ABSTRACT
Some years ago an intelligent far-seeing Russian critic made a startling prediction: that the time would come when Serge Prokofiev, in the halo of European fame, would be welcomed as master in his native country. He was mistaken only in that he allowed fifteen years for the event to happen. In the year 1927, not a decade after Prokofiev went a-wandering around the globe, he visited Russia as a recognized and even loved mastermusician. Who could think of such good fortune for the poor, ugly duckling, Prokofiev might have said, recalling his music and text to Andersen’s fairy-tale.
