An Autobiography

Copyright 1936 by Simon and Schuster, Inc.

ONE: Development of the Composer

I

As memory reaches back along the vista of the years, the increasing distance adds to the difficulty of seeing clearly and choosing between those incidents which make a deep impression and those which, though perhaps more important in themselves, leave no trace, and in no way influence one's development.

Thus, one of my earliest memories of sound will seem somewhat odd.

It was in the country, where my parents, like most people of their class, spent the summer with their children. I can see it now. An enormous peasant seated on the stump of a tree. The sharp resinous tang of fresh-cut wood in my nostrils. The peasant simply clad in a short red shirt. His bare legs covered with reddish hair, on his feet birch sandals, on his head a mop of hair as thick and as red as his beard—not a white hair, yet an old man.

He was dumb, but he had a way of clicking his tongue very noisily, and the children were afraid of him. So was I. But curiosity used to triumph over fear. The children would gather round him. Then, to amuse them, he would begin to sing. This song was composed of two syllables, the only ones he could pronounce. They were devoid of any meaning, but he made them alternate with incredible dexterity in a very rapid tempo. He used to accompany this clucking in the following way: pressing the palm of his right hand under his left armpit, he would work his left arm with a rapid movement, making it press on the right hand. From beneath the red shirt he extracted a succession of sounds which were somewhat dubious but very rhythmic, and which might be euphemistically described as resounding kisses. This amused me beyond words, and at home I set myself with zeal to imitate this music—so often and so successfully that I was forbidden to indulge in such an indecent accompaniment. The two dull syllables which alone remained thus lost all their attraction for me.

Another memory which often comes back is the singing of the women of the neighboring village. There were a great many of them, and regularly every evening they sang in unison on their way home after the day's work. To this day I clearly remember the tune, and the way they sang it, and how, when I used to sing it at home, imitating their manner, I was complimented on the trueness of my ear. This praise made me very happy.

And it is an odd thing that this occurrence, trifling though it seems, has a special significance for me, because it marks the dawn of my consciousness of myself in the role of musician.

I will confine myself to those two impressions of summer, which was always associated with a picture of the country, and of all the things to be seen and heard there.

Winter was quite another story—town. My memories of that do not go so far back as those of summer, and I date them from the time when I was about three years old. Winter, with its curtailing of liberty and amusements, with its rigorous discipline and interminable length, was not likely to make enduring impressions.

My parents were not specially concerned with my musical development until I was nine. It is true that there was music in the house, my father being the leading bass singer of the Imperial Opera in St. Petersburg, but I heard all this music only at a distance—from the nursery to which my brothers and I were relegated.

When I was nine my parents gave me a piano mistress. I very quickly learned to read music, and, as the result of reading, soon had a longing to improvise, a pursuit to which I devoted myself, and which for a long time was my favorite occupation. There cannot have been anything very interesting in these improvisations, because I was frequently reproached for wasting my time in that way instead of practicing properly, but I was definitely of a different opinion, and the reproaches vexed me considerably. Although today I understand and admit the need of this discipline for a child of nine or ten, I must say that my constant work at improvisation was not absolutely fruitless; for, on the one hand, it contributed to my better knowledge of the piano, and, on the other, it sowed the seed of musical ideas. Apropos of this, I should like to quote a remark of Rimsky-Korsakov's that he made later on when I became his pupil. I asked him whether I was right in always composing at the piano. “Some compose at the piano,” he replied, “and some without a piano. As for you, you will compose at the piano.” As a matter of fact, I do compose at the piano and I do not regret it. I go further; I think it is a thousand times better to compose in direct contact with the physical medium of sound than to work in the abstract medium produced by one's imagination.

Apart from my improvisation and piano-practice, I found immense pleasure in reading the opera scores of which my father's library consisted—all the more so because I was able to read with great facility. My mother also had that gift, and I must have inherited it from her. Imagine my joy, therefore, when for the first time I was taken to the theatre where they were giving an opera with which as a pianist I was already familiar. It was A Life for the Tsar, and it was then I heard an orchestra for the first time. And what an orchestra—Glinka's! The impression was indelible, but it must not be supposed that this was due solely to the fact that it was the first orchestra I ever heard. To this day, not only Glinka's music in itself, but his orchestration as well, remains a perfect monument of musical art—so intelligent is his balance of tone, so distinguished and delicate his instrumentation; and by the latter I mean his choice of instruments and his way of combining them. I was indeed fortunate in happening on a chef d'oeuvre for my first contact with great music. That is why my attitude towards Glinka has always been one of unbounded gratitude.

I remember having heard another lyrical work that same winter, but it was by a composer of the second rank—Alexander Serov—and on that occasion I was impressed only by the dramatic action. My father had the leading part, a role in which he was particularly admired by the Petersburg public. He was a very

well-known artist in his day. He had a beautiful voice and an amazing technique, acquired in studying by the Italian method at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in addition to great dramatic talent—a rare attribute among opera singers at that time.

About the same time I heard Glinka's second opera, Ruslan and Ludmilla, at a gala performance given to celebrate its fiftieth anniversary. My father took the part of Farlaf, which was one of the best in his repertoire. It was a memorable evening for me. Besides the excitement I felt at hearing this music that I already loved to distraction, it was my good fortune to catch a glimpse in the foyer of Peter Tchaikovsky, the idol of the Russian public, whom I had never seen before and was never to see again. He had just conducted the first audition of his new symphony—the Pathetic—in St. Petersburg. A fortnight later my mother took me to a concert where the same symphony was played in memory of its composer, who had been suddenly carried off by cholera. Deeply though I was impressed by the unexpected death of the great musician, I was far from realizing at the moment that this glimpse of the living Tchaikovsky—fleeting though it was—would become one of my most treasured memories. I shall have occasion later to tell my readers more of Tchaikovsky, of his music, and of my struggles on its behalf with some of my confreres, who obstinately persist in a heresy which will not permit them to recognize as “authentic” Russian music anything outside the work of the Five (name given to a group composed of Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Cui).

At this point I am simply recording a personal memory of the celebrated composer, for whom my admiration has continued to grow with the development of my musical consciousness.

I think that the beginning of my conscious life as artist and musician dates from this time.

II

I picture the first years of my adolescence as a series of irksome duties and the perpetual frustration of all my desires and aspirations. The constraint of the school to which I had just gone filled me with aversion. I hated the classes and tasks, and I was but a very poor pupil, my lack of industry giving rise to reproaches which only increased my dislike for the school and its lessons. Nor did I find any compensation for all this unpleasantness in those school friendships which might have made things easier. During all my school life, I never came across anyone who had any real attraction for me, something essential being always absent. Was it my fault, or was it simply bad luck? I cannot say; but the result was that I felt very lonely. Although I was brought up with my younger brother, of whom I was very fond, I was never able to open my heart to him, because, in the first place, my aspirations were too vague to be formulated, and secondly, in my innermost being I feared, notwithstanding our mutual affection, that there would be misunderstandings which would have deeply wounded my pride.

