It is extremely difficult to write about what is perhaps the most brilliant Kharkiv composer and pianist of the first half of the 20th century. After all, very few have been described by music critics in such terms: “a singer of twilight moods, the starry sky, dreaminess, and reveries,” “a musical astrologer, he captures the tremor and charm of mystical forces in their interplay and intertwining radiance,” “independent, resourceful, fantastical, and innovative, like… Debussy,” “music not of this world,” “an impressionist musician”…
Musicologists have written the following about our outstanding fellow townsman:
“Yakymenko’s compositions reveal solid compositional technique, refined taste, stylistic consistency, poeticism, and sincerity of mood.” “At times, the sounds from Akimenko’s piano soar, rise, and fall like real, joyful, and sparkling water droplets…”
Some admired him, while others did not understand him, denounced him, and dismissed him as a mediocrity. During the Soviet era, people simply chose to forget about him—after all, he had emigrated in the 1920s and died in Paris in 1945.
What do we know about the man who considered our city his home, the place where he found fame and success? What does his name—known not only in Kharkiv but throughout the Russian Empire of that time—tell us today? Fedir Stepanovich Yakymenko wrote the following about himself and his life:
I was born on February 8, 1876, in Kharkiv. My father was a pure-blooded Little Russian; my mother was Russian (a peasant woman from the Tula Governorate). I spent the early years of my childhood in my hometown. In 1886, thanks to my fine voice, I was accepted into the Court Chapel, where I received my early musical education…
…When I was still a 10-year-old boy, fate tore me away from my native Kharkiv—which came as a surprise to both me and my loved ones—and I found myself in Petrograd. Thanks to my good voice, I was accepted into the Court Chapel. That was in 1886.
At that time, the Court Chapel was led by Mily Alekseyevich Balakirev, a renowned composer, pianist, conductor, teacher, and leader of the “Mighty Handful.” It was he who became the teacher and friend of the young Fyodor Akimenko. The composer recalled one particularly amusing incident involving his mentor as follows:
I remember one such occasion. I played one of my compositions for Balakirev; he listened to it attentively without saying a word. Later, as we sat at the same table drinking tea, M. A., probably still under the impression of my piece, said to me, “Fedir, did you know that A. Rubinstein wrote ‘The Ocean’? Well, you’ll write ‘The Ekaterininsky Canal.’ General laughter
Akimenko studied so successfully that, at the age of 16 or 17, he was appointed to lead the student orchestra, and he had to conduct at musical evenings before large audiences. From 1896 to 1900, he studied at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, where he completed a course in the composition theory class taught by Professor N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov. From 1903 to 1906, he lived abroad, first in Nice, where he led the church choir at an Orthodox church—composed of French and Italian singers—for two seasons. The musician then moved to Paris and later to Italy. While living in Geneva, Akimenko met the brilliant composer and pianist Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin. Fyodor Stepanovich himself writes about this in his autobiography as follows:
In Geneva, where I spent about half a year, I became close friends with A. N. Skryabin. At my request, A. N. corrected my hand positioning to help me play the piano more effectively. We visited each other, and the time we spent together—sometimes making music, sometimes strolling through the picturesque city of J. J. Rousseau—was, in every sense, an enchanting time for me.
During this period, Fyodor Stepanovich was actively composing music and earned the ironic nickname “Kapel’sky Frenchman” among composers. Since he was a student of the Imperial Court Choir—hence the epithet “Kapel’sky.” He was called “the Frenchman” because his work was strongly influenced by contemporary French music. His former teacher, Rimsky-Korsakov, mockingly referred to his student as “the French composer Yakymenko.”
