Serge Prokofieff and his orchestral music

by Louis Biancolli

CHILDREN’S CORNER

“Peter and the Wolf,” An Orchestral Fairy Tale for Children, Opus 67

As early in his career as 1914 Prokofieff made his first venture in the enchanted world of children’s entertainment. This was a cycle for voice and piano (or orchestra) grouped under the general title of “The Ugly Duckling,” after Andersen’s fairy-tale. It was not till twenty-two years later that he returned to this vein and achieved a masterpiece for the young of all ages, all times, and all countries, the so-called “orchestral fairy tale for children”—“Peter and the Wolf”.

Completed in Moscow on April 24, 1936, the score was performed for the first time anywhere at a children’s concert of the Moscow Philharmonic the following month. Two years later, on March 25, 1938, the Boston Symphony Orchestra gave the music its first performance outside of Russia. On January 13, 1940, the work was produced by the Ballet Theatre at the Center Theatre, New York, with choreography by Adolph Bolm, and Eugene Loring starring in the role of Peter. Its success as a ballet was long and emphatic, particularly with the younger matinee element. Prominent in the general effectiveness of Prokofieff’s work is the role of the Narrator, for whom Prokofieff supplied a simple and deliciously child-like text, with flashes of delicate humor, very much in the animal story tradition of Grimm and Andersen.

By way of introduction, Prokofieff has himself identified the “characters” of his “orchestral fairy tale” on the first page of the score:—

“Each character of this Tale is represented by a corresponding instrument in the orchestra: the bird by the flute, the duck by an oboe, the cat by a clarinet in the low register, the grandfather by a bassoon, the wolf by three horns, Peter by the string quartet, the shooting of the hunters by the kettle-drums and the bass drum. Before an orchestral performance it is desirable to show these instruments to the children and to play on them the corresponding leitmotives. Thereby the children learn to distinguish the sonorities of the instruments during the performance of this Tale.”

The characters having been duly tagged and labelled, the Narrator, in a tone that is by turns casual, confiding and awesome, begins to tell of the adventures of Peter....

“Early one morning Peter opened the gate and went out into the big green meadow. On a branch of a big tree sat a little Bird, Peter’s friend. ‘All is quiet,’ chirped the Bird gaily.

“Just then a Duck came waddling round. She was glad that Peter had not closed the gate, and decided to take a nice swim in the deep pond in the meadow.

“Seeing the Duck, the little Bird flew down upon the grass, settled next to her, and shrugged his shoulders: ‘What kind of a bird are you, if you can’t fly?’ said he. To this the Duck replied: ‘What kind of a bird are you, if you can’t swim?’ and dived into the pond. They argued and argued, the Duck swimming in the pond, the little Bird hopping along the shore.

“Suddenly, something caught Peter’s attention. He noticed a Cat crawling through the grass. The Cat thought: ‘The Bird is busy arguing, I will just grab him.’ Stealthily she crept toward him on her velvet paws. ‘Look out!’ shouted Peter, and the Bird immediately flew up into the tree while the Duck quacked angrily at the Cat from the middle of the pond. The Cat walked around the tree and thought: ‘Is it worth climbing up so high? By the time I get there the Bird will have flown away.’

“Grandfather came out. He was angry because Peter had gone into the meadow. ‘It is a dangerous place. If a Wolf should come out of the forest, then what would you do?’ Peter paid no attention to Grandfather’s words. Boys like him are not afraid of Wolves, but Grandfather took Peter by the hand, locked the gate, and led him home.

“No sooner had Peter gone than a big gray Wolf came out of the forest. In a twinkling the Cat climbed up the tree. The Duck quacked, and in her excitement jumped out of the pond. But no matter how hard the Duck tried to run, she couldn’t escape the Wolf. He was getting nearer ... nearer ... catching up with her ... and then he got her and, with one gulp, swallowed her.

“And now, this is how things stand: the Cat was sitting on one branch, the Bird on another—not too close to the Cat—and the Wolf walked round and round the tree looking at them with greedy eyes.

“In the meantime, Peter, without the slightest fear, stood behind the closed gate watching all that was going on. He ran home, got a strong rope, and climbed up the high stone wall. One of the branches of the tree, round which the Wolf was walking, stretched out over the wall. Grabbing hold of the branch, Peter lightly climbed over onto the tree.

“Peter said to the Bird: ‘Fly down and circle round the Wolf’s head; only take care that he doesn’t catch you.’ The Bird almost touched the Wolf’s head with his wings while the Wolf snapped angrily at him from this side and that. How the Bird did worry the wolf! How he wanted to catch him! But the Bird was cleverer, and the Wolf simply couldn’t do anything about it.