The only place where my budding ambition had any encouragement was in the house of my uncle Ielatchitch, my mother's brother-in-law. Both he and his children were fervent music lovers, with a general tendency to champion very advanced work, or what was then considered to be such. My uncle belonged to the class of society then predominating in St. Petersburg, which was composed of well-to-do land-owners, officials of the higher ranks, magistrates, barristers, and the like. They all prided themselves on their liberalism, extolled progress, and considered it the thing to profess so-called “advanced” opinions in politics, art, and all branches of social life. The reader can easily see from this what their mentality was like: a compulsory atheism, a somewhat bold affirmation of “the Rights of Man,” an attitude of opposition to “tyrannical” government, the cult of materialistic science, and, at the same time, admiration for Tolstoy and his amateur Christianizing. Special artistic tastes went with this mentality, and it is easy to see what they looked for and appreciated in music. Obviously naturalism was the order of the day, pushed to the point of realistic expression and accompanied, as was to be expected, by popular and nationalistic tendencies and admiration for folklore. And it was on such grounds that these sincere music lovers believed that they must justify their enthusiasm—quick and spontaneous though it was—for works of a Moussorgsky!

It would, however, be unfair to imply that this set had no appreciation of symphonic music; Brahms was admired, and a little later Bruckner was discovered, and a special transcription of Wagner's tetralogy was played as a pianoforte duet. Was it Glazounov, adopted son of the Five, with his heavy German academic symphonies, or the lyrical symphonies of Tchaikovsky, or the epic symphonies of Borodin, or the symphonic poems of Rimsky-Korsakov, that imbued this group with its taste for symphonism? Who can say? But, however that may be, all these ardently devoted themselves to that type of music.

It was thanks to this environment that I got to know the great German composers. As for the French moderns, they had not yet penetrated into this circle, and it was only later that I had a chance to hear them.

In so far as school life permitted, I used to go to symphony concerts and to recitals by famous Russian or foreign pianists, and in this way I heard Josef Hofmann, whose serious, precise, and finished playing filled me with such enthusiasm that I redoubled my zeal in studying the piano. Among other celebrities who appeared in St. Petersburg at the time, I remember Sophie Menter, Eugen d'Albert, Reisenauer, and such of our own famous virtuosi as the pianist Annette Essipova, the wife of Leschetitzky, and the violinist, Leopold Auer.

There were also great symphonic concerts given by two important societies—the Imperial Musical Society and the Russian Symphony Concerts—founded by Mitrophan Belaieff, that great patron and publisher of music.

The concerts of the Imperial Society were often conducted by Napravnik, whom I already knew through the Imperial Opera, of which he was for many years the distinguished conductor. It seems to me that in spite of his austere conservatism he was the type of conductor which even today I prefer to all others. Certainty and unbending rigor in the exercise of his art; complete contempt for all affectation and showy effects alike in the presentation of the work and in gesticulation; not the slightest concession to the public; and added to that, iron discipline, mastery of the first order, an infallible ear and memory, and, as a result, perfect clarity and objectivity in the rendering…. What better can one imagine? Hans Richter, a much better-known and more celebrated conductor, whom I heard a little later when he came to St. Petersburg to conduct the Wagner operas, had the same qualities. He also belonged to that rare type of conductor whose sole ambition is to penetrate the spirit and the aim of the composer, and to submerge himself in the score.

I used to go also to the Belaieff Symphony Concerts. Belaieff had formed a group of musicians whom he helped in every way: giving them material assistance, publishing their works and having them performed at his concerts. The leading figures in this group were Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov, who were joined by Liadov and, later on, Tcherepnin, the brothers Blumenfeld, Sokolov, and other pupils of Rimsky-Korsakov. This group, though the offspring of the Five, rapidly changed, and, perhaps without realizing it, developed a new school, little by little taking possession of the Conservatoire in place of the old academicians who had directed it since its foundation by

Anton Rubinstein.

When I got into touch with some of the members of this group, its transformation into a new school had already been accomplished, so that I found myself confronted by an academy whose aesthetics and dogmas were well established, and had to be accepted or rejected as a whole.

I was then of an age—the age of early apprenticeship—when the critical faculty is generally lacking, and one blindly accepts truths propounded by those whose prestige is unanimously recognized, especially when this prestige is concerned with the mastery of technique and the art of savoir faire. Thus I accepted their dogmas quite spontaneously, and all the more readily because at that time I was a fervent admirer of Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov. I was specially drawn to the former by his melodic and harmonic inspiration, which then seemed to me full of freshness; to the latter by his feeling for symphonic form; and to both by their scholarly workmanship. I need hardly stress how much I longed to attain this ideal of perfection in which I really saw the highest degree of art; and with all the feeble means at my disposal I assiduously strove to imitate them in my attempts at composition.

It was during these years that I made the acquaintance of Ivan Pokrovsky, a young man, older than myself, highly cultured, with advanced tastes, a lover of art in general and of music in particular. My association with him was very pleasant, because it relieved the monotony of school life and at the same time extended the field of my artistic ideas. He introduced me to authors of whom, till then, I had known nothing—above all to French composers such as Gounod, Bizet, Delibes, and Chabrier. Even then I noticed a certain affinity between the music of these composers and that of Tchaikovsky, an affinity which I saw much more clearly when, later, I was able to examine and compare their works with a more practiced eye. It is true that I was familiar with those pages of Faust and Carmen which one heard everywhere, but it was chiefly the fact that I was always hearing them that had prevented me from consciously forming an opinion of these musicians. It was only on looking into their works with Pokrovsky that I discovered in them a musical language which was unfamiliar to me, and which differed noticeably from that of the Belaieff group and its kind. I found in them a different type of musical writing, different harmonic methods, a different melodic conception, a freer and fresher feeling for form. This gave rise to doubts, as yet barely perceptible, with regard to what had up till then seemed unassailable dogma. That is why I am eternally grateful to Pokrovsky; for from my discussions with him dates my gradual emancipation from the influence that, all unknown to myself, the academicism of the time was exercising over me. I must say, however, that for many years to come, in spite of everything, the domination of this group was still noticeable in me.

