of requirements.
In our times, it is heard often that everything truly beautiful must be simple and
nice. But, first of all, concepts of simplicity and clarity are quite relative, and in music as
everywhere else, the saying is justified: “some simplicity is worse than thievery.” Second
of all, in music as in other areas of art, there exist many wonderful, though highly
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complex works that are complete in themselves as far as their design and intricacy are
concerned. The aspiration to master new complex material and to embody it in a specific
artistic form is the inherent desire of every thinking artist. The contemporary symphony,
a musical poem, and a musical drama, have an equal right to existence, just as do
previous simpler forms, even if the new music still has not said its final word. Even if this
modern music has not yet attained the well-balanced completeness – the kind that attracts
us to classical works – it will still reveal to us new, vast areas of harmony, and new
possibilities of musical architectonics. The tasks of the contemporary composer, having
dared to blaze a new path, are becoming endlessly more complicated. Must one be
astonished at that which in the new musical outlook is taking shape? Should one be
amazed that in this new musical consciousness not all is clear and serene, that not all fits
into the customary formulas, that one bears the imprint of struggle and anxiety? But why
could this not be a true echo of the mood experienced by us in this critical age?
The music of Scriabin is contemporary to the highest degree. Moreover, it is
contemporary in the truly best sense of the word. In spite of this, and maybe partly
because of this, so little of it is known and it is insufficiently appreciated particularly in
Russia. In the German and French press, earlier than with us, notice was taken of the
appearance of this outstanding talent. Here, it was quite insulting to read the absolutely
unfavorable reviews by the Petersburg critics that showed the entire incomprehension of
the First and especially the Second Symphonies of Scriabin. Perhaps, these reviews could
be justified in part by the critics having listened to an extremely unsatisfactory
performance. Or perhaps one would have needed more time to understand the
extraordinarily complex compositions and to appreciate the splendid sound of both
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symphonies – the amazing richness and succulence of their orchestral colors. However, in
Moscow one year ago, the first of them was performed frankly quite outstandingly. All
the critics themselves recognized that they seldom had had the occasion to hear a
performance more perfect. And that is why then we were able to expect that in Russia
this musical work should have been welcomed with a more positive appraisal. It is not
our intention to deny some of the shortcomings in the First Symphony of our young
composer – this dithyramb to art conceived so boldly and on a large scale. Not all parts of
it are equal in value, in spite of the wholeness of the general design. Magnificent are the
first two movements. The melodic introduction breathing with such an immediate
freshness fanned by poetry, it appears to us simple and transparent, despite all the refined
and highly sophisticated harmony. Still more powerful is the dramatic dark allegro
written in a grand style, far-reaching in its development. It remains clear in spite of the
very elaborate working-out; this owes much to the unusual skill of orchestration which
strikingly profiles all the lines of the composition. Beautiful are also the following three
movements: an elegiac andante, the main charm of which is formed by the richness of
harmony and the sensual beauty of the orchestral coloring; a gracious intermezzo; and a
second allegro carried away by its somber flight. The last movement concludes the
symphony in a solemn hymn of praise to art. No matter how striking it sounds or how
well-incorporated it is into the whole of the composition, it nevertheless seems to us less
significant and weak in comparison with the foregoing.
In the Second Symphony of our composer, between the opening and final
movements there also exists a tight organic link; this is conveyed by means of developing
the same theme in various keys and throughout the consecutive movements. Thus, it
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solves the task of unification far more successfully. In general, this symphony represents
a significant step forward. We should be thankful to Mr. Scriabin for providing us the
possibility once again to hear through particularly the First Symphony, which by the
richness of its content could hardly be entirely grasped after the first hearing.
Undoubtedly, it will have growing success at each new performance.
A similar fate is awaiting the Sonata in F-sharp minor,
1
so skillfully performed
last year by Mr. Buyukli at one of the quartet gatherings of the Musical Society.
2
This
sonata, constituting the second major work on the upcoming program of Mr. Scriabin, is
among the most powerful and emotional of his compositions. It is a finished lyrical poem,
the musical echo of an entire world philosophy. Alongside this sonata, the concert
program includes some smaller pieces of Mr. Scriabin, many of which appear to be true
pearls of the contemporary piano literature. In addition, the rather small poetic Rêverie
for orchestra will be performed.
From our souls now, let us wish success not necessarily for the music of Mr.
Scriabin, which will conquer its rightful place by itself, but rather for the performance! It
would be a shame if our concert-going public did not heed this call and missed the
opportunity to become better acquainted with our composer’s works. Let us not wait for
his fame abroad to find its way back to us!
1
Sonata No. 3 in F-sharp minor, op. 23 in four movements was composed during the years 1897 and 1898.
2
Vsevolod Buyukli (1873-1920), Russian pianist.
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Appendix B
Leonid Sabaneyev
(1881-1968)
“Liszt and Scriabin”
Muzyka 45 (Moscow, October 8, 1911)
Liszt is in the true sense of the word the father of Russian music; not a single
outstanding musical phenomenon in Russia has escaped his influence. In the wake of
Liszt’s genius, the “Russian School” was created, following him in principles of
appearance, form (symphonic poems, program music) and methods of scoring
(orchestration). As for the spirit of the great composer of “The Mephisto Waltz,” it found
its legacy in the music of Scriabin.
This spirit was far ahead of its century. Of course, it was not understood then: the
demonism of Liszt, his “mystical orgiasm,” his eternal grandiose pose, which was natural
and legitimate to him. Only now, penetrating deep through the crust of the outdated
materials, from which he created the structures of his works, we are able to understand
what he meant for art. This strange artist-monk, with the soul of a demon, improvised his
life as a great artistic epoch, making out of it a work of art. It was the most ingenious
work among his compositions and included all of them. Liszt himself was the theater in
which he played and lived out the leading role.
Scriabin’s creative work will explain to us those potentials which are hidden in
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the Lisztian “mystical orgiasm” of the rhapsody “Mephisto.” From Liszt’s “mood of
elevation” heard in his sonata and rhapsodies, Scriabin’s ecstasy is born not as a
composition, but as a mood, predominant in Scriabin from a certain time on. Out of the
eroticism of the “Mephisto Waltz,” the refined mood, which fills the last works of out
composer, was born. Here it is possible to follow the harmonic genealogy: the lowered
sixth step in major, occurring, for example, in the “Mephisto Waltz” repeats itself in
more refined harmonic surroundings in nearly all the melodic themes of Scriabin. This is
not an accidental form resemblance, but a proximity of mood, expression itself in the
similarity of harmonic structures.
The era of Liszt’s influence on Scriabin begins with the opus numbers in the 30s
and coincides exactly with the beginning of “the second Period” of his creative work. If
we take an attentive look at all the composers preceding Scriabin, then we will inevitably
stop at Liszt as the closest influence during this era [1903-8]. There is nothing to say
about an influence of Chopin here; it came to an end entirely with the first period of
Scriabin’s work and further manifested itself only perhaps in the pianistic style, and
even there it was radically transformed by the individuality of the composer. In any
case, Chopin as well as Schumann and all other piano composers had neither
mysticism, nor “orgiasticism,” nor eros in their works. These principles appear only in
Liszt. But, it is noteworthy that it was precisely by spirit, and not by form or external
features that Liszt was an influence on Scriabin. In vain would we look in Liszt’s works
for even the seeds of characteristically Scriabinesque harmonies. Besides the already
mentioned lowered sixths, there is not a single outward sign of similarity between these
two composers. And, nevertheless, a similarity obviously makes itself felt.
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It sounds from the first notes of the solemnly rising theme of the “Poème tragique,”
which needs to be played with the “pose” of that external meaningfulness that is
necessary while performing Liszt. One does not need to be insightful to see
characteristic similarities between the “Mephisto Waltz” and the “Poème satanique.”
Eroticism and some vivid, “truly satanic” insincerity (not in the bad sense in this case, but
in the good sense – so as it must be) is heard in both works. “Mephisto” consists
of a more primitive, simply constructed material, incomparably more ordinary – but
their spirit is the same – a spirit or orgiastic satanity, the one that already in more
primitive forms is embodied in Liszt’s rhapsodies, and which in Scriabin evolved into
the idea of the gigantic dimensions of Prometheus – the creative-destructive principles
of the universe.
