A week ago we had our exam in Form, which consisted simply of assessments of the work we have produced during the year. I presented my opera scena, a couple of songs, a chorus, a sonata, an Andante, a few pieces - thematic fragments and outlines. If I had also brought some variations, a genre I can't abide, I would have produced more work than anyone, since no one else had done an operatic scena. I was asked to play the sonata: the whole of the first movement, half the second and half the third, then 'Thou wast meek but dangerous', and finally the opening of the operatic scena. I was told that would be enough. Elkan still had to play after me, following which the professors began their deliberations. We were outside the door, but could still hear the odd snatch of discussion. The greatest indignation was aroused by my compositions, Lyadov voicing the strongest objections. 'What is your view?' he was asked. 'I have nothing to say!' he shrieked. 'Nothing to say, and not one of them will I have in my class. No harmony, no form, no music - nothing whatsoever! Monsters, the lot of them!' Everyone then talked at once, followed once again by Lyadov: 'They're all trying to be little Scriabins. Scriabin took twenty years to get where he is, but Prokofiev thinks he can write like that straight out of the cradle!' This was met with silence. Then Lyadov again: 'It's like a procession of elephants!' 'Prokofiev undoubtedly has talent, but the stuff he's writing - the devil only knows what it is!'