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Title: The Russian Opera

Author: Rosa Newmarch

Release Date: August 14, 2014 [EBook #46587]

Language: English

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              [Illustration: FEODOR IVANOVICH SHALIAPIN]




                                  THE
                             RUSSIAN OPERA

                                  BY

                                 ROSA
                               NEWMARCH

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                             WITH SIXTEEN
                             ILLUSTRATIONS

                        HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
                        ARUNDEL PLACE HAYMARKET
                          LONDON S.W. MCMXIV

                THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX.


                                  TO

                      FEODOR IVANOVICH SHALIAPIN

                      IN MEMORY OF OUR OLD FRIEND

                     VLADIMIR VASSILIEVICH STASSOV




PREFACE


Between January 19th, 1900, and April 4th, 1905, I read before the
Musical Association of London five papers dealing with the Development
of National Opera in Russia, covering a period from the first
performance of Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_ in 1836, to the production
of Rimsky-Korsakov's opera _The Tsar's Bride_, in 1899. These lectures
were illustrated by the following artists: the late Mrs. Henry J. Wood,
Miss Grainger Kerr, Mr. Seth Hughes, Mr. Robert Maitland; Sir (Mr.)
Henry J. Wood and Mr. Richard Epstein at the piano. While using these
lectures as the scaffolding of my present book, I have added a
considerable amount of new material, amassed during ten years
unremitting research into my subject. The additions concern chiefly the
earlier phases of Russian music, and the operas that have appeared since
1900. The volume also contains some account of the foundation of the
nationalist school of composers under the leadership of Balakirev. It
has been my privilege to meet and converse with most of the members of
this circle. I give also a few details about the literary champion of
"the Invincible Band," Vladimir Stassov, under whose guidance I first
studied the history of Russian music. With all modesty I believe I may
claim to have been a pioneer worker in this field. When in 1895 I
published my translation (from the French edition of M. Habets) of
Stassov's book on Borodin, and followed it up in 1897 by a series of
articles--the fruits of my first visit to Russia--in that short-lived
weekly _The Musician_, the literature of the subject was by no means
copious, even in Russia itself; while the daily increasing public in
Western Europe who were anxious to learn something about the remarkable
galaxy of composers newly arisen in the east, based their knowledge and
opinions almost entirely upon César Cui's pamphlet _La Musique en
Russie_, an interesting, but in many respects misleading, statement of
the phenomenon; or upon the views propagated by Rubinstein and his
followers, wherefrom they learnt that the Russians, though musically
gifted, were only represented by incapable amateurs.

Happily for its own enjoyment, the world has grown wiser. The last few
years have witnessed the vindication of Moussorgsky's genius in France
and England; a consummation devoutly wished, but hardly anticipated, by
those who had been convinced from the beginning of the nobility and
sincerity of spirit and motive which entitles his two finished operas to
be regarded as masterpieces. During Sir Joseph Beecham's season of
Russian Opera at Drury Lane last year, Rimsky-Korsakov's early
music-drama _Ivan the Terrible_ ("The Maid of Pskov") made a profound
impression, with Shaliapin in the part of the tyrant Tsar. In the
forthcoming season it is Borodin's turn to be introduced to the British
public, and I confidently predict the success of his lyric opera _Prince
Igor_. So, one by one, these Russians, "eaters of tallow candles, Polar
bears, too long consumers of foreign products, are admitted in their
turn in the character of producers."[1]

In view of the extended interest now felt in Russian opera, drama and
ballet, it has been thought worth while to offer to the public this
outline of the development of a genuine national opera, from the history
of which we have much to learn in this country, both as regards the
things to be attempted and those to be shunned. Too much technical
analysis has been intentionally avoided in this volume. The musician can
supply this deficiency by the study of the scores mentioned in the book,
which, dating from Glinka's time, have nearly all been published and are
therefore accessible to the student; the average opera-goer will be glad
to gain a general view of the subject, unencumbered by the monotonous
terminology of musical analysis.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

THE DAWN OF MUSIC IN RUSSIA

.....PAGE

Primitive music of the Russian Slavs. The four periods of Russian music.
The Skomorokhi or Gleemen. Clerical Intolerance. Church pageants. Tsar
Alexis Mikhaïlovich, the first patron of music and the drama. Biblical
plays with incidental music. Mystery plays of Dmitri of Rostov. Origin
of the Ballet. First public theatre in Russia, 1703......1

CHAPTER II

THE RUSSIAN OPERA PRIOR TO GLINKA

Accession of Empress Anne. Cultivation of the folk melodies. Change of
taste. The Italians bring in secular plays. Feodor Volkov. Music under
Catherine the Great. Fomin and his operas. Berezovsky and Bortniansky.
Further change of taste under Alexander I. Patriotic enthusiasm
following French invasion of 1812. Cavos exploits national melody.
Verstovsky and Alabiev......32

CHAPTER III

MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA

Childhood and education of Glinka. His awakening to music. Early years
in the country. Love of nature. First music lessons. He enters the Civil
Service. Begins to write songs. Visit to Italy. Musical studies in
Berlin......69

CHAPTER IV

GLINKA'S OPERAS

Marriage and home surroundings. _A Life for the Tsar._ Features of the
music. Its reception in Russia. _Prince Kholmsky_ and the songs.
_Russlan and Liudmilla._ Later works. Failure of health. His
interpretation of Russian nationality in music......89

CHAPTER V

DARGOMIJSKY

Alexander Sergeivich Dargomijsky. His meeting with Glinka. Visit to
Paris. _Esmeralda_ and _The Triumph of Bacchus_. Growing interest in
national music. Begins work on Poushkin's _Roussalka_. Second tour in
Western Europe. Balakirev and his circle. _The Stone Guest._ His
treatment of national character as compared with Glinka's......117

CHAPTER VI

SEROV

Musical life in Russia at the time of Glinka and Dargomijsky. Musical
criticism and the academic party. Rapid increase of conservatoires and
schools. Struggle between the young nationalists in music and the
officials to whom foreign composers were supreme. Two great musical
critics, Alexander Serov and Vladimir Stassov. Serov's writings and
compositions. His devotion to Wagner. Production of _Judith_ and
_Rogneda_. Estimate of Serov's music......137

CHAPTER VII

ANTON RUBINSTEIN

Early life and education. His début as a prodigy pianist. Musical
studies in Berlin. Court pianist at St. Petersburg. His early operas.
_Dmitri Donskoi_ and _Thomoushka Dourachok_. Imperial Russian Musical
Society. Biblical operas, _The Tower of Babel_, _The Maccabees_,
_Paradise Lost_, _The Shulamite_. Secular and national operas, _The
Demon_, _Nero_, and _The Merchant Kalashnikov_. Historical Concerts.
Rubinstein's opportunism. Estimate of his work and influence......162

CHAPTER VIII

BALAKIREV AND HIS DISCIPLES

Balakirev. The nationalist circle. Social intercourse. Rimsky-Korsakov.
Goussakovsky. The Free School. Borodin. The Pourgolds. Hostility of the
Press. Solidarity of "the Invincible Band.".....183

CHAPTER IX

PERSONAL MEMORIES OF BALAKIREV'S CIRCLE

Gradual dissolution of the circle of friends. Personal reminiscences of
Balakirev. Individual development of "the Invincible Band." Belaiev.
Lodyjensky. Liadov. Vladimir Stassov. Personal Reminiscences......198

CHAPTER X

MOUSSORGSKY

Two tendencies in Russian opera, the lyrical and the declamatory.
Moussorgsky the disciple of Dargomijsky. Literary and social influences.
Biographical details. Early unfinished operas. _Boris Godounov._
_Khovanstchina._ Rimsky-Korsakov as editor......218

CHAPTER XI

BORODIN AND CUI

Borodin. Biographical details. _Prince Igor._ Comparison of _Igor_ with
Glinka's _Russlan and Liudmilla._ Orientalism and optimism in _Prince
Igor._ Death of Borodin. César Cui. His French descent. Early operas,
_The Mandarin's Son_, _The Captive in the Caucasus_, _William Ratcliff_,
_Angelo_, _The Saracen_. A French opera, _Le Flibustier._ _Mam'selle
Fifi._ Analysis of Cui's style......253

CHAPTER XII

RIMSKY-KORSAKOV

Rimsky-Korsakov's position as a national composer and as a teacher.
Biographical. Joins Balakirev's circle. Leaves the naval service. His
early works. A tone-painter. His first Opera. _The Maid of Pskov_ (Ivan
the Terrible). Accession of the Emperor Alexander III. He encourages
Russian music. _A Night in May._ _The Snow-Maiden_ (Sniegourochka).
_Mlada._ _Christmas Eve Revels._ _Mozart and Salieri._ _Boyarinya Vera
Sheloga._ _Sadko._ _The Tsar's Bride._ _The Legend of Tsar Saltan._ The
use of the _leitmotif_. _Servilia._ _Kastchei the Immortal._ Wagnerian
influence. _Pan Voyevode._ _The Tale of the City of Kitezh._ _The Golden
Cock._.....281

CHAPTER XIII

TCHAIKOVSKY

Tchaikovsky considered apart from the nationalist circle. His early love
of Italian opera. _The Voyevode._ _Undine._ _The Oprichnik._ The
libretto described. _Cherevichek_, or _Le Caprice d'Oxane_. Passing
influence of Balakirev's circle. _Eugene Oniegin._ _The Maid of
Orleans._ The composer's enthusiasm for this opera. _Mazeppa._ Analysis
of the subject. _Charodeika_ (_The Enchantress_). _The Queen of Spades._
_Iolanthe._ Analysis of Tchaikovsky's operatic styles......334

CHAPTER XIV

CONCLUSION

Some minor composers. Napravnik: _The Citizens of Nijny-Novgorod_,
_Harold_, _Doubrovsky_, _Francesca da Rimini_. Blaramberg: _Skomorokhi_,
_The Roussalka-Maiden_, _Toushino_, _The Wave_. Arensky: _A Dream on the
Volga_, _Raphael_, _Nal and Damyanti_. Rachmaninov: _Aleko_.
Grechyaninov: _Dobrynia Nikitich_. Ippolitov-Ivanov: _Ruth_, _Assya_.
Kalinnikov: _The Year 1812_. Taneiev: _Orestes_. Foreign influence in
contemporary Russian music. Rebikov: _In the Storm_, _The Christmas
Tree_. Kazachenko, Korestchenko, Kochetov, Stravinsky. Famous operatic
singers: Platonova, Petrov, Melnikov, the Figners, Shaliapin. Mamantov
and the Moscow Private Opera Company. Great increase of opera companies
in Russia. Concluding observations......362




THE RUSSIAN OPERA




THE RUSSIAN OPERA




CHAPTER I

THE DAWN OF MUSIC IN RUSSIA


The early history of the development of the national music, like that of
most popular movements in Russia, has its aspects of oppression and
conflict with authority. On the one hand we see a strong natural impulse
moving irresistibly towards fulfilment; on the other, a policy of
repression amounting at moments to active persecution. That the close of
the nineteenth century has witnessed the triumph of Russian music at
home and abroad proves how strong was the innate capacity of this
people, and how deep their love of this art, since otherwise they could
never have finally overcome every hindrance to its development. That
from primitive times the Slavs were easily inspired and moved by music,
and that they practised it in very early phases of their civilisation,
their early historians are all agreed. In the legend of "Sadko, the Rich
Merchant" (one of the _byline_ of the Novgorodian Cycle) the hero, a
kind of Russian Orpheus, who suffers the fate of Jonah, makes the
Sea-king dance to the sound of his _gusslee_, and only stays his hand
when the wild gyrations of the marine deity have created such a storm on
earth that all the ships on the ocean above are in danger of being
wrecked. In the "Epic of the Army of Igor," when the minstrel Boyan
sings, he draws "the grey wolf over the fields, and the blue-black eagle
from the clouds." In peace and war, music was the joy of the primitive
Slavs. In the sixth century the Wends told the Emperor in Constantinople
that music was their greatest pleasure, and that on their travels they
never carried arms but musical instruments which they made themselves.
Procopius, the Byzantine historian, describing a night attack made by
the Greeks, A.D. 592, upon the camp of the Slavs, says that the latter
were so completely absorbed in the delights of singing that they had
forgotten to take any precautionary measures, and were oblivious of the
enemy's approach. Early in their history, the Russian Slavs used a
considerable number of musical instruments: the _gusslee_, a kind of
horizontal harp, furnished with seven or eight strings, and the
_svirel_, a reed pipe (chalumet), being the most primitive. Soon,
however, we read of the _goudok_, a species of fiddle with three
strings, played with a bow; the _dombra_, an instrument of the guitar
family, the forerunner of the now fashionable _balalaïka_, the strings
of which were vibrated with the fingers; and the _bandoura_, or _kobza_,
of the Malo-Russians, which had from eight to twenty strings. Among the
primitive wind instruments were the _sourna_, a shrill pipe of Eastern
origin, and the _doudka_, the bagpipe, or cornemuse. The drum, the
tambourine, and the cymbals were the instruments of percussion chiefly
in use.

Berezovsky makes a convenient division of the history of Russian music
into four great periods. The first, within its limits, was purely
national. It included all the most ancient folksongs and _byline_, or
metrical legends; it saw the rise and fall of the _Skomorokhi_, the
minstrels who were both the composers and preservers of these old epics
and songs. This period reached its highest development in the reign of
Vladimir, "The Red Sun," first Christian prince of Russia, about A.D.
988. The second period, which Berezovsky describes as already falling
away from the purely national ideal, dates from the establishment of
Christianity in Russia, at the close of the tenth century, when the folk
music lost much of its independence and fell under Byzantine influence.
Russian music entered upon its third period about the middle of the
eighteenth century; national songs now regained some of their former
importance, but its progress was checked because the tastes of Western
Europe were already paramount in the country. Italian music had reached
the capital and long held the field. The first twenty years of the
nineteenth century witnessed a passionate revival of interest in the
national music, and when, in 1836, Glinka created _A Life for the Tsar_,
he inaugurated a fourth period in the history of national art, the
limits of which have yet to be ultimately defined.

Of the first, the primitive period in Russian music, there are few
records beyond the allusions to the love of minstrelsy which we find in
the earliest known songs and legends of the Russian Slavs. When we reach
the second period, at which the national music entered upon a struggle
with the spiritual authorities, we begin to realise from the intolerance
of the clerical attitude how deeply the art must have already laid hold
upon the spirit of the people. Whether from a desire to be faithful to
oriental asceticism, and to the austere spirit which animated the Church
during the first centuries which followed the birth of Christ, or
because of the need to keep a nation so recently converted, and still so
deeply impregnated with paganism, fenced off from all contaminating
influences, the Church soon waged relentless war upon every description
of profane recreation. The Orthodox clergy were not only opposed to
music, but to every form of secular art. Moreover the folksongs were of
pagan origin; therefore, just as the priests of to-day still look
askance at the songs and legends of the Brittany peasants which
perpetuate the memory of heathen customs, so the Byzantine monks of the
eleventh century, and onwards, denounced the national songs of Russia as
being hostile to the spirit of Christianity. Songs, dances, and
spectacular amusements were all condemned. Even at the weddings of the
Tsars, as late as the seventeenth century, dancing and singing were
rigorously excluded, only fanfares of trumpets, with the music of flutes
and drums, and fireworks, being permitted. Professor Milioukhov, in his
"Sketch for a History of Russian Culture," quotes one of the austere
moralists of mediæval times who condemns mirth as a snare of the evil
one; "laughter does not edify or save us; on the contrary it is the ruin
of edification. Laughter displeases the Holy Spirit and drives out
virtue, because it makes men forget death and eternal punishment. Lord,
put mirth away from me; give me rather tears and lamentations." So
persistent and effectual was the repression of all secular enjoyments
that one monkish chronicler was able to remark with evident satisfaction
that, for the time being, "there was silence in all the land of
Russia."

Under these conditions the primitive music had little chance of
development. Driven from the centres of dawning civilisation, it took
refuge in forest settlements and remote villages. With it fled the bards
and the mummers, the gleemen--those "merry lads" as the Russians called
them--so dear to the hearts of the people. These musicians were
originally of two classes: minstrels and _gusslee_ players (harpists),
such as the famous Skald, Bayan; and the _Skomorokhi_, or mummers, who
sang and juggled for the diversion of the people. In course of time we
find allusions to several subdivisions in the band of _Skomorokhi_, all
of which may now be said to have their modern equivalents in Russia.
There was the _Skomorokh-pievets_, or singer of the mythical or heroic
songs, who afterwards became absorbed into the ranks of the poets with
the rise of a school of poetry at the close of the sixteenth century;
the _Skomorokh-goudets_, who played for dancing, and was afterwards
transformed into the orchestral player, exchanging his _gusslee_
or _dombra_ for some more modern western instrument; the
_Skomorokh-plyassoun_, the dancer, now incorporated in the
corps-de-ballet; and the _Skomorokh-gloumosslovets_, the buffoon or
entertainer, who eventually became merged in the actor.

Monkish persecution could not entirely stamp out the love of music in
the land. To attain that end it would have been necessary to uproot the
very soul of the nation. Despite the fulminations of the clergy, the
nobles still secretly cherished and patronised their singers, who
beguiled the tedium of the long winters in their _poteshni palati_.
These dependents of the aristocracy were the first actors known to the
Russians. At the same time such fanatical teaching could not fail to
alter in some degree the temper of a people wholly uneducated and prone
to superstition. The status of the minstrels gradually declined. They
ceased to be "welcome guests" in hut and hall, and the _Skomorokhi_
degenerated into companies of roving thieves, numbering often from fifty
to a hundred, who compelled the peasants to supply them with food, as
they moved from place to place, driven onward by their clerical
denunciators. By way of compromise, the gleemen now appear to have
invented a curious class of song which they called "spiritual," in which
pagan and Christian sentiments were mingled in a strange and unedifying
jumble. The pure delight of singing having been condemned as a sin, and
practised more or less _sub rosa_, the standard of songs became very
much corrupted. The degeneracy of music and kindred forms of recreation
was most probably the outcome of this intolerant persecution. But though
they had helped to bring about this state of affairs, there was no
doubt something to be said for the attitude of the clergy, if we may
believe the testimony of western travellers in Russia in the sixteenth
century. The minstrels in the service of the richer nobles deteriorated
as a class, and claimed their right to give entertainments in towns and
villages, which were often of scandalous coarseness and profanity. The
same may be said of the puppet-shows (_Koukolnaya teatr_), of somewhat
later date, the abominable performances of which shocked the traveller
Adam Olearius when he accompanied the ambassador sent by Frederick Duke
of Holstein to the Great Duke of Muscovy in 1634 and 1636. The long
struggle between spiritual authority and the popular craving for secular
recreation continued until the reign of Alexis Mikhaïlovich (1645-1676).