In the summer of 1906, Alexander Konstantinovich Glazunov wrote to N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov:
Yakymenko was the third to respond; he sent a collection of short piano pieces and several romances. I played through everything note by note and, at my own risk, turned it down, writing a few lines to Yakymenko in which I expressed my deep regret that the direction of his music had so disastrously succumbed to the influence of contemporary French trends; I fear that Yakymenko, like Scriabin, might take offense at me…
Perhaps, upon returning to his homeland, Yakymenko will be cured of his “French ailment”; but if he suffers from delusions of grandeur, then his musical career is doomed. This time I wrote Akimenko one-tenth of what I am telling you; in any case, he won’t believe a word I say, and I don’t want to upset him before his wedding.”
Yesterday, Steinberg came by and played me the finale of the symphony, which I really liked. I suggested a few changes: there were a few rough edges, but they were within the bounds of talent and good taste—unlike those of the Frenchman Yakymenko.
Shortly before returning to his homeland, the composer visited Paris once again. There, he met the famous astronomer and writer Camille Nicolas Flammarion, who had a significant influence on his work.
To the delight of his former teachers, in late 1906 Fyodor Stepanovich returned to his native Kharkiv and began teaching at the music school of the Russian Musical Society. It was there that he gave his first solo concert, featuring a program consisting exclusively of his own compositions. It was in our city that Yakymenko gained recognition.
In his book *Memories of Skryabin*, which primarily covers the last five years of the composer’s life, the renowned musicologist, composer, and music critic Leonid Leonidovich Sabaneev writes the following about our brilliant fellow townsman:
Of those who frequented the Skryabin circle at that time, I recall the composer F. S. Akimenko, who had moved to Moscow for a while and began visiting the Skryabins very often. Akimenko was a very eccentric individual. He was a man completely detached from the “earthly realm.” His thoughts and fantasies revolved in some strange worlds, in a realm that combined astronomy, a certain kind of salon mysticism, and children’s fairy tales. There was a certain original refinement about him… His writings—usually very short and, in essence, rather insubstantial, colorless, and high-society in tone—were given very lofty titles that included seraphim, Saturn’s rings, and nebulae… He apparently had a very high opinion of himself, but his innate outward modesty prevented him from speaking about himself. In this trait, as well as in his general salon-like manner and his penchant for mysticism and the grandiose despite his obvious penchant for the miniature, he bore a certain resemblance to Skryabin —though, of course, without taking into account the magnitude of his own talent. Apparently, Alexander Nikolayevich also saw in Yakymenko a kindred spirit; for some reason, he singled him out among his acquaintances and—even though he was usually so skeptical of his contemporaries’ music—liked to find certain merits in Yakymenko’s rather insipid music. Akimenko witnessed Alexander Nikolayevich’s first performances of the still “piano” version of *Prometheus* and was present for all the mysteries surrounding its creation and publication.
It was quite a sight when these two dreamers would strike up a conversation with each other on various “astral” topics. It was as if they were trying to outdo each other in their detachment from the real world, and it was very strange to listen to them from the sidelines…
…As I have already mentioned, Alexander Nikolayevich’s opinions were usually not very forgiving. More often than not, he derived almost as little pleasure from new music as from the old… In his assessments, he had a strange way of conflating the person with the composer, and in those he knew in one way or another—and who were known as deeply thoughtful and particularly “mystically inclined” people—he was somehow inclined to seek out musical significance as well. For some reason, he singled out the composer Akimenko and treated him with extraordinary leniency; Akimenko was also “something of a mystic” who wrote various “Seraphic Songs” and the like in a rather salon-style manner.
“There’s something about him,” said Alexander Nikolayevich, “though he’s very polished and refined, he does have a certain sophistication…”
Igor Stravinsky’s first teacher. The older brother of the equally brilliant Ukrainian composer and music educator Yakov Stepanovich Stepov. And even the man of whom Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev would say: “…a fool, stupid and provincial.” All of this is our very own brilliant, inexhaustible, yet forgotten Fyodor Stepanovich Akimenko—who created not only beautiful music but equally beautiful aphorisms.
Well, you can listen to recordings of Yakymenko’s work, for example, here:
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