Musicology Today Karol Szymanowski: Works — Reception ...

Musicology Today 

2008 ⋄ Musicology Section of the Polish Composers’ Union 

Institute of Musicology 

University of Warsaw 

Karol Szymanowski: 

Works — Reception — Contexts

Editor 

Prof. dr hab. Zofia Helman (Institute of Musicology, University of Warsaw) 

Associate Editors 

Dr hab. J. Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka (Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University of Warsaw), 

Prof. dr hab. Alicja Jarzębska (Iagellonian University of Cracow), 

Dr hab. Alina Żórawska-Witkowska (University of Warsaw), 

Dr hab. Ryszard Wieczorek (Adam Mickiewicz University of Poznań) 

Secretariat 

Dr Iwona Lindstedt (Institute of Musicology, University of Warsaw) 

Consultants 

Prof. dr hab. Ludwik Bielawski, Prof. dr hab. Anna Czekanowska-Kuklińska, 

Ks. Prof. dr hab. Karol Mrowiec, Prof. dr hab. Jadwiga Paja-Stach, 

Ks. Prof. dr hab. Ireneusz Pawlak, Prof. dr hab. Mirosław Perz, 

Ks. Prof. dr hab. Jerzy Pikulik, Prof. dr hab. Irena Poniatowska, 

Ks. Prof. dr hab. Józef Ścibor, Prof. dr hab. Andrzej Rakowski, 

Prof. dr hab. Mieczysław Tomaszewski, Prof. dr hab. Elżbieta Witkowska-Zaremba, 

Prof. dr hab. Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek 

English Language Consultant 

Zofia Weaver, Ph.D. 

Reviewer 

dr hab. Barbara Przybyszewska-Jarmińska 

c○ Copyright by the Musicology Section of the Polish Composers’ Union 2008 

ISSN 1734-1663 

Publication funded by the Ministry of Science and Higher Education 

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Contents 

1 ‘A Contrapuntal-Harmonic-Orchestral Monster’ ? Karol Szymanowski’s 

First Symphony in the Context of Polish and German 

Symphonic Tradition Stefan Keym page 5 

2 The Scriabin Theme in the First Phase of Karol Szymanowski’s 

Creative Development Agnieszka Chwiłek 26 

3 The Problem of Orientalism in the Music of Karol Szymanowski 

Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek 39 

4 Password ‘Roger’. The Hero of Karol Szymanowski’s Opera King 

Roger in Tadeusz Miciński’s Theatre of the Soul Edward Boniecki 57 

5 The Leitmotifs in King Roger Zofia Helman 79 

6 Karol Szymanowski as Chancellor of the Higher School of Music 

in Warsaw. New Facts, New Light Magdalena Dziadek 94 

7 Karol Szymanowski et la critique française Didier van Moere 118 

8 On What Was Native in the Music of Karol Szymanowski Katarzyna 

Dadak-Kozicka 131 

List of contributors 151 

3

1 

‘A Contrapuntal-Harmonic-Orchestral Monster’? 

Karol Szymanowski’s First Symphony in the 

Context of Polish and German Symphonic 

Tradition 

Stefan Keym 

Institute of Musicology, University of Leipzig 

[...] itwillbeasortofcontrapuntal-harmonic-orchestralmonster,andIamalready 

looking forward to seeing the Berlin critics leaving the concert hall with a curse on 

their livid lips when this symphony will be played at our concert. 1 

This statement by Karol Szymanowski, made in July 1906 in a letter to 

Hanna Klechniowska, has often been taken to prove the opinion that his 

Symphony No. 1 op. 15 (composed in 1906/07) 2 is an ‘insincere’ work written 

mainly to demonstrate the technical mastery of the young composer and not 

to express his personal feelings and values. 3 In fact, Szymanowski’s op. 15 

was fateful: After its one and only performance by Grzegorz Fitelberg and 

the Filharmonia Warszawska on 26 th March 1909, 4 it disappeared completely 

from the concert programmes. In contrast to Szymanowski’s Concert 

Overture op. 12 (1904–05) and to his Symphony No. 2 op. 19 (1909–10), the 

score of his First Symphony was never revised by the composer 5 and remains 

unpublished up to now. 6 

On the other hand, commentaries by artists on their own works should 

not be taken too literally. In his statements on some other, more successful 

compositions, young Szymanowski also mentioned mainly technical aspects: 

for example, he called the final fugue of his Second Symphony a ‘terrible machine’ 

with a ‘devilishly complicated’ thematic structure. 7 He also provided 

the musicologists Henryk Opieński and Zdzisław Jachimecki with detailed descriptions 

of the formal structure of his Second Symphony and of his Second 

5

6 Stefan Keym 

Piano Sonata op. 21. 8 Alistair Wightman has even suggested that is was 

just the great similarity between Szymanowski’s two early symphonies that 

caused the composer not to rework his No. 1, but to replace it by No. 2. 9 

In any case, Szymanowski’s op. 15 is one of his rare huge orchestral works 

and already for this deserves more attention than it has received up to now. 10 

In this paper, I will analyze the work from the perspective of Polish and 

German symphonic traditions. It is well known that Szymanowski was very 

familiar with German music and literature right from his early childhood 

thanks to his German uncle and first music teacher, Gustav Neuhaus. 11 In 

Warsaw, he consolidated his knowledge of German instrumental music, and 

especially of its three main forms — sonata, variation and fugue — during 

his studies in composition with Zygmunt Noskowski who had been a disciple 

of Friedrich Kiel’s in Berlin. 12 Szymanowski’s relationship with the Polish 

symphonic tradition, however, has not been taken much into account yet. His 

symphonies were often looked at as if there had been no other contribution 

to this genre by Polish composers before. By setting Szymanowski’s op. 15 

into the frame of Polish music, it will become easier to distinguish traditional 

features from those traits which depart from convention and try new ways of 

form and expression. 13 

Right at the beginning of the analysis, this perspective draws our attention 

to the fact that Szymanowski’s First Symphony — just as all his following 

symphonies — has no slow introduction. This form type was very current 

in Polish symphonies up to 1918 — especially in works in the minor mode 

— such as Feliks Ignacy Dobrzyński’s Symphony No. 2 in C minor op. 15 

(1831), Zygmunt Noskowski’s Symphony No. 2 Elegijna in C minor (1875–79), 

Zygmunt Stojowski’s Symphony in D minor op. 21 (1896–1901), Mieczysław 

Karłowicz’s Symphony Odrodzenie in E minor op. 7 (1900–02), Grzegorz Fitelberg’s 

Symphony No. 1 in E minor op. 16 (1904), Ignacy Jan Paderewski’s 

Symphony in B minor (1903–09) and Piotr Rytel’s Symphony No. 1 in B minor 

op. 4 (1909). 14 In all these works, the slow introduction has the function 

to set an elegiac mode, to anticipate the motivic germs of the whole work 

and, by this, to emphasize its solemnity and dignity.

‘A Contrapuntal-Harmonic-Orchestral Monster’? 7 

In the first movement of his First Symphony, Szymanowski chooses the 

‘Classical’ sonata form, but (just as Witold Maliszewski 15 ) renounces the convention 

of the slow introduction and begins immediately in fast tempo (Allegro 

pathétique 16 ) with the main theme. This theme has been called ‘Straussian’ 

because of its rather complex structure consisting of several motives 

with different rhythmical values. 17 Admittedly, the theme of the protagonist 

in Richard Strauss’ tone poem Don Quixote (1897) also shows a rising triplet 

motive followed by a descending chromatic line (see figure 1.1). 

Fig. 1.1. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, main theme compared 

with two similar themes. 

If both themes share an arch-like melodic curve and an ambiguous character, 

Szymanowski’s theme, however, is clothed in much darker harmonic and 

timbral colours and displays a more depressive, pessimistic expression. Whereas 

the ‘Theme of Don Quixote’ begins with a typically Straussian triadic 

motive, the pitch structure of Szymanowski’s theme at first seems to resemble 

a twelve-tone row by exposing eight different pitches before repeating one. 

The tonic F minor is stressed by long notes on c and f, but in bar 4, the to-

8 Stefan Keym 

nal orientation is blurred by the chromatic bass line ending on g flat. In 

fact, the main theme of Szymanowski’s Allegro pathétique haslessincommon 

with Strauss’ ‘Theme of Don Quixote’ than with the ‘Theme of King Roger’ 

from Szymanowski’ own opera Król Roger (1918–24). This theme which is 

introduced quite late in the First Act (bars 513–516), displays a quite similar 

motivic structure and the same shadowy and hesitant character. The fact 

that Szymanowski judged such a theme worth using — more than a decade 

after the composition of his op. 15 — to portray the main protagonist of his 

most ambitious opera, indicates that he did not completely reject the material 

of his early Symphony in later years. 

The sinister mood of the main theme is further developed in its second 

phrase (bars 5–13) which begins with dark colours of the low wind instruments. 

The texture unfolds quickly into a very dense web of contrapuntal 

lines that testifies to Szymanowski’s fondness for counterpoint, inherited from 

his teacher Noskowski. 18 This texture, however, does not sound academically 

at all. The polyphonic episode is skilfully integrated in the curve of rising 

tension that reaches its peak in the third phrase (bars 14–32; see figure 1.2). 

An augmentation of the head motive presented by the bass string and brass 

instruments is answered by a late-romantic appassionato-outburst of the full 

orchestra. From this point on, the expressive chromaticism clearly recalls the 

‘Tristan-style’. Szymanowski employs it in an even more systematic manner 

than Richard Wagner by basing the last part of the phrase on a chromatic bass 

line descending a full octave (bars 24–30, from f sharp to g flat). The dramaturgy 

of the whole first section is similar to a wave: The tension rises slowly 

up to a climax and then breaks off into a shorter phase of relaxation. 19 The 

first ‘wave section’ of Szymanowski’s Symphony, however, ends rather abruptly 

with a perfect cadence on the tonic F-minor in bar 32, which is echoed 

by a short appendix. This unexpected cut and its clear tonality are quite at 

odds with Wagner’s ‘endless melody’ and his ‘art of the finest transition’. 20 

The very clear-cut form used by Szymanowski in this and many other works, 

is a feature that the young composer did not share with his ‘New-German’ 

models Wagner and Strauss, but with most of Polish symphonic composers : 

It is typical not only of the three symphonies of his teacher Noskowski, but


Fig. 1.2. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, third phrase. 

also of the symphonic poems of Szymanowski’s rivals Karłowicz and Ludomir 

Różycki. 

The main problem of the Allegro pathétique in Szymanowski’s First Symphony 

stems from the fact that each of its seven form sections (see table 1.1) 

displays a wave structure quite similar to that of the first section. There is 

a constant ‘up-and-down’ movement, but no continuous dramaturgy and no 

large-scale contrast. 

The second theme introduced in the third ‘wave section’ correctly in the 

mediant A flat major (bar 53; see figure 1.3), is just as chromatic as the 

main theme and as the material of the second ‘wave section’ (which serves 

as a transition from the first to the second theme group). The second theme 

consists of three half-tone groups placed on different pitch levels and does 

not create a lyrical cantabile atmosphere as the second themes do in Szy-

10 Stefan Keym 

phrases 

(bars) 

tonalities climaxes 

(bar no.), 

dynamics 

large-scale 

sections 

thematic material 

1 F minor, 

Exposition 

Main theme 

modulation (mod.), 

section 

F minor 

(1 st main theme (head motive also in augmentation) 

5 ppp 

14 f 

ff (25-29) 

wave) 

32 pp 

37 F minor, 

ppp Transition 

mod., 

ff (45) section 

A flat major 

(2 nd glissando motive; main theme; 

three-note motive (41) 

46 pp 

ff (50-52) 

wave) 

53 A flat major, pp Second theme 

mod., 

section 

A flat major 

(3 rd second theme; arch motive (bar 65) 

57 pp 

ff (67) wave) 

71 pp 

Development Section 

75 mod. pppp First 

development 

section 

(4 th glissando motive; dialogue of main and second 

theme (inversion) 

86 f (88) 

superimposition, Fortspinnung and dissolution of 

fff (94) wave) the two themes 

96 ff dialogue of second theme and arch motive; 

main theme used as counterpoint 

108 B flat major pp cantabile variant of the two themes (inversion of 

119 D flat major 

second theme; solo violin cantilena) 

120 (general rest) 

121 mod. ff Second 

development 

section 

(5 th arch motive (bass unison) and head of second 

theme 

129 

superimposition of second theme and its inversion; 

cresc. (137) wave) stretto and segmentation of arch motive 

141 mod., whole-tone & ff 

head of main theme in augmentation; turning 

augmented chords; (141-145) 

figure derived from arch motive 

F sharp minor decresc. 

157 F sharp major, ppp second theme (augmentation); head of main 

mod. 

theme 

Recapitulation & Coda 

170 F minor, 

Main theme 

mod. 

section 

(6 th main theme 

174 

ff (182) wave) 

184 F major, 

Second theme 

mod., 

section 

F major 

(7 th second theme; arch motive 

188 ff 

198 fff wave) second theme and augmented head motive of 

main theme 

204 fff (210) second theme 

213 F major pp Coda cantabile variant of main and second theme 

220 pp 

(augmentation) 

226 F major/minor cresc. 

head motive of main theme 

-230 

ff-p (229) 

Table 1.1. Karol Szymanowski, Symphonie No. 1 in F minor op. 15 (1906–07): 

sonata and ‘wave’ form of the first movement (Allegro pathétique). 

manowski’s op. 12 and op. 19. After its exposition, the wave of chromatic 

counterpoint is soon rising again in order to reach a new climax in bar 67.


Fig. 1.3. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, second theme with 

variant. 

It is easy to blame Szymanowski for the lack of contrast in this movement. 

However, we should remember that the composer had already proved that he 

was capable of creating such contrasts in his early Concert Overture op. 12. 

This work is a nearly perfect model for the classical concept of large-scale 

contrast between the two theme groups as well as between exposition and 

development section of the sonata form. So it is obvious that, in his op. 15, 

Szymanowski consciously departed from this conventional scheme of darkand-white-contrast 

in favour of a more sophisticated and more ambivalent 

dramaturgy of form and expression. If the First Symphony is an antithesis to 

the Overture (in several respects), the synthesis was achieved in the Second 

Symphony that, on the one hand, contains more contrast and more ‘cantability’ 

than op. 15, but, on the other hand, displays a much less conventional 

dramaturgy than op. 12. 

Another aspect of form also announces the Second Symphony: In the middle 

of the quite extensive development section, there is a long general rest (bar 

120) that cuts the development and also the whole movement into two halves 

of almost the same length (45 : 49 and 119 : 110 bars). Such a caesura is also 

to be found in the much more ambivalent and complex form plan of the first 

movement of op. 19. 21 In op. 15, the two sections of the development which 

are separated by the caesura, continue the wave-like movement and the dense 

contrapuntal and thematic work of the exposition. The two themes are now 

combined simultaneously (bar 88) and the harmonic idiom gets even more 

dissonant and tonally unstable. On the other hand, the phases of relaxation


grow a bit longer (bars 108–119 and 157–169). These phases are almost the 

only moments of stable triad harmonies in this Allegro. They appear as little 

islands of calm within the stormy sea of chromatic counterpoint. The most 

intensive of these episodes is placed exactly at the centre of the movement, 

at the end of the first development section (bars 108–119; see figure 1.4). 

Szymanowski employs Franz Liszt’s technique of thematic transformation in 

order to turn the energetic head motive of the Symphony into a cantilena of 

the solo violin that anticipates the famous solo beginning of the Second Symphony. 

This idyllic moment fades out on a six-four chord of the submediant 

Dflatmajor. 

Fig. 1.4. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, lyrical variant of main 

theme. 

The second half of the development section seems to begin with a new 

theme (bar 121) which has an arch-like contour and is played in unison by 

the violoncelli and the double-basses. In fact, this motive was already introduced 

in the Fortspinnung phrase of the second theme section (bar 56). 

Within its original contrapuntal context, however, it was barely recognized. 

Its main entry is delayed up to the emphatic unison presentation in the development 

section. This strategy of turning a secondary figure of the exposition 

into an important thematic protagonist in the development was further pursued 

by Szymanowski in the first movement of the Second Symphony. 22 In 

difference to that movement, the biggest climax of the Allegro pathétique is 

not placed in the coda, but in the second part of the development — just as 

in classical sonata form as it was taught and practised by Noskowski. 23 The 

phase of increase leading up to this moment (bars 129–141; see figure 1.5) 

is more reminiscent than anything else in this movement of Wagner’s Tristan 

und Isolde, especially of the chromatic ‘Sehnsuchtsmotiv’. It is treated 

with the help of traditional procedures of ‘thematic work’ such as stretto and


segmentation, but within a harmonic framework that is even more dissonant 

than the famous Einleitung to Wagner’s Tristan. The climax itself is marked 

by a whole-tone chord (played three times: bars 141, 143, 145) — a harmonic 

colour which was rather unfamiliar to Wagner, but quite popular among the 

so-called ‘Młoda Polska’-composers: It was used merely at the same time by 

Ludomir Różycki in the third episode of the symphonic poem Bolesław Śmiały 

(1905) in order to evoke an archaic funeral ritual (pp. 11–18 of the orchestral 

score) and by Mieczysław Karłowicz just before the catastrophic climax of 

his tone poem Stanisław i Anna Oświecimowie (1907; bars 265–301) — in 

the latter case with the original symbolic meaning of the whole-tone scale 

as ‘gamme terrifiante’ coined by Liszt. 24 In all the three works, the wholetone 

colour provides a striking effect within the mainstream of ‘New-German’ 

chromaticism. In the following long relaxation and decrescendo phase (bars 

145–157), Szymanowski uses the augmented chord as a sort of intermediary 

between whole-tone and chromatic half-tone harmonies. 

The rather short recapitulation (bars 170–213) omits the transition section 

and turns to F major in the second theme section (bar 184). Everything seems 

to suggest a ‘happy ending’ in the tradition of per aspera ad astra which 

had been adapted from Beethoven by many Polish (and other) composers in 

their symphonies in the minor mode (from Dobrzyński’s No. 2 and Noskowski’s 

No. 2 up to Paderewski and Karłowicz), often with a patriotic symbolic 

meaning. 25 The coda (bars 213–230) begins with a reminiscence to the lyrical 

variants of the two themes introduced in the development section. Then, a 

stormy semiquaver passage engendered by the head motive leads fortissimo 

to a final F major chord of the strings, brass and treble woodwind instruments 

(bar 229; see figure 1.6). But this chord drops away after a quaver. 

The remaining triad on f played softly by the lower woodwinds contains the 

minor third a flat in the bassoon. So this movement ends with a harmonic 

surprise and an emotional deception. 26 This final minor chord is probably 

not an expression of a catastrophe, but at least a sort of ‘bitter aftertaste’. 

Such a shift between major and minor mode had already been used by the 

Russian composer Alexander Skrjabin at the end of the first movement of his 

Piano Sonata No. 1 op. 6 (1892–93) which also shares the key of F minor


Fig. 1.5. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, climax of the development.


with Szymanowski’s Symphony. However, the four-times alternation between 

major and minor closing with a major triad in Skrjabin’s Sonata is much less 

sophisticated than Szymanowski’s use of both modes at the same time. 

Fig. 1.6. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, first movement, final phrase. 

The way the tonal drama was to have developed in the middle part of Szymanowski’s 

First Symphony, we don’t know since this part has not survived 

and was probably never composed. The third and final movement, Allegretto 

con moto, grazioso, begins already in F-major. The attribute ‘grazioso’ had 

been very current in Classic music. In the era of emphatic ‘symphonism’ 

after Beethoven, however, it was rarely used. By choosing this 18 th -Century 

attribute, Szymanowski indicated his intention to create an easier, relaxed 

atmosphere in the final movement. This counter-reaction to the excesses of 

pathos and monumentality in late-romantic orchestral music was shared by 

several composers at that time. It can be found, for example, in Richard 

Strauss’s tone poem Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche (1894–95) and some 

parts of his Sinfonia domestica (1902–03) as well as in Gustav Mahler’s Symphony 

No. 4 (1899–1901) and Max Reger’s Sinfonietta (1904–05). 27 If there 

is any influence of Reger in Szymanowski’s First Symphony (as it was claimed 

by some critics and scholars 28 , it consists in this explicit ‘quest for the 

diminutivum’. In the score, however, there is not much sweetness nor grace 

— neither in Reger’s Sinfonietta nor in Szymanowski’s Allegretto grazioso! 

In the latter, the moment which comes closest to this idea is a passage introduced 

in bar 13 that bears the German verbal indication ‘lustig’ (funny) and 

contains waltz rhythms (see figure 1.7).


Fig. 1.7. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, third movement, waltz episode (bars 

11–15) (copyright PWM 1993). 

It is preceded by an entry of the solo violin (bars 7–13) which anticipates 

the solo beginning of Szymanowski’s Second Symphony (it is not by hazard


that the first movement of this work also bears the attribute ‘grazioso’). In the 

Allegretto of the First Symphony, however, the permanent modulation and 

the multi-layer texture make it quite difficult to grasp or to remember either 

the solo violin entry or the ‘funny’ waltz moment. In general, the texture of 

the final movement is even denser than that of the Allegro pathétique. Inthe 

words of Jim Samson, this movement contains ‘some of the most congested 

scoring in his [Szymanowski’s] (or anyone else’s) output’ 29 . The texture of the 

final is, however, less polyphonically conceived than in the first movement. 

In some episodes, the category of sound colour seems to get more important 

than counterpoint (e.g. bars 51–63). 

The final movement is cast in a free arch form (ABA’; see table 1.2). Its 

main problem consists of the lack of any concise theme. The head motive 

is very apt to be used in any sort of contrapuntal combination, but not to 

function as main theme of a huge symphonic form. In fact, it is simultaneously 

introduced in two different variants in bar 1 and then combined with the head 

motive of the first movement (see figure 1.8). 

Szymanowski obviously tried to create an evolutionary form beginning with 

ephemeral motivic material that grows and gets shape during the course of the 

movement. In fact, a new forte variant of the head motive presented after the 

waltz episode in bar 22, does not differ much from its two predecessors. The 

following repetition of the waltz episode is not justified by the evolutionary 

form concept, but by the practical need of giving the listener a second chance 

to grasp this episode. Up to the general rest in bar 57, there is no strong 

caesura. The evolution up to this moment (reaching fortefortissimo dynamics 

in bar 52) comes close to Wagner’s idea of “endless melody’. It leads to 

a broad plane of sound consisting of a C sharp major chord on the pedal 

note B. This chord cannot be called the harmonic ‘goal’ of the first part 

in a traditional sense, since it occurs rather unexpectedly in the course of 

permanent modulation. 

The sound planes of bars 56–61 create a long moment of idyllic calm that 

is only superficially animated by scherzando triplet figures of the woodwinds 

and the two harps. The idyllic moment stands in contrast with the ‘dark’ 

F-minor chord played pianopianissimo by the low brass instruments in bars


bars tonalities dynamics 

(bar no.) 

sections thematic material 

Part A: Allegretto con moto, grazioso 

1 F major mf/pp a1 main theme simultaneously in two variants, 

combined with head motive of 1 st movement 

6 F major, mod. pp a2 2 nd variant of main theme & solo violin entry 

13 A major, mod. waltz episode 

22 

26 

F major 

F major, mod. 

f/ff 

mp 

a1’ 

a2’ 

main theme in two variants 

2 nd variant of main theme 

31 A & H major, mod. p, cresc., ff waltz episode with sequence 

39 A major, mod., 

G major 

ppp 

fff (52-54) 

a3 (poco meno 

mosso) 

1 st variant of main theme (solo violin); 

plane of sound 

56 C sharp & H Major 

F minor 

ff/pp 

ppp (62-63) 

64 F & D minor, mod. p 

cresc. (72) 

f (77) 

81 G major, mod. pp 

ff (90) 

idyllic episode plane of sound & triplet figures; 

brass chords 

Part B (central part): Meno mosso. Mesto 

b1 

b2 

stretto of main theme (2 nd variant) and head 

motive of 1 st movement; anticipation (68) and 

exposition (73) of central part theme 

central part theme (solo violin); 

head motive of 1 st movement (89) 

98 A flat & B minor fff, decresc. plane of sound 

107 B flat major 

p/fff idyllic episode plane of sound & triplet figures (as in bar 56) 

A flat & B flat major ppp (110) 

Part A’: Tempo I 

114 mod. pp/mf transition solo violin entry; 2 

ff 

nd variant of main theme 

(123) 

126 

130 

F major 

F major, mod. 

f/ff 

ff (140) 

a1’ 

a2’ 

main theme in two variants 

2 nd 137 A & H major, mod. 

variant of main theme 

waltz episode with sequence 

145 A major, mod., 

G major 

pp 

fff (158) 

a3 (meno mosso) 1 st variant of main theme (solo violin); 

plane of sound 

163 mod., F major fff a & b central part theme 

170 D major pp 2 nd variant of main theme & anticipation of 

central part theme 

177 mod., 

ff 

central part theme 

B flat major, mod. f/pp (182) 

185 mod., G flat major ff transition (più 

mosso, energico) 

2 nd variant of main theme; central part theme 

195 mod., 

F major, mod. 

f 

ff (205) 

Coda 

coda1 head motive of 1 st movement & 2 nd variant of 

main theme 

209 mod. fff 

head motive of 1 

ffff 

st movement & central part 

theme; plane of sound 

217 mod. ff coda2 broken diminished chords; 

second theme of 1 st movement (219) 

223 B flat major ppp/ff 

stretto of main theme (1 

cresc. 

st variant), plane of 

sound & anticipation of central part theme 

236- F major 

241 

fff head motive of 1 st movement 

Table 1.2. Karol Szymanowski, Symphonie No. 1 in F minor op. 15 (1906–07): 

arch form of the third movement (ABA’). 

62–63. This chord recalls the tonality of the first movement and, by this, 

contradicts the tonal brightness of the first part of the Allegretto. The central


Fig. 1.8. K. Szymanowski, Symphony No. 1, third movement, thematic structure. 

part of the final movement (bars 64–113: Meno mosso. Mesto) begins with a 

‘mesto’-episode that resembles a similar episode in the development section


of Szymanowski’s Overture op. 12 (bars 138–173). The model for both of 

them is the Variation No. 12 in Zygmunt Noskowski’s Symphonic Variations 

Zżycianarodu(1901). In all the three cases, the main theme of the work 

is presented in an elegiac minor version beginning as a broad solo cantilena 

and than evolving into a dense contrapuntal web. The episode in Szymanowski’s 

Symphony, however, is less cantabile than its predecessors and surpasses 

them largely in its complicated texture. In the course of this contrapuntal 

play, Szymanowski discreetly introduces a more or less ‘new’ theme consisting 

of three half-tone groups on different pitch levels (bars 73–75: flute and 

violins; bars 77–79: flute and viols; bar 81: solo violin). This pitch structure 

recalls the second theme of the Allegro pathétique and is anticipated by a 

figure consisting of two half-tone groups (bar 69: bassoon, clarinet). Just as 

in the Allegro pathétique, the second theme of the final movement does not 

create a strong contrast to the first theme. Consequently, it is not combined 

with the main theme of the Allegretto, but with the head motive of the first 

movement. The ‘attack-like’ entries of this motive (bar 89: viols and bassoons 

‘en dehors’; bar 90: flute and oboe ‘sehr hart’; bars 95–98: trumpets 

and horns ‘marcatissimo’) cause a sort of conflict culminating in a dissonant 

fortefortissimo chord (bar 98: C flat – A flat – B flat – E flat). The tension is 

‘resolved’ quite unexpectedly by a chromatic shift via B minor (with g sharp 

in the bass) to a dominant seventh chord of B flat major. By ornamenting 

this chord with the triplet figures from bars 56–57, Szymanowski closes the 

central part of the movement just as it had begun. In fact, the two short 

idyllic episodes in bars 56–63 and 107–113 stand in sharper contrast to the 

rest of the movement than the parts A and B to each other. 

The recapitulation of part A (bars 114–194) leads back to the tonic F major 

(bar 126). It presents the sections of this part in a modified order, integrating 

also the theme of part B (bars 163–185). In the monumental and emphatic 

coda (bars 195–241), the thematic material of both movements of the Symphony 

is combined simultaneously and successively. The ‘cyclic’ use of the 

same thematic material in all movements up to its final apotheosis were familiar 

to several Polish symphonic composers, especially to those trained in the 

school of Friedrich Kiel (Noskowski and Paderewski) or influenced by César


Franck (Stojowski). 30 In Szymanowski’s Symphony, the final firework of thematic 

combinations culminates in a four-part stretto of the main Allegretto 

theme (bar 223) that ‘dissolves’ into a broad plane of sound on B flat major 

(bars 228–235). It is the head motive of the first movement, however, that 

concludes the Symphony fortefortissimo in bright F major. In comparison 

with the ambiguous end of the Allegro pathétique and with the unconventional 

beginnings of both movements, this is a rather traditional gesture used 

in many symphonies of the 19th century. In general, the final movement contains 

more new traits than the first movement, but seems less homogeneous 

and less logical because the young composer is not sure yet how to use these 

traits in a convincing way. Especially, the idea to develop a huge symphonic 

movement from a grazioso theme was not fully realised here, but only three 

years later in the first movement of the Second Symphony. 

Summarizing, Szymanowski’s First Symphony is certainly not an opus perfectum 

et absolutum. It represents, however, an important step on the young 

composer’s way to create a new, individual symphonic idiom beyond the conventions 

of the Classic-Romantic tradition. Its harmonic language is far 

more ‘advanced’ than that of any other Polish composer up to this moment. 

Especially in comparison with Karlowicz’s Symphony in E minor (1900–02) 

which was written five years earlier — also by a 25-year-old composer —, 

the progress made by Szymanowski is striking: Whereas Karłowicz’s work is 

one more example of the old per aspera ad astra-dramaturgy, Szymanowski 

tries to escape this path which he had already gone in his First Piano Sonata 

op. 8 (1903–04). Of course, the ‘progressive’ traits of Szymanowski’s First 

Symphony were not only a fruit of his personal genius, but also a result of 

the rapid development of Polish music culture since the foundation of the 

Filharmonia Warszawska in 1901 which enabled the public to listen regularly 

to advanced orchestral music. 

As far as the delicate question of foreign influences is concerned which was 

raised by Aleksander Polinski and other Polish critics, 31 the impact of the 

‘New German’ school (especially of Wagner and Strauss) on Szymanowski’s 

First Symphony cannot be denied. However, the whole concept of the work 

as well as many impressive details are clearly of his own: the modulating


waltz passage in the final as well as the shadowy colours at the beginning 

of the first movement which by its dark, expressionist mood differs not only 

from Strauss, but also from Szymanowski’s own brighter Symphony No. 2. 

Whereas Szymanowski’s Concert Overture clearly recalls Strauss’s Don Juan 

and Heldenleben, there is no such model for the First Symphony as a whole. 

In the dissonant harmonic language, Szymanowski goes further than Strauss 

in his symphonic poems. The thematic and contrapuntal structure is even 

more dense and complex than that of Reger’s Sinfonietta. Especially in the 

Allegro, nearly all melodic lines of the polyphonic web contain thematic substance: 

There is left almost ‘no free note’. This structure comes close to the 

ideal of ‘total development’ ascribed by Theodor W. Adorno to the Second 

Viennese School. 32 Szymanowski certainly did not know the music of Schönberg 

in 1906, but the concept of total development as well as the chromatic 

expressionist style were ‘in the air’ at that time. 33 It is remarkable, however, 

that Szymanowski already at that early age was among those composers 

who experimented with the most radical consequences of this general stylistic 

situation. 

Notes 

1 Letter from Karol Szymanowski to Hanna Klechniowska, 11 th July 1906, cited in Karol 

Szymanowski, Korespondencja. Pełna edycja zachowanych listów od i do kompozytora 

[ Correspondence. A Complete Edition of Extant Letters from and to the Composer [= 

KOR], collected and edited by Teresa Chylińska, vol. I, Kraków: PWM 1982, p. 105: 

‘Będzie to jakieś monstrum kontrapunktyczno-harmoniczno-orkiestrowe i z góry już się 

cieszę na myśl, jak krytycy berlińscy na naszym koncercie, w czasie grania tej 

symfonii, bedą się wynosić z sali z przekleństwem na posiniałych ustach.’ — In a letter 

to Bronisław Gromadzki, Szymanowski even called his Symphony No. 1 ‘the greatest 

humbug of the world’ (in English!) (see KOR I, Uzupełnienia/Supplements, p.5). 

2 The autograph score of the third movement is to be found in the ‘Archivum 

Kompositorów Polskich’ at Warsaw University Library (Mus. CXX/1). It bears the 

date ‘summer, fall, winter 1906’. A manuscript copy of the first movement exists in 

the archives of PWM, Kraków. This movement was composed in summer 1906 

according to Szymanowski’s letters to Klechniowska from 11 th July and 28 th October 

1906 (see KOR I, pp. 105 and 112). 

3 Stanisław Golachowski, Karol Szymanowski, Kraków: PWM 1948, and Teresa 

Chylińska, Karol Szymanowski. His Life and Works, Los Angeles: Friends of Polish 

Music 1993, p. 41. 

4 See the mainly negative reviews in Młoda Muzyka, 1 st April 1909, pp. 13–14 (Adam


Wyleżyński), Scena i Sztuka, 2 nd April 1909, p. 13 (Czesław Lipaczyński), and Kurier 

Warszawski, 27 th March 1909, p. 3 (Aleksander Poliński), reprinted in KOR I, 

pp. 198–199. The third movement of Szymanowski’s First Symphony had already 

been rehearsed by Fitelberg and the Berlin Philharmonics at Berlin in March 1907 

(see Heinrich Neuhaus’s letter to his parents from 20 th March 1907, cited in KOR I, 

p. 124). 

5 According to a letter to Stefan Spiess from 20 th August 1910 (KOR I, p. 223), 

Szymanowski planned a revision of the instrumentation of his Symphony No. 1; 

obviously, this revision was never done. — In fact, the scoring of op. 15 with triple 

wind instruments and two harps corresponds to that of the original versions of op. 12 

and op. 19 (both of these works underwent a revision including a thinning out of the 

texture). 

6 An orchestral score with the copyright date 1993 can be hired at PWM, Kraków. A 

recording of the work was made by Karol Stryja and the Polish State Philharmonic 

Orchestra Katowice (Naxos 8.553683). 

7 Letter from Szymanowski to Grzegorz Fitelberg, 19 th October 1910, in: KOR I, p. 230. 

8 See Szymanowski’s letters to Zdzisław Jachimecki from 12 th October and 2 nd 

November 1911, in: KOR I, pp. 297–302 and 305–309. 

9 Alistair Wightman, Karol Szymanowski. His Life and Work, Aldershot: Ashgate 1999, 

p. 54. 

10 The most favourablee comments on this work stem from Wightman, Szymanowski, pp. 

53–54, and from Tadeusz A. Zieliński, Karol Szymanowski. Liryka i ekstaza, Kraków: 

PWM 1997, p. 45. 

11 On Gustav Neuhaus, see the article by Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller, ‘Gustav Neuhaus 

und Ferdinand Hiller: Zum musikalischen Weg vom Rheinland nach Südrußland’ in: 

Heinrich Neuhaus (1888–1964) zum 110. Geburtstag. Aspekte interkultureller 

Beziehung in Pianistik und Musikgeschichte zwischen dem östlichen Europa und 

Deutschland. Konferenzbericht Köln 23.–26. Oktober 1998, edited by Klaus Wolfgang 

Niemöller and Klaus-Peter Koch, Sinzig: Studio 2000, pp. 15–28. 

12 On Friedrich Kiel, see Helga Zimmermann, Untersuchungen zum 

Kompositionsunterricht im Spannungsfeld von Traditionalismus und neudeutscher 

Schule, dargestellt am Beispiel der Lehrtätigkeit Friedrich Kiels (1821–1885), Hagen: 

v. d. Linnepe 1987, and Januś Ekiert, ‘Paderewski bei Kiel’, in: Friedrich-Kiel-Studien 

1 (1993), pp. 113–120. The deep influence of Kiel’s teaching on Zygmunt Noskowski 

was only superficially evoked by Witold Wroński, Zygmunt Noskowski, Kraków:PWM 

1960, pp. 41–42. It is studied in detail in my ‘Habilitationsschrift’ (see note 13), 

pp. 99–127. 

13 A much more detailed study of Polish symphonic tradition and its relationship with 

German music culture is to be found in my ‘Habilitationsschrift’: 

Symphonie-Kulturtransfer. Untersuchungen zum Studienaufenthalt polnischer 

Komponisten in Deutschland und zu ihrer Auseinandersetzung mit der symphonischen 

Tradition 1867–1918, Leipzig University 2007. 

14 Emil Młynarski’s Symphony in F Major op. 14 (1910–11) is preceded by a slow 

introduction that dwells mainly in the minor mode. 

15 In his Symphonies No. 1 in G minor op. 8 (-1902) and No. 3 in C minor op. 14 (1907), 

Witold Maliszewski does not include a slow introduction to the first movement.


However, Maliszewski received his whole musical education at St. Petersburg and so, 

at that time, did not adhere to the Polish, but to the Russian symphonic tradition (up 

to his return to Poland in 1921). 

16 This title is lacking in the sources of the score. It is mentioned, however, in a review of 

the first performance of the work in Młoda Muzyka, 1 st April 1909, pp. 13–14. 

17 See Jim Samson, The Music of Szymanowski, London: Kahn & Averill 1980, pp. 

50–51, and Wightman, Szymanowski, p. 54. 

18 Zygmunt Noskowski underlined his fondness for counterpoint (which he had himself 

inherited by Friedrich Kiel in Berlin) e.g. in his article ‘Reforma fugi’, in: Echo 

Muzyczne, Teatralne i Artystyczne, Mai/June 1891, pp. 269–270, 287–288, 301–302, 

322–324, and in his late counterpoint treatise: Kontrapunkt. Wykład praktyczny, 

Warszawa: Gebethner & Wolff 1907. 

19 The wave metaphor was introduced into music analysis by Ernst Kurth, Bruckner, 

Berlin: Hesse 1925, Vol. I, p. 279. See also Wolfgang Krebs, ‘Zum Verhältnis von 

musikalischer Syntax und Höhepunktsgestaltung in der zweiten Hälfte des 

19. Jahrhunderts’, in: Musiktheorie 13 (1998), pp. 31–41. 

20 On this concept which was developed by Richard Wagner in a letter to Mathilde 

Wesendonck from 29 th October 1859, see Carl Dahlhaus, ‘Wagners ‘Kunst des 

Überganges’. Der Zwiegesang in ,Tristan und Isolde, in:idem,Vom Musikdrama zur 

Literaturoper. Aufsätze zur neueren Operngeschichte, 2 nd edition, München: Piper 

and Mainz: Schott 1989, pp. 150–151. 

21 The multivalent form structure of the first movement of Szymanowski’s Symphony 

op. 19 can be divided into two parts (bars 1–157, 158–335), three parts (exposition: 

bars 1–127; development: 127–245; recapitulation: 246–335) or even four parts (bars 

1–85, 86–157, 158–245, 246–335), all followed by a short coda (bars 336–353). 

22 The three-note motive introduced in bars 184–189 is an augmentation of the dotted 

figures used at the end of the exposition in bars 118–127. 

23 In Noskowski’s Symphony No. 2 Elegijna C minor (1875–79), the high point of the 

first movement is reached at the end of the development section; in his Symphony 

No. 3 Od wiosny do wiosny F major (1903), the climax is placed at the beginning of 

the recapitulation. 

24 See Ryszard Daniel Golianek, ‘Charaktery i symbole muzyczne w poematach 

symfonicznych Mieczysława Karłowicza’, in: Muzyka 44/1 (1999), p. 79. 

25 On the Polish tradition of the symphonic per aspera ad astra-dramaturgy, see Stefan 

Keym,“Per aspera ad astra’. Zur polnischen Symphoniktradition im späten 19. und 

frühen 20. Jahrhundert am Beispiel von Noskowski, Paderewski und Karłowicz’, in: 

Polnische Komponisten des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts im europäischen Kontext, 

Kongressbericht Berlin 2004, edited by Rainer Cadenbach, in print. — Dobrzyński, 

Noskowski, Paderewski and Młynarski combine this dramaturgy in their symphonies 

with the transformation of patriotic melodies in order to express the politic message 

that Poland was not lost forever (‘Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła’). 

26 This ‘special effect’ was already stressed in the program notes to the first performance 

printed in Scena i Sztuka, 26 th March 1909, p. 8. 

27 Apolinary Szeluto later claimed in his Memoirs (cited in KOR I, p. 86) that the whole 

‘Spółka nakładowa młodych kompozytorów polskich’ attended the first Berlin 

performance of Reger’s Sinfonietta. In fact, this performance took place on 13 th


November 1905. According to Teresa Chylińska, Szymanowski was not in the German 

capital at that time. However, he may have studied the score of the work that was 

published at the end of 1905 in Leipzig by Kuhn & Lauterbach. 