In a measure the Church was successful in turning the thoughts of the
people from worldly amusements to the spiritual drama enacted within her
doors. During these long dark centuries, when Russia had neither
universities nor schools, nor any legitimate means of recreation, the
people found a dramatic sensation in the elaborate and impressive ritual
of the Orthodox Church. Patouillet, in his book "Le Théâtre de Moeurs
Russes," says: "the iconostasis, decorated with paintings, erected
between the altar and the faithful, resembles, with its three doors, an
antique proscenium. The 'imperial' door, reserved for the officiating
priest, and formerly for the Emperor, recalls by its name, if not by its
destination, the 'royal' entrance of the Greek theatre. Thus there is,
as it were, a double scene being enacted, one which takes place before
the eyes of the congregation, the other hidden from them during certain
portions of the ritual, particularly at the moment of the 'Holy
Mysteries' (the Consecration of the elements). These alternations of
publicity and mystery; the celebrant reappearing and disappearing; the
deacon, who goes in and out at the side doors and stands upon the
_Ambon_, like a kind of [Greek: logeion], to declare the divine word to
the assembled Christians, dialoguing sometimes with them, sometimes with
the officiating priest; the double choir of singers, arranged even in
this day on each side of the iconostasis, and finally the attitude of
the faithful themselves--rather that of a crowd of spectators than of
participants--all these details formed a spectacle full of dramatic
interest in times of simple faith."

On certain religious festivals, allegorical representations, such as the
Washing of the Feet and the Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem, were
enacted in public places. The early marriage service of the Orthodox
Church, with its pompous religious ceremonial and social customs, such
as the pretended lamentations of the bride, and the choruses of the
young girls, held distinctly dramatic elements. In these ecclesiastical
ceremonies and social usages may be traced the first germs of the
Russian drama.

In Western Russia we find the school drama (Shkolnaya-drama) established
in the ecclesiastical Academy of Kiev as early as the close of the
fifteenth century. The students used to recite the events of the
Nativity in public places and illustrate their words by the help of the
_Vertep_, a kind of portable retable on which were arranged figures
representing the Birth of Christ. The Passion of Our Lord was
represented in the same way, and the recital was interspersed with
choral singing, and not infrequently with interludes of a secular or
comic nature. This form of drama had found its way into Russia from
Poland. In 1588 Giles Fletcher, Queen Elizabeth's ambassador to Russia,
gives an account of a representation in Moscow, which reminds us of the
Scoppio del Carro, the Easter ceremony at Florence, when a mechanical
dove carrying the "Pazzi fire," lit from the sacred flint brought back
from the Holy Sepulchre, is set rushing along a wire from the altar to
the car, hung about with fireworks, which stands outside the great West
Door of the Duomo. When the bird comes in contact with the car the
pyrotechnical display is ignited, and if all goes without a hitch the
vintage and harvest will prosper.

Says Fletcher: "The weeke before the Nativitie of Christ every bishop in
his cathedral church setteth forth a shew of the three children in the
oven.[2] Where the Angell is made to come flying from the roof of the
church, with great admiration of the lookers-on, and many terrible
flashes of fire are made with rosen and gun-powder by the Chaldeans (as
they call them), that run about the town all the twelve days, disguised
in their plaiers coats, and make much good sport for the honour of the
bishop's pageant. At the Mosko, the emperour himselfe and the empress
never faile to be at it, though it be but the same matter plaid every
yeere, without any new invention at all."

Dr. Giles Fletcher was a member of the family so well-known in the
history of English literature; he was the uncle of John Fletcher, the
dramatist, and the father of Phineas Fletcher, the author of the poem
"The Purple Island." How naïve and almost barbarous must this Russian
mystery play have seemed to the Englishman who had probably witnessed
some of the innumerable comedies, tragi-comedies, farces, and tragedies
which were then enacted at home in the universities, the Inns of Court,
and elsewhere; and who may very likely already have frequented the
theatre in Blackfriars or Shoreditch, and seen the plays of Marlowe and
Greene, although as yet hardly anything of Shakespeare!

Ivan the Terrible (1533-1584), who first sent for printers from Germany
and published the earliest Russian book (containing the Acts of the
Apostles and the Epistles) in 1564, did nothing towards the secular
education of his Court or of the people. Nor was there much progress in
this respect in the reign of Boris Godounov (1598-1605). Secular
dramatic art continued to be discouraged by the Church, without any
patronage being accorded to it in high places until the reign of Alexis
Mikhaïlovich. This prince, who may justly be called the founder of a
national theatre in Russia, showed a real interest in the fine arts. He
summoned a few musicians to Moscow, who taught the Russians the use of
instruments hitherto unused by them. This encouragement of music at his
Court provoked a final outburst of clerical intolerance. In 1649, by
order of the Patriarch Joseph, all the musical instruments in the city
of Moscow were confiscated and burnt in the open market place. Those
belonging to the Tsar's private band were spared, perhaps from a fear of
offending their royal patron, but more probably because their owners,
being Germans, were welcome to go to perdition in their own way.

When we come to the middle of the seventeenth century and the advent of
the enlightened Alexis Mikhaïlovich, the history of Russian drama, so
closely associated with that of its opera, assumes a more definite
outline. This prince married Natalia Naryshkin, the adopted daughter of
the Boyard Artamon Matveiev. Matveiev's wife was of Scottish origin--her
maiden name was Hamilton--so that the outlook of this household was
probably somewhat cosmopolitan. The Tsaritsa Natalia was early
interested in the theatre; partly perhaps because she had heard of it
from her adopted parents, but most probably her taste was stimulated by
witnessing one of the performances which were given from time to time
among the foreigners in the German quarter of Moscow. Lord Carlisle, in
his "Relation of Three Embassies from His Majesty Charles II. to the
Great Duke of Moscovy," makes mention of one of these performances in
1664. He says: "Our Musique-master composed a Handsome Comedie in Prose,
which was acted in our house."

Travelled nobles and ambassadors also told of the great enjoyment
derived from the theatre in Western Europe. Likhatchev, who was sent to
Florence in 1658, wrote with naïve enthusiasm of an opera which he had
seen there; but he seems to have been more impressed by the scenic
effects, which included a moving sea filled with fish, and a vanishing
palace, than by the music which accompanied these wonders. Potemkin, who
represented the Tsar at the Court of the Grand Monarque, saw Molière's
company in "Amphitryon" in 1668, and doubtless communicated his
impressions to his sovereign. But before this date, as early as 1660,
Alexis Mikhaïlovich had given orders to an Englishman in his service to
engage for him "Master Glassblowers, Master Engravers and Master Makers
of comedies." It was long, however, before Russia actually attained to
the possession of this last class of workers. Finally, incited by his
wife's tastes, by the representations of his more polished nobles, and
not a little by personal inclinations, Alexis issued an _Oukaz_, on May
15th, 1672, ordering Count Von-Staden to recruit in Courland all kinds
"of good master workmen, together with very excellent skilled
trumpeters, and masters who would know how to organise plays."
Unfortunately the reputation of Russia as a dwelling-place was not
attractive. Doubtless the inhabitants of Eastern Europe still spoke with
bated breath of the insane cruelties of Ivan the Terrible which had
taken place a hundred years earlier. At any rate the Courlanders showed
no great anxiety to take service under the Tsar, and Staden returned
from his mission to Riga and other towns, in December, 1672, with only
"one trumpeter" and "four musicians." Nevertheless the _Oukaz_ itself is
an important landmark in the cultural evolution of Russia, marking,
according to Tikhonraviev, the end of her long term of secular isolation
as regards the drama. These five imported musicians formed the nucleus
of what was to expand one day into the orchestra of the Imperial Opera.

Alexis Mikhaïlovich was evidently impatient to see some kind of drama
enacted at his Court; for in June of the same year, without waiting for
"the masters who would know how to organise plays," he determined to
celebrate the birthday of his son Peter--later to be known as Peter the
Great--with a theatrical performance. The Tsar therefore commissioned
Yagan (otherwise Johann) Gottfried Gregory, one of the protestant
pastors residing in the German quarter of Moscow, to write a play, or
"act" as it is described in the Tsar's edict, dealing with the Biblical
subject of Esther. As a temporary theatre, a room was specially arranged
at Preobrajensky, a village on the outskirts of Moscow which now forms
part of the city. Red and green hangings, carpets and tapestries of
various sorts were lent from the Tsar's household to decorate the walls
and the seats of honour; the bulk of the audience, however, had to
content themselves with bare wooden benches. The scenery was painted by
a Dutchman named Peter Inglis, who received the pompous title of
"Master-Perspective-Maker." The Boyard Matveiev, the Tsaritsa's adoptive
father, took an active interest in the organisation of this primitive
theatre, and was appointed about this time, "Director of the Tsar's
Entertainments," being in fact the forerunner of the later "Intendant"
or Director of the Imperial Opera. Pastor Gregory, aided by one or two
teachers in the German school, wrote the text of a "tragi-comedy"
entitled _The Acts of Artaxerxes_. Gregory, who had been educated at the
University of Jena, probably selected just such a subject as he had been
accustomed to see presented in German theatres in his early youth.
Although he had long resided in Moscow he does not seem to have acquired
complete command of the Russian language, which was then far from being
the subtle and beautiful medium of expression which it has since become.
The tragi-comedy was written in a strange mixture of Russian and German,
and we read that he had the assistance of two translators from the
Chancellery of Ambassadors. A company numbering sixty-four untrained
actors was placed at his service; they were drawn from among the
children of foreign residents and from the better class of tradesfolk.
Music evidently played an important part in the performance; the
orchestra consisting of Germans, and of servants from Matveiev's
household who played on "organs, viols and other instruments." The
organist of the German church, Simon Gutovsky, was among the musicians.
A chorus also took part in the play, consisting of the choir of the
Court Chapel, described as "the Imperial Singing-Deacons."

The actual performance of _The Acts of Artaxerxes_ took place on October
17th, 1672 (O.S.), and is said to have lasted ten hours, making demands
upon the endurance of the audience which puts Wagnerian enthusiasts
completely to shame. The Tsar watched the spectacle with unflagging
attention and afterwards generously rewarded those who had taken part in
the performance. The attitude of the clergy had so far changed that the
Tsar's chaplain, the Protopope Savinov, undertook to set at rest his
master's last scruples of conscience by pointing to the example of the
Greek emperors and other potentates.

Gaining courage, and also a growing taste for this somewhat severe form
of recreation, Alexis went on to establish a more permanent theatrical
company. In the following year (1673) Pastor Gregory was commanded to
instruct twenty-six young men, some drawn from the clerks of the
Chancellery of State, others from the lower orders of the merchants or
tradespeople, who were henceforth to be known as "the Comedians of His
Majesty the Tsar." At first the audience consisted only of the favoured
intimate circle of the Tsar, and apparently no ladies were present; but
after a time the Tsaritsa and the Tsarevnas were permitted to witness
the performance from the seclusion of a Royal Box protected by a
substantial _grille_. The theatre was soon transferred from
Preobrajensky to the Poteshny Dvorets in the Kremlin.

_The Acts of Artaxerxes_ was followed by a series of pieces, nearly all
of a highly edifying nature, written or arranged by Gregory and others:
_Tobias_, _The Chaste Joseph_, _Adam and Eve_, _Orpheus and Eurydice_
(with couplets and choruses) and _How Judith cut off the head of
Holofernes_. The libretto of the last-named play is still in existence,
and gives us some idea of the patient endurance of primitive
theatre-goers in Russia. It is in seven acts, subdivided into
twenty-nine scenes, with a prologue and an interlude between the third
and fourth acts; the characters number sixty-three; all the female parts
were acted by youths. The libretto is constructed more or less on the
plan of the German comedies of the period, but what gives the piece a
special importance in the history of Russian opera is the fact that it
contains arias and choruses linked with the action of the piece, such as
the Song of the Kings, in which they bewail their sad fate when taken
captive by Holofernes, a soldier's Drinking Song, a Love-Song sung by
Vagav at Judith's feast, and a Jewish Song of Victory, the words of
which are paraphrased from Biblical sources. The author is supposed,
without much foundation in fact, to have been Simeon Polotsky, of whom
we shall hear later. The piece was probably translated from German
sources. A custom was then started, which prevailed for a considerable
time in Russia, of confiding the translation of plays to the clerks in
the Chancellery of the Ambassadors, which department answered in some
measure to our Foreign Office. The composer of the music is unknown, but
Cheshikin, in his "History of Russian Opera," considers himself fully
justified in describing it as the _first Russian opera_. Two hundred
years later Serov composed a popular opera on the subject of Judith, an
account of which will be found on page 150.

All the Russian operas of the eighteenth century follow this style of
drama, or comedy, with some musical numbers interpolated; it is the type
of opera which is known in Germany as the _Singspiel_. As _Judith_
represents the prototype of many succeeding Russian operas, a few
details concerning it will not be out of place here. The work is
preserved in manuscript in the Imperial Public Library. It is evident
that the dramatic action was strongly supported by the music; for
instance, to quote only one scenic direction in the piece, "Seloum beats
the drum and cries aloud," alarm is here expressed by the aid of
trumpets and drums. The action develops very slowly, and the heroine
does not appear until the fourth act. In Act I. Nebuchadnezzar and his
great men take counsel about the invasion of Judea; the king summons
Holofernes and appoints him leader of his army. In Act II. the
sufferings of the Jews are depicted; and the embassy to Holofernes from
the Asiatic kings. Act III. is concerned with the speech which the
God-fearing man Achior delivers in honour of Israel, in the presence of
Holofernes; and with the wrath of the leader who orders the punishment
of Achior. Act IV. contains a conversation between Judith and her
handmaiden Arboya about the miserable plight of Judea. In Act V. occurs
the Lament of Israel: Judith persuades the people not to capitulate to
Holofernes and prays God to come to their rescue. Act VI., Judith's
Farewell to the Jewish Elders, and her departure for the camp of
Holofernes; she slays Holofernes and the Jews return to Bethulia. The
whole work concludes with Israel's Song of Victory. Side by side with
these dramatic scenes are interpolated comic interludes in the
characteristic German style of the seventeenth century. The language
contains many Germanisms and South Russian locutions, as though the
translator had been a Malo-Russian. The piece is certainly tedious and
contains much sententious moralising, with a reflection of sentiment
which seems to belong peculiarly to the Orthodox Church. The pious tone
of the work was indispensable at that period, and it was not until the
Tsar's patronage of the drama became more assured that Pastor Gregory
ventured on the production of a secular play founded on a distant echo
of Marlowe's "Tamerlane the Great" (1586), written on the same lines as
_Judith_, and containing also musical numbers.

Besides pieces of the nature of the Singspiel, Patouillet tells us that
there were ballets at the Court of Alexis Mikhaïlovich. School dramas
were in vogue at the Ecclesiastical Academy (of Zaikonospasskaya), for
which Simeon Polotsky, and later on Daniel Touptalo (afterwards
canonised as Saint Dimitri of Rostov), wrote sacred plays. Polotsky,
educated at the Academy of Kiev, joined the Ecclesiastical School of
Moscow, in 1660, as professor of Latin. He adapted, or wrote, _St.
Alexis_, _Nebuchadnezzar_, _The Golden Calf, and the Three Children who
were not consumed in the Fiery Furnace_, and _The Prodigal Son_. The
last-named play was undoubtedly performed before the Court, and was
reprinted in 1685 with a number of plates showing the costumes of the
actors and spectators.

Dimitri of Rostov, who was also a student at Kiev, composed a series of
Mystery Plays with rhymed verse. _The Prodigal Son_, by Simeon Polotsky,
says Patouillet, "had interludes which have not been preserved, and in
Dimitri of Rostov's _Nativity_, the scene of the Adoration of the
Shepherds was long in favour on account of a certain naïve folk-style of
diction" None of these plays can be claimed as literature, but they are
interesting as marking the transition from sacred to secular drama, and
in some of them there was a faint reflection of contemporary manners.
But this was not a spontaneous or popular movement; it was merely a
Court ordinance. The clerks and artisans who were trained as actors
often took part in these spectacles against the wish of their parents,
who were only partly reconciled by the Tsar's example to seeing their
sons adopt what they had long been taught to regard as a disorderly and
irreligious career. Because the movement had no roots in the life of the
people it could not flourish healthily. When Alexis died in 1670, the
"Chamber of Comedians" was closed, Matveiev was exiled, and there was a
reaction in favour of asceticism.

But the impetus had been given, and henceforth the drama was never to be
entirely banished from Russian life. Some of the westernised Boyards now
maintained private theatres--just as their ancestors had maintained the
bards and the companies of _Skomorokhi_--in which were played pieces
based upon current events or upon folk legends; while the School Drama
long continued to be given within the walls of the Ecclesiastical
Academy of Zaikonospasskaya. Thus the foundations of Russian dramatic
art, including also the first steps towards the opera and the ballet,
were laid before the last decade of the seventeenth century.