“Meanwhile, Peter made a lasso and, carefully letting it down, caught the Wolf by the tail and pulled with all his might. Feeling himself caught, the Wolf began to jump wildly, trying to get loose. But Peter tied the other end of the rope to the tree, and the Wolf’s jumping only made the rope around his tail tighter.

“Just then, the hunters came out of the woods following the Wolf’s trail and shooting as they went. But Peter, sitting in the tree, said: ‘Don’t shoot! Birdie and I have caught the Wolf. Now help us to take him to the zoo.’

“And there ... imagine the procession: Peter at the head; after him the hunters leading the Wolf; and winding up the procession, Grandfather and the Cat. Grandfather tossed his head discontentedly! ‘Well, and if Peter hadn’t caught the Wolf? What then?’

“Above them flew Birdie chirping merrily: ‘My, what brave fellows we are, Peter and I! Look what we have caught!’ And if one would listen very carefully he could hear the Duck quacking inside the Wolf; because the Wolf in his hurry had swallowed her alive.”

To Prokofieff’s biographer Nestyev “Peter and the Wolf” represents a “gallery of clever and amusing animal portraits as vividly depicted as though painted from nature by an animal artist.” Certainly, this ingenious assortment of chirping and purring and clucking and howling, translated into terms of a masterly orchestral speech, is the tender and loving work of a story-teller patient and tolerant of the claims of children, and awed by their infinite imaginative capacity.

“Summer Day,” Children’s Suite for Little Symphony, Opus 65-B

Five years after completing “Peter and the Wolf” Prokofieff returned once again to the children’s corner. This time it was a suite for little symphony called “Summer Day.” Actually the suite had begun as a series of piano pieces, entitled “Children’s Music,” that Prokofieff had written and published shortly before he turned his thoughts to “Peter and the Wolf.” The chances are that it was this very “Children’s Music” that precipitated him into the child’s world of wonder and fantasy from which were to emerge Peter’s adventures in the animal kingdom. It was not till 1941, however, that he assembled an assortment of these piano pieces and arranged them for orchestra. Credit for their first performance in America belongs to the New York Philharmonic-Symphony, which included them on its program of October 25, 1945. Artur Rodzinski conducted. At that time Robert Bagar and I were the society’s program annotators, and the analysis given below was written by him for our program-book of that date.

I. “Morning” (Andante tranquillo, C major, 4-4). An odd little phrase is played by the first flute with occasional reinforcement from the second, while the other woodwinds engage in a mild counterpoint and the strings and bass drum supply the rhythmic anchorage. In a middle part the bassoons, horns, ’cellos and (later) the violas and bass sing a rather serious melody, as violins and flutes offer accompanying figures.

II. “Tag” (Vivo, F major, 6-8). A bright, tripping melody begins in the violins and flutes and is soon shared by bassoons. It is repeated, this time leading to the key of E-flat where the oboes play it in a modified form. There follows a short intermediary passage in the same tripping spirit, although the rhythm is stressed more. After some additional modulations the section ends with the opening strain.

III. “Waltz” (Allegretto, A major, 3-4). A tart and tangy waltz theme, introduced by the violins, has an unusual “feel” about it because of the unexpected intervals in the melody. In a more subdued manner the violins usher in a second theme, which, however, is given a Prokofieffian touch by the interspersed woodwind chords in octave skips. As before, the opening idea serves as the section’s close.

IV. “Regrets” (Moderato, F major, 4-4). An expressive, straightforward melody starts in the ’cellos. Oboes pick it up in a slightly revised form and they and the first violins conclude it. Next the violins and clarinets give it a simple variation. In the meantime, there are some subsidiary figures in the other instruments. All ends in just the slightest kind of finale.

V. “March” (Tempo di marcia, C major, 4-4). Clarinets and oboes each take half of the chief melody. The horns then play it and, following a brief middle sequence with unusual leaps, the tune ends in a harmonic combination of flutes, oboes, horns and trumpets.

VI. “Evening” (Andante teneroso, F major, 3-8). Prokofieff’s knack of making unusual melodic intervals sound perfectly natural is here well illustrated. A solo flute intones the opening bars of a pleasant song-like tune, the rest of which is given to the solo clarinet. Still in the same reflective mood, the music continues with a passage of orchestral arpeggios, while the first violins take their turn with the melody. A middle portion in A-flat major presents some measures of syncopation. With a change of key to C major and again to F major, the section ends tranquilly with a snatch of the opening tune.