28 It seems that Adolf Chybiński was the first to claim a similarity between Reger’s and 

Szymanowski’s music (in Gazeta Lwowska, 19 th /20 th April 1906, cited in KOR I, 

p. 95). He was followed in this by Hugo Leichtentritt (Signale für die musikalische 

Welt,13 th April and 24 th August 1910, pp. 563 and 1315), August Spanuth (as above, 

6 th December 1911, p. 1725), and Eberhardt Klemm, ‘Über Reger und Szymanowski’, 

in: Max Reger. Beiträge zur Regerforschung, Suhl u.a.: Max-Reger-Festkomitee des 

Bezirks 1966, pp. 82–89.) 

29 J. Samson, The Music of Szymanowski, p. 51. 

30 In Noskowski’s Symphony No. 2 and Paderewski’s Symphony, the patriotic song 

melody ‘Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła‘ is used in this cyclic way in order to express a 

political message of hope. 

31 Aleksander Poliński, ‘Młoda Polska w muzyce’, in: Kurier Warszawski, 22 nd April 

1907, p. 6, cited in KOR I, pp. 131–133. 

32 Theodor W. Adorno, Philosophie der neuen Musik, Frankfurt/Main: Suhrkamp 1978, 

p. 63. 

33 Already Jim Samson, The Music of Szymanowski, p. 50, recognized a similarity 

between Szymanowski’s First Symphony and Schönbergs Kammersymphonie op. 9.

2 

The Scriabin Theme in the First Phase of Karol 

Szymanowski’s Creative Development 

Agnieszka Chwiłek 

Institute of Musicology, University of Warsaw 

Raising this issue concerns the search for an answer to the question: what permanent 

features are to be found in the compositional language of Szymanowski, 

particularly in the early period of his development, since the ever-present 

changeability of particular formal solutions which he uses calls for some kind 

of counterbalance in the other planes of his musical language. One constructive 

answer to the question about such constant qualities has been provided 

by Józef Chomiński, who analysed them in a number of texts, including an 

extensive study entitled Szymanowski and Scriabin1 dating from 1963. In it 

he described in detail the relationship of the compositional techniques of the 

two composers, including a list of features characteristic of a music theme 

present in some of Scriabin’s works, and found in a similar form in some of 

Szymanowski’s later compositions. In this article I shall refer to it as ‘the 

Scriabin theme’. 

The group of musicologists who were interested in the interrelationships 

between the compositional techniques of Scriabin and Szymanowski included, 

apart from Józef Chomiński, Zofia Lissa. In her article Rozważania o 

stylu narodowym w muzyce na materiale twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego 

[Reflections on national style in music in relation to the works of Karol Szymanowski], 

she draws attention to the significance of Scriabin in the creative 

development of Szymanowski. She sees Scriabin as an intermediary in the 

transfer of Chopinian models to the era when Szymanowski wrote his music2 . 

26

The Scriabin Theme in Szymanowski 27 

This theme also appears in her article Szymanowski a romantyzm [Szymanowski 

and Romanticism] 3 , although only as a side issue. It is worth noting that 

Stefania Łobaczewska in her article Sonaty fortepianowe Szymanowskiego a 

sonaty Skriabina [The Piano Sonatas of Szymanowski and those of Scriabin] 

did not raise the issue of kinship between these compositions 4 . Jim Samson 

in his monograph The Music of Szymanowski searched for parallels between 

the musical languages of these two composers mainly in material belonging 

to the second phase of the creative development of the Polish artist 5 . Tadeusz 

Zieliński discussed the relationship between the works of Scriabin and 

Szymanowski on a number of occasions in his monograph, pointing to the 

similarity of emotionality and creative sensitivity between the two artists, 

underlying the close kinship between many of their compositions primarily in 

the expressive plane 6 . 

My aim in the present article is to supplement the claims made by Chomiński 

in his article referred to earlier. The point of departure here is to list, 

as completely as possible, those of Scriabin’s compositions which might have 

potentially provided the model for the solutions employed by the young Szymanowski. 

Secondly, it seems important to establish the actual extent of the 

presence of the Scriabin theme in Szymanowski’s work. Moreover, it is worth 

tracing the Scriabin thread in Szymanowski’s writings and correspondence, to 

seek the composer’s own views on the relationship between Scriabin’s works 

and his own, or at least his opinion of Scriabin’s music. 

The relationship between Szymanowski and Scriabin in 

Szymanowski’s correspondence and musical writings 

As we know, Szymanowski’s correspondence from the years 1901–1902 (his 

early years in Warsaw during his studies) has not survived, while the few 

letters from the years 1903–1905 (when the model of what we refer to as 

the Scriabin theme was establishing itself in his work) contain no mention of 

Scriabin. The first such mention does not come until 1916, in a letter to Stefan 

Spiess: ‘[...] I have heard that Sasha Dubiansky wants to give a concert in 

the autumn with only Scriabin’s works and mine, that is an excellent idea!’ 7 .

28 Agnieszka Chwiłek 

Of course, Szymanowski’s pleasure at having a recital built exclusively around 

his own and Scriabin’s compositions does not automatically imply that the 

composer had a positive attitude to the work of his slightly older colleague. 

On the other hand, Szymanowski would have reacted differently if he had had 

decisive reservations about that work. 

It is worthwhile to look at three short quotations from earlier letters by 

other correspondents, which throw an interesting light at the issue being 

discussed. 

In 1907 Adolf Chybiński wrote to Zdzisław Jachimecki: 

[...] Regarding Szymanowski and your admiration for him, I must draw your attention 

to the fact that, when you are dealing with the history music, you have to 

examine a particular figure against the background of its time; it is the same in the 

case of Szymanowski — you cannot put him on a pedestal, because if you knew all 

his pieces well, you would find there traces of influences of Chopin, Liszt, Reger, and 

particularly Scriabin [...] 8 . 

We can only guess that what Chybiński had in mind was the strength and 

extent of the influences, and not their very existence, quite understandable 

in an early phase of a composer’s creative development. 

Three years later Jachimecki in his turn wrote to Chybiński: ‘[...] Szymanowskihadalready 

toldmethatScriabin’s Preludes areodioustohim[...]’ 9 . 

Unfortunately we do not know whether this refers to a particular opus (it might 

have been opus 48 from 1905, which clearly differs in style from those 

composed during the first phase of Scriabin’s career), or to all of Scriabin’s 

preludes known to Szymanowski (and that would be quite incomprehensible). 

Since trying to make sense of this ambiguous statement is unlikely to produce 

useful results, I will not attempt an interpretation. 

In 1913 Szymanowski (who at that time was staying in Vienna) heard from 

his mother that: 

[...] The Neuhauses are delighted with Scriabin and his wife, they spent the whole 

evening with them there in the club — they say he is nice and that he played those 

pieces of his with great subtlety — they told him a lot about your compositions and 

he asked, and the Neuhauses and Tala asked me today, that you should send them to 

him in Moscow — nothing else, just your various compositions. His address is Ale-


xander Nikolayevich Scriabin in Moscow, naturally they said that his compositions 

don’t touch yours, but that they are pleasant [...]. 10 . 

It is truly difficult to decide whether the above opinion was quoted accurately. 

If so, it would be rather curious, or at least highly exaggerated. But 

perhaps it might be explaned to some extent by an emotional claim which 

Neuhaus made five years later, that he ‘likes Katot a lot more than Scriabin’ 11 . 

The first two quotations in particular (from letters written by the founding 

fathers of Polish musicology) give an excellent grounding for the declaration 

made by Szymanowski himself, which is crucial to our deliberations. It comes 

from a letter to Sasha Dubiansky, written after the concert in October 1916 

which had been referred to earlier: 

A propos what the critic wrote: I have wondered myself a number of times whether 

Scriabin had any influence on me. The ‘early’ Scriabin on my first compositions, 

perhaps only the Preludes, undoubtedly yes. As to the later works, 

it seems to me, rather not. Although I like many of his opuses (particularly 

some of the most recent ones) very much, generally I had too little 

enthusiasm for him for it to be possible. But to hell with him, together with 

the critic! (emphasis by A.Ch.). 12 

The first immediate question which comes to mind is: how can an artist 

be so profoundly unaware of such an extremely obvious relationship, noted 

by many researchers. It is difficult to doubt the sincerity of the statement, 

in view of the decidedly private character and highly emotional tone of the 

letter. It does seem to reflect truly the composer’s inner conviction. One could 

expect that Szymanowski, who from the beginning of his creative development 

carried the burden of being branded a follower of Strauss and Wagner placed 

on him by the critics, and who was himself aware of these dependencies, would 

try to suppress even to himself any awareness of yet another close kinship. 

Music journals provide a number of opinions which indicate that Szymanowski’s 

attitude to the works of Scriabin was deeply ambivalent. 

This ambivalence is already apparent in the article which began Szymanowski’s 

foray into journalism, entitled Uwagi w sprawie współczesnej opinii 

muzycznej w Polsce [Remarks on contemporary musical opinion in Poland] 

dating from 1920. It talks of ‘[...] the almost absolute cosmopolitanism of


at times weird, but deeply artistic, enchanting art of Scriabin.’ 13 It is worth 

noting that the statement about the ‘enchanting art of Scriabin’ was the only 

concrete piece of evidence provided by Chomiński to support his claim that 

Szymanowski’s attitude to Scriabin was decidedly positive. 

The subsequent statements present evaluations which no longer show any 

trace of doubt as to the ranking. Thus a year later, in an interview entitled 

‘Wojna otwiera drzwi polskiej sztuc’e [‘The war opens doors to Polish 

art’] given to the bi-weekly journal Musical America (print 8/9 April 1921) 

Szymanowski said: 

I admire very much the new Russian music which, in my opinion, begins with 

Rimsky-Korsakov. It seems to me that Scriabin and Stravinsky represent that which 

is best in the contemporary school, especially the latter in his works for the stage 

[...] 14 

At the same time (1921) in a draft of an unpublished article entitled Igor 

Stravinsky the composer upheld his opinion and noted ‘[...] So far, various 

half-baked opinions here dare to cast doubt on the new values of the Debussys, 

the Ravels, the Scriabins, and are scared of neoclassicism!’ 15 

On the other hand, in an article of the same title published three years later 

(1924), Szymanowski compared the ‘conceptual — technical’ relationships in 

the work of Stravinsky and Scriabin, and judged the latter harshly: 

[...] [in Stravinsky] the most essential beauty grew directly, in a way organically, 

from the very concept of ‘craft’, without meandering through the dark recesses of 

the soul, between the illusory phantoms of ‘expression’ or ‘impression’, or diverse 

‘metaphysical’ banalities, which often lead — especially in the post-Romantic era 

— to tragic, and sometimes comical, conflicts between the ‘content’ and the ‘form’ 

[...]. In Germany, the classic example of such an inner misunderstanding within 

himself is Gustav Mahler [in the manuscript: ‘and even to some extent R. Strauss 

and A. Schönberg’], in Russia — in a certain manner — Alexander Scriabin. 16 

We should not, however, take into account Szymanowski’s chronologically 

last comment about Scriabin (interview in Sygnały, November 1934), in view 

of the lack of authorisation of the final version of the interview, and the 

composer’s own remark regarding editorial cuts which, according to him, 

created the impression of ‘arbitrariness and lack of justification for opinions’ 17


when talking, among other things, about Stravinsky, Scriabin and Bach. The 

text of the interview contains the following sentence: ‘There is a kind of 

sickly, penetrating swelling in his music and a fatal imposibility of fulfilment. 

Scriabin’s music is tiring and irritating to the nerves.’ 18 . 

In an article entitled Współpraca narodów. Droga Karola Szymanowskiego 

[Cooperation of nations. Karol Szymanowski’s way] published in the Moscow 

weekly Sovetskoye Iskusstvo [Soviet Art] in November 1933, Szymanowski 

indicated the two threads of thought important for the discussion undertaken 

in that article: the attitude to the works of Russian composers, and 

the significance for his own compositional technique of thinking in terms of 

themes-motifs. He said, among other things: 

I know Russian music extremely well. I have always kept myself abreast of events 

which have been taking place within it. I must admit, however, that Tchaikovsky, 

and the ‘Mighty Handful’, and above all Musorgsky, are much closer to my heart than 

Scriabin. I regard Musorgsky’s work as particularly excellent — he is so national in 

his character, yet so international, humanistic, in his deep musical ideas. In Scriabin, 

one feels a certain tearing away, a breaking away, swinging in the clouds. I have a 

very strongly developed feeling for the form, and I never experience any contradiction 

between that feeling and the musical ideas I try to express in my works. I think that 

each musical composition, regardless of the philosophical ideas, feelings or moods 

from which it originates, will always remain a work of ‘pure music’ — of course, if it 

is a work of art at all. My compositional ideas nearly always originate from melodic 

motifs. 19 . 

Igor Bełza in a letter to Kornel Michałowski has questioned the ‘accuracy’ of 

this interview, particularly on the basis of the comments relating to Scriabin, 

and the arguments he put forward are of a serious nature. However, taking 

into account the tone and the content of some other remarks (quoted earlier) 

by the composer, we may suppose that his meaning was not twisted to any 

great extent. 

This is not the place for a detailed discussion of the significance of form 

in Szymanowski’s thinking and in his works; however, we should recall that 

his main postulate in this area was to always keep searching for new, nonbanal 

solutions. In many of his statements the form is the synonym for all 

technical-musical categories, and not simply the architectonic qualities. Thus


a strong attachment to one model of a theme with a dominant characteristic 

interval progression might be interpreted as behaviour which contradicts his 

stated creative ideals. 

However, this seemingly complex issue can perhaps be given a fairly obvious 

explanation. Thus, the adoption (or absorption) of Scriabin’s motivicthematic 

model happened at the very beginning of the creative development 

of the Polish composer. The shaping of his truly individual musical language 

(and by the same token, liberation from the bonds of foreign influences) took 

place finally at the beginning of the 1920s. This probably corresponds with 

the journey from a fascination with Scriabin’s idiom to achieving a healthy 

distance, which would allow Szymanowski to shape freely his own creative 

identity. The surviving source documents seem to confirm this version of 

events. In a less serious vein, one might describe the negative comments 

about Scriabin’s creative ideas as a self-critical review of Szymanowski’s own 

path of development prior to 1920. 

Compositional practice 

At the start one needs to provide a model of the Scriabin theme. It can be 

defined in terms of an attunement of the following features: 

(i) the rising direction of the melodic line (with a possible contrast in the 

second segment); change of direction within the main motif is rare; 

(ii) the basic interval cell (located in the frontal motif, or in the culminative 

segment of the theme) is the second (or seconds, usually two) + a 

larger interval (or intervals); the reverse system is also sometimes used 

(a large interval + a second); 

(iii) frequent punctuated rhythm in the basic interval cell; 

(iv) presence of progression expanding the thematic space, resulting in 

some cases in a widespread ambitus; 

(v) generally, being present in the more extensive works, in view of the 

large dynamic and form-creating potential. 

Themes shaped in this way can be found in many of Scriabin’s compositions; 

this feature is already present in works belonging to the first phase of his


Fig. 2.1. Alexander Scriabin, Symphony No. 1 in E-major op. 26, 1sth movement, 

theme I, bars 9–16, Cl. 

development (i.e., until 1903); that is the phase which might have inspired 

even the earliest of Szymanowski’s works with themes based on the Scriabin 

model. In this group of works we may count: Symphonies No. 1 and 2 (see 

figure 2.1), Piano sonatas — No. 1 (mainly movements 1 and 3), No. 2 

(primarily the first of the two movements), No.3 (all the four movements), 

No. 4 (both movements), Piano concerto (in particular the typical theme of 

the finale), Allegro appasionato op. 4, Allegro de concert op. 18, Fantasy op. 

28 and numerous more minor works (such as Impromptus op. 10, 12, 14, and 

in particular Preludes already from op. 11). 

The fact that these compositions are so numerous allows us to suppose that 

Szymanowski must have come across the model of the theme characteristic of 

Scriabin’s musical language. The earliest response to the phenomenon defined 

above can be found already in a number of Preludes op. 1 (Nos 1, 3, 6 and 

9). However, we encounter its clearer formulation primarily in larger units of 

formal genres, mainly in sonata cycles or allegros, or their derivatives. The 

model is to be found in the following works of the Polish composer, originating 

from the first phase of his development:


(i) Piano Sonata No. 1 in C minor op. 8 (1903–1904) — the outlying 

movements (see figure 2.2a) 

(ii) Sonata for violin and piano in D minor op. 9 (1904) — all three 

movements 

(iii) Concert Ouverture in E major for symphony orchestra op. 12 (1904– 

1905) 

(iv) Fantasy in C major for piano op. 14 (1905) — all three movements 

(v) Symphony No. 1 in F minor op. 15 (1906–1907) — both surviving 

outlying movements 

(vi) Prelude and fugue in C sharp minor for piano (1905, 1909) — both 

works 

(vii) Romance in D major for violin and piano op. 23 (1910) — highly 

transformed 

(viii) Symphony No. 2 in B flat major for symphony orchestra op. 19 (1909– 

1910) — majority of themes (see figure 2.2b) 

(ix) Piano sonata No. 2 in A major op. 21 (1910–1911) — majority of 

themes 

The obvious and unanswerable question immediately arises here, of whether 

similar material formed the basis of Trio for piano, violin and cello op. 1906 

from 1907, which had been withdrawn by the composer. 

In the second period of Szymanowski’s creative development, we can clearly 

discern a moving away from the model which had dominated a significant 

part of his earlier works. The change of the dominant direction of movement 

in the themes of many compositions (from rising to falling or oscillating) is 

extremely characteristic. Apart from Piano sonata No. 2 op. 36 from 1917, 

we also find references to the Scriabinian model in works written two years 

earlier, Narcissus from Myths op. 30 and Nausicaa (and in a minor degree in 

Calypso) fromMetopes op. 29. The themes or main motifs of compositions 

belonging to the third phase of the composer’s development are constructed 

in a quite a different way. The group of vocal-instrumental compositions 

presents a totally separate issue — the interval cells described earlier can 

only be found in a few of them, while the extensively developed Scriabinian 

themes do not appear in these genres for obvious textural reasons.


a) 

b) 

Fig. 2.2. a) Karol Szymanowski, Sonata No. 1 in C minor for piano op. 8, 1st 

movement, bars 1–8. b) Karol Szymanowski, Symphony No. 2 in B flat major for 

symphony orchestra op. 19, 1st movement, bars 1–16, Vno I solo. 

Conclusions 

Finding a fairly widespread presence of the type of theme described above 

both in the works of Scriabin prior to 1903, and in Szymanowski’s compositions 

prior to 1911, one has to ask the question: was Szymanowski strongly 

influenced by Scriabin at the beginning of his development as composer, and 

did he adopt Scriabin’s manner of constructing a theme particularly in the 

group of traditional forms, i.e., sonatas? It seems that, in trying to answer 

this question, it might be helpful to examine the relationship between those 

two undoubtedly connected stylistic phenomena using the concept of intertextuality. 

Intertextual research in Polish literature studies has a long tradition, 

and, as a direct consequence of this, there exists an extensive literature on 

the subject. The fullest and most precise definition of intertextuality can 

be found in Stanisław Balbus’s Między stylami [Between styles] and, related 

to it, Intertekstualność a proces historycznoliteracki [Intertextuality and the


historical-literary process] 20 . In spite of the fact that there are many differences 

in intertextual dependencies between the literary and the musical arts, 

there are certain general laws which function in a similar way in the worlds 

of both. One of the most important categories which form the basis of the 

concept of intertextuality (and at the same time adapts well to a discussion 

of musical space) is the intertextual technique, i.e., 

the stylistical-constructural feature of a work, which consists in its ability to evoke 

certain elements of contexts; these techniques are differentiated depending on the 

character and position of the appropriate indexical elements within the structure of 

thework[...],ontheirplaceofprovenance,onthedirectionandmannerofreference, 

thus, a quotation, a microquotation, a cryptoquotation, a structural quotation, a 

thematic allusion, paraphrase, reconstruction, imitation, pure evocation, ‘inversion’, 

caricature, falsification, reminiscence; then archaisation, dialectisation, exotisation, 

folklorisation etc. It is thus a manner of stylistic figure, based on the text’s external 

links. 21 

Of course, one will not find all these ways of referring in music, but the 

majority of them have their legible musical equivalents. A little further on 

the author makes a comment about historical context, which seems to have 

key significance for the Szymanowski-Scriabin relationship. 

Thus the Romantics, even if they referred directly to foreign models, even if they went 

so far as to imitate them, remained deeply convinced that they did «not imitate», 

because «originality»was a fundamental feature of Romantic creativity. 22 

In the fragment devoted to the ‘Romantic intertextual breakthrough’, the 

author expands the temporal space, accurately describing in his conclusion 

the situation also prevalent in music at the turn of the centuries. 

In modernism, the conversationality of intertextual links, being «multidirectional»at 

that, and thus stylisation in all of the varieties, often quite new, becomes decidedly 

the leading literary key [...]. 23 

Balbus emphasises the importance of ‘the nature of intertextual and interstylistic 

links being a dialogue’, substantiating the relationships which link 

works of art and creative languages, which can at times be very close. 24 

It seems that the case of Szymanowski’s early works (i.e., still strongly 

rooted in nineteenth-century tradition), and the presence in them of certain


clearly discernible similarities to and analogies with the external phenomena, 

may be accurately described as a type of dialogue with that which was in 

existence already. Finally, it is worth recalling that , on changing his aesthetic 

stance, Szymanowski distanced himself from his early works and the models 

reflected in them. Having defined his own, separate musical language, he was 

able to evaluate calmly the legacy of his early years as a closed phase, through 

which it had been necessary to pass in order to achieve maturity, which means 

achieving creative independence. 

Notes 

1 Józef Michał Chomiński, ‘Szymanowski a Skriabin’ [‘Szymanowski and Scriabin’], in: 

Studia nad twórczością Karola Szymanowskiego [Karol Szymanowski studies], PWM, 

Kraków 1969. It is worth noting that the issue of the relationship between the 

compositional language of Szymanowski and Scriabin does not receive such a 

perceptive description in the much earlier article entitled Zagadnienia konstrukcyjne w 

sonatach fortepianowych [Structural issues in the pianosSonatas], whereonemight 

expect a similar in-depth reflection. Józef Michał Chomiński, ‘Zagadnienia 

konstrukcyjne w sonatach fortepianowych’ [‘Structural issues in the piano sonatas’], 

Kwartalnik Muzyczny 1948 Nos 21/22 and 23, reprinted in: Studia nad twórczością 

Karola Szymanowskiego [Karol SzymanowskisStudies]. 

2 Zofia Lissa, ‘Rozważania o stylu narodowym w muzyce na materiale twórczości Karola 

Szymanowskiego’ [‘Reflections on national style in music in relation to the works of 

KarolSzymanowski’],in:Z życia i twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego. Studia i 

materiały pod redakcją J.M. Chomińskiego [On the life and works of Karol 

Szymanowski. Studies and materials edited by J.M. Chominski], PWM, Kraków 1960. 

3 Zofia Lissa, ‘Szymanowski a romantyzm’ [‘Szymanowski and Romanticism’], in: Karol 

Szymanowski. Księga sesji naukowej poświęconej twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego 

[Karol Szymanowski. Proceedings of the Academic Session devoted to the works of 

Karol Szymanowski], ed. Zofia Lissa, Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 

Warszawa 1964. 

4 Stefania Łobaczewska, ‘Sonaty fortepianowe Szymanowskiego a sonaty Skriabina’ 

[‘Piano sonatas of Szymanowski and those of Scriabin’], in: Karol Szymanowski. 

Księga sesji naukowej poświęconej twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego , [Karol 

Szymanowski. Proceedings of the Academic Session devoted to the works of Karol 

Szymanowski], ed. Zofia Lissa, Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, Warszawa 

1964. 

5 Jim Samson, The music of Szymanowski, Kahn & Averill, London 1980. 

6 Tadeusz Andrzej Zieliński, Szymanowski. Liryka i ekstaza [Lyricism and ecstasy], 

PWM, Kraków 1997. 

7 Karol Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence], vol. 1, 1903–1919, collected 

and edited by Teresa Chylińska, PWM, Kraków 1982, p. 467. 

8 As above, p. 129.


9 As above, p. 213. 

10 As above, pp. 400–401. 

11 As above, p. 569. 

12 As above, p. 478. 

13 Karol Szymanowski, Pisma [Writings], vol. 1,Pisma muzyczne [Writings on music], 

PWM, Kraków 1984, p. 35. 

14 As above, p. 357. 


16 As above, p. 138. 

17 As above, p. 449. 

18 As above, p. 451. 

19 As above, p. 439. 

20 Stanisław Balbus, Między stylami [Between styles], Universitas, Kraków 1993.St. 

Balbus, Intertekstualność a proces historycznoliteracki [Intertextuality and the 

historical-literary process], Kraków 1990. 

21 As above, p. 156. 

22 As above, p. 157. 

23 As above, p. 160. 

24 As above.

3 

The Problem of Orientalism in the Music of Karol 

Szymanowski 

Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek 


Introduction 

The oriental inspirations of Karol Szymanowski have been the subject of 

numerous penetrating studies, in which we read that the composer succumbed 

to influences from the musical-poetic tradition of the East, on the foundations 

of which he consciously built his own compositional idiom, referred to as 

oriental-impressionistic. 1 Szymanowski’s oriental interests supposedly sprang 

from his early contacts with Eastern music in Ukraine, which may well have 

made him perceptually more open and spiritually more sensitive to musical 

exoticism. 2 The direct inspiration for a new stage on the composer’s creative 

path, meanwhile, is said to have been his pivotal journey to Tunisia and 

Algeria, during which he came into direct contact with the music of the East. 3 

Scholars also stress the crucial significance of the artistic predilections and 

experimentation of modernism — a period marked by a lively interest in 

exotic cultures. 4 

The shaping of Szymanowski’s individual style, initiated under the influence 

of the Orient, is generally accepted to have taken place during the years 1914– 

1918, although the earliest traces of the composer’s new interests lead us to 

‘Zulejka’, from opus 13 (1905–07), and to ‘Z maurytańskich śpiewnych sal’ 

[‘From Moorish songful rooms’], from opus 20 (1909). 5 In 1911, he wrote 

the Love Songs of Hafiz (Op. 24), instrumented in 1914 (Op. 26), and a 

year later the Songs of a Fairytale Princess, Op. 31, also ascribed to his 

39

40 Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek 

‘oriental’ song output. The ‘Eastern cycle’ also includes the Third Symphony 

(‘Song of the Night’), Op. 27, from 1916, as well as the Four Songs, Op. 41, 

composed in 1918, and Songs of the Infatuated Muezzin, Op. 42. King Roger, 

Op. 46 (1918–1924) ends the list of works marked by that air of exoticism 

which scholars generally opine to have been the most weighty factor in the 

transformation of Szymanowski’s style. 

Yet a close reading of studies devoted to the composer’s ‘oriental’ works, 

and also of his own published writings and preserved notes, including his 

Arabistic notes held in Warsaw University Library, incline one to ponder the 

legitimacy of the accepted interpretation of Szymanowski’s links with the 

Orient. This problem requires interrogation with regard to the composer’s 

awareness, his erudition, interests and artistic motivations, and also to the 

way he employed so-called ‘Eastern’ elements. This concerns poetical references 

conveying an ‘exotic’ imagination and symbolism, as well as their musical 

realisation. 

Szymanowski’s journey to North Africa and his Arabistic reading 

matter 

In the spring of 1914, Karol Szymanowski spent almost a month in North 

Africa with his friend Stefan Spiess. Teresa Chylińska comments on the significance 

of this trip as follows: 

In 1911, travelling around Sicily, [Szymanowski] noticed above all ‘ruins’ 

which made a profound ‘impression’ on him and aroused his ‘delight’. Now 

he discovered an indefinable ‘beauty’, ‘wondrousness’ and ‘fabulousness’ — 

in other words the exotic. Then, Sicily showed Szymanowski that which he 

sensed was at the root of European culture, and so of his own culture too. 

Now, he was experiencing something new, unknown, and at the same time 

hugely appealing. He was experiencing the East. [...] It may be assumed 

that this journey, culturally so distant, exotic [...] revealed to Szymanowski 

a world which turned out to be his world. [...] Szymanowski undoubtedly 

came away with the great ‘theme’ of the subsequent years of his life and his 

art. 6

The Problem of Orientalism in the Music of Karol Szymanowski 41 

This description of Szymanowski’s initiation into the world of Eastern culture 

seems not to be borne out by the available sources and materials. There 

are many arguments in favour of a somewhat more circumspect wording of 

conclusions regarding the depth of experience of the composer’s first contact 

with the world of Arabic culture and his later creative experimentation. 

One should note above all the scant and extremely laconic news dispatched 

from his travels — just three postcards with greetings sent on 4 April from 

Algiers, 11 April from Biskra and 20 April from Tunis to Zofia and Zdzisław 

Jachimecki. 7 The enthusiastic phrases ‘it’s simply wonderful here’ and 

‘it’s fabulously beautiful here’ may be treated, not so much as manifesting 

the composer’s awakening to the phenomenon of cultural exotica, as rather 

expressive of the satisfaction of a tourist who is enchanted by the landscape. 

The photographs preserved from this expedition 8 are standard souvenirs, in 

which one would be hard pressed to discern a documentational passion on 

the part of the travellers. On photograph 210 we see a typical image of a 

European tourist in the picturesque company of ‘natives’, furnished with the 

tropical helmet that was used in those times by Europeans in the hot climate 

of Africa. 

The postcards from this African expedition are the only documents written 

by the composer himself, and as such their value as sources is doubtless 

slightly overestimated. Apart from this, we possess Stefan Spiess’s three 

memoir-impressions from this journey, cited many times in the subject literature. 

The first relates to the chanting of the muezzins at sunset in Tunis, the 

second concerns the songs and dances performed at the end of Ramadan in 

Biskra, and the third evokes impressions of the atmosphere of that city. We 

shall return to the musical part of Spiess’s account further into this article. 

Here, it is worth drawing attention to the description of a certain district 

of Biskra, which seems to confirm the superficiality of contacts and incomprehension 

of the realities of the visited culture that were typical of many 

travelling Europeans: 

The atmosphere of Biskra was most extraordinary, particularly in the evening. On 

the quiet, unpaved little streets, abounding in restaurants and wide-open houses, 

colourful lights, shining from the depths of interiors and also from the lamps placed


above the doorways, fell with restless streaks on the soft earth beneath a starry sky. 

In front of every house sat beautiful Ouled nail girls (from the Kabyle people) in 

pastel attire of mostly white-blue and pink, with trinkets adorning their hair and 

ears, their eyes painted about with blue kohl (pencil), some with charshafs veiling 

part of their face. And moving around them in complete silence — like phantoms — 

were the figures of men in white linen burnouses. From the homes only the delicate 

tuning of citterns reached us. When one stood at the open doorways of these houses, 

one could see beds covered with colourful cushions. All of this — filled with exotic 

charm — struck one as utterly unreal, and by the same token brought no associations 

with any debauchery. 9 

It is clear from this account that the friends saw café-brothels inhabited by 

the celebrated Nailijat — dancers and high-class courtesans in one, hailing 

from the Ouled Nail tribe of the Berber people. 10 We may, with a great deal 

of probability, assume that they divined the character of the place they found 

themselves in and the profession of the ‘beautiful girls’ sitting in front of the 

houses. The author of the account seems embarrassed by the scene, decidedly 

suggestive of debauchery, perceived most dimly by the respectable European. 

So he preferred to believe in its unreal quality and exotic charm, through 

which it adhered to the stereotype of the fairytale Orient. This interpretation 

from a European perspective was completely at odds with the realities of the 

Ouled Nail culture, in which prostitution not only was not forbidden, but 

constituted socially acceptable behaviour on the part of young women, who 

were taught the profession from an early age. Let us add that from Stefan 

Spiess’s account it appears that the two travellers were wholly unaware of the 

musical aspects of the profession of the Nailijat, whose dance, performed to 

the accompaniment of an instrumental ensemble, was characterised by high 

artistic and technical qualities. We may therefore cautiously presume that 

they did not see such a dance. 

There is no doubt that the trip to Algeria and Tunisia aroused Szymanowski’s 

genuine interest in Arabs and Arabic civilisation. On returning to 

Tymoszówka ‘by the last normal train’, he began reading relevant studies, 

making notes on the pages of four notebooks. 11 This text, written alternately 

in Polish and in French, is very difficult to read — indeed, all but 

illegible. The material gathered there represents a sort of survey of the li-


terature and reveals neither the composer’s views nor his special interest in 

any particular aspect of the history or culture of the Arabs. The notes show 

a desire to systematically grasp the ‘whole’ of Arabic civilisation, its history 

and religion — one of the key factors of cultural difference between the Arabic 

East and the European West. The notebooks also contain entries on Arabic 

philosophy, learning, architecture, medicine and, to a small degree, art and 

craft. Particularly notable is the absence of music, which is given hardly any 

mention whatsoever. Interestingly, neither do we encounter any attempt to 

gather even the most rudimentary information on Arabic poetry. 

This lack doubtless reflects the profile of the books, or perhaps the encyclopaedic 

entries, read by Szymanowski, the authors, titles and publication 

dates of which he essentially omits. Let us add that around the turn of the 

nineteenth and twentieth centuries, oriental studies, particularly in France, 

was an extremely dynamic academic discipline; the Arabistic literature abounded 

in works of a fundamental character from which the composer could 

have chosen at will. It would certainly be worth discovering which items 

from this literature were read by Karol Szymanowski, although the lack of 

certain bibliographical data in his notes makes it impossible to satisfactorily 

reconstruct the list of works he studied. 

On analysing the contents of the notebooks, including their arrangement 

and the authors’ names that sporadically appear, we can state that Szymanowski 

consulted almost exclusively literature in French, the few remaining 

items being in Polish. The main source of his knowledge was almost certainly 

La civilisation des Arabes by Le Bon, 12 a French sociologist and anthropologist 

who made his name chiefly as the author of a work on mass psychology 13 . 

His grand, richly illustrated work has the character of a compendium and 

represents a general, but not generalising, survey of all aspects of Arabic civilisation. 

Based on solid scholarly foundations, Le Bon’s book subscribed to 

the evolutionary scheme of the development of humanity, in which the Arabs, 

with their history, religion and social institutions, played a very important 

role. It is worth adding that the French scholar’s work is decidedly social, rather 

than humanistic, in character, which explains the very cursory treatment


of Arabic literature, poetry and art, as well as the complete lack of music, as 

reflected in Karol Szymanowski’s notes. 

Also appearing in the notes is the name of L.-A. Sédillot, 14 author of a large, 

two-volume Histoire générale des Arabes, translated in the twentieth century 

into Arabic and very well received in Arabic intellectual circles. Despite 

the passage of time, this work is quite highly esteemed by specialists for 

its scholarly objectivity, free from oriental-leaning distortions. It contains a 

very good historical outline of the Arabs’ civilisation, with particular account 

taken of their scientific achievements, above all in the field of astronomy. 

Besides these two items, Karol Szymanowski is likely to have read the 

Koran in the French translation by Wojciech Kazimirski, with an extensive 

introduction devoted to Muhammad 15 and translator’s notes. If the composer 

did indeed use this translation, which we cannot say for sure, then we may 

only wonder at the lack in his notes of any mention of the Polish edition 

of the Koran in the translation by Buczacki. 16 The only explanation that 

comes to mind is that, in making use solely of the family library, Szymanowski 

failed to find Buczacki on the bookshelves, the only version being Kazimirski’s 

translation, which, for a long time the only French translation, was highly 

regarded in France. 

We also find in Szymanowski’s Arabic notebooks evidence that he read 

another, considerably older, French work, namely Michaud’s famous Histoire 

des croisades, first published in the years 1812–17. 17 Despite its numerous 

gaps and its romantic-leaning treatment of the relations between East and 

West during the period of the Crusades, Michaud still enjoys a certain interest 

among contemporary readers. An abridged version was published in 1970. 18 

The composer may possibly have been drawn to the history of the Crusades 

under the influence of Le Bon, who devotes to them a large chapter of the 

third part of his book. 

Another book perused by Szymanowski might have been the Larousse encyclopaedia, 

in which the Arabistic entries, such as ‘Mahoment’, ‘Coran’ and 

‘Arabe’ were given a most extensive and competent treatment. 19 Averyhigh 

standard of scholarship also characterises the entries ‘Arabia’ and ‘Arabska 

literatura’ in the Polish Wielka Encyklopedia Powszechna. 20 It is highly pro-


bable that Szymanowski read these through, although we cannot be absolutely 

certain. 

The Arabistic notebooks constitute an exceptionally interesting element in 

the problem of oriental influences in the work of Karol Szymanowski. His 

interest in the East was not, perhaps, an isolated phenomenon in the modernist 

period, but the way he approaches Arabic culture reveals an original, 

independent mind, resistant to facile stereotypes of the oriental exotic. The 

works he consulted were of an eminently scholarly and objective character, 

far removed from the oriental-leaning notions and interpretations which filled 

the belles lettres and a large part of the orientalistic studies of his times. 

Szymanowski could not have found — though nor did he seek — artistic inspirations 

in these books. His aim was to obtain well-documented knowledge 

about the civilisation with which he came into contact as a tourist during his 

brief trip to Algeria and Tunisia. 

Oriental allusions in the song texts 

The poetical texts of Karol Szymanowski’s songs are considered to be one of 

the key signposts along his creative path, 21 and so the turning of his interest 

towards Eastern poetry can certainly be treated as a new stage in his artistic 

explorations. And yet the matter of Szymanowski’s literary choices and of 

the exotic content of the texts he set to music — so crucial in respect to 

the problem of orientalism of interest to us here — is extremely complex 

and eludes unequivocal evaluation. In his article ‘Szymanowski a literatura’, 

Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz expressed a telling opinion which throws some light on 

this question: 

A crucial significance is usually ascribed to Szymanowski’s travels to Sicily, Africa 

and Italy. Yet whilst these journeys were undoubtedly important events in his life, 

they were not unexpected events and were prepared by Szymanowski’s whole inner 

evolution. Now — as regards the texts — the time had come for Szymanowski’s 

exotic works. He chooses texts from Hafiz, from Rumi, from Tagore. He discusses 

and commissions texts to the Infatuated Muezzin and King Roger. In literary terms, 

these might be very heterogeneous genres, yet they are linked by some common 

features; they are all marked by a startling, characteristic mysticism. 22


Iwaszkiewicz suggests that, contrary to the common opinion, the travels 

to Africa cannot be ascribed a fundamental significance in the shaping of 

Szymanowski’s creative outlook. He sees the experimentation at this stage 

of Szymanowski’s artistic development as autonomous-internal and independent 

of external factors. He does draw attention, meanwhile, to the ‘startling 

mysticism’ of the texts preferred by the composer, without elaborating on 

the question of their oriental exoticism. This omission does not seem accidental. 

Rather, it results from the conviction that it was not the Eastern 

flavour that determined the peculiar qualities and the atmosphere of the poetic 

texts set by Szymanowski, but above all their content, centred around 

religious mysticism and eroticism. Indeed, even a quite cursory reading of the 

works used by the composer allows one to notice their very loose ties with 

the Orient. Can a profound ‘oriental mysticism’, expressed by means of a 

sophisticated language of symbols, be found in the Songs of the Infatuated 

Muezzin? Iwaszkiewicz’s erotic poems bear no resemblance to the poetry of 

the East, and the only ‘sign’ of the Orient in them are the words Allah akbar 

(God is great), Bismillah (in the name of God) and muezzin, that is, the one 

who calls Muslims to prayer with his chants. As an ordinary functionary of 

the religious cult, the muezzin does not descend into ‘infatuation’, associated 

in some Sufic schools with the religious ecstasy of a mystic filled with love for 

God. 23 Thus the figure of the ‘infatuated muezzin’ comes from the imagination 

of a poet who is evidently rather poorly acquainted with the realities of 

the Muslim religion. Szymanowski, for his part, is interested, not in culturalethnographical 

faithfulness, but above all in the ‘mystical and erotic lyricism’ 

of Iwaszkiewicz’s works, which aroused in him a ‘fundamental attraction’ and 

creative ‘appetite’. 24 

The gazalas of Hafiz, that ‘boundless poet’ as Goethe called him, undoubtedly 

constitute a splendid page in the Persian mystical and poetical tradition 

that employs a captivating lyricism and a host of symbolic allusions centered 

around the idea of the Sufic spiritual path and inner experience of God. 

