SUITES
“Ala and Lolly”, Scythian Suite for Large Orchestra, Opus 20
It has been supposed that, consciously or not, Prokofieff was influenced by Stravinsky’s “Sacre de Printemps” in his choice and treatment of material for the “Scythian Suite.” Both scores have an earthy, barbaric quality, a stark rhythmic pulsation and an atmosphere of remote pagan ritualism that establish a strong kinship, whether direct or not. In each instance, moreover, the subject matter allowed the composer ample scope for exploiting fresh devices of harmony and color. Another point of contact between the two scores was the figure of Serge Diaghileff, that fabulous patron and gadfly of modern art. Stravinsky had already been brought into the camp of Russian ballet by this most persuasive of all ballet impressarios. Soon it was Prokofieff’s turn. Diaghileff’s commission was a ballet “on Russian fairy-tale or prehistoric themes.” The “Scythian” music was Prokofieff’s answer. The encounter with Diaghileff had occurred in June, 1914. With the outbreak of war later that year, an unavoidable delay set in, and it was evidently not till early the next year that Prokofieff submitted what was ready to Diaghileff, who liked neither the plot nor the music. To compensate him for his pains Diaghileff did two things: The first was to arrange for Prokofieff to play his Second Piano Concerto in Rome, an experience that proved profitable in every sense. The second was to commission another ballet, with the injunction to “write music that will be truly Russian.” To which the candid Diaghileff added:—“They’ve forgotten how to write music in that rotten St. Petersburg of yours.” The result was “The Buffoon,” a ballet which proved more palatable to Diaghileff and led to a mutually fruitful association of many years.
What was to have been the “Scythian” ballet became instead, an orchestral suite, the premiere of which took place in St. Petersburg on January 29, 1916, Prokofieff himself conducting. More than any other score of Prokofieff’s, the “Scythian Suite” was responsible for the acrimonious note that long remained in the reaction of the press to his music. “Cacophony” became a frequent word in the vocabulary of invective favored by hostile critics. Prokofieff was accused of breaking every musical law and violating every tenet of good taste. His music was “noisy,” “rowdy,” “barbarous,” an expression of irresponsible hooliganism in symphonic form. Glazounoff, friend and teacher and guide, walked out on the first performance of “The Scythian Suite.” But there were those among the critics and public who recognized the confident power and proclamative freedom of this music, and so a merry war of words, written and spoken, brewed over a score that Diaghileff, in a moment of singular insensitivity, had dismissed as “dull.” Whatever else this music was—and it was almost everything from a signal for angry stampedes from the concert hall to an open declaration of war—it was emphatically not dull! Even the word “Bolshevism” was hurled at the score when it reached these placid shores late in 1918. In Chicago, one critic wrote: “The red flag of anarchy waved tempestuously over old Orchestra Hall yesterday as Bolshevist melodies floated over the waves of a sea of sound in breath-taking cacophony.” Dull, indeed!
Of the original Scythians whose strange customs were the subject of Prokofieff’s controversial suite, Robert Bagar tells us succinctly:
“First believed to have been mentioned by the poet Hesiod (800 B.C.), the Scythians were a nomadic people dwelling along the north shore of the Black Sea. Probably of Mongol blood, this race vanished about 100 B.C. Herodotus tells us that they were rather an evil lot, given to very primitive customs, fat and flabby in appearance, and living under a despotic rule whose laws, such as they may have been, were enforced through the ever-present threat of assassination.
“There were gods, of course, each in charge of some aspect or other of spiritual or human or moral conduct—a sun god, a health god, a heaven god, an evil god and quite a few others. Veles, the god of the sun, was their supreme deity. His daughter was Ala, and Lolli was one of their great heroes.”
Prokofieff’s Suite is based on the story of Ala, her suffering in the toils of the Evil God, and her deliverance by Lolli. The suite is divided into four movements, brief outlines of which are furnished in the score.
I. “Invocation to Veles and Ala.” (Allegro feroce, 4/4.) The music describes an invocation to the sun, worshipped by the Scythians as their highest deity, named Veles. This invocation is followed by the sacrifice to the beloved idol, Ala, the daughter of Veles.
II. “The Evil-God and dance of the pagan monsters.” (Allegro sostenuto, 4-4.) The Evil-God summons the seven pagan monsters from their subterranean realms and, surrounded by them, dances a delirious dance.
III. “Night.” (Andantino, 4-4.) The Evil-God comes to Ala in the darkness. Great harm befalls her. The moon rays fall upon Ala, and the moon-maidens descend to bring her consolation.
