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The Piano Music of LyadovMarco Rapetti

‘I’m a ‘free bird’. The word “must” will never force me to do anything.’Anatoliy Konstantinovich Lyadov

His Life and Times

‘With regard to music, something has happened,’ Musorgsky wrote to the critic Vladimir Stasov on August 2, 1873, ‘a

new, unmistakable, original and Russian young talent has appeared: the son of Konstantin Lyadov, and a pupil at the

Conservatory […] A genuine talent! Easy, natural, daring, fresh and powerful […] Cui, Borodin and my debauched

self are highly delighted with him. A description of his exterior: fair-haired, thick-lipped, with tiny wrinkles round his

nose, designed by nature as channels for tears flowing directly to the mouth. The forehead is not lofty but full of

character, especially in conjunction with a prominent temple. Nervous to a terrible degree, taciturn to yet a more

terrible degree, he listens without uttering a single word, only the wrinkles around his nostrils begin to work, and that

means praise! As to his own scribbles, well, you will judge for yourself. Korsakov has been holding forth on them

quite a lot…’

Unfortunately, Musorgsky did not live long enough to enjoy Lyadov’s more mature ‘scribbles’. By the time of his

premature death, almost contemporary to Tsar Alexandr II’s brutal assassination in March 1881, the young Anatoliy

had only composed a charming song cycle (Op.1) and a few Schumannesque piano works (Opp. 2–4), and was

involved in a large-scale project, the opera Zoryushka, which he would eventually abandon. In the same year, Cesar

Cui devoted a whole paragraph of his book Music in Russia to Lyadov, underlining ‘his creative easiness, the wealth

and elegance of his harmonic vocabulary, and his technical mastery.’

Lyadov, in fact, belongs to the first generation of Russian musicians who had the opportunity to develop a solid

technical background through public education (the St. Petersburg Conservatory had just been established by Anton

Rubinstein in 1862). Moreover, as a child he grew up in a musically stimulating environment, since various members

of his family were musicians involved in the theatrical world. Unfortunately, the careless and rather loose life-style of

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his bohemian family also had a negative impact upon the talented boy, keeping his studies from proceeding regularly

(later he would be expelled from the conservatory for failure to attend) and fostering his tendency towards indolence

and isolation. His father, who was a famous conductor at the Mariinsky Theatre and a could-have-been-goodcomposer, imparted the first music lessons to his son, whose childhood was spent behind the scenes at the theatre, and

treated as the opera-troupe’s pet.

When Konstantin Lyadov died, in 1868, the 13-year-old Anatoliy was left an orphan of both parents, so then boarded

with one of the directors of the Russian Musical Society. Two years later, he enrolled at the conservatory, where he

soon developed a keen interest in contrapuntal techniques by attending Johansen’s class in counterpoint and fugue,

and where he subsequently studied composition with Rimsky-Korsakov. ‘How easy it all was for him!’ Rimsky later

noted in his memories. ‘Where did he draw his experience from? Indeed, he was most talented, and so clever too!’

After his graduation in May 1878, the two musicians spent the summer in two neighboring villages and ‘as a pastime

and exercise, we each used to write a fugue a day on the same theme in D minor.’ The lifelong relationship with

Rimsky had evident repercussions for both composers, initially disciple and teacher and eventually friends and

colleagues (Rimsky’s famous harmony manual, for instance, was inspired by Lyadov’s teaching principles). In

September of the same year, the 23-year-old Anatoliy joined the faculty of the conservatory as a theory professor and

in 1885, Balakirev and Rimsky invited him to teach harmony and theory at the Imperial Court Chapel as well.

If Lyadov had not belonged to a later generation, the Moguchaya Kuchka (‘the Mighty Handful’, as Stasov ironically

nicknamed Balakirev’s famous group of composers) would probably be known today as ‘The Six’ instead of ‘The

Five’. As an affiliated member of Balakirev’s circle, he participated in joint compositions (such as the ingenious cycle

of piano Paraphrases, written together with Borodin, Cui and Rimsky-Korsakov), joint orchestrations (Borodin’s

Prince Igor, Cui’s Prisoner of the Caucasus, and Musorgsky’s Sorochintsy Fair), and joint revisions (Glinka’s works).