As we know, in his Love Songs of Hafiz, Szymanowski employed Hans Bethge’s 

paraphrases in a translation by Stanisław Barącz, which admittedly 

‘cast Allah himself into his hands’, but which are only very loosely tied to


the great Persian poet’s original texts. Without embarking here on an assessment 

of the literary qualities of these texts, it is appropriate to stress their 

remarkably ‘unoriental’ character and the care taken by the author to remove 

any traces leading to associations, symbols, places and artefacts of Persian 

culture and spirituality that would be incomprehensible to the European. 

Thoroughly processed and Europeanised, the gazalas of Hafiz/Bethge have 

lost their Eastern atmosphere and Persian identity, which may have been the 

main reason for Szymanowski’s interest in them. After all, it would be difficult 

with the utmost conviction to deem Love Songs of Hafiz a manifestation 

of oriental inspirations in the composer’s oeuvre, similarly, moreover, to the 

text by Rumi in Tadeusz Miciński’s beautiful translation, which was given a 

profoundly emotional setting in the Third Symphony. 

A completely different case are the Songs of a Fairytale Princess, written 

for Szymanowski by his sister Zofia and ascribed, together with Love Songs 

of Hafiz, to the ‘Eastern cycle’. Devoid of mystical exaltation and erotic 

associations, these modest poems about love are filled with a subtle lyricism 

and the romantic yearning of the princess, who could be from any fairy tale, 

not only Persian, as Adam Neuer suggests. 25 What is more, the works of 

Zofia Szymanowska seem wholly bereft of any trace of the ‘Orient’. This is a 

world of inner experiences and dreams, which cannot be unequivocally linked 

to a poetical representation of the East. 

The connection between Szymanowski’s ‘oriental’ works and the Orient is 

so indistinct, blurred and uncertain that it may be deemed more the product 

of a certain interpretational tradition than an attempt to reflect any aspects 

of Eastern tradition. The foundations of this tradition in the musicological 

literature seem to have been laid down by Stefania Łobaszewska in her 

monograph of Szymanowski: 

The Eastern subject matter was a product of that kind of collective and individual 

psyche that is particularly close to the type represented by Szymanowski. The 

most characteristic sort of emotions linked to it are those of a contemplative type, 

devoid of any connection with acts of volition, a passivity and staticity of spiritual 

life, or, on the other hand, a rampant eroticism and a captivating ecstaticity [...] 

In contrast to modern European art, we almost never encounter there individual 

feelings, constituting the subjective experiences of the individual, but feelings of


a more general character. [...] To a much greater degree than modern European 

subject matter, it communicates by mean of images, and again these are images with 

a more general than individual content — strictly speaking relating to humanity in 

general. 26 

Łobaczewska’s explanations pertain to the western European topos of the 

Orient, which is a collection of references, a conglomerate of features, taken 

from fragments of various texts and from notions and fantasies about the 

Orient. 27 This imagined Orient is a land of souvenirs, imposing ruins, lost 

secrets and hidden meanings. 28 It is harems, princesses, princes, slaves, veils, 

dancers and scents. 29 It is the emanation of sensuality, sex and ecstatic 

eroticism. It is despotism, languid passivity, ‘staticism’, tacit indifference 

and a penchant for vagueness. This Orient is not even a distinct place in the 

geographical and cultural sense; it may be Egypt, with its antiquities, Persia 

with its mystical religiosity, or fairytale India. It became the convention to 

explain the watershed in Karol Szymanowski’s creative output in terms of the 

universal topos of the Orient, including on the level of the poetical texts, his 

artistic inspirations and the direction of the changes in his style. 

However, Eastern references and motifs were actually of no greater significance 

in the texts of Szymanowski’s songs. The composer seems to have been 

fascinated above all with the imagined, unreal world portrayed in the ‘eerie 

dreams’ described by Tadeusz Miciński in Orland Szalony [Orlando furioso]. 

The image of the paradisiacal houri running out ‘with a black flaming silk 

scarf hanging from her loins’ is one of many dream visions in which the soul 

of the artist ‘flies like a white flame over the sea into the distance’. In the 

strophes used by Szymanowski in the fifth song of Op. 20, the Moorish houri 

does not belong to the repertory of means of orientalisation; rather, she is a 

figure from the terrifying episode of a spiritual journey into other realms of 

reality. 

Music 

Szymanowski’s musical language in works inspired by the East poses just as 

complex a problem as the orientalisation of their verbal layer. We know for


certain that the composer did not carry out ethnographic research into any 

kind of music of Asiatic cultures. Neither did he seek knowledge about this 

music in the already substantial ethnomusicological literature to which he 

could have referred without any great difficulty, suffice it to name Guillaume- 

André Villoteau’s celebrated and universally read study De l’état actuel de 

l’art musical en Égypte, 30 R. G. Kiesewetter’s Die Musik der Araber, 31 Abraham 

Idelsohn’s Die Maqamen der arabischen Music 32 and Fétis’s Histoire 

générale de la musique 33 . What is more, the Polish composer was not at all 

interested in the documentational material from early field research carried 

out in Arabic countries. In 1860 an Album de Chansons arabes, maueresques 

et kabyles 34 was published in Paris in a transcription by Francesco Salvador- 

Daniel, with a French text and piano arrangement. The second album of 

Arabic music was the wonderfully illustrated work by Alexandre Christianowitsch, 

Esquisse historique de la musique arabe, 35 which contained forty 

Arabic melodies with piano accompaniment. Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov 

drew copiously on both these sources, not only correcting the awkward harmonisations 

of Salvador-Daniel and Christianowitsch, but ‘improving’ the Arabic 

melodies in terms of metre and rhythm, ornamentation and dynamics, as well 

as adding, of course, suitable instrumentation in symphonic works. 36 

Even assuming that these two collections did contain source versions of 

Arabic melodies, which in some cases raises doubts among scholars, 37 they 

were subjected to far-reaching transformation in the process of compositional 

elaboration. Modified in the melting-pot of the European intervallic, tonal, 

metric, motivic-melodic system, tailored to the needs of European instruments, 

the Arabic songs, the poetic meaning of which was lost in translation 

from the Arabic into Russian via French, became set in stereotypical formulas 

symbolising the Orient. And this is just what Karol Szymanowski wanted to 

avoid. He was immune to the ‘mawkish East of the Rimskys e tutti quanti’, 

and did not tread the path of the fashionable stylisation of oriental music, 

the sound and compositional techniques of which did not, in any case, particularly 

interest him. So it is difficult to judge that the fleeting ‘touristic’ 

contact with the chanting of the muezzins and with Tunisian dance music 

noted in the memoirs of Stefan Spiess 38 could have been profoundly reflec-


ted in his new stylistic idiom, dubbed ‘oriental’. This doubtless explains the 

difficulties encountered in the interpretation of works from the ‘exotic’ group 

and the fact that the analysis and arguments put forward are not always convincing. 

It is worth adding that the ‘orientality’ readily seen by analysts in 

Szymanowski’s works is hardly, if at all, confirmed by the experience of the 

listener, as Alistair Wightman mentions in his discussion of The Songs of the 

Infatuated Muezzin: 

It is true that little connects the processed soundworld of Szymanowski with its true 

Tunisian equivalent. In spite of this, one can discover in contemporary Tunisian calls 

to prayer and in Szymanowski the characteristic chromatic ajna of the contemporary 

system of maqams. [...] In other words, Szymanowski unerringly found a way into 

that culturally distant world. 39 

This ‘culturally distant world’ is supposedly represented in Szymanowski’s 

music by a set of characteristic technical means drawn from oriental music, 

or at least by similar principles governing the organisation of the musical 

material to those of the Eastern archetype. This concerns, above all, the 

shaping of melody and, to a lesser extent, rhythm and instrumentation. 40 The 

melodics of Szymanowski’s ‘oriental’ works is characterised by the dominance 

of structures based on minor or augmented seconds, often in the characteristic 

sequence minor second – augmented second, which is supposed to imitate the 

micro-intervallic character of the music of the East. The downwards direction 

of motifs with a small compass, confined to a fourth, fifth or major third, the 

figurations and the coloratura vocal technique ‘undoubtedly constitute an 

allusion to some exotic world’. The melismatics and ornamentation, including 

chromatic alterations, sobbing-like effects, mordents, runs, trills and staccato 

articulation, express ‘the mythical, bewildering richness of the east’. The 

repetitiveness of the melodic formulas, coloratura vocalises and rhythmic and 

harmonic structures supposedly imitates ‘an oriental means of expression, 

including the trait of monotony’, similarly to some peculiarities of metrorhythmic 

organisation (polyrhythm, polymetre). The composer supposedly 

achieved an Eastern colouring to his songs through the instrumentation (e.g. 

triangle, celesta, bells, cymbals and tambourine in the Love Songs of Hafiz 

with orchestra). 41


Zofia Helman calls the use of ‘oriental’ technique the ‘orientalisation’ of 

the musical layer, which should be distinguished from stylisation, and which 

involves reference to general principles of structuring and ‘the adoption of 

just some of the characteristic elements of the essentially alien tonal system 

and exotic performance practice’. A similar assessment of the part played in 

Szymanowski’s music by exotic elements is offered by Adam Neuer: 

Szymanowski did not make use of source material in either the Muezzins’ songs or 

the two previous vocal sets on oriental themes. He simply trusted to his artistic 

intuition, which unerringly suggested to him the tonal shape of a work, inspired 

only by the composer’s general notion of the music of the East, and at the same 

time so aptly generalising features of the Arabic or Persian original. 42 

Passing over that ‘general notion’ in the composer’s mind, of which we 

know little, it should be pointed out that the linking of an ‘oriental’-like technique 

with any actual musical tradition of the East raises justifiable doubts. 

Of course, some of the shaping of the musical material can be found in Arabic 

music, although we must remember that the notion of ‘Arabic music’ encompasses 

a great variety of styles and genres over the extensive area of the Near 

East and North Africa. In all Arabic cultures music exists in both folk and 

professional-classical traditions, each of which displays further historically and 

ethnically determined stylistic and generic stratification. The traditional folk 

music which Szymanowski heard at the end of Ramadan is not only wholly 

dissimilar to the classical Tunisian nauba, 43 which the composer did not have 

occasion to hear, but it also in no respect corresponds to a general model 

of ‘oriental music’. Universal oriental music, generally defined in terms of 

‘melismata’, ‘coloraturas’ and similar means of compositional technique, does 

not actually exist, but is rather a topos originating in Western notions of the 

music of the East. Employing these notions in constructing a language for 

the analysis and description of Szymanowski’s highly individualised style that 

arose at the transition between the first and second periods of his oeuvre is a 

different matter.


Conclusion 

Like many creative artists of the modernist period, Karol Szymanowski was 

interested in the Orient, which formed an integral part of European literature 

and art. Yet there is much to suggest that his attitude towards the Orient was 

intellectual, characterised by a sympathetic distance and free from exalted 

artistic expectations. This state of affairs would appear to be confirmed, 

not only by the composer’s matter-of-fact notes on the Arabistic sources he 

read, but also by his views on ‘exoticism’ 44 in music, expressed in the article 

‘Zagadnienie «ludowości»w stosunku do muzyki współczesnej’. 45 

The underlying thesis of this article is the idea that the use of musical 

traditions from the East, whilst admittedly bringing to European music some 

interesting artistic impulses, did not go beyond its superficial, external layer. 

Exotic melodies and rhythms remained alien to European musical thinking, 

without helping to deepen its aesthetic expression: 

However, these efforts were aimed primarily at a sort of assimilation into European 

music of fresh foreign melodic and rhythmic elements, in order to lend it an interesting, 

spicy seasoning. A typical example of academic ‘exoticism’ is Dvořák’s New 

World Symphony, based on original melodies of the African Americans. 

A more promising source of musical ‘exoticism’ was traditional folk music, 

although, according to Szymanowski, incorporating this into a professional 

musical language immediately gave rise to an ‘academic’ folklore — an artificial 

style devoid of artistic depth. Cold, academic ‘exoticism’ was exemplified 

by the music of Ferenc Liszt, who drew on folk music in a ‘deft, indifferent 

and bland’ manner. 

The schematic ‘exotic’ style that was characteristic of music around the 

turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries did, however, become a point 

of departure leading from an aesthetic academicism to true art, the source 

of which were the deeply felt and creatively processed spiritual values and 

properties of a nation (‘race’). Their purest manifestation is folk music, ‘that 

eternally beating heart of the race [...] which the creative artist tied to the 

soil of his culture should newly recreate in the form of an excellent work of 

art understandable to all’:


For we are dealing here with the psychological sphere — mysterious and difficult to 

analyse — of the inner dependency of the creative individual on the properties of his 

race, on the immutable foundation which in every individual work of art, in the most 

objective manifestation — expressed in inviolable form — of inner life, nevertheless 

allows distinct traits of style to be discerned. 

Taking these views into account, it should doubtless be considered that 

Karol Szymanowski could not, with the utmost conviction, consciously and 

with faith, have ‘orientalised’ his compositional style. The ‘fascinating, rich, 

mysterious’ culture of the Orient forever remains alien and as such cannot be 

realised in a true aesthetic experience and be processed in an excellent work 

of European art. 

Notes 

1 Zofia Helman, ‘Pieśni Karola Szymanowskiego’ [‘The songs of Karol Szymanowski’], in 

Z. Helman (ed.), Pieśń w twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego [Song in the oeuvre of 

Karol Szymanowski] (Kraków: Musica Iagellonica, 2001), pp. 11–21; see also Paolo 

Emilio Carapezza, ‘Król Roger między Dionizosem i Apollinem’ [King Roger between 

Dionysius and Apollo] Res Facta 9 (1982), p. 51. 

2 Teresa Chylińska, introduction in Karol Szymanowski. Korespondencja 

[Correspondence], i, 1903–1919, ed. T. Chylińska (Kraków: PWM, 1982), p. 14. 

3 Tadeusz A. Zieliński, Szymanowski. Liryka i ekstaza [Szymanowski. Lyricism and 

ecstasy] (Kraków: PWM, 1997), p. 83. 

4 Z. Helman, ‘Pieśni Karola Szymanowskiego’, op. cit., pp. 12–13. 

5 Stefania Łobaczewska, Karol Szymanowski. Życie i twórczość [Karol Szymanowski. 

His life and work] (Kraków: PWM, 1950), p. 227. 

6 Teresa Chylińska, ‘O poetyckim charakterze wyobraźni Karola Szymanowskiego’ [‘On 

the poetical character of Karol Szymanowski’s imagination’], in Karol Szymanowski, 

Pisma [Karol Szymanowski. Writings], ii: Pisma literackie [Literary writings], ed. T. 

Chylińska (Kraków: PWM, 1989), pp. 37–38. 

7 Karol Szymanowski. Korespondencja, i, pp. 432–433. 

8 As above, photographs 206–212. 

9 Stefan Spiess and Wanda Bacewicz, Ze wspomnień melomana [From the memoirs of a 

music-lover] (Kraków: PWM, 1963), pp. 57–58. 

10 The Nailijat wore exceptionally rich and beautiful garments, comprising many layers 

of skirts and a huge amount of heavy jewellery, which constituted their personal — 

often quite substantial — fortune. Their faces were covered with tattoos and highly 

distinctive make-up; their hair was oiled, plaited and intricately pinned up. The dance 

they performed was of an openly erotic character, involving — in the most general 

terms — special movements of the hips. A crucial element of what nineteenth-century 

French legionnaires called their ‘belly dance’ was the gradual removal of the layers of 

clothing until the dancer was completely naked. The dance was accompanied by a


group of five instruments: gaita (oboe), mizwid (bagpipes), bendir (frame drum), 

darabukka (vessel drum) and tar (small tambourine with five groups of thin jingles). 

Leona Wood and Anthony Shay, ‘Dance du Ventre: a Fresh Appraisal’, in Dance 

Research Journal 8 (1976), pp. 18–30. 

11 Held in the Archiwum Kompozytorów Polskich [Archive of Polish composers] at 

Warsaw University Library are twelve notebooks containing various notes made by 

Karol Szymanowski. Four of these contain notes on the history and culture of the 

Arabs: 1. a notebook with shelf-mark T-III/7, dated by S. Golachowski at 1917, 

which contains several pages devoted to the Arabs, pp. 61; 2. a notebook with 

shelf-mark T-III/10, dated at after 1914 and titled by S. Golachowski ‘Kultura 

arabska I’, pp. 66; 3. a notebook with shelf-mark T-III/11, dated by S. Golachowski 

at after 1914 and titled ‘Kultura arabska II’, pp. 120; 4. a notebook with shelf-mark 

T-III/12, titled by S. Golachowski ‘Historia arabska’ and dated at after 1914, 

Szymanowski’s title ‘Historyczne zapiski tyczące się Arabii’, pp. 16. 

12 GustaveLeBon,La civilisation des Arabes (Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1884). 

13 GustaveLeBon,Psychologia tłumu, trans. Bolesław Paprocki (Warsaw: PWN, 1994); 

Fr. orig. Psychologie des foules (Paris: 1895). 

14 L.-A. Sedillot, Histoire générale des Arabes (Paris: Editions Maisonneuve, 1877). 

15 Muhammad. Le Koran, trans. M. Kazimirski (Paris: G. Charpentier et E. Fasquelle, 

1875). 

16 Koran, trans. J. M. T. Buczacki (Warsaw: Aleksander Nowolecki, 1858). 

17 Joseph François Michaud, Histoire des croisades, repr. 4th edn (Turin, 1830). 

18 Joseph François Michaud, Histoire des croisades, abr. and ed. Robert Delort (Paris: 

Club Français du Livre, 1970). 

19 Pierre Larousse, Grand dictionaire universel du XIX siècle, v (Paris, 1869), x (Paris, 

1873). 

20 Wielka Encyklopedya Powszechna Ilustrowana, iii (Warsaw: S. Sikorski, 1890). 

21 Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, ‘Szymanowski a literatura’ [‘Szymanowski and literature’], in 

Karol Szymanowski. Księga Sesji Naukowej poświęconej twórczości Karola 

Szymanowskiego. Warszawa 25–26 marca 1962 [Karol Szymanowski. Book of the 

academic conference devoted to the oeuvre of Karol Szymanowski. Warsaw, 25–26 

March 1962 ] (Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 1964), p. 129. 

22 As above, pp. 126–135. 

23 Henri Corbin, Historia filozofii muzułmańskiej (Warsaw: Dialog, 2005), p. 177; Fr. 

orig. Histoire de la philosophie islamique (Paris: Fayard, 1964). 

24 Karol Szymanowski to Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz in Warsaw, 27 Oct. 1918, in Karol 

Szymanowski. Korespondencja, i, p. 561. 

25 Adam Neuer, introduction in Karol Szymanowski. Dzieła [Works], xix: Pieśni [Songs] 

(Kraków, 1981), p. XVII. 

26 Stefania Łobaczewska, Karol Szymanowski, op. cit., p. 278. 

27 Edward W. Said, Orientalizm (Warsaw: PIW, 1991), 264; Eng. orig. Orientalism 

(New York: Vintage, 1979). 

28 As above, 254. 

29 As above, p. 281. 

30 Description de l’Égypte: état moderne, i (Paris: E.F. Jomard, 1809). 

31 Raphael Georg Kiesewetter, Die Musik der Araber (Leipzig, 1842).


32 Abraham Idelsohn, ‘Die Maqamen der arabischen Musik’, in Sammelbände der 

Internationalen Musik-Gesellschaft 15 (1913–1914), pp. 1–63. 

33 François-Joseph Fétis, Histoire générale de la musique: Depuis les temps les plus 

anciens jusqu’à nos jours, ii (Paris: Firmin Didot Frères, 1869). 

34 Francesco Salvador-Daniel, Album de Chansons arabes, mauresques et kabyles (Paris: 

Richault, 1860). 

35 Alexandre Christianowitsch, Esquisse historique de la musique arabe aux temps 

anciens avec dessins d’instruments et quarante melodies note et harmonisé par 

Alexandre Christianowitsch (Cologne: Libraire de M. Daumont-Schauberg, 1863). 

36 Gerald Abraham, ‘Arab Melodies in Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin’, in Music and 

Letters, 56/3–4 (1975), pp. 313–318. 

37 As above, p. 318. 

38 ‘We heard on a number of occasions in Tunis the chanting of the muezzins from the 

minarets at sunset. [. . . ] We heard then songs and dances performed on traditional 

folk instruments — on the darabukka, zorna, flute, cittern and drums.’ Stefan Spiess 

and Wanda Bacewicz, Ze wspomnień melomana, p. 57. 

39 Alistair Wightman, ‘Elementy egzotyczne w pieśniach Karola Szymanowskiego’ 

[‘Exotic elements in the songs of Karol Szymanowski’], in Z. Helman (ed.), Pieśń w 

twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego [Song in the oeuvre of Karol Szymanowski] 

(Kraków: Musica Iagellonica, 2001), p. 152. 

40 Some authors suggest that Szymanowski consciously referred to the Arabic 

seventeen-degree tonal system (Z. Helman, ‘Inspiracje orientalne w muzyce 

Szymanowskiego’ [‘Oriental inspirations in Szymanowski’s music’]. In Šimanovskij i 

Ukraina/SzymanowskiaUkraina, Kirovogradske deržavne vidavnictvo, Kirovograd- 

– Elisavetgrad 1998, p. 60) and employed maqamy, that is, Arabic modals scales (A. 

Wightman, ‘Elementy egzotyczne w pieśniach Karola Szymanowskiego’, p. 151). 

However, such references seem most unlikely, as they would require advanced 

knowledge of Arabic music theory and practice, which the composer did not possess. 

On the other hand, the use of tonal material organised according to non-European 

principles and intended for a non-European performance apparatus encounters huge 

technical difficulties and demands special compositional procedures. 

41 The ‘model’ of the orientalisation of technical means in works by Karol Szymanowski 

presented here is based on the following works: Z. Helman, ‘Inspiracje orientalne w 

muzyce Szymanowskiego’; Z. Helman, ‘Pieśni Karola Szymanowskiego’; S. 

Łobaczewska, Karol Szymanowski. Życie i twórczość; A. Neuer, introduction in Karol 

Szymanowski. Dzieła [Works], x: Pieśni z orkiestrą [Songs with orchestra] (Kraków: 

PWM, 1978); A. Szymańska, ‘Tryptyk orientalny Karola Szymanowskiego’ [‘Karol 

Szymanowski’s oriental triptych’], typescript of MA dissertation. Institute of 

Musicology of Warsaw University, 1997; A. Wightman, ‘Elementy egzotyczne’. 

42 Adam Neuer, introduction in Karol Szymanowski, Dzieła [Works], x: Pieśni z 

orkiestrą [Songs with orchestra], p. XVI. 

43 The multipartite, complex and internally differentiated form of classical Arabic music 

that occurs in two basic versions: the eastern version, performed mainly in Egypt and 

Syria; and the western (Andalusian) version, divided into the Moroccan, Algerian and 

Tunisian strands. 

44 Szymanowski has a broad and ‘anthropological’ understanding of the notion of


exoticism, as all manifestations of music which is ‘alien’ in relation to professional, 

European musical output. This encompasses both Eastern (‘oriental’) traditions and 

folk traditions. 

45 Karol Szymanowski, ‘Zagadnienie «ludowości»w stosunku do muzyki współczesnej (Na 

marginesie artykułu Beli Bartóka, U źródeł muzyki ludowej)’ [‘The issue of ‘folk 

tradition’ in relation to contemporary music (on the margins of Béla Bartók’s article 

‘At the source of folk music’], in Karol Szymanowski. Pisma muzyczne [Musical 

writings], i, ed. Kornel Michałowski (Kraków: PWM, 1984), pp. 168–175.

4 

Password ‘Roger’. The Hero of Karol 

Szymanowski’s Opera King Roger in Tadeusz 

Miciński’s Theatre of the Soul 

Edward Boniecki 

Institute of Literary Research, Polish Academy of Sciences 

Towards the end of the first act of Szymanowski’s opera King Roger, the hero 

of the title, ruler of Sicily, calls to judgment the Shepherd, who is the cause 

of religious confusion through preaching about an unknown God, with the 

following words: 

When the stars light up in the dark blue sky, 

you will come to the gates of my palace. 

There the guard will challenge you with ‘Shepherd’, 

and you will answer them: ‘Roger’. 1 

The challenge is ‘Shepherd’ and the response is ‘Roger’. But when in the 

second act the Shepherd arrives at Roger’s palace, he responds to the guards’ 

challenge, ‘Shepherd’, by correcting them: ‘Challenge: Roger!’ Might this 

be the librettist’s mistake? Should the response really be ‘Shepherd’? It 

soon turns out that this is in fact the case, because it is King Roger, wearing 

a pilgrim’s clothes, following the Shepherd who awakens in him a response. 

That response is the answer, to his own, Roger’s, existence, since the King’s 

soul, when challenged by the King as to its own identity, responded with 

‘Shepherd’. 

Roger’s name opened the gates of the palace of the King of Sicily to the 

Shepherd. The challenge ‘Roger’ opens up the world of Szymanowski’s theatrical 

imagination, created in his opera. 2 Central to it is the character of 

King Roger, who exercises absolute rule over Sicily, and over the composer’s 

57

58 Edward Boniecki 

imagination (it was the composer himself who changed the original title of 

the libretto by Iwaszkiewicz from The Shepherd to King Roger). This is a 

king guarding the threatened integrity of the state, and a man threatened by 

the disintegration of his own personality – thus a complex character, with internal 

conflicts and an uncertain sense of identity. A character whose identity 

remains elusive when we try to put a definitive interpretation to Szymanowski’s 

opera. What exactly is the role of the hero of the opera’s title on the 

theatrical plane: Roger II, King of Sicily, precisely who is he? 

Roger II, the first King of Sicily and creator of the united Norman kingdom 

of Sicily and Naples, who ruled from his court in Palermo in the twelfth 

century, was a historical figure, 3 as was his companion Edrisi, the Arabian 

wise man. This was the great Arabian geographer Muhammad al-Idrisi, who 

sought Roger’s protection at the court in Palermo from persecution by the 

Fatimids, and who made for the king a planisphere — a surface plane projection 

of the map of the Earth, which contained everything known about 

the geographic shape of the world at that time. However, it would be very 

risky, or even absurd, to conclude on that basis that King Roger is a historical 

opera, even though a comment in the libretto that the action takes place in 

twelfth-century Sicily might encourage such a naïve interpretation, and even 

though stage directions describe in detail the place of the action — the historical 

landscape of Sicily from the times of Roger II, with the appropriate 

instructions on stylisation. If this interpretation were correct, King Roger 

would resemble a musical postcard from the composer’s trip to Sicily, instead 

of being what it is — a continually fascinating and dramatically inspiring 

masterpiece of music theatre. 4 

Tadeusz Miciński gave his drama W mrokach Złotego Pałacu czyli Bazilissa 

Teofanu [In the gloom of the Golden Palace, or Bazilissa Teofanu] the subtitle 

Tragedia z dziejów Bizancjum X wieku [A Tragedy from the History of Tenth- 

Century Byzantium] (1909) and moreover called it a ‘historical tragedy’. 5 His 

descriptions of the interiors of the churches and palaces of Constantinople are 

written with what might be described as documentary pedantry, and have 

their own autonomic value within the drama, which appears independent of 

its content. But the actual meaning of the drama is located somewhere else,

Password ‘Roger’ 59 

in the spiritual sphere beyond history. 6 That is why Bazilissa Teofanu both is 

and is not a ‘historical tragedy’, since it does not respect the historical time. 

One might say that it is an illusory historical drama, in spite of the fact that 

the characters appearing in it are historical figures (to a much greater extent 

than in King Roger), and that the events presented in Miciński’s plot can be 

found on the pages of the history of Byzantium in a form which has not been 

transformed into literature. 

When discussing the planned libretto with Iwaszkiewicz, Szymanowski’s 

letters show that he had a similar theatrical form in mind for his opera. 

Initially he even wanted to divide it into two parts: a prologue (crowd scenes, 

dances in the Byzantine-Arabic interiors of the palaces) which would dazzle 

with stage splendour, and which only then would be followed by the drama 

‘proper’ envisaged by Iwaszkiewicz, ‘taking place at the right spiritual heights 

of significant experiences.’ The two parts were to be linked by the character of 

the main hero, assisted by the Arabian magus, a predecessor of Edrisi (letter 

dated 18 August 1918). 7 Sending to Iwaszkiewicz the outline of the Sicilian 

drama, in a letter dated 27 October 1918, the composer said: 

I think that the anecdotal content — the factual framework of the drama — is of 

lesser importance than its inner emotional [crossed out: content] substance, and for 

this reason it seems to me that you can take into account this elucubration of mine 

either in full or in parts without the risk of being constrained or limited in any way. 8 

This demonstrates clearly that Szymanowski introduced a double layer into 

the theatrical form of King Roger on purpose: there is the narrative and 

the stage plot linked to it as the external layer, and the truly important, 

spiritual internal layer. The dichotomic character of the theatrical form has 

a fundamental influence on the rules by which the meaning of Szymanowski’s 

work is constituted, and on its interpretation. This dichotomy should also be 

applied consistently in defining the staging framework. 

Among the sources used by Szymanowski when writing King Roger were 

the stage directions for Miciński’s Bazilissa Teofanu. Iwaszkiewicz was amazed 

to discover this when reviewing the second volume of Miciński’s Utwory 

dramatyczne [Dramas], which included that particular work, in an academic 

edition prepared by Teresa Wróblewska, who was dedicated to the Magus’s


cause. 9 Returning to Miciński’s drama after very many years, Iwaszkiewicz 

did not remember anything of the work which he had read in his youth; he 

was, however, struck by the similarity between Bazilissa Teofanu and King 

Roger: 

When I started reading Bazylissa Teofanu now, I was struck by something familiar 

about it. I could not have been remembering it, I had read it so long ago. And 

yet even the very list of dramatis personae, with the Prioress, the Patriarch and the 

Norman royal guard appeared to be more than familiar. More like my own flesh and 

blood. Miciński’s description of the stage set: ‘Mother of God Hyperagia, with her 

head veiled by dusk, and the enormous figure lost in the depth of vaults, glowing 

with the light of the candelabras, lamps and polycandles...’. 

What the heck! I always did wonder, where Karol got those ‘polycandles’ in the 

description of the set of the first act of King Roger, and here it is. A clear trail, 

leading far and true. 

[...] ButKing Roger, as envisaged by Szymanowski, descends in a direct line from 

Bazylissa Teofanu. (Notabene, scene directions for King Roger where all written by 

Szymanowski himself). 10 

The significance of Miciński in the development of the composer’s creative 

imagination is generally known. 11 The ‘polycandles’ borrowed from Miciński 

had appeared earlier in Efebos, where Szymanowski was already making use of 

stage directions from Bazilissa Teofanu (Opowieść o cudzie świętego młodzieniaszka 

Inoka Porfirego-Ikonografa [The story of the miracle of the holy youth 

Inok Porfiry-Ikonograf]) when describing Byzantine architecture. 12 However, 

the comment by Iwaszkiewicz, who was, after all, a co-author of the opera’s 

libretto, demands that the matter be examined more closely. All the more so 

since Iwaszkiewicz claimed that the trail of the author of W mroku gwiazd [In 

the gloom of the Stars] ‘leads far and true’. It is worth noting in passing that 

the production of King Roger in Warsaw’s Grand Theatre in 2000, under 

the direction of Mariusz Treliński and with stage sets by Boris Kudlička (premiered 

on 10 March 2000), reached deep into Miciński’s poetical idiom, and 

for the first time placed the plot of Szymanowski’s opera in its subterranean 

world which had been brought to the surface. Activating the deep-meaning 

structures of King Roger in the production, with the aid of Jung’s depth 

psychology, unconsciously revealed genetic link with the world of Miciński’s


imagination and his works. 13 This was also probably, to a large extent, the 

reason for the success of the production, where the music was so naturally 

visualised on the stage, and where the images kept referring to Micinski’s 

poetry, which still mystifies and fascinates by the power of its imagination. 

That poetry is still a test of the imagination for the audience and a challenge 

in terms of interpretation. 

The spirit of the King of the Normans, Roger, unconsolable in ‘black torment’ 

and wandering after death, was portrayed by Miciński in the volume 

W mroku gwiazd [In the Dusk of the Stars] (1902), in the poem Msza żałobna 

[Funeral Mass] (in the Polar night cycle). The poem is an example of the 

‘role’ lyric, a form favoured by the poet which objectivises his lyrical ‘self’ 

during mystical odysseys. In Msza żałobna, the hero of Miciński’s poem puts 

on the mask of the medieval ruler of Sicily, Roger II, the most famous figure 

of that period, in order to struggle with himself, to fight for his own spirit in 

the person of Roger. This is its only connection with history. 

I – once Roger, the Norman’s king – 

famed for his pride and black valour – 

I achieved so much with satans’ will, 

built towers and dukedoms on stars – 

I bring absolution to the sick for their sins, 

but who will save me from my soul? 

I hear a mysterious shiver in the depths – 

the sea is cutting through its straitjacket. 14 

According to the plan of King Roger drafted by Iwaszkiewicz in August 

1918, the hero of the opera was to be Emperor Frederick II. 15 In the draft of 

the Sicilian drama which the composer subsequently sent to Iwaszkiewicz (letter 

dated 27 October 1918), the hero is referred to as: ‘E m p e r o r (perhaps 

Frederick)’. 16 How then did it come about that Frederick II was replaced by 

his grandfather or, more precisely, his maternal ancestor, Roger II of Sicily? 

In Książka o Sycylii Iwaszkiewicz provided the following explanation: 

Szymanowski probably settled on the character of Roger II of Sicily because of the 

impression which Capella Palatina made on him, to which he kept returning in his 

reminiscences and conversations. It was simply instinct. If he had conducted deeper 

historical studies, he would perhaps have settled on Frederick II, the grandson of


Barbarossa, who influenced the imagination of German poets and whom I suggested 

at that time. 17 

But might it have been the composer’s instinct which made him follow the 

Polish poet whom he adored, as happened more than once in his development, 

and change the hero of German poetry to a character from a poem by 

Miciński? 

In his essay Karol Szymanowski i literatura [Karol Szymanowski and literature] 

(1953), Iwaszkiewicz described the idea of King Roger as ‘bookish’, 

‘literary’. 

It was «made up»to such an extent, that nothing entered into its music which could 

tie it, by however weak a thread, to a territory or to history. [...] 

King Roger’s Sicily is an abstract Cythera — or, more accurately, the territory 

is the soul of the composer himself, where influences of diverse cultures fight among 

each other but, primarily, a bitter conflict is taking place between Christianity, in 

which Szymanowski had been brought up, with the pagan religion of Dionysus, 

religion of the joy of life [...]. 

This inner struggle, this grappling of those gigantic Florestans and Euzebiuses, 

the significant oppositions within his soul, constitute the whole meaning of that 

period of Szymanowski’s life, throwing their shadow over its further course until the 

very end. All his artistic achievements at that time are simply a projection of that 

struggle. 18 

Miciński at that time might be described as in a sense an ‘expert’ on psychomachia. 

He also proposed artistically innovative forms of conducting such 

internal struggles in the arts. In the theatre, in view of the religious roots of 

Melpomene’s sphere, this was to be the mystery play. His play Bazilissa Teofanu 

aimed at achieving that form (its third act was even called Misterium). 

It was probably Miciński who provided the subtitle Misterium na tle życia 

i śmierci ks. Józefa Poniatowskiego [A mystery based on the life and death 

of Prince Jòzef Poniatowski]. It also contains a Dionysian motif as well as 

being set in Sicily, whose orchards recall Ukraine (Intermezzo). 19 And there 

is also Królewna Orlica. Misterium — jasełka [The Eagle Princess. Mystery 

— Christmas play] and the ‘mystery’ in the poet’s reports from the performances 

he had watched at Hellerau. The mystery play was also the theatrical


genre preferred by the Symbolists, particularly the younger Russian Dionysian 

symbolists, who tried to break through the aporiae of decadentism. It 

was a genre directed towards synthesis, which corresponded to the syncretic 

aims of that era and was able to express its ‘new religious consciousness’. 20 

In his article Teatr – Świątynia (The Theatre – A Temple] (1905), in which 

he supported Wyspiański’s attempts to lease the City Theatre in Krakòw, 

Miciński asked the rhetorical question: ‘Can the theatre be a temple?’ 21 

What the poet had in mind was the theatre as the temple of the soul, a 

place where the soul was to deepen and to become known; a place of man’s 

spiritual growth. The theatre is viewed as the place in which the soul, pushed 

into the land of silence by reason, can at last speak. Miciński supported his 

argument using the authority of the ancient Greeks, for whom the theatre 

was the place of initiation, an introduction to the mysteries of the soul. ‘The 

Greek theatre arises out of mysteries, or the initiation of man into the depths 

and the underworld of the soul’ — he wrote later on in the same article. It 

would be useful to add that, in a theatre understood in this way, myths, which 

reveal the mysteries of the soul, play a vital part. Myths as the projections 

of the Self; myths as the actual content of the mystery. 

Szymanowski clearly followed Miciński’s idea of the theatre, and initially 

called King Roger a mystery. His opera indeed fits into the framework designed 

for this genre by the symbolists, equally in terms of the content, rooted 

in myth, the role of the chorus, which personifies the myth, and the creation of 

a hero who travels towards a transformation of personality through individual 

sacrifice. In his manuscript of the libretto, Szymanowski wrote: ‘Misteryum 

w 3 aktach [Mystery in 3 acts]’. It was only later that the ‘Misteryum’ was 

crossed out and the word ‘Opera’ was added at the side in pencil. This is 

a significant change in interpretation, although probably made for practical 

reasons. (How do you talk to opera theatre directors about putting on a mystery?). 

However, the crossed out word ‘Misteryum’ in the autograph is a clue 

which leads straight to Miciński, as do the ‘polycandles’ 22 — to a ‘fantasist’ 

dramatist whose writing was for ‘stage sets [that would be] too expensive’, 

and who was ignored by the theatres. 23


Miciński’s theatre is a theatre of ideas, and that is another important reason 

why its form might have suited the composer. The character of Miciński’s 

dramaturgy was accurately described by his one-time master and mentor, 

Wincenty Lutosławski (uncle of Witold) in an introduction to Walka dusz 

[Thebattleofthesouls] (1897), which has remained in manuscript form until 

today: ‘The characters in the drama only provide the background for its actual 

hero, and that is a particular IDEA’. The idea presented in this drama 

is the ‘conflict between the will and reason in the widest range of human 

beliefs’. Lutosławski also foresaw, with good reason, problems which would 

arise in trying to stage an enterprise of this kind. ‘This subject appears more 

suited to a philosophical thesis than to a poetic drama – and presents uncommon 

difficulties in encapsulating a complex conflict in a form suitable for 

the stage, without doctrinaire declamations or playing with incomprehensible 

symbols’. 24 The concept of theatre contained in Miciński’s dramas has indeed 

proved too difficult for the stage, and his works still await their director. 

Szymanowski and his King Roger have undoubtedly been more fortunate in 

that respect — but that is achieved by the enlivening force of the music. The 

composer even wrote to Iwaszkiewicz: ‘[...] I do not even believe that that 

theatre without music could last much longer!’. 25 And yet, looking at it from 

another angle, Miciński, as perhaps nobody else, stressed the role of music 

in the theatre and reserved a special role for it in his dramas. Perhaps then 

the problem with staging them is to be sought there? After all, a mystery is 

impossible without music: it is music that gives birth to myth. 

The idea behind Bazilissa Teofanu is the conflict between striving for power 

and the power of sex, fed by blind will. 26 In other words, between the Nietzschean 

will to power and Przybyszewski’s lust [chuć]. On the other hand, 

the idea behind King Roger is what Szymanowski described as his ‘favourite 

little idea’ about the ‘secret kinship between Christ and Dionysus’ and the 

conflict between them. For this reason, King Roger is sometimes described 

as a religious-philosophical opera, or simply a philosophical opera. And, as a 

subject, Szymanowski’s idea would probably be much better suited for a dissertation 

on religious studies (such works have been and are being written) or 

a book on philosophy (such as the ones modelled on Nietzsche’s Antichrist),


than an opera. But things turned out differently, and the power of the libretto, 

as well as the attractiveness of King Roger as a piece of theatre, lie 

precisely there, in Szymanowski’s ‘little idea’. When he finished work on the 

opera in 1924, Szymanowski presented the audience with a theatrical work 

belonging to the Art Nouveau period, whose time seemed to have passed long 

ago. Yet time has shown that what he created was a work ahead of its era, 

which eventually would find a director who was the right person to produce 

it. 27 

King Roger has also been described as a symbolic opera. That is in fact 

the case, since each real artistic production is symbolic, as was taught by 

Nietzsche. 28 However, it is worth asking, is it a symbolistic work? The apparently 

superordinate role of ideas in the meaning structure of the opera 

would suggest something else. The libretto of King Roger is saturated, or 

perhaps even over-saturated with‘incomprehensible symbols’, as Lutosławski 

might have described it. Using the terms of historic poetics, one might 

say that we find in it the type of symbolisation characteristic of idealistic 

symbolism, where the symbolising object stands for something completely 

different from what it is, while the link between what does the symbolising 

and what is symbolised is based on cultural convention. Idealistic symbolism, 

with its origins in parnassism, came to dominate European literature at the 

turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, including drama. But Vyacheslav 

Ivanov, Russian poet and theorist of symbolism, as well as a prominent 

expert on Greek religion and the Dionysian cult (Ełlinskaja rieligija stradajuszczego 

boga [The Hellenic religion of the suffering god, 1904)], with whose 

works Szymanowski must have been familiar, protested against referring to 

those kinds of works as symbolistic. 29 The reason was that they operated not 

with symbols, but with allegories. Miciński’s dramatic works were decidedly 

heading towards allegory, while his poetry exemplifies very sophisticated idealistic 

symbolism. From that point of view, Bazilissa Teofanu may be called 

an allegorical drama. 

