Symphony No. 7 in C sharp minor, Op.131
- Moderato
- Allegretto
- Andante espressivo
- Vivace
The Prokofiev who wrote the Seventh Symphony in 1951-2 was a world away from the precocious young talent who had penned his First, the "Classical" Symphony 45 years earlier. In 1917, Prokofiev was a prodigy, a bright young talent to watch out for. The Seventh Symphony in contrast is the final desperately sad outpouring of a sick and broken man.
He had spent most of the period following the Russian Revolution in 1917 abroad in Europe and the United States. However, he felt increasingly homesick and from 1927 began to visit Russia again. Stalin's regime was keen to court him as one of the foremost Russian composers of the day, and in 1936 persuaded Prokofiev and his family returned permanently to the Soviet Union. Prokofiev had been assured that his international touring career would not be curtailed, but he soon found his movements as restricted as anyone else.
Prokofiev's naivety had led him to believe that his own music would not be subject to the restrictions applied to his peers. He was after all committed to the ideal of producing positive music that would appeal to the common man, and therefore his work was fully aligned with the concept of "Socialist Realism." He had a first inkling of the capriciousness of the Stalinist regime shortly after he settled in the Soviet Union in 1936. A new adaptation of Eugene Onegin which was being prepared for the centenary of Pushkin's death and for which Prokofiev was composing the incidental music was abruptly declared to be unsuitable for performance. On this occasion Prokofiev himself was not in the firing line, and was simply left with a collection of music which he would recycle into a number of future projects.
The full force of the regime eventually hit him in 1948, when the infamous Zhdanov Decree accused him, along with Shostakovich and Khachaturian, of composing "Formalist" music. For Shostakovich, a cynic who had been through this kind of condemnation before, the path was clear: lie low, produce a few potboilers praising Stalin and wait until the wind changed. For Prokofiev however the experience was devastating: he had no strategy to deal with such a situation. He was almost immediately reduced to penury, as nearly all his works were banned from performance. Prokofiev's health by now was already poor, and the situation exacerbated matters. Over the next few years his health deteriorated further.
In 1952 some respite finally came when two of his works were unexpectedly rehabilitated: Zdravitsa, which he had written for Stalin's 60th birthday celebrations in 1938, and his ballet Cinderella. He was already working on a new symphony which like Cinderella reused ideas from his music for Eugene Onegin, and hoped that this would help restore him to favour.
The new symphony was played in a piano arrangement to the Union of Soviet Composers and approved, and even gained the approval of the State Radio Orchestra ("Oh wonder!" Prokofiev sarcastically noted). Prokofiev was too ill to complete the writing out of the full score himself and had to enlist the help of a younger colleague, but managed to attend its première on 11 October 1952. It was suggested that it might even be in line for a Stalin Prize. There was however, the state Prize Committee declared, a problem: the ending of the symphony was not joyful enough. perhaps Prokofiev could compose a new one? It was implied that such a revision might make the difference between a third division and first division prize. Even had he not been in such dire straits this kind of request could not be refused, and so Prokofiev wrote an alternative ending, and pretended to like it. Meanwhile he pleaded with his friend, the cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, "Slava, you will live much longer than I, and you must take care that this new ending never exists after me." (Tonight's performance observes Prokofiev's preferred original scheme.)
Prokofiev originally suggested that the Seventh was a symphony for children. Its melodies and construction have a simplicity bordering of the naive ("Is it too simple?" he asked Kabalevsky). The apparent simplicity is undermined however by his penchant for abrupt shifts of tonality, and by his orchestration, which lends a pallor to the music that undermines its superficially cheerful elements. There seems little or no fight here, only a deep and weary sadness. Even the warm theme that follows the desolate opening seems to have more of yearning than satisfaction about it, while the ticking sounds that interject add a subtly unnerving aspect. The second movement is an apparently cheerier affair that plays with waltz forms, although sudden high-pitched interjections and other twitches undermine its pretensions to light-heartedness. The third movement reuses material from Eugene Onegin relating to its heroine Tatyana and her feelings for Onegin, and seems to inhabit a world of nostalgia and regret. The finale seems to begin in a livelier vein, and proceeds through what appears to be a compendium of clichés common in Soviet music of the time. It is as though Prokofiev is taking a flick through the scores of his contemporaries in search of something. Whatever it is is not to be found though, and so eventually the yearning theme from the first movement returns, and the ticking which counts slowly down to the quietly desperate end.
Prokofiev’s death on 5 March 1953 went barely noticed in Russia: it was overshadowed by the death of Stalin the same day. The Seventh Symphony was eventually awarded its state prize. By then Stalin’s name had been removed from all such official recognition, and so in 1957 Prokofiev became the posthumous recipient of a Lenin Prize.