This orgiasm of Liszt already bore in itself a mystical embryo – again not by
chance, but by organic interrelationship of Dionysian principle with the general
ideas of mysticism. Liszt was striving for a world synthesis, but he expected the
embodiments of his mystical aspirations in Catholicism, in exhausted esoteric
rites of a militant religion, where form replaced content, and primitive legend lost
its profound link to the world revealed only in symbols. With all his vast intellect
and great intuition, he still did not perceive all the minor character [decline], if it
can be expressed in this wayk of such a conclusion to his work as a composer. Satan
was appeased, Prometheus reconciled with the god of Olympus – what a bitter end
after a brilliant beginning! Would it not be easier to admit that Liszt was abandoned by
the aspiration of his doubtful spirit and that he played out, became tired, and
his individuality following already the path of mystical intuition remained at
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the first stage of mystical achievement – that of Catholic ecclesiastical mysticism.
In any case, in his music’s outward appearance, church ritual prevailed over true
mystical sensation, pure Apollonian form over ideas of religious power, and it is
necessary to recognize that the culmination of a truer mystique is found more in his
“Mephisto Waltz,” than in the church compositions of the last years. In the same way,
the mystical eros of Wagner’s Tristan is, by comparison, higher than the [also] religious
contemplation of Parsifal.
This did not happen to Scriabin, for, having also started with orgiasm, he regarded
the issue of mysticism more broadly and not in connection with clerical religion.
Unlike Liszt, Scriabin did not become a spiritual composer, but was a composer of the
spirit; he went down the path of conscious theurgy. Here the difference lies
in the consequences. That which put an end to Liszt’s work – ecclesiasticism – inspired
Scriabin to special exploits. It paralyzed the soaring inspiration of Liszt and was replaced
in Scriabin with a profound mysticism, a synthetic religion, which gave to the world the
best of his creation and promises to give it an even more grandiose work, unprecedented
in its design, exceeding the framework of pure music, pure, art, concurring in its ideas
with religion itself – the Mysterium, with the writing of which he is presently occupied.
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Appendix C
Arthur Lourié
(1892-1966)
“Alexander Scriabin and Russian Music”
(Moscow, 1920)
Scriabin was such a significant event in Russian artistic life, that on this fifth
anniversary following his death we should allow ourselves a moment to stop and
concentrate our social attention on the vertiginous maelstrom of events of our days. For
the past five years, from the time of Scriabin’s death up until now, everything attached to
his life and work has belonged to the past. Yet, that period of Russian art connected with
the name of Scriabin constitutes the closest pages out of the history of Russian music.
Perhaps, not a single figure among the pillars of Russian music has provoked such
discordance in opinions and evaluations as Scriabin did during his lifetime.
We all remember and understand those years during which bitter discussions took
place following the performances of his new works. It was a time when the enthusiasm of
friends collided with depressed, shrugged shoulders and the stubborn denial of enemies.
All of this is now in the past. Much was written and told about Scriabin, but nearly all of
this occurred in a prevailing atmosphere of tension impassioned by the relationship to
him of friends and enemies. This nearly always involved the appearance of one or the
other of his new works. Now, the cries of his passion have faded and calmed down and
the work of Scriabin has become the cultural property of Russian art. In rejecting that
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which serves as commonplace in relation to his work, perhaps there has emerged to some
extent now a possibility to approach his work objectively and to establish criteria of
artistic evaluation in terms of musical-historical criticism.
I do not intend to give detailed, exhaustive answers to the proposed topic or the
role of Scriabin in Russian music; this subject matter is much too complicated and
extensive for this format and could take place only in a thorough, separate work. I will
attempt, though, to introduce and discuss some basic questions drawn from the given
topic and find some solutions in terms of at least an approximate historical evaluation.
The history of Russian music does not exist in scholarly thought. It exists only in
the individual mind of musicians and in their immediate work. This is a profoundly
significant fact. It is impossible to conceive of any significant event in Russian artistic
society or in any genre of Russian art, which could stand alone, removed from its links to
the past. One can easily trace a single and uninterrupted line in the artistic literature,
poetry and paintings – irrespective of methods and directions – for the writer, the artist,
or the poet, and especially the poet. They constitute the infinite link of one and the same
chain. In the phenomena of musical work in Russia, though, we run across non-integrated
elements that are not connected and exist separately in artistic life.
In the fundamentals of Russian musical culture as well as in the critical realization
of the Russian musical work, an experience in the establishment of historical continuity
as well as common goals and artistic ideals appears to us in two fundamental directions.
Indeed, they represent two paths, independent and yet parallel in the history of Russian
musical science and culture and in the evolution of musically creative work. These paths
were predetermined by the entire course of Russian music in the social life and the
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creative life beginning with Glinka. Extraordinarily curious is the fact that these two
basic directions, these two paths, penetrating very distinctly through all Russian musical
life, are situated in opposite relationship, on the one hand, towards the phenomenon of
musical science and culture, and on the other hand, towards artistic work. The two paths
were founded respectively in two national centers of Russia, in Moscow and St.
Petersburg. That which appears to be the true essence of Russian music in its profound,
harmonious, and organic link to folk-singing is connected with the Petersburg national
school. It began with Glinka and was followed by an entire Pleiad of names: Mussorgsky,
Dargominsky, Borodin, Balakirev, Korsakov, Glazunov, and even one belonging to the
present, Stravinsky. Parallel to this, Moscow is linked to a row of great Russian masters
marked by profound individualism in their work and artistic vision of the world. Not one
of them is constrained by the other in any way or by any basic Russian school. These
composers are Tchaikovsky, Taneyev, Rachmaninov, Scriabin, and in our time Medtner,
who represents his very own curious phenomenon in the background of Russian music.
This disconnection had a profound effect on the future of Russian musical life.
During his time, Tchaikovsky tried to establish contact with the Balakirev group,
but did not succeed. Here, it is not my goal to concentrate on this phenomenon, which
appears to be an absolute historical fact. However, an indication of the basic paths in
Russian music is essential towards a clarification of that position taken by Scriabin along
those paths. He belongs absolutely to the group of Moscow musicians. This connection,
of course, is by no means territorial. Here, it does not play any role that Scriabin spent a
considerable part of his life in Moscow. Essential is that Scriabin throughout his entire
life and activities never sought for himself the establishment of contacts with the basic
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paths of Russian music. All that was considered ideal in the Russian national school,
including those behests which were given by Glinka, remained profoundly alien to him.
A folk-like nature was never a part of the artistic fabric in Scriabin’s works. We know
very little about his attitude towards Russian culture in general or towards the Russian
public, for his compositions provide us no information regarding that. From the very first
conscious steps in his creative work, he was absorbing into himself quite avidly the
artistic culture of Western Europe and having taken these achievements as the basis for
his art, he placed before himself from the beginning in his monumental tasks immediately
those problems common to all mankind and nations.
The acute subjectivism of Scriabin is, of course, to a strong degree, located in the
dependency on the dominant individualist ideas in the artistic circles of his times.
Clearly, it depended on the epoch in which he lived. Although true, that is not the main
issue here. The fundamental causes predetermining his artistic world outlook and his
entire artistic path arose in consequence of his unconscious break with the Russian
national school, which he was not focused on, and subsequently out of his attempts to
establish direct connections with the West. Scriabin was the first Russian musician who
took as the basis for his work exclusively Western musical culture in its contemporary
manifestation. This reflects the novelty of his position as a Russian musician.
Indeed, in that structure of artistic continuity, which can be traced in his works,
there is not a single indication of Russian musical influence upon him. On the other hand,
though, there is apparently the influence of all the later achievements of Romanticism:
Chopin, Liszt and Wagner. Into the basic work of Scriabin came all that which
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characterizes the high flourishing of Western European music in the 19
th
century up until
the beginning of Scriabin’s period in Russia, i.e., the 1880s.
Once again a highly significant event took place. While Scriabin, with the
unrestrained impulse of an innovator, was striving toward new shores and new paths, and
absorbing into himself Western European music, at the same time in the West the
opposite was occurring. A new school headed by Debussy was arising – a school which
not in the distant future was fated to become a school representing the national birthday
of French music. Its activity carried with it a decisive reaction against the music of the
19th century, mainly against the hegemony of Wagnerian ideas. Most all the foremost
musicians of Western Europe together with Debussy were turning to the East, i.e.,
to Russia.