However, in the case of King Roger, the situation is somewhat different. If 

we confine our attention to the level of the libretto, we might get the impression 

that we are in fact dealing with an allegorical work. But this impression


only relates to the work’s external form, which Szymanowski regarded as ‘of 

lesser importance’. The internal form of the libretto of King Roger is a myth 

and, within its eternal framework, the hero is looking for Grand Totality, 

which is equivalent to finding in himself, in the opera’s finale, the heavenly 

light, the immortal Self. This is rediscovering Dionysus, the prefiguration of 

Christ; Dionysus, referred to by Ivanov as ‘the heart of the world’, always 

co-present in the human heart’. 30 The presence of the Dionysian myth in 

King Roger means that his hero opens up to sacrum, and the work takes 

on the character of a mystery. Within the circle of influence of sacrum, a 

synthesis of symbols takes place in the face of the highest Symbol. 31 This is 

what the makes the work truly symbolistic; it touches a true spiritual reality. 

Its deep meaning structure is constituted by myth, and not by an abstract 

idea, purely a creation of thought. Myth, in one way or another, links art to 

religion. 

The symbolic meaning of the libretto is greatly intensified by the music, 

which resonates with its inner form. It is the music which is the true formcreating 

force in the opera, and its superordinate position is generally unquestioned, 

since the musical object is by its nature a symbol avant la lettre. It 

is a realistic symbol, and thus one which refers directly to the spiritual reality 

in which it is rooted, to true reality; to harmony and to the Grand Totality, 

to myth. But then a realistic symbol has in fact a mythical structure, while a 

myth is a more developed symbol. This is the myth-making function ascribed 

to music by Nietzsche and the symbolists who listened to him. 

King Roger is thus a symbolic and symbolistic work, while the tension 

between the musical symbol and the allegorical external form of the libretto 

written into its structure creates an additional interpretive quality. Here 

music subordinates the words to itself, disregarding their literal meanings; it 

‘intoxicates’ them, as Leśmian might have said. Its symbolising power causes 

them to mean something more than what is indicated by their dictionary 

definitions and syntagmatic relations. They go beyond the rules which bind 

them within the framework of an allegory, and rise to the level of a symbol. 

This special relationship between the word and the music in King Roger, 

the absence of a direct connection between them, while the link is mediated


by the idea which had been pushed into second place by the myth during 

the writing of the opera, opens a wide field to the director’s imagination. 

This need not threaten the integrity of the work or its final message. This 

year’s [2007] production of the opera in Wrocław, again directed by Mariusz 

Treliński, with stage design by Boris Kudlička, confirms this diagnosis. 

All the remarks concerning the poetics of King Roger obviously apply to 

the opera’s hero as well, to the literary construction and to the character’s 

functioning on the stage. Associations with Miciński’s dramaturgy spring to 

mind immediately, and in particular with Bazilissa Teofanu and the way its 

stage characters are created. This is primarily true of the construction of the 

hero, who dominates the remaining dramatis personae, which, so to speak, 

‘contribute’ to him. One might even say that, in King Roger, the Sicilian ruler 

is accompanied on stage by emanations of his psyche. Roxana-the Anima, 

Edrisi-the Wise Old Man, the Shepherd-the Shadow, are all archetypal images 

of the unconscious, while the Archierey, the Deaconess and the Chorus represent 

collective consciousness exerting external influence on the hero. With 

the appearance of the Shepherd both the dramatic and psychical tension rise, 

suggesting a disturbance in the process of individuation in the area of the 

Shadow archetype, related to, as it turns out, the sphere of sex. Roxana leaving 

Roger for the Shepherd is the Anima, insufficiently integrated with the 

King’s consciousness. 32 As in Miciński’s works, the dramas of the heroes are 

played out on the stage of their soul, creating a species of theatre of the soul. 

In Termopile polskie [The Polish Thermopilae], which Szymanowski had read 

in manuscript and to which Miciński asked him to write the music, this took 

the form of the ‘theatre of the Dying Head’. (The action of the drama takes 

place in the head of the drowning Prince Józef Poniatowski). However, that 

which is closest to the hero of Szymanowski’s opera is the mysterium of the 

soul of the heroine of the title, Bazilissa Teofanu, and together they represent 

a kind of theatrical pair, a King and an Empress. Roger might perhaps have 

been the fulfilment and the realisation of the love which Teoafanu seeks in 

vain — a ruler with whom she might have created a new world. 

Teofanu constantly drills deep into her soul, in the hope that in its depths 

she will find the absolute truth. Truth about herself, about mankind, and


thus about God and satan. Following the motion of her soul, torn between 

the desire for power and the force of sexual desire, she is tossed between crime 

and love, unsure of her destiny. The Ruthenian Prince Svyatoslav calls her 

‘the only soul’ in the decadence-infected, dying Byzantium. 33 She refers to 

herself as the embodied soul of Byzantium, its immortal Self. 34 Since she is 

able to draw enlivening power out of the depths of her soul, she has been 

called a female Dionysius with good reason. 35 In the first act of the opera, 

Szymanowski has also surrounded King Roger with the Byzantine splendour 

of wonderful, but highly ossified forms. The new religion preached by the 

Shepherd which forces its way into the King’s castle is tempting, because 

even though it threatens the old forms, it also brings the promise of new 

life. One of the important archaic magical functions attached to a ruler was 

regeneration of life. 

The presence in Bazilissa Teofanu of the Dionysian myth as a regenerative 

myth confirms the influence of Nietzsche’s thought on Miciński, and shows 

that he also embraced the idea of cultural crisis related to the twilight of 

Christianity, announced by the German philosopher. Dionysus-Zagreus, immersed 

in the ecstasy of love and illusion, is the rival of the fear-inducing 

harsh Despot-Christ, depicted on the mosaic. This image also pervades King 

Roger. Dionysus-Life enters into a world which has stultified in a Christian 

death-like stillness. Teofanu follows Dionysus (who in the finale of the drama 

appears also as the god of death). 36 But the Empress is also able to love 

Christ, who has not left her soul. More than that, she makes herself into 

Christ: ‘I am alone. This is the only truth: a Self in the desert, tempted by 

Nothingness!’. 37 Thus, in Teofanu’s soul, there takes place a meeting between 

Dionysus, who in another sense is Satan, and Christ. Here, however, they are 

linked by a different kind of kinship than in Szymanowski’s ‘favourite little 

idea’. (In Miciński’s mystical idea of ‘Christ’s Luciferism’, Satan appears as 

Christ’s elder brother). 38 

In creating King Roger, Szymanowski borrowed from Bazilissa Teofanu her 

deep soul, the soul of a ruler-superman, totally isolated in the Cosmos, left 

alone face-to-face with the mystery of man and the Absolute. However, in 

the dramatic layer, it is Roxana who resembles Bazilissa. It is Bazilissa who


leaves Emperor Nikefor for Dionysus (she disappears from the sarcophagus 

where she was lying deep in lethargy), while her husband follows her into the 

mountains, begging her to return with him to Byzantium, which is suffering 

from the plague, to help pacify the frightened townspeople (Act 3). But, since 

Dionysus was the god of women, it is the gender which explains the kinship. 

This is only one, roughly stripped out, thread in the somewhat complicated 

and tangled plot of Miciński’s drama, which is also to be found in King Roger, 

and the prototype in both cases was probably the Bacchaes by Euripides. It 

seems, however, that the character of Bazileus Nikefor, the Christian ruler 

and defender of the faith, from whom Dionysus takes his adored Teofanu, 

may have influenced the creation of King Roger in some way. This may 

have been just at the level of stage directions: Nikefor searches for Teofanu 

in the mountains, wearing a hermit’s brown cloak, while Roger sets off to 

follow Roxana into the world in a pilgrim’s garb. On the other hand, in the 

Bacchaes, Penteus spies on the women engaged in the Dionysian mysteries 

disguised in the clothes of a bacchian menade. Perhaps Roger has also shared 

in the valour of the leader of the army, and then ruler of Byzantium, who, in 

spite of that, never knew happiness. 

It is well known that Szymanowski’s attitude to King Roger was extremely 

personal; in a sense, the opera became a keystone on the way to maturity 

for both the man and the artist. Having put on the mask of the King of 

Sicily, the composer provided an integrated solution in words and in music 

to the issues which were tormenting him. He created his own total theatre 

of the soul, in which reason and feeling challenged each other, where Christ 

and Dionysus came face to face. Szymanowski did not quite achieve this in 

his novel Efebos, which links directly to King Roger as a preparatory work. 

The novel, quite obviously, engaged the composer’s existence only partially. 

To find the dramatic form for his theatre of the soul, Szymanowski turned to 

the poet then closest to his heart, with whose work he felt a truly intimate 

bond, although we know that he drew his inspiration for the opera from a 

variety of sources. 39 

Szymanowski has scattered throughout the libretto quite a few more or less 

apparent pointers to Miciński as the reference for his theatrical imagination.


The ambiguous finale of King Roger also seems reminiscent of the poet who 

wrote W mroku gwiazd [In the gloom of the stars]. Writing to Iwaszkiewicz 

from America about the third act of the opera which he was revising at the 

time (letter dated 20 March 1921), the composer said: ‘I preferred to drown 

everything in darkness and night, hide in it the Shepherd and his entourage 

— so that really the audience should guess for themselves what is happening 

or, if they are fools, come out of the theatre stupefied, which I wish them 

with all my heart’. 40 In Szymanowski’s vision, darkness and night covered 

the place of the action with a cloak of mystery and rubbed out the too bright 

(and ‘childish’) symbolism of the last act of King Roger envisaged in the 

first version. It was Miciński who was master in using darkness as a means of 

artistic expression, a true poet of darkness. Looking back to the early German 

Romanticism of Novalis, he created poetry which made use of darkness as the 

source of mystery, a poetry which activated the a-cognitive power inherent in 

darkness as a source of sacrum. (In Miciński’s work, darkness as the source 

of a-cognitive power is above all the ambivalent, dark sense of his ‘syncretic’ 

writing, hidden in the potential synthesis). The full title of his drama is, 

after all, W mrokach Złotego Pałacu czyli Bazilissa Teofanu [In the gloom of 

the Golden Palace, or Bazilissa Teofanu]. And Miciński did indeed ‘drown’ 

his drama in darkness, in order to then draw out of it particular characters 

and moments of the action, and to arrange them in the pattern of a mosaic, 

creating in this manner the mood of a mystery. In the finale of Bazilissa 

Teofanu, the heroine of the title, in a sense, falls back into the darkness. 

When the dethroned Teofanu, with a hood thrown over her head, is being led 

in a cortège ‘more terrible than a funeral’ to the place of her imprisonment, 

out of the gloom there appears the dark phantom of Lucifer. ‘The cross 

darkens. The phantom envelops Teofanu, leads her in the mist, among the 

wailing bells and the funeral chorus. Everything becomes similar to a funereal 

sailing ship, with the stars being extinguished by the darkness of enormous 

wings’. 41 

The finale of King Roger is filled with sun. The hero comes out of the 

darkness and stands at the top of the antique theatre in the light of the 

morning sun. With his hands stretched out in a gesture of epiphany, he sings


a hymn to the sun. This is a totally different ending from that of Bazilissa 

Teofanu, and yet related to it, like a positive and a negative. Before Teofanu 

disappears into the dark, she passes on her last will to her children: ‘My little 

sons, love me and the Sun, and if it ever becomes difficult for you — love only 

the Sun’. 42 It is the living Sun, with which the Empress identified herself 

earlier (‘I am the living Sun!’ 43 ), and with which others identified her too. 

‘The Sun is here!’, says Bazileus Nikefor pointing to Teofanu. 44 Thus, the 

Sun is one of the titles of Bazilissa, related to the solar symbolism ascribed 

to her as a ruler. 45 The metonymy emphasises her divinity, which guarantees 

order and cosmic harmony. But it also emphasises her direct link to the solar 

god, Dionysus, who changes darkness into light. It is a link with the god of 

indestructible life, the symbol of which is also the Sun. 46 The Sun, which has 

never betrayed any of the mornings awaiting the dawn (Lucifer–Dionysius, 

who leads Teofanu into total darkness, in reality leads her into the Divine 

light, of which darkness is the synonym). 

In the draft of the Sicilian drama which Szymanowski sent to Iwaszkiewicz, 

in the finale of King Roger the Sicilian ruler sees, in the light of the morning 

sun and among the orgiastic crowd, the Youth as the Greek Dionysus, and 

the Emperor (then not yet the King) pays homage to him as a god. In the 

final version, the composer reduced this scene to a miniumum of necessary 

elements, and left in it only Roger with Edrisi and the Sun. The compacted 

symbol gained in the power of expression, and the sense of the union of the 

King and the Sun still remained the same. Roger, wanting to offer his heart 

to the Sun, sees a ship sailing into infinity (‘Like the white wings of seagulls 

on the azure sea it will spread its sails! They sail far into infinity.’). There are 

also enormous wings (‘Edrisi! The wings are growing! They will envelop the 

whole world!’). Thus, the ending echoes that of Bazilissa Teofanu, but with 

the fundamental difference that in Miciński’s drama, ‘Dionysus kidnapped his 

bride to free her from earthly bonds, to restore to her her old divinity and 

power!’, as Bolesław Leśmian put it in his review of the play. 47 Thus one may 

suppose that the marriage between Teofanu and Dionysus as a mystical union 

with the universe can take place only through death, since Miciński ended his 

drama in the spirit of decadent individualism, with a dose of scepticism cha-


racteristic of him. 48 For this reason, Vyacheslav Ivanov would probably have 

refused Bazilissa Teofanu the status of a truly symbolistic drama, while Leśmian’s 

optimistic interpretation of that work does not seem to be sufficiently 

justified. On the other hand, Szymanowski’s hero has reached readiness for 

transformation by himself, through the strength of his own will. His transformation 

takes place within the framework of myth, where Christ and Dionysus 

become equal, in the context of neo-Christian religion, promoted by the Russian 

symbolists as a ‘new religious consciousness’, in which ‘Dionysus defines 

[...] thesphereofvalueswhichsupplement christianity and link with the mystical 

corporality, the joy and beauty of life’. 49 Ithasthusbecomepossible 

for King Roger to affirm the world, and life, here and now. 

But the composer’s favourite poet, who wandered through some very convoluted 

paths of the spirit, remained torn. Miciński’s Dionysus-Zagreus arrives 

for his soul as Lucifer. The antinomy Christ-Dionysus/Lucifer has thus not 

been removed, and it is not known for certain whether Miciński ever achieved 

a definitive resolution (although he contemplated the salvation of Lucifer to 

the end of his days). In a sense, the author of Bazilissa Teofanu christianised 

Dionysus, introducing him into the Christian myth as Lucifer. This was justified 

in so far as Dionysus-Zagreus (the first Dionysus) was linked, and even 

identified with Hades, the ruler of the underworld, in mythology. However, by 

doing this, Miciński basically made it impossible to equalise the two myths, 

since he removed from the Dionysian myth its soteriological dimension, while 

his Lucifer is not particularly close to Christ, which seems to have been the 

poet’s aim. On the other hand, Dionysian symbolists (closer to the second 

Dionysus, Bacchus), hellenised Christ and in this way removed the troubling 

antinomy. Szymanowski faithfully followed their trail, and by the same token 

also rediscovered his dream of Mediterranean idyll, which teaches us to love 

the earthly life, to make the most of its delights, and to endure bravely the 

awareness of the inevitability of death. The composer referred to it clearly 

towards the very end of his life, planning a ballet about Odysseus. 

Climbing the benches to the top of the amphitheatre, Roger also rises to a 

higher level of consciousness. The brightness of the morning sun lights up an 

inner light within his soul. The King experiences a moment of illumination;


he comes to know the truth and undergoes an inner transformation. It is 

a precisely constructed theatrical symbol with a great power of expression, 

a truly realistic, living symbol. 50 And if that is the case, what is Edrisi’s 

role in this scene? Edrisi–the Wise Old Man, the archetypal personification 

of the spiritual element of the psyche, has led King Roger along the path of 

individuation to the moment of self-knowledge, and now, to use the language 

of depth psychology, he assists Roger in his experience of his own Self. For 

Szymanowski, composing King Roger also meant reaching psychological maturity, 

without which he could not have continued functioning as an artist. ‘I 

will not conceal from you,’ he wrote to Iwaszkiewicz, ‘that the issue of this 

drama is to an extent the issue of my own continued artistic existence –, that 

is how far this idea has rooted itself inside me’. 51 Even by then, October 

1918, the composer had had his intellectual fill of that ‘favourite little idea’, 

sufficiently gone over previously in Efebos, and was beginning to live fully 

within the influence of the Dionysian myth. When writing about the threat 

to his continued artistic existence, he naturally meant his existence in total 

— since it is a characteristic of myths that, while initiating one into the mysteries 

of fate, they demand total existential commitment, and a surrender to 

its workings as a higher force. Without fulfilling that condition there is no 

initiation, and therefore no maturity. 

Reaching maturity is not an easy process. The process of composing the 

opera took Szymanowski six years. The composer’s transformation, the 

creative opening to the collective, which took the form of striving for selfrealisation 

in the dimension beyond the individual (a period of participation 

in national activity), became a reality. And King Roger continued to be a 

work of particular importance to Szymanowski, who concealed himself under 

the mask of the opera’s hero. Under that mask, the composer became King- 

Dionysus, through the sacrifice of himself which he offered to the nation. 

Notes 

1 Quotations from the libretto of King Roger are taken from: K. Szymanowski, Król 

Roger (Pasterz)[King Roger (The Shepherd)] op. 46. Score (Works, vol. 23), text by 

Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz and Karol Szymanowski, edited by T. Chylińska, editors of the 

volume Z. Helman, A. Mrygoń, introduction by Z. Helman, PWM, Kraków 1973.


2 Although Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz and Karol Szymanowski are the authors of the 

libretto of King Roger, the idea for the opera and the theatrical vision of the whole are 

undoubtedly the work of Szymanowski, and bear the mark of his individual creativity. 

Iwaszkiewicz spoke the truth when he wrote “my collaboration was mostly limited to 

carrying out the ideas of the composer himself” (J. Iwaszkiewicz, ‘Książka o Sycylii’ 

[‘A book about Sicily’], in: Podróże [Travels] (Works), vol. 1, Warszawa 1981, p. 314). 

3 Szymanowski’s knowledge of Sicily, its history, and the Norman king who ruled in the 

twelfth century, Roger II, were mainly based on Obrazy Włoch [Pictures from Italy] by 

Paweł Muratow, as had been confirmed by Iwaszkiewicz on numerous occasions (cf., 

for example, Iwaszkiewicz, ‘Książka o Sycylii’ [‘A book about Sicily’], ibidem, pp. 

311–312). 

4 The longing for a ‘naive’ King Roger is still very much alive, as is clear from the 

review by Józef Kański, following the most recent première of Szymanowski’s opera at 

the Wrocław Opera on 30 March 2007. The reviewer writes: ‘Karol Szymanowski’s 

opera King Roger was born out of the enchantment wrought on the composer by 

Sicily, which he visited in the Spring of 1914 [for the second time, as he had visited it 

for the first time in 1911 – EB]; out of his admiration for the wonderful heritage of 

that strangest of lands, and the traces of the once great cultures which intertwined 

there — early Christian, Greco-Byzantian, Arabian. . . [. . . ] As we learn from various 

sources, he was looking for a pretext to show at least a reflection of all these marvels 

on the operatic stage, and with this in mind he suggested the particular threads of the 

planned libretto to Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz. On the other hand, the complicated 

philosophical and moral-ethical problems which permeate that libretto appear to be of 

secondary importance here, although still very significant for the composer’ (J. 

Kański, ‘Król Roger –popowrociezWrocławia’[‘King Roger – on returning from 

Wroclaw’] , Ruch Muzyczny 2007 No. 10, p. 21). 

5 See T. Miciński, ‘Teatr – Świątynia’ [‘The Theatre – A Temple’] (first published in : 

Słowo Polskie 1905 No. 207), in: Myśl teatralna Młodej Polski [Theatrical Thought in 

the Young Poland Movement]. Anthology, selection by I. Sławińska and S. Kruk, 

introduction by I. Sławińska, commentary by B. Frankowska, Warszawa 1966, p. 196. 

6 See B. Danek-Wojnowska, J. Kłossowicz, ‘Tadeusz Miciński’, in: Literatura okresu 

Młodej Polski [Literature of the Young Poland period] (Obraz literatury polskiej XIX i 

XX wieku. Seria piąta [Polish Literature of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, 

Series 5]), vol. 2, Warszawa 1967, p. 275. Also: E. Rzewuska, O dramaturgii Tadeusza 

Micińskiego [On the Dramatic Works of Tadeusz Micinski], Wrocław 1977, pp. 

148–150. 

7 See K. Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence]. The full edition of surviving 

letters from and to the composer, collected and edited by T. Chylińska, vol. 1, 

Kraków 1982, pp. 542–543. 

8 As above, p. 561. The composer’s words quoted here should also be regarded as a 

stage direction. Before the première of King Roger in Duisburg, the composer wrote 

to Saladin Schmitt, the Opera’s manager, on 8 October 1928: ‘However, basically I am 

of the opinion that the greatest possible freedom should be allowed in interpreting a 

musical work for the stage [. . . ]. This extends both to the direction and to set design; 

this is all the more important in the case of King Roger, since it has gathered around 

iself an atmosphere of some historical pedantry in the description of the stage design.


I am not at all interested in this pedantry, as my work creates a space for the furthest 

possible flights of imagination’ (Szymanowski, Korespondencja, op. cit., vol. 3, part. 

1, Kraków 1997, p. 342). 

9 T. Miciński, W mrokach Złotego Pałacu czyli Bazilissa Teofanu [In the gloom of the 

Golden Palace, or Bazilissa Teofanu] (Dramatic works, vol. 2), selection and editing 

T. Wróblewska, Kraków 1978. Miciński mentioned Szymanowski by name in his 

introduction to the play (Kilka słów wstępnych [A few words of introduction], p. 7), in 

a group of Young Poland composers to whom he expressed his deep appreciation and 

whom he thanked for the music composed to his poems from the volume In the gloom 

of the stars. 

10 J. Iwaszkiewicz, ‘O Tadeuszu Micińskim’ [‘About Tadeusz Miciński’] (‘Rozmowy o 

książkach’) [‘Conversations about books’]), Życie Warszawy 1979, No. 289, p. 7. Even 

before Iwaszkiewicz’s comments, Teresa Chylińska drew attention to the similarities 

between King Roger and Bazilissa Teofanu on the level of stage directions, and 

emphasised the convergences in their content (T. Chylińska, ‘Karol Szymanowski i 

Tadeusz Miciński’ [‘Karol Szymanowski and Tadeusz Miciński’], in: Studia o Tadeuszu 

Micińskim [Tadeusz Miciński studies], ed. M. Podraza-Kwiatkowska, Kraków 1979, p. 

331–336. 

11 See T. Chylińska, ‘Karol Szymanowski i Tadeusz Miciński’, op. cit.; E. Boniecki, 

‘Miciński Tadeusz’ (entry), in: Encyklopedia Muzyczna PWM [PWM Music 

Encyclopaedia]. Biographical part, ed. E. Dziębowska, vol. 6, Kraków 2000, pp. 

241–242. 

12 See K. Szymanowski, Pisma Literackie [Literary works] (Pisma [Works], vol. 2), 

collected and edited by T. Chylińska, introduction by J. Błoński, Kraków 1989, p. 169 

and the following ones. 

13 Employing Jung’s depth psychology as interpretive context for Miciński’s poetry was 

suggested many years ago by Jan Prokop. It produced an excellent research result; see 

J. Prokop, Żywioł wyzwolony [Elemental force unbound]. Studium o poezji Tadeusza 

Micińskiego [A Study of the poetry of Tadeusz Miciński] Kraków 1978. 

14 T. Miciński, Poezje[Poems] (Biblioteka Poezji Młodej Polski), ed. J. Prokop, Kraków 

1980, p. 93. 

15 See J. Iwaszkiewicz, Spotkania z Szymanowskim [Encounters with Szymanowski], 3rd 

Edition, Kraków 1981, p. 52. 

16 K. Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence], op. cit., vol. 1, pp. 562–566. 

17 J. Iwaszkiewicz, ‘Książka o Sycylii’ [‘A book about Sicily’], in: Podróże [Travels] 

(Dzieła [Works]), vol. 1, Warszawa 1981, p. 311. 

18 J. Iwaszkiewicz, ‘Karol Szymanowski a literatura’ [‘Karol Szymanowski and 

Literature’], in: Pisma muzyczne [Writings on music] (Dzieła [Works]), Warszawa 

1983, pp. 128–129. Iwaszkiewicz repeated this opinion in ‘Książka o Sycylii’ [‘A book 

about Sicily’], in a somewhat changed version; see Iwaszkiewicz, Książka o Sycylii, op. 

cit., p. 310. 

19 T. Miciński, Termopile polskie. Misterium na tle życia i śmierci ks. Józefa 

Poniatowskiego [Polish Thermopiles. A mystery based on the life and death of Prince 

Józef Poniatowski (Utwory dramatyczne [Dramatic Works], vol. 3), selected and edited 

by T. Wróblewska, Kraków 1980, pp. 193–226. In his Uwaga dla teatrów [Guidelines 

for the theatre] which precede the drama, (p. 8), Miciński gave instructions regarding


musical settings for particular sections: ‘Until the drama has its own instrumental 

music [. . . ]’. In the Intermezzo he indicated ‘a Symphony by Karol Szymanowski’. 

20 See M. Cymborska-Leboda, Twórczość w kręgu mitu. Myśl estetyczno-filozoficzna i 

poetyka gatunków dramatycznych symbolistów rosyjskich [Art within myth. Aesthetic 

and philosophical thought and the poetics of the dramatic genres of Russian 

symbolists] , Lublin 1997; chapter. 2: Dramat w cieniu Mnemozyne. Refleksja 

estetyczna i genologiczna symbolistów rosyjskich [Drama in the shadow of Mnemosyne. 

Aesthetic and genealogical thought of Russian symbolists], pp. 43–101. 

21 T. Miciński, ‘Teatr – Świątynia’ [‘The Theatre – A Temple’], op. cit., p. 195. 

22 See the manuscript of Szymanowski’s libretto of King Roger (version II); Archiwum 

Kompozytorów Polskich XX wieku Biblioteki Uniwersyteckiej w Warszawie [The 

Archive of Polish Twentieth-Century Composers, Warsaw University Library], Ref. 

No. Mus CXXV ms 7. 

23 T. Miciński, ‘Teatr – Świątynia’ [‘The Theatre – A Temple’], op. cit.,p. 196. 

24 W. Lutosławski, TREŚĆ DRAMATU podana przez pierwszego czytelnika 

[DRAMATIC CONTENT to be supplied by the first reader], in: T. Miciński, Veni 

Creator (or Walka dusz [The battle of the souls]), drama in four acts, Biblioteka 

Narodowa, ms. ref. No. II 7241. 

25 Letter dated 18 August 1918; Szymanowski, Korespondencja Correspondence], op. 

cit., vol. 1, p. 543. 

26 See Danek-Wojnowska, Kłossowicz, ‘Tadeusz Miciński’, op. cit., p. 275. 

27 Szymanowski realised the true value of the music of King Roger and its ‘futuristic’ 

character at the premičre of the opera at the Narodní Divadlo in Prague. He wrote 

about it to Zofia Kochańska on 27 October 1932: ‘I do not want to boast of the simply 

unheard of ovation by the audience after the second and third acts. Unfortunately, I 

know that it is only short-term: those few thousand people who understand anything 

will be in short supply after a few performances, and I expect it will be taken off the 

bill again. And there is nothing one can do about it now! This kind of play is out of 

line with today’s affects!” (Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence], op. cit., 

vol. 4, part 1, Kraków 2002, p. 327). 

28 See for example. F. Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, or: Hellenism and Pessimism, 

transl. L. Staff, Warszawa 1907 [reprint: 1985], pp. 46–51. 

29 V. Ivanov, ‘Dve stihii v sovremiennom simbolizme’, in: Po zvezdam. Statiii 

aforizmy. St. Peterburg 1909, pp. 247–308 [V. Ivanov, ‘Two elements in 

contemporary symbolism’, in: Po zvezdam. Statii i aforizmy, St. Petersburg 1909]. 

30 See Cymborska-Leboda, Twórczość w kręgu mitu, op. cit., p. 37. 

31 See A. Belyĭ, Simbolizm. Knigastateĭ, Moskva 1910, pp. 104–105 [A. Belyj, 

Symbolism, Moscow 1910]. 

32 See J. Jacobi, Psychologia C. G. Junga. Wprowadzenie do całości dzieła, przedm. C. 

G. Jung [The Psychology of C.G. Jung. Introduction to the complete works. 

Introduction by C. G. Jung] transl. S. Łypacewicz, second edition with addenda, 

Warszawa 1993. 


Golden Palace, or Bazilissa Teofanu], op. cit., p. 157. 

34 As above, p. 163. 

35 As above, p. 59.


36 In Miciński’s drama we have the apparition of Dionysus-Zagreus, which Bazileus 

Nikefor and his companions unsuccessfully try to capture. But Jan Cymisches, an 

imprisoned former akritis (a defender of the country’s borders) and a famous lover, 

also disguised as Dionisus-Zagreus, has a secret assignation with Bazilissa Teofanu, 

who is convinced that she is meeting a god (act III). In King Roger we are also 

dealing with a kind of ‘dressing up’, although the grotesque element, characteristic of 

Miciński, is missing. Here the Shepherd, who introduces himself as the prophet of an 

unknown God, appears in the third act as Dionysus, in an aura of miraculousness 

appropriate for a mystery. 

37 T. Miciński, W mrokach Złotego Pałacu czyli Bazilissa Teofanu, op. cit., p. 174. 

38 See H. Floryńska-Lalewicz, ‘Lucyferyzm chrystusowy Tadeusza Micińskiego 

(1873–1918)’ [‘Tadeusz Miciński; Christ’s Luciferism’] ,Euhemer. Przegląd 

religioznawczy, 1976, No. 3. 

39 Primarily the Euripides’s Bacchae in translation by Tadeusz Zieliński with his 

introduction, as well as T. Zieliński’s Współzawodnicy chrześcijaństwa [Christianity’s 

competitors], Innokenty Annensky’s ‘Bacchian’ drama Famira-Kifaried, which 

Szymanowski most probably saw at the end of 1916 at Moscow’s Chamber Theatre, 

directed by Alexander Tairov, and probably other readings (see T. Chylińska, ‘Karol 

Szymanowski i Tadeusz Miciński’, op. cit., p. 331). 

40 K. Szymanowski, Korespondencja, op. cit., vol. 2, part 1, Kraków 1994, p. 217. 


Golden Palace, or Bazilissa Teofanu], op. cit., p. 178. 

42 As above. 


44 As above, p. 141. 

45 See S. Brzozowska, ‘Antynomie dionizyjskości w Bazilissie Teofanu Tadeusza 

Micińskiego’ [‘The Antinomies of Dionysianity in Bazilissa Teofanu by Tadeusz 

Micinski’], Pamiętnik Literacki, 2007, issue. 1, p. 79 and the following. 

46 ‘Solem esse omnia — wrote Ivanov in Dionis i pradionisijstwo, recalling the solar 

myth and the primeval folk beliefs, also referring to the Orphic ideas (Sołnce, 

wsielennoj otiec...), according to which, Dionysus himself was the Sun for both the 

living and the dead, understood as the «new form of the original light», as Fanes’ 

(Cymborska-Leboda, Twórczość w kręgu mitu, op. cit., p. 197). 

47 B. Leśmian, Szkice literackie [Literary sketches] (Z pism Bolesława Leśmiana [Selected 

writings of Boleslaw Leśmian]), edited and with introduction by J. Trznadel, 

Warszawa 1959, p. 152. 

48 ‘You – the Great All – Dionysus – resurrrection - !’, whispered to the Empress at the 

last moment her brother, Choerina, an untrustworthy character in the drama 

(Miciński, W mrokach Złotego Pałacu czyli Bazilissa Teofanu, op. cit, p. 178). Thus 

Teofanu’s return as Dionysus’s resurrection is not at all certain. 

49 Cymborska-Leboda, Twórczość w kręgu mitu, op.cit.,p.32. 

50 The symbolism of the last scene of the opera, in which Roger offers his heart to the 

Sun, refers to the popular modernist solar metaphor, which makes use of the heart 

motif (see, for example J. Gluziński, ‘Hymn do słońca‘ [‘A hymn to the sun’], Krytyka 

1913, vol. 40, issue VII–VIII, pp. 30–33). Szymanowski’s idea is closest to the 

metaphor of the ‘heart of the Sun-Dionysus’ from the poetry of Vyacheslav Ivanov (see


V. Ivanov, Serce Dionizosa [The heart of Dionysus], transl. A. Pomorski, in: V. 

Ivanov, Poezje [Poems], selection and introduction by S. Pollak, Warszawa 1985, p. 

118). 

51 Letter dated 27 October 1918; Szymanowski, Korespondencja, op. cit., vol. 1, p. 567.

5 

The Leitmotifs in King Roger 

Zofia Helman 


Work on the opera King Roger began in 1918, when the first idea for the 

libretto was born; it went on until 12 August 1924, when the score was finished 

at Dukszty. The opera, which grew out of the composer’s interest in 

antique and oriental cultures, is as much a result of his reflections on the 

Dionysian myth, as his vision of the post-Wagnerian theatre. The author’s 

immediate impressions, gained during travels in Sicily and North Africa at 

the beginning of 1914, were extended by reading the Greek classics and Nietzsche’s 

philosophical writings; Szymanowski read essays by Walter Pater (in 

particular the latter’s Study of Dionysus and Denys L’ Auxerrois 1 )andworks 

by Russian symbolists, mainly Vyacheslav Ivanov and Fyodor Sologub. From 

Obrazy Włoch [Pictures from Italy] by Paweł Muratow 2 he drew information 

about the Norman ruler of Sicily, Roger II, and books by Tadeusz Zieliński 

on the antique sources of Christianity provided him with ideas about the role 

of Dionysus in the development of religion. 3 Tadeusz Miciński’s drama, Bazylissa 

Teofanu, also influenced the operatic project to a significant extent. 4 

The composer’s erudition on the subject of the Dionysian myth was linked to 

a very personal experience, to which he gave expression in his novel Efebos, 

a literary substantiation of his ideas. It should be added that the Dionysian 

myth was also important to Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz during his ‘Ukrainian’ period. 

Jerzy Kwiatkowski, in discussing the importance of this myth in the 

poet’s works, drew attention to the fact that Iwaszkiewicz had travelled a si- 

79

80 Zofia Helman 

milar route to Szymanowski, starting with reading Walter Pater, Vyacheslav 

Ivanov and Tadeusz Zieliński, through Euripides’s Bacchaes, to Miciński’s 

Bazylissa Teofanu. 5 Tracing these dependencies and reminiscences invariably 

fascinates both literary scholars and musicologists, and thus much has been 

written about the philosophical and literary origins of King Roger; morethan 

about its music. 

The first idea for the opera was conceived in June 1918, during a visit by 

Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz to Elisavetgrad, where the Szymanowski family was 

stayingatthattime.Inthesummerofthatyear,Iwaszkiewiczsentthefirst 

draft of the drama to the composer. 6 Szymanowski was then struck by the 

‘enormous contrasts and riches of those strangely combined worlds’. 7 The 

principle of coincidentia oppositorum thus established from the beginning the 

direction of the composer’s thought, and found its expression in the text of the 

libretto, as well as the stage design and the music. In his stage directions the 

composer described in detail the stage sets for particular acts, emphasising 

the contrasts between places of action, times of day and night, the colouring 

of the interiors, and the play of lights and shadows. 

The first act takes place in a Byzantine temple, with the stage set modelled 

on the chapel in the royal palace (Cappella Palatina) of the Norman ruler of 

Sicily, Roger II, there is a painting of Christ Pantocrator in the apse, and 

golden mosaics which contrast with the twilight; the second act is set in Roger’s 

palace, furnished with Oriental sumptuousness, while the background 

to the third act is provided by the ruins of an ancient Greek theatre. Stage 

design composed in this way presents the heterogeneity of Sicily, which somehow 

constituted a harmonious whole, as described by Ferdinand Gregorovius 8 

and Paweł Muratow 9 , and as it was still experienced by Szymanowski, and 

after him Iwaszkiewicz. This heterogeneity was intended to reflect in visual 

terms the conflicts of the ideas presented in the drama. 

The musical vision was born at the same time as that of the drama and the 

stage. ‘And (possibly) Byzantine-church-dark choirs!’ — wrote Szymanowski 

in his letter to Iwaszkiewicz mentioned earlier, discussing the initial ideas for 

the work 10 . The music co-creates the separate colourings of the three acts. 

However, it is far from being an imitation and pastiche of the music of the

The Leitmotifs in King Roger 81 

cultural communities presented in the drama. As in the case of the libretto 

which, while being inspired by the figure of Roger II and the Sicilian scenery, 

moved away from the historical accounts, so in the case of the musical layer 

of the first and second acts: all one can discern are references to the most 

general features of medieval or oriental music, and these are more in the 

nature of stylistic allusions than stylisation. And in the Hellenic act, the 

mood of the Dionysian mystery is conveyed only through the stage set, the 

figure of Dionysus and the presence of the chorus with its commentary, and 

not through musical devices. 

The external contrasts of the action are levelled out by the leitmotifs, common 

to all the acts. On the one hand they provide the basis of the autonomous 

musical cohesion of the work, on the other, they create the inner action, 

which on occasions reveals the hidden meanings of the verbal layer. Mateusz 

Gliński11 , in his essay on King Roger, identified the motifs of the three main 

stage characters: the two motifs of the Shepherd (the first one symbolising 

his divine nature, the second — his carnality, his sensuality), two motifs of 

Roxana and one motif for Roger. Jachimecki’s essay12 dating from the same 

year was mainly concerned with the Shepherd’s motifs. The first of them 

had a concave contour (letter x, figure 5.1), while the second one — a convex 

one (letter y, figure 5.1). Roxana’s motifs, which are in fact a transformation 

and development of the Shepherd’s motifs, indicate the lack of independence 

of the personality of the heroine, who surrenders to the power of the divine 

messenger. 13 

Although the motifs in question are linked to the main characters of the 

drama, they do not function in the same way as the older ‘reminding motifs’; 

instead, they are closer to Wagner’s idea, since they play a role in the 

symphonic shaping of the work. Moreover, the motifs in King Roger undergo 

transformations in terms of their melic contour, rhythm, and even expressive 

character. 

The opening introduction shows ‘the interior of a church built by the Omnipotent 

and by the hands of the Byzantian Basileus family, the earlier rulers 

of the island’. 14 However, in this scene Szymanowski does not refer to the liturgical 

monophonic Byzantine music, but to the newer polyphonic Orthodox


Mój Bóg jest pię - kny ja - ko ja, 

U - śnij - cie krwa - we sny kró - la Ro - ge - ra 

Fig. 5.1. a) Act 1, bars 283–287 (Shepherd’s part); b) Act 1, bars 529–532 (parts of 

second and first violins), c) Act 2, bars 243–244 (Roxana’s part), d) Act 2, bars 251– 

252 (Roxana’s part), e) Act 1, bars 513–514 (parts of first and second trombones) 

Church music, homophonic and and homorhythmic. Although the melodics 

contain some modal phrases, the tonal centres are displaced, and the archaising 

fifths-fourths are broken through with new harmonic thinking. Allusions 

to the Orthodox ritual can also be noted in the Old Church Slavonic formula: 

‘Hagios, Kyrios, Theos, Sabaoth’ and in the solo chant of the Archierey, to 

which the chorus provides the responses. In passing, one might remark that


the authors of the libretto did not give much thought to exactly what ritual 

must have been observed in the royal chapel, since the historical Roger was a 

Roman Catholic, and not an Orthodox Christian 15 . On the other hand, this 

historical inaccuracy bears no significance in terms of its importance to the 

opera, which is governed by a logic of its own. And that logic demands that 

the opposite of the Shepherd — God of love and freedom, with his origins in 

the religions of the East and in the Dionysian cult — should be the doctrine 

of the Byzantine church, the most rigorous and the most petrified, but at 

the same time extremely rich in its external ceremonies 16 . In any case, the 

Byzantine tradition was at that time very strong in Sicily, which is apparent 

in the architechture and the interiors of the churches; one might also add that 

for his coronation Roger wore a beautiful Byzantine cloak, threaded through 

with pearls and gold, made in the capital of Sicily, but ormanented with embroidered 

writing in Arabic 17 . In his opera, Szymanowski captured exactly 

that variety of cultural traditions, which at the same time form a harmonious 

unity. 