IV. “Lolli’s pursuit of the Evil-God and the sunrise.” (Tempestuoso, 4-4.) Lolli, a Scythian hero, went forth to save Ala. He fights the Evil-God. In the uneven battle with the latter, Lolli would have perished, but the sun-god rises with the passing of night and smites the evil deity. With the description of the sunrise the Suite comes to an end.
Orchestral Suite from the Film, “Lieutenant Kije,” Opus 60
The Soviet film, “Lieutenant Kije”, was produced by the Belgoskino Studios of Leningrad in 1933, after a story by Y. Tynyanov that had become a classic of the new literature. The director was A. Feinzimmer. For Prokofieff, who supplied the music, it represented the first important work of his return to Russia. The music belongs with that for “Alexander Nevsky” and “Ivan the Terrible” as the most effective and characteristic Prokofieff composed for the Soviet screen. From that score Prokofieff assembled an orchestral suite which was published early in 1934 and performed later that year in Moscow. Prokofieff himself conducted its Parisian premiere at a Lamoureux concert on February 20, 1937, when, according to an English correspondent, it “made a stunning impression.” Serge Koussevitzky introduced it to America at a concert of the Boston Symphony Orchestra on October 15 of the same year.
The film tells an ironic and amusing story of a Russian officer, who because of a clerical error, existed only on paper. The setting is that of St. Petersburg during the reign of Czar Paul. The Czar misreads the report of one of his military aides, and without meaning to, evolves the name of a non-existent lieutenant. He does this by inadvertently linking the “ki” at the end of another officer’s name to the Russian expletive “je.” The result is the birth—on paper—of a new officer in the Russian Army, “Lieutenant Kije.” Since no one dares to tell the Czar of his absurd blunder, his courtiers are obliged to invent a “Lieutenant Kije” to go with the name. Such being the situation, the film is an enlargement on the expedients and subterfuges arising from it. There are five sections:—
I. Birth of Kije. (Allegro.) A combination of off-stage cornet fanfare, military drum-roll, and squealings from a fife proclaim that Lieutenant Kije is born—in the brain of blundering Czar. The solemn announcement is taken up by other instruments, followed by a short Andante section, and presently the military clatter of the opening is back.
II. Romance. (Andante.) This section contains a song, assigned optionally to baritone voice or tenor saxophone. The text of the song, in translation, reads:—
“Heart be calm, do not flutter;
Don’t keep flying like a butterfly.
Well, what has my heart decided?
Where will we in summer rest?
But my heart could answer nothing,
Beating fast in my poor breast.
My grey dove is full of sorrow—
Moaning is she day and night.
For her dear companion left her,
Having vanished out of sight,
Sad and dull has gotten my grey dove.”
III. Kije’s Wedding. (Allegro.) This section reminds us that although our hero is truly a soldier, like so many of his calling he is also susceptible to the claims of the heart. In fact, he is quite a dashing lover, not without a touch of sentimentality.
IV. Troika. (Moderato.) The Russian word “Troika” means a set of three, then, by extension, a team of three horses abreast, finally, a three-horse sleigh. This section is so named because the orchestra pictures such a vehicle as accompaniment to a second song, in this case a Russian tavern song. Its words, as rendered from the Russian, go:
“A woman’s heart is like an inn:
All those who wish go in,
And they who roam about
Day and night go in and out.
Come here, I say; come here, I say,
And have no fear with me.
Be you bachelor or not,
Be you shy or be you bold,
I call you all to come here.
So all those who are about,
Keep going in and coming out,
Night and day they roam about.”
V. Burial of Kije. (Andante assai.) Thus ends the paper career of our valiant hero. The music recalls his birth to a flourish of military sounds, his romance, his wedding. And now the cornet that had blithely announced his coming in an off-stage fanfare is muted to his going, as Lieutenant Kije dwindles to his final silence.
Music for the Ballet, “Romeo and Juliet,” Opus 64-A and 64-B
As a ballet in four acts and nine tableaux, Prokofieff’s “Romeo and Juliet” was first produced by the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow in 1935. Like many standard Russian ballets, the performance took a whole evening. Prokofieff assembled two Suites from the music, the first premiered in Moscow on November 24, 1936, under the direction of Nicolas Semjonowitsch Golowanow. The premiere of the second suite followed less than a month later.
Prokofieff himself directed the American premieres of both Suites, of Suite No. 1 as guest of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra on January 21, 1937, and of Suite No. 2 as guest of the Boston Symphony Orchestra on March 25, 1938. Serge Koussevitzky and the Boston unit introduced the Suite to New York on March 31 following.
After a trial performance of the ballet in Moscow V. V. Konin reported to the “Musical Courier” that Soviet critics present were “left in dismay at the awkward incongruity between the realistic idiom of the musical language, a language which successfully characterizes the individualism of the Shakespearean images, and the blind submission to the worst traditions of the old form, as revealed in the libretto.”