When Balakirev began to withdraw from the musical scene, barricading himself in his misanthropic religiosity, the

other components of the Moguchaya Kuchka gradually detached themselves from their charismatic but despotic

leader, and the group eventually disbanded. Lyadov then became one of the founding members of the BelyayevskiyKruzhok (‘Belyayev’s circle’), together with Rimsky-Korsakov and the young Aleksandr Glazunov. Borodin got

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involved with this new musical clique too, but unfortunately died shortly afterwards. Therefore, Lyadov and Rimsky

(who was the youngest member of the Five, having been born in 1844) represent the actual link between the two most

important musical coteries of 19th century Russia, whose leaders were the most influential ‘Bs’ in the history of

Russian music. On one hand, it was Balakirev who catalyzed the energies of a brilliant generation of self-taught

composers, propelling them towards the creation of a new, truly Russian school based on the revaluation of Slavic

folksong. On the other hand, it was Belyayev who most contributed to the worldwide diffusion of contemporary

Russian music.

Coming from the wealthiest family of timber merchants in the whole empire, Mitrofan Petrovich Belyayev retired

from business at 48 to devote himself entirely to a philanthropic cause, investing enormous amounts of money in the

promotion of Russian musicians in their homeland and abroad. He himself was an amateur violist and often

performed in the St. Petersburg Music Lovers, a small private orchestra conducted by Lyadov, who was to remain his

inseparable assistant and supervisor. ‘Can Belyayev’s circle be looked upon as a continuation of Balakirev’s?’ Rimsky

argues in his biography. ‘The similarity consisted of the advanced ideas, and progressivism common to both of them.

But Balakirev’s circle corresponded to the period of storm and stress in the evolution of Russian music; Belyayev’s

circle represented the period of calm, onward march. Balakirev’s circle was revolutionary, Belyayev’s, on the other

hand, was progressive.’

In 1885, the stout and sturdy mæcenas established one of the most important music publishing houses of the century,

locating it in Leipzig, since Russia had not signed the convention protocol for copyright protection. Belyayev set up an

Advisory Board of experts, namely, Rimsky, Lyadov and Glazunov, in charge of helping him select the compositions to

be published (the same triumvirate would be entrusted with the publishing business after Belyayev’s death in 1904). In

1894, when Skryabin’s early works were submitted for publication, Rimsky and Glazunov categorically refused to

print them (they would always feel a certain dislike for the foppish Muscovite composer, nicknamed by Rimsky ‘the

narcissus’). Thanks to Lyadov’s opposition and Belyayev’s support, Skryabin soon became the most important and

favored name in the firm’s catalogue. Both imbued with Chopin, Lyadov and Skryabin immediately attracted and

admired each other.

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While it is not easy to define who influenced whom in relation to their works written in the 1890s (it is interesting to

compare Lyadov’s piano preludes Opp. 31, 36, 39, 40, 42 and 46 to Skryabin’s short piano pieces composed in the

same period), it was certainly Skryabin’s harmonic vocabulary that provided the model for Lyadov’s last opus

numbers. Skryabin’s egotistic and peevish character was antithetic to Lyadov’s; besides, the latter’s agnosticism had

nothing in common with the former’s esoteric mysticism and eschatological thinking. Yet, Lyadov always felt a

profound fascination for his younger colleague’s overwhelming genius, even though the dazzling evolution of

Skryabin’s style bewildered him a lot. ‘After Skryabin, Wagner lisps sweetly like a suckling babe. I think I’ll take leave

of my senses any minute now. But where can one hide from this music? Help!’ he once blasted in Belyayev’s presence.

In 1911, after the premiere of Prometheus, Lyadov told a friend: ‘Do you know how badly I slept last night? The

thought won’t leave my mind of how fine it will be when in two weeks we will hear that Skryabin has been taken to

Udelnyi [an insane asylum along the railroad to Finland].’

Skryabin, for his part, always showed a special affection for the older composer, as did Igor Stravinsky. ‘Lyadov was

the most progressive of the musicians of his generation and he had championed my first pieces,’ Stravinsky wrote in

his 1959 Memoires and Commentaries. Thanks to Lyadov, he had the opportunity to publish his early song Faun andShepherdess; furthermore, due to Lyadov’s excessive procrastination in composing The Firebird, Diaghilev turned the

commission of the ballet over to the young Stravinsky: the rest is history. ‘[Lyadov] was more relieved than offended, I

suspect, when I accepted the commission,’ Stravinsky said. ‘He was a darling man, as sweet and charming as his own

Musical Snuffbox. We called him ‘the blacksmith’, but I can’t think why unless it was because he was so soft and gentle

and so very unlike a blacksmith. He was a small man with a sympathetic, squinting face and few hairs on his head.