More important than stylistic accuracy in the music of the introduction to 

King Roger is its general emotional character, which corresponds to a mystical 

mood of a religious service. Already, the first motif of the Shepherd appears 

here twice, and is taken up immediately by a boys’ choir (see figure 5.2a). 

On the other hand, the ‘convex’ motif accompanies the entry of the King and 

his court; it is initially played by flute and clarinet (figure 5.2b), and then 

taken up to form a dialogue of other instruments. Thus these motifs precede 

the appearance of the Shepherd on the stage, testifying to his yet unrevealed 

presence, and perhaps also to a mysterious link between the religion preached 

by him and the official religion of the Byzantine church, as well as to a link 

with Roger himself (Halbreich describes the Shepherd as ‘Roger’s shadow’). 18 

The musical characterisation of the Shepherd is achieved not only through 

the motifs, but also by a special timbral aura, through melodic-harmonic 

means, and the instrumentation. The Shepherd’s song (from bar 282), with 

its modal melodics and peaceful trochaic rhythm, contrasts with the music 

of the faithful gathered in the church. There is in it a softness, a sweetness, 

a toned-down expression, which can be described in one word: serenitas.


W krza - ku go - re - ją - cym pło - ną - cy 

Fig. 5.2. a) Act 1, bar 36 (the Archierey’s part), b) Act 1, bars 48–50 (part of the 

first flute and first clarinet). 

The song is accompanied by the rustling background of string instruments, 

multiply divided, joined by the melody of the solo violin in high register in 

bar 308. 

The game begins to be played out between Roger and the Shepherd- 

Dionysius. In that first meeting of the protagonists one can discern the model 

of Euripides’s Bacchaes, which, however, is done ‘for a particular purpose’, as 

Szymanowski mentions in his draft of the Sicilian drama 19 . What is taking 

place is better described as the composer’s dialogue with the Bacchaes, rather 

than plagiarism. In Szymanowski’s novel Efebos, the composer Marek Korab 

explains that ‘[...] the original tragedy is not suitable for a musical drama 

because of its length and the unity of place and time, which would be tiring 

in a musical interpretation’. And moreover, he adds, ‘who in the end would 

play Dionysus on stage? That ephebus with sensual lips [...] who would play 

him? Some odious tenor with fat calves in pink tights?’ 20 . 

Roger’s motif is built up slowly. Initially it is only the descending secondal


steps in the horn group, syncopated, emphasised with strong accents. This 

motif, as it appears in the first violins in bars 402–404, has not yet achieved 

its characteristic form. As the hatred of the people for the Shepherd grows, 

the anger of the ruler, anxious over Roxana’s enchantment with the stranger, 

increases as well. He pronounces his verdict: ‘let him die!’. Edrisi advises: 

‘call him to judgment’, Roxana begs for mercy. The might of royal power 

struggles in him against the fascination exerted by the beautiful youth. And 

it is at that moment of hesitation (the stage directions here are: ‘He falls back 

onto the throne, hides his face in his hand. One can feel in him a terrible inner 

struggle’) that Roger’s full motif appears, reflecting his spiritual conflict, fear, 

anxiety, but also his brutal force (bars 513–514). This is achieved through 

sharp dissonances, zig-zagging melody line, broken rhythms, the sound of the 

wind instruments supported by the percussion. The tritone in the motif line 

disappears when Roger changes his decision: ‘Let the Shepherd go’. That 

is the key moment, in which the music takes over the main part. The stage 

directions say: ‘A wonderful smile appears on the face of the Shepherd. For a 

moment he looks directly into the King’s eyes, as if in a secret understanding, 

and then slowly, as if reluctantly, he makes his exit’. 21 For the first time, 

we hear the Shepherd’s second motif in full (bars 529–532). Roger changes 

his judgment once again: ‘You will come to judgment tonight!’ When he 

gives the challenge and the response, the Shepherd’s motif can be heard in 

his voice; and, in his turn, the Shepherd repeats a fragment of Roger’s motif 

on the words: ‘I will answer them «Roger»?’. 

At the end of act 1 the composer superimposes two planes on each other: 

the music of the departing Shepherd (group of string instruments) and the 

voices of the chorus (‘Horror! Horror!’) dying away. One might describe this 

act as the exposition of the dramatic conflict. 

The second act brings an intensification of the oppositions. The next encounter 

between Roger and the Shepherd again recalls the Bacchaes, but in a 

changed form. In Euripides’s drama, Dionysus, imprisoned by Penteus, frees 

himself by causing an earthquake and a fire in the palace and, during their 

second encounter, unrecognised, disguised as a shepherd, tempts the King 

with a vision of the mysteries: ‘would you not like to spy on these fair ladies


in the wood?’ We know what the end will be — Penteus dies, torn to pieces 

by the bacchaes and by his own mother. This is the scene which Szymanowski 

tried to immortalise in his unfinished cantata Agave. InKing Roger, this 

second encounter takes on the character of an increasingly violent dispute, in 

which the might of the king clashes with the secret power of Dionysus; however, 

Szymanowski’ Shepherd brings about spiritual (not seismic) quakes, 

and the fire rages only in people’s hearts. In terms of the music, the part 

of the act which begins with the appearance of the Shepherd (bar 326) is a 

symphonic transformation of both his motifs and Roger’s motif, a constant 

play of varying expressions. The dominant ‘convex’ motif of the Shepherd 

appears con passione and grows to fortissimo; the development of his song 

from the first act intertwines with Roger’s motif (bars 430–433), which becomes 

increasingly more powerful and threatening (bars 498–504). Further 

on, the Shepherd’s music is overlaid by Roger’s motif, which drowns it out, 

for example bars 498–503. When Roger says, ‘I am afraid of thunder’, the 

situation changes; the stage slowly fills with a crowd of figures, and from 

the upper galleries we can hear Roxana singing, repeating the lullaby motif; 

Roger’s motif is broken up into secondal intervals with characteristic strong 

accents, but his anger grows: ‘you draw your magic power from the depths 

of hell...’ (bars 639–658). 

The second act culminates in the dance scene. It would be difficult to draw 

here any analogies with the original Eastern melodies and rhythms; rather, 

the composer has captured the general features of the rhythms of Eastern 

dances, such as asymmetricity, metric irregularity (e.g. the use of 7/8 metre 

in the initial fragment), or syncopating. The instrumentation also plays an 

important role: the main melodic instruments are flutes, oboes and violins, 

the other melodic instruments introduce a heterophony; while the percussion 

group is strongly highlighted. What was important for the composer was 

not the authentic stylisation of Eastern music, but the expression of a ritual 

dance, symbolising the striving of the human soul towards God. The consecutive 

phases of the dance represent the achievement of ever higher degrees 

of knowledge and union with the Absolute. That is the function of the dance, 

and we can distinguish seven phases in it. In the first three (instrumental


ones) the dance is in the centre of the action, in the following ones it provides 

a background for the exchanges taking place between the dramatis personae. 

The entry of each phase is marked by a clear rhythmic impulse, the tempo 

becomes increasingly lively, and the segments increasingly shorter. The motifs 

of Roxana (who appears in phase four), Roger (when he tries to stop her) 

and the Shepherd (the fifth phase: the duet of Roxana and the Shepherd) 

are superimposed on the melodic phrases of the dance. In the last phase the 

chorus joins in and — as is indicated in the stage directions — ‘everything 

joins together in one powerful chord.’ Before the state of highest ecstasy is 

achieved, Roger intervenes with the order to imprison the Shepherd. At that 

moment, Roger’s motif is at its most powerful, multiplied (bar 939 and the 

following ones), and dies down slowly when the Shepherd throws the chains 

at his feet. The echoes of this motif are only heard again when the Shepherd 

asks again, ‘Who will follow me into the distance?’ (bars 1036–1040), and 

the violins intone the temptation motif of the Shepherd for the last time, as 

he leaves with Roxana and his train of followers. 

The third act brings a change in the treatment of the leitmotifs. This is 

only partially related to the changes in the composer’s style at the beginning 

of the 1920s. Abandoning the symphonic transformation of the motifs seems 

justified from the dramatic point of view. Roger, dressed as a pilgrim, leaves 

behind the royal cloak, crown and sword and wanders away in search of . . . 

exactly whom, Roxana or the Shepherd? The deconstruction of the motif 

corresponds to Roger’s psychological disintegration. The broken secondal 

intervals from the beginning of Roger’s motif sound like an echo in the horns 

con sordino (with the marking pp dolcissimo). The situation is reversed: it 

is the King who ‘comes to judgment’ — according to the commentary sung 

by the chorus. When Edrisi points to the approaching Roxana, the violins 

take up Roger’s motif, but inversed (bars 161–163, see figure 5.3), changed in 

expression. 

We do not hear the motifs of the old lullaby in Roxana’s singing either. 

In his draft of the Sicilian drama 22 Szymanowski reveals that Roxana, sent 

by the Shepherd, ‘cunningly’ tricks Roger, telling him that they can leave 

together (‘Give me your hand’), because in fact she wants to take him to the


Vni I 

Fig. 5.3. Act 3, bars 161–163. 

Shepherd. Would she symbolically be playing the part of Agave? In his turn, 

Roger asks violently, ‘where is he, where is the Shepherd?’, and it transpires 

that it was not Roxana that he was seeking in the ruins of the theatre. It 

is then that we hear for the first time the sensual motif of the Shepherd, 

foreshadowing his coming, although his appearance as Dionysus (a phantom 

of Dionysus?) has a purely symbolic character. Fragments of Roger’s motif 

are superimposed over this motif (bars 245–248). The Shepherd’s call takes 

the shape of an arch as a transformation of the ‘convex’ motif (see figure 5.4). 

W ra - do - sny tan 

Fig. 5.4. Act 3, bars 379–381 (the Shepherd’s part). 

A great musical climax ends the scene of the mysteries. When Roger is left 

alone with Edrisi, the Shepherd’s call can still be heard a number of times, as if 

from a distance. The final scene, which is a coda to this ‘dramatic symphony’, 

brings the musical solution. By then Roger’s motif sounds different. 

We need to remember that in the first version of the drama (by Iwaszkiewicz, 

and also in Szymanowski’s draft of the libretto) Roger was to join the 

train of Dionysus’s followers. However, the composer later withdrew that ending, 

commenting in a letter to Iwaszkiewicz: ‘On the other hand, I changed 

the third act fundamentally. Don’t you think that its symbolism was too 

obvious and, what’s worse — too childish (as an idea). I preferred to drown 

everything in darkness and night, hide in it the Shepherd and his surroundings 

[...]’ 23 .


In the final version, Roger does not follow Dionysus. It was the composer’s 

intention to leave the work without a clear answer, ambivalent, with the 

ending ‘hidden in darkness’. It has also been interpreted by scholars and 

directors of a number of productions in a variety of ways. Explanations 

in the Nietzschean vein as the victory of the Apollonian spirit (the Sun as 

the symbol of Apollo) over the Dionysian one 24 seems to move away from 

Szymanowski’s ‘favourite little idea’ about ‘the secret kinship between Christ 

and Dionysus’. 25 The Sun and light, as symbols of Christ, are present in 

liturgical ceremonies, in prayers, in plastic arts’ representations of Christ (the 

aureole, nimbus, mandorla). Christians gave a new meaning to the symbols 

from antiquity. 

The conflict between Christianity and the faith preached by the Shepherd, 

presented at the beginning of the drama, does not achieve an unambivalent 

solution in the libretto. This, as may be recalled, was criticised after the 

opera’s first performance in Warsaw (19 June 1926). Adam Wieniawski, for 

example, expressed doubt ‘whether the masses will understand and grasp the 

artistic beauty of the victory of paganism over Christianity, of the Hellenic 

cult of nature over medieval superstition and cruelty — and lastly, whether 

the thesis: he is god who gives most delight — will win the admiration of 

Polish souls, saturated with Catholicism over so many centuries.’. 26 That 

was the reason why Szymanowski decided to write an article called Wobronie 

ideologii Króla Rogera [In defence of the ideology of King Roger], but he did 

not carry his intention through; there is only a manuscript beginning of that 

text, in which the above sentences was quoted (inaccurately). 27 

One might say that the conflict which had been presented was resolved only 

for Roger himself. For him, the Dionysian mysteries became the moment of 

illumination, the experience of the presence of sacrum and the recognition 

of the secret unity of Christ and Dionysus (Dionysus as a prefiguration of 

Christ). Dionysian joy gave new sense to the ascetic religion which had been 

imprisoning Roger’s nature; it brought about a resolution of his inner conflicts, 

a knowledge of his own identity and integration of his personality. 

The music of the opera’s finale might thus be interpreted as an expression 

of the hero’s inner transformation. When he stands at the top of the am-


w o - fie - rze słoń - cu dam - ! 

Fig. 5.5. Act 3: a) bars 469–478 (part of the first violins), b) bars 488–490 (Roger’s 

part). 

phitheatre, ‘lit by the morning sun’, there is a gradual transformation of his 

leading motif in the violin part (see figure 5.5a). At first one can recognise 

the initial interval of the minor second, but the ‘zig-zagging’ contour changes 

gradually to ‘concave’; the characteristic tritone appears only once, replaced 

by a fifth and then a sixth until it reaches the shape F–E–C sharp–A, i.e., 

transposition by a tritone in relation to the initial shape. Roger’s final vocal 

phrase is another transformation of the ‘concave’ shape of the motif into the 

‘convex’ (A sharp–C sharp–F–E) one (see figure 5.5b). This would mean that 

Roger has reached completeness, expressed by uniting the two motifs originating 

from the Shepherd’s motifs, although not identical to them. This recalls 

the ending of Efebos which has been described by Iwaszkiewicz — Korab and 

Alo Łowicki (the composer’s two alter egos) find each other and reach full understanding, 

‘Efebos ended with such a majestic finale (in C major!).’ 28 But 

in the ending here there is also a moment of offering oneself, of self-sacrifice: 

‘my transparent heart I will tear out, offer it to the Sun as sacrifice’. However, 

Roger’s fate does not follow that of Penteus; his sacrifice has a symbolic 

dimension; the hero gains self-knowledge, but remains alone.


Notes 

1 Cf. Alistair Wightman, ‘Karol Szymanowski a kultura angielska’ [‘Karol Szymanowski 

and the English Culture’], transl. E. Szczepańska-Malinowska, Muzyka 1983 No. 2, 

pp. 3–26. 

2 Paweł Muratow, Obrazy Włoch [Pictures from Italy], vol. 2,transl. PawełHertz, 

Warszawa 1972, pp. 75–89. 1 st ed. Obrazy Italii, vols. 1–2, Moscow 1911–1912. 

3 Cf. in particular the three-volume work by T. Zieliński Iz zhizni idei. 

Nauchno-populiarnye stati [On the life of ideas. Popular science essays], St. 

Petersburg 1905. The copy of the third volume which belonged to Szymanowski, 

entitled Sopierniki christianstwa[Competitors of christianity] (containing the 

composer’s markings) is held at the University Library in Warsaw. Edward Boniecki 

brought it to our attention in: ‘W orszaku Dionizosa. Mit dionizyjski Szymanowskiego 

i Iwaszkiewicza’ [‘In the train of Dionysus. The Dionysian myth in Szymanowski and 

Iwaszkiewicz’], Pamiętnik Literacki LXXV 1989, issue. 1, pp. 139–159. 

4 Teresa Chylińska, ‘Karol Szymanowski i Tadeusz Miciński’ [‘Karol Szymanowski and 

Tadeusz Micinski’], in: Studia o Tadeuszu Micińskim [Tadeusz Micinski Studies], ed. 

Maria Podraza-Kwiatkowska, Kraków 1979, p. 333; Iwona Nowak, ‘Pokrewieństwo 

dwóch dzieł, czyli o tym co łączy Króla Rogera Karola Szymanowskiego z Bazylissą 

Teofanu Tadeusza Micińskiego’ [‘A kinship between two works, or what Karol 

Szymanowski’s King Roger and Tadeusz Micinski’s Bazylissa Teofanu have in 

common’] , in: Karol Szymanowski w perspektywie kultury muzycznej przeszłości i 

współczesności [Karol Szymanowski in the perspective of musical culture past and 

present], ed. Zbigniew Skowron, Kraków 2007, pp. 249–258; cf. also Edward 

Boniecki’s article in this volume (p. xxx). 

5 Cf. Jerzy Kwiatkowski, Poezja Jarosława Iwaszkiewicza na tle dwudziestolecia 

międzywojennego [The poetry of Jaroslaw Iwaszkiewicz against the background of the 

twenty interwar years], Warszawa 1975, pp. 136–169. 

6 The letter from Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz which contained the first sketch of the drama 

has not been preserved. The author mentions it in his Spotkania z Szymanowskim 

[Encounters with Szymanowski] (Kraków 1947, pp. 75–77): ‘The idea in that sketch 

was simply to initiate the hero of the drama into Dionysian mysteries and to show the 

eternally living Dionysius against the ruins of a theatre in Syracuse or Segesta. Of 

course in that shape the drama had even less action than today’s Roger. Itwasmore 

of a double oratorio, half Byzantine-church, half pagan’. Cf. also K. Szymanowski, 

Korespondencja [Correspondence], collected and edited by Teresa Chylińska, vol. 1, 

ed. 2, Kraków 2007, p. 617. 

7 Letter to Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz dated 5/18 August 1918; cf.. K. Szymanowski, 

Korespondencja [Correspondence], as above, p. 615. 

8 Wędrówki po Włoszech [Travels through Italy], vol. 2, transl. Tadeusz Zabłudowski, 

Warszawa 1990, pp. 271–315 (1. ed. Wanderjahre in Italien, vols. 1–5, 1864–1877). 

9 ‘On the other hand, Cappella Palatina tells the story of the people who surrounded 

Roger, that extraordinary, multilingual and multitribal collection which cohered so 

harmoniously, creating a magnificent court which impresses with its extraordinarily 

high level of culture. On the walls of the chapel, Greek artists created images of Latin 

saints, decorated by Eastern ornamentalists. Byzantine mosaic artists worked here to 

transmit the legend of the Gospels, together with Arabian carvers who then sculpted


that amazing stalactite vault based on that of the mosque in Cordoba. There, above, 

among the wooden rosettes, are preserved traces of a painting, depicting small figures 

in Arabian clothes, sitting cross-legged and playing guitars and other instruments. 

Their silent music harmonises strangely with the loud chant of the Latin priests 

celebrating Mass, and with the still face of the Byzantine Christ in the apse of the 

alter’. P. Muratow, Obrazy Włoch [Pictures from Italy], op. cit., p. 82. 

10 K. Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence], op. cit., p. 615. 

11 Mateusz Gliński, ‘Król Roger Karola Szymanowskiego’ [‘King Roger by Karol 

Szymanowski’], Muzyka 1927 No. 1, pp. 18–20, No. 2, pp. 60–64, No. 3, pp. 110–113. 

12 Zdzisław Jachimecki, ‘Karol Szymanowski. Rys dotychczasowej twórczości’ [‘Karol 

Szymanowski. A sketch of his creative development to date’], Kraków 1927, offprint 

from Przegląd Współczesny, pp. 57–58. 

13 The motifs of the Shepherd and Roxana are also mentioned by Harry Halbreich, who 

points to the shared melic substance of the motifs of the Shepherd and Roxana’s 

Lullaby (‘Le Roi Roger un chef-d’oeuvre solitaire’, L’Avant-Scéne Opéra No. 43, 

September 1982, pp. 162–164). However, he does not give Roger’s motif, and neither 

does Jachimecki. 

14 K. Szymanowski, Król Roger [King Roger] (Dzieła [Works] vol. 23, score), Uwagi 

sceniczne [Stage remarks], p. XVI. 

15 King Roger II, who ruled during the years 1130–1154, is the subject of Hubert 

Houden’s book Roger II. von Sizilien, Darmstadt 1997 (English edition Roger II of 

Sicily. A Ruler between East and West, Cambridge 2002, transl. Graham A. Loud, 

Diane Milburn). Cf. also K. P. Todt, Roger II, in:Biographisch-Bibliographisches 

Kirchenlexikon, Herzberg 1995, vol. VIII, cols. 543–547. We find out from these that 

Roger II was married three times, but none of his wives was named Roxana. 

16 Ferdinand Gregorovius characterises the Byzantine images of Christ Pantocrator, and 

the essence of Byzantine religion, in this way: ‘The Byzantine faces of Christ have 

something demonic about them, as do the faces of Egyptian gods, as does altogether 

the whole essence of Byzantinism in its perception of that which is divine and that 

which is ethnic. This manner of depicting the face of Christ leads us into a world of 

ideas which for us, today’s people, is something much more remote than antiquity. It 

has in it something terrifyingly abstract, it constitutes some inevitable necessity, 

which excludes everything that is human, all imagination, all coincidence, any reflex of 

life. Such a face of Christ, like the head of the Medusa, exudes petrification. When I 

look at pictures like that, I cannot but read in that frighteningly lofty face, as in a 

prophetic mirror, the history of the Church: fanatical asceticism, monasticism, hatred 

of Jews, persecution of heretics, conflict over dogma, the Popes’ omnipotence. Nothing 

indeed could depict more clearly in a symbolic manner both the negative and the 

positive power of Christian religion’. Further on, the author states that in comparing 

‘such a face of Christ with the Christ’s heads painted by Raphael or Titian’ one sees 

the expression of ‘two opposing ways of experiencing religion.’ (F. Gregorovius, op. 

cit., vol. 2, p. 305). 

17 As above, p. 291. 

18 Op. cit., p. 157. 

19 ‘Some analogies with the Bacchaes by Eurip[ides] are made with a particular purpose 

and cannot be regarded as plagiarism’. K. Szymanowski, Korespondencja


[Correspondence], vol. 1, op. cit., p. 642. Szymanowski knew that drama in Russian 

translation and — as was pointed out by Iwaszkiewicz (Spotkania z Szymanowskim, 

op.cit., p. 79) — was inspired by Tadeusz Zieliński’s introduction (Evripid, Vakhantki, 

perevod F. F. Zelinskogo, Moscow 1895). Polish translation by Jan Kasprowicz was 

published for the first time in Kraków in 1918. (Eurypidesa tragedye, vol.3,withan 

introduction by Tadeusz Sinko). 

20 K. Szymanowski, Pisma literackie [Literary writings], Kraków 1989, p. 114. 

21 K. Szymanowski, Król Roger[King Roger], score, op. cit. stage directions on p. 60. 

22 A sketch attached to the letter from Szymanowski to Iwaszkiewicz dated 14/27 

October 1918; cf. Karol Szymanowski, Korespondencja [Correspondence], vol.1,2nd 

edition, Kraków 2007, pp. 637–642. 

23 Letter from Szymanowski to Iwaszkiewicz dated 20 March 1921, Korespondencja 

[Correspondence], vol. 2, Kraków 1994, p. 217. 

24 Cf. Paolo Emilio Carapezza, ‘Król Roger między Dionizosem i Apollinem’ [‘King 

Roger between Dionysus and Apollo’], transl. Jerzy Stankiewicz, Res Facta 9: 1982, 

pp. 50–61 (orig. version ‘Re Ruggiero tra Dioniso e Apollo’, in: Storia dell’arte. Studi 

in onore de Cesare Brandi, Firenze 1980). 

25 K. Szymanowski, letter to Iwaszkiewicz dated 14/27 October 1918, cf. Korespondencja 

[Correspondence], vol. 1, p. 642. 

26 Adam Wieniawski, ‘Król Roger, opera Karola Szymanowskiego’ [‘King Roger, operaby 

Karol Szymanowski’], Rzeczpospolita 22 June 1926, No. 168. 

27 The surviving fragment was published in the collection Pisma muzyczne [Writings on 

music] by Karol Szymanowski (ed. Kornel Michałowski, Kraków 1984, pp. 493–494). 

28 J. Iwaszkiewicz, Spotkania z Szymanowskim [Encounters with Szymanowski], op.cit., 

p. 96.

6 

Karol Szymanowski as Chancellor of the Higher 

School of Music in Warsaw. New Facts, New Light 

Magdalena Dziadek 

The Fryderyk Chopin University of Music, Warsaw 

The episode of Karol Szymanowski’s short term in office as chancellor of 

the Higher School of Music at the State Conservatory in Warsaw, which 

functioned from October 1930 to December of the following year, has been 

described by witnesses of those events, and by the composer’s biographers, 

in a manner which has created a legend. What turned these reports into a 

legend was the fact that these narratives were used as a conduit for particular 

views. I quote an example taken from Marcin Kamiński’s Ludomir Różycki. 

Opowieść o życiu i twórczości [Ludomir Różycki. The story of his life and 

work] (1987), where we read: 

TheSenateoftheMusicAcademy,wherethemajoritywashostiletoKarolSzymanowski’s 

progressive reforms, and which held conservative views on the teaching 

of music, particularly composition (where the department tried to raise quality to 

the European standard, in accordance with the guidance of the author of Stabat 

Mater), split into two camps busy fighting each other. The majority were against 

Szymanowski’s initiatives, which might not have always been ideal in the area of administration. 

They conducted a ruthless campaign against him [...]. Szymanowski, 

in poor health and of weak disposition, was not a suitable candidate for clearing the 

musical Augean stables. In spite of achieving significant positive results on the teaching 

front, which were enthusiastically appreciated by the talented group of young 

people being educated at the Music Academy, the conservative element began to 

win out [...]. Szymanowski, who was ill, resigned, and Różycki left together with his 

friend 1 . 

94

Karol Szymanowski as Chancellor of the Higher School of Music 95 

This narrative clearly distills a specific viewpoint: this is the opposition 

between progressivism and conservatism, which concerns not only the programme 

of action proposed by the parties to the conflict, but the values 

which they represent. I will not comment here on the obvious fact that this, 

and other descriptions of Szymanowski’s term as chancellor of the Higher 

School of Music, not quoted here for lack of space, were based on statements 

made by the composer himself, and he tended to reduce the controversy over 

the Higher School to the struggle between progress and conservatism. 

While respecting the legend as the product of a particular tradition, I will 

nevertheless attempt to re-examine it, especially since there is a need to prepare 

the ground for a more objective discussion about the role of the Warsaw 

Academy during the twenty inter-war years. The approaching 200th anniversary 

of the founding of the School (in 2011) seems a valid reason to reconstruct 

the story of the battle over the Higher School of Music, using sources dealing 

with the history of Polish musical education and higher education in general 

during that period. There can be no doubt that the affair of the Higher 

School of Music has to be looked at in the context of ideas prevalent at that 

time, together with their political premises. As a starting point, we need to 

examine the condition of the organisation when it was reborn in 1919, after 

more than half a century of functioning under the tsarist management. 

The new stage in the history of the Warsaw Conservatory began on 7 February 

1919, as a result of a decree creating the State Conservatory in Warsaw. 

The decree was issued by the Ministry of Art and Culture, which began work 

in January 1918 under the government of Ignacy Jan Paderewski. The legal 

act, which had been eagerly awaited at the conservatory, did not bring 

any revolutionary changes in the School’s organisation. The reason for this 

was that the text of the document, establishing the Conservatory as a state 

higher education institution, contained a number of gaps and ambiguities. 

These could be interpreted in such a way as would allow the Conservatory to 

be treated according to the pre-war norms, i.e., as a vocational school; the 

document also said nothing about its autonomy (which as a higher education 

establishment it would have to possess), or the rights and powers of its 

teachers and graduates.

96 Magdalena Dziadek 

The decree of 7 February 1919 had been issued before the legislature of the 

Second Republic of Poland worked out a generally binding statute concerning 

higher education. That statute was published on 13 July 1920, but art 

schools were not included in its regulations. During the following years, the 

Academies of Fine Arts in Kraków and in Warsaw succeeded in obtaining the 

status of higher educational institutions, through amendments to the statute 

of 1920. The management of the Conservatory attempted to obtain a similar 

upgraded status during the 1920s. At the same time, the music-teaching community 

attempted to bring order from below into the extremely complicated 

structure of Polish music education. Within its framework there functioned 

two state schools — the Warsaw Conservatory and the city’s Frederic Chopin 

Higher School of Music (it became a state school on 13 December 1919), 

as well as an enormous network of self-governing and private schools, whose 

powers, programmes and standards were impossible to compare. During the 

early 1920s, Henryk Melcer, director of the Warsaw Conservatory, tried to 

coordinate work on creating a consistent structure within music education, 

taking advantage of his close relationship with Stanisław Wojciechowski, who 

became President of Poland in 1922. On Melcer’s initiative, a Convention 

of Managers of Music Schools took place in Warsaw during 20–22 November 

1925. Earlier, immediately after taking up the post of director, Melcer initiated 

efforts to obtain for the Warsaw Conservatory the status of academic 

school. He made a practical attempt to reorganise the conservatory in 1925, 

at the time when the newly appointed Minister for Religious Faiths and Public 

Education (WRiOP), Kazimierz Bartel (later a Prime Minister in one of 

the governments under Marshal Piłsudski), undertook the reform of secondary 

education, which had been awaited by the teaching community. Within 

the framework of the reforms, the system of secondary school certificate 

(matura) exams and schools accreditation was being reorganised. However, 

negotiations undertaken by Melcer, aimed at achieving an analogous accreditation 

status for the Conservatory, were unsuccessful. The impossibility 

of establishing the credentials of graduates through matura certificates was 

put forward as an argument against granting Melcer’s request; moreover, in 

order to emphasise the status of the Conservatory as a vocational school, the


Ministry gave instructions for the school to be inspected. Melcer was notified 

about the inspection on 1 December 1926. Reacting with indignation and in 

the heat of the moment, her wrote a letter of resignation, which was accepted 

in mid-December. As Zbigniew Drzewiecki wrote a few years later, what 

happened to Melcer was only seemingly a failure, ‘since the matter could not 

be buried and was bound to arise again, on a much wider platform’ 2 . Indeed, 

the campaign initiated by Melcer had a beneficial effect, in that it awakened 

the interest of the whole Polish cultural community in the idea of creating a 

state higher school of music in Warsaw. A number of interviews with leading 

musicians appeared in the press, giving support to the project. Aleksander 

Michałowski, Ludomir Różycki and Tadeusz Joteyko expressed their support 

for creating a‘music academy’ in the columns of the periodical Świat (1926 

No. 3). Różycki put forward an actual proposal for a future academy which, 

in his view, was to become a ‘national conservatory’, a model, showpiece establishment. 

The idea of an elitist Higher School of Music was maintained 

during the short period of the directorship of Karol Szymanowski, who succeeded 

Melcer (1927–1928). The concept originated in Szymanowski’s general 

view of Polish musical culture and its problems. The composer declared: 

I will try, above all, to turn the Conservatory into a body which stands for musical 

culture understood in its deepest sense. Of course, since my basic position is that 

the achievements of contemporary music have to be acknowledged as being of immeasurable 

and significant value, I will be taking note of the latest developments in 

that area 3 . 

In a number of texts published by Szymanowski during the period of his directorship 

at the conservatory, and immediately after it ended, the recurring 

theme was the need to ‘break through the barriers’ put up by provincial, conservative 

pedaguogues obstructing the development of young people studying 

at the Conservatory 4 . Szymanowski was of the opinion that he had succeeded 

in breaking through these dams, in the sense that he awakened an interest 

in new music and, more widely, in progressive ideology, of the community of 

conservative youth 5 . Evidence for this is provided by Szymanowski’s correspondence, 

published by Teresa Chylińska, which shows that young students


of composition, and activists from the Brotherly Help organisation of the 

Conservatory students, turned enthusiastically to him. 

The directorship, which brought with it a surfeit of personal conflict, put 

a strain on Szymanowski’s health. In order to recuperate, Szymanowski left 

for Edlach in Austria at the end of 1928. By the time of his return, he had 

already made up his mind to quit the directorial post, foreseeing that his 

departure ‘will quite automatically cause cause a catastrophe and the ruin of 

all that has been achieved so far’ 6 . 

Szymanowski’s place was temporarily filled (a Ministry appointment) by 

Janusz Miketta, Professor at the Frederic Chopin High School of Music in 

Warsaw, who from 1926 had been official councillor on music matters at the 

Ministry (WRiOP) At the same time Miketta became the official adviser 

to the Opinion Formulating Commission of the Ministry (WROiP) on the 

matter of the System of Music Education in the Republic of Poland, established 

in October 1928 by Minister Kazimierz Świtalski. The Commission 

was charged with carrying out a systemic reorganisation of state and private 

establishments of music education, in order to standardise their structure and 

programmes. The initiative to establish the Opinion Formulating Commission 

was a personal achievement of Miketta who, working with the knowledge 

of Szymanowski, made efforts to bring the matter of establishing a music academy 

back onto the agenda. It was no accident that this initiative coincided 

in time with the project put forward by the Director of the Art Department 

of the Ministry (WRiOP), Wojciech Jastrzębowski, who held that post from 

September 1928 until May 1930. As a painter, he represented a large and 

expansive community of plastic artists, and his project was aimed at creating 

a systemic reform of Polish artistic education together with a cohesive system 

of its administration. Such a system was expected to overcome the duality 

which had resulted from the division of responsibilities between the two departments 

in charge of artistic schools, the Department of Science and the 

Department of Art. However, the immediate aim of the campaign initiated 

by Jastrzębowski and his successor, Władysław Skoczylas, was to increase the 

number of state schools of plastic arts. The theatrical community announced 

similar aspirations at the same time, demanding the establishment of theatri-


cal education at university level. The activities of both these communities 

provided considerable competition for the musicians, and significantly influenced 

the attitude of the government to the resolutions of the Commission 

on the System of Music Education. 

The Commission was composed of prominent professors, representing the 

most important national music conservatories, and three chairs of musicology, 

those of Lvov, Krakòw and Poznań. The Warsaw Conservatory was 

represented by Józef Turczyński, Stanisław Kazuro, Piotr Rytel, Kazimierz 

Sikorski and Zbigniew Drzewiecki (deputising for Karol Szymanowski, who 

did not participate in the work of the Commission on grounds of ill health); 

the Frederic Chopin Higher School of Music — Adam Wieniawski and Stefan 

Wysocki; the Łódź Conservatory — Helena Kijeńska-Dobkiewiczowa; the 

Poznań Conservatory — Wacław Piotrowski and Władysław Raczkowski; the 

Katowice Music Institute 7 — Stefan Marian Stoiński, the Vilnius Conservatory 

— Adam Wyleżyński, the Kraków Conservatory — Józef Władysław Reiss 

and Michał Julian Piotrowski, the Lvov Conservatory — Seweryn Barbag 

and Mieczysław Sołtys. The delegate from the Lvov musicology department 

was Adolf Chybiński, from the Kraków one — Zdzisław Jachimecki, and from 

Poznań — Łucjan Kamieński. Two representatives of the Ukrainian Lysenko 

Conservatory, Wasyl Barwinśky and Stanisław Ludkewycz , were also invited 

to participate in the work of the Commission. The Commission held its sittings, 

consecutively, at the following conservatories: Warsaw (19–21 October 

1928), Lvov (2–5 January 1929), Poznań (7–9 March 1929), Kraków (22–24 

April 1929) and Warsaw for the second time (20–22 June 1929) 8 . 

We know in detail the progress of the Commission’s work, since its reports 

were published in Gliński’s Muzyka, where a discussion about them was taking 

place concurrently. We thus know that, as early as the first sitting, Janusz 

Miketta put forward for discussion the proposal to create a uniform threestage 

system of music schools, adapted to the system of general education 

which was at that time being drawn up by the relevant authorities. This 

idea, very ambitious in its detail (it is relevant to recall here that Miketta 

consulted Szymanowski about it on many occasions, regarding the composer 

as the ideological patron of the enterprise), foresaw the establishment of three


types of schools: lower, secondary and higher. There were to be two categories 

of secondary schools: those with subjects relevant only to music, and those 

with both music subjects and general education subjects. Schools of the 

second type — music lycea — were to provide a secondary school certificate 

on completion, while vocational schools would only provide school leavers 

with a qualification to practice their craft; those candidates who wanted to 

enter a higher school would need to supplement their general education. 

Janusz Miketta also proposed the formation of two kinds of music education 

at the higher level: strictly vocational institutions, which would accept 

graduates from both types of secondary school, and ‘music academies’ for 

graduates of music lycea. The ‘Academy’ (to start with only one of these 

establishments was foreseen, at the Warsaw Conservatory) was to have a 

‘scientific-musical’ profile, i.e., it was to educate independent specialists in all 

the research branches of music (Miketta proposed a set of subjects close to 

the typical programme of musicological studies at university level, plus scientific 

study of musical performance) 9 . The project of establishing a scientific 

‘music academy’ did not gain the support of the Commission. It was rejected 

en masse when it became apparent that graduates of the academy would not 

be entitled to undertake lectureships at musicology departments at university 

level10 . The idea of creating an academy was officially abandoned at the 

meeting in Poznań. However, a resolution was passed calling for the ‘expansion 

of higher schools to the maximum of equipment, excellence of teaching 

methods and programmes’ 11 . 

The 30 resolutions which resulted from the work of the Commission included 

a new statute for the State Music Conservatory in Warsaw. It was 

officially confirmed by the then current Minister for Religious Faiths and Public 

Education, Sławomir Czerwiński, in a letter dated 17 June 1929. 

It is worth recalling that Minister Czerwiński was a teacher-activist, who 

made a siginifcant contribution to Poland’s independence movement. He had 

studied Polish at the Jagiellonian University, had worked as a teacher in a 

private secondary school in the part of Poland under Russian rule during 

the partition period, and had been active in ‘Znicz’, ‘Zarzewie’ and ‘Drużyny 

Strzeleckie’ — organisations devoted to the struggle for Poland’s indepen-


dence. In 1923 he obtained a Ph.D. in Polish, and became an inspector 

at the Ministry (WRiOP). He became a Minister in 1929. By nature he 

was a social activist, an ideologue whose greatest interest was educational 

work ‘at the roots’, and had much less concern for the ambitions of artistic 

communities 12 . His statement made at the session of the Senate on 6 March 

1931 echoed throughout Warsaw press: 

I do not want it to be thought that, in this difficult economic period, the Government 

regards art as a kind of luxury. We are not at all complacent at the thought that the 

Polish State has so far not found sufficient means and forms to safeguard art. This 

is a very difficult problem, which has perhaps not been perfectly solved in any state. 

Instead of supporting artists themselves, the Ministry follows the path of raising 

the artistic level of the masses, which brings about increased demand for artistic 

production and influences the existence of artists in that way 13 . 

In Czerwiński’s speech closing the sessions of the Opinion Formulating 

Commission (on 22 June 1929) we also find the egalitarian emphasis characteristic 

of him. Members of the Commission are praised there for going 

beyond ‘just the project of the music education system’, and for considering 

‘the very content of musical education [...], the ways and methods of music 

teaching, evaluating them in the light of their educational results and external 

effects’ 14 . Painting his vision of the purpose of aesthetic education in schools, 

the Minister limited himself to the postulate that artistic subjects should not 

be a ‘wooden saw’, but that they should become a ‘teaching material which 

brings the joy of life between the school walls, which are still too gloomy.’ 

The above quotations allow us to suppose that the Minister’s attitude to 

the creation of an elitist music academy would have been one of indifference. 

This throws an important light on his next moves concerning the issue of the 

Warsaw Conservatory, of which more later. 

The sessions of the Opinion Formulating Commission received much commentary. 

The journalists who followed the process of reorganisation of the 

Conservatory expressed their own views as to the desired shape of the future 

music academy. Texts on this subject quite frequently promoted a maximalist 

vision of the Higher School as an institution of ‘national’ rank, whose 

elevated standard-setting position would be ensured by employing the most


prominent Polish artists (the majority of whom were abroad!). Karol Stromenger 

suggested that the post of chancellor of the Higher School should go 

to Paderewski or to the outstanding émigré pianist Zygmunt Stojowski 15 .Of 

some significance in the proposal put forward by Stromenger, a journalist linked 

to the governing right-wing ‘Sanacja’ movement, was the fact that the two 

musicians in question were of purely Polish origin (the critic stated directly 

that a ‘native Pole’ would be preferred), and had a record of not only great 

professional achievement, but also of unblemished service as citizens (both 

Paderewski and Stojowski engaged in active politics during the First World 

War, supporting the cause of Poland and Polish people). 