Thus, at the cost of a break with the paths of Russian music and sacrificing them,
Scriabin healed a decaying Western European music by infusing into it the fresh blood of
the enormous, spontaneous temperament of a Russian musician. The paths taken by
Scriabin, were completely new for Russian music, unknown to its past. But for reasons
I mentioned above, on the one side the break with Russian music in the sense of its
primordial paths and goals was not understood by him. On the other side, a decided
turning point occurred in the most advanced circles of European musicians; they were
overcoming the decrepit culture of European music by concentrating on the barbarian
freshness of the East, i.e., the immersion mainly into Russian music and its spontaneous
emotional directness in song, into the wild variegation of color and elasticity of rhythm.
Here are the reasons and causes which created for Scriabin the tragic solitude and
predetermined his extreme individualism.
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The apologia of individualism and subjectivism having reached the extreme outer
limits became the basis for the world view of Scriabin from the first moments of his
artistic self-awareness and defined completely the whole of his creative path. It was an art
appreciated first by an exclusive circle of the initiated and selected few, though by its
active, magical influence, should have become accessible to all.
At the foundation of his work Scriabin laid down his distinctive aesthetic
philosophical system to which he attached enormous significance. He prefaced all his
large-scale works – the symphonies and several sonatas – with essay texts which served
as program supplements to the music. In those instances where he did not write particular
program texts, he permeated his compositions to such a degree with literary terminology
specifying directions for performance that this would always provide a program towards
understanding his conceptual design.
Now, when we listen to Scriabin, we perceive his work in its purely musical
meaning and the attempt to link it to program texts deprives us considerably of that
spontaneity of perception and of that influence which is derived from music. In this, the
main virtue of Scriabin rests in the fact that he was above all a musician, one who spoke
amazingly about his own language of sound. All the programs written by him, though,
need not be binding for those who do not wish to accept them. At the same time, his
symphonies have lived and will continue to live a striking life.
Scriabin in some ways fashioned a circle in the space around himself. All his
creative work was found exclusively within his own self. This provides an explanation
for all the external passion which boiled up around him in the assessment of his work.
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Breaking away from all that which could possibly connect him with the past, he created
his own internally and externally complete world of ideas and form.
An original semi-aesthetic and semi-philosophical collection of ideas became the
foundation for his work and formed his artistic world outlook. Impulsively making use of
these occult semi-philosophical and semi-aesthetic programs, he created astonishing
musical works in a process of ecstatic excitement. Now, five years later – quite a long
period considering the pace of our time – we recognize that the artistic value of his work,
in the purely musical sense, fortunately does not depend on his literary program premises.
And all those indictments, which could have been targeted at Scriabin’s ideology, hardly
concerned his music. Scriabin was and is above all a musician. His world outlook is to a
considerable extent a reflection of the trends in some sections of philosophical, literary
and artistic circles of his time and which he only condensed and brought to an exclusive
persistence and intensity. His work lives on outside the circle of those ideas, which
proved to be fatal for most of his contemporaries whose works faded together with the
bogged-down artistic trends of their times. This did not concern him, though. In the
perceptions of his work, his music can also be in a narrow sense non-programmatic, just
as the music of any one of the great masters of the past. Scriabin’s philosophy is very
important, however, for the scholarly research of his work. Studying the chronological
continuity of his work, we can observe both a kind of striking and straightforward
connection between his work and his ideology.
Scriabin directed his enormous artistic temperament according to a path chosen
and determined in advance and never deviated from it. The idea of the Mysterium was for
him a great chimera, towards the mastery and embodiment of which he was striving
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throughout his life. His works were merely the musical projections of this one enormous
chimeric idea. Here, the creative work process took shape in him at once. The extremely
individual formation and crystallization of subjective experiences in all varieties of
musical forms in his works for piano found its final affirmation by the result achieved in
monumental symphonic form. He claimed that his symphonies were national and he
regarded them as steps ascending towards the final completion of his idea of the
Mysterium, a national collective action.
Scriabin relied on his ideology, in which he intuitively and unconditionally
believed. This inner creative experience and active sense of religion was necessary for
him on his path towards overcoming the scholastic stagnation, conventional
schematicism of musical forms, and emotional atrophy of obsolete sound material. In
conquering the schematicism of musical forms of the past, he asserted ecstasy in a new
form. It was a well thought-out creative process keenly felt by him from the moment of
inception to the moment of affirmation. This form of creative ecstasy recurring in him
from one work to another, changed only in the direction of ever broadening horizons. In
the sphere of his influence, it involved an ever increasing strength and altering of intense
and excited passion. This is like a crystallization of ecstatic form, a cleansing fire of
ecstasy which the ancients would have called cathartic. The recurrence of this in Scriabin
may be observed in almost all his works, even in the rather small forms where it
manifested itself somehow as small crystalizations of one and the same formal mold.
Scriabin, in essence, was writing down his entire life as one and the same repetition.
A central place in Scriabin’s work occupies his striving towards a synthesis of the
arts. At this point, it is necessary to stop a moment. The search for a system was
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fundamental to Scriabin’s work. For him it was the perfectly aesthetic result of his idea
about the Mysterium as well as about a synthetic, national, collective action.
The attraction towards a synthesis of arts prevailed during the second half of the
19th century through the beginning of the 20th century right up until our own times. The
evolution of music and Wagnerian dramas were already headed in the direction of
synthetic action. Wagnerian theater brought with it a mechanical, conventional
combination of heterogeneous arts, and not merely their organizational interaction. But,
with the last quarter of the 19th century, beginning mainly with Cezanne in painting, a
synthetic direction began to assert itself which became the predominant and most
powerful force in all areas of the arts – painting, literature, poetry, and music.
Synthetic art, indeed, became an issue during the period extending from the end
of the 19th century through the beginning of the 20th century right up into our days. But,
of course, synthetic art and synthesis of arts are completely different concepts. Scriabin
approached the question about a synthesis of the arts as a matter of form and his
experiments were unsuccessful. In essence, though, his creative work was profoundly
synthetic, both in the artistic material and in the method of embodiment. And it is here
that we now approach the significance of Scriabin as interpreter. As a performer of his
works, he was an absolutely amazing artist. All the mysterious charm and fascination of
his interpretation consisted of that which in his reproduction was exceptionally synthetic.
He possessed a strikingly rare gift of pathos in improvisation, one almost lost among
contemporaries. At the moment of reproduction, he created his compositions anew. What
remained to him in his sketchbooks served only as a code for his artistic pieces, a key
which served that indescribable and inexplicable which is called tempo rubato. This
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divinely free rhythm, the teaching of which is absolutely impossible, is possessed by only
the exclusively selected ones. This rhythm arises for the first time in Chopin and runs
throughout all his works. Organically connected with the harmonic style, this rhythm
occurs in the works of Schumann and rather loosely in those of Liszt, where it almost
disappears and crosses over into instrumental recitative. In the works of Scriabin,
however, this rhythm is again regenerated and finds its exceptional embodiment. Tempo
rubato in music is genuine lyrical pathos which in poetry they call the voice of the poet.
It is the inner freedom of the artistic temperament, which allows arbitrarily to shift
measures inside the musical work while not destroying the architecture of the form and
not disturbing the proportions. For those who do not sense this, the piano works of
Scriabin are dead and without soul. Perhaps, namely that explains why after his death up
until now, not even an approximately correct approach towards the interpretation of his
works exists. This is utterly tragic, especially for those who heard Scriabin in person.
Scriabin’s performances may be regarded as a synthetic phenomenon. The thesis for him
presented itself as a more external perception of the world of ideas, of feeling and form,
an immediate sensation of life. The antithesis he conceived as an overcoming of his
individual “Too human.” The synthesis appeared as a form, an embodiment of the whole.
This organizational process was in exceptional measure characteristic of Scriabin in his
creative work and in his performance. The synthesis of the material he understood
completely. He was acquainted with the organic harmony and interaction of rhythms,
namely rhythms, and not meter, which in his works played almost no role. He
incorporated rhythms not only as temporal and special figures, but as rhythms of
dynamics, timbre, and melody. And his form always represented a synthetic interaction
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of these rhythms captured together. Often within the schematic, academic forms of an
outwardly conventional construction, he created ones that are organically synthetic. His
approach to a synthesis was unsuccessful, though, and undoubtedly erroneous because it
was premature for that epoch. In our days, where organic, synthetic material is formed
and cleansed of all impurity and the questions regarding methodology have become self-
sufficient for each one of the arts, only now has the synthetic interaction of the
heterogeneous arts acquired a somewhat more precise outline.