He always carried books under his arm – Maeterlinck, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Andersen: he liked tender, fantastical things.’

Actually, most of Lyadov’s orchestral works (Baba-Yaga, 8 Russian Folk-songs, The Enchanted Lake, Kikimora) evoke

folktale-like atmospheres: ‘Give me fairies and dragons and mermaids and goblins, and I am thoroughly happy,’ he

once declared. ‘Art feeds me on roast birds of paradise. It is another planet – nothing to do with our earth.’ Unlike

Rimsky, with whom he shared the same fascination for the timeless world of folk-tales, Lyadov never challenged

himself with a large-scale composition. Despite Rimsky’s enthusiastic support (‘dear friend, do write a really Russian

opera: you are splendidly equipped for the venture, and nobody else could do it as you will!’), not only some projected

operas, but also the ballet Leyla i Adelay and a string quartet were eventually dropped or left unfinished.

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This could-have-been-great composer has often been accused of sheer laziness, especially after his marriage in 1884,

which allowed him to acquire a country property in Polynovka (strangely enough, he always kept his marriage

wrapped in an aura of mystery, never letting anybody meet his wife and always going everywhere alone). ‘His

skepticism and fondness for withdrawing into his ivory tower were stronger than his creative impulses,’ was Michel

Dmitri Calvocoressi’s comment. Behind his unpretentious character and apparent lack of ambition, Lyadov was indeed

a severe self-critic, a quality that partly inhibited his creative potential and contributed to his self-effacement. The

‘blacksmith’ (or better, ‘the watchmaker’, as Stravinsky maliciously called Ravel) always felt more at ease with finely

chiselled small structures. His piano, vocal and orchestral miniatures all sound like perfectly polished, formally

impeccable musical cameos. As the critic and composer Vyacheslav Karatigin wrote a few days after Lyadov’s death,

‘Skryabin’s art is often so much ‘magnified’, so much reflects the cosmos on a large scale, that in order to grasp the

contours of this art one has to apprehend it as if it were at a certain (psychological) distance. One may admire Chopin

at the distance of normal ‘clear sight’. In order to bring one’s soul into contact with Lyadov’s inspirations, one has to

adjust it to ‘microscopic’, one has to approach Lyadov in real earnest and, armed with special psychological prisms

and lenses, scrutinize attentively the worlds of the inner life of sound opening up before one’s eyes. And immediately,

upon adopting this intimate approach to this intimate art, the depth and slender, detailed beauty of construction in

Lyadov’s musical images and their originality are revealed.’

While Skryabin plunged into the harsh new century by pushing functional harmony to its extreme borders, Lyadov

retired like a gastropod in its shell, making ever more sporadic attempts at composition. In 1901, he started teaching

advanced counterpoint at the conservatory and, in 1906, he took over the composition class, showing a professional

rigour akin to that of his predecessor Rimsky-Korsakov. When the enfant-prodige Prokofiev enrolled in his harmony

class, he found Lyadov’s approach exceedingly strict and not open to audacities and ‘modernities’ of any sort from his

pupils (the same impression was reported by his fellow friend Myaskovsky). If Lyadov was a progressive musician, as

Stravinsky says, he was certainly not a revolutionary one. Inevitably, his fear of change and excess did not allow him

to adhere to the revolutionary ideals that were pervading his turbulent times. Greatly concerned about individual

freedom, he admired Nietzsche but showed antipathy for Tolstoy, who, in his opinion, ‘was helping mankind to

commit the greatest crime in the world – to level everybody.’