VII. “Moonlit Meadows” (Andantino, D major, 2-4). The solo flute opens this section with a smooth-flowing melody which rather makes the rounds, though in more or less altered form. The section ends quite simply with three chords.

This transcription departs but slightly from the piano originals, and when it does so it is because the composer has obviously felt the need of a stronger accent here or some figure there, unimportant in themselves, which might serve to bolster up the Suite.

March from the Opera, “The Love of Three Oranges”, Opus 33-A

It was Cleofonte Campanini, leading conductor of the Chicago Opera Company, who approached Prokofieff early in 1919 for an opera. Prokofieff first offered “The Gambler”, of which he possessed only the piano part, having left the orchestral score behind in the library of the Maryinsky Theatre of Leningrad. The offer was put aside for a second proposal—a project Prokofieff had already been toying with in Russia. This was an opera inspired in part by a device prominent in the Italian tradition of Commedia dell’Arte and based, as a story, on an Italian classic. The idea excited Campanini, and a contract was speedily signed. The piano score was completed by the following June, and in October the orchestral score was ready for submission. Preparations were made for a production in Chicago, when Campanini suddenly died. An entire season went by before its world premiere was finally achieved under the directorship of Mary Garden. This occurred on December 30, 1921, at the Chicago Auditorium, with Prokofieff conducting and Nina Koshetz making her American debut as the Fata Morgana. A French version was used, prepared by Prokofieff and Vera Janacoupolos from the original Russian text of the composer. Press and public were friendly, if not over-enthusiastic.

Less than two months later, on February 14, 1922, the Chicago Opera Company presented the opera for the first time in New York, at the Manhattan Opera House, with Prokofieff himself again conducting. This time the critics were far from friendly. One of them remarked waspishly: “The cost of the production is $130,000, which is $43,000 for each orange. The opera fell so flat that its repetition would spell financial ruin.” There were no further performances that season. Indeed it was not till November 1, 1949, that “The Love of Three Oranges” returned to American currency. It was on that night that Laszlo Halasz introduced the work into the repertory of the New York City Opera Company at the City Center of Music and Drama. The opera was presented in a skilful English version made by Victor Seroff. The production was “an almost startling success,” in the words of Olin Downes. “The opera became overnight the talk of the town and took a permanent place in the repertory of the company. This was due in large part to the character of the production itself, which so well became the fantasy and satire of the libretto, and the dynamic power of Prokofieff’s score. An additional factor in the success was, without doubt, the development of taste and receptivity to modern music on the part of the public which had taken place in the intervening odd quarter of a century since the opera first saw the light.”

Prokofieff based his libretto on Carlo Gossi’s “Fiaba dell’amore delle tre melarancie” (The Tale of the Love of the Three Oranges). Gozzi, an eighteenth-century dramatist and story-teller, had a genius for giving fresh form to old tales and legends and for devising new ones. The tales were called fiabe, or fables. Later dramatists found them a fertile source of suggestions for plot, and opera composers have been no less indebted to this gifted teller of tales. Puccini’s “Turandot” is only one of at least six operas founded on Gozzi’s masterly little fiaba of legendary China. The vein of satire running through Gozzi’s fiabe has also attracted subsequent writers and composers. It is not surprising that Prokofieff, no mean satirist himself, found inspiration for an opera in one of these delicious fiabe.

In view of the great popularity which “The Love of Three Oranges” has won in recent seasons in America, it may be of some practical use and interest to the readers of this monograph to provide them with an outline of the plot. I originally wrote the synopsis that follows for “The Victor Book of Operas” in the 1949 issue revised and edited for Simon & Schuster by myself and Robert Bagar. “The Love of Three Oranges” is divided into a Prologue and Four Acts.

PROLOGUE

SCENE: Stage, with Lowered Curtain and Grand Proscenium, on Each Side of Which are Little Balconies and Balustrades. An artistic discussion is under way among four sets of personages on which kind of play should be enacted on the present occasion. The Glooms, clad in appropriately somber roles, argue for tragedy. The Joys, in costumes befitting their temperament, hold out for romantic comedy. The Empty-heads disagree with both and call for frank farce. At last, the Jesters (also called the Cynics) enter, and succeed in silencing the squabbling groups. Presently a Herald enters to announce that the King of Clubs is grieving because his son never smiles. The various personages now take refuge in balconies at the sides of the stage, and from there make comments on the play that is enacted. But for their lack of poise and dignity, they would remind one of the chorus in Greek drama.