Scriabin’s work, during that period of time which separates us from his life, is
already to a fair degree, dusty with theories – even with “new theories” – and this fact is
not changing. The achievements of Scriabin in the realm of harmony, embodied by him
in his compositions, served as a cause for the creation of an entire row of schemes and
abstract inventions. In particular, his notorious ultra-chromaticism gave birth to a
“literature ” perhaps important for the “theoreticians,” but for art this played no special
role. The artistic practice of the present really is not indicative of any evolution of
Scriabinesque harmonic principles, but on the contrary points at curious deviations onto
other paths. In particular, a curious phenomenon involved one of the earliest followers of
Scriabinesque harmonies. In one of his early periods of his creativity, Igor Stravinsky,
imitated the mysticized sounds of Scriabin’s “Prometheus” almost spontaneously
following the appearance of this symphonic poem. The work of Stravinsky progressed
otherwise to a certain extent as a reaction against that refined mysticism with which
Scriabin had filled the Russian music in the first decade of the 20th century. Stravinsky
turned to the folk culture which he then programmatically represented in “Petrushka.”
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Scriabin stands on the borderline between two periods in the history of Russian
music. The achievements attained by him are enormous, but they are only the first step on
the road towards those tasks which are confronting Russian music. Scriabin does not and
cannot represent a school; the last five years have demonstrated this. It is possible to
imitate him, but it is impossible to proceed from him because he was too complete in his
own self. In this one discovers his similarity to Tchaikovsky, who also created only
imitators, but not successors. In spite of the polarity, Scriabin is among all Russian
musicians closest of all to Tchaikovsky. The history of Russian music must arrive at this
conclusion with unquestionable obviousness, if ultimately it is to maintain itself at all.
Neither Tchaikovsky nor Scriabin placed before themselves outside tasks characteristic of
Russian music. The music of Scriabin is in reality not ‘coloristic’ and any opinions
supporting this are mistaken. This is all a process of softening and opening sonorities. It
is a boiling and melting of metal which he then pours through an abundance of copper
instruments creating a dazzling wall of sonority. It is the decorative device which he used
to construct the shaking power in the “Poem of Ecstasy.” All of this is not created by
colorings per se, but through that which is exclusively characteristic for Scriabin: an
enormous emotional element which distinguishes him chiefly and, yet, stands in defiance
of all his ideology as a Russian musician.
In spite of Scriabin’s break with Russian music and those first steps of his creative
work, he stubbornly overcame the song beginning which was for him profoundly
characteristic and organically laid down in his musical nature. The song beginning
represents the fundamental origins of Russian music, to which are devoted for example
Scriabin’s First Symphony – a genuinely Russian Symphony in spite of the “world”
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aspiration – and his Piano Concerto. Scriabin stubbornly conquered within himself the
song element in Russian music and broke decidedly with both the Russian word and
speech. He wrote nothing for voice, and even there, where chorus was necessary for him,
he did it through a dispensing with words as in “Prometheus”. In spite of all this, Scriabin
remained a profoundly Russian musician, tragically doomed and still a great artist.
Tchaikovsky and Scriabin represent two stages of Russian symphonism,
diametrically opposed in their temperaments and world outlook. One of them led
selflessness to ecstatic rapture and to the limits of audacity; the other led selflessness to
melancholic depression and self-destruction. Yet, both of them are poles of the
profoundly characteristic nature of Russian artistic temperament. Both are in equal
measure exponents of the Russian Intelligentsia. To the same extent that Tchaikovsky
expressed the Russian Intelligentsia in the 1860s-70s, Scriabin was a spokesperson for
the artistic ideals of the Russian Intelligentsia during his time.
Perhaps, through this can be explained the spontaneous, emotional influence of
Scriabin on a crowd of listeners. Even at that time when he was unrecognized and
surrounded by the acute, hostile attitudes of the majority of so-called “specialists,” the
Russian Intelligentsia accepted him unconditionally and quite fervently. History provides
unexpected parallels where “learned critics” at times do make mistakes.
Disgracefully, now is the time to remember this still quite recent period, when the
creative work of such a great Russian artist as Tchaikovsky was subjected to the
persecution and to disparagement of “modernist” circles whose thoughts were very far
removed from the possibilities of such a historic parallel between Tchaikovsky – whose
name is synonymous with backwardness and reaction – and Scriabin.
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The creative work of Scriabin, like that of any great artist, was saturated with the
spirit of his epoch. His rhythms were the rhythms of his times, just like the creative work
of Tchaikovsky in his epoch. Both of them stand in equal measure and in our times are
canonized in Russian music. Both of them are ranked among the files of great masters of
the past. In this regard, it no longer appears that anyone questions the affirmation of one
of them, nor any longer requires the destruction of the other.
The rebelliousness of Scriabin and his audacious idea which lighted up his work
with Luciferian fire and inflamed his life will, perhaps, in the future serve as a threshold
and key to understanding our own days. It will be established that the symphonies of
Scriabin are prophetic harbingers of music, the sound of which has filled all our lives.
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Appendix D
Georgiy Plekhanov
(1857-1918)
“Letter to Dr. Vladimir Vasilyevich Bogorodski”
[Doctor of medicine and friend of Alexander Scriabin]
(San Remo, Italy – May 9, 1916)
Dear Vladimir Vasilyevich,
I was extraordinarily pleased to find out from your kind letter that Alexander
Nikolayevich Scriabin had retained such fond memories about me. Please accept my
sincere gratitude for conveying this message to me which is so precious.
My life’s path was so far removed from the path that Alexander Nikolayevich
followed with such success – although unfortunately a short one. My meetings with him
date only from the years 1906–1907, ones among those that he spent abroad. And to tell
the truth, there were a lot of grounds after the very first meetings to separate from one
another for ever, almost as enemies. We both were very much interested in theory and
had the habit of disputing our viewpoints with a persistency boiling over into heated
passion – one that amazes and partly even frightens Western people. Meanwhile, our
world outlooks were diametrically opposed: he stubbornly adhered to idealism; and I with
exactly the same stubbornness argued the materialistic point of view. This complete
antithesis of the two viewpoints naturally roused disagreements on many other issues, for
example aesthetic and political issues. One should note that at that point in his life,
Alexander Nikolayevich was keenly interested in the social life of the present-day
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civilized world in general and Russia in particular. He had a wonderful habit of trying to
look at it, too, from a theoretical point of view. His view of the historic advancement of
mankind was close to that of Carlyle, who always emphasized the defining significance
of the work of “heroes.” I considered that this view does not address the more profound
causes of the stated advancement. However, already this (I am not even referring to
fundamental disagreements named above in the area of the “first issues”) was quite
enough to trigger passionate debates between us. And indeed, we began to argue almost
immediately right after having been introduced to each other in Bogliasco (near Genoa)
in the Kobyliansky Villa. This first clash was by far not the last; we argued then at every
subsequent meeting. But it brought me the greatest pleasure to realize that such debates
not only did not alienate us from one another, but rather contributed quite positively to
our mutual closeness as friends.
There are people who, disputing the idea of an adversary, do not understand at all
either the issue or the arguments brought forth in its defense. Debates with such people
are worse than a toothache. In contrast, it was a pleasure to argue with Alexander
Nikolayevich, because he had a capacity for the astonishingly quick and complete
assimilation of the thoughts of his opponent. Thanks to this precious – and it is necessary
to add extremely rare – ability, he not only spared his interlocutor from the dismal
necessity of boring repetitions; it was as though he himself took an active part in his
attempts to utilize all the strong sides of his interlocutor’s position. Where work is
combined with the intellect, sympathy will surely arise towards each party. Hence it
follows, probably, that the more we became good friends with Scriabin, the more the
endless number of our differences became apparent. Anytime there was a prospect of
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seeing him, I anticipated already that we would argue. Furthermore, I knew in advance
that he himself would be the first to challenge me. Also, I knew firmly in advance that it
would definitely be impossible for us to reach an agreement. At the same time, though, I
foresaw that out of the argument with him I would derive not some fruitless aggravation
– the most frequent result of a verbal tournament – but rather an intellectual stimulation
that would be both pleasing and wholesome for me.
The following example gives a clear demonstration how quickly Alexander
Nikolayevich grasped theoretical subject matter that was new to him. When I met him in
Bogliasco, he was completely unfamiliar with Marx’s and Engels’ materialistic view of
history. I drew his attention to the important philosophical meaning of these views.
Several months later, having met him again in Switzerland, I saw that he, by no means
having yielded to becoming an advocate of historical materialism, had succeeded so well
in understanding its essence, that he was able to handle this doctrine far better than many
staunch Marxists in Russia as well as abroad. “You Marxists cannot deny the importance
of ideologies,” he would say to me; “you account only in a limited way for the course of
their development.” This was the sacred truth; alas, I knew that by far not every Marxist
took the trouble to understand and master the sacred truth.