The advent of Peter the Great to the throne was not on the whole
favourable to music. The fine arts made no special appeal to the
utilitarian mind of this monarch. Music had now ceased to be regarded as
one of the seven deadly sins, but suffered almost a worse fate, since in
the inrush of novel cosmopolitan ideas and customs the national songs
seem for a time to have been completely forgotten. With the drama things
advanced more quickly. Peter the Great, who conceived his mission in
life to be the more or less forcible union of Russia with Western
Europe, realised the importance of the theatre as a subordinate means
to this end. During his travels abroad he had observed the influence
exercised by the drama upon the social life of other countries. In 1697
he was present at a performance of the ballet "Cupidon," at Amsterdam,
and in Vienna and London he heard Italian opera, which was just coming
into vogue in this country, and waxed enthusiastic over the singing of
our prima donna Cross. During his sojourn in Vienna he took part
himself, attired in the costume of a Friesland peasant, in a pastoral
pageant (_Wirthschaft_) given at the Court. Thus the idea of
reorganising the "Comedians' Chamber" founded by his father was
suggested to him. As Alexis had formerly sent Von-Staden to find foreign
actors for Russia, so Peter now employed a Slovak, named Splavsky, a
captain in the Russian army, on a similar mission. The Boyard Golovin
was also charged with the erection of a suitable building near to the
Kremlin. After two journeys, Splavsky succeeded in bringing back to
Russia a German troupe collected by an _entrepreneur_ in Dantzig, Johann
Christian Kunst. At first the actors were as unwilling to come as were
those of a previous generation, having heard bad accounts of the country
from a certain Scottish adventurer, Gordon, who had been connected with
a puppet-show, and who seems to have been a bad character and to have
been punished with the knout for murder. Finally, in April, 1702, Kunst
signed a contract by which his principal comedians undertook for the
yearly sum of about 4,200 roubles in the present currency "to make it
their duty like faithful servants to entertain and cheer His Majesty the
Tsar by all sorts of inventions and diversions, and to this end to keep
always sober, vigilant and in readiness." Kunst's company consisted of
himself, designated "Director of the Comedians of His Majesty the Tsar,"
his wife Anna, and seven actors. Hardly had he settled in Moscow before
he complained that Splavsky had hastened his departure from Germany
before he had had time or opportunity to engage good comedians skilled
in "singing-plays." The actors played in German, but a certain number of
clerks in the Chancellery of the Embassies were sent to Kunst to be
taught the repertory in Russian. It was not until 1703 that the first
public theatre in Russia, a wooden building, was erected near the
Kremlin in Moscow. Meanwhile the plays were given at the residence of
General Franz Lefort, in the German quarter of the city. Here, on the
occasion of the state entry of Peter into Moscow, Kunst performed
_Alexander and Darius_, followed by _The Cruelty of Nero_, a comedy in
seven acts, _Le Médecin malgré lui_, and _Mahomet and Zulima_, a comedy
interspersed with songs and dances. The new theatre was a genuine
attempt on the part of the Tsar Peter to bring this form of
entertainment within reach of a larger public than the privileged circle
invited to witness the plays given at the Court of Alexis. For the
country and period, the installation was on quite a sumptuous scale.
There were seats at four prices: ten, six, five and three kopecks. In
1704 there were two performances in the week which usually lasted about
five hours, from five to ten p.m. Peter the Great gave orders in 1705
that the pieces should be given alternately in Russian and German, and
that at the performance of the plays "the musicians were to play on
divers instruments." Russians of all ranks, and foreigners, were bidden
to attend "as they pleased, quite freely, having nothing to fear." On
the days of performance the gates leading into the Kremlin, the
Kitaï-gorod and the Bieli-gorod were left open till a later hour in
order to facilitate the passage of theatre-goers. From the outset Kunst
demanded facilities for the mounting of opera, and also an orchestra.
Seven musicians were engaged by special contract in Hamburg and an agent
was commissioned "to purchase little boys in Berlin with oboes and
pipes." By this time a few Russian magnates had started private bands in
imitation of those maintained by some of the nobility in Germany.
Prince Gregory Oginsky contributed four musicians from his private band
for the royal service in Moscow. To the director of the musicians from
Hamburg, Sienkhext, twelve Russian singers were handed over to be taught
the oboe. We learn nothing as to the organisation of a company of
singers, because in all probability, in accordance with the custom of
those days, the actors were also expected to be singers.

In the comedy of _Scipio Africanus_, and _The Fall of Sophonisba_, _The
Numidian Queen_, an adaptation from Loenstein's tragedy _Sophonisba_
(1666), short airs and other incidental music formed part of the play.
Music also played a subordinate part in an adaptation of Cicconini's
tragic opera _Il tradimento per l'honore, overo il vendicatore pentito_
(Bologna, 1664), and in an adaptation of Molière's _Don Juan_. These and
other pieces from the repertory of the day were culled from various
European sources, but almost invariably passed into the Russian through
the intermediary of the German language. The work continued to be
carried on in the Chancellery of the Embassies, where alone could be
found men with some knowledge of foreign tongues. The translations were
perfunctory and inaccurate, and there is no literary vitality whatever
in the productions of this period, unless it is found in the interludes
of a somewhat coarse humour which found more favour with the
uncultivated public than did the pieces themselves. Simeon Smirnov was
the first Russian who wrote farcical interludes of this kind, which were
almost as rough and scandalous as the plays of the _Skomorokhi_ of
earlier centuries. It cannot be proved that in the time of Peter the
Great an opera in the sense of a drama in which music preponderated was
ever put upon the stage, but it is an undoubted fact, according to
Cheshikin, that there exists the manuscript of a libretto for an opera
on the subject of Daphne. It seems to be the echo of what had taken
place in Florence at least a hundred years previously, when translations
of the book of "Daphne," composed by Caccini and Peri in 1594, gradually
made their way into various parts of Europe. In 1635 we hear of its
being given in Warsaw in the original Italian, and two or three years
later it was translated into Polish, running through three editions;
from one of these it was put into Russian early in the eighteenth
century by an anonymous author. The manuscript of the translation exists
in the Imperial Public Library, under one of the usual voluminous titles
of the period, _Daphnis pursued by the love of Apollo is changed into a
laurel bush_, or _the Act of Apollo and the fair Daphne; how Apollo
conquered the evil snake Python and was himself overcome by little
Cupid_. It bears the signature of one Dimitri Ilyinski, graduate of the
Slaviano-Latin Academy of Moscow, who appears to have been merely the
copyist, not the author, and the date "St. Petersburg, 1715." The pupils
of this Academy kept alive for some time the traditions of the "School
Drama" side by side with the official theatre subsidised by the state.
The plays continued to consist chiefly of Biblical episodes, and were
usually so framed as to be a defence of the Orthodox Church. They were
given periodically and were bare of all reference to contemporary life.
Side by side with these we may place the allegorical and panegyrical
plays performed by the medical students of the great hospital in Moscow.
Crude as were the productions of these two institutions they represent,
however, the more spontaneous movement of the national life rather than
the purely imported literary wares of the official theatre.

Kunst died in 1703, and was succeeded by Otto Fürst, whose Russian name
was Artemiem. He was a fair Russian scholar, and in a short time the
company became accustomed to playing in the vernacular. But it cannot be
said that this tentative national theatre was truly a success. It was a
hothouse plant, tended and kept alive by royal favour, and when the Tsar
removed his Court to St. Petersburg it gradually failed more and more to
hold the attention of the public. The theatre in the Red Square was
demolished before 1707. Fürst's company, however, continued to give
performances at Preobrajensky, the residence of the Tsarevna Natalia
Alexseievna, youngest sister of Peter the Great, and later on at the
palace of the Tsaritsa Prascovya Feodorovna at Ismailov. The private
theatre of this palace was never closed during the life of the widowed
Tsaritsa, who died in 1723. Her eldest daughter, the Duchess of
Mecklenburg, was fond of all sorts of gaiety; while her second daughter,
the Duchess of Courland, afterwards the Empress Anne of Russia, who
often visited her mother at Ismailov, was also a lover of the theatre.
The ladies in waiting joined Fürst's pupils in the performance of plays,
while the Duchess of Mecklenburg frequently acted as stage manager. The
entrance was free, and although the places were chiefly reserved for the
courtiers, the public seems to have been admitted somewhat
indiscriminately, if we can believe the account of the page in waiting,
Bergholds, who says that once his tobacco was stolen from his pocket and
that two of his companions complained of losing their silk
handkerchiefs.

About 1770 a theatrical company, consisting entirely of native actors
and actresses, was established in St. Petersburg under the patronage of
the Tsarevna Natalia Alexseievna, who herself wrote two plays for them
to perform. This princess did all in her power to second the efforts of
Peter the Great to popularise the drama. In 1720 the Tsar sent
Yagoujinsky to Vienna to raise a company of actors who could speak
Czech, thinking that they would learn Russian more quickly than the
Germans, but the mission was not successful. In 1723 a German company,
under the direction of Mann, visited the new capital and gave
performances in their own tongue. They were patronised by the Empress
Catherine I. At that time the Duke of Holstein, who afterwards married
the Tsarevna Anne, was visiting St. Petersburg, and the Court seem to
have frequently attended the theatre; but there is no definite record of
Mann's company giving performances of opera. A new theatre was
inaugurated in St. Petersburg in 1725, the year of Peter the Great's
death.




CHAPTER II

RUSSIAN OPERA PRIOR TO GLINKA


The history of Russian music enters upon a new period with the
succession of the Empress Anne. The national melodies now began to be
timidly cultivated, but the inauguration of a native school of music was
still a very remote prospect, because the influence of Western Europe
was now becoming paramount in Russian society. Italian music had just
reached the capital, and there, as in England, it held the field against
all rivals for many years to come.

Soon after her coronation, in 1732, the pleasure-loving Empress Anne
organised private theatricals in her Winter Palace and wrote to Bishop
Theofane Prokovich, asking him to supply her with three church singers.
The piece given was a "school drama" entitled _The Act of Joseph_, and
in its mounting and composition, a famous pupil of the Slaviano-Latin
Academy took part, Vassily Cyrillovich Trediakovsky, poet and
grammarian, and one of the first creators of the literary language of
Russia. The rest of the actors consisted of the singers lent by the
Bishop and of pupils selected from the Cadet Corps, among them Peter and
Carl, sons of Anne's favourite, Biron. Some of the actors' parts are
still in existence, with descriptions of their costumes, and details as
to the requirements of the piece, which seem to show that the entire
Biblical story of Joseph was presented, and that some allegorical
personages such as Chastity, Splendour, Humility, and Envy, were
introduced into the play. Splendour was attired in a red cloth garment,
slashed and trimmed with silver braid; Chastity was in white without
ornaments, crowned with a laurel wreath and carrying a sheaf of lilies.
Besides Jacob, Joseph, and his Brethren, there were parts for King
Pharaoh and two of his senators, Wise Men, slaves, attendants, and an
executioner, who, we read, was clad in a short tunic of red linen and
wore a yellow cap with a feather.

These old-fashioned, edifying plays soon bored the Empress Anne. Italian
actors appeared at the Court and gave amusing comedies, occasionally
containing musical interludes. The Empress employed Trediakovsky to
translate the pieces that were played before her; for she was no Italian
scholar. The new form of entertainment was so much to her liking that
she determined to establish a permanent Italian company in St.
Petersburg, and was the first to open a theatre in Russia exclusively
for opera. This brings upon the scene a personality inseparably linked
with the history of Russian opera: Francesco Araja, who is the first
palpable embodiment of operatic music in Russia, for all his
predecessors who composed for the plays of Kunst and Fürst have remained
anonymous.

Araja was born at Naples in 1700. His first opera, _Berenice_, was given
at the Court of Tuscany in 1730; his second, _Amore per Regnante_, was
produced soon afterwards in Rome. This seemed to have attracted the
attention of the Russian ambassador to Italy, and in 1735 the composer
was invited to St. Petersburg as director of the new Italian opera
company. The performances took place in the Winter Palace during the
winter, and in the summer in the Theatre of the Summer Garden. It is
possible that Araja's first season opened with a performance of one of
his own works with Russian text. Trediakovsky's translation of _La Forza
dell'Amore e dell'Odio_ is described as "a drama for music performed at
the New Theatre, by command of Her Imperial Highness Anna Johannovna,
Autocrat of all the Russias. Published in St. Petersburg by the Imperial
Academy of Science." It is not impossible that this comparatively
unimportant work actually led to Trediakovsky's great literary
innovation: the replacing of syllabic verse by tonic accent. It is
significant that his book on this subject came out in the same year, and
Cheshikin thinks that the study of the Italian opera of the eighteenth
century, with its correct versification, may have suggested to him the
theories which he sets forth in it. The same opera was given two years
later in Italian under the title of _Abizare_. Other operas by Araja
given in the Russian language are _Seleucus_ (1744), _Mithriadates_
(1747), _Eudocia Crowned, or Theodosia II._ (1751), and _Dido Forsaken_,
the libretto by Metastasio (1758); the last named was given in Moscow
the following year, and was apparently the first of Araja's works to be
heard in the old capital.

The Empress Elizabeth succeeded her cousin Anne in 1741, and Araja
continued to be Court Capellmeister. Like Peter the Great, Elizabeth was
anxious to popularise the drama in Russia. She showed a taste for Gallic
art, and established a company which gave French comedies and tragedies
alternately with Araja's opera company. Elizabeth urged her ladies in
waiting to attend every performance, and occasionally announced that the
upper classes among the merchants might be present on certain nights
"provided they were properly dressed."[3]

Russian opera made a decided step in advance when in 1751 Araja
composed music to a purely Russian text. The subject, _La Clemenza di
Tito_, which Mozart subsequently treated in 1791, had nothing in common
with the national life, but the libretto was the work of F. G. Volkov,
and the effect was quite homogeneous, for all the singers sang in the
vernacular instead of some using the Russian and some the Italian
language as was formerly done. This tasteless custom did not wholly die
out until well into the nineteenth century, but it became less and less
general. Thus in 1755 we hear of Araja's _Cephalus and Procius_ being
confided entirely to singers of Russian birth. The book of this opera
was by Soumarakov, based on materials borrowed from the "Metamorphoses"
of Ovid. The work is said to have been published in 1764, and is claimed
by some to be the earliest piece of music printed in Russia. J. B.
Jurgenson, head of the famous firm of music publishers in Moscow, who
has diligently collected the Russian musical publications of the
eighteenth century, states that he has never found any of Araja's operas
printed with music type. The fact that music was printed in Russia
before the reign of Catherine II. still needs verification. The scenery
of _Cephalus_ was painted by Valeriani, who bore one of the high
sounding titles which it was customary to bestow at the Court of
Russia--being distinguished as "First Historical Painter, Professor of
Perspective (scene painting) and Theatrical Engineer at the Imperial
Court of Russia." Among the singers who took part in the performance
were Elizabeth Bielogradsky, daughter of a famous lute player, Count
Razoumovsky, and Gravrilo Martsenkovich, known as Gravriloushko. The
success of the opera was brilliant, and the Empress presented the
composer with a fine sable coat as a mark of her gratification. In 1755,
Araja, having amassed considerable wealth, returned to Italy and spent
the remaining years of his life at Bologna.

Music under the Empress Elizabeth became a fashionable craze. Every
great landowner started his private band or choir. About this time, the
influence of the Empress's favourite, Razoumovsky, made itself felt in
favour of Russian melodies. By this time, too, a few talented native
musicians had been trained either in the Court Chapel or in some of the
private orchestras established by the aristocracy; but the influx of
foreigners into Russia threatened to swamp the frail craft of native
talent which had just been launched with pride upon the social sea. The
majority of these foreigners were mediocrities who found it easier to
impose upon the unsophisticated Russians than to make a living in their
own country; but the names of Sarti, Paisiello, and Cimarosa stand out
as glorious exceptions among this crowd of third and fourth rate
composers.

To Feodor Grigorievich Volkov, whose name has been already mentioned as
the author of the first genuine Russian libretto, has been also accorded
the honour of producing the first Russian opera boasting some
pretensions to the national style. Volkov was born at Kostroma, in 1729,
the son of a merchant. On his father's death and his mother's
re-marriage his home was transferred to Yaroslav. Here he received his
early education from a German pastor in the service of Biron, Duke of
Courland, then in banishment at Yaroslav. During a visit to St.
Petersburg in 1746, Volkov was so captivated by his first impressions of
Italian opera that he determined to start a theatrical company of his
own in Yaroslav. He gathered together a few enthusiastic amateurs and
began by giving performances in his own home. The attempt was so
successful that the fame of his entertainments reached the Empress
Elisabeth, and the young actors were summoned to her Court in 1752,
where they gave a private performance of a "comedy" with musical
interludes entitled _The Sinner's Repentance_, by Dimitri, metropolitan
of Rostov. One result of this production was that the Empress resolved
to continue the education of two members of the company, one of whom,
Ivan Dmitrievsky, became the most famous Russian actor of his day. In
1759 Volkov was sent to Moscow to establish a "Court theatre" there. The
festivities with which the coronation of Catherine II. was celebrated in
the old capital included a sumptuous masquerade entitled _Minerva
Triumphant_, arranged by Volkov, in which choral music played a part.
While engaged in organising the procession, Volkov caught a severe chill
from which he never recovered, and died in April 1763. He was an amateur
of music and made use of it in the entertainments which he produced; but
there seem to be grave doubts as to whether he was capable of composing
music to the first Russian comic opera, _Taniousha or The Fortunate
Meeting_, said to have been produced in November 1756. Gorbounov thinks
it highly improbable that such an opera ever existed,[4] because
Volkov's biographer, Rodislavsky, had no better foundation for assuming
its composition and production than some old handbills belonging to the
actor Nossov, which seem to have existed only in the imagination of
their collector. The assertion that _Taniousha_ was the first Russian
national opera must therefore be accepted with reserve.

Evstignei Platovich Fomin was born August 5th 1741 (O.S.), in St.
Petersburg. He was a pupil of the Imperial Academy of Arts, and in view
of his promising musical talent was sent to study in Italy, where he
entered for a time the Academy of Music at Bologna, and made rapid
progress. He began his musical career in Moscow in 1770, but appears to
have migrated to St. Petersburg before the death of Catherine II. He was
commissioned to compose the music for a libretto from the pen of the
Empress herself, entitled _Boeslavich, the Novgorodian Hero_. Catherine
not being quite confident as to Fomin's powers submitted the score to
Martini. The result appears to have been satisfactory. In 1797 Fomin was
employed at the Imperial Theatres as musical coach and _répétiteur_; he
was also expected to teach singing to the younger artists of both sexes
in the Schools, and to accompany in the orchestra for the French and
Italian operas. For these duties he received an annual sum of 720
roubles. Fomin died in St. Petersburg in April, 1800. He wrote a
considerable number of operas, including _Aniouta_ (1772), the libretto
by M. V. Popov; _The Good Maiden_ (_Dobraya Devka_), libretto by
Matinsky (1777); _Regeneration_ (_Pereiojdenia_), (1777)[5]; in January
1779 his _Wizard-Miller_ (_Melnik-Koldoun_) an opera in three acts, the
libretto by Ablessimov, was produced for the first time, and proved one
of the most successful operas of the eighteenth century; a one-act
opera, the book by Nikolaiev, entitled _The Tutor Professor, or Love's
Persuasive Eloquence_, was given in Moscow; and in 1786 _Boeslavich_, in
five acts, the text by Catherine II., was mounted at the Hermitage
Palace; _The Wizard, The Fortune Teller and The Matchmaker_, in three
acts, dates from 1791. In 1800 appeared two operas, _The Americans_, the
libretto by Kloushin, and _Chlorida and Milon_, the words of which were
furnished by the well-known writer Kapnist. As far as is known, Fomin
composed ten operas and also wrote music to a melodrama entitled
_Orpheus_.[6] It is probable, however, that Fomin really produced many
more musical works for the stage, for it has been proved that he
occasionally took an assumed name for fear of his work proving a
failure. Of his voluminous output only three works need be discussed
here.