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A significant episode, however, occurred in 1905, at the time of the First Russian Revolution: when Rimsky was

dismissed from the conservatory charged with supporting the students’ riots, he and Glazunov resigned in protest and

went back to teaching only after Rimsky’s reinstatement. Although he always preferred to remain aloof, taking shelter

in his phlegmatic and pessimistic detachment, Lyadov was aware of the imminent impending catastrophe upon Europe

and upon his country, ruled by a shortsighted and repressive tsarist regime (for which he was commissioned to write

the orthodox hymn Slava, originally scored for female choir, 2 harps and 2 pianos). In this paean to the ruler of the

country (doomed to be executed with his entire family by the Bolsheviks in July 1918), the last Tsar of Russia,

Nikolay II, is compared to the sun, the tsarina to the moon, and their children to the stars. As Faubion Bowers points

out, in those days ‘the price for orthodoxy and tsarism was high, and it was paid in infinite, sometimes contrary

forms. Some people became confirmed atheists. Debased Byronism took Don Juan as a model against convention.

Others became “self-destructive transcendentalists”, essaying to become God himself, like Skryabin or Dostoevsky’s

Kirillov in The Devils. Eschatology was a keynote of Pre-First World War Russia, as it had been throughout most of

Russia’s religious history. Apocalypticism made the Book of Revelation the most quoted, painted, sung, and set-to-

music section of the Bible. Everyone predicted the end of the world, earth-shattering changes (potryasenia), upheavals

(perevoroty); “unheard of events”, said the symbolist poet Alexander Blok, “world conflagration” shouted Skryabin,

“the end of history”, intoned Solovyov. Even Lyadov stopped talking long enough to write an Apocalypse Suite.’

In 1911–12, by the time he composed the orchestral poem Iz Apokalipsisa (From the Apocalypse) Op.66, Lyadov’s

health had already begun to deteriorate. His last work, entitled Skorbnaya pesn’ (Threnodie) for small orchestra,

appeared in 1914, and brought the total opus numbers in his catalogue to 67. Although opposite in size and scope,

both Lyadov’s last miniature and Skryabin’s colossal and utopian Misteriya, seem to reflect the same lines by Chekhov:

‘The time is at hand, an avalanche is moving down upon us, a mighty clearing storm which is coming is already near

and will soon blow…’ Lyadov died in August 1914, when the Great War had just broken out. Skryabin followed him

eight months later. Neither of them witnessed the traumatic end of a Russian era.

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The Piano Works

Although Lyadov never finished his degree in piano performance at the conservatory (at a certain point, he also

forsook his violin courses), he still managed to become quite an accomplished pianist. His idiomatic writing for the

keyboard proves how finely he must have mastered the instrument, which he often played at Balakirev’s meetings,

alone or four-hands with other members of the Moguchaya Kuchka. Rimsky’s only remark was that his playing tended

to be overly soft and contained. As time passed, Lyadov became shyer and unwilling to play in front of other people,

except for some unpredictable bursts of inspiration (somehow similar to the logorrhea attacks that suddenly

interrupted his prolonged silences). Not interested in pursuing a career as a performer, he only made public

appearances as a refined conductor, especially in the Imperial Russian Music Society seasons and in the Russian

Symphony Concerts patronized by Belyayev (where he premiered Skryabin’s First and Second Symphonies, among

other works).

Like Skryabin’s, the main bulk of Lyadov’s output consists of piano music, firmly rooted in the much-revered European

Romantic tradition. Lyadov, however, was not interested in sonata-forms and never wrote any piece of considerable

length for the instrument; in fact, his two major piano works are nothing but nicely assembled sets of variations, that

is his Variations Op.35 (on a very Italianate song composed in 1832 by Glinka, entitled Nuit vénitienne), and his

Variations Op.51 (on a Polish folksong). In Lyadov’s youthful works, as the composer and musicologist Guy Sacre

remarks, ‘Schumann is the omnipresent, tyrannical model, and not much space is left for the imitator to meet himself’.

In Lyadov’s first piano piece, the sparkling polyptych Biryul’ky (a title which refers to the Chinese game of

jackstraws), there are evident echoes of Papillons and Carnaval (which he would later orchestrate together with other

members of Belyayev’s circle). Other piano works by Schumann trickled into the series of Arabesques Op.4 (dedicated

to Rimsky-Korsakov), the fragile Impromptu Op.6, the four vigorous Intermezzi Op.7/8, and the boisterous NovelletteOp.20. Quite curiously, both the Intermezzi and the Novellette were dedicated to Vladimir Stasov, the irreducible

advocate of Russianness in art and the ideological father of the Five (equally curious would be Lyadov’s later

dedication of his most important folkloric piece, the Ballade ‘About Olden Times’, Op.21, to the most conservative

and West-oriented composer, Anton Rubinstein).