Scriabin wanted to express in his music not this or that mood, but rather an entire
world outlook that he sought to cultivate on all sides. It would be absolutely irrelevant to
raise again here the old question of whether music in general could be an art capable of
expressing abstract notions. Suffice it to say that even in this case our opinions diverged
and that here a lot of disputes arose between us as well. And although I consider that
Scriabin placed before art an unrealizable task, it seems to me that this mistake of his was
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of great benefit to him; widening powerfully the circle of his spiritual interests so very
significantly, it expanded his already tremendous artistic talent. I recalled the Greek
painter Pamphilus, who required of his students a knowledge of philosophy, mathematics,
and history. I said to myself: Apelles went through the school of Pamphilus.
Only those who knew the deceased more closely could explain exactly the
psychological channels of influence through which Scriabin’s philosophical views spread
into his artistic creativity. But, the fact of this influence is for me beyond the slightest
doubt. And it seems to me that if Scriabin’s music so fully expressed the mood of that
highly significant part of our intelligentsia in a certain period of its history, then this
resulted precisely from the fact that he was the very flesh and bones of history – not only
in the area of emotion, but also in the area of philosophical demands and possible
“achievements” determined by the conditions of the times and surroundings.
Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin was a son of his times. Modifying slightly the
well-known expression of Hegel concerning philosophy, one can say that Scriabin’s work
was his time expressed in sounds. But when the temporal, the more transient finds its
expression in the creative work of a great artist, it acquires a permanent meaning and
becomes intransient.
Maybe, having returned to the homeland, Alexander Nikolayevich would not have
refused from time to time an exchange of ideas with me in writing. But, by the will of
fate, I belong to the number of those Russians with whom for fellow countrymen it is not
always convenient to stay in touch. As it were, I did nothing on my part to initiate
correspondence with him; and he, too, did not write to me once. This was a great loss for
me. Aside from speaking about my personal attachment, I understood that everything
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relevant to the course of development of this remarkable person has the meaning of a
highly instructive “human document.”
Please convey my sincere regards to Tatiana Federovna.
Sincerely,
G. Plekhanov
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Appendix E
Anatoly Lunacharsky
(1875-1933)
“On Scriabin”
Kultura Teatra no. 66 (1921)
Comrades and citizens! Throughout this year, I have appeared several times in
this theatre with introductory words to talk about a number of great musicians. I agreed
with pleasure to the request of the organizer of these concerts to say a few words at this
first one dedicated to the works of Scriabin, especially since quite by chance there is a
common element unifying the series in its basic purpose. Personally, I have always had a
special interest in those aspects of musical creativity that may be called poetical and
philosophical. The musical creative work is first and foremost poetry in that profound
sense to which points the very etymology of this word. This is creativity, and human
creativity has always existed and will continue to exist through the revelation of the
human personality and human spirit in general. From this point of view, every true
musician and outstanding composer is a poet. And every musical composition is, of
course, a work of poetry—and to some degree philosophical—in the sense that it is
reacting to greater feelings more or less related to a man’s thoughts about the world. We
are all quite aware that philosophy by itself is not only observation and analysis of what
has been examined according to the laws of logic; it is also the intuitive perception of the
world. The majority of philosophers are poets who wrote their poems about the world.
However, in music it is possible to draw a line, on one side of which there can be
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found so-called pure [absolute] music, where the author sets an exclusively acoustical,
tonal goal and thinks less about re-creating some kind of feeling. On the other side, there
will be a music saturated by mood, feeling, passion, and sometimes by that which can be
called an idea – if we understand this word not in the sense of an expressed concept, but
rather as something intuitively sensed; it is a kind of approach, perception, or experience
not corresponding to any kind of concrete human emotion, but presenting a reflection in
this emotion of the whole world or of this or that colossal world phenomenon.
All the musicians whom I have discussed belong to the poets and philosophers of
music. I even referred to some respected European critics in order to emphasize that this
opinion is more or less generally accepted.
Undoubtedly, Beethoven himself estimated his work in this way. Nobody denies,
as we have discussed before in this series of symphonic and chamber concerts, that a
special redemptive ethic of great importance and depth is inherent in Beethoven.
In this series, we have also had presented such musicians as Berlioz and Strauss.
These musicians appear in programs as poets; their music has an absolutely precise
content. They wrote poems sometimes directly corresponding to words. One of
them was a top poet-musician of Romanticism; the other was one of Modernism.
I also had an opportunity to talk about Wagner. He, undoubtedly, was just as
much a poet as he was a musician. In his works, the orchestral part was accompanied by
dramatic action, which in Nietzsche’s opinion is a concrete example [of this duality]. It is
a separate embodiment of those common phenomena of a metaphysical character, one
which corresponds to a well-known concept about the destiny of the world, which
Wagner depicts in his orchestra.
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Scriabin was a poet, philosopher, and musician. In this respect, there exists
between him and Wagner an extremely important link. I am not going to talk about
Scriabin as a musician in the strict sense of this word, or about the role he may have
played in the expansion of boundaries that were seen as musically permissible. This link
to the innovation of Wagner interests me less here. I am interested in the fact that Wagner
totally shared Schopenhauer’s view of the world [Weltsanschauung], that pessimistic
pantheism, which in both Schopenhauer and Wagner corresponded then to the prevailing
social emotional experience. Scriabin was initially also a pessimist as well as a pantheist.
However, if the pantheistic experiences of Scriabin almost coincide with Schopenhauer’s
ideas, then later his pessimism transforms itself gradually into exultant optimism. I am
insufficiently familiar with the inner world of Scriabin and I cannot assert that Nietzsche
had a great influence upon Scriabin, but I think that he read him, or was in an atmosphere
in which Nietzschean emanations could not help but affect his life.
I will very briefly formulate how Schopenhauer views the world. It is for him a
stream of the “will.” It is blind and senseless; it torments itself, smashing itself into
separate waves and entities, which mutually break the principle of each individual part so
that chaos is created. At the foundation of the world, which is chaos, which is suffering,
lies the single “will.” But, it came to be split up through its fatuity and blindness, and by
its deaf passion. Schopenhauer, though, did not allow this pessimism to remain hopeless;
he said that mankind could take leave of this world to enter Nirvana. But, as soon as these
or those parts of the “will” escape from this chaos and become harmonized, they arrive in
a state without conflict; as soon as they attain it, they exceed the boundary of their
existence. And this is the end of the “will.” Therefore, this is Buddhism expressed quite
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clearly in modern language.
Let’s see how Scriabin views the world. Recently, his notes and a remarkable
poem containing the entire literary part of the so-called “Prefatory Act” were published in
the latest book of “Russian Propylaea.”
1
With this work, he replaced his grand idea of the
“Mysterium,” about which I will have to say a few words.
So just how did Scriabin view the world? With almost pedantic scrupulousness,
he endeavored to approach that mysterious perception of the world taking more and more
possession of his soul, which he as a poet and musician fancied. The world revealed itself
to him through creativity of the spirit. As with Wagner, it is the spirit that thirsts for
adventure. It is exactly through all kinds of emotional experience that the “will” creates a
world. For its very sake, the world disintegrates into billions of pieces, into innumerable
sorts of nuances. For its sake, grief, feebleness, and passions are created. The spirit
succumbs to the whole scale of self-torment and does so with just the same
voluptuousness with which it succumbs to pleasure. At one moment, it falls into an abyss;
at another, it attempts to scale high peaks. There exists some kind of large game of
ascents and descents. And, in order to take this game seriously, so that the spirit may
enter into its role, it is necessary that it forget its divinity and its wholeness, and that it
vanish into a billion masses in which it exists and in which we observe its existence.
This is exactly what is contained in Schopenhauer. Only, Schopenhauer says, “all
this is great unhappiness and horror, something from which one needs to escape.” And
Scriabin says, “it is wonderful; it is fascinating; for I sense with my entire heart that I am
1
The “Russian Propylaea” were a series of books introduced in 1915 by the Sabashnikov Publishing House
in Moscow (est. 1891). They presented never before published materials on the history of Russian thought
and literature.