_Aniouta_ owed some of its success to Popov's libretto, which was a mild
protest against the feudal aristocracy. The peasant Miron sings in the
first act some naïve verses in which he bewails the hard fate of the
peasant; "Ah, how tired I am," he says. "Why are we peasants not nobles?
Then, we might crunch sugar all day long, lie warm a'top of the stove
and ride in our carriages." If we put aside the idea that Volkov's
_Taniousha_ was the first opera written by a Russian composer, then this
honour must be rendered to Fomin's _Aniouta_.

Contemporary proof of the immense success of _The Miller_
(_Melnik-Koldoun_) is not wanting. The Dramatic Dictionary for 1787
informs us that it was played twenty-seven nights running and that the
theatre was always full. Not only were the Russians pleased with it, but
it interested the foreigners at Court. The most obvious proof of its
popularity may be found in the numerous inferior imitations which
followed in its wake.

The libretto of _The Miller_, like that of _Aniouta_, was tinged by a
cautious liberalism. Here it is not a peasant, but a peasant proprietor,
who "tills and toils and from the peasants collects the rent" who plays
the principal rôle. The part of the Miller was admirably acted by
Kroutitsky (1754-83), who, after the first performance, was called to
the Empress's box and presented with a gold watch. But undoubtedly
Fomin's music helped the success of the opera. The work has been
reissued with an interesting preface by P. Karatagyn (Jurgenson,
Moscow), so that it is easily accessible to those who are interested in
the early history of Russian opera. The music is somewhat amateurish and
lacking in technical resource. Fomin does not venture upon a chorus,
although there are occasionally couplets with choral refrains; lyric
follows lyric, and the duets are really alternating solos with a few
phrases in thirds at the close of the verses. But the public in Russia
in the eighteenth century was not very critical, and took delight in the
novel sensation of hearing folk-songs on the stage. In the second act
the heroine Aniouta sings a pretty melody based on a familiar folk-tune
which awakened great enthusiasm among the audience. The songs and their
words stand so close to the original folk-tunes that no doubt they
carried away all the occupants of the pit and the cheap places; while,
for the more exacting portion of the audience, the rôle of the Miller
was written in the conventional style of the _opera buffa_. This
judicious combination pleased all tastes.

We find far greater evidences of technical capacity in Fomin's opera
_The Americans_, composed some thirteen years later. In the second act
there is a fairly developed love-duet between Gusman and Zimara; the
quartets and choruses, though brief, are freer and more expressive;
there is greater variety of modulation, and altogether the work shows
some reflection of Mozart's influence, and faintly foreshadows a more
modern school to come. The libretto is extremely naïve, the Americans
being in reality the indigenous inhabitants, the Red Indians; but there
is nothing in the music allotted to them which differentiates them from
the Spanish characters in the opera. The advance, however, in the music
as compared with that of his earlier operas proves that Fomin must have
possessed real and vital talent. Yet it is by _The Miller_ that he will
live in the memory of the Russian people, thanks to his use of the
folk-tunes. To quote from Karatagyn's preface to this work: "Fomin has
indisputably the right to be called our first national composer. Before
the production of _The Miller_, opera in Russia had been entirely in the
hands of travelling Italian _maestri_. Galuppi, Sarti, Paisiello,
Cimarosa, Salieri, Martini, and others ruled despotically over the Court
orchestra and singers. Only Italian music was allowed to have an
existence and Russian composers could not make their way at all except
under the patronage of the Italians." This sometimes led to tragic
results, as in the case of Berezovsky, whose efforts to free himself
from the tutelage of Sarti cost him the patronage of the great Potemkin
and drove him to a pitch of despair which ended in suicide. Too much
weight, however, must not be attached to this resentment against the
Italian influence, so loudly expressed in Russia and elsewhere. The
Italians only reigned supreme in the lands of their musical conquest so
long as there existed no national composer strong enough to compete with
them. Fomin's success clearly proves that as soon as a native musician
appeared upon the scene who could give the people of their own, in a
style that was not too elevated for their immature tastes, he had not to
complain of any lack of enthusiasm.

It is to be regretted that none of his contemporaries thought it worth
while to write his biography, but at that time Russian literature was
purely aristocratic, and Fomin, though somewhat of a hero, was of the
people--a serf.

Contemporary history is equally silent as regards Michael Matinsky, who
died in the second decade of the nineteenth century. He, too, was a
serf, born on the estate of Count Yagjinsky and sent by his master to
study music in Italy. He composed several operas, the most successful of
which was _The Gostinny Dvor in St. Petersburg_, a work that eventually
travelled to Moscow. In his youth Matinsky is said to have played in
Count Razoumovsky's private band. In addition to his musical activity he
held the post of professor of geometry in the Smolny Institute in St.
Petersburg.

Vassily Paskievich was chamber-musician to the Empress Catherine II. In
1763 he was engaged, first as violinist, and then as composer, at the
theatres in St. Petersburg; he also conducted the orchestra at the state
balls. Some of his songs, which are sentimental, but pleasingly national
in colour, are still popular in Russia. He is said to have written seven
operas in all. The first of these, _Love brings Trouble_, was produced
at the Hermitage Theatre in 1772. Some years later he was commissioned
to set to music a libretto written by the Empress Catherine herself. The
subject of this opera is taken from the tale of _Tsarevich Feveï_, a
panegyric upon the good son of a Siberian king who was patriotic and
brave--in fact possessed of all the virtues. In her choice of subject
the Empress seems to have been influenced by her indulgent affection for
her favourite grandchild, the future Alexander I. Prince Feveï does
nothing to distinguish himself, but most of the characters in the opera
go into ecstasies over his charms and qualities, and it is obvious that
in this libretto Catherine wished to pay a flattering compliment to her
grandson. There are moments in the music which must have appealed to the
Russian public, especially an aria "Ah, thou, my little father," sung in
the style of an old village dame. Other numbers in the opera have the
same rather sickly-sweet flavour that prevails in Paskievich's songs.
The redeeming feature of the opera was probably its Kalmuc element,
which must have imparted a certain humour and oriental character to
both words and music. In one place the text runs something like this:
"Among the Kalmuc folk we eat kaimak, souliak, tourmak, smoke tabac(co)
and drink koumiss," and the ring of these unfamiliar words may have
afforded some diversion to the audiences of those days.[7]

[Illustration:

A CHURCH SERVICE, PROCESSION OF BOYARDS

_From 16th century contemporary prints, attributed to Jost Amman._
]

But however dull the subject of _Feveï_ may appear to modern
opera-goers, that of Paskievich's third opera, _Fedoul and Her
Children_, must surely take the prize for ineptitude even among Russian
operas of the eighteenth century. Fedoul, a widow, announces to her
fifteen grown-up children her intention of getting married again to a
young widower; at first the family not unnaturally grumble at the
prospect of a step-father, but having been scandalised by the marriage
with the prince in the first act, they solemnly sing his praises in the
finale of the last.

In co-operation with Sarti and Canobbio, Paskievich composed the music
to another book by the Empress Catherine, entitled _The Early Reign of
Oleg_, produced at the Hermitage Theatre, St. Petersburg, September,
1794. Paskievich's share of this work seems to have been the choruses,
which give a touch of national sentiment to the opera. Here he uses
themes that have now become familiar to us in the works of later
Russian musicians, such as the _Slavsia_ in honour of the Tsar, and the
Little Russian theme "The Crane" (_Jouravel_), which Tchaikovsky
employed in his Second Symphony. The orchestral accompaniments sometimes
consist of variations upon the theme, a form much favoured by Russian
musicians of a more modern school. Other operas by Paskievich are _The
Two Antons_ (1804) and _The Miser_ (1811). Paskievich had not as strong
a talent as Fomin, but we must give him credit, if not for originating,
at least for carrying still further the use of the folksong in Russian
opera.

In a book which is intended to give a general survey of the history of
Russian opera to English readers, it is hardly necessary to enter into
details about such composers as Vanjour, Bulant, Briks, A. Plestcheiev,
Nicholas Pomorsky, the German, Hermann Raupach, Canobbio, Kerzelli,
Troinni, Staubinger, and other musicians, Russian and foreign, who
played more or less useful minor parts in the musical life of St.
Petersburg and Moscow during the second half of the eighteenth century.

Three Italians and two Russians, however, besides those already
mentioned, stand out more prominently from the ranks and deserve to be
mentioned here.

Vincente Martin (Martin y Solar), of Spanish descent, born about 1754,
migrated in his boyhood to Italy, where he was known as _lo Spagnulo_.
He wrote an opera, _Iphigenia in Aulis_, for the carnival in Florence in
1781, and having won some reputation as a composer in Italy, went to
Vienna in 1785. Here his success was immense, so much so that his opera
_Una Cosa Rara_ was a serious rival to Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro." A
year later Mozart paid Martin the compliment of introducing a fragment
of _Una Cosa Rara_ into the finale of the second act of "Don Juan."
Martin went to St. Petersburg in 1788, at the invitation of the Italian
opera company. During his stay in Russia eight of his operas were given
in the vernacular, including _Dianino_, an _opera d'occasion_, the text
by Catherine the Great; _La Cosa Rara_, translated by Dmitrievsky;
_Fedoul and her Children_, in which he co-operated with the native
composer Paskievich; _A Village Festival_, the libretto by V. Maikov,
and a comic opera in one act, _Good Luke, or Here's my day_, the words
by Kobyakov. The fact that he wrote so frequently to Russian texts
entitles him to a place in the history of Russian opera. Martin was held
in great honour in the capital, and the Emperor Paul I. made him a Privy
Councillor. This did not prevent him, however, from suffering from the
fickleness of fashion, for in 1808 the Italians were replaced by a
French opera company and Martin lost his occupation. He continued,
however, to live in Russia, teaching at the Smolny monastery and in the
aristocratic families of St. Petersburg, where he died in May, 1810.

Among the foreigners who visited Russia in the time of Catherine the
Great, none was more distinguished than Guiseppe Sarti. Born at Faenza
in December, 1729, celebrated as a composer of opera by the time he was
twenty-four, he was appointed in 1753 Director of the Italian opera, and
Court Capellmeister to Frederick V. of Denmark. He lived in Copenhagen,
with one interval of three years, until the summer of 1775, when he
returned to Italy and subsequently became Maestro di Capella of the
cathedral of Milan. Here he spent nine years of extraordinary activity
composing fifteen operas, besides cantatas, masses and motets. In 1784
Catherine the Great tempted him to visit St. Petersburg, and constituted
him her Court-composer. His opera _Armida_ was received with great
enthusiasm in the Russian capital in 1786. It was sung in Italian, for
it was not until 1790 that Sarti took part in the composition of an
opera written to a Russian libretto. This was the _Early Rule of Oleg_,
the book from the pen of the Empress herself, in which he co-operated
with Paskievich. He also composed a _Te Deum_ in celebration of the fall
of Ochakov before the army of Potemkin; this was for double chorus, its
triumphal effect being enhanced by drums and salvos of artillery; a
procedure which no doubt set a precedent for Tchaikovsky when he came to
write his occasional Overture "1812." Many honours fell to Sarti's lot
during the eighteen years he lived in Russia, among others the
membership of the Academy of Science. The intrigues of the Italian
singer Todi obliged him to retire for a time to a country estate
belonging to Potemkin in the Ukraine; but he was eventually reinstated
in Catherine's good graces. After the Empress's death he determined to
return to Italy, but stayed for a time in Berlin, where he died in 1802.

Giovanni Paesiello (1741-1816) was another famous Italian whom Catherine
invited to St. Petersburg in 1776, where he remained as "Inspector of
the Italian operas both serious and buffa" until 1784. Not one of the
series of operas which he wrote during his sojourn in St. Petersburg was
composed to a Russian libretto or sung in the Russian tongue. His
_Barber of Seville_, written during the time when he was living in St.
Petersburg, afterwards became so popular with the Italians that when
Rossini ventured to make use of the same subject the public regarded it
as a kind of sacrilege. Paesiello's influence on Russian opera was
practically nil.

The generous offers of Catherine the Great drew Baldassare Galuppi
(1706-1785) to St. Petersburg in 1765. One can but admire the spirit of
these eighteenth-century Italian musicians--many of them being well
advanced in years--who were willing to leave the sunny skies of Italy
for the "Boreal clime" of St. Petersburg. Galuppi acted as the Director
of the Imperial Court Chapel for three years, and was the first
foreigner to compose music to a text in the ecclesiastical Slavonic, and
to introduce the motet (the Russian name for which is "concert") into
the service of the Orthodox Church. His operas, _Il Ré Pastore_,
_Didone_, and _Iphigenia in Taurida_, the last named being composed
expressly for the St. Petersburg opera, were all given during his
sojourn in the capital, but there is no record to prove that any one of
these works was sung in Russian.

Maxim Sozontovich Berezovsky[8] (1745-1777) studied at the School of
Divinity at Kiev, whence, having a remarkably fine voice, he passed into
the Imperial Court Chapel. In 1765 he was sent at the Government expense
to study under the famous Padre Martini at Bologna. His studies were
brilliant, and he returned to St. Petersburg full of hope and ambition,
only to find himself unequal to coping with the intrigues of the Italian
musicians at Court. Discouraged and disappointed, his mind gave way, and
he committed suicide at the age of thirty-two. He left a few sacred
compositions (_a capella_) which showed the highest promise. While in
Italy he composed an opera to an Italian libretto entitled _Demofonti_
which was performed with success at Bologna and Livorno.

Dmitri Stepanovich Bortniansky, born in 1751, also began his career as a
chorister in the Court Choir, where he attracted the attention of
Galuppi, who considered his talents well worth cultivation. When Galuppi
returned to Italy in 1768, Bortniansky was permitted to join him the
following year in Venice, where he remained until 1779. He was then
recalled to Russia and filled various important posts connected with the
Imperial Court Choir. He is now best known as a composer of sacred
music, some of his compositions being still used in the services of the
Orthodox Church. Although somewhat mellifluous and decidedly Italianised
in feeling, his church music is not lacking in beauty. He wrote four
operas, two to Italian and two to French texts. The titles of the
Italian operas are as follows: _Alcide, Azioni teatrale postea in musica
da Demetrio Bortnianski, 1778, in Venezia_; and _Quinto Fabio, drama
per musica rappresentata nel ducal teatro di Modena, il carnavale
dell'anno 1779_. The French comic opera _Le Faucon_ was composed for the
entertainment of the Tsarevich Paul Petrovich and his Court at Gatchina
(1786); while _Le Fils Rival_ was produced at the private theatre at
Pavlovsk in 1787, also for the Tsarevich Paul and his wife Maria
Feodorovna.

Throughout the preceding chapters I have used the word "opera" as a
convenient general term for the works reviewed in them; but although a
few such works composed by Italians, or under strong Italian influences,
might be accurately described as melodic opera, the nearer they approach
to this type the less they contain of the Russian national style. For
the most part, however, these productions of the eighteenth century were
in the nature of vaudevilles: plays with couplets and other incidental
music inserted, in which, as Cheshikin points out, the verses were often
rather spoken than sung; consequently the form was more declamatory than
melodic. Serov, in a sweeping criticism of the music of this period,
says that it was for the most part commissioned from the pack of needy
Italians who hung about the Court in the various capacities of _maîtres
d'hôtel_, wig-makers, costumiers, and confectioners. This, as we have
seen, is somewhat exaggerated, since Italy sent some of her best men to
the Court of Catherine II. But even admitting that a large proportion of
the musicians who visited Russia were less than second-rate, yet beneath
this tawdry and superficial foreign disguise the pulse of national music
beat faintly and irregularly. If some purely Italian tunes joined to
Russian words made their way into various spheres of society, and came
to be accepted by the unobservant as genuine national melodies, on the
other hand some true folk-songs found their way into semi-Italian operas
and awoke the popular enthusiasm, as we have witnessed in the works of
Fomin and Paskievich. In one respect the attitude of the Russian public
in the eighteenth century towards imported opera differed from our own.
All that was most successful in Western Europe was brought in course of
time to St. Petersburg, but a far larger proportion of the foreign
operas were translated into the vernacular than was the case in this
country.

With regard to the location of opera, the first "opera house" was
erected by the Empress Anne in St. Petersburg, but was not used
exclusively for opera, French plays and other forms of entertainment
being also given there. The building was burnt down in 1749, and the
theatrical performances were continued temporarily in the Empress's
state apartment. A new, stone-built opera house was opened in St.
Petersburg in 1750, after the accession of the Empress Elizabeth. It was
situated near the Anichkov Palace. Catherine the Great added another
stone theatre to the capital in 1774, which was known as "The Great
Theatre." After damage from fire it was reconstructed and reopened in
1836.[9] Rebuilt again in 1880, it became the home of the Conservatoire
and the office of the Imperial Musical Society. Besides these buildings,
the Hermitage Theatre, within the walls of the Winter Palace, was often
used in the time of Catherine the Great.

In Moscow the Italian _entrepreneur_ Locatelli began to solicit the
privilege of building a new theatre in 1750. Six years later he was
accorded the necessary permission, and the building was opened in
January, 1759. But Locatelli was not very successful, and his tenure
only lasted three years. Titov managed the Moscow theatre from 1766 to
the death of Catherine in 1796. After this the direction passed into the
hands of Prince Ouroussov, who in association with a Jew named
Medoks[10] proceeded to build a new and luxurious theatre in Petrovsky
Street. Prince Ouroussov soon retired, leaving Medoks sole manager. The
season began with comic operas such as _The Miller_ by Fomin. In 1805
the Petrovsky theatre shared the fate of so many Russian buildings and
was destroyed by fire.