Indeed, I often undertook to defend the principles of the group, and in a most peremptory manner, when I came up against the antiquated opinions of those who did not realize that they themselves had long since been left behind. Thus I had to battle with my second piano mistress, a pupil and admirer of Anton Rubinstein. She was an excellent pianist and a good musician, but completely obsessed by her adoration for her illustrious master, whose views she blindly accepted, and I had great difficulty in making her accept the scores of Rimsky-Korsakov or of Wagner—which at that period I was fervently studying. But here I must say that, notwithstanding our differences of opinion, this excellent musician managed to give a new impetus to my piano playing and to the development of my technique. At that moment the question of my vocation had not been raised in any definite form either by my parents or by myself. And how could one in fact foretell the hazardous course of a composer's career? My parents, like the majority of their class, therefore, thought above all of giving me the education necessary to enable me to obtain a post, administrative or otherwise, which would assure me a livelihood. That is why, as soon as I had matriculated, they considered it advisable that I should study law at the University of St. Petersburg. As for my inclinations and my predilections for music, they regarded them as mere amateurism, to be encouraged up to a point, without in the least taking into consideration the degree to which my aptitudes might be developed. This now seems to me quite natural.

The next few years, in which I had to matriculate and then to work at the University, were, as may well be imagined, by no means attractive from my point of view, because my interests all lay elsewhere. However, at my urgent request, my parents agreed to give me a teacher of harmony. I therefore began the study of harmony, but, contrary to all expectation, I found no satisfaction in it, perhaps owing to the pedagogical incompetence of my teacher, perhaps to the method used, and perhaps—and this is most likely—to my inherent aversion to any dry study. Let me make myself clear. I always did, and still do, prefer to achieve my aims and to solve any problems which confront me in the course of my work solely by my own efforts, without having recourse to established processes which do, it is true, facilitate the task, but which must first be learned and then remembered. To learn and remember such things, however useful they might be, always seemed to me dull and boring; I was too lazy for that sort of work, especially as I had little faith in my memory. If that had been better, I should certainly have found more interest, and possibly even pleasure, in it. I insist on the word “pleasure,” though some people might find it too light a word for the scope and significance of the feeling I am trying to indicate.

But I can experience this feeling of pleasure in the very process of work, and in looking forward to the joy that any find or discovery may bring. And I admit that I am not sorry that this should have been so, because perfect facility would, of necessity, have diminished my eagerness in striving, and the satisfaction of having “found” would not have been complete.

On the other hand, I was much drawn to the study of counterpoint, though that is generally considered a dry subject, useful only for pedagogical purposes. From about the age of eighteen I began to study it alone, with no other help than an ordinary manual. The work amused me, even thrilled me, and I was never tired of it. This first contact with the science of counterpoint opened up at once a far vaster and more fertile field in the domain of musical composition than anything that harmony could offer me. And so I set myself with heart and soul to the task of solving the many problems it contains. This amused me tremendously, but it was only later that I realized to what an extent those exercises had helped to develop my judgment and my taste in music. They stimulated my imagination and my desire to compose; they laid the foundation of all my future technique, prepared me thoroughly for the study of form, of orchestration, and of instrument which later I took up with Rimsky-Korsakov.

I have now reached the period at which I made the acquaintance of that illustrious composer. When I went to the University I found his youngest son there, and was very soon on the best of terms with him. At that time his father hardly knew of my existence.

In 1902 Rimsky-Korsakov took his whole family to spend the summer vacation at Heidelberg, where one of his sons was a student at the University. At the same time my mother and I had gone to Bad Wildungen with my father, who was already seriously ill. From there I rushed over to Heidelberg to see my

fellow student and also to consult his father about my vocation. I told him of my ambition to become a composer, and asked his advice. He made me play some of my first attempts. Alas! the way in which he received them was far from what I had hoped. Seeing how upset I was, and evidently anxious not to discourage me, he asked if I could play anything else. I did so, of course, and it was then that he gave his opinion.

He told me that before anything else I must continue my studies in harmony and counterpoint with one or other of his pupils in order to acquire complete mastery in the schooling of craftsmanship, but at the same time he strongly advised me not to enter the Conservatoire. He considered that the atmosphere of that institution, in which he was himself a professor, was not suited to me, for I should be overwhelmed with work, and he suggested I might as well go on with my University course. Moreover, as I was twenty he feared that I might find myself backward in comparison with my contemporaries, and that this might discourage me. He further considered it necessary that my work should be systematically supervised, and that this could be achieved only by private lessons. He finished by adding that I could always go to him for advice, and that he was quite willing to take me in hand when I had acquired the necessary foundation.

Although in my ingenuousness I was somewhat downcast over the lack of enthusiasm that the master had shown for my first attempts at composition, I found some comfort in the fact that he had nevertheless advised me to continue my studies, and so demonstrated his opinion that I had sufficient ability to devote myself to a musical career. This comforted me all the more because everyone knew the rigor and frankness of his judgment when his verdict as to the musical vocation of a beginner was required: he fully realized the personal responsibility attaching to his great authority. The story was told of a young doctor who came to show him his compositions and ask for advice. Having learned that he was a doctor, Rimsky-Korsakov said: “Excellent. Continue to practice medicine.”

After my interview with the master I had firmly resolved to devote myself seriously to my studies with my harmony teacher, but once again I found that I was thoroughly bored, and felt that I was making scarcely any progress.

At that moment several circumstances prevented me from working regularly. First there was the death of my father in November, 1902. Then there was the desire to live an independent life in the company of my friends, who formed an ever-widening circle, largely owing to my association with the Rimsky-Korsakov family, of whom I saw as much as possible. In this highly cultured environment I formed new ties among the young people whom I met there, all of whom had intellectual interests of one sort or another. There were painters, young scientists, scholars, enlightened amateurs of the most advanced views. One of them was my friend Stepan Mitoussov, with whom later I composed the libretto for my opera, Le Rossignol. We took a passionate interest in everything that went on in the intellectual and artistic life of the capital. Diaghileff had just started the publication of his vanguard review, Mir Iskoustva (The World of Art), and was organizing his exhibitions of pictures. At the same time my friends Pokrovsky, Nouvel, and Nurok founded an interesting musical society which they called Soirees of Contemporary Music. It is needless to speak of the importance of these two groups in my artistic and intellectual evolution, and how much they strengthened the development of my creative faculty.

Here I must break the thread of my story in order to acquaint the reader with the antagonism which was inevitable to arise between opinion in academic circles and the new trend in art which these two societies stood for. I will not expatiate on the aggressive hostility with which the reactionary and conservative set in the Academy and the Imperial Society for the Encouragement of Art met the activities of Diaghileff, and particularly his review, Mir Iskoustva—and God knows what he endured in that struggle! I will touch here only on the musicians and their attitude towards the whole of this new movement. Certainly the majority of the Conservatoire pedagogues were against it, and accused it, of course, of corrupting the taste of the younger generation. But I must say, in justice to Rimsky-Korsakov and Liadov, that, notwithstanding their disapproval, they had sufficient courage and finesse not to make a sweeping condemnation of everything serious and appreciable that modern art had to offer.