ACT I

SCENE: The King’s Palace. The King of Clubs, in despair over his son’s hopeless defection, has summoned physicians to diagnose the ailment. After elaborate consultation, the doctors inform the King that to be cured the Prince must learn to laugh. The Prince, alas, like most hypochondriacs, has no sense of humor. The King resolves to try the prescribed remedy. Truffaldino, one of the comic figures, is now assigned the task of preparing a gay festival and masquerade to bring cheer into the Prince’s smileless life. All signify approval of the plan except the Prime Minister Leander, who is plotting with the King’s niece Clarisse to seize the throne after slaying the Prince. In a sudden evocation of fire and smoke, the wicked witch, Fata Morgana, appears, followed by a swarm of little devils. As a fiendish game of cards ensues between the witch, who is aiding Leander’s plot, and Tchelio, the court magician, attendant demons burst into a wild dance. The Fata Morgana wins and, with a peal of diabolical laughter, vanishes. The jester vainly tries to make the lugubrious Prince laugh, and as festival music comes from afar, the two go off in that direction.

ACT II

SCENE: The Main Courtroom of the Royal Palace. In the grand court of the palace, merrymakers are busy trying to make the Prince laugh, but their efforts are unavailing for two reasons: the Prince’s nature is adamant to gaiety and the evil Fata Morgana is among them, spoiling the fun. Recognizing her, guards seize the sorceress and attempt to eject her. In the struggle that ensues she turns an awkward somersault, a sight so ridiculous that even the Prince is forced to laugh out loud. All rejoice, for the Prince, at long last, is cured! In revenge, the Fata Morgana now pronounces a dire curse on the recovered Prince: he shall again be miserable until he has won the “love of the three oranges.”

ACT III

SCENE: A Desert. In the desert the magician Tchelio meets the Prince and pronounces an incantation against the cook who guards the three oranges in the near-by castle. As the Prince and his companion, the jester Truffaldino, head for the castle, the orchestra plays a scherzo, fascinating in its ingeniously woven web of fantasy. Arriving at the castle, the Prince and Truffaldino obtain the coveted oranges after overcoming many hazards. Fatigued, the Prince now goes to sleep. A few moments later Truffaldino is seized by thirst and, as he cuts open one of the oranges, a beautiful Princess steps out, begging for water. Since it is decreed that the oranges must be opened at the water’s edge, the helpless Princess promptly dies of thirst. Startled, Truffaldino at length works up courage enough to open a second orange, and, lo! another Princess steps out, only to meet the same fate. Truffaldino rushes out. The spectators in the balconies at the sides of the stage argue excitedly over the fate of the Princess in the third orange. When the Prince awakens, he takes the third orange and cautiously proceeds to open it. The Princess Ninette emerges this time, begs for water, and is about to succumb to a deadly thirst, when the Jesters rush to her rescue with a bucket of water.

ACT IV

SCENE: The Throne Room of the Royal Palace. The Prince and the Princess Ninette are forced to endure many more trials through the evil power of the Fata Morgana. At one juncture the Princess is even changed into a mouse. The couple finally overcome all the hardships the witch has devised, and in the end are happily married. Thus foiled in her wicked sorcery, the Fata Morgana is captured and led away, leaving traitorous Leander and Clarisse to face the King’s ire without the aid of her magic powers.

* * *

Typical in this “burlesque opera” is Prokofieff’s penchant for witty, sardonic writing. This cleverly evoked world of satiric sorcery is perhaps far removed from Prokofieff’s main areas of operatic interest, which were Russian history and literature. The pungent note of modernism is readily heard in this music, though compared with the more dissonant writing of Prokofieff’s piano and violin concertos, it is a kind of modified modernism, diverting in its sophisticated discourse on the child’s world of fairyland wonder. If, as Nestyev says, the work is “a subtle parody of the old romantic opera with its false pathos and sham fantasy,” it is primarily what it purports to be—a fairy tale, as gay and sparkling and wondrous as any in the whole realm of opera.

* * *

The brilliant and bizarre “March” from this opera has become one of the best known and most widely exploited symphonic themes of our time. It comes as an exhilarating orchestral interlude in the first act at the point where the straight-faced Prince and his Jester wander off in the direction of the festival music. The “March” is built around a swaying theme of irresistible appeal that mounts in power as it is repeated and comes to a sudden and forceful halt, as if at the crack of a whip.