Sergey Prokofiev diaries: 28 April 1913

urn:iso:std:iso:639:ed-3:eng

387

text excerpt

Next morning, lying in bed, I felt myself so alone I was close to despair. Yesterday the pain of loss had been alleviated by bitterness at the deception: every single thing my friend had told me about himself, that I had believed implicitly, had been false! But now I forgave him everything in the face on the horror of the loneliness to which I was now condemned. True, the magnificent Max, as he had depicted himself to me, had never existed, but I had no regrets in discarding the myth and easily accommodated myself to the sham of his brilliant exterior. But Max had perished, Max was no more, I was alone, and my God how powerless and helpless I felt myself to be!

This dreadful feeling did not survive the arrival of Karnovich to play through to me his Variations that were to be performed at the Graduation Concert. Thank God the first rehearsal was postponed from Monday until Tuesday, otherwise I should simply have had to refuse to conduct them.

excerpt from 'Sergey Prokofiev diaries: 28 April 1913' pp. 387 (172 words)

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