Alexander I. succeeded the unfortunate Paul Petrovich, done to death in
the Mikhaïlovsky Palace during the night of March 23rd, 1801. With his
advent, social sentiment in Russia began to undergo a complete
revolution. The Napoleonic wars in Western Europe, in which the Russian
troops took part, culminating in the French invasion of 1812, awoke all
the latent patriotism of the nation. The craze for everything foreign,
so marked under the rule of Catherine II., now gave place to
ultra-patriotic enthusiasm. This reaction, strongly reflected in the
literature of the time, was not without its influence on musical taste.
In Russia, music and literature have always been closely allied, and the
works of the great poet Poushkin, of the fabulist Krylov, and the
patriotic historian Karamzin, gave a strong impulse and a new tone to
the art. At the same time a wave of romanticism passed over Russia. This
was partly the echo of Byron's popularity, then at its height in England
and abroad; and partly the outcome of the annexation of the old kingdom
of Georgia, in 1801, which turned the attention of Young Russia to the
magic beauty and glamour of the Caucasus.

There was now much discussion about national music, and a great deal
was done to encourage its progress; but during the first quarter of the
nineteenth century composers had but a superficial idea of the meaning
of a national school, and were satisfied that a Russian subject and a
selection of popular tunes constituted the only formula necessary for
the production of a native opera.

During his short reign the Emperor Paul had not contributed to the
advancement of music, but in spite of somewhat unfavourable conditions,
an Italian opera company under the management of Astarito[11] visited
St. Petersburg in 1797. Among their number was a talented young Italian,
Catterino Cavos, whose name is inseparably connected with the musical
history of Russia. Born at Venice in 1776, the son of the musical
director of the celebrated "Fenice" Theatre, it is said that at fourteen
Cavos was the chosen candidate for the post of organist of St. Mark's
Cathedral, but relinquished his chance in favour of a poor musician. The
story is in accordance with what we read of his magnanimity in later
life. His gifts were remarkable, and in 1799 he was appointed Court
Capellmeister. In 1803 he became conductor of the Italian, Russian and
French opera companies. Part of his duties consisted in composing for
all three institutions. Light opera and ballet, given by the French
company, was then all the fashion in St. Petersburg. Cavos quickly
realised the direction and scope of the public taste, and soon began to
write operas to romantic and legendary subjects borrowed from Russian
history and folk-lore, and endeavoured to give his music a decided touch
of national colour. In May, 1804, he made an immense success with his
_Roussalka of the Dneiper_, in which he had the co-operation of Davidov.
The following year he dispensed with all assistance and produced a
four-act opera to a Russian text called _The Invisible Prince_, which
found great favour with the public. Henceforth, through over thirty
years of unresting creative activity, Cavos continued to work this
popular vein. His operas have practically all sunk into oblivion, but
the catalogue of their titles is still of some interest to students of
Russian opera, because several of his subjects have since been treated
and re-vitalised by a more recent generation of native composers. His
chief works, given chronologically, are as follows: _Ilya the Hero_, the
libretto by Krilov (1806); _The Three Hunchback Brothers_ (1808); _The
Cossack Poet_ (1812); _The Peasants, or the Unexpected Meeting_ (1814);
_Ivan Sousanin_ (1815); _The Ruins of Babylon_ (1818); _Dobrinya
Nikitich_ (1810); and _The Bird of Fire_ (1822)--the last two in
co-operation with Antonolini; _Svietlana_, text by Joukovsky (1822);
_The Youth of Joan III._ (1822); _The Mountains of Piedmont, or The
Devil's Bridge_ (1825); _Miroslava, or the Funeral Pyre_ (1827).

The foregoing list does not include any works which Cavos wrote to
French or Italian texts, amounting to nearly thirty in all. In _Ilya the
Hero_ Cavos made his first attempt to produce a national epic opera.
Founded on the Legend of Ilya Mouromets, from the Cycle of Kiev, the
opera is not lacking in spirit, and evoked great enthusiasm in its day,
especially one martial aria, "Victory, victory, Russian hero!" Cavos was
fortunate in having secured as librettist a very capable writer, Prince
Shakovsky, who also supplied the text for _Ivan Sousanin_, the most
successful of all Cavos's national operas; although we shall see in the
next chapter how completely it was supplanted in the popular favour by
Glinka's work dealing with the same subject.

In the spring of 1840 Cavos's health began to fail, and he received
leave of absence from his many arduous but lucrative official posts. He
became, however, rapidly much worse and had to abandon the idea of a
journey. He died in St. Petersburg on April 28th (O.S.). His loss was
deeply felt by the Russian artists, to whom, unlike many of his Italian
predecessors, he had always shown generous sympathy; they paid him a
last tribute of respect by singing Cherubini's _Requiem_ at his funeral.

The Russian musician Youry Arnold, who was well acquainted with Cavos in
the later years of his life, describes him at sixty as a robust and
energetic man, who was at his piano by 9 a.m., rehearsing the soloists
till 1 p.m., when he took the orchestral rehearsals. If by any chance
these ended a little sooner than he expected, he would occupy himself
again with the soloists. At 5 p.m. he made his report to the Director of
the Imperial Theatres, and then went home to dine. But he never failed
to appear at the Opera House punctually at 7 o'clock. On evenings when
there was no performance he devoted extra time to his soloists. He
worked thus conscientiously and indefatigably year after year. He was
not, however, indifferent to the pleasures of the table and was
something of a _gourmet_. Even in the far-distant north he managed to
obtain consignments of his favourite "_vino nero_." "He told me more
than once," said Arnold, "that except with tea, he had never in the
whole course of his life swallowed a mouthful of water: '_Perchè cosa
snaturalle, insoffribile e nocevole!_'"

Cavos was an admirable and painstaking conductor, and his long _régime_
must have greatly contributed to the discipline and good organisation
of the opera, both as regards orchestra and singers. His own works, as
might be expected from a musician whose whole life was spent in studying
the scores of other composers, were not highly original. He wrote well,
and with knowledge, for the voice, and his orchestration was adequate
for that period, but his music lacks homogeneity, and reminiscences of
Mozart, Cherubini and Méhul mingle with echoes of the Russian folk-songs
in the pages of his operas. But the public of his day were on the whole
well satisfied with Russian travesties of Italian and Viennese
vaudevilles. It is true that new sentiments were beginning to rouse the
social conscience, but the public was still a long way from desiring
idealistic truth, let alone realism, in its music and literature. In
spite of the one electrical thrill which Glinka administered to the
public in _A Life for the Tsar_, opera was destined to be regarded for
many years to come as a pleasing and not too exacting form of
recreation. The libretto of Cavos's _Ivan Sousanin_ shows what society
demanded from opera even as late as 1815; for here this tragedy of
unquestioning loyalty to an ideal is made to end quite happily. At the
moment when the Poles were about to slay him in the forest, Sousanin is
rescued by a Russian boyard and his followers, and the hero, robust and
jovial, lives to moralise over the footlights in the following
couplets, in which he takes leave of the audience:

    Now let the cruel foe beware,
    And tremble all his days;
    But let each loyal Russian heart
    Rejoice in songs of praise.

At the same time it must be admitted that in this opera Cavos sometimes
gives an echo of the genuine national spirit. The types of Sousanin and
his young son Alexis, and of Masha and her husband, Matthew, are so
clearly outlined, says Cheshikin, that Glinka had only to give them more
relief and finish. The well-constructed overture, the duet between Masha
and Alexis, and the folk-chorus "Oh, do not rave wild storm-wind" are
all far in advance of anything to be found in the Russian operas of the
eighteenth century.

Among those who were carried along by the tide of national feeling which
rose steadily in Russia from 1812 onward was the gifted amateur Alexis
Nicholaevich Verstovsky. Born in 1799, near Tambov, the son of a country
gentleman, Verstovsky was educated at the Institute of Engineers, St.
Petersburg, where he took pianoforte lessons from John Field, and later
on from Steibelt. He also learnt some theory from Brandt and Steiner;
singing from an operatic artist named Tarquini; and violin from Böhm and
Maurer. Verstovsky composed his first vaudeville at nineteen and its
success encouraged him to continue on the same lines. In 1823 he was
appointed Director of the Moscow Opera, where he produced a whole series
of operettas and vaudevilles, many of which were settings of texts
translated from the French. After a time he became ambitious of writing
a serious opera, and in May 1828, he produced his _Pan Tvardovsky_, the
libretto by Zagoskin and Aksakov, well known literary men of the day.
The book is founded on an old Polish or Malo-Russian legend, the hero
being a kind of Slavonic Faust. The music was influenced by Méhul and
Weber, but Verstovsky introduced a gipsy chorus which in itself won
immediate popularity for the opera. Its success, though brilliant, was
short-lived.

_Pan Tvardovsky_ was followed by _Vadim, or the Twenty Sleeping
Maidens_, based on a poem by Joukovsky, but the work is more of the
nature of incidental music to a play than pure opera.

_Askold's Tomb_, Verstovsky's third opera, by which he attained his
greatest fame, will be discussed separately.

_Homesickness_ (_Toska po rodine_), the scene laid in Spain, was a poor
work produced for the benefit night of the famous Russian bass O. A.
Petrov, the precursor of Shaliapin.

_The Boundary Hills, or the Waking Dream_, stands nearest in order of
merit to _Askold's Tomb_. The scene is laid in mythical times, and the
characters are supernatural beings, such as Domovoi (the House Spirit),
Vodyanoi (the Water Sprite) and Liessnoi (the Wood Spirit). The music
breathes something of the spirit of Russian folk-song, and a Slumber
Song, a Triumphal March, and a very effectively mounted Russian Dance,
which the composer subsequently added to the score, were the favourite
numbers in this opera.

Verstovsky's last opera _Gromoboi_ was based upon the first part of
Joukovsky's poem "The Twenty Sleeping Maidens." An oriental dance
(_Valakhsky Tanets_) from this work was played at one of the concerts of
the Imperial Russian Musical Society, and Serov speaks of it as being
quite Eastern in colour, original and attractive as regards melody but
poorly harmonised and orchestrated as compared with the _Lezginka_ from
Glinka's _Russlan and Liudmilla_, the lively character of the dance
being very similar.

A few of the composers mentioned in the previous chapter were still
working in Russia at the same time as Verstovsky. Of those whose
compositions belong more particularly to the first forty years of the
nineteenth century, the following are most worthy of notice:

Joseph Antonovich Kozlovsky (1757-1831), of Polish birth, began life as
a soldier in Prince Potemsky's army. The prince's attention having been
called to the young man's musical talents, he appointed him director of
his private band in St. Petersburg. Kozlovsky afterwards entered the
orchestra of the Imperial Opera. He wrote music to Oserov's tragedy
_[OE]dipus in Athens_ (1804); to _Fingal_ (1805), _Deborah_, libretto by
Shakovsky (1810), _OEdipus Rex_ (1811), and to Kapnist's translation
of Racine's _Esther_ (1816).

Ludwig Maurer (1789-1878), a famous German violinist, played in the
orchestra at Riga in his early days, and after touring abroad and in
Russia settled in St. Petersburg about 1820, where he was appointed
leader of the orchestra at the French theatre in 1835. Ten years later
he returned to Germany and gave many concerts in Western Europe; but in
1851 he went back to St. Petersburg as Inspector-General of all the
State theatrical orchestras. Maurer is best known by his instrumental
compositions, especially his Concertos for four violins and orchestra,
but he wrote music for several popular vaudevilles with Russian text,
and co-operated occasionally with Verstovsky and Alabiev.

The brothers Alexis and Sergius Titov were types of the distinguished
amateurs who played such an important part in the musical life of Russia
during the first half of the last century. Alexis (d. 1827) was the
father of that Nicholas Titov often called "the ancestor of Russian
song." He served in the Cavalry Guards and rose to the rank of
Major-General. An admirable violinist, he was also a voluminous
composer. Stassov gives a list of at least fourteen operas, melodramas,
and other musical works for the stage, many of which were written to
French words. His younger brother Sergius (b. 1770) is supposed to have
supplied music to _The Forced Marriage_, text by Plestcheiev (1789), _La
Veillée des Paysans_ (1809), _Credulity_ (1812), and, in co-operation
with Bluhm, _Christmas Festivals of Old_ (1813). It is probable that he
had a hand in the long list of works attributed to his brother Alexis,
and most of the Russian musical historians seem puzzled to decide how to
apportion to each of the brothers his due share of creative activity.

A composer belonging to this period is known by name even beyond the
Russian frontiers, owing to the great popularity of one of his songs,
"The Nightingale." Alexander Alexandrovich Alabiev was born at Moscow,
August 4th, 1787[12] (O.S.). He entered the military service and,
becoming acquainted with Verstovsky, co-operated in several of his
vaudevilles. For some breach of discipline Alabiev was exiled for a time
to Tobolsk. Inspired by the success of Cavos's semi-national operas,
Alabiev attempted a Russian fairy opera entitled _A Moonlight Night or
the Domovoï_. The opera was produced in St. Petersburg and Moscow, but
did not long hold a place in the repertory of either theatre. He next
attempted music to scenes from Poushkin's poem _The Prisoner in the
Caucasus_, a naïve work in which the influence of Bellini obscures the
faint national and Eastern colour which the atmosphere of the work
imperatively demands. Alabiev, after his return from Siberia, settled in
Moscow, where he died February 22nd, 1851 (O.S.).

[Illustration: MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA

_From a portrait by Repin_]




CHAPTER III

MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA


In the preceding chapters I have shown how long and persistently Russian
society groped its way towards an ideal expression of nationalism in
music. Gifted foreigners, such as Cavos, had tried to catch some faint
echo of the folk-song and reproduce it disguised in Italian accents;
talented, but poorly equipped, Russian musicians had exploited the music
of the people with a certain measure of success, but without sufficient
conviction or genius to form the solid basis of a national school. Yet
all these strivings and aspirations, these mistaken enthusiasms and
immature presentiments, were not wasted. Possibly the sacrifice of many
talents is needed before the manifestation of one genius can be
fulfilled. When the yearning after a musical Messiah had acquired
sufficient force, the right man appeared in the person of Michael
Ivanovich Glinka. With his advent we reach the first great climax in the
history of Russian music.

It is in accordance with the latent mysticism and the ardour smouldering
under the semi-oriental indolence of the Russian temperament that so
many of their great men--especially their musicians--seem to have
arrived at the consciousness of their vocation through a kind of process
of conversion. Moussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov, to mention
but one or two examples, all awoke suddenly from a condition of mental
sloth or frivolity to the conviction of their artistic mission; and some
of them were prepared to sacrifice social position and an assured
livelihood for the sake of a new, ideal career. Glinka was no exception.
He, too, heard his divine call and followed it. Lounging in the theatres
and concert rooms of Italy, listening to Italian singers and fancying
himself "deeply moved" by Bellini's operas, suddenly it flashed upon
Glinka, a cultivated amateur, that this was not what he needed to
stimulate his inspiration. This race, this art, were alien to him and
could never take the place of his own people. This swift sense of
remoteness, this sudden change of thought and ideal, constituted the
psychological moment in the history of Russian music. Glinka's first
impulse was merely to write a better Russian opera than his
predecessors; but this impulse held the germ of the whole evolution of
the new Russian School as we know it to-day.

It is rather remarkable that outside the Russian language so little has
been written about this germinal genius, who summed up the ardent
desires of many generations and begat a great school of national music.
The following details of his childhood and early youth are taken from
his Autobiographical Notes and now appear for the first time in an
English translation.

"I was born on June 2nd (May 20th, O.S.), 1804, in the glow of the
summer dawn at the village of Novospasskoï, which belonged to my father,
Ivan Nicolaevich Glinka, a retired army captain.... Shortly after my
birth, my mother, Eugenia Andreievna (_née_ Glinka), was obliged to
leave my early bringing up to my grandmother who, having taken
possession of me, had me transferred to her own room. Here in company
with her, a foster mother, and my nurse, I spent the first three or four
years of my life, rarely seeing anything of my parents. I was a child of
delicate constitution and of nervous tendencies. My grandmother was in
her declining years, and almost always ailing, consequently the
temperature of her room in which I lived was never less than 20
Réaumur.... In spite of this, I was not allowed to take off my pelisse,
and night and day I was given tea with cream and quantities of sugar in
it, and also cracknels and fancy bread of all kinds. I seldom went into
the fresh air, and then only in hot weather. There is no doubt that
this early upbringing had a great influence on my physical development
and explains my unconquerable affection for warm climates....

"My grandmother spoilt me to an incredible degree and never denied me
anything I wanted. In spite of this I was a gentle and well-behaved
child, and only indulged in passing fits of peevishness--as indeed I
still do when disturbed at one of my favourite occupations. One of my
chief amusements was to lie flat on the floor and draw churches and
trees with a bit of chalk. I was piously inclined, and church
ceremonies, especially at the great festivals, filled me heart and soul
with the liveliest poetic enthusiasm. Having learnt to read at a
remarkably early age, I often moved my grandmother and her elderly
friends to tears by reading the Scriptures aloud to them. My musical
proclivities showed themselves at that time in a perfect passion for the
sound of bells; I drank in these harsh sounds, and soon learnt how to
imitate them rather cleverly by means of two copper bowls. When I was
ill they used to give me a little hand-bell to keep me amused.

"On the death of my grandmother, my way of living underwent some
changes. My mother spoilt me rather less, and tried to accustom me to
the fresh air; but her efforts in this direction were not very
successful.... My musical sense still remained undeveloped and crude. In
my eighth year (1812), when we were delivered from the French invasion,
I listened with all my old delight to the ringing of the bells,
distinguishing the peals of the different churches, and imitating them
on my copper bowls.

"Being entirely surrounded by women, and having for playmates only my
sister, who was a year younger than myself, and my nurse's little
daughter, I was never like other boys of my age; moreover the passion
for study, especially of geography and drawing--and in the latter I had
begun to make sensible progress--drew me away from childish pastimes,
and I was, from the first, of a quiet and gentle disposition.

"At my father's house we often received many relatives and guests; this
was usually the case on his name-day, or when someone came to stay whom
he wished to entertain with special honours. On these occasions he would
send for the musicians belonging to my maternal uncle, who lived eight
versts away. They often remained with us for several days, and when the
dances were over and the guests departed, they used to play all sorts of
pieces. I remember once (it was in 1814, or 1815, when I was about ten)
they played a quartet by Cruselli; this music produced in me an
inconceivably new and rapturous effect; after hearing it I remained all
day long in a state of feverish excitement, lost in inexplicably sweet
dreamy emotions, and the next day at my drawing lesson I was quite
absent-minded. My distracted condition increased as the lesson
proceeded, and my teacher, remarking that I was drawing very carelessly,
scolded me repeatedly, until finally guessing what was the matter with
me, said that I now thought of nothing but music. 'What's to be done?' I
answered: 'music is the soul of me!'