The same article mentioned for the first time in the Warsaw press the name 

of Eugeniusz Morawski. That artist, a pre-war graduate of the Warsaw Music 

Institute, a talented composer and conductor, returned to Poland from Paris 

in 1930, having been forced to emigrate because of taking part in student 

demonstrations in 1905 16 . He was appointed director of the State Music 

Conservatory in Poznań but did not take up that post, since a faction of 

the Warsaw music activists who supported the idea of appointing a ‘native 

Pole’ with the right ideological record as chancellor of the Higher School, 

identified just those qualities in him and began a campaign aimed at bringing 

Morawski to the capital. The first move in this campaign was to recommend 

Morawski as the preferred appointment for the directorship, which was done 

by Stromenger in Gazeta Polska. ‘The appointment of Eugeniusz Morawski as 

director of the Conservatory in Poznań shows that the Department of Art is 

looking for a solution to the issue of management of that institution,’ — wrote 

the critic 17 . Morawski’s candidature for the post of chancellor, or one of the 

managers of the three-level conservatory which was being organised, provided 

a useful compromise in a situation where bringing Paderewski or Stojowski 

to Warsaw was an unrealisable dream. Moreover, the virtues perceived in 

Morawski, such as his energy, enterprise, and ideological commitment, became 

important arguments to be put forward by those who loudly expressed their 

concern over the possibility of the directorship of the Higher School of Music 

going to Karol Szymanowski, which was the aim of Janusz Miketta. This 

issue is clarified in the following sentence taken from the same article by


Stromenger: ‘after all, what is important is the selection of a normal director, 

and not a fantastical, senseless selection, a selection in order to «recognise 

the services», for example, as a composer’ 18 . 

The programme profile of the institution to be formed was also a subject of 

debate. In this area, there were two conflicting ideas: that of creating a music 

academy with a scientific-musical profile, which had been rejected by the 

Opinion Formulating Commission but was still being promoted by Janusza 

Miketta, and the proposal to create a higher school of music with emphasis 

on teaching professional skills. An article by Miketta on this subject, published 

in Muzyka under the title Vita nuova warszawskiego konserwatorium 

muzycznego [Vita nuova of the Warsaw Music Conservatory] evoked a great 

deal of response. In it, he put forward a number of arguments supporting the 

idea of an elite music academy, intended to function as an ‘oasis of wisdom’, 

exerting influence ‘not only internally, for the benefit of the students, but 

externally, to educate society in general.’ 19 Miketta’s arguments, unfolding 

the attractions of ‘a higher atmosphere of scientific, independent investigation 

of all kinds of creative and performance issues,’ 20 which were expected 

to emanate from the academy, were criticised by Karol Stromenger as ‘somewhat 

naïve’ 21 . Even earlier, at the time when the decision was made to 

create a separate higher school within the Warsaw Conservatory, Stromenger 

was promoting the idea of creating a strictly vocational school, which would 

have at its disposal practical departments with modern programmes — the 

idea recommended by the Opinion Formulating Commission. He coined the 

popular slogan of breaking away from the ‘fetish of virtuoso illiterates’, widely 

adhered to by the students of the Conservatory. This was to be achieved 

by raising the status of neglected general music subjects (classes on chamber 

music, choir and orchestra, solfgeggio, lessons in music literature), which would 

produce highly professional and generally aware graduate musicians, and 

not simply competent ones22 . 

The preparations for the opening of the Higher School of Music in themselves 

provide little material for recreating the discussion about the programme, 

since it involved exclusively matters of personnel. The exchange of letters between 

Szymanowski and Miketta prior to the opening of the School shows that


negotiations concerned mainly the issue of who would be included among the 

founder-professors; the issue of which specialisms would be represented, and 

in what manner, was less important. Thus, according to the original version 

narrated to Szymanowski by Miketta, the founders were to be the generally 

respected Conservatory professors headed by Piotr Rytel (obviously all conservatives), 

but in the final version the founders, who had been proposed by 

Szymanowski, represented the progressive option. This group did not include 

Eugeniusz Morawski, who, nonetheless, was offered a post at the Conservatory’s 

Middle School, one of the three partially autonomous bodies into which 

the old Conservatory was divided. The second of these bodies was the Higher 

School, and the third — a teacher training school, under the management of 

Stanisław Kazuro. 

The inauguration of the Conservatory’s Higher School took place on 7 November 

1930. In his speech as chancellor, Karol Szymanowski talked again 

about the need to spread within society an appreciation of music ‘which carried 

undoubted creative values’, and the tasks which musician-teachers would 

face if they were to meet that need; he spoke also about the need to make 

the teaching reform effective, and to direct it towards expanding the existing 

narrow system of vocational teaching by adding humanist subjects, which 

gave the students an ‘objective’ education23 . 

The Higher School under the chancellorship of Szymanowski educated in total 

some 50 students; 24 it did not have the full set of departments. Out of the 

promised 8 professorial posts, the Ministry alotted only 6, sufficient to fill vacancies 

in classes of theory, composition, conducting and piano. Szymanowski 

recruited a number of leading pianists with former links to the Conservatory 

to take up the professorships in the piano class: Józef Turczyński and Zbigniew 

Drzewiecki; composition, conducting and theory classes were taken on 

by Grzegorz Fitelberg, Kazimierz Sikorski and Ludomir Różycki (the latter 

took on the composition class, while a parallel composition class was opened 

by Szymanowski himself). One of the tasks of the first professorial body 

at the School was to appoint the next tier of teachers, in consultation with 

the authorities; however, Szymanowski succeeded in appointing only one — 

Hieronim Feicht, a young musicologist who was making a name for himself


and came recommended by Adolf Chybiński. The School was lacking a violin 

class, as well as classes in other orchestral instruments, singing and ensemble 

work; Szymanowski also failed to obtain contractual hours for the provision 

of lectures in history of art and other art subjects. The syllabuses proposed 

by the Management Council which supervised the Higher School included a 

large number of classes in the theory of music, compulsory for all students, in 

order to ‘widen the narrow views of instrumentalists.’ 25 Students were obliged 

to attend the classes of Rev. Feicht on the history of medieval music, early 

classical counterpoint and analysis of musical forms 26 . Such a large number 

of compulsory classes was criticised by the conservative faction among 

the professors, who saw it as a threat against the established educational 

priorities. 

The pretext for the first debate about the work of the School was provided 

by its first and last public concert, which took place in June 1931. It was 

followed by many critical voices being raised in the press, both in relation 

to the general programme which the School set for itself, and to the individual 

solutions applied in its organisation and the system of teaching. An 

author from Gazeta Warszawska, using the pseudonym ‘Deputy’ (this was 

Piotr Rytel), wrote about the catastrophic financial consequences of creating 

the Higher School, and about the chaos reigning throughout the Conservatory 

as a result of the separation of competences between the managers of the 

middle school (in charge of school ensembles and the majority of instrumental 

classes), and the higher school, which basically worked in a vacuum. Karol 

Stromenger, having considered the ‘meagre harvest’ achieved by the School 

during its first year of existence, moved on to criticise the whole idea on which 

it was founded: 

The performance by the Higher School of Music demonstrated its peculiar, artificial 

and one-sided organisation [...]. The School is unable to justify its separation from 

the Conservatory [...], its autonomy does not correspond to any identifiable need 

[...]. With all its centralised means, with all its paths cleared, already in its first 

year this ‘academy’ is sick — suffering from the unreality of its existence 27 . 

After the holidays, the press debate about the School flared up again. The 

first to raise the issue was again Karol Stromenger, who on the first day of the


new academic year asked in the columns of Gazeta Polska: ‘Does the current 

staff of the Higher School of Music [...] possess the attributes appropriate to 

an establishment providing higher education in music? Are we using relative 

or absolute criteria of superiority?’ Among comments which drew the readers’ 

attention to the original idea of the School’s professorial appointments being 

filled by Polish stars, or perhaps ‘internationally exchangeable professors’, 

Stromenger also asked a question relating directly to Szymanowski: ‘whether 

the state of his health will allow this class of composition to be organised 

so as to undertake some real work’?. He also suggested that the staffing of 

the theoretical classes was inappropriate, making them ‘isolated from musical 

practice’. The article’s conclusion, that ‘today [the School] does not demonstrate 

many features of a practical higher education establishment [...], and 

does not at all resemble an academy of practical artistry,’ but relates directly 

to the vision of the academy as a vocational school which would ensure high 

standard of professionalism, a vision supported by the critic and opposed to 

Szymanowski’s programme 28 . 

In January 1931 the discussion about the School was joined by Juliusz 

Kaden-Bandrowski, writer and music critic who was the ‘éminence grise’ in 

the Piłsudski-backed government. He identified two issues which were generally 

regarded as particular weaknesses in the School’s structure: the absence 

of ensemble music classes, lack of clear separation of the competences of the 

higher and the middle schools, and the possibility of the Higher School interfering 

in the affairs of the Middle School 29 . At another point Juliusz Kaden 

Bandrowski added another charge to those listed above, which was lack of 

provision for education at virtuoso level within the academy, resulting in the 

absence of outstanding achievements among the graduates 30 . 

The negative judgment on the results of the first year of teaching at the 

Higher School became the pretext for dismissing Miketta from his post of 

councillor at the Ministry of Religious Faiths and Public Education. His place 

was taken by Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski. From 1 December 1931 a new Head 

of the Department of Music, Witold Maliszewski, replaced the previous holder 

of that post, Felicjan Szopski. Maliszewski was discovered by the conservative 

wing of the Warsaw music community, who regarded him as the new saviour of


music, competent, honest, and, moreover, someone who thought in practical 

terms. ‘The choice of a candidate who is so generally popular and respected 

must be a cause for satisfaction’, was the comment of Karol Stromenger when 

Maliszewski was awarded the State Music Prize for 1930 in January 1931 31 . 

Maliszewski’s promotion to Head of the Music Department came about as a 

result of his effectiveness as the director of the Warsaw Music Society (1925– 

1927), as teacher at the Conservatory and the Chopin Higher School of Music, 

and also as co-organiser of the first Chopin Competition in 1927. However, 

the main reason for this choice was the fact that he took the Ministry’s side 

on a matter which agitated the whole artistic community in the autumn of 

1931. This involved a reorganisation of the Ministry of Religious Faiths and 

Public Education, introduced as a financial saving measure. As part of that 

reorganisation, the Department of Art was combined with the Department 

of Science. Some representatives of the artistic community interpreted this 

as a move to liquidate Polish art and destroy the existence of Polish artists. 

However, Witold Maliszewski defended the Ministry’s decision in an exposé 

published in Gazeta Polska (27 September 1931): 

If the relationship between the State and Art has a sound ideological basis, and is 

conducted within appropriate forms, a department within a ministry will be sufficient. 

However, if that issue is resolved incorrectly, even having a Ministry of Art 

will be of no use. 32 

After directing a number of specific charges against the officials at the former 

Department of Art (among them the bureaucracy and interference in 

professional matters), the author gave his views on the matter of ‘normal 

co-existence of the State and art.’ He assigned to the State the ‘honourable 

mission of patronage’, warning at the same time that ‘such help should in 

no way restrict the freedom of development of art or the institution, since 

that freedom is the only element in which art can develop’. The last paragraph 

of the letter concerned the issue of artistic education. On this subject, 

Maliszewski said: 

One of the ways of supporting [it] is the nationalisation of schools, but one should 

take care that this nationalisation should be conducted in the right form and on


sound principles, so that it should not become a burden, give rise to bureaucracy, 

or bring the institution down 33 . 

With this statement, Maliszewski acknowledged the decision which, to all intents 

and purposes, had already been taken — to dismantle the Higher School 

of Music; he personally undertook the task of reconstructing the Conservatory 

in order to reintegrate it. 

Immediately after being appointed, Maliszewski presented a new proposed 

statute for the Conservatory, at a conference held in the building of the 

Ministry. Those present included: Karol Szymanowski, Józef Turczyński, Zbigniew 

Drzewiecki (as representatives of the Higher School of Music), Eugeniusz 

Morawski, Stanisław Kazuro and Wacław Kochański (as representatives 

of the Middle School) and leading (according to the then current preferences 

of the ministerial authorities) representatives of Warsaw’s music community: 

Stanisław Niewiadomski, Adam Wieniawski and Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski. 

This proposal, made public by Maliszewski in an interview given to Gliński’s 

Muzyka, 34 was adopted by Janusz Jędrzejewicz, who had been the Minister 

for Education since August 1931, on 20 January 1932. From 1 February 1932 

the school was bound by the new statute which created an integrated instutition, 

ready to resume its work from 1 September 1932. Until then the 

School was to be governed by a Reorganisation Commission, formed from the 

school’s teachers. The Commission included the following: Stanisław Kazuro, 

Wacław Kochański, Rydzewski, Wiaczesław (Bronisław) Lewensztajn, Piotr 

Rytel, Józef Turczyński, and Zbigniew Drzewiecki. The temporary administration 

of the School was entrusted to Zbigniew Drzewiecki, who was its Vice 

Chancellor in 1931. 

As might have been expected, the decision to close the School caused a heated 

debate in the press. Szymanowski’s supporters presented the ministerial 

actions as a coup against the great composer, and against Polish music. Those 

responsible for the reorganisation were accused of incompetence and of acting 

for personal reasons: kow-towing to authority and to the notorious ‘provincialism’. 

Zbigniew Drzewiecki criticised the fact that the fate of the School was to 

be decided by Władysław Maliszewski and Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski 35 .He 

lodged a complaint, claiming that decisions about the closure of the School


were being taken ‘bypassing the opinion of the Conservatory management’ 

and served no good purpose but were instead a return to ‘the old discredited 

forms of organisation’ 36 . 

Eugeniusz Morawski answered Drzewiecki’s accusations in the columns of 

Gazeta Polska. In a letter to the editor he emphasised that the idea of reintroducing 

an integrated structure of the Conservatory was not an element 

of a general campaign ‘against the Higher School as such,’ i.e., it was not an 

attempt to deprive the Conservatory of university status (this was considered 

to have been conferred on it by a decree signed by Piłsudski back in 1919) 37 . 

According to Morawski, abandoning the division of the school into higher, 

middle and a teacher training college reflected the desire to give the School 

(which was now to have a new structure of 7 independent departments) a 

‘truly «higher»character’, through ‘increasing its range of activity and providing 

a full musical education for young people’ 38 . In conclusion, Morawski 

enumerated a number of reservations as to the manner in which Szymanowski 

had governed the School, and declared, on behalf of the school’s future reorganisers, 

a ‘striving to create a school that is strong, integrated, dedicated to 

promoting science and art, free from favouritism, and from having to support 

individuals unable to work — at the cost not only to the Treasury, but to the 

interests of young people’. 

The ‘fiction of creating a showpiece’ — was a description used on a number 

of occasions in an article by Karol Stromenger forming part of this debate. 

The context for it was provided by the alleged distaste demonstrated by 

Szymanowski and a number of other Higher School professors for performing 

their pedagogical duties 39 . This issue kept surfacing during the battle over 

the reorganisation of the Conservatory as one of the most sensitive areas. It 

was explained very directly to the readers of Gazeta Warszawska by Piotr 

Rytel, who claimed that the professors at the School did not work their full 

contractual hours (because of insufficient numbers of students or for other 

reasons), and thus their pedagogical activity, amounting to 2–3 hours for 2– 

3 students was an unnecessary luxury for the School, and of course for the 

State 40 .


One of the best known decisions by the Reorganisation Commission was to 

pension off, on 27 February 1932, the three Higher School professors nominated 

by Szymanowski, who were the ones involved in the issues referred to 

by Rytel: Fitelberg, Różycki and Sikorski, as well as Władysław Raczkowski, 

who was employed in the Middle School. (The latter was a highly regarded 

choirmaster, an excellent performer of Stabat Mater, discovered by Szymanowski 

in Poznań; 41 he was not successful in his work with the school orchestra, 

which was entrusted to him because of the absence of the orchestra’s official 

director, Grzegorz Fitelberg). As a consequence of the dismissal of Fitelberg 

and the other professors, Karol Szymanowski submitted his resignation from 

the Higher School on 6 March 1932. His resignation was followed by that of 

Hieronim Feicht. 

Szymanowski’s supporters demonstrated their indignation at the dismissals. 

Official protests began to arrive from various institutions, such as the 

Association of Young Polish Musicians in Paris. On 3 December 1931 the 

Association’s management adopted a resolution which said that it ‘considers 

it its duty to draw the attention of all Polish musicians and relevant competent 

bodies to the danger which threatens the development of Polish music 

as a result of the campaign [against the Higher School]’ 42 . According to Stefan 

Śledziński 43 , on hearing the news of Szymanowski’s resignation and the 

dismissal of four professors, the students at the Conservatory began a strike. 

In the commentaries on the subject of the ‘affair’ of the Conservatory, 

personal issues were dominant. The defenders of Szymanowski suggested 

that the composer as the Chancellor of the Higher School had become a 

victim of intrigues. Antoni Słonimski wrote very mysteriously about those 

who were behind the intrigues: ‘I do not know who they are, but I can guess. 

Tasiemka is not the only one, and not only in Kercelak’ ( Tasiemka was 

the ‘Polish Al Capone’, leader of a gang which at that time was very active 

in the Warsaw’s district of Prague/Kercelak 44 ; he had just been caught by 

the police, and the press was full of that story) 45 . Zbigniew Drzewiecki, 

in a moment of bitterness, announced that the whole campaign against the 

School was initiated by those who had not been appointed as professors there


and who — which is worse — being backward and behind the times, ‘hated 

Szymanowski’ 46 . 

With the composer’s acquiescence, it became a generally known secret that 

the main author of the idea to close down the Higher School was the director 

of the Middle School, Eugeniusz Morawski, and his fundamental motive in the 

campaign against Szymanowski was his desire to take over the chancellorship 

of the Conservatory. 

At this point, rather than probe further the conflict of personalities in the 

battle over the Conservatory, it is relevant to return to the historical background 

to the affair. We need to remember that that battle took place at 

the height of the great economic crisis, which affected all the spheres of state 

activity. The adverse economic conditions obviously also affected musical 

life. The future of the opera and the philharmonia came into question, while 

unemployment among musicians grew by leaps and bounds. In 1931, Kurier 

Poranny claimed that unemployment in that professional group reached 

50% 47 . State expenditure on culture was shrinking systematically. As early 

as the spring of 1929, Piotr Rytel announced in Gazeta Warszawska the ‘fall 

of music culture in Poland’ 48 . Warsaw Opera closed its doors at the end 

of 1931, the Philharmonia abandoned its concert programme. The divided 

musical community became depressed, blaming not only the authorities, but 

also society at large for indifference towards music. 

Other state-funded higher education institutions were equally threatened 

during the years of the Great Depression. Salaries in that sector were cut 

by as much as 35%. The academic year 1930/31 closed with a serious deficit 

in the budget of Warsaw University, as a result of cuts in state support 49 . 

Shortages of equipment forced the closure or limited the activity of a number 

of departments. The authorities tried to deal with the crisis at the University 

by making mass redundancies in 1930/31 (i.e., during the period when the 

Higher School of Music was being created) 50 . This affected both the older 

personnel, who were willingly being retired 51 , and the junior lecturers, who 

were being replaced by teachers employed to cover specific courses on a casual 

basis. The years 1931/32 saw another big rise in student fees at Warsaw higher 

educational establishments, to which the University students reacted with a


strike, and there was a further cut in expenditure on education and science. 

Cuts in the ministerial budget for universities included administrative costs, 

scientific grants and benefits, which left only the salaries of the teaching staff. 

The policy was to concentrate scientific research away from higher education 

and take it into research institutes, while higher schools would have strictly 

vocational, practical character. In order to control the critical situation, and 

to stamp out the rebellious mood of the students and part of the lecturing 

staff linked to extreme right wing organisations, 52 the Minister for Religious 

Faiths and Public Education, Janusz Jędrzejewicz, prepared a reform which 

drastically curtailed the autonomy of universities. 

In his memoirs published in London in 1972, Jędrzejewicz commented as 

follows on the battle over the finances for education and science which took 

place during the raging economic crisis: 

Under those conditions, work on preparing budget estimates involved unending torment 

and pain. I sat for hours with Andrzej Nowak, the head of the budget department, 

the deputy ministers, the departmental directors, trying to extricate ourselves, 

in a relatively sensible manner, from a totally senseless situation. The task ahead 

of us was quite simple: make drastic cuts, without cutting out altogether enormous 

areas of educational, artistic and organisational activity. It was obvious that trying 

to square the circle would have brought the same degree of success 53 . 

When one reads the texts concerning the statute and the principles of the 

Conservatory written just before the closure of the Higher School by the 

proponents of reorganisation, one is struck by how closely they are related 

to the theses being put forward by Minister Jędrzejewicz. The key thesis 

was the conviction, already apparent in the attitudes of those previously in 

charge of culture and education, that their main concern should be ‘making 

intellectual culture accessible to the masses’, in order to ‘expand the spiritual 

culture, still so low and poor in our country, because that culture is capable 

of bringing human masses to consciously particiate in the life of the collective, 

without which the power of the State would be circumstantial or illusory’ 54 . 

Janusz Jędrzejewicz was an enthusiastic proponent of a utilitarian educational 

programme even before he became a minister. As an educational activist he 

emphasised that, as he saw it, the ‘utilitarian nature’ of the ‘perceptible


rush to learning in Poland’ resulted from the ‘harsh realism of life’ 55 . The 

educational policies of Jędrzejewicz were supported by many journalists, who 

put forward the view that ‘our education system has been designed on too 

large a scale’, and that ‘we are a poor nation, a nation whose current situation 

obliges it to be very careful in all undertakings.’ 56 

‘Great emphasis must be placed on vocational education’ says one of the 

instructions formulated by Minister Jędrzejewicz for the benefit of those who 

were preparing the educational reform with him 57 . Another instruction says 

that ‘the level of candidates to academic schools should be improved’, primarily 

through a stricter selection of young people than previously 58 . Juliusz 

Kaden Bandrowski, inspired by these instructions, had prepared as early as 

mid-1931 a programme of reorganisation at the Warsaw Conservatory. This 

was supported by an overview of the general situation in the musical profession 

— an unfavourable situation, characterised by falling prestige and 

profitability, brought about by competition from sport, radio and mechanical 

music. According to Kaden-Bandrowski, this situation made it necessary to 

demand a higher standard from musicians, and therefore their teachers as 

well. 

Music schools must be aware of these factors when selecting candidates and setting 

the standard of teaching. This selection ought to be stricter than previously, since, 

while previously it was possible to obtain second-rate jobs in the craft of music, 

today the living human workforce has been squeezed out of them by mechanical 

music. The teaching of novices should have higher expectations of itself, taking into 

account the fact that it needs to produce professionals 59 . 

However, what was most important according to Kaden, was to reorganise 

the aims of teaching, replacing the traditional aim of producing virtuosos 

by moving towards educating socially useful cadres of average (but valuable) 

musicians: 

As long as the school teaches mainly piano and violin, and thus is unable to produce 

at its annual concert any orchestral instrumentalists raised to solo level, it will be 

fulfilling only half of its role. A music school, particularly a state music school, 

which concentrates on teaching solo instruments, is not fulfilling its function and 

will not be meeting its true aim. And that aim should surely be the creation of 

cadres for performing orchestral ensemble music. A virtuoso can be taught at any


private workshop of that master or another. To create orchestral cadres, or, in other 

words, to create the fundamentals for performing symphonic music — that is the 

business of a grand state academy 60 . 

This was the line being strictly followed by the management of the Conservatory, 

which was reorganised in 1932, under the leadership of Eugeniusz 

Morawski. In an interview given to Tygodnik Ilustrowany in 1935, we find the 

following fragment: 

Musical culture. In order to spread it, teaching music must be compulsory in all 

schools, both singing and the playing of instruments. For this we need to prepare a 

cohort of teachers at the conservatory, and at the same time to provide additional 

training for itinerant teachers, choir conductors etc. The greater the number of these 

minor teachers, the higher will be the level of musical culture. I am not a supporter 

of producing virtuosos at the Conservatory [...], although until now that has been 

the main course being followed. I am a supporter of training the cadres of music 

teachers, organists, those people who will go to the provinces and will there organise 

a musica life 61 . 

These two tendencies — egalitarian and utilitarian — won out in the conflict 

over the shape of the Conservatory. They were totally convergent with 

the policies of the Polish educational authorities in the 1930s, and they were 

inspired not only by the internal situation, but by the ideas flowing out of Germany 

and Soviet Union. As we know, they became the basis of the creative 

programme produced by the (then) young generation of composers, which 

also included enthusiasts of Szymanowski: Kondracki, Perkowski, Kisielewski, 

Maciejewski and others. The ideal of ‘applied music’, with an obvious 

connection to the social and political realities of the 1930s, was the decisive 

factor in shaping Polish musical culture as a whole during that period (its 

resonating symbol was the disseminating ‘action’ of ORMUZ [Organisation 

of Musical Movement]). Looking at the issue from the perspective of the dominant 

egalitarian model of music culture in the 1930s, one might well ask 

whether the attempt by Szymanowski and his supporters to create a musical 

‘oasis of wisdom’ in Warsaw during the economic depression, might not be 

accurately described as a classic example of utopia. As a result of the too 

hasty, and too enthusiastic, introduction of the utopia, obvious mistakes were


made during the establishment of the Higher School of Music. The consequences 

of these mistakes were borne by Szymanowski, and indirectly by all of 

us, who now have to search in the still unverified sources to find out how the 

‘provincials’ in Warsaw fought Szymanowski and progress in music, and the 

harm this did to our musical culture. 

Notes 

1 Marcin Kamiński, Ludomir Różycki. Opowieść o życiu i twórczości [Ludomir Różycki. 

The story of his life and work] Bydgoszcz 1987, p. 100. 

2 Zbigniew Drzewiecki, ‘Dookoła reformy ustroju konserwatorium muzycznego’ 

[‘Concerning the structural reform of the Music Conservatory’]. Kurier Warszawski 

1931, No. 168. 

3 ‘Dyrektor Karol Szymanowski o celach uczelni i potrzebie poparcia młodej twórczości’ 

[‘Director Karol Szymanowski speaks about the aims of the academy and the need to 

support young artists’]. Kurier Czerwony 1927, No. 44. 

4 Mieczysław Rytard, ‘Na przełomie muzyki polskiej (rozmowa z Karolem 

Szymanowskim)’ [‘Polish music at its turning point (conversation with Karol 

Szymanowski)’]. Świat 1929, No. 22. 

5 As above. 

6 From a letter to August Iwański. Quoted after Stefania Łobaczewska: Karol 

Szymanowski..., p. 587. 

7 The Institute was a Polish institution, opened before the creation of the Silesian Music 

Conservatory in Katowice. 

8 A group of representatives from three top music schools in Warsaw: the Conservatory, 

the Chopin Higher School of Music and the Warsaw School of Music formed its own 

subcommission, which held its session on 28 February 1929 in the building of the 

Ministry, debating the project of a new structure for the State Music Conservatory. 

9 See: Tadeusz Joteyko, ‘W sprawie ustroju szkolnictwa muzycznego w Polsce’ [‘On the 

system of music education in Poland’]. Muzyka 1929, issue 1. 

10 See: footnote ‘Od Redakcji’[‘From the Editor’] to ‘Kronika bieżąc’a [‘The current 

chronicle’]. Muzyka 1929, No. 1. 

11 ‘Kronika bieżąca’ [‘The current chronicle’]. Muzyka 1929, No.3. 

12 ‘Sławomir Czerwiński’. Oświata i Wychowanie [Education and Upbringing] 1931, issue 

7, p. 1. 

13 Quoted after: Gazeta Polska 1931, No. 66. 

14 Sławomir Czerwiński, ‘Przemówienie na zakończenie prac Komisji Opiniodawczej 

ustroju szkolnictwa muzycznego w dniu 22 czerwca 1929’ [‘Speech closing the work of 

the Opinion Formulating Commission on the system of music education on 2 June 

1929’],in: O nowy ideał wychowawczy [ Towards a new educational idea]. Second 

expanded edition. Warszawa 1934, p. 117. 

15 Karol Stromenger, ‘O umuzykalnienie warszawskiego konserwatorium’ [‘In aid of 

making the Warsaw Conservatory more musical’], Gazeta Polska 1930, No. 37. 

16 According to Zofia Nałkowska, the initiative to bring Morawski to Poland came from


Karol Szymanowski (cf.: Zofia Nałkowska, Dzienniki[Diairies] IV. 1930–1939. Part 2 

1935–1939. Ed. Hanna Kirchner. Warszawa 1988, p. 204). 

17 Karol Stromenger, ‘O umuzykalnienie warszawskiego konserwatorium’ [‘In aid of 

making the Warsaw Conservatory more musical’]. Gazeta Polska 1930, No. 37. In the 

following texts Stromenger promoted Morawski as composer (see: ‘Eugeniusz 

Morawski — muzyk literacki’ [‘Eugeniusz Morawski — a literary musician’]. Gazeta 

Polska 1930 No. 127. 

18 Karol Stromenger, ’O umuzykalnienie warszawskiego konserwatorium’, op. cit. 

19 Janusz Miketta, ‘Vita nuova warszawskiego konserwatorium muzycznego’ [‘Vita nuova 

of the Warsaw Music Conservatory’]. Muzyka1930, Nos 11/12, p. 658. 

20 As above. 

21 Karol Stromenger, ‘Kryzys koncertowy’ [‘The concert crisis’]. Gazeta Polska 1931, No. 

17. 

22 Karol Stromenger, ‘O umuzykalnienie warszawskiego konserwatorium’, op cit. 

23 Cf. the text of the speech in: Karol Szymanowski. Pisma [Writings]. Vol. I. Pisma 

muzyczne [Writings on music]. Ed. Teresa Chylińska. Kraków, p. 302 and others. 

24 According to the calculation by Zbigniew Drzewiecki, in: ‘Walka o Wyższą Szkołę 

Muzyczną’ [‘The batttle over the Higher School of Music’]. Kultura 1932, No. 3. 

25 Hieronim Feicht, ‘Wspomnienie o Karolu Szymanowskim’ [‘Reminiscences of Karol 

Szymanowski’]. Ruch Muzyczny 1967, No. 10. 

26 As above. 

27 Karol Stromenger, ‘Koncerty i popisy’ [‘Concerts and recitals’]. Gazeta Polska 1931, 

nr 151. 

28 Karol Stromenger, ‘Wyższa Szkoła Muzyczna’ [‘The Higher School of Music’]. Gazeta 

Polska 1930, No. 276 from 7 October. 

29 Jkb [Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski], ‘Z muzyki’ [‘On music’]. Świat 1931, No. 44. 

30 Jkb [Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski], ‘Konkurs im. Chopina ’[‘The Chopin competition’] 

Świat 1931, No. 24. 

31 Karol Stromenger, ‘Muzyka’ [‘Music’]. Gazeta Polska 1931, No. 32. 

32 Witold Maliszewski, ‘W sprawie departamentu’ [‘On the matter of the department’]. 

Gazeta Polska 1931, No. 270. 

33 As above. 

34 Muzyka 1931, Nos 11/12. 

35 Zbigniew Drzewiecki, ‘Prawda o wyższej szkole muzycznej’ [‘The truth about the 

Higher School of Music’]. Kultura 1932, No. 1 (6). 

36 As above. 

37 ‘Eugeniusz Morawski o konserwatorium’ [‘Eugeniusz Morawski writes about the 

Conservatory’]. Gazeta Polska 1932, No. 17. 

38 As above. 

39 Karol Stromenger, ‘Idea postępu czy postęp idei’? [‘The idea of progress, or progress 

of the idea?’]. Tygodnik Ilustrowany 1931, Nos 51/52. 

40 Piotr Rytel, ‘Fałszywe alarmy z powodu konserwatorium’ [‘False alarms about the 

Conservatory’]. Gazeta Warszawska 1932, No. 74. 

41 The performance with the participation of the choir of the Poznań Conservatory took 

place in March 1929, during the session of the Opinion Formulating Commission.


42 ‘Muzycy Polacy w Paryżu o Wyższej Szkole Muzycznej’ [‘Polish Musicians in Paris on 

the subject of the Higher School of Music’]. Kultura 1932, No. 2. 

43 Stefan Śledziński, ‘Państwowe Konserwatorium Muzyczne w Warszawie 1919–1944’ 

[‘The State Music Conservatory in Warsaw 1919–1944’]. In: 150 lat Państwowej 

Wyższej Szkoły Muzycznej w Warszawie [150 years of the State Higher School of 

Music in Warsaw]. Ed. S. Śledziński , Warszawa 1960, p. 123. 

44 Kercelak is the colloquial abbreviation of the name "Plac Kercelego"[Kerceli Square] 

in the Praga district of Warsaw, which is the location of a famous open market. 

45 Antoni Słonimski, ‘Kronika tygodniowa’ [‘The weekly chronicle’]. Wiadomości 

Literackie 1932, nr 12. 

46 Zbigniew Drzewiecki, ‘Walka o wyższą szkołę muzyczną’ [‘The battle over the Higher 

School of Music’]. Kultura 1932, No.1 (6). 

47 Jan Adam Maklakiewicz, ‘Szczerzy wyznawcy muzyki’ [‘The true followers of music’]. 

Kurier Poranny 1931, No. 282. 

48 Piotr Rytel, ‘Upadek kultury muzycznej w Polsce’ [‘The fall of music culture in 

Poland’]. Gazeta Warszawska 1929, No. 53. 

49 Cf. Dzieje Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego... [The history of Warsaw University...], p. 

103. 

50 As above, p. 118. 

51 It was a year’s waiting period, which would be followed by dismissal from the post. 

52 Which reacted with meetings and strikes to the rises in fees. 

53 Janusz Jędrzejewicz, W służbie idei [In the service of an idea]. London 1972, p. 137. 

54 Janusz Jędrzejewicz, ‘O politykę kulturalną Państwa’ [‘In aid of state cultural policy’]. 

Pion 1933, No. 1. 

55 Janusz Jędrzejewicz, ‘Powszechny uniwersytet ‘ [‘Open university’]. Droga 1924 Nos, 

6–7. 

56 Erpe, ‘Kłopoty uczelni wyższych’ [‘The problems of higher education’]. Kurier 

Warszawski 1931, No. 337. 

57 Janusz Jędrzejewicz, W służbie idei [In the service of an idea]. London 1972, p. 140. 

58 As above. 

59 Jkb [Juliusz Kaden-Bandrowski], ‘Konkurs im. Chopina’ [‘The Chopin competition’]. 

Świat 1931, No. 24. 

60 As above. 

61 Adam Galis, ‘Rozmowy o muzyce’ [‘Conversations about music’]. Tygodnik 

Ilustrowany 1935, No. 18, p. 345.

7 

Karol Szymanowski et la critique française 

Didier van Moere 

Stendhal University of Grenoble 

Quand Szymanowski meurt, quelques journaux, en France, se font l’écho de sa 

disparition : ainsi trouve-t-on des articles de Robert Brussel dans Le Figaro, 

de Georges Auric dans Marianne, d’André Coeuroy dans Gringoire, d’Emile 

Vuillermoz dans Candide, de Henry Prunières dans Le Temps 1 . Emile Vuillermoz 

déplore que la mort du compositeur polonais passe inaperçue à cause 

des vacances de Pâques : Szymanowski est mort «hors saison», ce qui l’empêche 

d’avoir dans la presse «un bel enterrement». Et d’ajouter qu’il était 

mal connu à Paris, que sa musique était réservée aux initiés 2 . Vuillermoz, 

ardent défenseur de Szymanowski depuis le concert organisé par La Revue 

Musicale et son directeur Henry Prunières, le 20 mai 1922, qui le fit connaître 

dans la capitale française, livre là une réflexion intéressante, qui montre le 

caractère paradoxal de sa situation dans la France des années vingt et trente, 

alors qu’il était encore en vie. Parmi les compositeurs étrangers joués à Paris, 

ce dernier était l’un des plus joués : la plupart de ses œuvres y ont été 

données, autant sinon plus que dans d’autres grandes capitales européennes. 

La quasi-totalité de l’œuvre pour piano a été jouée, la musique de chambre 

aussi ; parmi les cycles de mélodies, des opus aussi essentiels que les Chants 

du muezzin passionné, lesMélodies sur des poèmes de Tagore, Słopiewnie et 

les Rimes enfantines, ont été chantés, à travers des extraits ou intégralement ; 

les deux Concertos pour violon, les Troisième et Quatrième Symphonies — 

avec Szymanowski lui-même — ont été programmés, le Stabat mater aussi ; 

118

Karol Szymanowski et la critique française 119 

Harnasie a été présenté avec éclat à l’Opéra de Paris3 . Parmi les grandes partitions, 

seul Le Roi Roger n’a pas été proposé4 . C’est dire que Paris pouvait 

se faire une idée complète de son évolution, surtout à partir des œuvres dites 

impressionnistes : celles antérieures à 1914 sont assez peu présentes dans les 

programmes parisiens ; il faudra attendre, pour l’Ouverture de concert et la 

Deuxième Symphonie, le concert donné le 14 octobre 1937, après la mort de 

Szymanowski, par Grzegorz Fitelberg et l’Orchestre de la Radio polonaise. 

Pour se faire connaître, il faut réunir certaines conditions : être joué par des 

interprètes connus du public, être promu par de grandes sociétés de concert, 

être à l’affiche de concerts organisés par des institutions spécialisées dans la 

musique contemporaine. A Paris, ces trois conditions ont souvent été réunies 

pour Szymanowski, en particulier pour les œuvres symphoniques ou concertantes, 

toujours exécutées par de grands orchestres (Lamoureux, Colonne, 

Straram, Orchestre symphonique de Paris). Les œuvres pour violon ont été 

données par Paul Kochański, Georges Enesco, Jelly d’Aranyi, Bronisław Huberman, 

mais aussi Jacques Thibaud, Zino Francescatti, René Benedetti, Hortense 

de Sampigny, ou le jeune prodige Yehudi Menuhin. En revanche, pour les 

œuvres destinées au piano, seul Arthur Rubinstein figure parmi les «stars»du 

clavier ayant joué Szymanowski à Paris — pas très souvent d’ailleurs. On 

rencontre souvent des pianistes plutôt associés à la musique contemporaine, 

comme Robert Schmitz ou Henri Gil-Marcheix, ou des Polonais comme Mieczysław 

Horszowski ou Jan Smeterlin5 . Cela confirme que l’œuvre pour piano 

de Szymanowski attire moins que l’œuvre pour violon. S’agissant enfin des 

institutions attachées à la musique contemporaine, Szymanowski a souvent 

été au programme des concerts de La Revue Musicale, parfois à ceux de la 

Société de Musique Indépendante. 

Szymanowski lui-même vient tous les ans dans la capitale française de 1920 

à 1926, de 1932 à sa mort. Mais il n’y réside pas, comme un Prokofiev ou 

un Stravinsky. Il souffre aussi, par rapport à eux – et à un Falla –, d’un 

autre handicap : il n’a jamais reçu de commandes des Ballets russes, qui 

restent un des pôles d’attraction de la vie musicale parisienne. Lorsqu’il se 

fait connaître à Paris, dans les années vingt, la mode est au groupe des Six : 

en 1918, dans Le Coq et l’Arlequin, Cocteau a souhaité une musique libérée de

120 Didier van Moere 

Debussy et de Stravinsky, en tout cas du Stravinsky du Sacre. Or ces derniers 

sont, pour Szymanowski, les deux phares de la modernité. On sait, d’autre 

part, tout le mal qu’il pense des Six 6 . La place que lui réserve la critique 

est d’autant plus intéressante, surtout si l’on considère le premier concert de 

La Revue Musicale le 20 mai 1922, dont le programme le montre sous deux 

jours un peu différents : celui de Mythes et de Nocturne et Tarentelle, des 

Chants du muezzin passionné, de l’air de Roxane du Roi Roger, desEtudes 

op. 33, partitions de la période impressionniste, et celui de Słopiewnie («Saint 

François», «Wanda» et «Chant de printemps») et des Berceuses op. 48 7 .Pour 

apprécier cette place, il s’agit moins de faire une statistique des éloges et des 

critiques que de regarder sur quoi elles se fondent et à quelles questions elles 

tentent de répondre. 