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From the beginning of the 1880’s, Schumann’s influence started being overshadowed by Chopin’s, which was to become

the most pervasive component in Lyadov’s mature style. The three Mazurkas, Op.3b (1877) are the first work hinting

at Chopin, and in particular at the Slavic side of his character. Markedly Chopinian, but in a Parisian salon-like vein,

are the Etude in A flat major, Op.5 (dedicated to Balakirev), the Valse in F sharp minor, Op.9 No.1, the Prelude in D

flat Major, Op.10 No.1, and numerous other pages up to Op.57. Notwithstanding their occasionally hollow elegance,

these works are never devoid of musical interest; particularly noticeable, among others, are the Berceuse, Op.24 No.2,

and the Barcarolle, Op.44, clearly forged on Chopin’s casts. According to Guy Sacre, the three Nouvelles Étudescomposed by Chopin in 1840 are the work that most influenced Lyadov. Their extremely polished writing, the use of

polyrhythms and bold modulations, and the lesser importance given to virtuoso display (in comparison with Chopin’s

24 big Études), perfectly matched Lyadov’s ‘delicate sensibility, his patrician taste and divining ear.’

Unlike Skryabin, who was not interested in folksong and considered musical nationalism obsolete, Lyadov enjoyed

elaborating Russian and Polish themes in his works, according to his slavophile imprinting as a Kuchkist. In 1897, the

Imperial Geographical Society invited him to collect folksongs in various districts, together with Balakirev and

Lyapunov. This experience lead to the publication of various vocal arrangements (the three main collections appeared

in 1898, 1899 and 1902), and to a bunch of aphoristic Children’s Folksongs for piano, without opus number. Slavic

traits can be perceived even in compositions most thoroughly permeated by Western models; for instance, in the sixth

piece of Biryul’ky, with its modal theme in quintuple meter, and in the fifth one, with the unequivocal quotation of

Musorgsky’s Promenade (Pictures at an Exhibition had just been composed, in 1874). However, the first unmistakably

Russian piano work is the Prelude in B minor, Op.11 No.1 (1886), based on a popular theme published by Balakirev

(the piece would later be orchestrated by Stravinsky).

The years 1889-90, during which the composer went to Paris to hear his music performed at the Exposition

Universelle, saw a concentration of piano pieces written in the spirit of the Five, that is ‘in modo russico’, as

Musorgsky would have said using an invented Italian adjective. Typically Russian is the above-mentioned epic Ballade‘About Olden Times’, Op.21, later orchestrated (where Lyadov also imitates a popular folk instrument, the gusli), the

sketch In the Glade, Op.23, the Procession (built on a three-note ostinato bass, B-LA-F, as an obvious reference to

Belyayev, to whom the work is dedicated), and the Three Pieces Op.33 (the third of which is a clever pastoral-like

transformation of the melancholic Russian theme appearing in the first one). Open references to Slavic folklore will

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later appear in the mazurkas, in the two cycles of Variations on a Russian and a Polish theme, and in the witty

Mosquito’s Dance, which is the last piano piece published in Lyadov’s lifetime (in the magazine Galchyonok, 1911).

Between 1891 and 1893, there appeared a series of pieces in waltz rhythm using only the upper registers of the

keyboard, that attest to Lyadov’s attraction for mechanical instruments and toys. While the feeble Petite Valse Op.26

and the delightful Marionettes Op.29 never received much attention, A Musical Snuffbox Op.32, managed to penetrate

the common piano repertoire and soon became a favorite encore, saving Lyadov’s name from a complete oblivion.

This eerie and glassy Valse-badinage dedicated to Lyadov’s young son, Misha, bears a most unusual tempo indication,

‘automaticamente’, and was later orchestrated by the composer for piccolo, flutes, clarinets, harp and glockenspiel

(Stravinsky, who was fond of Lyadov’s piano music, particularly loved this humorous and anti-romantic piece).