"In truth at that time I loved music passionately. My uncle's orchestra
was the source of the liveliest delight to me. When they played dances,
such as écossaises, quadrilles and valses, I used to snatch up a violin
or piccolo and join in with them, simply alternating between tonic and
dominant. My father was often annoyed with me because I did not dance,
and deserted our guests; but at the first opportunity I slipped back
again among the musicians. During supper they generally played Russian
folk-songs arranged for two flutes, two clarinets, two horns, and two
bassoons; this poignantly tender, but for me perfectly satisfactory,
combination delighted me (I could hardly endure shrill sounds, even the
lower notes of the horn when they were not played loud), and perhaps
these songs, heard in my childhood, were the first cause of my
preference in later years for Russian folk-melodies. About this time we
had a governess from St. Petersburg called Barbara Klemmer. She was a
girl about twenty, very tall, strict and exacting. She taught us
Russian, French, German, geography and music.... Although our music
lessons, which included reading from notes and the rudiments of the
piano, were rather mechanical, yet I made rapid progress with her, and
shortly after she came one of the first violins from my uncle's band was
employed to teach me the fiddle. Unfortunately he himself did not play
quite in tune and held his bow very stiffly, a bad habit which he passed
on to me.

"Although I loved music almost unconsciously, yet I remember that at
that time I preferred those pieces which were most accessible to my
immature musical intelligence. I enjoyed the orchestra most of all, and
next to the Russian songs, my favourite items in their repertory were:
the Overtures to 'Ma Tante Aurore,' by Boieldieu, to 'Lodoïska,' by
Rodolph Kreutzer, and to 'Les Deux Aveugles,' by Méhul. The last two I
liked playing on the piano, as well as some of Steibelt's sonatas,
especially 'The Storm,' which I played rather neatly."

I have quoted _verbatim_ from Glinka's record of his childish
impressions, because they undoubtedly influenced his whole after career,
and the nature of his genius was conditioned by them. Like most of the
leading representatives of Russian music, Glinka was born and spent the
early years of his life in the country, where he assimilated
subconsciously the purer elements of the national music which had
already begun to be vulgarized, if not completely obliterated, in the
great cities. Saved from the multitudinous distractions of town life,
the love of the folk-music took root in his heart and grew undisturbed.
Had he been brought up in one of the capitals, taken early, as Russian
children often were, and still are, to the opera and to concerts, his
outlook would have been widened at the expense of his individuality.
Later on, as we shall see, he was led away from the tracks of
nationality by his enthusiasm for Italian opera; but the strong
affections of his childhood guided him back instinctively to that way of
art in which he could best turn his gifts to account. It has been said
that Glinka remained always somewhat narrow in his ideas and activities;
but it was precisely this exclusiveness and concentration that could
best serve Russia at the time when he appeared. In his letters and
Autobiographical Notes, he often adopts the tone of a genius
misunderstood, and hints that an unkind Providence enjoyed putting
obstacles in his path. It is true that in later life, after the
production of his second opera, _Russlan and Liudmilla_, he had some
grounds for complaining of the fickleness and mental indolence of the
Russian public. But his murmurings against destiny must be discounted by
the fact that Glinka, the spoilt and delicate child, grew up into
Glinka, the idolised and hypochondriacal man. On the whole his life was
certainly favourable to his artistic development.

Stassov, in his fine monograph upon the composer, lays stress on this
view of Glinka's career. The history of art, he argues, contains only
too many instances of perverted talent; even strongly gifted natures
have succumbed to the ill-judged advice of friends, or to the mistaken
promptings of their own nature, so that they have wasted valuable years
in the manufacture of works which reached to a certain standard of
academic excellence, and even beauty, before they realised their true
individual vocation and their supreme powers. Glinka was fortunate in
his parents, who never actually opposed his inclinations; and perhaps he
was equally lucky in his teachers, for if they were not of the very
highest class they did not at any rate interfere with his natural
tendencies, nor impose upon him severe restrictions of routine and
method. Another happy circumstance in his early life, so Stassov thinks,
was his almost wholly feminine environment. Glinka's temperament was
dual; on the one hand he possessed a rich imagination, both receptive
and creative, and was capable of passionate feeling; in the other side
of his nature we find an element of excessive sensibility, a something
rather passive and morbidly sentimental. Women had power to soothe and
at the same time to stimulate his temperament. Somewhere in his memoirs,
Glinka, speaking of his early manhood, says: "At that time I did not
care for the society of my own sex, preferring that of women and girls
who appreciated my musical gifts." Stassov considers that these words
might be applied to the whole of Glinka's life, for he always seemed
most at ease in the company of ladies.

In the autumn of 1817, being then thirteen, he was sent to the newly
opened school for the sons of the aristocracy, where he remained until
1822. His schooldays appear to have been happy and profitable. He was
industrious and popular alike with the masters and pupils. In the
drawing class the laborious copying from the flat, with its tedious
cross-hatching and stippling then in vogue, soon disgusted him.
Mathematics did not greatly interest him. Dancing and fencing were
accomplishments in which he never shone. But he acquired languages with
a wonderful ease, taking up Latin, French, German, English and Persian.
In after years he dropped to some extent Persian and English, but became
proficient in Italian and Spanish. Geography and zoology both attracted
him. That he loved and observed nature is evident from all his writings;
and the one thing in which he resembled other boys was in his affection
for birds, rabbits, and other pets. While travelling in the Caucasus in
1823 he tamed and kept wild goats, and sometimes had as many as sixteen
caged birds in his room at once, which he would excite to song by
playing the violin.

Glinka's parents spared nothing to give their son a good general
education, but the idea that they were dealing with a budding musical
genius never occurred to them. As he had shown some aptitude for the
piano and violin in childhood, he was allowed to continue both these
studies while at school in St. Petersburg. He started lessons with the
famous Irish composer and pianist John Field, who, being on the eve of
his departure for Moscow, was obliged to hand Glinka over to his pupil
Obmana. Afterwards he received some instruction from Zeuner, and
eventually worked with Carl Meyer, an excellent pianist and teacher,
with whom he made rapid progress. At the school concert in 1822, Glinka
was the show pupil and played Hummel's A minor Concerto, Meyer
accompanying him on a second piano. With the violin he made less
progress, although he took lessons from Bohm, a distinguished master and
virtuoso who had not, however, so Glinka declared, the gift of imparting
his own knowledge to others. Bohm would sigh over his pupil's faulty
bowing and remark: "_Messieu Klinka, fous ne chouerez chamais du
fiolon._"

Glinka's repertory at nineteen contained nothing more profound than the
virtuoso music of Steibelt, Herz, Hummel and Kalkbrenner. Although
Beethoven had already endowed the world with his entire series of
sonatas, and was then at the zenith of his fame, his music only began to
make headway in Russia some ten years later. As time went on, Glinka
heard and met most of the great pianists of his day, and his criticisms
of their various styles are unconventional and interesting, but would
lead us far away from the subject of Russian opera.

Imperfect as his mastery of the violin appears to have been, it was of
more importance to his subsequent career than his fluency as a pianist,
because during the vacations at home he was now able to take part in
earnest in his uncle's small orchestra. The band generally visited the
Glinkas' estate once a fortnight, and sometimes stayed a whole week.
Before the general rehearsal, the son of the house would take each
member of the orchestra through his part--with the exception of the
leaders--and see that they were all note perfect and played in tune. In
this way he learnt a good deal about instrumentation and something about
the technique of conducting. Their repertory included overtures by
Cherubini, Méhul, and Mozart; and three symphonies, Haydn in B, Mozart
in G minor, and Beethoven's second symphony, in D major, the last named
being Glinka's special favourite.

In St. Petersburg he began to frequent the opera, which was not then so
exclusively given over to Italian music as it was a few years later.
Méhul's "Joseph," Cherubini's "Water-Carriers," Isouard's "Gioconda" and
Boieldieu's "Le Bonnet Rouge" were among the works which he heard and
admired in the early 'twenties.

In 1824 Glinka entered the Government service as a clerk in the Ministry
of Ways and Communications. Here he found several amateurs as
enthusiastic as himself, and was soon launched in a social circle where
his musical gifts were greatly appreciated and he ran the risk of
degenerating into a spoilt dilettante. From the beginning to the end of
his career Glinka remained an amateur in that higher sense of the word
which implies that he merely wrote what he liked and was exempt from the
necessity of composing to order for the sake of a livelihood.

He himself has related the circumstances of his first creative impulse.
In the spring of 1822, when he was about nineteen, he made the
acquaintance of a young lady "of fascinating appearance, who played the
harp and had also a beautiful voice. This voice was not to be compared
to any musical instrument; it was just a resonant silvery soprano, and
she sang naturally and with extraordinary charm. Her attractive
qualities and her kindness to me (she called me her nephew and I called
her aunt) stirred my heart and my imagination." We see the rest of the
picture: a Petersburg drawing room with its semi-French decoration, an
amiable grandpapa reposing in his armchair, while Glinka played by the
hour and the young lady joined in with her silvery soprano. So the first
compositions were written--"to do her a service and laid at her
feet"--variations upon her favourite theme from Weigel's "Swiss Family,"
an opera then all the vogue, variations for harp and piano on a theme by
Mozart and an original Valse in F for piano. Of these only the
variations for harp survive.

At twenty Glinka took singing lessons from the Italian Belloli. This led
to his first essays in song writing, and after one hopeless failure he
succeeded in setting some words by Baratynsky, "Do not needlessly
torment me."

Henceforth Glinka began to be conscious of his powers, and between 1825
and 1830 he was constantly composing. Although the best of relations
existed between himself and his father, he does not seem to have shown
him anything of his deeper artistic nature, and Glinka's family accepted
his music merely as an agreeable addition to his social qualities.
Meanwhile he wrote many of the songs of his first period, and a few
isolated dramatic scenas with orchestral accompaniment, including the
Chorus on the Death of a Hero, in C minor, and an Aria for baritone, a
part of which he used in the finale of the second act of his opera
_Russlan and Liudmilla_. He also learnt Italian and received some
instruction in theory from Zamboni. In 1829 he published an album
containing most of his early compositions.

From time to time Glinka was incapacitated by an affection of the eyes,
and his general health was far from satisfactory. He was possessed of a
craving to travel in Spain or Italy, and his father's refusal to let him
go abroad "hurt me," he says, "to the point of tears." However, a famous
doctor having examined him, reported to his father that the young man
had "a whole quadrille of ailments" and ought to be sent to a warm
climate for at least three years. Glinka left Russia for Italy in 1830,
and remained abroad until the spring of 1834.

During his visit to Italy, Glinka wrote regularly and fully to his
family, but unfortunately the correspondence was not deemed worthy of
preservation, and the letters were destroyed shortly after his return.
If we may judge by the communications to his friends sent later in life
from Spain, France and Germany, the destruction of these records of his
early impressions is a real loss to musical biography.

The two chief objects of Glinka's journey abroad were to improve his
physical condition and to perfect his musical studies. As regards his
health, he was benefited perhaps but not cured. "All his life," says
Stassov, "Glinka was a martyr to doctors and remedies," and his
autobiography is full of details concerning his fainting fits and
nervous depression, and his bodily sufferings in general. He had,
however, sufficient physical and moral strength to work at times with
immense energy.

As regards his musical education, Glinka had now begun to realise that
his technical equipment did not keep pace with his creative impulse. He
felt the need of that theoretical knowledge which Kirnberg says is to
the composer what wings are to a bird. He was by no means so completely
ignorant of the theory of his art as many of his critics have
insinuated. He had already composed music which was quite on a level
with much that was popular in his day, and had won some flattering
attentions from musical society in St. Petersburg. We must respect the
self-criticism which prompted him to put himself to school again at
six-and-twenty. But Italy could not give him that deeper and sounder
musical culture of which he was in search. In Milan he began to work
under Basili, the Director of the Milan Conservatoire, distinguished for
having refused a scholarship to Verdi because he showed no aptitude for
music. Basili does not seem to have had _la main heureuse_ with budding
genius; Glinka found his methods so dry and pedantic that he soon
abandoned his lessons as a waste of time. Nevertheless Italy, then and
now the Mecca of all aspiring art students, had much to give to the
young Russian. He was deeply impressed by the beauty of his
surroundings, but, from the practical side, it was in the art of singing
and writing for the voice that Glinka made real progress during his
sojourn in the South. He had arrived in Italy in company with Ivanov,
who became later on the most famous Russian operatic tenor. Glinka's
father had persuaded the tenor to accompany his son abroad and had
succeeded in getting him two years leave of absence from the Imperial
Chapel. The opera season 1830-1831 was unusually brilliant at Milan, and
the two friends heard Grisi, Pasta, Rubini, Galli and Orlandi. Their
greatest experience came at the end of the season, when Bellini's "La
Sonnambula" was mounted for the first time, "Pasta and Rubini singing
their very best in order to uphold their favourite _maestro_." "We, in
our box," continues Glinka, "shed torrents of tears--tears of emotion
and enthusiasm." But still more important to his appreciation of vocal
music was his acquaintance in Naples with Nozzari and Fodor-Mainville.
Ivanov studied with both masters, and Glinka was permitted to be present
at his lessons. Nozzari had already retired from the stage, but his
voice was still in its fullest beauty. His compass was two octaves, from
B to B, and his scale so perfect that Glinka says it could only be
compared to Field's scale upon the piano. Under the influence of Italian
music, he wrote at this time a few piano pieces and two songs to Russian
words. His setting of Koslov's "Venetian Night" was merely an echo of
his surroundings; "The Victor," music to Joukovsky's words, showed more
promise of originality, and here we find for the first time the use of
the plagal cadence which he employed so effectively in _A Life for the
Tsar_.

During the third year of his visit, he felt a conviction that he was
moving on the wrong track, and that there was a certain insincerity in
all that he was attempting. "It cost me some pains to counterfeit the
Italian _sentimento brilliante_," he says. "I, a dweller in the North,
felt quite differently (from the children of the sunny South); with us,
things either make no impression at all, or they sink deep into the
soul; it is either a frenzy of joy or bitter tears." These reflections,
joined to an acute fit of homesickness, led to his decision to return to
Russia. After a few pleasant days spent in Vienna, he travelled direct
to Berlin, where he hoped to make up some of the deficiencies of his
Italian visit with the assistance of the well-known theorist Siegfried
Dehn.

Dehn saw at once that his pupil was gifted with genius, but impatient of
drudgery. He gave himself the trouble to devise a short cut to the
essentials of musical theory. In five months he succeeded in giving
Glinka a bird's-eye view of harmony and counterpoint, fugue and
instrumentation; the whole course being concentrated into four small
exercise books. "There is no doubt," writes Glinka, "that I owe more to
Dehn than to any of my masters. He not only put my musical knowledge
into order but also my ideas on art in general, and after his lessons I
no longer groped my way along, but worked with the full consciousness of
what I was doing."

While studying with Dehn, he still found time for composition, and it is
noticeable that what he wrote at this time is by no means Germanised
music. Two songs, "The Rustling Oak," words by Joukovsky, and Delvig's
poem, "Say not that love has fled," the Variations for piano on
Alabiev's "Nightingale," and outlines of the melody for the Orphan's
Song "When they slew my mother," afterwards used in a _Life for the
Tsar_, besides a sketch for one of the chief themes in the overture of
the opera, all tend to prove that he was now deeply preoccupied with the
expression of national sentiment in music.

In April 1834 his profitable studies with Dehn were cut short by the
death of his father, which necessitated his immediate return to Russia.
Stassov sums up the results of this period abroad in the words: "Glinka
left us a _dilettante_ and returned a _maestro_."




CHAPTER IV

GLINKA'S OPERAS


The idea of composing a national opera now began to take definite shape
in Glinka's mind. In the winter of 1834-1835, the poet Joukovsky was
living in the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg as tutor to the young
Tsarevich, afterwards Alexander II. The weekly gatherings which he held
there were frequented by Poushkin, Gogol, Odoievsky, Prince
Vyazemsky--in short, by all the higher _intelligentsia_ of the capital.
Here Glinka, the fame of whose songs sufficed to procure him the entrée
to this select society, was always welcome. When he confided to
Joukovsky his wish to create a purely Russian opera, the poet took up
the idea with ardour and suggested the subject of Ivan Sousanin, which,
as we have seen, had already been treated by Cavos. At first Joukovsky
offered to write the text of the work and actually supplied verses for
the famous trio in the last act: "Not to me, unhappy one, the storm wind
brought his last sign." But his many occupations made it impossible for
him to keep pace with Glinka's creative activity once his imagination
had been fired. Consequently the libretto had to be handed over to Baron
Rozen, a Russianised German, secretary to the young Tzarevich. Rozen
could hardly have been a whole-hearted patriot; certainly he was no
poet. The words of the opera leave much to be desired, but we must make
allowances for the fact that Glinka, in his impatience, sometimes
expected the librettist to supply words to ready-made music. The opera
was first called _Ivan Sousanin_. Among Glinka's papers was found the
original plan for the work: "_Ivan Sousanin_, a native tragi-heroic
opera, in five acts or sections. Actors: Ivan Sousanin (Bass), the chief
character; Antonida, his daughter (Soprano), tender and graceful; Alexis
(afterwards Bogdan) Sobinin, her affianced husband (tenor), a brave man;
Andrew (afterwards Vanya), an orphan boy of thirteen or fourteen (alto),
a simple-hearted character."

