Elena Filonova

Forgotten melodies, found melodies...

"I have always believed that art, like nature, is the work of the Creator. My principles? I try to make the seed that comes from above grow properly, without inventing new laws.
Nikolai Medtner (1880-1951)

The history of the reception of Medtner's work is one of misunderstanding. Too passionate for the avant-garde, too complex for the crowds used to the feverish outbursts of Rachmaninov, Medtner's music did not really win over the general public. The comparison with Rachmaninov is not irrelevant, but it is treacherous: even today, Medtner suffers from being measured by the yardstick of the man who was one of his most fervent supporters. What distinguishes the two men artistically, however, is more decisive than what unites them.

Medtner's piano is of course romantic, virtuosic and lyrical; but nothing is too easy, for the keyboard writing is held with an iron hand. The structures of the works are often epic, at the risk of losing the listener. Yet they are firmly under control: the tumultuous waves of inspiration are stemmed by an unflagging conduct of events. Medtner the paradoxical is a tightrope walker, stretched on the one hand by an ardent desire for expressiveness, on the other by a concern for rigour and asceticism.

Medtner's life? It can be described in broad strokes: birth in 1880, studies at the Moscow Conservatory. A life devoted to composition, but spent on the stage. And then, exile: the first in 1921 to Berlin, to escape Bolshevik Russia. But Germany had no use for this musician, whom it deemed too conservative without really understanding him. A second exile to Paris soon followed. Where, despite the support of a circle of followers, life remains difficult and disappointing. Tours around the world. A final exile in 1935, to London. Success finally came, but the war approached, and finally broke the momentum. Last public appearance at the Royal Albert Hall in February 1944. The unexpected help of the Maharajah of Mysore enabled Medtner to record for His Master's Voice. Before he disappeared in 1951. So far from Russia, so far from home.

Yet the man Medtner learned little from the composer, and even less from the work. His music owes nothing to circumstances; it is the revealed secret of a soul whose concerns are fundamentally musical. Medtner set himself limits, in order to aim more accurately: pure music would be his chosen field, notably through the sonata, inherited from Beethoven, the revered model. Medtner claimed to have been born a century too late, and never adhered to the post-Romantic musical nationalism of his elder Russian "Five".

This does not prevent the substance of his works from being particularly elaborate. In the sonatas or short pieces, the development proceeds from a perpetual transformation of basic elements, often a single theme. The Sonata tragica (Tragic Sonata, no. 11) is a perfect example. The chords struck at the opening give this one-piece work the momentum of the single breath that will run through it throughout. Medtner's imagination and consummate skill allow him to present the one theme in an infinite number of guises. And it is almost like so many operatic scenes that one should hear the unfolding of the different episodes, so much so that the overall agogic march seems to be of dramatic essence. The last breakthrough in the development is exemplary (7'09), a long rise in tension that culminates in the very recapitulation of the work's initial chords (7'38). Proof that a form of classical origin in no way prevents rhapsodic thought from springing up in the moment. An astonishing coda (10'29) finishes off the last lineaments of the theme. The movement sinks into the very harmonies that opened it.

Medtner was particularly fond of performing this organic work in concert. But he never failed to precede it with the Canzona matinata. This "Morning Song" presents two ideas of clear-cut character, one graceful and carefree, the other more melancholy and almost worried, perhaps foreshadowing the torments of the sonata to follow. In fact, the two works secretly share some of their themes, a frequent procedure with the composer.

But let us return to the beginning of this opus 39. The Meditazione (Meditation) that opens it is one of Medtner's strangest inventions. A "quasi cadenza" introduction brings up an anguished world of Scriabinian colours from nothingness (0'40). The real theme of the piece appears (1'25), a disjointed melody condemned to return only to itself. The music finally escapes its own inertia, and ends on a major, calming resolution. The Romanza takes up the theme of the Meditazione and exploits it to the point of obsession. A curious "Romance" indeed, which, under the guise of a half-worldly, half-diabolic waltz, promises no other salvation than the mephitic repetition of a rough and resolutely untamable fragment. The impatient Primavera (Spring) brings some light to Op. 39. Between the two rather gloomy diptychs that surround it, it offers a joyful and sunny interlude.

Composed in 1919 and 1920, these Vergessene Weisen (Forgotten Melodies, Op. 38, 39, and 40) were conceived as early as 1916. It is highly probable that Medtner was inspired by a text by the Russian writer Lermontov (1814-1841). In his poem The Angel, Lermontov tells us that each new child, carried by the angel who leads him from heaven to earth at birth, hears a mysterious music: his existence will be a long quest to find the celestial echoes. In this poetic tale, Medtner undoubtedly saw a metaphor for artistic inspiration, as he was constantly amazed by the musical ideas that struck his imagination. These pieces also place Medtner's invention under the singular seal of reminiscence: reminiscence (or rebirth) of those melodies originally 'forgotten', thematic reminiscences (or correspondences) linking together different pieces of the same opus, perpetual reminiscences (and metamorphoses) of a single material within the same piece.