The following is illustrative of the attitude of the old master towards Debussy. At a concert where one of the latter's works was on the program I asked Rimsky-Korsakov what he thought of it. He answered in these very words: “Better not listen to him; one runs the risk of getting accustomed to him and one would end by liking him.” But such was not the attitude of his disciples—they were more royalist than the King. The rare exceptions discoverable among them served only to prove the rule. My recollection of Liadov is a pleasant one. His head looked very much like that of a Kalmuck woman, and he had a gentle, agreeable, and kindly nature. Bent on clear and meticulous writing, he was very strict with his pupils and with himself, composing very little and working slowly, and, so to speak, under a microscope. He read much, and, considering the atmosphere of the Conservatoire where he was a professor, he was fairly broad-minded.

It was at this period that I became acquainted with the works of César Franck, Vincent d'Indy, Fauré, Paul Dukas, and Debussy, of whose names I had hardly heard. Our Academy pretended to know nothing of all these French composers of widespread fame, and never included their works in the programs of the big symphony concerts. As the Soirees of Contemporary Music had not the wherewithal for giving orchestral performances, we were at that time able to hear only the chamber music of these composers. It was not till later, at the concerts of Siloti and those of Koussevitzky, that our public had a chance to hear their symphonic productions.

The impressions I formed of the work of these composers, so different from each other, were naturally varied. My feelings were already beginning to crystallize on the subject of César Franck and his academic thought, Vincent d'Indy and his scholastic yet Wagnerian mentality, on the one hand, and Debussy on the other, with his extraordinary freedom and freshness of technique that was really quite new for his period. Next to him Chabrier appealed most to me, notwithstanding his well-known Wagnerianism (to my mind a purely superficial and outward aspect of him), and my taste for his music has increased with time.

It must not be imagined that my inclination towards the new tendencies, of which I have just spoken, meant any diminution in my adoration for my old masters, because all the appreciations expressed above were then only subconsciously germinating, while consciously I felt an imperative need to get a foothold in my profession. I could achieve that only by submitting to the discipline of these masters, and, by implication, to their aesthetics. This discipline, while of the utmost rigor, was at the same time most productive, and it was in no way responsible for the number of mediocrities of the Prix de Rome type to which our Academy gave birth every year. But, as I have said, in submitting to their discipline I was confronted by their aesthetics, from which it could not be divorced. Indeed, every doctrine of aesthetics, when put into practice, demands a particular mode of expression—in fact, a technique of its own; for, in art, such a thing

class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="20"/> as technique founded on no given basis—in short, a technique in the void—would be utterly inconceivable; and it would be still more difficult to imagine when a whole group, or school, is under consideration. I cannot, therefore, reproach my teachers for having clung to their own aesthetics; they could not have done otherwise; and, as a matter of fact, it was no hindrance to me. On the other hand, the technical knowledge that I acquired, thanks to them, gave me a foundation of incalculable value in its solidity, on which I was able later to establish and develop my own craftsmanship. No matter what the subject may be, there is only one course for the beginner; he must at first accept a discipline imposed from without, but only as the means of obtaining freedom for, and strengthening himself in, his own method of expression.

About this time I composed a full-sized sonata for the piano. In this work I was constantly confronted by many difficulties, especially in matters of form, the mastery of which is usually acquired only after prolonged study, and my perplexities suggested the idea of my consulting Rimsky-Korsakov again. I went to see him in the country at the end of the summer of 1903, and stayed with him for about a fortnight. He made me compose the first part of a sonatina under his supervision, after having instructed me in the principles of the allegro of a sonata. He explained these principles with a lucidity so remarkable as to show me at once what a great teacher he was. At the same time he taught me the compass and the registers of the different instruments used in contemporary symphonic orchestras, and the first elements of the art of orchestration. He adopted the plan of teaching form and orchestration side by side, because in his view the more highly developed musical forms found their fullest expression in the complexity of the orchestra.

I worked with him in this way: he would give me some pages of the piano score of a new opera he had just finished (Pan Voïvoda), which I was to orchestrate. When I had orchestrated a section, he would show me his own instrumentation of the same passage. I had to compare them, and then he would ask me to explain why he had done it differently. Whenever I was unable to do so, it was he who explained. Thus was established our association as teacher and pupil, which, with the beginning of regular lessons in the autumn, continued for about three years.

Although he was giving me lessons, he nevertheless wanted me still to continue my studies of counterpoint with my former teacher, who was one of his pupils. But I think that he only insisted for conscience' sake, and that he realized that these lessons would not take me far. Shortly afterwards I gave them up, though that did not prevent me from continuing alone the counterpoint exercises, in which I took more and more interest, and during that period I filled a thick volume with them. Alas! it was left in my country house in Russia, where, together with my whole library, it disappeared during the Revolution.

My work with Rimsky-Korsakov consisted of his giving me pieces of classical music to orchestrate. I remember that they were chiefly parts of Beethoven's sonatas, and of Schubert's quartets and marches. Once a week I took my work to him and he criticized and corrected it, giving me all the necessary explanations, and at the same time he made me analyze the form and structure of classical works. A year and a half later I began the composition of a symphony. As soon as I finished one part of a movement I used to show it to him, so that my whole work, including the instrumentation, was under his control.

I composed this symphony at the time when Alexander Glazounov reigned supreme in the science of symphony. Each new production of his was received as a musical event of the first order, so greatly were the perfections of his form, the purity of his counterpoint, and the ease and assurance of his writing appreciated. At that time I shared this admiration whole-heartedly, fascinated by the astonishing mastery of this scholar. It was, therefore, quite natural that side by side with other influences (Tchaikovsky, Wagner, Rimsky-Korsakov) his predominated, and that in my symphony I modeled myself particularly on him.

At this point the period of my adolescence came to an end. In the spring of 1905 I finished my University course. In the autumn I became engaged, and I was married in January, 1906.

III

After my marriage I continued my lessons with Rimsky-Korsakov, the work consisting mainly of my showing him my compositions and discussing them with him. During the season of 1906–1907, I finished my symphony and dedicated it to him. I composed also a little suite for voice and orchestra, Faune et Bergère, on three poems by Pushkin in the manner of Parny. Rimsky-Korsakov, who had closely followed the composition of these two works, wishing to give me the opportunity of hearing them, arranged with the Court orchestra to have them performed in the spring of 1907 at a private audition under the direction of its usual conductor H. Wahrlich.