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one from among the offspring of the complete spirit. I understand why the spirit wanted
this and why it broke into these suffering existences; and I bless it.” Scriabin pictured
some gigantic pulsation that was transpiring in the spheres of the spirit, sometimes
breaking into fragments, sometimes gathering into a single focal point and discovering its
existence. This is not the absence of life – peaceful Nirvana – but rather is a resurrection
of the omnipotent in which each individual “I” receives respite. Then, rest bores and
wearies the spirit that no longer wants to remain in this condition. The spirit disturbs its
equilibrium and, once again, a period of existence begins.
This is, in general, how Scriabin himself views the world. This is why he says that
music is the art that is capable of expressing this world in its essence. In other words, it
expresses directly its inner condition – a thirst to suffer, a thirst to take pleasure, a thirst
for struggle and for life. No other art form besides music is able to express with such
infinite diversity what appears to be the genuine essence of the world.
But there were moments of great inner confusion and temptation in the soul of
this amazing person. During one phase of his spiritual development, it seemed to us all –
the majority of whom were not more intimately acquainted with him in his later years –
that in the last phase of his mission, he, Scriabin, had arrived at an idea we could call
paradoxical or even insane. On the one side, this lunacy is expressed in the fact that he
began to confuse the “will” of the spirit with his own soul and began to say: “You, any
brother of mine, are not the spirit; but only I am the spirit, I, Scriabin, and only I alone.
All the rest is my creation, and you cannot take me away from it through any
philosophical argument. I feel only what I feel. Consequently, the whole world is within
me and all people are within me. They are a moment of my existence. I represent all the
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diversity of the world. And you – my suffering brother coming to my concerts – you are
nothing else other than the essence living through me and thanks to me, Scriabin. And, I,
myself, am something like the true expression of the god-spirit. I exist in the world in
order to permit the world to enter Nirvana. And, I will achieve it through music. I will
transform the world into music. I will melt the world into music. I will create just such a
‘Mysterium,’ which, continuing for several days with breath-taking ceremonies and
accompanied by unprecedented music, will force all human souls to pour into mine and
to realize their union with me. This will become the return of the worlds to the bosom of
peace and harmony – the bosom of Pan.”
Of course, the strangeness of these ideas immediately becomes apparent. This is a
pathological perversion. This is already megalomania. This is a mad idea.
But, if this is a mad idea, an even madder idea is that of the “Mysterium,” which
by no means is a simple concert somewhere in the world, such as in Paris or wherever
else it might be performed. After this event, the whole world shall change.
And, here, we strangers who have little to do with Scriabin and who are not close
to him see the following picture. The ingenious musician and powerful poet places before
himself an unattainable task. Through a false overestimation of his endlessly rich life on
the path of its diffusion throughout the whole world – thanks to a brilliant sensitivity,
with which he feels everything that happens with the sea, the stars, the people, the wild
animals and so forth – he expands the concept of his soul to a concept of the whole
world. He thinks that what transpires in his soul is a world event; it is a law, which is
binding for all worlds.
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And, at this moment, the person who has touched the skies with his head and in
his own imagination sees himself as a demiurge that created the universe now prepares to
destroy it as if he were a god, to whom the world belongs. Then, however, at the moment
of this arrogance – one of the most splendid and awe-inspiring pictures of self-praise – an
insignificant event, that of a simple scratch, turns everything around and results in death.
The person, whom we objectively recognize as a genius and the hope of Russian music
and who considers himself the creator, ruler, redeemer of the world, perishes because
of an incidental trifle in the most pathetic way.
2
The tragedy of it is so great that our thought unwittingly runs into the idea that
some kind of power may have intervened here. Which of the ancient myths could you
compare with this? It is as if some kind of Satan, who governs the world with his
incredible malice, has said, “this person thinks he is a god, but I will show him that he is
under my power. And look at that, people, what your idealist dreams are.”
But that is how we have imagined this tragedy, since we were not part of
Scriabin’s inner life. Nowadays, with his notes published, we are aware of the torment
with which he was breaking away from this Mysterium, changing it to the “Prefatory
Act.” as though having clearly understood in his soul that only a “Prefatory Act” was
given to him to write (and even this wasn’t given to him). We comprehend the torment
with which he approached this and realize his gigantic self-sacrifice. Everything is
changing. He senses that he alone is unable to create this “Mysterium,” that only masses
of people can bring it forth out of themselves. And so, this is a wise man that lived in
ever increasing egoism, and reached beyond his limits. He says, the “Prefatory Act!” But,
2
The reference here is to a bacterial infection on Scriabin’s upper lip that led to blood poisoning and
ultimately his death on April 14, 1915.
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it is not given to a single person in the world to write that Mysterium, about which
Scriabin had dreamed. And he understands that he can only write the introduction to it.
I can say that I was really shocked when, having looked through his notes, I
suddenly encountered at the very end an extraordinarily clear, crystalline transparent
observation of Scriabin about himself. “So, I realized that I was mistaken. If I recognize
that the spirit created the whole world and he lives in all ‘I’s, I am therefore not alone.
We all see one and the same world. It is necessary to change everybody’s view of the
world in order for it to be changed. I am not able,” he says, “to do something that will
make stones break away from the roadway and fly into the air, although I have power
over my fantasy. Therefore, the world is not I. In this plexus of atoms that constitutes my
imagination, my strengths are very limited. Moreover, I affect the external world in a
different way than I affect my fantasy. The pictures within my fantasy I can destroy
quickly, but the picture that I see out on the street I can destroy only through physical
action.”
And, so now, we have a different concept about the end of Scriabin, maybe one
even more terrible.
We see a man who rounded this cape of pride, who sees that he is only able to
create the “Prefatory Act” in order to say to all people that life is wonderful, that
creativity and even struggle, suffering and hatred are acts, which great souls will accept
as colors of an infinitely diverse poem.
One must think this over. According to Scriabin’s deep conviction, even when
two people with different ideas confront one another as enemies, each believing
identically that he holds the truth, there is a kind of plane where they are still brothers and
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are able to respect each other. They are the expression of ideas and wills of humans
striving towards a harmonious world. It is possible that you are a protector of past values,
and that I am a protector of today’s world. But, if each of us possesses a belief, sincerity,
and conviction, then even in struggle we are the constructors of what represents human
culture or history of the spirit. And so, a musician must always be an advocate of world
acceptance in his struggle and creative work. He must be a prophet who never dares to
disclaim the petty sides of life or force people to avoid grief, for they are just as necessary
as a moment of beauty. I need only to think about how to cease those sufferings that are
base and vulgar.
And so this world reflects itself in music. I employed, speaking about Scriabin,
almost those very expressions in speaking about Beethoven, which one hundred years
ago also called for joy, enlightenment, and harmonization, so that the hearts of millions
would beat together. If I said that Beethoven, a teacher of life, is absolutely necessary for
us, especially in a time such as ours so full of turbulence and contradiction, and in
particular for that architect of his own happiness who in torments is creating a new world
for the laboring people, then Scriabin is also extremely necessary for us. The tragic
element here becomes more terrible still when you consider that this person, not only
through his own talent, but also an internal view of the world and prophetic wisdom, was
not simply ahead of, but twice beyond the rest of Russian music of his time. This man, in
spite of all the horrors of that earthquake and disruption of our chaotic age, would have
appreciated it completely. He would have understood the greatness of our days, in
contrast to all his brothers and little brothers who were frightened by the terrible face of
reality. This man, after he had de-throned himself from the position of messiah and
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became a simple hero, had to perish then at the threshold of our times. Here, one could
truly cry tears of blood. But having felt regret and sighed about what Scriabin left
unfulfilled, it is better now to appeal to his legacy and to touch, as one would a precious
stone or sacred token, that which he did give to us. For he became a prophet and herald
who stands at the doors of a genuine Mysterium, one to which the whole history of
mankind has been only a prelude. He teaches not to fear suffering, not to fear death, but
to believe in the triumphant life of the spirit.
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Appendix F
Nikolai Sergeyevich Zhilyayev
(1891-1938)
“Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin and His Creative Work”
Concert Review (Moscow, 1909)
The ninth symphonic concert of the Music Society [February 1909], dedicated to
the works of Scriabin was extraordinarily interesting. The composer’s Third Symphony,
“The Divine Poem,” was performed here for the first time.
1
In addition, the Fifth Sonata
for Piano and the “Poem of Ecstasy” for orchestra were presented–the latter also for the
first time here.
2
The participation of Scriabin in the concert attracted a large number of
listeners. One clearly felt that A. N. Scriabin possesses an enormous and original gift.