Two pieces from Op. 38 are featured on this recording. The third, Danza festiva (Festive Dance), may evoke a village festival, with its festive scenes and popular jubilation. This light waltz begins with a rustic ringing of bells: alternating chords in both hands, which are repeated, minorized and transposed a tone, in the opening of the next piece, Canzona fluviala (River Song). Less than ever in this graceful piece will the title have covered the reality of the musical content. Rather, we note the presence of Italian titles referring to a vocality or gesturality ("Festive dance", "River song", "Romance", "Morning song", "Dance with song", "Joyful dance"): we can see in this a desire to give precedence to a certain lyricism, by returning to a very Latin naturalness of body and song. This would tend to prove the Canzona serenata (Serenade Song), the sixth piece of Opus 38, a pure jewel of simplicity and emotion. The opening theme establishes a melancholy sway, supported by particularly subtle harmonies. A second thematic element interrupts it (0'37); a quivering chromatic passage in the bass (0'51), the discourse becomes more fervent (1'12), then calms down. Suddenly, this "serenade" becomes more restless and comes alive with more virtuoso shimmering (2'00). The secondary element takes over again (2'32) and its passionate tone (2'50). Surreptitiously intruding into the now immaterial texture, the swing of the beginning makes its return (3'20), thickened by a new inner song, then quickly fades away.

Op. 40 of the Forgotten Melodies consists of six dances, the first and fourth of which are presented here. The Danza col canto (Dance with song) is very rich in the construction of its powerfully characterized episodes. The introduction heats up, and sets an original metre in 5/8 time. Long nostalgic arabesques unfold (0'33), before the introductory elements reappear (1'44). The middle section contrasts, first presenting a kind of tarantella (2'12), then, on powerful arpeggiated roulades, a turbulent and naive melody (2'32). The arabesque theme returns (3'15), giving way to the weeping, then finally threatening, song of the introduction. The Danza jubilosa (Joyous Dance) combines all the qualities of a scherzo and a toccata: joyful, alert, ironic, and above all perfectly pianistic. It is a kaleidoscope of varied episodes: left hand in staccato octaves parodying the majesty of a procession, brass ringing, wiggling rhythms or motoric figurations in the left hand, voluble garlands in the right hand. An instrumental success that does not detract from the joy it promises.

The Drei Arabesken (Three arabesques) of Op. 7 (composed in 1904) show that Medtner found his style right from the start. In spite of the apparently stable piano writing, the role of the two hands fluctuates in Ein Idyll (An Idyll): sometimes the sixteenth notes of the right hand accompany, sometimes they lead the speech. Chromaticism creeps in (0'41) until it aggregates into a disturbing motif (0'59 and 1'26). Apparently less ambitious than the other pieces in the opus, Ein Idyll is nonetheless indicative of a pianistic conception that will gradually tend to give both hands the same eloquence. This is not yet the case in the two Tragoedie-Fragmente (Tragedy Fragments) of Op. 7: the first repeats tirelessly a triplet figure to which only the central section offers a semblance of appeasement. Before the final agony, which is finally consumed in dark octaves. "Write only a work like this, and you can die," exclaimed Rachmaninov. The left-hand arpeggios that support the second of the Tragoedie-Fragmente are a real lace of sound that reveals its own counterpoint. But the right hand imposes a chromatic motif as a theme. Repeated anxiously, it sometimes appears in particularly complex contrapuntal configurations. This is a luxury the composer allows himself in this atmosphere of desperate urgency, which calls to mind the untamed lyricism of certain Chopin Études.

Epilogue

Medtner's mother, who viewed her son's union with Anna Mikhailovna with suspicion, disappeared in March 1918. On 21 June 1919, Nikolai married the woman he had met twenty-three years earlier. Political difficulties led them to take refuge in Bugry, on the outskirts of Moscow. Isolated from the capital, Medtner had to give up his teaching post at the Conservatory. In particularly difficult material conditions, he composed his Forgotten Melodies. In November 1921, Nikolai and Anna chose an uncertain exile in Berlin. Opuses 38, 39 and 40 marked the end of the Russian period. What followed, as we know, was instability and disillusionment. Although Medtner's career as a pianist was certainly not negligible, he remained a marginal and poorly recognized composer. A poor sense of publicity and aesthetic options deemed outdated prevented the artist from achieving the recognition he undoubtedly deserved as a creator. Medtner did not have harsh enough words for the avant-garde of his time. He explained his artistic credo in a 1935 text, Muza i moda (The Muse and Fashion), in which he affirmed the need to safeguard certain foundations of musical expression. This was a rational position if one understands that his efforts were not aimed at questioning a language, but rather at seeking a perfect mastery of its existing structures.

Far from the revolutions that shook the musical world in the first half of the twentieth century, Medtner aimed for an ideal and abstract beauty. His writing, however, shuns any easy way out: although he wrote exclusively for his instrument (even if he added others), his works are unquestionably those of a composer before being those of a pianist. One must rejoice at the prospect of such beautiful music to be discovered.

Nicolas Southon

Nicolas Southon teaches at the University of Musicology of Tours. Within the framework of the CNRS (IRPMF), he is preparing a social history thesis on the emergence of the conductor in the 19th century. He holds prizes in Analysis, Aesthetics and Music History from the Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique de Paris. He is also a critic and journalist for specialised music magazines, and was a producer on France-Musique in 2005.