In the season of 1907–1908, Faune et Bergère was given in public at one of the Belaieff concerts, conducted, if I remember rightly, by Felix Blumenfeld. I had two important works in hand at the same time: the Scherzo Fantastique and the first act of my opera, Le Rossignol, the libretto of which I had written in collaboration with my friend Mitoussov. It was based on a story by Hans Andersen. This work was greatly encouraged by my master, and to this day I remember with pleasure his approval of the preliminary sketches of these compositions. It grieves me much that he was never to hear them in their finished form, for I think that he would have liked them. Concurrently with this important work, I was composing two vocal settings for the words of a young Russian poet, Gorodetsky. He was one of a group of authors who, by their talent and their freshness, were destined to put new life into our somewhat old-fashioned poetry. These two songs were later called in French La Novice and Sainte Rosée. They and Pastorale, a song without words, were given at the Soirees in the winter of 1908.

It was during that winter that my poor master's health began to fail. Frequent attacks of angina gave warning that it was only too likely that the end was near. I often went to see him, apart from my lessons, and he seemed to like my visits. He had my deep affection, and I was genuinely attached to him. It seems that these sentiments were reciprocated, but it was only later that I learned so from his family. His characteristic reserve had never allowed him to make any sort of display of his feelings.

Before starting for the country, where I generally spent vacation, my wife and I went to say good-by to him. That was the last time I saw him. In my talk with him I told him about a short orchestral fantasy, called Feu d'Artifice, that I contemplated. He seemed interested, and told me to send it to him as soon as it was ready. I set to work as soon as I arrived at Oustiloug, our estate in Volhynia, with the intention of sending the score to him for his daughter's wedding, which was shortly to take place. I finished it in six weeks and sent it off to the country place where he was spending the summer. A few days later a telegram informed me of his death, and shortly afterwards my registered packet was returned to me: “Not delivered on account of death of addressee.” I joined his family at once in order to attend the funeral, which took place in St. Petersburg. The service was held in the chapel of the

Conservatoire. His tomb, in the Novodievitchy Cemetery, is near that of my father.

On returning to the country, and wishing to pay some tribute to the memory of my master, I composed a Chant Funèbre, which was performed in the autumn, Felix Blumenfeld conducting, at the first Belaieff concert, which was dedicated to the memory of the great musician. The score of this work unfortunately disappeared in Russia during the Revolution, along with many other things which I had left there. I can no longer remember the music, but I can remember the idea at the root of its conception, which was that all the solo instruments of the orchestra filed past the tomb of the master in succession, each laying down its own melody as its wreath against a deep background of tremolo murmurings simulating the vibrations of bass voices singing in chorus. The impression made on the public, as well as on myself, was marked, but how far it was due to the atmosphere of mourning and how far to the merits of the composition itself I am no longer able to judge.

The presentation of the Scherzo Fantastique and Feu d'Artifice at the Siloti concerts in the winter marks a date of importance for the whole future of my musical career. It was at this point that I began the close relations with Diaghileff which lasted for twenty years, right up to his death, and developed into a deep friendship based on a reciprocal affection that was proof against the difference of views or tastes which could not but arise from time to time in such a long period. Having heard the two compositions just mentioned, he commissioned me, among certain other Russian composers, to orchestrate two pieces by Chopin for the ballet, Les Sylphides, to be given in Paris in the spring of 1909. They were the Nocturne with which the dancing begins and the Valse Brillante with which the ballet closes. I could not go abroad that year, so that it was not until twelve months afterwards that I first heard my music in Paris.

These compositions, together with the death of Rimsky-Korsakov, had interrupted my work on the first act of my opera, Le Rossignol. In the summer of 1909 I returned to it with the firm intention of finishing it. There were to be three acts. But circumstances once again proved too strong for me. By the end of the summer the orchestration of the first act was finished, and, on returning to town, I meant to go on with the rest. But a telegram then arrived to upset all my plans. Diaghileff, who had just reached St. Petersburg, asked me to write the music for L'Oiseau de Feu for the Russian Ballet season at the Paris Opera House in the spring of 1910. Although alarmed by the fact that this was a commission for a fixed date, and afraid lest I should fail to complete the work in time—I was still unaware of my own capabilities—I accepted the order. It was highly flattering to be chosen from among the musicians of my generation, and to be allowed to collaborate in so important an enterprise side by side with personages who were generally recognized as masters in their own spheres.

Here I must interrupt the chronological sequence of my story in order to give the reader a short account of the place which the ballet and ballet music occupied in intellectual circles and among so-called “serious” musicians in the period immediately preceding the appearance of the Diaghileff group. Although our ballet shone then, as always, by reason of its technical perfection, and although it filled the theatre, it was only rarely that these circles were represented among the audience. They considered this form of art as an inferior one, especially as compared with opera, which, though mishandled and turned into musical drama (which is not at all the same thing), still retained its own prestige. This was particularly the point of view in regard to the music of the classical ballet, which contemporary opinion considered to be unworthy of a serious composer. These poor souls had forgotten Glinka and his splendid dances in the Italian style in Ruslan and Ludmilla. It is true that Rimsky-Korsakov appreciated them—or, rather, forgave Glinka for them—but he himself, in his numerous operas, definitely gave the preference to character or national dances. We must not forget that it was these very pages of Glinka which inspired the great Russian composer, who was the first to bring about the serious recognition of ballet music in general—I refer to Tchaikovsky. In the early eighties he had had the audacity to compose a ballet for the Grand Theatre in Moscow, Le Lac des Cygnes, and he had to pay for his audacity by complete failure with the ignorant public, which would only admit ballet music as subsidiary and unimportant. His lack of success, however, did not prevent the Director of the Imperial Theatres, Ivan Vsevolojsky—a very enlightened and cultured aristocrat—from commissioning Tchaikovsky to compose another ballet, The Sleeping Beauty. It was produced with unprecedented lavishness (the production cost eighty thousand rubles) in the presence of the Emperor Alexander III at the Marie Theatre in St. Petersburg in December, 1889. This music was as much discussed by the incorrigible “balletomaniacs” as by the critics. They considered that it was too symphonic, and did not lend itself sufficiently to dancing. Nevertheless, it made a great impression on musicians, and completely changed their attitude towards the ballet in general. Thus, a few years later we see, one after the other, such composers as Glazounov, Arensky, and Tcherepnin composing ballets for the Imperial Theatres.

At the moment when I received Diaghileff's commission, the ballet had just undergone a great transformation owing to the advent of a young ballet master, Fokine, and the flowering of a whole bouquet of artists full of talent and originality: Pavlova, Karsavina, Nijinsky. Notwithstanding all my admiration for the classical ballet and its great master, Marius Petipa, I could not resist the intoxication produced by such ballets as Les Danses du Prince Igor or Carnaval, the only two of Fokine's productions that I had so far seen. All this greatly tempted me, and impelled me to break through the pale and eagerly seize this opportunity of making close contact with that group of advanced and active artists of which Diaghileff was the soul, and which had long attracted me.