Fault was also found because “the social atmosphere of the period and the natural evolution of its tragic elements had been robbed of their logical culmination and brought to the ridiculously dissonant ‘happy end’ of the conventional ballet. This inconsistency in the development of the libretto has had an unfortunate effect, not only upon the general structure, but even upon the otherwise excellent musical score.”
Critical reaction to both Suites has varied, some reviewers finding the music dry and insipid for such a romantic theme; others hailing its pungency and color. Prokofieff’s classicism was compared with his romanticism. If we are prepared to accept the “Classical” Symphony as truly classical, said one critic, then we must accept the “Romeo and Juliet” music as truly romantic. The cold, cheerless, dreary music “is certainly not love music,” read one verdict. Prokofieff was taken to task for describing a love story “as if it were an algebraic problem.”
Said Olin Downes of “The New York Times” in his review of the Boston Symphony concert of March 31, 1938:—“The music is predominantly satirical.... There is the partial suggestion of that which is poignant and tragic, but there is little of the sensuous or emotional, and in the main the music could bear almost any title and still serve the ballet evolutions and have nothing to do with Romeo and Juliet.”
Others extolled Prokofieff for the “fundamental simplicity and buoyancy” of the music, finding it typically rooted in the “plane, tangible realities of tone, design, and color.” Prokofieff himself answered the repeated charge that his score lacked feeling and melody:—
“Every now and then somebody or other starts urging me to put more feeling, more emotion, more melody in my music. My own conviction is that there is plenty of all that in it. I have never shunned the expression of feeling and have always been intent on creating melody—but new melody, which perhaps certain listeners do not recognize as such simply because it does not resemble closely enough the kind of melody to which they are accustomed.
“In ‘Romeo and Juliet’ I have taken special pains to achieve a simplicity which will, I hope, reach the hearts of all listeners. If people find no melody and no emotion in this work, I shall be very sorry. But I feel sure that sooner or later they will.”
In the First Suite which Prokofieff prepared for concert purposes, there are seven numbers, outlined as follows:—1) “Folk Dance”; 2) “Scene”; 3) “Madrigal”; 4) “Minuet”; 5) “Masques”; 6) “Romeo and Juliet”; and 7) “The Death of Tybalt”. Perhaps the most significant and absorbing of these is “Masques”, an Andante marciale of majestic sweep and power, which accompanies the action at the Capulet ball, leading to the unobserved entrance into the palace of Romeo and two friends, wearing masks. One senses a brooding, sinister prophecy in the measured stateliness of the music. Searing and incisive in its pitiless evocation is “The Death of Tybalt”, marked Precipitato in the score. Both street duels are depicted in this section, the first in which Tybalt slays Mercutio, the other in which Romeo, in revenge, slays Tybalt. Capulet’s denunciation follows. This First Suite is listed as Opus 64-A in the catalogue of Prokofieff’s works.
The Second Suite, Opus 64-B, also consists of seven numbers:—
1) “Montagues and Capulets”. (Allegro pesante). This is intended to portray satirically the proud, haughty characters of the noblemen. There is a Trio in which Juliet and Paris are pictured as dancing.
2) “Juliet, the Maiden”. (Vivace). The main theme portrays the innocent and lighthearted Juliet, tender and free of suspicion. As the section develops we sense a gradual deepening of her feelings.
3) “Friar Laurence”. (Andante espressivo). Two themes are used to identify the Friar—bassoons, tuba, and harps announce the first; ’cellos, the second.
4) “Dance”. (Vivo).
5) “The Parting of Romeo and Juliet”. (Lento. Poco piu animato). An elaborately worked out fabric woven mainly from the theme of Romeo’s love for Juliet.
6) “Dance of the West Indian Slave Girls”. (Andante con eleganza). The section accompanies both the action of Paris presenting pearls to Juliet and slave girls dancing with the pearls.
7) “Romeo at Juliet’s Grave”. (Adagio funebre). Prokofieff captures the anguish and pathos of the heartbreaking blunder that is the ultimate in tragedy: Juliet is not really dead, and her tomb is only that in appearance—but for Romeo the illusion is reality and his grief is unbounded.
Prokofieff’s original plan was to give “Romeo and Juliet” a happy ending, its first since the time of Shakespeare. Juliet was to be awakened in time to prevent Romeo’s suicide, and the ballet would end with a dance of jubilation by the reunited lovers. Criticism was widespread and sharp when this modification of Shakespeare’s drama was exhibited at a trial showing. All thought of a happy ending was promptly abandoned, and Prokofieff put the tragic seal of death on the finale of his ballet.