Darkness. Silence. Closeness.
At the centre of the circle: eyes piercing blue, hair wiry grey, cloak fraying and lyre clutched tight. The bard. Teller of tales, conjurer of worlds.
Slowly, calmly, he looks into each expectant face, wide eyes made sparkling and skin painted orange by the firelight.
A sudden movement, the strings blur and notes hang in the air. Then they melt into the popping and crackling of the fire.
In the stillness, the flames dance on, mesmerising.
Quietly, he begins.
The last day before Christmas had passed.
A clear winter night had come; the stars peeped out; the moon rose majestically in the sky to light good people and all the world so that all might enjoy singing kolyadki and praising the Lord.
It was freezing harder than in the morning, but it was so still that the crunch of the snow under the boot could be heard half a mile away.
Not one group of lads had appeared under the cottage windows yet; only the moon peeped in at them stealthily as though calling to the girls who were dressing up in their best to make haste and run out on the crunching snow.
At that moment smoke rose in puffs from a cottage chimney and passed like a cloud over the sky.
And a witch, astride a broomstick, rose up in the air together with the smoke… *
His words fall like snow. And as they cover the night in enchantment, the divide between worlds grows thin.
For hour upon hour, golden cities, sparkling minarets and distant realms hang in the still night air. Creatures, released from their pages, crouch in the shadows and at the corners of every eye. The fire thunders with the cries of red-blooded tartars.
The new day has stained the sky a dark orange before the last sorcerer has vanished into his mountain cave.
The final words fade, the embers cease to glow and, blinking, the on-lookers wake from their trance. Sleepy-eyed, they shuffle away to bed, saying nothing, still lost in that magical world.
Eventually, the last child crawls into bed, shuts his eyes, and dreams once again of cossacks, witches and distant lands.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It is this enchanted night that waits for us in the 2nd movement of Rachmaninoff’s 3rd symphony.
The lone voices of a French Horn and harp – the storyteller and his instrument – begin.
Bewitching, beguiling, they breathe life into a mysterious new world:
Strings, yearning and wistful;
Woodwinds, silvery and elven;
Brass, wild and charging.
The magical, the heroic, the villainous and the bizarre all appear and disappear before us. Fairytales dance and whirl about our heads.
Eventually, they vanish. Just the bard and his harp are left. Even they too fade, though they leave the heroes of those other universes still galloping about our minds.
THE RECORDING
For this symphony, I’ve chosen a recording of Rachmaninoff conducting it himself.
You might think this would be the obvious choice, that a composer conducting his own music would always produce the perfect rendition.
Strangely enough, this is rarely the case.
It’s surprising how often composers’ readings of their own music sound brusque and uncaring. Perhaps they’ve lived with the notes for so long that the melodies and harmonies no longer seem so extraordinary. Perhaps their self-critical minds struggle to enjoy what they have made without seeing the faults in it.
To an extent, this is true of Rachmaninoff’s recording. It’s faster, less keen to hang around and indulge than most modern interpretations. But in music as nostalgia-rich as Rachmaninoff’s this sterner approach brings a welcome balance to the indulgence. It gives the storyline a toughness, a momentum that makes it a compelling whole without losing any of its richness.
Better still, that old-world sound of vinyl and analogue recording adds an extra layer of colour to the scene. A faint rustling texture that makes the magic truly come to life.
* Story taken from Nikolai Gogol’s The Night Before Christmas
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