Throughout the winter I worked strenuously at my ballet, and that brought me into constant touch with Diaghileff and his collaborators. Fokine created the choreography of L'Oiseau de Feu section by section, as the music was handed to him. I attended every rehearsal with the company, and after rehearsals Diaghileff, Nijinsky (who was, however, not dancing in the ballet), and myself generally ended the day with a fine dinner, washed down with good claret.

I then had an opportunity of observing Nijinsky at close quarters. He spoke little, and, when he did speak, gave the impression of being a very backward youth, whose intelligence was very undeveloped for his age. But, whenever this occurred, Diaghileff, who was always beside him, would intervene and correct him so tactfully that no one noticed his embarrassing defects. I shall have further occasion to speak of Nijinsky when describing the part he took in my other ballets, either as dancer or choreographer.

Here I must say more of Diaghileff, because the close association I had with him during this first collaboration revealed the very essence of his great personality. What struck me most was the degree of endurance and tenacity that he displayed in pursuit of his ends. His strength in

this direction was so exceptional that it was always somewhat terrifying, though at the same time reassuring, to work with him. It was terrifying because whenever there was a divergence of opinion it was arduous and exhausting to struggle with him. But it was reassuring to know that the goal was certain to be reached when once our differences had been overcome.

The quality of his intelligence and mentality also attracted me. He had a wonderful flair, a marvelous faculty for seizing at a glance the novelty and freshness of an idea, surrendering himself to it without pausing to reason it out. I do not mean to imply that he was at all lacking in reasoning power. On the contrary, his reasoning powers were unerring, and he had a most rational mind; and, though he frequently made mistakes or acted foolishly, it was because he had been carried away by passion or temperament—the two forces predominant in him.

He had at the same time a broad and generous nature, usually incapable of calculation, and, when he did calculate, it meant only that he himself was penniless. On the other hand, when he was in funds he spent lavishly on himself and on others. An odd trait in his character was his strange indifference towards the somewhat dubious honesty of some of those who were in touch with him—even when they victimized him—so long as their dishonesty was offset by other qualities. What he most detested were the commonplace, incapacity, a lack of savoir faire: he hated and despised a fool. Strangely enough, in this highly intelligent man, efficiency and shrewdness were accompanied by a certain childish ingenuousness. He never bore a grudge. When anyone swindled him, he was not angry, but would remark simply, “Well, what of it? He's looking after himself.”

But to return to my score of L'Oiseau de Feu; I worked strenuously at it, and when I finished it on time I felt the need of a rest in the country before going to Paris, which I was to visit for the first time.

Diaghileff, with his company and collaborators, preceded me, so that when I joined them rehearsals were in full swing. Fokine elaborated the scenario, having worked at his choreography with burning devotion, the more so because he had fallen in love with the Russian fairy story. The casting was not what I had intended. Pavlova, with her slim angular figure, had seemed to me infinitely better suited to the role of the fairy bird than Karsavina, with her gentle feminine charm, for whom I had intended the part of the captive princess. Though circumstances had decided otherwise than I had planned, I had no cause for complaint, since Karsavina's rendering of the bird's part was perfect, and that beautiful and gracious artist had a brilliant success in it.

The performance was warmly applauded by the Paris public. I am, of course, far from attributing this success solely to the score; it was equally due to the spectacle on the stage in the painter Golovin's magnificent setting, the brilliant interpretation by Diaghileff's artists, and the talent of the choreographer. I must admit, however, that the choreography of this ballet always seemed to me to be complicated and overburdened with plastic detail, so that the artists felt, and still feel even now, great difficulty in coordinating their steps and gestures with the music, and this often led to an unpleasant discordance between the movements of the dance and the imperative demands that the measure of the music imposed.

Although the evolution of the classical dance and its problems now seem much more real to me, and touch me more closely than the distant aesthetics of Fokine, I still consider that I have a right to form and express the opinion that in the sphere of choreography I prefer, for example, the vigor of the Danses du Prince Igor, with their clear-cut and positive lines, to the somewhat detached designs of L'Oiseau de Feu.

Returning for a moment to the music, it gives me much pleasure to pay grateful tribute to the mastery with which the eminent Gabriel Pierné conducted my work.

While I was in Paris I had the opportunity of meeting several persons of importance in the world of music, such as Debussy, Ravel, Florent Schmitt, and Manuel de Falla, who were there at that time. I recall that on the first night Debussy came on to the stage and complimented me on my score. That was the beginning of friendly relations which lasted to the end of his life.

The approbation, and even admiration, extended to me by the artistic and musical world in general, but more particularly by representatives of the younger generation, greatly strengthened me in regard to the plans which I had in mind for the future—I am thinking in particular of Petroushka, of which I shall have more to say later.

One day, when I was finishing the last pages of L'Oiseau de Feu in St. Petersburg, I had a fleeting vision which came to me as a complete surprise, my mind at the moment being full of other things. I saw in imagination a solemn pagan rite: sage elders, seated in a circle, watched a young girl dance herself to death. They were sacrificing her to propitiate the god of spring. Such was the theme of the Sacre du Printemps. I must confess that this vision made a deep impression on me, and I at once described it to my friend, Nicholas Roerich, he being a painter who had specialized in pagan subjects. He welcomed my inspiration with enthusiasm, and became my collaborator in this creation. In Paris I told Diaghileff about it, and he was at once carried away by the idea, though its realization was delayed by the following events.

At the end of the Paris season I had a short rest at the sea, in which I composed two songs to Verlaine's words, and at the end of August I went to Switzerland with my family.

Before tackling the Sacre du Printemps, which would be a long and difficult task, I wanted to refresh myself by composing an orchestral piece in which the piano would play the most important part—a sort of Konzertstück. In composing the music, I had in my mind a distinct picture of a puppet, suddenly endowed with life, exasperating the patience of the orchestra with diabolical cascades of arpeggios. The orchestra in turn retaliates with menacing trumpet blasts. The outcome is a terrific noise which reaches its climax and ends in the sorrowful and querulous collapse of the poor puppet. Having finished this bizarre piece, I struggled for hours, while walking beside the Lake of Geneva, to find a title which would express in a word the character of my music and consequently, the personality of this creature.

One day I leapt for joy. I had indeed found my title—Petroushka, the immortal and unhappy hero of every fair in all countries. Soon afterwards Diaghileff came to visit me at Clarens, where I was staying. He was much astonished when, instead of sketches of the Sacre, I played him the piece I had just composed and which later became the second scene of Petroushka. He was so much pleased with it that he would not leave it alone and began persuading me to develop the theme of the puppet's sufferings and make it into a whole ballet. While he remained in Switzerland we worked out together the general lines of the subject and the plot in accordance with ideas which I suggested. We settled the scene of action: the fair, with its crowd, its booths, the little traditional theatre, the character of the magician, with all his tricks; and the coming to life of the dolls—Petroushka, his rival, and the dancer—and their love tragedy, which ends with Petroushka's death. I began at once to compose the first scene of the

ballet, which I finished at Beaulieu, where I spent the winter with my family. While there, I frequently saw Diaghileff, who was at Monte Carlo. By mutual agreement, Diaghileff entrusted the whole décor of the ballet, both the scenery and the costumes, to Benois. Diaghileff soon went off to St. Petersburg, whence he wrote at Christmas, asking me to join him there for a few days, bringing my music so that Benois and his other collaborators might see it. I went in some trepidation. The suddenness of the transition from the sunny warmth of Beaulieu to the fog and snow of my native city struck me with great force.