Le concert du 20 mai 1922 

Dans le numéro de mai de La Revue Musicale, Alexandre Tansman écrit le 

premier article consacré à Szymanowski en France, première source d’information 

pour la critique avant le concert, le supplément musical comprenant 

les deux premières Berceuses op. 48 et les Etudes n˚3 et 8 de l’opus 33. Le 

jeune compositeur polonais présente l’évolution de son compatriote, consacrant 

plus de la moitié de son texte à des œuvres antérieures à 1914 ; s’il 

évoque les Mélodies sur des poèmes de Tagore, qu’il a présentées dans le numéro 

d’octobre 1921 à l’occasion de leur parution chez Universal Edition, 

Mythes, Masques et la Troisième Sonate, seule cette dernière est vraiment 

analysée. Deux points, dans cet article, retiennent l’attention : la définition 

de Szymanowski comme compositeur polonais, sa situation dans la modernité. 

Première «véritable nature de créateur» depuis Chopin, c’est un compositeur 

éminemment polonais : 

Je voudrais en premier lieu marquer le caractère nettement polonais de [s]a musique, 

qui l’est par excellence sans presque jamais toucher au folklore [. . .] et néanmoins 

sa musique est bien slave, bien polonaise. Elle n’a aucun rapport avec ce élément 

slave que nous connaissons chez les Russes [. . .] les Polonais sont des slaves de civilisation 

latine et non byzantine [. . .]. L’aspect oriental, pittoresque, savoureux ne 

joue donc aucun rôle dans l’inspiration de Szymanowski. C’est un slave occidental,


en qui fusionnent les qualités et les défauts de deux civilisations : la musique de Szymanowski 

au chambre mélancolique slave, à sa vigueur, a sa puissance sonore, à son 

tragique fatalisme joint la profondeur, la conception merveilleuse de la construction 

architectonique, le sens de la mesure et de la forme, la lucidité occidentale, la clarté 

latine. 

Autrement dit Szymanowski est un compositeur fidèle à ses racines, à des 

racines spirituelles plus qu’à des racines ethniques : le folklore ne l’attire 

pas 8 , il n’y a pas de «couleur locale» dans les Tagore. Un compositeur qui a 

aussi, après s’être cherché, a trouvé pendant la guerre le chemin de sa propre 

modernité. D’emblée, Tansman affirme avant d’aborder les quatre œuvres récentes 

: «On ne saurait l’apparenter à aucun des principaux maîtres de la 

musique contemporaine (Maurice Ravel, Igor Stravinsky, Arnold Schoenberg, 

Bela Bartók) ; son œuvre, usant des mêmes moyens, exprime des choses différentes». 

Autrement dit, Szymanowski est un moderne qui reste indépendant : 

«La Troisième Sonate [. . .] manifeste une tendance vers l’indépendance absolue 

; elle ne s’apparente à aucun type connu de la sonate moderne et occupe 

dans l’histoire de celle-ci une place tout à fait particulière». Indépendant et 

inclassable, dont la musique ne ressemble à aucune autre, à tel point qu’elle 

«résiste à l’application la plus rigoureuse de la méthode analytique». Elle n’est 

par exemple ni atonale ni polytonale, parce qu’elle refuse tout «procédé» et 

qu’elle est rebelle à tout système : «Szymanowski se sert de «l’atonalité» ou 

de la «polytonalité» seulement quand il en ressent le besoin, mais n’en pousse 

jamais l’emploi jusqu’à l’outrance, de sorte qu’on ne peut pas le classer parmi 

les partisans déclarés d’un de ces principes, non plus qu’on pourrait le considérer 

comme «monotonal», parce qu’il se sert aussi des harmonies dites parfaites 

et de tonalités nettement affirmées.» Impossible, par exemple, de classer les 

Masques : 

C’est aussi loin de Stravinsky que de Schoenberg et cela ferait plutôt penser à Ravel 

par la pureté de la trame harmonique, quoique le point de départ soit tout à fait 

différent. 

Le concert de mai conduit la critique à poser exactement les mêmes questions, 

qu’elle reposera toujours à propos des œuvres présentées au public 

parisien. Emile Vuillermoz, par exemple, justifie son appellation de «nouveau


Chopin» : «Il compose comme Chopin aurait composé, semble-t-il, s’il vivait 

en 1922». Parce qu’il a la même utilisation du «vocabulaire contemporain», 

le même rapport au «phénomène sonore», une harmonie très personnelle. Là 

ne réside pourtant pas l’essentiel : 

Mais surtout, ce qui l’apparente à Chopin, et ce qui lui assure une place à part dans 

la musique d’aujourd’hui, c’est son parti pris, son besoin de séduire, de caresser et 

de charmer. Bien entendu, il ne se sent pas, pour arriver à ce résultat, de la banalité 

ou de la fadeur, il ne recherche pas plus l’effusion mélodique que l’harmonie trop 

sucrée 9 . 

Cette même séduction frappe le critique de Comoedia : «Son inspiration, 

d’un caractère essentiellement séduisant et caressant, s’exprime au moyen de 

l’écriture la plus riche et la plus raffinée 10 ». Boris de Schloezer – beau-frère 

de Scriabine – va jusqu’à construire tout son article autour du caractère érotique 

de la musique de Szymanowski, qu’il reproche à Tansman de ne pas 

avoir mentionné. Cela apparaît même dans la Berceuse et Słopiewnie :«Il 

plane sur ces mélodies un grand calme, un détachement serein, surtout dans 

ce beau «Saint François» ; mais une sensualité douce et puissante s’insinue et 

pénètre jusque dans des régions éthérées et imprègne ces chants d’un mysticisme 

érotique très particulier». Il est vrai que Schloezer distingue «érotique» 

et «passionné». Szymanowski se rapproche donc de Scriabine, surtout depuis 

qu’il s’en est libéré : tous deux «sont des poètes érotiques». Avec des différences 

: 

[. . .] la sensualité de Scriabine est plus légère, plus spiritualisée, plus active aussi ; 

celle de Szymanowski est plutôt sensation pure, elle est plus organique, plus féminine 

dirais-je. 

Schloezer pose également la question de la modernité de Szymanowski, qu’il 

associe à celle de l’impressionnisme, très importante pour des oreilles françaises. 

Mythes prouve cette modernité, par les innovations techniques («effets 

d’harmoniques, de doubles notes et de trilles») qui renouvellent l’écriture du 

violon et, surtout, permettent de dépasser l’impressionnisme français : 

Le style chromatique de Szymanowski procède de Tristan de même que celui de 

Scriabine ; il a subi aussi l’action debussyste et ravélienne, mais [. . .] parvient à


rénover cette langue dont on a tellement usé et abusé, qu’elle ne nous paraît présenter 

aujourd’hui aucune possibilité d’avenir 11 . 

. 

Szymanowski n’est donc pas un plagiaire, il dépasse l’impressionnisme qui 

conduisait à une impasse. C’est là, précisément, que les avis peuvent diverger. 

Roland-Manuel conteste cette modernité de Szymanowski, qu’il trouve encore 

trop dépendante du passé : 

Le dernier morceau de Mythes, sorte de sonate pittoresque pour violon et piano, est 

tout à fait remarquable, et la plus fine musicalité brille çà et là dans les Etudes. 

Malheureusement Monsieur Szymanowski a longtemps usé d’un style musical que 

son historien Alexandre Tansman appelle, fort justement, «le style néoromantique 

modernisé». Ce néoromantisme modernisé n’a pas complètement disparu de l’horizon 

de Monsieur Szymanowski, horizon large au demeurant, et qui invite au voyage 12 . 

Emile Vuillermoz, au contraire, situe Szymanowski du côté d’une modernité 

tempérée, qui n’est pas recherche systématique de la laideur. Il est dissonant 

sans chercher à «blesser l’oreille», il prouve que la modernité peut aller de pair 

avec la séduction : «De l’étonnant vocabulaire dissonant dont disposent les 

compositeurs de ce temps, il ne veut rien tirer que des expressions de plus en 

plus fines et insinuantes et des charmes de plus en plus irrésistibles». Vuillermoz 

fait ainsi de Szymanowski un anti-Milhaud, opposant la vraie nouveauté 

de Mythes à la fausse nouveauté du Cinquième Quatuor du compositeur français, 

œuvre «réactionnaire» dans sa recherche de la laideur. D’où cette phrase 

du critique : «Il faut méditer le ‘cas Szymanowski’. Il est révélateur 13 ». 

Le Stabat Mater 

A travers ces questions, la critique française cherche donc à définir la vraie 

place de Szymanowski dans la musique contemporaine, embarrassée lorsqu’elle 

découvre un opus qu’elle ne peut rattacher à rien. C’est le cas du 

Stabat mater, révélé à Paris le 15 mars 1930 par Albert Wolff14 . Le public 

lui-même se trouve d’abord dérouté : Hélène Casella relève qu’il a attendu un 

moment avant d’applaudir15 , Jean Delaincourt remarque que «l’enthousiasme 

n’a pas éclaté comme on aurait dû l’espérer16 ». Il est vrai que, cette fois, on


ne peut plus convoquer Scriabine, les impressionnistes français ou quelque 

autre référence. Stravinsky n’a pas encore achevé sa Symphonie de psaumes, 

Poulenc est loin d’avoir composé son Stabat Mater 17 . Les critiques saluent 

l’originalité du Stabat mater de Szymanowski mais ne crient pas vraiment au 

chef-d’œuvre. 

Au moins certains posent-ils la question à laquelle, à sa façon, répond Szymanowski 

: comment peut-on composer de la musique religieuse sans tomber 

dans l’archaïsme, en employant un langage moderne ? Le sacré est-il, en musique, 

compatible avec les audaces de la modernité ? Jules Casadesus répond 

par l’affirmative : Szymanowski a réussi «une intéressante tentative du renouvellement 

du style liturgique 18 ». Or le compositeur du Stabat mater prend 

bien soin, lui, de distinguer la musique liturgique de la musique religieuse 19 . 

Pour Louis Aubert, il a tenté de «concilier les aspirations religieuses avec 

l’esthétique d’aujourd’hui 20 ». Paul le Flem ne dit pas autre chose, faisant du 

musicien polonais le prolongateur des grands polyphonistes de la Renaissance : 

Il ose mettre à profit les derniers néologismes et la syntaxe de son temps pour 

traduire le pathétique religieux, comme le faisaient autrefois un Josquin des Prés, 

unPalestrina,unVictoriaouunRolanddeLassus 21 [...] 

Robert Oboussier pose la même question : Szymanowski se trouvait «devant 

l’alternative ou d’un archaïsme plutôt classiciste et par conséquent en 

dehors de notre époque, ou d’une refonte possible de nos moyens d’expression 

modernes avec les éléments hérités de nos ancêtres, afin d’aboutir à une synthèse 

qui soit à la fois traditionnelle et actuelle 22 ». Curieusement, le critique 

répond ceci : «Szymanowski a suivi une troisième voie, celle de l’expression 

individuelle, telle qu’elle a été propre aux maîtres romantiques, y compris 

Gustav Mahler, ainsi qu’au Debussy du Martyre de saint Sébastien.» Comparaisons 

que personne, aujourd’hui, ne songerait à faire, mais qui montre 

bien que Szymanowski est inclassable et que la critique française, même élogieuse, 

éprouve un certain embarras devant le Stabat mater, par manque de 

références. Que penser, par exemple, du rapprochement – qui a dû hérisser 

Szymanowski, si la critique figure parmi celles que lui a envoyées Hélène Casella 

– fait par Jean Delaincourt avec le Requiem de Berlioz ? Ce dernier écrit 

en effet :


[. . .] l’accent ne nous rappelle que celui de Berlioz dans le sublime Requiem. C’est 

une égale jouissance à déchaîner des masses sonores, avec le pouvoir d’y découvrir 

toujours un surcroît possible et cependant nulle complaisance au bruit pour luimême. 

Reste à savoir jusqu’où, dans le cas de la musique sacrée, on peut aller dans 

la modernité. C’est là, sans doute, que s’avère le plus perceptible l’embarras 

de la critique, encore une fois placée devant une œuvre où les repères de l’harmonie 

traditionnelle, sans être totalement détruits, sont fortement brouillés. 

Pour Paul le Flem, pas de doute : «Szymanowski écrit dans un style nettement, 

franchement harmonique. Cette écriture fait appel aux ressources de 

l’harmonie tonale ou, au contraire, réunit, dans une même synthèse des notes 

ou des accords ayant des origines différentes. Dans ce dernier cas, le musicien 

établit entre ces plans hétérogènes des distances qui assurent à l’ensemble 

un équilibre et une fusion parfaite». En d’autres termes, quand Szymanowski 

s’écarte du système, il est encore dans le système. Szymanowski peut devenir 

le parangon de cette modernité tempérée que Vuillermoz avait été heureux de 

découvrir en mai 1922 : 

Les libertés qu’il prend avec la tradition harmonique, écrit Jean Delaincourt, les 

conseils qu’il peut recevoir d’œuvres contemporaines, n’apparaissent jamais comme 

une attaque brusquée montée pour nous intimider. . .[. . .] 

Szymanowski rassure : il existe une modernité non agressive. De même, Robert 

Oboussier apprécie cette esthétique du juste milieu : «Son langage nettement 

harmonique ne devient, malgré l’absence totale de polyphonie, jamais 

monotone, et cela surtout grâce à la richesse de sa syntaxe tonale et polytonale». 

Voilà justement ce qui gêne Louis Aubert : reconnaissant volontiers 

par ailleurs les grandes qualités de l’œuvre, il voit là une source d’hétérogénéité 

et déplore «un certain manque d’unité [. . .] du fait [. . .] des moyens 

proprement musicaux qu’elle emploie, versant ici dans l’atonalité, affirmant 

là d’irrécusables assises tonales». Voilà de nouveau Szymanowski inclassable. 

Comme s’il n’avait pas su choisir entre la tradition et la nouveauté, trop 

moderne pour rester l’esclave de la tradition, trop marqué par elle pour s’engager 

résolument dans la modernité. A partir de là, il semble ou trop ou pas 

assez moderne. Adolphe Boschot apprécie peu un «style éclectique [qui] fait


alterner des éléments divers sans les unifier» : «L’auteur se propose d’être 

dramatique et moderne, et devient parfois vériste et discordant 23 ». Robert 

Dezarnaux aboutit à la même conclusion : 

Il écrit à la mode d’aujourd’hui. Mais il ne s’est pas créé un style à lui. Il extériorise 

son émotion avec tant de fougue qu’il tombe souvent dans la vulgarité. 

On notera que la question du caractère polonais du Stabat mater, évidemment 

donné en latin, ce qui est déjà une première trahison, n’est pas posée. 

La spécificité de l’œuvre, ou du moins l’une de ses spécificités essentielles, 

échappe forcément à la critique française, ce qui peut aussi expliquer cet 

embarras. Car Szymanowski n’aime pas les musiques déracinées – ce qui le 

conduit à des jugements très sévères sur le groupe des Six. Il est vrai que le 

Stabat mater n’est pas une partition revendiquant explicitement ses sources 

d’inspiration, comme dans le cas du folklore. On reste ici dans l’implicite, à 

l’inverse de Harnasie. 

Harnasie 

Le ballet montagnard Harnasie est monté le 27 avril 1936 à l’Opéra de Paris, 

dans une chorégraphie de Serge Lifar et sous la direction de Philippe 

Gaubert. La question de la «polonité» de cette musique et de celle de son 

auteur ne peut plus être éludée. Mais elle est parfois plus traitée à travers 

l’anecdote qu’à travers le symbole : certains critiques réduisent l’argument à 

une simple histoire d’enlèvement, peu soucieux de l’associer à une connaissance 

de l’imaginaire polonais, victimes aussi du programme de l’Opéra, qui 

se borne à raconter l’histoire alors que les scénarios rédigés par Szymanowski 

lui-même pour garantir l’authenticité de la chorégraphie insistent bien, par 

exemple, sur sa dimension rituelle. Désiré-Emile Inghelbrecht, qui déplore «la 

puérilité de l’argumentation», va même jusqu’à présenter ainsi la fin : «[. . .] le 

puissant chef entraîne la jeune fille vers le lac, sans doute pour aller prendre 

un bain24 . . .» Quelques comparaisons, cependant, avec des univers dont la 

critique est plus familière, permettent de quitter le champ de l’anecdote pour 

celui de la culture populaire ou du mythe. Les références aux bandits de Calabre 

et de Corse reviennent souvent. Jean Prudhomme voit dans Harnaś un


«révolté [. . .] féru de liberté 25 », Marcel Coudeyre comprend que «ces chevaliers 

servants du maquis ont un code d’honneur 26 ». Pour Reynaldo Hahn, 

Harnaś devient un «Don Juan de grand chemin 27 ». Mais c’est le critique de 

La Revue Musicale, Robert Bernard, qui va le plus loin, préférant d’abord voir 

dans l’argument du ballet un écho «de la vie collective d’un peuple» plutôt 

qu’une histoire à trois, pour rapprocher ensuite, de façon assez nietzschéenne 

au fond, Harnaś de Siegfried : tous deux incarnent «cette âpreté sensuelle, cet 

amour de la force et de la liberté, cette griserie des nerfs et des sens, cette 

volonté et cette aptitude de puissance 28 ». 

La critique se sent évidemment plus à l’aise pour placer la question de la 

polonité dans le champ de la musique : le problème de l’inspiration folklorique 

lui est familier. A ceci près qu’elle ignore sans doute les spécificités du folklore 

de Podhale, ce qui l’empêche peut-être d’apprécier à sa juste valeur celle de 

la partition tout entière, qu’elle juge, une fois de plus, par rapport à ce qu’elle 

connaît. Poser cette question de la polonité revient en tout cas à poser celle 

de la modernité de l’œuvre : faut-il polir ou exacerber un matériau brut 

qui échappe aux canons de la tradition ? On retrouve ainsi la grande ligne 

de partage que l’on a observée dès le concert de mai 1922. Szymanowski 

apparaît souvent trop radical pour les uns, trop timide pour les autres. Les 

airs populaires, pour Louis Laloy 29 ou Reynaldo Hahn, sont étouffés par des 

dissonances qui, un jour, sembleront périmées. Dominique Sordet reproche au 

contraire à Szymanowski sa tiédeur, sa frilosité : 

Cette musique n’a [. . .] aucun parti pris, même pas celui de la laideur. [. . .] On n’y 

trouve qu’à petite dose les acides corrosifs d’un Schoenberg et les éclats tranchants 

d’un Stravinsky. Si on dresse un jour le bilan des atrocités de la guerre musicochimique 

déclarée depuis vingt ans [. . .] à l’humanité mélomane, M. Szymanowski 

fera figure d’assez timide comparse. 30 

Roland-Manuel parle, à propos d’Harnasie, de «sucre du printemps 31 », 

comme si Szymanowski n’était qu’un Stravinsky abâtardi. Quasi obligée, la 

comparaison avec Le Sacre et Noces permet justement de mesurer le degré de 

modernité de Szymanowski. Comparaison dangereuse au demeurant : «Nous 

pensions au Sacre du printemps. Nous pensions à Noces. Et ces souvenirs, 

encore vivaces, nous rendaient sans doute injuste pour la jeune et trépidante


Harnasie». Encore une fois, c’est Emile Vuillermoz qui se montre le plus élogieux, 

parce que Szymanowski incarne toujours l’équilibre entre la tradition 

et la modernité ; on croit relire sa critique de Mythes : 

La complexité de l’écriture a évidemment un peu dérouté la partie la plus timide du 

public, mais [. . .] n’a pas soulevé la mauvaise humeur que provoquent chez nous un 

jeu stérile de l’esprit, une polytonalité arbitraire, un parti pris de surcharge et de 

surenchère dont nous avons observé trop souvent la trace dans des œuvres de fausse 

avant-garde. 32 

Harnasie est la dernière grande œuvre de Szymanowski donnée en France 

de son vivant. Peut-être vient-elle, là encore, un peu tard. Paris a découvert 

les œuvres «impressionnistes» de Szymanowski au moment où il était passé 

de mode. Il découvre son «ballet montagnard» au moment où le ballet d’inspiration 

folklorique a vécu. Les dernières œuvres créées par Diaghilev n’avaient 

plus guère de rapport avec l’inspiration populaire : Noces, le dernier ballet 

à la fois russe et moderne de Stravinsky, a été créé en 1923. C’était aussi le 

dernier ballet d’inspiration populaire monté par les Ballets russes : Stravinsky 

donna ensuite à Diaghilev Oedipus rex et Apollon musagète, ProkofievLe Pas 

d’acier et Le Fils prodigue. Deux ans avant la création d’Harnasie, l’Opéra de 

Paris avait mis à l’affiche celle de Perséphone. Le retour à l’antique remplaçait 

le retour aux sources, à travers une trajectoire qui était l’inverse de celle 

de Szymanowski. Ce qui manque parfois à la critique française, au-delà du 

caractère positif ou négatif des jugements qu’elle peut porter sur Harnasie, 

c’est l’appréhension de cette trajectoire. Le ballet, par exemple, est rarement 

associé aux autres partitions de la période «nationale» dont il est pourtant 

proche et qui ont été données à Paris. Il n’y a guère que Jacques Ibert pour 

noter que dans le Second Quatuor ou dans le Second Concerto pour violon 

aussi Szymanowski «fait un large emprunt aux chants du folklore polonais 33 » 

— alors que le Concerto a été révélé au public parisien moins de six mois avant 

Harnasie et redonné deux jours avant la première 34 .Etiln’yaguèrequeRobert 

Bernard pour retrouver «cet insatiable appétit de vivre, de s’identifier à 

la nature» et «ce panthéisme intégral qui n’exclut pas les minutes de grave 

méditation» qui s’exprimait à travers la Symphonie concertante, donnée deux 

ans auparavant avec Pierre Monteux. En d’autres termes, ce qui, en Pologne,


pouvait passer à la fois pour l’emblème musical d’une nation ressuscitée, n’est 

plus, à Paris, du moins pour certains critiques, qu’une simple curiosité. 

Dire que Szymanowski n’était ni connu ni prisé à Paris relèverait de la 

contrevérité. On pourrait dire, en revanche, qu’il y était relativement méconnu. 

Difficile à classer, surtout, sur le terrain mouvant de la modernité. 

Mais les embarras de certains critiques montraient aussi, a contrario, une certaine 

intuition : Szymanowski lui-même n’était-il pas le premier à refuser les 

classements, à fustiger les «ismes 35 », à brocarder à la fois les «retours à» et les 

avant-gardes trop radicales ? Bref, la critique française avait peut-être, sans 

le savoir, perçu ce ‘splendide isolement’ 36 qu’il revendiquait lui-même. . . et 

dont il est encore victime aujourd’hui, venant toujours, dans les programmes 

de concerts parisiens, après Stravinsky, Bartók ou Prokofiev. 

Notes 

1 Articles parus les 30 mars, 7, 9 et 15 avril, 13 mai 1937. 

2 Au moment de la première parisienne du Stabat mater, Louis Aubert parle d’un 

«compositeur [. . .] à l’égard duquel on s’est montrai à vrai dire jusqu’à présent assez 

parcimonieux chez nous». Paris-Soir, 18 mars 1930. 

3 Certaines œuvres ont été jouées plusieurs fois, comme les Concertos pour violon, la 

plus jouée – jusqu’à plusieurs fois par an – restant «La Fontaine d’Aréthuse», assez 

connue pour faire l’objet d’une des «cinéphonies» d’Emile Vuillermoz, illustration par 

un court-métrage d’un morceau de musique (les interprètes étaient Jacques Thibaud 

et Tasso Janopoulo). 

4 Donné en 1996 et en 2003 en version de concert, au Théâtre des Champs-Elysées et au 

Théâtre du Châtelet, par les soins de Radio France, il sera représenté pour la première 

fois à l’Opéra de Paris en juin 2008. Le Chant de Roxane, en revanche, a été chanté ou 

joué au violon plusieurs fois du vivant de Szymanowski. 

5 La Troisième Sonate, par exemple, n’a été jouée que par ces derniers et Czesław 

Marek. 

6 Voir Didier van Moere, «Szymanowski et le groupe des Six», Revue internationale de 

musique française, Paris, juin 1986. 

7 Une seule des Berceuses a été chantée. «Chant de printemps»pourrait correspondre à 

«Słowisień», la première mélodie de Słopiewnie (traduit dans le programme par 

Chants archaïques polonais). Les interprètes sont Stanisława et Karol Szymanowski, 

Paul Kochański et, pour les Etudes, Robert Casadesus. 

8 Cela ne peut évidemment s’appliquer qu’au Szymanowski «impressionniste» : dès son 

retour en Pologne après la guerre, Szymanowski s’intéresse de très près au folklore. 

9 Excelsior, 22 mai 1922. 

10 29 septembre 1922. 

11 La Revue Musicale, juillet 1922.


12 L’Eclair, 22 septembre 1922. 

13 Excelsior, 22 juin 1922. 

14 Les chœurs sont les Chanteurs de Saint-Gervais, dirigés par Paul le Flem, les solistes 

Charlotte Mattei, Elsa Ruhlmann et Jean Hazart. 

15 Lettre à Szymanowski du 25 mars 1930, Bibliothèque Universitaire de Varsovie, 

Archives des compositeurs polonais. 

16 L’Ami du peuple, 18 mars 1930. 

17 Stravinsky achève sa partition en aoűt 1930, Poulenc finit la sienne en 1951. 

18 Le Quotidien, 18 mars 1930. 

19 «Na marginesie Stabat mater»(En marge du), Pisma muzyczne (Ecrits musicaux), éd. 

Kornel Michałowski, Cracovie, Editions polonaises de musique, 1984, p. 370. 

20 Le Journal, 18 mars 1930. 

21 Comoedia, 17 mars 1930. 

22 La Revue Musicale, mai 1930, p. 459. 

23 L’Echo de Paris, 17 mars 1930. 

24 La Revue de France, 15 mai 1936. 

25 Le Matin, 29 avril 1936. 

26 L’Information, 29 avril 1936. 

27 Le Figaro, 25 avril 1936. 

28 La Revue Musicale, 15 novembre 1936. 

29 La Revue des deux mondes, 15 mai 1936. 

30 L’Action Française, 1 er mai 1936. 

31 Le Courrier Royal, 6 mai 1936. 

32 Les Nouvelles Littéraires, 2 mai 1936. 

33 Marianne, 13 mai 1936. 

34 Le Quatuor a été révélé à Paris le 20 mai 1930 ; le Second Concerto a été donné le 10 

novembre 1935 et le 25 avril 1936. 

35 Voir «Muzyka a Futuryzm» (Musique et Futurisme), Ecrits musicaux, p. 475–476. 

36 «My splendid isolation», Kurier Polski (Le Courrier Polonais), 26 novembre 1922, 

Ecrits musicaux, p. 67–70.

8 

On What Was Native in the Music of Karol 

Szymanowski 

Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka 

Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński University of Warsaw 

Introduction: premises and definitions 

The significance of Szymanowski’s compositions, as well as his literary and 

musical writings and many other achievements, can only partially be interpreted 

in the light of distinctive periods of creative development. It is also 

worthwhile to trace his development as a continuous and consistent search 

for answers to vital questions relating to his identity as a person and as an 

artist — a national (‘racial’), European, as well as a religious identity. He 

may at times interpret faith in an idiosyncratic way and ‘test’ it in his own 

manner, perceiving it as the deepest current of art, culture and life. We 

should not surprised by the presence of this current; religion at the turn of 

the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was an ever-present motif in historiosophy 

(e.g. Polish Messianism), philosophy (Nietzsche’s claim of the death of 

God and Christianity) and art, particularly music, poetry and drama. The 

metaphysical perspective, arising as a reaction to positivism, had a variety 

of aspects and influenced art in a variety of ways; however, it always placed 

art in the highest region of human experience and existence (references to the 

traditions of antique drama and mythology as substitutes for religion present 

in many works of art are very telling in this respect). The influence of the 

ideas of symbolism1 , expressionism and surrealism on Szymanowski’s artistic 

development (particularly prior to 1920) is of special significance here. 

131

132 Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka 

This article will attempt to trace a number of currents and trends in Szymanowski’s 

creative development, concentrating primarily on the issue of his 

sense of what constituted his native art, i.e., defining that which he regarded, 

at different periods of his life, as his ‘spiritual world’, with which he identified, 

and which he attempted to integrate and to express through his work. 

The aim is to add a handful of remarks (at times polemical) on the subject 

of what were his — consecutive — interests, the sources of his music, 

and what he was striving to achieve. Of particular importance is the turning 

point after 1920, when Szymanowski reached maturity (both artistic and 

personal, having emerged from a period of intensive search for his own identity), 

and Poland achieved victory in its struggle for sovereignty. I refer to 

the last period of Szymanowski’s artistic development, which has been called 

folkloristic-national (Z. Helman), Polish or national (M. Tomaszewski), or 

Lechitic (Jachimecki) 2 . It reveals a deeper, continuous and consistent current 

in Szymanowski’s endeavours. 

As to the interpretation of the main concepts involved, I assume that the 

native culture is that which ‘gives birth’ to us as a people belonging to a particular 

community at a particular time and place. Native art is thus that with 

which we have a spiritual kinship, which we regard and experience as close 

to us, which defines our identity. The native character of music is a category 

with variable dimensions: it may relate to locality, regionality (folklore) or 

nationality; it may signify belonging to the European cultural sphere, and 

finally it may carry the mark of universality 3 . The characteristic of nativeness 

also has a temporal dimension – it is associated particularly with the 

art present in our life ‘here and now’. This presence may manifest itself in a 

variety of ways: one may experience as ‘native’ those works which belong to 

the Classical-Romantic period (these dominate philharmonic concerts and the 

basic repertory of music schools), or those ostentatiously national (for example, 

the musical world of Szymanowski’s opponents such as S. Niewiadomski); 

or those from the culture and music of ancient times, or modern, avant-garde 

or popular music. Experiencing music as native is different from a preference, 

or a fashion for a particular kind of music; it is a personal emotional 

response, and a deeper and more permanent link between music and culture

On What Was Native in the Music of Karol Szymanowski 133 

and life. That link defines one as being a part of particular ‘spiritual community’, 

which may have important consequences in one’s life. The sense of art 

being native is subjective, and it may be illusory (as, for example, the Oriental 

world of Borodin) and selective; it may be independent of membership in 

terms of temporal and cultural geography, but it does translate into concrete, 

verifiable data. It is an important issue not only for creative artists (artistic 

identity), but also for scholars as well as the audiences of art: it may point to 

the accessibility of various musical codes, explain the attractions of particular 

artists and their work and the manner in which they are understood (sometimes 

contrary). It allows one to interpret the complex, communal character 

of art (what kind of music creates what kinds of spheres). By being multidimensional, 

the category of ‘nativeness of music’ is useful in considering the 

evolution of Szymanowski’s artistic identity. 

I make the assumption that, for Szymanowski, music was linked in an 

essential way with life and culture, understood as a religious-philosophical 

foundation which binds a community into a cohesive whole. Szymanowski’s 

works integrate and reveal that which is important (they do so subjectively 

and honestly, often for important personal reasons) in a culture he encounters, 

and which aspects of it are to be translated into a way of living for an 

individual (the ongoing process of maturation) and for a community. For 

him, music (as well as religion) is to be judged in terms of its explanatory 

and ‘regenarative’ power in relation to life — an enormous task. 

Native spheres in Szymanowski’s music and the stages of his 

creative development 

It is customary to distinguish three periods in Szymanowski’s artistic development, 

which coincide with important dates in history: the first period ends 

with the start of the First World War in 1914, and the second with Poland 

regaining its independence and the end of the Polish-Bolshevik war in 1920 4 . 

These dates mark the changing spheres of his spiritual and musical world. 

Initially, his identity was defined by belonging to the generation of young, 

creative continuators of Neoromanticism, absorbing the ideas of decadence


and modernism, criticising the hypocrisy and pedestrianism of the bourgeois 

culture, and protesting against Poland’s backwardness in comparison with 

musical Europe (which also included ideas about the nature of national music). 

As a result, Szymanowski became part of the Young Poland in Music 

movement from 1905. 

The second period was no longer one of rebellion, but of the composer’s 

struggle for his own creative and personal identity as a mature artist; it was 

also a time of discovering the Mediterranean world and the roots of European 

culture in general. The world into which Szymanowski escaped during the war 

and the revolution of 1917 seems to have undergone an enormous expansion. 

The sense of being a native of one’s own European culture reached back to 

antiquity and to the Oriental roots of knowledge, religion, mythology and art. 

However, this expansion is somewhat illusory. Szymanowski’s openness to the 

influence of antiquity and the Orient may perhaps still have been an aspect 

of his search for answers to questions formulated at an earlier stage. They 

concerned the contemporary relevance to the existential issues of mythology, 

art and antique philosophy, or a ‘verification’ of the power of faith and its 

ability to order life and to explain the dilemmas facing a person living at the 

turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries5 . There is also the problem 

of working out a new musical language, capable of expressing sensory cognition 

combined with rational and emotional cognition, or contemplation and 

religious mysticism combined with sensuality, even eroticism, so exquisitely 

resolved in the ‘Song of songs’, or in the poetry and music of the Orient. 

Here of course we encounter the problem of the reality of that Orient, and 

the doubts as to the influence of the actual Arabian music 6 , together with 

the cultures of North-Eastern Africa and the Middle East, on the works of 

Szymanowski, 7 as well as the individualistic nature of the impressionism and 

symbolism in his works from that period. The enormous creative drive and 

the stylistic and poetic distinctiveness of the works from Szymanowski’s second 

creative period is a significant fact. It is important that their originality 

resulted from a wide-ranging search for inspiration, and not only artistic at 

that. The fruits of this search bring an idiosyncratic synthesis of the antique, 

the Orient and contemporary Europe (Impressionism, Symbolism). The artis-


tic synthesis is convincing, although both the antiquity and the Orient are not 

only interpreted in an idiosyncratic way, but they are also Szymanowski’s creations. 

He thus created (making use of those elements of the culture and art 

of the Mediterranean which he regarded as the most fruitful) his own world, 

to which we are invited. In a sense, we are a community bound together 

through interpreting his art 8 . 

The permanent framework of his first ‘musical world’, which was also his 

mental world, was created at his family home, the little manor house of Tymoszòwka 

in the Polish Eastern Borderlands. It was built by a young man 

with a receptive mind, living in a most favourable environment; both among 

his close and more distant family there were many relatives with excellent 

education and musical and artistic talents. Unfortunately, the second period 

brought with it the necessity of facing up to the difficulties of life, particularly 

after the revolution of 1917 and the loss of Tymoszówka, which also meant 

the permanent loss of financial stability. The world of art and ideas may have 

provided Szymanowski with a haven to escape from the horrors of war and 

revolution; however, being responsible for his family (his mother and to some 

extent his sisters) forced Szymanowski — composer and pianist — to take 

the realities of life into account. It is difficult to assess how far this influenced 

his spiritual world and his creative output. One thing which is certain is 

that he never pursued artistic compromise. His ‘folkloristic-national’ period 

cannot be regarded as a sudden turning towards the form of art which would 

be approved in his homeland and which would be more generally accessible 

because of being simplified, as has been done by some. This was a period of 

the most difficult undertakings and the most strenuous and extensive search. 

Discovering the sources: from Słopiewnie (Wordsong)toHarnasie 

(The Brigands) andPieśni kurpiowskie (Kurpie Songs) 

Szymanowski sometimes spent long periods preparing to compose, as if, in 

the case of the more important works, he had to become ready for it, to assimilate 

certain ideas, to integrate and to mythologise them. Król Roger, 9 

which has been analysed in depth, is the best example here, but in a sense


it is the final one as far as the manner of composing the content and creating 

the spiritual ground for a work are concerned. The turning point in 

Szymanowski’s creative development after 1920 manifested itself also in the 

fact that Szymanowski ceased to create his own spiritual worlds which he expressed 

in music. Instead, he opened up to the existing culture, the life and 

music of the Podhale and Kurpie people, with their own mythology and life 

wisdom which speak through ritual art, mainly songs with their own poetics, 

symbolism and prosody. The individual, cohesive character of the culture 

of Podhale or Kurpie (spiritual, social, artistic and material) grew out of the 

landscapes of the rocky Tatra mountains or the Kurpie forests, from the land, 

the climate, the kind of economy and local occupations, from the history of 

the region. This is reflected in the ritual art of poetry, music and dance, 

whose symbolism usually related to the world of nature (its distinctive feature 

was to treat nature as a metaphor for human life). All that was needed 

was to follow this trail carefully, which is what Szymanowski did. 

Słopiewnie (Wordsong) (1921) come from the time of transition between 

two periods. This unusual phantasy by Julian Tuwim on the subject of ‘proto- 

Polish’ (‘proto-Slavic’?) language and poetry foreshadows the turning point 

in Szymanowski’s approach to inspiration drawn from a world outside music, 

and to the poetics and the language of music. Although Słopiewnie still represent 

an approach of creating mythologies and a poetical-musical world of 

some imaginary Lechites, one can discern in them that by then Szymanowski 

was open to the text, to which he was listening carefully. Tuwim’s mythical 

proto-Slavism speaks with Polish prosody; it calls upon the universal and at 

the same time realistic folk symbolism, which orders the world along the axis: 

that which is good, life-giving and sunny (bright, green as grassy sward, lively 

as flowing water, or neighing, frisky horses, or bees buzzing in the leaves of a 

tree), and that which is dark, potentially dangerous to life and mysterious (a 

dark forest, a rustling wicker-willow thicket) 10 . These symbols 11 ,whichalso 

form the searing drama of Pieśni Kurpiowskie 12 , graphically summarise the 

simple folk philosophy of life, while at the same time demonstrating the importance 

of art. It is only art — poetry and music, dance and ritual — which 

can sing the wisdom and beauty of life so suggestively and on so many levels,


which can express its drama, and stimulate the life-giving forces 13 . And it 

is art which binds a community most strongly. The new types of melodics, 

poetics and prosody introduced by Słopiewnie clearly demonstrate that we 

are dealing with a new quality. In his analyses, Mieczysław Tomaszewski reveals 

its archaic — ie., original in Szymanowski’s understanding — character 

(lexical, versificational, semantic and expressive), and the nativeness of the 

poetry and its translation into music. Józef Chomiński, 14 emphasising the innovative 

tonal and melodic nature of Słopiewnie, remarks that ‘the modality 

of folk music allowed [Szymanowski] to overcome the old chromatics [...] and 

at the same time to enrich the range of means of expression’ 15 . In particular, 

the new way of shaping the melodics (inspired by modal thinking) seems 

significant in the composer’s stylistic transformation. 

Szymanowski confessed to Iwaszkiewicz in 1921, in connection with making 

the acquaintance of Jerzy Rytard, co-author of the libretto of Harnasie: 

I am unable to be simply interested in people, but I always become attached to them 

[...] I would like to reach closer to his art yet I am afraid that I am too old to capture 

the atmosphere pecular to his work [...] or perhaps it is only my own fanaticism of 

emotion which stands in my way’ 16 . 

These words describe well Szymanowski’s attitude to people. They also 

reveal a change in it: his opening to someone else’s art and the fear that his 

‘fanaticism of emotion’ may limit his ability to interpret it correctly. And 

indeed, after 1920, Szymanowski no longer concentrated on the personal approach 

to various cultural texts, reading them with a view to their usefulness 

to his art and to himself. Rather, he tried to listen attentively to others and 

to look closely at the living reality ‘here and now’. Indeed, after 1920, Zakopane 

became Szymanowski’s home, and Podhale — his world, although he 

had visited that area as a boy as early as the late nineteenth century 17 . 

Szymanowski needed to become attuned to the Podhale community in order 

to learn to admire their art, which mingled with life so perfectly, expressing 

their philosophy and lifestyle, the very features which were the objects of 

his previous search. Jan Kleczyński, 18 in his famous articles from 1883 and 

1884 19 , which “discovered’ the musical Podhale, emphasised the link between 

the proud, free ‘highlander’s soul’ and the landscape of the rocky Tatra moun-


tains (where the Podhale folk felt themselves to be hosts), with their shrill, 

‘wild music’, so distant from the aesthetic canon of the times. In typical 

Young Poland style, he wrote about the mysticism of the mountains and 

claimed that the highlanders’ ‘communion with lofty nature gave birth to a 

distinctive poetry and independence’ 20 . He also remarked that ‘there are two 

sources of glory in the highlanders’ life – dance and brigandry’, which gives 

us an important clue towards understanding the genesis of Harnasie. 