While at work upon the opera in 1835, Glinka married. This, the
fulfilment of a long-cherished wish, brought him great happiness. Soon
after his marriage he wrote to his mother, "my heart is once more
hopeful, I can feel and pray, rejoice and weep--my music is re-awakened;
I cannot find words to express my gratitude to Providence for this
bliss." In this beatific state of mind he threw himself into the
completion of his task. During the summer he took the two acts of the
libretto which were then ready into the country with him. While
travelling by carriage he composed the chorus in 5-4 measure: "Spring
waters flow o'er the fields," the idea of which had suddenly occurred to
him. Although a nervous man, he seems to have been able to work without
having recourse to the strictly guarded padded-room kind of isolation
necessary to so many creative geniuses. "Every morning," he says in his
autobiography, "I sat at a table in the big sitting-room of our house at
Novospasskoï, which was our favourite apartment; my mother, my sister
and my wife--in fact the whole family--were busy there, and the more
they laughed and talked and bustled about, the quicker my work went."
All through the winter, which was spent in St. Petersburg, he was busy
with the opera. "The scene where Sousanin leads the Poles astray in the
forest, I read aloud while composing, and entered so completely into the
situation of my hero that I used to feel my hair standing on end and
cold shivers down my back." During Lent, 1836, a trial rehearsal of the
first act was given at the house of Prince Youssipov, with the
assistance of his private orchestra. Glinka, satisfied with the results,
then made some efforts to get his opera put on the stage, but at first
he met with blank refusals from the Direction of the Imperial Theatres.
His cause was helped by the generous spirit of Cavos, who refused to see
in Glinka a rival in the sphere of patriotic opera, and was ready to
accept his work. Even then the Director of the Opera, Gedeonov, demanded
from Glinka a written undertaking not to claim any fee for the rights of
public performance. Glinka, who was not dependent upon music for a
livelihood, submitted to this injustice. The rehearsals were then begun
under the supervision of Cavos. The Emperor Nicholas I. attended one of
the rehearsals at the great Opera House and expressed his satisfaction,
and also his willingness to accept the dedication of the opera. It was
then that it received the title by which it has since become famous,
Glinka having previously changed the name of _Ivan Sousanin_ to that of
_Death for the Tsar_.

The first performance took place on November 27th (O.S.), 1836, in the
presence of the Emperor and the Court. "The first act was well
received," wrote Glinka, "the trio being loudly and heartily applauded.
The first scene in which the Poles appear (a ballroom in Warsaw) was
passed over in complete silence, and I went on the stage deeply wounded
by the attitude of the public." It seems, however, that the silence of
the audience proceeded from a certain timidity as to how they ought to
receive the appearance of these magnificent, swaggering Poles in the
presence of the Emperor, the Polish insurrection of 1830-1831 being
still painfully fresh in the public memory. The rest of the opera was
performed amid a scene of unparalleled enthusiasm. The acting of the
Russian chorus seems to have been even more realistic in those days than
it is now. "In the fourth act," to quote the composer himself, "the
representatives of the Polish soldiers in the scene in the forest, fell
upon Petrov (the famous bass who created the part of Sousanin) with such
fury that they broke his arm, and he was obliged to defend himself from
their attacks in good earnest." After the performance, Glinka was
summoned to the Emperor's box to receive his compliments, and soon
afterwards he was presented with a ring, worth 4,000 roubles, and
offered the post of Capellmeister to the Imperial Chapel.

Some account of the story of _A Life for the Tsar_ will be of interest
to those who have not yet seen the opera, for the passionate idealism of
the subject still appeals to every patriotic Russian. The action takes
place at one of the most stirring periods of Russian history, the
Russo-Polish war of 1633, just after the boy-king Michael
Feodorovich--first of the present Romanov line--had been elected to the
throne. Glinka himself sketched out the plot, which runs as follows:
The Poles, who have been supporting the claims of their own candidate
for the Russian throne, form a conspiracy against the life of the young
Romanov. A Polish army corps is despatched to Moscow, ostensibly on a
peaceful embassy, but in reality to carry out this sinister design. On
the march, they enter the hut of a loyal peasant, Ivan Sousanin, and
compel his services as a guide. Sousanin, who suspects their treachery,
forms a heroic resolve. He secretly sends his adopted son, the orphan
Vanya, to warn the Tsar of his danger; while, in order to gain time, he
misleads the Poles in the depths of the forest and falls a victim to
their vengeance when they discover the trick which has been played upon
them.

Whether the story be true or not--and modern historians deny its
authenticity[13]--Ivan Sousanin will always remain the typical
embodiment of the loyalty of the Russian peasant to his Tsar, a
sentiment which has hitherto resisted most of the agitations which have
affected the upper and middle classes of Russian society.

The music of _A Life for the Tsar_ was an immense advance on anything
that had been previously attempted by a Russian composer. Already the
overture--though not one of Glinka's best symphonic efforts--shows many
novel orchestral effects, which grew out of the fundamental material of
his music, the folk-songs of Great Russia. Generally speaking, his
tendency is to keep his orchestra within modest limits. Although he knew
something of the orchestration of Berlioz, it is Beethoven rather than
the French musician that Glinka takes as his model. "I do not care," he
says, "to make use of every luxury." Under this category he places
trombones, double bassoons, bass drum, English horn, piccolo and even
the harp. To the wind instruments he applies the term "orchestral
colour," while he speaks of the strings as "orchestral motion." With
regard to the strings, he thought that "the more these instruments
interlace their parts, the nearer they approach to their natural
character and the better they fulfil their part in the orchestra." It is
remarkable that Glinka usually gives free play to the various individual
groups of instruments, and that his orchestration is far less
conventional and limited than that of most operatic composers of his
time. The thematic material of _A Life for the Tsar_ is partly drawn
from national sources, not so much directly, as modelled on the
folk-song pattern. The crude folk-stuff is treated in a very different
way to that which prevailed in the early national operas. Glinka does
not interpolate a whole popular song--often harmonised in a very
ordinary manner--into his opera, in the naïve style of Fomin in his
_Aniouta_ or _The Miller_. With Glinka the material passes through the
melting pot of his genius, and flows out again in the form of a plastic
national idiom with which, as he himself expresses it, "his
fellow-countrymen could not fail to feel completely at home." Here are
one or two instances in which the folk-song element is recognisable in
_A Life for the Tsar_. In the first act, where Sousanin in his
recitative says it is no time to be dreaming of marriage feasts, occurs
a phrase which Glinka overheard sung by a cab-driver[14]; the familiar
folk-song "Down by Mother Volga," disguised in binary rhythm, serves as
accompaniment to Sousanin's words in the forest scene "I give ye
answer," and "Thither have I led ye," where its gloomy character is in
keeping with the situation; the recitative sung by Sobinin in the first
act, "Greeting, Mother Moscow," is also based upon a folk-tune. But
Glinka has also melodies of his own invention which are profoundly
national in character. As Alfred Bruneau remarks: "By means of a harmony
or a simple orchestral touch he can give to an air which is apparently
as Italian as possible a penetrating perfume of Russian nationality." An
example of this is to be found in Antonida's aria "I gaze upon the empty
fields" (Act I). The treatment of his themes is also in accordance with
national tradition; thus in the patriotic chorus in the first Act, "In
the storm and threatening tempest," we have an introduction for male
chorus, led by a precentor (Zapievets), a special feature of the
folk-singing of Great Russia. Another chorus has a pizzicato
accompaniment in imitation of the national instrument, the Balalaika, to
the tone of which we have grown fairly familiar in England during the
last few years. Many of Glinka's themes are built upon the mediæval
church modes which lie at the foundation of the majority of the national
songs.

For instance, the Peasants' chorus, "We go to our work in the woods," is
written in the hypo-dorian mode; the Song of the Rowers is in the Æolian
mode, which is identical with "the natural minor," which was the
favourite tonality of Glinka's predecessors. The strange beauty of the
_Slavsia_ lies in the use of the mixolydian mode, and its simple
harmonisation. The introduction to the opera is treated contrapuntally,
in the style of the folk-singing with its cantus firmus (_zapievkoya_)
and its imitations (_podgolossky_).

Glinka wrote the rôle of Sousanin for a bass. He has, indeed, been
reproached with giving preference for the bass at the expense of the
tenor parts, and other Russian composers have followed his example. But
when we bear in mind that Russia produces some of the most wonderful
bass voices in the world the preference seems natural enough, and even
assumes a certain national significance. Upon Sousanin's part centres
the chief interest of the opera and it is convincingly realised and
consistently Russian throughout. His opening phrases, in the Phrygian
mode, seem to delineate his individuality in a few clear broad touches.
Serov is disposed to claim for Glinka the definite and conscious use of
a _leitmotif_ which closely knits the patriotism of his hero with the
personality of the Tsar. Towards the close of the first act, Sousanin
sings a phrase to the words taken from the old Russian _Slavsia_ or Song
of Glory. Making a careful analysis of the score, Serov asserts that
traces of this motive may be found in many of Sousanin's recitatives and
arias, tending to the fusion of the musical and poetical ideas. Serov,
an enthusiastic Wagnerian student, seems to see _leitmotifs_ in most
unsuspected places and is inclined, we think, to exaggerate their
presence in _A Life for the Tsar_. But there are certainly moments in
the opera in which Glinka seems to have recourse consciously to this
phrase of the _Slavsia_ as befitting the dramatic situation. Thus in the
quartet in the third act, "God love the Tsar," the melody of the
_Slavsia_ may be recognised in the harmonic progression of the
instrumental basses given in 3-4 instead of 4-4; the treatment here is
interesting, because, as Cheshikin points out, it is in the antiphonal
style of the Orthodox Church, the vocal quartets singing "God love the
Tsar," while the string quartet replies with "Glory, glory, our Russian
Tsar." Again in another solemn moment in the opera the phrase from the
_Slavsia_ stands out still more clearly. When the Poles command Sousanin
to lead them instantly to the Tsar's abode, the hero answers in words
which rise far above the ordinary level of the libretto:

    "O high and bright our Tsar's abode,
     Protected by the power of God,
     All Russia guards it day and night,
     While on its walls, in raiment white,
     The angels, heaven's winged sentries, wait
     To keep all traitors from the gate."

These words are sung by Sousanin to a majestic cantilena in a flowing
6-4 measure, while the orchestra accompany in march rhythm with the
_Slavsia_, which, in spite of being somewhat veiled by the change of
rhythm and the vocal melody, may be quite easily identified.

Two great scenes are allotted to Sousanin. The first occurs when the
Poles insist on his acting as their guide and he resolves to lay down
his life for the Tsar. Here the orchestra plays an important part,
suggesting the agitations which rend the soul of the hero; now it
reflects his super-human courage, and again those inevitable, but
passing, fears and regrets without which his deed would lose half its
heroism. The alternating rhythms--Sousanin sings in 2-4 and the Poles
3-4--are effectively managed. Sousanin's second great moment occurs when
the Poles, worn out with hunger and fatigue, fall asleep round their
camp fire and the peasant-hero, watching for the tardy winter sunrise
which will bring death to him and safety to the young Tsar, sings in a
mood of intense exaltation the aria "Thou comest Dawn, for the last time
mine eyes shall look on thee!" a touching and natural outburst of
emotion that never fails to stir a Russian audience to its emotional
depths, although some of the national composers have since reached
higher levels, judged from a purely musical standpoint.

In _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka conceived the idea, interesting in
itself, of contrasting the characters of the two nations by means of
their national music. To this end he devotes the whole of the second act
entirely to the Poles. Here it seems to me that he is far less
successful than with any other portion of the work. Some critics have
supposed that the composer really wished to give an impression of the
Poles as a superficial people literally dancing and revelling through
life, and possessed of no deeper feelings to be expressed in music. But
Glinka was too intelligent a man to take such naïve views of national
character. It seems more probable that not being supersaturated with
Polish as he was with Russian folk-music, he found it difficult to
indicate the personality of the Pole in anything but conventional dance
rhythms. This passes well enough in the second act, where the scene is
laid at a brilliant festival in the Polish capital, and the ballroom
dances which follow constitute the ballet of the opera. But in other
parts of the work, as, for instance, when the Polish soldiers burst into
Sousanin's cottage and order him to act as their guide, the strains of a
stately polonaise seem distinctly out of place; and again, when they
have lost their way in the forest and their situation is extremely
precarious, they express their alarm and suspicion in mazurka rhythm.
The polonaise, cracoviak, the valse in 6-8 time and the mazurka and
finale which form the ballet are somewhat ordinary in character, but
presented with a charm and piquancy of orchestration which has made them
extremely popular. The representative theme of the Poles, a phrase from
the polonaise, hardly suggests the part they play in the opera--their
evil designs upon Moscow and the young Michael Feodorovich, about which
they sing in the succeeding chorus. But others seem to find this music
more impressive, for, says M. Camille Bellaigue, "even when restricted
to strictly national forms and formulas, the Russian genius has a
tendency to enlarge them. In the polonaise and especially in the sombre
and sinister mazurka in _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka obtains from local
rhythms an intimate dramatic emotion.... He raises and generalises, and
from the music of a race makes the music of humanity."

In the last act of _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka has concentrated the
ardent patriotism and the profound human sympathy which is not only a
feature of his music but common to the whole school of which he is the
prototype. The curtain rises upon a street in Moscow, the people are
hurrying to the Kremlin to acclaim the young Tsar, and as they go they
sing that beautiful hymn-march "Glory, glory, Holy Russia," a superb
representation of the patriotic ideal. In contrast to the gladness of
the crowd, Glinka shows us the unfortunate children of Ivan Sousanin,
the lad Vanya, Antonida, and her betrothed, Sobinin. Some of the people
stop to ask the cause of their sadness, and in reply they sing the
touching trio which describes the fate of Sousanin. Then the scene
changes to the Red Square under the walls of the Kremlin, and all
individual sentiment is merged in a flood of loftier emotion. The close
of the act is the apotheosis of the Tsar and of the spirit of loyalty.
Here on the threshold of the Kremlin Michael Feodorovich pauses to
salute the dead body of the peasant-hero. Once again the great crowd
takes up the Slavsia or Glory motive, and amid the pealing of the bells
the opera ends with a triumphant chorus which seems to sum up the whole
character of the Russian people. "Every element of national beauty,"
says M. Camille Bellaigue, "is pressed into the service here. The
people, their ruler and God himself are present. Not one degree in all
the sacred hierarchy is lacking; not one feature of the ideal, not one
ray from the apotheosis of the fatherland."

With all its weaknesses and its occasional lapses into Italian
phraseology, _A Life for the Tsar_ still remains a patriotic and popular
opera, comparable only in these respects with some of the later works
which it engendered, or, among contemporary operas, with Weber's _Der
Freischütz_.

With the unparalleled success of _A Life for the Tsar_, Glinka reached
the meridian of his fame and power. He followed up the opera by some of
his finest songs, contained in the collection entitled "Farewell to St.
Petersburg," and by the beautiful incidental music to Koukolnik's
tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_, of which Tchaikovsky, by no means an
indulgent critic of his great predecessor, says: "Glinka here shows
himself to be one of the greatest symphonic composers of his day. Many
touches in _Prince Kholmsky_ recall the brush of Beethoven. There is the
same moderation in the means employed, and in the total absence of all
striving after mere external effects; the same sober beauty and clear
exposition of ideas that are not laboured but inspired; the same
plasticity of form and mould. Finally there is the same inimitable
instrumentation, so remote from all that is affected or far-fetched....
Every entr'acte which follows the overture is a little picture drawn by
a master-hand. These are symphonic marvels which would suffice a
second-rate composer for a whole series of long symphonies."

The idea of a second national opera began to occupy Glinka's mind very
soon after the production of _A Life for the Tsar_. It was his
intention to ask Poushkin to furnish him with a libretto based upon his
epic poem "Russlan and Liudmilla." The co-operation of Russia's greatest
poet with her leading musical genius should have been productive of
great results. Unhappily the plan was frustrated by the tragic death of
Poushkin, who was shot in a duel in 1837. Glinka, however, did not
renounce the subject to which he had been attracted, and sketched out
the plot and even some musical numbers, falling as before into the fatal
mistake of expecting his librettist to supply words to music already
written. The text for _Russlan and Liudmilla_ was supplied by
Bakhtourin, but several of Glinka's friends added a brick here and there
to the structure, with very patchy results. The introduction and finale
were sketched out in 1839, but the composer, partly on account of
failing health, did not work steadily at the opera until the winter of
1841. The score was actually completed by April 1842, when he submitted
it on approval to Gedeonov. This time Glinka met with no difficulties
from the Director of the Imperial Opera; the work was accepted at once
and the date of the first production fixed in the following November.

The subject of _Russlan and Liudmilla_, though equally national, has not
the poignant human interest that thrills us in _A Life for the Tsar_.
The story belongs to a remote and legendary period in Russian history,
and the characters are to a great extent fantastic and mythical. It had
none of those qualities which in the first opera made for an immediate
popular success in every stratum of Russian society. The days are now
long past when the musical world of Russia was split into two hostile
camps, the one led by Serov, who pronounced _Russlan_ to be the last
aberration of a lamentably warped genius; the other by Stassov, who saw
in it the mature expression of Glinka's inspiration. At the same time
Stassov was quite alive to the weaknesses and impossible scenic moments
of the libretto, faults which are doubtless the reason why seventy years
have not sufficed to win popularity for the work, although the lapse of
time has strengthened the conviction of all students of Russian opera as
to the actual musical superiority of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ over _A
Life for the Tsar_.

The story of the opera runs as follows:

In days of old--when the Slavs were still Pagans--Prince Svietozar of
Kiev had one beautiful daughter, Liudmilla. The maiden had three
suitors, the knights-errant Russlan and Farlaf, and the young Tatar
prince, Ratmir. Liudmilla's love was bestowed upon Russlan, and Prince
Svietozar prepares to celebrate their marriage. Meanwhile the wicked
wizard Chernomor has fallen desperately in love with Liudmilla. At the
wedding feast he carries off the bride by means of his magic arts.
Prince Svietozar sends the three knights to rescue his daughter and
promises to give her to the one who succeeds in the quest. The knights
meet with many adventures by the way. Farlaf seeks the help of the
sorceress Naina, who agrees to save him from the rivalry of Ratmir, by
luring the ardent young Oriental aside from his quest. Russlan takes
council with the benevolent wizard Finn, who tells him how to acquire a
magic sword with which to deliver his bride from the hands of Chernomor.
Russlan saves Liudmilla, but on their homeward journey to Kiev they are
intercepted by Farlaf, who casts them both into a magic slumber. Leaving
Russlan by the wayside, Farlaf carries the heroine back to her father's
house, where he passes himself off as her deliverer and claims her for
his bride. Russlan awakes and arrives in time to denounce his treachery,
and the opera ends with the marriage of the true lovers, which was
interrupted in the first act.