As soon as I arrived I let my friends hear what I had so far composed for Petroushka—namely, the first two scenes and the beginning of the third. Benois immediately began work, and in the spring he joined us at Monte Carlo, whither Diaghileff and I had returned.

I little thought then that I had seen my native town for the last time—St. Petersburg, the town of St. Peter, dedicated by Peter the Great to his great patron saint and not to himself, as was doubtless supposed by the ignorant inventors of the absurd name, Petrograd.

When I returned to Beaulieu, I resumed work on my score, but its progress was interrupted. I became seriously ill with nicotine poisoning, and was at the point of death, this illness causing a month of enforced idleness. I was terribly anxious about the fate of Petroushka, which had at all costs to be ready for Paris in the spring. Fortunately I recovered my strength sufficiently to enable me to finish my work in the ten weeks which remained before the beginning of the season. Towards the end of April I set out for Rome, where Diaghileff was giving performances at the Costanzi Theatre during the International Exhibition. There Petroushka was rehearsed, and there I finished its last pages.

I shall always remember with particular pleasure that spring in Rome, which I was seeing for the first time. I stayed at the Albergo d'Italia with Benois and the Russian painter, Serov, to whom I became greatly attached. In spite of my strenuous work, we found time to make various expeditions which were very instructive for me, as Benois was a learned connoisseur in matters of art and history and had a talent for making the past live, so that these expeditions provided a veritable education in which I delighted.

On our arrival in Paris, rehearsals started under the direction of Pierre Monteux, who was for several years the conductor of the Russian Ballet. From an instrumentalist in Colonne's orchestra he had attained the rank of assistant conductor. He knew his job thoroughly, and was so familiar with the surroundings from which he had risen that he knew how to get on with his musicians—a great asset for a conductor. Thus he was able to achieve a very clean and finished execution of my score. I ask no more of a conductor, for any other attitude on his part immediately turns into interpretation, a thing I have a horror of. The interpreter of necessity can think of nothing but interpretation, and thus takes on the garb of a translator, traduttore-traditore; this is an absurdity in music, and for the interpreter it is a source of vanity inevitably leading to the most ridiculous megalomania. During the rehearsals I had the great satisfaction of seeing that all my intentions with regard to sound effects were amply confirmed.

At the dress rehearsal at the Chatelet, to which the Press and the elite of the artistic world had been invited, I remember the Petroushka produced an immediate effect on everyone in the audience with the exception of a few hypercritics. One of them—it is true that he was a literary critic—actually went up to Diaghileff and said: “And it was to hear this that you invited us!” “Exactly,” replied Diaghileff. It is only fair to add that later on the celebrated critic, to judge by his praise, seemed to have forgotten this sally.

I should like at this point to pay heartfelt homage to Vaslav Nijinsky's unsurpassed rendering of the role of Petroushka. The perfection with which he became the very incarnation of this character was all the more remarkable because the purely saltatory work in which he usually excelled was in this case definitely dominated by dramatic action, music, and gesture. The beauty of the ballet was greatly enhanced by the richness of the artistic setting that Benois had created for it. My faithful interpreter, Karsavina, swore to me that she would never relinquish her part as the dancer, which she adored. But it was a pity that the movements of the crowd had been neglected. I mean that they were left to the arbitrary improvisation of the performers instead of being choreographically regulated in accordance with the clearly defined exigencies of the music. I regret it all the more because the danses d'ensemble of the coachmen, nurses, and mummers and the solo dances must be regarded as Fokine's finest creations.

As for my present opinion of the music of Petroushka, I think it will be best to refer the reader to the pages that I shall devote later to my own rendering of my works, which will necessarily lead me to speak of them.

And now for the Sacre du Printemps.

As I have already said, when I conceived the idea, immediately after L'Oiseau de Feu, I became so much absorbed in the composition of Petroushka that I had no chance even to sketch preliminary outlines.

After the Paris season, I returned to Oustiloug, our estate in Russia, to devote myself entirely to the Sacre du Printemps. I found time, however, to compose two melodies to the words of the Russian poet Balmont. Besides that, also to Balmont's words, I composed a cantata for choir and orchestra, Zvezdoliki (The King of the Stars), which I dedicated to Claude Debussy. Owing, however, to inherent difficulties involved in the execution of this very short piece, with its important orchestral contingent and the complexity of its choral writing as regards intonation, it has never been performed.

Although I had conceived the subject of the Sacre du Printemps without any plot, some plan had to be designed for the sacrificial action. For this it was necessary that I should see Roerich. He was staying at the moment at Talachkino, the estate of Princess Tenicheva, a great patron of Russian art. I joined him, and it was there that we settled the visual embodiment of the Sacre and the definite sequence of its different episodes. I began the score on returning to Oustiloug, and worked at it through the winter at Clarens.

Diaghileff made up his mind that year that he would spare no effort to make a choreographer of Nijinsky. I do not know whether he really believed in his choreographic gifts, or whether he thought that his talented dancing, about which he raved, indicated that he would show equal talent as a ballet master. However that may be, his idea was to make Nijinsky compose, under his own strict supervision, a sort of antique tableau conjuring up the erotic gambols of a faun importuning nymphs. At the suggestion of Bakst, who was obsessed by ancient Greece, this tableau was to be presented as an animated bas-relief, with the figures in profile. Bakst dominated this production. Besides creating the decorative setting and the beautiful costumes, he inspired the choreography even to the slightest movements. Nothing better could be found for this ballet than the impressionist music of Debussy, who, however, evinced little enthusiasm for the project. Diaghileff nevertheless, by dint of his persistence, wrung a half-hearted consent from him, and, after repeated and laborious

rehearsals, the ballet was set afoot and was produced in Paris in the spring. The scandal which it produced is a matter of history, but that scandal was in nowise due to the so-called novelty of the performance, but to a gesture, too audacious and too intimate, which Nijinsky made, doubtless thinking that anything was permissible with an erotic subject and perhaps wishing thereby to enhance the effect of the production. I mention this only because it was so much discussed at the time. At this date the aesthetics and the whole spirit of this kind of scenic display seem so stale that I have not the least desire to discuss them further.