Regarding such works as “The Divine Poem” and, in particular, “The Poem of
Ecstasy,” it is possible to be partial in one direction or the other. And, indeed, some
musicians reacted altogether negatively towards Scriabin and the exotic nature of his
work. Others in their enthusiasm hailed him a genius, a prophet of the future in music, the
herald of a new era and a new culture. Among these was Boris de Schloezer.
1
The world premiere of The Divine Poem had taken place in Paris on May 29, 1905 under the direction of
Arthur Nikisch.
2
The world premiere of The Poem of Ecstasy had taken place in New York City on December 10, 1908
under the direction of Modest Altschuler. The Russian premiere took place in St. Petersburg on January 19,
1909 under the direction of Hugo Warlich.
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As it turned out, those who found themselves in a middle position in their
relationship towards Scriabin, reacted negatively towards his exaggerated style, but
regarded him nevertheless as a profoundly talented innovator and disciple of Wagner.
“The Divine Poem” consists of an introduction in which the trumpet sounds
proudly and audaciously proclaims the basic idea of the symphony: “I am!” It is followed
by three movements. In the first movement Allegro (Luttes – Struggles), the Spirit battles
with ghosts of the past; there is alarm and terror. In the second movement Andante
(Voluptés – Pleasures), the Spirit sings of its free creative work. In the violin solo one
hears sensuality and a thirst for pleasure. Blissful forms awaken. The Spirit is conquered
by a magical aura. Through its strong will-power the Spirit rises above pleasure. This it
experiences as its creation. Then begins the third movement Allegro (Jeu divin – Divine
Game). The Spirit, having attained absolute freedom, consciously dives into the joy of
free, aimless creativity. This is the Divine game. This is the content of the symphony
according to the explanatory text in the program. And such is apparently the explanation
which the author himself provides. It appears to us that this musical fantasy would gain
by not being accompanied by such subjectively philosophical commentaries. A more
powerful, free, immediate impression would be produced. Music and philosophy are two
areas that are completely different; they are not in harmony with one another. Music is a
sphere of senses, moods, and uncertain emotions. Philosophy is a sphere of abstractions
and logical disciplines. In any case, “The Divine Poem” is an outstanding poetic work,
bringing together all the glories of its author. The performance of it by Mr. Cooper
3
deserves much praise.
3
Emil Cooper (1877-1960), Russian conductor.
309
Regarding “The Poem of Ecstasy” several comments may be made. Once again,
the music is accompanied by a text, according to which the universe (Spirit) represents
the eternal creative work, the joy of free action crossing over into ecstasy. “The Poem of
Ecstasy” seems to be of less interest to us, although it is written very colorfully and in
some places with touches of astonishingly tender melody and strikingly refined
harmonization. Nevertheless, this wild orgy of colors, this un-human scream erupts out of
the earth as though underground volcanoes were tearing it apart into pieces. This is the
soul, full of ghosts. All this taken together creates a haunting impression. This is chaos;
this is a picture of morbid fantasy.
The Fifth Piano Sonata sounded rather pale. On the other hand, a strong
impression was produced by the small works themselves which Scriabin performed as
encores. It appeared that the soul of Chopin had been reborn in front of our eyes, in forms
more delicate, however, corresponding to the exhausted spirit of our times. Indeed, the
forms of his small piano works are related to the music of Chopin: preludes, etudes,
mazurkas.
Unwittingly, one draws a comparison between the character of Scriabin’s work
and that of the Polish writer Pryzsbyszewski.
4
One finds the same eroticism. There is the
same aspiration to build an altar to one’s love and one’s strength. Also, there exists the
same attempt to link one’s soul through bonds with eternity, with God, with a self-
sufficing will that beyond life and death fills in the chasm between today and tomorrow.
4
Stanislaw Przybyszewski (1868-1927), Polish decadent writer. Dubbed the “Polish Satanist,” he was the
author of numerous books including De Profundis (1895), Homo Sapiens (1896), Satan’s Children (1897),
Androgyne (1900), and The Scream (1918).
310
Appendix G
Viktor Belyayev
(1888 – 1968)
“Scriabin and Modern Russian Music”
Musikblätter des Anbruch (March 1925)
In consequence of the great political transformations that Russia has undergone, a
large part of the talented Russian composers has lived and worked abroad. Because of
this, many musicians now are asking the question whether the further development of
Russian music will take place in Russia itself or in other countries. Personally, I find this
question highly peculiar because I don’t think it ever possible that the temporary sojourn
abroad of Russian composers will have any effect on the further development of Russian
music. I sooner compare this fact with the rule of the popes in Avignon, who had
practically no influence over the fate of nations. It is more likely that this circumstance
will impact the entire musical life of Europe. In this regard, mainly one historical fact
encourages me: the creativity of Scriabin and its aftereffects. Based on objective
observations, the enormous fate-determining significance of Scriabin’s emergence for the
future of Russian music has become apparent to me. Based on personal experiences, I
have become convinced that these observations are not wrong and that a partial effect is
now already noticeable in the creative work of the known and unknown modern Russian
composers. In order to corroborate this assertion, I would have to deal not only with the
Russian music history, but with that of the entire world; mainly though with the
development of harmonic analysis, or more precisely stated, with the history of the
311
development of harmonic expression in tonal art. The paths of our European music are
determined by strict laws. They are governed by the changing sequence of tones and
harmonies.
Up until now, these laws have not yet been established in an exact and objective
form. Only just now and for the first time have people acknowledged the necessity of
studying these laws. Up until our time, this principle question has not been an issue, and
harmonic analysis, in as much as one can label it a science, concerns itself exclusively
with practical application, this most important branch of music theory. Harmonic analysis
constitutes the grammar and the syntax of musical language, and is yet at the same time
also the logic of tonal art. On the basis of this interaction of musical grammar and logic,
the laws of harmony have more in common than the guiding principles of usual grammar.
For the initial generalizations in this area we owe our thanks to Hugo Riemann, who
developed the theory of tonal function of chords. In some respects I am not in agreement
with the Riemann’s theories; I give him credit, though, for setting up this law of tonal
function. Indeed, he did not draw the necessary conclusions from this tabulation; in
explaining modulation, he considered only the development section, but not the goals of
the modulation process that determine the thing as a whole. This was achieved by the first
Russian theoretician Boleslav Yavorsky; he wrote down an extraordinary and at the same
time original theory of harmony. Unfortunately, I cannot elaborate on this in detail here.
Among the guiding principles of Yavorsky’s theory, though, one must include his
assertion that each fundamental tone – whether one considers it [i.e., the fundamental
tone] either the goal of the modulation or the goal of the construction and formation of
the tonality – is the result of a line-up of those chords that have tonal and harmonic
312
functions determining the individual instance and final outcome. Undoubtedly, the simple
layout of different kinds [of chords] is in methodological and scientific respect much less
valuable than the indication of the means of reaching certain goals. In the latter case, the
logic of musical thought becomes operative; in the former, however, it is the musical
grammar that is operative, the rules of which are not yet sufficiently defined. The logic of
musical thought reduces the entire diverse phenomena of harmonic language to several
typical kinds; musical grammar only ascertains the presence of phenomena without
referencing these to general laws.
If not in command of the general laws governing musical expression, we are
today – at least to a certain degree – in possession of musical knowledge. Now, we can
arrive at some basic conclusions concerning the area of historic musical development – in
as much as this development is determined by the power of musical expression. The
musical language of the present is, as already mentioned, a harmonic one and its history
is definitely not so distant from our own time. In Italy, it reached a formulation
(Domenico Scarlatti); then it proceeded further in Germany, where it reached its point of
culmination in the creative work of Wagner. After Wagner, Scriabin was the first who
climbed upwards on the ladder of harmonic language. His progress was daring and
determined by history. Scriabin, an absolute genius, placed Russian music through his
discoveries at least in relation to the development of musical language on the same level
with the Germans, who up until then undoubtedly held the dominant role. This condition
appears to be the decisive factor regarding the evaluation of Scriabin’s influence on
modern Russian music and the appraisal of him in general.
313
Russian music, compared to that of other nations, has undeniable advantages and
already played a considerable role in the history of music before the appearance of
Scriabin. One only needs to remember Mussorgsky and the so-called “New Russian
School,” the broad circulation in Europe of works by Russian composers and their effect
on the works of Debussy and Ravel. Without a doubt, all these composers contributed
their part to the development of the harmonic language, but this contribution was not
large and not definitive enough to influence the tonal material of the harmonic language
in the sense of a reform – the tonal material, if one may say so, that is subject to the
eternal laws of logic in musical thought. Just as Wagner grew out of the soil conditioned
throughout the period of Romanticism (Through his creativity, he transformed the
language of Beethoven), Scriabin can also be viewed as the result of a preparatory period
in Russian music (regarding the adaptation and further development of musical
expression). And just as Wagner through his creativity transformed the musical language
of Beethoven, Scriabin transformed not only Wagnerian, but also Russian music. In
relation to Wagner, Scriabin elevated music to a higher level – no less than Wagner
himself had done in relation to Beethoven.