The continuous shifts of Western and Slavic components in Lyadov’s music somehow reflect the linguistic dichotomy

of 19th century Russia: French (and in part, German) was used by the educated social strata, while Russian was the

language of the common people and, until 1861, of the serfs. Was Lyadov a moderate slavophile, a convinced

zapadnik (Westernizer), or an original mixture of both? What certainly attracted him was the quest for perfect

proportions within a limited temporal space, and Baroque counterpoint was the most suitable tool for his experiments

in sound-geometry. Like an entomologist observing the symmetrical structure of an insect, he always delighted himself

with the composition of fugues and canons according to the traditional laws of harmony and counterpoint. Some of

them were published as independent piano pieces: namely, the Gigue and Fugue included in Op.3a, the Canons Op.34

(selected from a volume of canons published by Belyayev in 1898), and the Fugues Op.41 (although often listed in

Lyadov’s opus catalogue, the 12 canons published in 1914 were merely a collection of theoretical exercises).

In 1916, the important musicologist Aleksandr Ossovsky, closely connected with Belyayev’s circle, published some

manuscript sketches by Lyadov in the Russian Musical Newspaper. Besides the small Scherzo in B minor (also named

Chorus, for same unknown reasons), there was a three-voice Fugato based on Lyadov’s name (corresponding to the

notes LA-DO-FA). This concise ‘polyphonic signature’ is likely to be the composer’s very last work. His pianistic will,

however, had been published three years before, in 1910, and consisted of the Four Pieces Op.64. These Lilliputian

masterpieces sound ‘as if Lyadov was embarking on an adventure, without a compass, with almost no luggage, with

only a little map scrawled by Skryabin’, quoting Sacre’s words. ‘With their audacious chords, their peculiar

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atmospheres, their titles, and their poetic indications, these pieces inaugurate a new manner just while sealing it at the

same time.’ Silence offered Lyadov a safer harbour than modernity and his nostalgia for a definite past long gone finds

its most poignant expression in his last Mazurka in F minor Op.57 No.3, written in 1905. Slightly anachronistic, this

melancholic ‘Allegretto con amarezza’ (with bitterness) represents the composer’s much procrastinated farewell to the

19th century.

Collective Piano Compositions

Both Balakirev’s and Belyayev’s circles were characterized, among other things, by the participation of various

composers in joint compositions. The idea of writing a piano piece combined with a simple melodic cell repeated over

and over again in the high register of the keyboard, came to Borodin after having heard one of his adoptive daughters

banging with her forefingers the ‘thème des côtelettes’ (otherwise known as ‘Tati-tati’, ‘Chopsticks’, or ‘Dog’s Waltz’).

Borodin used that motive to write a brilliant Galop, and Rimsky enthusiastically invited his Moguchaya Kuchka

comrades to compile an anthology of similar Paraphrases. Besides Borodin, Cui and Lyadov soon accepted the

compositional challenge, and dozens of ingenious and humorous pieces in different genres were produced during the

1878-79 season (only 17 were eventually selected for publication: the complete cycle can be heard on the Brilliant

Classics set devoted to Borodin’s complete piano music: 93984).

Defined by Cui as ‘one of the most amazing contrapuntal tour de force ever written’, the Paraphrases were greatly

admired by Liszt, who considered the new Russian school as the most interesting and promising of his time. On 28

July 1880, the old Meister jotted down an introductory prelude on the same motive (included in the second edition of

the Paraphrases), aimed to express his esteem towards the group of Russian composers and, at the same time, to

defend their eccentric and kaleidoscopic composition from all possible detractors. Lyadov’s contribution consisted of a

sparkling Galop, a charming Valse, a tender and ironic Gigue (quoting the Dies Irae sequence), and a pompous

Cortège triomphal. The 24 Variations and Finale, ‘dedicated to the little pianists capable of playing the theme with

one finger of each hand’, form a separate set of short interconnected pieces on the same idée fixe. Rimsky is the

author of var. 1, 2, 6, 11, 12, 13, 16, 19; Cui wrote var. 3, 5, 8, 17, 18, and the finale; the remaining 11 variations

(No. 4, 7, 9, 10, 14, 15, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24), among which can be found those most distinctively Russian in character,

were composed by the young and promising Anatoliy.