Nijinsky had been so busily engaged in making his first attempts as ballet master, and in studying new roles, that he obviously had had neither time nor strength to deal with the Sacre du Printemps, the choreography of which had been entrusted to him. Fokine was occupied with other ballets—Ravel's Daphnis et Chloé and Reynaldo Hahn's Le Dieu Bleu. The production of the Sacre, the score of which I had meanwhile finished, had therefore to be put off till the following year. This allowed me to take a rest and to work without haste on the orchestration.

When I returned to Paris for the Diaghileff season, I heard, among other things, the brilliant score of Maurice Ravel's Daphnis et Chloé, Ravel having previously given me some idea of it by playing it to me on the piano. Not only is it one of Ravel's greatest achievements, it is one of the finest things in French music. If I am not mistaken it was in that year, while seated, by Debussy's invitation, in his box at the Opéra Comique, that I heard for the first time another great French work, Pelléas et Mélisande. I was seeing a good deal of Debussy, and was deeply touched by his sympathetic attitude towards me and my music. I was struck by the delicacy of his appreciation, and was grateful to him, among other things, for having observed what so few had then noticed—the musical importance of the pages which precede the juggling tricks in Petroushka immediately before the final dance of the marionettes in the first act. Debussy often invited me to his house, and on one occasion I met there Erik Satie, whom I already knew by name. I liked him at once. He was a quick-witted fellow, shrewd, clever, and mordant. Of his compositions I prefer above all his Socrate and certain pages of his Parade.

From Paris I went as usual to Oustiloug for the summer, and there I quietly continued my work on the Sacre. I was roused from that peaceful existence by an invitation from Diaghileff to join him at Bayreuth to hear Parsifal in its hallowed setting. I had never seen Parsifal on the stage. The proposal was tempting, and I accepted it with pleasure. On the way I stopped at Nuremberg for twenty-four hours and visited the museum. Next day my dear, portly friend met me at the Bayreuth station and told me that we were in danger of having to sleep in the open, as all the hotels were filled to overflowing. We managed, however, with great difficulty, to find two servants' rooms. The performance that I saw there would not tempt me today, even if I were offered a room gratis. The very atmosphere of the theatre, its design and its setting, seemed lugubrious. It was like a crematorium, and a very old-fashioned one at that, and one expected to see the gentleman in black who had been entrusted with the task of singing the praises of the departed. The order to devote oneself to contemplation was given by a blast of trumpets. I sat humble and motionless, but at the end of a quarter of an hour I could bear no more. My limbs were numb and I had to change my position. Crack! Now I had done it! My chair had made a noise which drew down on me the furious scowls of a hundred pairs of eyes. Once more I withdrew into myself, but I could think of only one thing, and that was the end of the act which would put an end to my martyrdom. At last the intermission arrived, and I was rewarded by two sausages and a glass of beer. But hardly had I had time to light a cigarette when the trumpet blast sounded again, demanding another period of contemplation. Another act to be got through, when all my thoughts were concentrated on my cigarette, of which I had had barely a whiff. I managed to bear the second act. Then there were more sausages, more beer, another trumpet blast, another period of contemplation, another act—finis!

I do not want to discuss the music of Parsifal or the music of Wagner in general. At this date it is too remote from me. What I find revolting in the whole affair is the underlying conception which dictated it—the principle of putting a work of art on the same level as the sacred and symbolic ritual which constitutes a religious service. And, indeed, is not all this comedy of Bayreuth, with its ridiculous formalities, simply an unconscious aping of a religious rite?

Perhaps someone may cite the mysteries of the Middle Ages in contravention of this view. But those performances had religion as their basis and faith as their source. The spirit of the mystery plays did not venture beyond the bosom of the Church which patronized them. They were religious ceremonies bordering on the canonical rites, and such aesthetic qualities as they might contain were merely accessory and unintentional, and in no way affected their substance. Such ceremonies were due to the imperious desire of the faithful to see the objects of their faith incarnate and in palpable form—the same desire as that which created statues and ikons in the churches.

It is high time to put an end, once and for all, to this unseemly and sacrilegious conception of art as religion and the theatre as a temple. The following argument will readily show the absurdity of such pitiful aesthetics: one cannot imagine a believer adopting a critical attitude towards a religious service. That would be a contradiction in terms; the believer would cease to be a believer. The attitude of an audience is exactly the opposite. It is not dependent upon faith or blind submission. At a performance one admires or one rejects. One accepts only after having passed judgment, however little one may be aware of it. The critical faculty plays an essential part. To confound these two distinct lines of thought is to give proof of a complete lack of discernment, and certainly of bad taste. But is it at all surprising that such confusion should arise at a time like the present, when the openly irreligious masses in their degradation of spiritual values and debasement of human thought necessarily lead us to utter brutalization? People are, however, apparently fully aware of the sort of monster to which the world is about to give birth, and perceive with annoyance that man cannot live without some kind of cult. An effort is therefore made to refurbish old cults dragged from some revolutionary arsenal, wherewith to enter into competition with the Church.

But to return to the Sacre. To be perfectly frank, I must say here and now that the idea of working with Nijinsky filled me with misgiving, notwithstanding our friendliness and my great admiration for his talent as dancer and mime. His ignorance of the most elementary notions of music was flagrant. The poor boy knew nothing of music. He could neither read it nor play any instrument, and his reactions to music were expressed in banal phrases or the repetition of what he had heard others say. As one was unable to discover any individual impressions, one began to doubt whether he had any. These lacunae were so serious that his plastic vision, often of great beauty, could not compensate for them. My

apprehensions can be readily understood, but I had no choice in the matter. Fokine had dissociated himself from Diaghileff, and in any case, considering his aesthetic tendencies, he would doubtless have refused to work at the Sacre; Romanov was busy with Florent Schmitt's Salomé; only Nijinsky remained, and Diaghileff, still hopeful of making a ballet master of him, insisted that he should put on both the Sacre and Debussy's Jeux.

Nijinsky began by demanding such a fantastic number of rehearsals that it was physically impossible to give them to him. It will not be difficult to understand why he wanted so many, when I say that in trying to explain to him the construction of my work in general outline and in detail I discovered that I should achieve nothing until I had taught him the very rudiments of music: values—semibreve, minim, crochet, quaver, etc.—bars, rhythm, tempo, and so on. He had the greatest difficulty in remembering any of this. Nor was that all. When, in listening to music, he contemplated movements, it was always necessary to remind him that he must make them accord with the tempo, its divisions and values. It was exasperating and we advanced at a snail's pace. It was all the more trying because Nijinsky complicated and encumbered his dances beyond all reason, thus creating difficulties for the dancers that were sometimes impossible to overcome. This was due as much to his lack of experience as to the complexity of a task with which he was unfamiliar.