But no: Prokofieff grew. He accepted the environment of his destiny -- took root and grew to fulfill the stature of his early promise. By 1937 he had clarified his intentions to serve his people: ``I have striven for clarity and melodious idiom, but at the same time I have by no means attempted to restrict myself to the accepted methods of harmony and melody. This is precisely what makes lucid, straightforward music so difficult to compose -- the clarity must be new, not old.'' How right he was; how clearly he saw the cultural defection of experimentation as an escape for those who dare not or prefer not to face the discipline of modern traditionalism. And with what resource did Prokofieff back up his Credo of words -- with torrents of powerful music. Compare the vast difference in scope and beauty between his neat and witty little Classical Symphony and his big, muscular, passionate, and eloquent Fifth Symphony; or the Love for Three Oranges (gay as it is) with the wonderful, imaginative, colorful, and subtle tenderness of the magnificent ballet, The Stone Flower. This masterpiece has gaiety, too, but it is the gaiety of dancing people: earthy, salty and humorous.

Of course, these works are not comparable, even though the same brain conceived them. The early works were conceived for a sophisticated, international audience; the later works were conceived to affirm a way of life for fellow citizens. However, in all of Prokofieff's music, young or mature, we find his profile -- his ``signature'' -- his craftsman's attitude. Prokofieff never forsakes his medium for the cause of experimentation per se. In orchestration, he stretches the limits of instrumentation with good judgment and a fine imagination for color. His sense for rhythmic variety and timing is impeccable. His creative development of melodic designs of Slavic dance tunes and love songs is captivating: witty, clever, adroit, and subtle. His counterpoint is pertinent, skillful, and rarely thick.