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When still working in the family business, the enlightened dilettante Belyayev was used to invite string players every

Friday evening to rehearse and perform Haydn’s, Mozart’s and Beethoven’s quartets in his mansion. In the space of a

few years, the repertoire was enlarged, turning mainly Russian, and Belyayev’s Pyatnitsï (Fridays) soon became one of

the most important attractions for the musical intelligentsia of St. Petersburg. Rimsky, Lyadov and Glazunov regularly

attended these gatherings, where their compositions were often presented to the public (made up only of men because

of the patron’s acutely misogynistic streak). In 1887, on the occasion of Belyayev’s name day, each composer wrote a

movement of a string quartet based on Russian folksongs (the previous year, Rimsky, Borodin, Lyadov and Glazunov

had composed a string quartet on the motive B-LA-F, to celebrate their patron’s 50th birthday). The second movement

of the Imeninï (Name Day) Quartet was assigned to Lyadov, who composed a solemn Velichaniye (Song of Praise).The entire quartet was later transcribed for piano 4 hands. Also the Baroque Sarabande in G minor is the keyboard

version of a piece for string quartet, conceived for one of Belyayev’s musical soirées.

The other collective works, recorded here for the first time, show the names of other illustrious members of Belyayev’s

circle. Many of them were pupils of Rimsky-Korsakov at the St. Petersburg Conservatory before becoming teachers at

the same institution. In 1890, Nikolai Artsibushev (1858-1937), the Latvian composer Jäseps Vïtols (1863-1948), and

Nikolai Sokolov (1859-1922) joined the powerful triad Rimsky-Lyadov-Glazunov in the composition of a musical

joke (Shutka in Russian), namely a parody of Lanner’s and Johann Strauss’ exciting quadrilles. Born in the second half

of the 18th century, this elegant and complex dance, involving four couples of dancers continuously shifting partners,

was extremely fashionable in France and England, and subsequently in Germany and Austria, where it became very

popular also as a music genre in itself. In Vienna, a sixth figure, Trénis (named after the dance master, Trenitz), was

added to the standard 5-part French quadrille: Pantalon, Été. Poule, Pastourelle, and Finale. Lyadov collaborated on

the Shutka-Kadril’ by writing the music for the third figure, la Poule (the Hen).

On 2 January 1894, Lyadov, Glazunov and the brilliant composer, pianist, and conductor Felix Blumenfeld

(1863–1931) celebrated Vladimir Stasov’s 70th birthday with three bright and solemn fanfares for piano duet, entitled

Slavleniya (Celebrations). Brother of the singer and composer Sigismund Blumenfeld (1852–1920), Felix Blumenfeld is

remembered, among other things, for having conducted the Russian premiere of Tristan und Isolde, many operas by

Rimsky and, in 1908, the historical Parisian premiere of Boris Godunov (Lyadov dedicated to him the Four Preludes,

Op.39). In 1899, Blumenfeld collaborated on the composition of the virtuoso piano Variations on a Russian Theme,

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together with Rimsky, Lyadov, Glazunov, Sokolov, Vïtols and Aleksandr Winkler (1865-1935). The theme was taken

from a collection of folksongs published in 1879 by Nikolai Abramychev, to whom the work is dedicated (Lyadov had

previously dedicated the Three Pieces, Op.33 to the same scholar). The first phrase of the folksong, ‘MalenkiyMal’chishenko v gorenke sidel’ (‘A little boy was sitting in a little room’) corresponds to a simple 5-bar melody based

on the A major triad, while the second phrase, ‘Zadumal ya dumushku - zhenitsza hochu’ (‘I had a little thought: I

want to get married’) corresponds to a 4-bar more elaborated melody ending on the dominant. In Lyadov’s

harmonization these last four bars are repeated twice (the second time ending on the tonic), thus obtaining an

asymmetrical 13-bar theme. As a matter of fact, Lyadov seems to have played a primary role in this joint composition:

in addition to the theme, he wrote two variations instead of one, as did all the other composers. His first variation

(No.6, in D flat major) is an evident homage to Chopin’s broad cantabile, while the second (No.7, in A major) shows

Lyadov’s predilection for polyrhythmic combinations (in this case, five notes against three). Except for Sokolov’s

exceedingly pathetic and subtly ironical variation in A minor, all the other variations are in a major key. While Rimsky

composed the first one, Glazunov concluded the set with a vigorous piece ‘alla polacca’. The Russian Variations

appeared in print in 1900 and have rarely been performed ever since. With this brilliant and unbelievably still

unknown piano composition, Belyayev and his fellow composers inaugurated the new century in the most playful and

optimistic fashion.

MARCO RAPETTI

P.S. I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to musicologist Malcolm Henbury-Ballan for his inestimable expertise and

generous advice.