Szymanowski’s Zakopane world included not only the highlanders, of 

whom almost each was an artist. The most famous of these was Bartuś 

Obrochta from Kościelisko, an outstanding self-taught fiddler, leader of the 

best ensemble, but there were also Wojciech Wawrytko, an excellent dancer, 

Stanisław Mróz — bagpipe player, or the beautiful, exceptionally musical 

singer, Elżbieta-Helena Roj, Rytard’s wife. That world was also created by 

the writers, painters, philosophers and musicians who had fallen in love with 

Podhale, such as Juliusz Zborowski, director of the Tatra Museum who was 

documenting the local folklore, Stanisław Mierczyński, a violinist who played 

with the highland bands and who wrote transcriptons of the music of the Podhale 

ensembles 21 , Adolf Chybiński, ethnomusicologist, author of texts about 

Podhale’s instruments and transcriptions of the Podhale music 22 , Jarosław 

Iwaszkiewicz, Szymanowski’s friend, cousin and librettist, Rafał Malczewski, 

a painter, Jerzy Rytard , a writer, husband of the beautiful highland girl 

Helena Roj, and Karol and Zofia Stryjeński 23 . Podhale owed that wonderful 

period, known as the Zakopane carnival, to the contacts between artists who 

came from all over Poland (divided by Russia, Prussia, and), and the mountain 

folk. This stimulated creative effort and brought about the ‘civilising’ of 

Podhale, which soon became a fashionable resort offering an extensive range 

of ‘folklore for sale’. 

Szymanowski, who did not bestow praise easily, was fascinated by the playing 

of Bartuś Obrochta, an old man ‘full of vigour and innate intelligence, 

one of the few «old-fashioned»peasants’. He regarded Bartuś’s music-making, 

which was a continuous improvisation, as an ‘artistry of its own kind’. He 

was particularly delighted with the tonally original (Podhale scale with Lydian 

fourth and minor seventh), five-bar phrase and ‘Sabała’ ditties, high-


lander melodies, and the brigands’ dance, a spectacular dance performed by 

male dancers, usually around a fire (which has its equivalents in the culture 

of the Karpaty). Szymanowski also looked for the sources of the originality 

and the creative force characteristic of the Podhale people, and folk communities 

in general. Rydel quotes Szymanowski saying in conversation with 

him that ‘folk cultures [...] manifest both as the ashes hiding the dreaming 

embers, the sleeping traces of ancient life, but also as the store of energies 

which so far have not found access to conscious culture’. What is also important 

is the wholeness of the folk culture (including its religious-philosophical 

sphere), out of which grows the integrality of human personalities: there is 

also a remark about the ‘labirynths, in which rich cultures, which crumble 

human beings into tiny pieces, become lost’. And finally, the question of the 

origins: ‘,schools, universities [...], material and mental technology [...] [are 

not the most important, because] culture is not an accretion, a mask or ... 

applied lacquer, — the source which gives birth to culture pulsates within 

the very essence of mankind, the human spirit, without any preceptors’. It 

concerns also ‘the importance of spontaneously generated elements and links 

within folk culture and art, flowering from a biological base, from living with 

nature’ 24 . In these views, we can see the evolution of Szymanowski’s attitude 

towards folklore and towards sources of inspiration beoynd music in general. 

What is particularly significant is the adoption of a universal anthropological 

perspective, which was to grow stronger with time. 

The sources of the distinctiveness of the music and culture of Podhale, 

which Szymanowski wanted to portray in his planned ballet, were sought in 

its beautiful and wild rocky landscape, in the strong bonds between the highlanders’ 

life and nature, and in their ethnic distinctiveness. Rytard describes 

one of the expeditions into the mountains in which Szymanowski participated; 

its setting was a night, a clearing, the moon, bats, wine and the dancing of 

the Podhale folk. Szymanowski’s comment on that unique mood of pantheistic 

oneness with the world was: ‘such moments lived through by oneself 

take man to the highest metaphysical regions’. And while the group of artist 

friends was planning to establishment of the ‘Podhale State’ 25 ; (‘only artists 

and highlanders’; the idea came from Karol Stryjeński), it was remarked that


‘pure-bred highlanders show no trace of racial kinship [...] with, for example, 

a country bumpkin from around Siedlce or around Bydgoszcz’, since 

highlanders were supposed to be ‘descendants of Walachians’, and ‘pastoral 

settlers’ 26 . Hence the sheep herding which opens Harnasie. One should also 

add the eagerly-listened-to stories about what went on in the local inns, such 

as that owned by Słowiński, at the entry of the Kościeliska valley, where Father 

Stolarczyk held confidential talks with the poacher Mateja; Słowiński 

himself had been known, when the need arose, to tame with a shot from his 

pistol a customer from the Roj family, known for his propensity for making 

trouble. All this conveys the atmosphere of Podhale and the spirit of its 

inhabitants; for this reason, ‘the ballet is permeated with an atmosphere of 

the bravery of the indomitable highlander character’ 27 . All this tells us a lot 

about the origins of Harnasie, although it does not exhaust the subject. 

The fate of the libretto and its title are also significant: the Rytards, as 

well as Iwaszkiewicz, worked on it with Szymanowski, but it was the composer 

himself who gave it its final shape. Initially the plot was to be woven around 

a highland wedding, the idea favoured by Iwaszkiewicz (the authentic, famous 

wedding of Rytard and the Roj girl — a writer and a highlander — which took 

place in 1923, was the starting point of work on the libretto; it had important 

antecedents, in the shape of an excellent Polish drama from the early twentieth 

century, Wyspiański’s Wesele [The Wedding], inspired by the wedding of a 

literary man and a peasant girl28 ). Initially, Szymanowski wanted to call the 

ballet Janosik [a legendary brigand hero], then replaced it with Zbójnicy [The 

Bandits]. Fortunately, he finally avoided the fairly common titles, which bring 

to mind conceptual and interpretive chlichés. The eight years of work (until 

1931) on the score and libretto of Harnasie demonstrate just how seriously 

Szymanowski regarded this ballet, its content and the overtones conveyed by 

the music, the singing, the plot and the dancing. 

Iwaszkiewicz was of the opinion that the simplicity of the contents of Harnasie 

demonstrated its lack of ‘dramatic knot’; that the ballet ‘mythologised’ 

the highland culture, and elevated the customs of a particular region to the 

status of ‘proto-Polishness — some kind of proto-Slavism’ (in the manner of 

Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring). According to Iwaszkiewicz, evidence for this can


be found in, for example, the absence of proper names for the main characters 

of Harnasie; they are: ‘the girl, the shepherd, the brigand’ [in the script: 

the Groom, the Bride, the Player, the First Brigand Harnaś – JKD-K], and 

‘the whole has a mythological significance, such as the kidnapping of Cora 

by Pluto’ 29 . These interesting comments are not convincing. It is precisely 

the mythological world which gives us heroes whose names personify certain 

universal, but also extraordinary situations and actions of the heroes. On the 

other hand, folk rituals have a Groom and Bride, a Village Elder, a Player. It 

seems that Szymanowski created something more original. To a degree, Harnasie 

has a ‘mythological’ contour, but the ballet is more accurately viewed 

as a synthesis of what really enchanted Szymanowski in Podhale’s culture, 

what he came to regard as its essence, its basic character and colour. Was it 

really intended as the knell for the disappearing original shepherd culture and 

the young braves who created it? This was how Iwaszkiewicz understood this 

work, recommending that the text of the Podhale song ‘Byli chłopcy byli, ale 

się minyli, i my się miniemy po maluśkiej kwili’ [‘Some braves these used to 

be, but they passed away, as we’ll pass away in a little while’] should be set 

to the final phrases of the music 30 . 

However, it is hard to accept that Szymanowski, while creating a monument 

to celebrate the bravery, pride, creativity and vitality of the Podhale 

folk, would want to mourn the passing of their best days and people. He was 

probably aware that the ‘Golden Age’ of Podhale art was passing away under 

the pressure of civilisation, when more tourists than artists began to visit the 

region 31 . It was passing away together with the wonderful people for whom 

art was not only the content and the style, but also a way of living. But 

Szymanowski was writing an apologia for a free people, perhaps somewhat 

wild, but with poetic souls, shepherds full of panache, potential outlaws, eager 

for brigandry, for singing, dancing and loving. It could not have become 

a drama on the lines of a proto-Polish Wedding, as intended by Iwaszkiewicz, 

although a wedding constituted the central part of the ballet. At the most, 

it could have been an ‘Interrupted wedding’, since the shot fired by the First 

Brigand was the culmination of the ballet, interrupting the capping of the 

bride — the essence of the ritual — and drowning everything in darkness and


chaos. The lyrical scenes in the meadow (the courtship and the dance of the 

brigand with the kidnapped highland girl) at the beginning and at the end 

of the ballet represent the essence of the Podhale culture and the lyrical and 

somewhat wild ‘highlander spirit’ as it was perceived by Szymanowski. In 

a sense he did mythologise the culture of Podhale, but in the main he synthesised 

it, 32 operating with specific lyrical-dramatic images, and his music, 

which draws deeply on the authentic highlander features, further increases 

this impression 33 . 

Szymanowski could not have invented a better world than that of Podhale. 

It had to be preserved using the arts of poetry, music and dance, and the 

aim was not only to use the original music repertoire, but also to capture the 

performance style of the local ensembles and singers, and to give expression to 

the enchantment of the highlander spirit, manifesting itself through dance 34 . 

Speaking very generally, the musical mastery of Harnasie consists both in the 

selection of melodies, those which are the most interesting and original 35 ,and 

in capturing faithfully the manner of playing and singing (exclamations) and, 

in a sense, the dance. This concerns the rich, variable rhythm, which operates 

with rhythms punctuated in reverse (this emerges from the Podhale dialect, 

where stress falls on the shorter first syllables 36 ), with the typical Podhale 

polyrhythmics, i.e., melody triolas against the background of the duple metre 

of the ensemble-orchestra, or the idiosyncratic musical motorics of the brigand 

and highland dances. Where polyrhythm is concerned, even musicians (apart 

from Mierczyński and of course Szymanowski) find it difficult to capture, 

since the rhythmic richness of the chants performed in tempo rubato needs 

to be combined with the constant, even pulse of the band, revealing the deep 

structure of the metrorhythmics (the absence of triple metre is regarded as one 

of the typical features of the music of that region). Of interest in this context 

is a comparison of the main melody of ‘Taniec góralski’ [‘Highland dance’] 

(Tableau II, scene 7) with Kleczyński’s notation published in the article from 

1884 mentioned previously 37 ; it concerns both the anacrusis, and the triple 

rhythm (see figures 8.1 and 8.2). 

The rhythmically diverse, variable melodics with their improvisational character 

and the idiosyncratic sound of this fragment, saturated with string

(Meno mosso) 

tenor solo 


3 

Ej, wol ny ja, wol ny, ja ko pto sek pol ny 

3 3 

Choc 

’ 

ja we sle ’ bo dzie, jak ryb ka we wo dzie ! 

Fig. 8.1. K. Szymanowski: Harnasie, ‘Taniec góralski’ [‘Highland dance’] (Tableau 

II, scene 7). 

Fig. 8.2. J. Kleczyński’s notation. 

colour, were inspired by Obrochta’s band, whose playing Szymanowski always 

followed with great attention and delight. One of those who mention 

this is Iwaszkiewicz: 

Karol was in such rapture that he could not calm down. These melodies and harmonies 

penetrated his very being, and the inability to defend himself from them 

stayed with him to the end of his life, even though he tried [...], when he’d finally 

had enough of all that folklore and that secondary music which he unleashed 

throughout Poland by making the Highland culture fashionable 38 . 

Whatever the case, Szymanowski captured the essence of the highland musicmaking 

of the Podhale bands through using the connection between the harmonic 

formulae (the monorhythmic bass part) and the rhythmic ones (violin), 

important for shaping the metrorhythmics and the form of the dance melodies 

(‘ozwodne’, ‘krzesane’ and marches). 

As to the melodic and tonal originality of Harnasie, this was primarily the 

result of an excellent selection of authentic, beautiful melodies. Szymanowski 

revealed and uniquely intensified their falling contour, their highly intoned, 

intense sound and above all their tonal individuality. The most characteristic 

seem to be the falling progressions of melody in the Podhale scale and its segments. 

One of the best known, and in a sense the flagbearer of the Podhale 

!


melodies, the so-called ‘Chałubiński march’, which constitutes the musical 

base of ‘Marsz zbójnicki’ [‘Brigands’ march’] (Tableau I scene 3) is given in 

a version with augmented fourth, in spite of transcriptions in major tonality 

being widespread in music textbooks. However, Szymanowski succeeded in 

avoiding scale monotony, which is an issue concerning, among other things, 

the tonal ambiguity of many highland melodies. This may be the result of 

their distinctive cadencing, moving between the first and second degree of 

the Podhale scale, which can be heard, for example, in the opening melody 

of Harnasie. That melody — as it was recorded by Chybiński — is a version 

of Sabała’s melody ‘Ej idzie se Janicek’ 39 . This creates the impression of 

‘fluttering’ between the Podhale scale, with Lydian fourth and minor seventh, 

and Mixolydian scale with minor seventh. Also of interest is the ambiguity, 

or tonal variability, of melodies which results from their sequential character 

(the best example is provided by ‘Pieśń siuchajów’ (Tableau II scene 6), or 

Podhale’s ‘Ja za wodom, ty za wodom’ (cadences on b and e). Dense juxtapositions 

of tonally different highland melodies (more often their fragments, for 

example with variable third, alternating between major and minor; at times 

also major and minor seventh are exchanged in the Podhale scale) also create 

an impression of “modulation’ between various modes. His mastery in combining 

familiar melodies, and his excellent recollection of them are apparent 

in the ‘Czarnodunajecka’ melody, entwined in the ‘Taniec góralski’ (Tableau 

II scene 7) after another entry of the melody ‘Ej wolny ja wolny’; apart from 

the metrorhythmics, it corrsponds almost exactly to Chybiński’s transcription 

(published in 1951) from the phonographic recordings of Bartek Obrochta’s 

solo performances, recorded by J. Zborowski in 1913 40 (see figure 8.3). 

3 3 

Fig. 8.3. ‘Czarnodunajecka’ from the phonographic recordings of Bartek Obrochta. 

The music of Harnasie has been judged to be insufficiently independent 

(‘too many quotations’) and showy (‘brilliance and pomposity’; ‘too many 

currants in this loaf’ 41 ); it is regarded as not being equal to Pieśni kurpi- 

3


owskie. However, such comparisons are pointless, since Szymanowski’s aims 

in the two works were different42 ,andHarnasie is undoubtedly a ballet which 

belongs among the leading stage works of the first half of the twentieth century. 

As to the melodics of Harnasie, its originality (and that of the whole ballet) 

results, among other things, from the distinctive modal character of the 

highland melodies used by Szymanowski. This involves musical thinking in 

original melodic-tonal formulae, differentiated in terms of expression. This 

thinking was the basis for H. Powers distinction between two modal systems: 

the ‘closed’ system, relating to a particular system of church modes and compostions 

which used them, and the ‘open’ system, typical of living, changing 

folklore43 , where there is a need for matching tonally and expressively appropriate 

formulae to particular ritual chants (spring or summer, supplicative 

or thanksgiving) 44 ; these do not always correspond to church mode scales. 

This comment applies also to Pieśni kurpiowskie, although the process of 

transformation and stylisation of melody in these takes a somewhat different 

course. This course is also marked out in its metric-rhythmic aspect by the 

original poetry of the Kurpie songs — their text (sound, structure, meaning) 

is the basis of form and composition. Here we have an intensification of a 

fairly objective style of folk narration which is both lyrical and dramatic in 

its expression. Pieśni kurpiowskie (choral 1929 and solo 1932) also capture in 

a strikingly apt manner a number of melodic-tonal folk formulae with a suggestive 

musical expression. They carry the marks of musical tonal archetype 

(characteristic for the oldest layers of Polish ritual chants), built on pentatonics 

modified in a variety of ways (chiefly ‘la’, i.e., the Aeolian version, often 

widened upwards by minor sixth45 ). 

The changes in melodics accurately reflect the evolution of style, and Szymanowski’s 

creative development in general (valuable comments about this 

can be found in the works of Teresa Chylińska, an outstanding expert on the 

life and work of Szymanowski 46 ). Stephen Downes in his article ‘«Kryzys 

melodyczny»w twórczości K Szymanowskiego’ [‘The «melodic crisis»in the 

works of Karol Szymanowski’] observes that ‘Szymanowski’s works are filled 

with the search for a convincing melody’ 47 . In his article, Downes rightly


takes issue with the views of Jim Samson, who blurs the difference between 

works from the second and third periods, seeing in them an ‘ongoing project 

[...] [i.e.] the conquest of the exotic’. This might apply to the ‘discovery 

of mystical, Dionysian-Sufic elements in Slavic culture’, as was suggested by 

Iwaszkiewicz 48 . However, the clearly discernible turning ‘towards ancient folk 

music’ after 1920 is distinctly different from the creation of musical exoticism 

(Orient and antiquity) undertaken by Szymanowski during his second period 

of development. During the last period, his works demonstrate numerous ties 

with the actual folk music of Podhale and Kurpie and their cultural foundations. 

Szymanowski’s creativity is limited there to capturing the essence of 

the style, sense, poetics and form of a living musical tradition (not all of it, 

but aspects chosen for their archaic beauty and poetry) and intensifying it. 

Greater simplicity, naturalness and objectivity of his music is a mark of the 

harmony and mastery which he achieved by discovering the native tradition in 

all its richness and simplicity. In this way he discovered his roots, his ‘racial’ 

identity, no longer looking back to the potential (possible) Dionysian or Sufic 

mystical proto-sources. He was discovering these roots not only for himself; 

he recommended that other Polish composers should also make this authentic 

discovery of the ‘barbaric primitivism’ which in ‘its closeness to nature, power 

and directness of temperament and, lastly, the uncontaminated purity of the 

expression of the race’ might regenerate ‘our anaemic music’ 49 . 

The current of religious music, parallel to that of a folkloristic one, is also 

rooted in the native musical tradition (e.g. modal thinking). This involves 

masterpieces which Szymanowski himself regarded as particularly valuable, 

such as Stabat Mater (1925–6) or Litany to the Virgin Mary (1933). These 

expressed the last phase (interrupted by his untimely death) of the composer’s 

search for his artistic, personal, national, universally human identity, and its 

religious and cultural sources. 

Notes 

1 E.g. Russian idealistic symbolism is important in interpreting King Roger — perhaps 

the most personal of Szymanowski’s works (cf. E. Boniecki, ‘Password ‘Roger’...) . 

2 Z. Jachimecki and M. Tomaszewski used these terms in relation to specific works from 

that period.


3 As a rule, true art possess that dimension, and it is sometimes the case that ‘local’, 

traditional art may be more universal than national art (this happens with folklore); 

often these dimensions overlap. 

4 In view of the maturing of some of his ideological-musical concepts, and the evolution 

of the musical language, one might also place the caesura after 1910, which marks 

Szymanowski’s third journey to Italy and then, in 1911, his first journey to Sicily. 

However, the significance of these wanderings in the world of the Mediterranean 

reached higher intensity in 1914, during the composer’s journey to Sicily, Tunis, 

Algiers and Biskra in the company of his friend and sponsor, Stefan Spiess. 

5 For example, the idiosyncratic harmonisation of Christian religion and morality with 

Greek mythology, particularly the Dionysian myth of rebirth and the joy of life, which 

is one of the themes of King Roger, or the Platonic motifs of the androgyny of human 

nature and the achievement of harmony as a condition of attaining happiness. 

6 Szymanowski’s dislike of the academic ‘stylising’ of presumably simplified 19th-century 

notation of Arabian melodies is very characteristic. He did not want to produce cheap 

imitations of exotic cultures whose depths were not accessible to a European. 

7 Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek notes that the orientalism in Szymanowski’s works is 

debatable, and describes the whole of Szymanowski’s and Spiess’s expedition to Tunis, 

Biskra and Algiers as a tourist, rather than a research, enterprise. She emphasises the 

fact that the four notebooks containing Szymanowski’s handwritten notes about the 

journey contain excerpts from the texts he read on Arabian civilisation (by Gustav Le 

Bon and Luis-Amélie Sédillot), she guesses at his reading the Q’ran, but she finds no 

mention of works, well-known at the time, about Arabian music or collections of 

Arabian music (‘Problem orientalizmu w muzyce Karola Szymanowskiego’), in: Karol 

Szymanowski w perspektywie kultury muzycznej przeszłości i współczesności [‘The 

problem of orientalism in the music of Karol Szymanowski’], in: Karol Szymanowski in 

the light of musical culture past and present, ed. Zbigniew Skowron, 2007 Kraków, 

Musica Iagellonica, Warszawa IMUW, pp. 105–120). 

8 At that time, Szymanowski was interested in those cultures (‘spiritual worlds’) which 

helped him define his identity at different levels — personal (including sexual) and 

pan-European, rooted in Greek antiquity and Christianity which came from the East; 

what he was searching for was the timeless validity of the values they represented. 

9 Cf. texts by Boniecki and Helman in this volume. 

10 I purposely quote examples from the text of the song ‘Zielone słowa [Green words]’, 

regarded as devoid of dramatic content, in order to propose an interpretation which 

reveals the hidden plot narrative suggested by the symbols used in the poem. 

11 An excellent interpretation of the symbolic world preserved in Kolberg’s 

documentation is the two-volume (at present) Słownik stereotypów i symboli ludowych 

[Dictionary of folk stereotypes and symbols], edited under the direction of Jerzy 

Bartmiński (Lublin UMCS 1996 and 1999). 

12 The lack of dramatic action in the texts of such songs as ‘Wysła burzycka’ [‘A storm 

has come’] or ‘A pod borem siwe kunie’ [‘Grey horses by the forest’] is only apparent. 

Their framework is revealed through interpreting the symbols (animals, plants, 

colours, elements). The richest and most transparent symbolism appears in the song 

‘A chtóz tam puka’ [‘And who’s knocking there’], representing the stylised chants for


the wedding of an orphan girl, who asks her dead mother, locked away with ‘trzy 

zomecki [three locks]’, for a blessing. 

13 In view of the new type of symbolism in Tuwim’s Slavicism, I would dispute one of 

Tomaszewski’s conclusions in his valuable study of Słopiewnie. This is the claim that, 

for example, the poem ‘Zielone słowa [Green words]’, from which word-symbols are 

quoted above, lacks the ‘dramatic action or lyrical confession, essential in a folk song’ 

(Nad pieśniami Karola Szymanowskiego. Cztery studia [On Karol Szymanowski’s 

songs. Four studies], Kraków AM 1998, p.60). This is because in folk poetry, and 

particularly in archaic chants, there are a few words which always carry meanings, 

mainly symbolic. Thus an interpretation purely in terms of sound, which brings in, 

e.g., Dadaism, seems unconvincing. 

14 J. Chomiński Studia nad twórczością K. Szymanowskiego [The works of Karol 

Szymanowski - Studies, op.cit.and‘Problem tonalny w «Słopiewniac»[‘The tonal 

problem in «Slopiewnie»’ (PRM 1936, vol. 2 pp. 53–86). 

15 J. Chomiński, ‘Szymanowski a osobowość twórcza kompozytorów XX wieku’ 

[‘Szymanowski and the creative personalities of twentieth-century composers’], in O 

Karolu Szymanowskim [About Karol Szymanowski], Warszawa 1983, Interpress, p. 26. 

16 This concerns a letter from 1921 (quoted after: J Rytard, Wspomnienia o Karolu 

Szymanowskim [Reminiscences about Karol Szymanowsk i], Kraków, PWM 1982 p. 55). 

17 When Szymanowski used to visit Zakopane, one had to get there by cart from Krakňw 

(the railway reached Zakopane in 1899). Iwaszkiewicz reminisces about visiting with 

his mother his aunt Helena Kruszyńska, with whom, in the old days at Tymoszówka, 

he used to play compositions for four hands from Paderewski’s volume popular at that 

time, Albumy Tatrzańskie [Tatra Albums] — arrangements for drawing-room 

performances of popular Podhale melodies. 

18 A musician, Editor-in-Chief of Echo Muzyczne i Teatralne [Musical and Theatrical 

Echo], a leading periodical with an artistic profile. 

19 Jan Kleczyński, ‘Pieśń zakopiańska’ [‘The song of Zakopane’] (Echo Muzyczne i 

Teatralne 1883 No. 1) and ‘Zakopane i jego pieśni’ [‘Zakopane and its songs’] (Echo ... 

1883–4 Nos. 41, 42, 44, 46). 

20 J. Kleczyński, ‘Pieśń zakopiańska’, op. cit. p.9. 

21 Published: Muzyka Podhala [The Music of Podhale] (Introduction by K Szymanowski) 

Lvov 1930 and Pieśni Podhala na 2 i 3 równe głosy [Songs of Podhale for 2 and 3 

equal voices], Warszawa 1935. 

22 A. Chybiński Instrumenty muzyczne ludu polskiego na Podhalu [Musical instruments 

of the Polish folk of Podhale], Kraków 1924, Od Tatr do Bałtyku [From the Tatras to 

the Baltic], 2 vol. Kraków 1950–51. 

23 Karol was an architect and graphic artist, Zofia painted famous stylised pictures 

inspired by folklore, such as dancing highlanders; she also provided the stage design 

for Harnasie. 

24 J. Rytard, op cit, pp. 11–12. 

25 With its capital at Pięć Stawów [Five Lakes]. Rytard writes that both Karols were 

content to play the part of eminences grises, while the president would be some 

‘well-presented, elegant figurehead’ (J. Rytard, op. cit., p. 27). 

26 J. Rytard, op. cit., pp. 22, 24–25. 

27 As above, p. 19.


28 Faithfully filmed by Andrzej Wajda in 1972. 

29 Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz, Harnasie Szymanowskiego [Szymanowski’s Harnasie], Kraków 

PWM 1979, pp. 24–25 

30 J. Iwaszkiewicz, op. cit., s. 26. 

31 Zakopane — the capital of Podhale — was provided with a railway link to the rest of 

the country in 1899; prior to that one would have to travel there by horse and cart 

from Kraków, which would take a number of days. 

32 Zygmunt Mycielski expressed a similar view in: ‘Harnasie syntetyzują Podhale’ 

[‘Harnasie synthesise the Podhale culture’] (Ucieczki z pięciolinii, 1957, p. 179) 

33 Ludwik Bielawski made a number of important comments on the subject of Podhale 

inspiration in Harnasie. For example, he noted that although the initial Sabala note is 

performed instrumentally (oboe), one can hear singing in it, with the characteristic 

exclamation at the beginning. Also of interest are his remarks concerning the ending 

of the ballet, which suggest that the ending from the ‘Paris’ production, approved by 

Szymanowski, was not necessarily the final one (‘Harnasie’, in: Tradycje ludowe w 

kulturze muzycznej, Warszawa IS PAN 1999, pp.155–159). In fact, the ballet’s finale 

deserves further attention. 

34 The abundant use of what are perhaps the most interesting highland melodies might 

have something to do with the fact that the notated record of Podhale melodies 

available at that time (with Paderewski’s transcripts attached to Echo Muzyczne i 

Teatralne, and his compositions at the front) deprived authentic highland pieces of 

many of their original features; even Kleczyński (1883) wrote about Obrochta’s 

‘strange manner of playing’, i.e., raising fourth degree. 

35 Rytard recalls that Szymanowski listened to the highlanders’ music ‘listening out for 

everything that was preserved in it [...] in uncontaminated form. [...] Slowly, Karol 

began composing [...] with much consideration [...] separating wheat from chaff, of 

which there is more and more’ (op. cit., p.43). 

36 A distinctive feature is the crossing over of dynamic and quantitative accents, which 

also appears in the language and folklore of Slovaks and Hungarians. 

37 Op. cit., Echo Muzyczne i Teatralne 1884, No. 44. 

38 J. Iwaszkiewicz, O Karolu Szymanowskim [About Karol Szymanowski], op. cit., p. 123. 

39 Included as No. 2 in A. Chybiński’s collection Od Tatr do... (op. cit., vol. I, 1950 p. 

27). 

40 It is to be found under No. 9 in A. Chybiński’s collection Od Tatr..., op.cit.,volII, 

1951 p. 19; attention should also be drawn to the change of metre in Obrochta’s solo 

transcript. 

41 J. Iwaszkiewicz, Harnasie, op.cit.,p.22. 

42 Among other things, this concerns the use of mainly ritual chants in Pieśni 

kurpiowskie, and also making use of dance songs in Harnasie. 

43 H. Powers, entry ‘Mode’ in: The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, vol 

XII, 1980 (this is discussed by D. Frasunkiewicz in Białoruska pieśń doroczna. System 

modalny czy tylko jego elementy [Belarussian annual song. A modal system or only its 

elements], Warszawa 1992, ms. at IMUW). 

44 Fiodor Rubcov, Stati po muzykalnomu folkloru, Leningrad-Moscow 1973, pp. 

93–104. 

45 This is the structure of the melody ‘Uwoz mamo roz’ (corresponding tonally with the


Sandomierz version of ‘Chmiel’[‘Hops’] — the main capping song, recorded by Kolberg 

in the second volume of Lud 1865 No. 30 p. 37, with the distinctive exchangeability of 

minor and major third in the refrain, which may be the older version). Pentatonics 

might have been the initial tonality for many ritual chants; for example, the 

pentatonising phrase from the song ‘A chtóz tam puka’ [‘Who’s knocking there?’]: d’, 

c sharp’, d’, a, g, b flat, d’, c sharp’, a, is close to the Sandomierz song for an orphan’s 

wedding recorded by Kolberg ‘Wynijdze matko z grobu’ [‘Come out from your grave, 

mother’]: a, c sharp’, d,’ d’, c sharp’, a, d’, a, c sharp’, d’, d’, c sharp’, g, a (Ibid, No. 

12 p. 28). Interesting comments about the Kurpie songs can be found in Jan 

Stęszewski’s study ‘Dlaczego Szymanowski nie skomponował więcej pieśni 

kurpiowskich?’ [‘Why did Szymanowski not compose any more Kurpie songs?’] in: 

Muzyka 1983 No. 2. 

46 Among them: Teresa Chylińska, Karol Szymanowski: His Life and Works, Los Angeles 

1993. 

47 Included in Pieśń w twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego i jemu współczesnych [Songs 

in the works of Karol Szymanowski and his contemporaries], ed. Z Helman, Kraków, 

2001, p. 192. 

48 S. Downes, op. cit., p. 197. 

49 Karol Szymanowski (in: Pani 1924 No. 8/9)

Contributors 

Edward Boniecki, born in 1962, Assistant Professor at the Institute of Literary 

Research at the Polish Academy of Sciences; historian specialising in the literature of 

the Young Poland period, author of books and articles on that subject. Main works 

include: ‘The structure of the «naked soul». A study of Stanislaw Przybyszewski 

(1993); ‘Modernist drama of the flesh. Maria Komornicka’ (1998); ‘«My soul rebels 

within me». Tadeusz Micinski and the mystery of humanity’ (2000); and ‘The archaic 

world of Boleslaw Leśmian. A historical and literary study’ (2008). 

Agnieszka Chwiłek, Ph.D., has worked at the Musicology Institute of Warsaw University 

since 1994. The subject of her doctoral thesis was ‘Cykle fortepianowe Roberta 

Schumanna. Estetyczna idea jedności i jej techniczna realizacja’ [‘The piano cycles 

of Robert Schumann. Aesthetic idea of unity and its technical realization’] (2002). In 

her research she concentrates on 19th- and 20th-century music, particularly on the 

works of Schumann, Szymanowski and other Polish composers. Publications include: 

‘Utwory Roberta Schumanna na Pedalflugel’ [‘Robert Schumann‘s works for Pedalfluegel’], 

in: ‘Muzyka wobec tradycji. Idee – dzieło – recepcja’, ed. S. Paczkowski 

(Warszawa 2004); ‘Idea jedności w wielości w cyklach fortepianowych Roberta Schumanna’ 

[‘The idea of unity in multiplicity in the piano cycles of Robert Schumann’], 

in: ‘Semiotyka cyklu. Cykl w muzyce, plastyce i literaturze’, ed. M. Demska-Trębacz, 

K. Jakowska, R. Sioma (Białystok 2005); ‘Problematyka gatunkowa «Noveletten» 

op. 21 Roberta Schumanna‘ [‘«Novelletten» op. 21 of Robert Schumann. The problem 

of genre’], in: ‘Polski Rocznik Muzykologiczny’ V (2006); ‘Kilka uwag o formie 

muzycznej w refleksji estetycznej i praktyce kompozytorskiej Karola Szymanowskiego’ 

[‘Some remarks on the musical form in the aesthetics and the works of Karol Szymanowski’], 

in: ‘Karol Szymanowski w perspektywie kultury muzycznej przeszłości 

151

152 Contributors 

i teraźniejszości’, ed. Z. Skowron (Warszawa 2007); ‘Kennst du das Land? J.W. 

Goethego w pieśniach St. Moniuszki i kompozytorów niemieckich’ [‘Kennst du das 

Land? by Goethe in the songs of Moniuszko and German composers’], in: ‘Książę 

Muzyki Naszej. Twórczość Stanisława Moniuszki jako dziedzictwo kultury polskiej 

i europejskiej. Studia pod redakcją Tomasza Baranowskiego [‘Stanislaw Moniuszko, 

thePrinceofOurMusic: TheHeritageofPolishandEuropeanCulture. Studies 

edited by Tomasz Baranowski’] (Białystok 2008). 

J. Katarzyna Dadak-Kozicka, dr hab. anthropology of music (doctoral degree: 

‘Slavonic Harvest Songs’ (1978), post-doctoral degree (habilitation): ‘Folklor sztuką 

życia. U źródeł antropologii muzyki’ [‘Folklore as the art of life. The roots of anthropology 

of music’] (Warszawa 1996)) and theory of music education (inter alia 

a Polish adaptation of the Kodály concept: ‘Spiewajże mi jako umiesz’ (Warszawa 

1992) [‘Sing to me as you can’]; chairman of the Kodály Circle at the Polish Section 

of ISME); 1997–2001 and 2003– the president of the Musicology Section of the 

Polish Composers’ Union (organized the conference and ed. 7 volumes of the postconference-book); 

the author of many articles; professor at the University of Cardinal 

Stefan Wyszyński in Warsaw. 

Magdalena Dziadek, born in 1961 in Bielsko-Biała, graduated of the Academy 

of Music in Katowice where she studied the theory of music (diploma with distinction, 

1984). In 1991, she defended her doctoral thesis at the Institute of Art of the 

Academy of Sciences, treating the problematic of Warsaw musical critique during 

the years 1810–1890. In 2004 at this Academy she received the postdoctoral title. 

Since 1992 she is leading her autonomic science activity devoted to the history of 

Polish musical culture of the 19th and 20th century, especially in the field of the 

history of musical criticism. She has published among other a 2 volumes monograph 

‘Polska krytyka muzyczna w latach 1890-1914’ [‘The Polish Musical Criticism 

in 1890–1914’] (Katowice 2002, Cieszyn 2002) and also the monograph ‘Moda na 

«Wiosnę». Poznańska Wiosna Muzyczna 1961-2002’ [‘«Spring»in Vogue. The Musical 

Spring in Poznań 1961–2002’] (Poznań 2003). She is also a musical criticism 

and publicist. Since 1998 has been working as editor of the classical music department 

at the bimonthly ‘Opcje’ [‘Options’], and since 2003 as co-editor of an internet 

magazine ‘De Musica’. During the years 2003–2005 she co-organized in Katowice, 

with Lilianna Moll, three exhibitions devoted to the musical culture of Polish women 

in the 19th century. She is member of the Polish Composers’ Union (PCU) (since 

2003 Secretary of the Central Management Board of Musicologists’ Section and Secretary 

of the Board of the PCU’s Katowice Branch) and International Musicological

Contributors 153 

Society. She lectures at the Frederic Chopin University of Music in Warsaw. Lives 

in Cieszyn. 

Zofia Helman – Professor at the Institute of Musicology Institute, University of 

Warsaw (since 1991), Head of Theory and Aesthetics of the Music Department, 

Deputy Director during the years 1979–87, Director of the Institute of Musicology 

UW during the years 1991–96. Her research interests focus on the history of 

nineteenth- and twentieth-century music, with particular focus on the works of Frederic 

Chopin, Karol Szymanowski and Roman Palester, as well as issues of compositional 

technique and analysis of musical works in relation to the aesthetic thought of 

the period. She is the author of ‘Neoklasycyzm w muzyce polskiej XX wieku’ [‘Neoclassicism 

in Polish Twentieth-Century Music’] (Kraków 1985), ‘Roman Palester. 

Twórca i dzieło’ [‘Roman Palester. The Artist and the Work’] (Kraków 1999), and 

over one hundred research articles in collective volumes and in Polish and foreign 

journals. She was editor of the collection ‘Pieśń w twórczości Karola Szymanowskiego 

i jemu współczesnych’ [‘The Songs of Karol Szymanowski and his Contemporaries’] 

(Kraków 2001, English edition 2002). She edited six volumes of Karol Szymanowski’s 

Works (Polish version: Polskie Wydawnicwo Muzyczne, English-German version: 

PWM, Universal Edition and Max Eschig). She is currently working on a source 

critical edition of Chopin’s correspondence, together with Hanna Wróblewska-Straus 

and Zbigniew Skowron. She is a member of a number of Polish and foreign research 

associations, and a member of the editorial team of ‘Encyklopedia Muzyczna PWM’ 

[‘Music Encyclopedia of Polskie Wydawnictwo Muzyczne’]. 

Stefan Keym, Ph.D., Wissenschaftlicher Assistent at the Institute of Musicology, 

Leipzig University since 2002. He studied musicology, history, and German language 

and literature at the Universities of Mainz, Paris IV (Sorbonne) and Halle. In 

2001 he obtained his doctorate from the Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg 

(Summa cum laude) with a dissertation on ’Farbe und Zeit. Untersuchungen zur 

musiktheatralen Struktur und Semantik von Olivier Messiaens’ «Saint François 

d’Assise»’ (published: Hildesheim 2002), and in 2008 he obtained his Habilitation 

with a dissertation on: ’Symphonie-Kulturtransfer. Untersuchungen zum Studienaufenthalt 

polnischer Komponisten in Deutschland und zu ihrer Auseinandersetzung 

mit der symphonischen Tradition 1867–1918’ (in print). His publications discuss 

the French, German and Polish music of the 18th-20th Centuries (music analysis; 

aesthetics; culture studies), in particular the works of C.P.E. and W.F. Bach, Debussy, 

C. Franck, d’Indy, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Messiaen, Paderewski, Penderecki, 

and Szymanowski.

154 Contributors 

Didier van Moere, born in 1952, lectures on literature and music relations at the 

Stendhal University of Grenoble. He received the Ph. D. degree for the thesis on 

Szymanowski and France. His monography on Szymanowski has been recently published 

by Éditions Fayard. He is also the author of numerous publications on opera. 

As music critic, he collaborates on a regular basis with ‘Avant-Scene Opéra’ and 

the ‘Concertonet.com’ website. Some recent works: ‘Turandot est-elle wagnérienne’, 

Opéra de Bordeaux, 2004; ‘Portrait de Manon en courtisane’, Opéra de Geneve, 

2004; ‘Massenet et le Moyen Âge’, La Fabrique du Moyen Âge, Toulouse, Presses 

universitaires du Mirail, 2005; ‘Maria Stuarta : Donizetti traître a Schiller’, Opéra 

de Geneve, 2005; ‘La Musique polonaise’, L’Harmonie des peuples, Fayard, 2007 

Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek – Professor at the Institute of Musicology of the 

Warsaw University, its Director and Head of the Systematic Musicology Department. 

Leads seminars in the field of ethnomusicology, psychology of music and cognitive 

anthropology. She specializes in ethnomusicology concentrating especially on music 

of Central Asia. Main works: ‘Symbole czasu i przestrzeni w muzyce Azji Centralnej’ 

[‘Symbols of Time and Space in Music of Central Asia’] (Kraków 1987); 

‘Muzyka w procesie przemian tradycji etnicznych Litwinów w Polsce’ [‘Music in 

the Transformations of Ethnic Tradition of Lithuanians in Poland’], in: ‘Kultura 

muzyczna mniejszości narodowych w Polsce: Litwini, Białorusini, Ukraińcy’ [‘Musical 

Culture of National Minorities in Poland: Lithuanians, Belorussians, Ukrainians’], 

ed. S. Żerańska-Kominek, Warszawa 1990 (pp. 13–97); ‘Muzyka w kulturze. 

Wprowadzenie do etnomuzykologii’ [‘Music in Culture. Introduction to Ethnomusicology’ 

(Warszawa 1995); ‘The Tale of Crazy Harman. The Musician and the 

Concept of Music in the Turkmen Epic Tale, Harman Däli’ (Warszawa 1997, coauthor: 

Arnold Lebeuf); ‘Mit Orfeusza. Inspiracje i reinterpretacje w europejskiej 

tradycji artystycznej. Studia pod redakcją Sławomiry Żerańskiej-Kominek’, [‘The 

Orpheus Myth. Inspirations and Reinterpretations in the European Artistic Tradition. 

Studies edited by Sławomira Żerańska-Kominek’] (Gdańsk 2003).

Musicology Today Karol Szymanowski: Works — Reception ...

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