Aspects of the reform in musical language express themselves on the one hand in
the harmonic work of Stravinsky; and on the other hand they can be observed in the work
of Schoenberg. I will need to bypass these for the time being, because they do not fall
within the scope of my topic here; I wish to limit myself at this time to writing down my
observations concerning the effect of Scriabin on modern Russian music. There are
composers who found new schools. These composers are usually not geniuses in the true
sense of the word; rather they possess in their nature something that identifies them with
314
the spirit of the period, but at the same time prevents them from being ahead of it. Among
these composers I wish to mention as an example Rimsky-Korsakov, who just like so
many other composers, whom epigones have followed, established his own school.
Geniuses have no epigones and cannot have them. Additionally, this expresses itself in
much more highly sophisticated forms that already possess something imaginative; they
do not represent merely imitation or the continuation of the principles of some strange
new creation. Accordingly, all significant composers who are not geniuses themselves are
epigones of geniuses and simultaneously the precursors of future geniuses. Scriabin
founded no school, had no pupils, and also had no epigones in the true sense of the word.
Yet, his influence upon his contemporaries and especially upon his successors is
significant. This influence was indirect; they shaped their style in a more complicated
manner. This was a consequence of their endeavors to satisfy the demands of the spirit of
the period – one which for them seemed to be embodied in Scriabin. We see that in the
work of Rachmaninoff (the last Romances, op. 38), in the work of Glazunov (who told
me that he had inserted the Scriabin chord into his work in such a way that “no one could
ever recognize it”) and especially in the works of Lyadov (Grimace, op. 64 and other
later works). Concerning the younger composers amenable to the new currents, as for
example Nikolai Tcherepnin and others, one senses in them the influence of Scriabin
even more crassly and directly. The creative work of the actually modern Russian
composers, starting with Scriabin, in many respects is caused by the Scriabin
phenomenon, without which the present style of their work would be unthinkable.
This last fact is so important that I must dwell on the subject a while. Thinking
about Stravinsky, who takes the trouble to trace the beginnings of his present style? Who
315
has noticed that he, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov, has copied in his First ]Symphony the
form of Glazunov’s Fifth Symphony and at the same time betrayed the influence of
Tchaikovsky in the Andante movement? Whoever has not observed this is not thoroughly
acquainted with Stravinsky and cannot know that his present style was engendered out of
the struggle of many mutually opposing trends. Among these, Scriabin’s influence was
undoubtedly the most significant. The fact that this influence appears now considerably
“reprocessed” and no longer so unadulterated as before is quite clear. Herein lies the
value of Scriabin’s influence. He has a double effect; he was a composer and also a
genius that discovered new areas of musical creativity – in this latter regard most
significantly, but least perceptibly. I will go even further; Scriabin is to the composer
upon whom he has an effect less attached. The area of musical creativity discovered by
Scriabin is so extensive and so promising that one can work within one’s own realm
without noticing Scriabin’s influence. One can even deny this influence although one is
affected by it.
The effect of Scriabin on Prokofiev is not to be disclaimed. Prokofiev is musically
an extraordinarily talented Nature; his creative fantasies are absolutely identical with the
ideals of the “New Russian School”; Next to Mussorgsky’s influence there also exists
that of Rimsky-Korsakov (March from the opera The Love for Three Oranges). All these
influences manifest themselves in an innovative harmonic dimension that would be
unthinkable without the person of Scriabin. Here, there exists a psychological foundation
determined altogether by Scriabin; it departs from the principles of the “New Russian
School” and is reconciling tendencies of worldwide significance that have their origin in
Russian music. At the beginning of his artistic work, Myaskovsky stood under the direct
316
influence of Scriabin. His further activity, though, can and must be viewed as an absolute
emancipation from Scriabin; on the one hand moving towards other psychological
dimensions, on the other hand towards another radical and individual harmonic world.
Still, this world, in spite of all its differences from the world of Scriabin, has in it
undeniable – even if they are concealed – points of contact; they express themselves in
the seventh symphony of Myaskovsky and in other works of his later periods. Among the
composers in the generation of Prokofiev and Myaskovsky, we still need to consider
Feinberg. In his work, he stands not only completely and in the best sense under the
influence of Scriabin; he appears to us a creator to whom it is destined to assimilate and
overcome these influences; to develop them further logically and creatively as Scriabin
had done this. His entire work means the further development of Scriabin’s world of
harmonic ideas. In spite of this, it differs greatly from Scriabin’s work and is entirely
unlike the work of other Russian composers (predecessors and contemporaries).
With regard to the composers of the younger generation who are standing at the
beginning of their creative careers (in the preceding paragraphs of my article, I
intentionally omitted a long list of names of less significant composers who came under
the direct influence of Scriabin more strongly), the starting point of their work is
determined by the Scriabin phenomenon – no one can escape it. With it, a marked
diversity makes itself noticeable in the individual perception of the creative idea and
singularity of characteristic traits. Among these composers, I would like to mention here
Vladimir Kryukov who has united in his works (as in the opera based on the play by
Alexander Blok: The King on the Square) Scriabin’s refinement with Wagner’s thematic
317
treatment. Further, I would like to mention Leonid Polovinkin with his refined
intelligence and creative power, and Vassily Shirinsky with his elegant lyrical talent.
I believe that the number of examples cited above is enough to provide the reader
with a clear picture of the exceedingly diverse influence of Scriabin in modern Russian
music and of his extraordinary intensity. The reason for this is that Scriabin’s work is an
organic development of the worldwide harmonic power of expression that is planted on
new and still virgin soil. The growth promises to be exceptionally fruitful because it is
carried out in a way that the roots of music representing the laws of musical logic remain
completely intact. To this I ascribe great meaning because I hold these laws to be set in
stone and eternal to the same degree as music itself. Harmonic expression is only then an
enclosed phenomenon if through the unified principle of logic in musical thought it [the
phenomenon] is determined by laws – [that is, those laws] that are inherent in the essence
of harmonic expression as a reasonable and structured phenomenon.
Scriabin’s music adheres to the same principles as the music of Beethoven and
Wagner in its purist form. Therefore, it is and will be trend-setting for the progress of
music in the country; for a progress in which Scriabin himself participated; for a progress
that inevitably in the country must and will go forward on its own; that means in Russia
itself, but not beyond its borders.
Abstract (if available)
Abstract
The specialized writings by Russians of the early twentieth century on the composer Alexander Scriabin reveal an astonishing diversity of critical, political, and artistic viewpoints. The reasons for this variance can be found in the very personality of the composer. The elusive qualities of Scriabin's music and the ambiguous nature of his ideas lent themselves well to this multivalence of interpretational standpoints. It was exactly these traits that insured the durability of his music in the tumultuous first decades of the twentieth century. The following dissertation discusses the social and philosophical influences on Scriabin and contextualizes the reception and various attitudes in Russia towards the composer.
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Wetzel, Don Louis
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Scriabin in Russian musicology and its background in Russian intellectual history
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Thornton School of Music
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Doctor of Philosophy
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Music (Historical Musicology)
Publication Date
03/23/2009
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01/22/2009
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Alexander Scriabin,Arthur Lourié,Boris Asafyev,Boris de Schloezer,Leonid Sabaneyev,Lunacharsky,Mir iskusstvo,Nikolai Zhilyayev,OAI-PMH Harvest,Plekhanov,Prince Sergei Trubetskoi,Russian music,Scriabine,Silver Age,Skriabin,Skrjabin,Slavophiles and Westernizers,theurgy,Viktor Belyayev,Vladimir Ivanov,Vladimir Solovyov,World of Art
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Alexander Scriabin
Arthur Lourié
Boris Asafyev
Boris de Schloezer
Leonid Sabaneyev
Lunacharsky
Mir iskusstvo
Nikolai Zhilyayev
Plekhanov
Prince Sergei Trubetskoi
Russian music
Scriabine
Silver Age
Skriabin
Skrjabin
Slavophiles and Westernizers
theurgy
Viktor Belyayev
Vladimir Ivanov
Vladimir Solovyov