The overture to _Russlan and Liudmilla_ is a solid piece of work,
sketched on broad lines and having a fantastic colouring quite in
keeping with the subject of the opera. The opening subject is national
in character, being divided into two strains which lend themselves to
contrapuntal treatment.

An introduction follows, consisting of a chorus and two solos for Bayan
(tenor), the famous bard of old, who is supposed to relate the legend.
This introduction is largely built upon a phrase of eight notes, the
characteristic utterance of Bayan when he speaks of the "deeds of long
ago." Afterwards this phrase is repeated in the Dorian mode, and the
music acquires an archaic character in conformity with the remote period
of the action.

The opera itself may be said to begin with a wedding chorus, followed by
a cavatina for Liudmilla in which she takes leave of her father. In
writing for his primadonne Glinka seems to have found it difficult to
avoid the conventional Italian influence, and this solo, in common with
most of the music for Liudmilla, lacks vigour and originality. Far more
interesting from the musical point of view is the chorus in 5-4 measure,
an invocation to Lel, the Slavonic God of Love. At the close of this
number a loud clap of thunder is heard and the scene is plunged in
darkness, during which the wizard Chernomor carries away the bride. The
consternation of the guests is cleverly depicted over a pedal point for
horn on E flat which extends for a hundred and fifty bars. Prince
Svietozar then bids the knights-errant to go in search of his daughter,
and with a short chorus imploring the aid of Perun upon their quest the
act comes to an end.

The orchestral prelude to the second act is based upon a broad impetuous
theme which afterwards appears as the motive of the Giant's head in Act
III. The first scene represents a hilly region and the cave of the good
wizard Finn. The character of Finn, half humorous and half pathetic,
with its peculiar combination of benevolence, vacillation, and
pessimistic regret, is essentially Russian. Such characters have been
made typical in the novels of Tourgeniev and Tolstoy. Finn relates how,
in a vain endeavour to win Naina the sorceress, he has changed himself
into a shepherd, a fisherman, and a warrior, and finally into a wizard.
In this last character he has succeeded in touching her heart. But now
alas, they have awakened to the realisation that there is nothing left
to them but regret for lost possibilities fled beyond recall. Glinka
expresses all these psychological changes in Finn's famous Ballade which
forms the opening number of this act; but admirable as it is, critics
have some ground for their reproach that its great length delays the
action of the plot. Russlan, having listened to Finn's love-story,
receives from him the sword with which he is to attack the Giant's Head.
In the next scene Farlaf meets the elderly but once beautiful Naina, and
the two sing a humorous duet. Farlaf's chief air, a rondo in
opera-bouffe style, is rather ordinary, but Naina's music is a
successful piece of character-painting. The last scene of the second act
is one of the most fantastic in this fantastic opera. The stage is
enveloped in mist. Russlan enters and sings his aria, of which the
opening recitative is the strongest part, the _Allegro_ section, which
Glinka has written in sonata-form, being somewhat diffuse. While he is
singing, the mist slowly disperses, and the rising moon reveals the
lonely steppe and shines upon the bleached bones which strew an ancient
battle-field. Russlan now sees with horror the apparition of the Giant's
Head. This in its turn sees Russlan, and threatens the audacious knight
who has ventured upon the haunted field. But Russlan overcomes the
monster head with the magic sword, as directed by Finn. In order to give
weight to the Giant's voice Glinka has supplemented the part by a small
male chorus which sings from within the head.

The prelude to the third act is generally omitted, and is not in fact
printed in the pianoforte score of the opera. The opening number, a
Persian chorus for female voices, "The Night lies heavy on the fields,"
is full of grace and oriental languor. The subject of the chorus is a
genuine Persian melody and the variations which form the accompaniment
add greatly to the beauty of these pages. The chorus is followed by an
aria for Gorislava (soprano), Ratmir's former love, whom he has deserted
for Liudmilla. This air with its clarinet obbligato is one of the most
popular solos in the opera. In answer to Gorislava's appeal, Ratmir
appears upon the scene and sings a charming nocturne accompanied by _cor
anglais_. The part of the young oriental lover is usually taken by a
woman (contralto). For this number Glinka makes use of a little Tatar
air which Ferdinand David afterwards introduced, transposed into the
major, in his symphonic poem "Le Désert." It is a beautiful piece of
landscape painting which makes us feel the peculiar sadness of the
twilight in Russia as it falls on the vast spaces of the Steppes. A
French critic has said that it might have been written by an oriental
Handel. The scene described as the seduction of Ratmir consists of a
ballet in rococo style entitled "Naina's magic dance." Then follows a
duet for Gorislava and Ratmir, after which the maidens of the harem
surround Ratmir and screen Gorislava from him. Afterwards the enchanted
palace created by Naina to ensnare Ratmir suddenly vanishes and we see
the open plain once more. The act concludes with a quartet in which
Russlan and Finn take part with the two oriental lovers.

The entr'acte preceding the fourth act consists of a march movement
(_Marcia allegro risoluto_). The curtain then rises upon Chernomor's
enchanted garden, where Liudmilla languishes in captivity. An oriental
ballet then follows, but this is preceded by the March of the Wizard
Chernomor. This quaint march which personifies the invisible monster is
full of imagination, although it tells its tale so simply that it takes
us back to the fairyland of childhood. The first of the Eastern dances
(_allegretto quasi andante_) is based upon a Turkish song in 6-8
measure. Afterwards follows the Danse Arabesque and finally a Lezginka,
an immensely spirited dance built upon another of the Tatar melodies
which were given to Glinka by the famous painter Aivazovsky. A chorus of
naiads and a chorus of flowers also form part of the ballet, which is
considered one of Glinka's _chefs d'oeuvre_. While the chorus is being
sung we see in the distance an aerial combat between Russlan and
Chernomor, and throughout the whole of the movement the wizard's
_leitmotif_ is prominent in the music. Russlan, having overcome
Chernomor, wakes Liudmilla from the magic sleep into which she has been
cast by his spells.

The first scene of the last act takes place in the Steppes, where Ratmir
and Gorislava, now reconciled, have pitched their tent. Russlan's
followers break in upon the lovers with the news that Farlaf has
treacherously snatched Liudmilla from their master. Then Finn arrives
and begs Ratmir to carry to Russlan a magic ring which will restore the
princess from her trance. In the second scene the action returns to
Prince Svietozar's palace. Liudmilla is still under a spell, and her
father, who believes her to be dead, reproaches Farlaf in a fine piece
of recitative (Svietozar's music throughout the work is consistently
archaic in character). Farlaf declares that Liudmilla is not dead and
claims her as his reward. Svietozar is reluctantly about to fulfil his
promise, when Russlan arrives with the magic ring and denounces the
false knight. The funeral march which had accompanied the Prince's
recitative now gives place to the chorus "Love and joy." Liudmilla in
her sleep repeats the melody of the chorus in a kind of dreamy ecstasy.
Then Russlan awakens her and the opera concludes with a great chorus of
thanksgiving and congratulation. Throughout the finale the
characteristics of Russian and Eastern music are combined with brilliant
effect.

_Russlan and Liudmilla_ was received with indifference by the public and
with pronounced hostility by most of the critics. Undoubtedly the
weakness of the libretto had much to do with its early failure; but it
is equally true that in this, his second opera, Glinka travelled so far
from Italian tradition and carried his use of national colour so much
further and with such far greater conviction, that the music became
something of an enigma to a public whose enthusiasm was still wholly
reserved for the operas of Donizetti, Bellini and Rossini. Looking back
from the present condition of Russian opera we can trace the immense
influence of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ upon the later generation of
composers both as regards opera and ballet. It is impossible not to
realise that the fantastic Russian ballets of the present day owe much
to Glinka's first introduction of Eastern dances into _Russlan and
Liudmilla_.

The coldness of the public towards this work, the fruit of his mature
conviction, was a keen disappointment to Glinka. He had not the
alternative hope of being appreciated abroad, for he had deliberately
chosen to appeal to his fellow-countrymen, and when they rejected him he
had no heart for further endeavour. His later symphonic works,
"Kamarinskaya" and "The Jota Aragonese," show that his gift had by no
means deteriorated. Of the former Tchaikovsky has truly said that Glinka
has succeeded in concentrating in one short work what a dozen
second-rate talents could only have invented with the whole expenditure
of their powers. Possibly Glinka would have had more courage and energy
to meet his temporary dethronement from the hearts of his own people had
not his health been already seriously impaired. After the production of
_Russlan_ he lived chiefly abroad. In his later years he was much
attracted to the music of Bach and to the older polyphonic schools of
Italy and Germany. Always preoccupied with the idea of nationality in
music, he made an elaborate study of Russian church music, but his
failing health did not permit him to carry out the plans which he had
formed in this connection. In April 1856 he left St. Petersburg for the
last time and went to Berlin, where he intended to pursue these studies
with the assistance of Dehn. Here he lived very quietly for some months,
working twice a week with his old master and going occasionally to the
opera to hear the works of Gluck and Mozart. In January 1857 he was
taken seriously ill, and passed peacefully away during the night of
February 2nd. In the following May his remains were brought from Germany
to St. Petersburg and laid in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky
monastery near to those of other national poets, Krylov, Baratinsky and
Joukovsky.

Glinka was the first inspired interpreter of the Russian nationality in
music. During the period which has elapsed since his death the impress
of his genius upon that of his fellow countrymen has in no way
weakened. For this reason a knowledge of his music is an indispensable
introduction to the appreciation of the later school of Russian music;
for in his works and in those of Dargomijsky, we shall find the key to
all that has since been accomplished.




CHAPTER V

DARGOMIJSKY


Glinka, in his memoirs, relates how in the autumn of 1834 he met at a
musical party in St. Petersburg, "a little man with a shrill treble
voice, who, nevertheless, proved a redoubtable virtuoso when he sat down
to the piano." The little man was Alexander Sergeivich Dargomijsky, then
about twenty-one years of age, and already much sought after in society
as a brilliant pianist and as the composer of agreeable drawing-room
songs. Dargomijsky's diary contains a corresponding entry recording this
important meeting of two men who were destined to become central points
whence started two distinct currents of tendency influencing the whole
future development of Russian music. "Similarity of education and a
mutual love of music immediately drew us together," wrote Dargomijsky,
"and this in spite of the fact that Glinka was ten years my senior." For
the remainder of Glinka's life Dargomijsky was his devoted friend and
fellow-worker, but never his unquestioning disciple.

Dargomijsky was born, February 2/14, 1813, at a country estate in the
government of Toula, whither his parents had fled from their own home
near Smolensk before the French invaders in 1812. It is said that
Dargomijsky, the future master of declamation, only began to articulate
at five years of age. In 1817 his parents migrated to St. Petersburg.
They appear to have taken great interest in the musical education of
their son; at six he received his first instruction on the piano, and
two years later took up the violin; while at eleven he had already tried
his hand at composition. His education being completed, he entered the
Government service, from which, however, he retired altogether in 1843.
Thanks to his parents' sympathy with his musical talent, Dargomijsky's
training had been above the average and a long course of singing lessons
with an excellent master, Tseibikha, no doubt formed the basis of his
subsequent success as a composer of vocal music. But at the time of his
first meeting with Glinka, both on account of his ignorance of theory
and of the narrowness of his general outlook upon music, he can only be
regarded as an amateur. One distinguishing feature of his talent seems
to have been in evidence even then, for Glinka, after hearing his first
song, written to humorous words, declared that if Dargomijsky would turn
his attention to comic opera he would certainly surpass all his
predecessors in that line. Contact with Glinka's personality effected
the same beneficial change in Dargomijsky that Rubinstein's influence
brought about in Tchaikovsky some thirty years later; it changed him
from a mere dilettante into a serious musician. "Glinka's example," he
wrote in his autobiography, "who was at that time (1834) taking Prince
Usipov's band through the first rehearsals of his opera _A Life for the
Tsar_, assisted by myself and Capellmeister Johannes, led to my decision
to study the theory of music. Glinka handed over to me the five exercise
books in which he had worked out Dehn's theoretical system and I copied
them in my own hand, and soon assimilated the so-called mysterious
wisdom of harmony and counterpoint, because I had been from childhood
practically prepared for this initiation and had occupied myself with
the study of orchestration." These were the only books of theory ever
studied by Dargomijsky, but they served to make him realise the
possession of gifts hitherto unsuspected. After this course of
self-instruction he felt strong enough to try his hand as an operatic
composer, and selected a libretto founded on Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame
de Paris." Completed and translated into Russian in 1839, the work,
entitled _Esmeralda_, was not accepted by the Direction of the Imperial
Opera until 1847, when it was mounted for the first time at Moscow. By
this time Dargomijsky had completely outgrown this immature essay. The
light and graceful music pleased the Russian public, but the success of
this half-forgotten child of his youth gave little satisfaction to the
composer himself. He judged the work in the following words: "The music
is slight and often trivial--in the style of Halévy and Meyerbeer; but
in the more dramatic scenes there are already some traces of that
language of force and realism which I have since striven to develop in
my Russian music."

In 1843 Dargomijsky went abroad, and while in Paris made the
acquaintance of Auber, Meyerbeer, Halévy, and Fétis. The success of
_Esmeralda_ encouraged him to offer to the Directors of the Imperial
Theatre an opera-ballet entitled _The Triumph of Bacchus_, which he had
originally planned as a cantata; but the work was rejected, and only saw
the light some twenty years later, when it was mounted in Moscow.
Dargomijsky's correspondence during his sojourn abroad is extremely
interesting, and shows that his views on music were greatly in advance
of his time and quite free from the influences of fashion and
convention.

In 1853 we gather from a letter addressed to a friend that he was
attracted to national music. As a matter of fact the new opera, upon
which he had already started in 1848, was based upon a genuine Russian
folk-subject--Poushkin's dramatic poem "The Roussalka" (The Water
Sprite). Greatly discouraged by the refusal of the authorities to accept
_The Triumph of Bacchus_, Dargomijsky laid aside _The Roussalka_ until
1853. During this interval most of his finest songs and declamatory
ballads were written, as well as those inimitably humorous songs which,
perhaps, only a Russian can fully appreciate. But though he matured
slowly, his intellectual and artistic development was serious and
profound. Writing to Prince Odoevsky about this time, he says: "The more
I study the elements of our national music, the more I discover its
many-sidedness. Glinka, who so far has been the first to extend the
sphere of our Russian music, has, I consider, only touched one phase of
it--the lyrical. In _The Roussalka_ I shall endeavour as much as
possible to bring out the dramatic and humorous elements of our national
music. I shall be glad if I achieve this, even though it may seem a half
protest against Glinka." Here we see Dargomijsky not as the disciple,
but as the independent worker, although he undoubtedly kept _Russlan and
Liudmilla_ in view as the model for _The Roussalka_. The work was given
for the first time at the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, in 1856,
but proved too novel in form and treatment to please a public that was
still infatuated with Italian opera.

In 1864-1865 Dargomijsky made a second tour in Western Europe, taking
with him the scores of _The Roussalka_ and of his three Orchestral
Fantasias, "Kazachok" (The Cossack), a "Russian Legend," and "The Dance
of the Mummers" (Skomorokhi). In Leipzig he made the acquaintance of
many prominent musicians, who contented themselves with pronouncing his
music "_sehr neu_" and "_ganz interessant_," but made no effort to bring
it before the public. In Paris he was equally unable to obtain a
hearing; but in Belgium--always hospitable to Russian musicians--he gave
a concert of his own compositions with considerable success. On his way
back to Russia he spent a few days in London and ever after spoke of our
capital with enthusiastic admiration.

In 1860 Dargomijsky had been appointed director of the St. Petersburg
section of the Imperial Russian Musical Society. This brought him in
contact with some of the younger contemporary musicians, and after his
return from abroad, in 1865, he became closely associated with Balakirev
and his circle and took a leading part in the formation of the new
national and progressive school of music. By this time he handled that
musical language of "force and realism," of which we find the first
distinct traces in _The Roussalka_, with ease and convincing eloquence.
For his fourth opera he now selected the subject of _The Stone Guest_
(Don Juan); not the version by Da Ponte which had been immortalised by
Mozart's music, but the poem in which the great Russian poet Poushkin
had treated this ubiquitous tale. This work occupied the last years of
Dargomijsky's life, and we shall speak of it in detail a little further
on. Soon after the composer's return from abroad his health began to
fail and the new opera had constantly to be laid aside. From
contemporary accounts it seems evident that he did not shut himself away
from the world in order to keep alive the flickering flame of life that
was left to him, but that on the contrary he liked to be surrounded by
the younger generation, to whom he gave out freely of his own richly
gifted nature. The composition of _The Stone Guest_ was a task fulfilled
in the presence of his disciples, reminding us of some of the great
painters who worked upon their masterpieces before their pupils' eyes.
Dargomijsky died of heart disease in January 1869. On his deathbed he
entrusted the unfinished manuscript of _The Stone Guest_ to Cui and
Rimsky-Korsakov, instructing the latter to carry out the orchestration
of it. The composer fixed three thousand roubles (about £330) as the
price of his work, but an obsolete law made it illegal for a native
composer to receive more than £160 for an opera. At the suggestion of
Vladimir Stassov, the sum was raised by private subscription, and _The
Stone Guest_ was performed in 1872. Of its reception by the public
something will be said when we come to the analysis of the work.

We may dismiss _Esmeralda_ as being practically of no account in the
development of Russian opera; but the history of _The Roussalka_ is
important, for this work not only possesses intrinsic qualities that
have kept it alive for over half a century, but its whole conception
shows that Dargomijsky was already in advance of his time as regards
clear-cut musical characterisation and freedom from conventional
restraint. In this connection it is interesting to remember that _The
Roussalka_ preceded Bizet's "Carmen" by some ten or twelve years.

As early as 1843 Dargomijsky had thought of _The Roussalka_ as an
excellent subject for opera. He avoided Glinka's methods of entrusting
his libretto to several hands. In preparing the book he kept as closely
as possible to Poushkin's poem, and himself carried out the
modifications necessary for musical treatment. It is certain that he had
begun the work by September 1848. It was completed in 1855.

As we have already seen, he was aware that Glinka was not fully in
touch with the national character; there were sides of it which he had
entirely ignored in both his operas, because he was temperamentally
incapable of reflecting them. Glinka's humour, as Dargomijsky has
truthfully said, was not true to Russian life. His strongest tendency
was towards a slightly melancholy lyricism, and when he wished to supply
some comic relief he borrowed it from cosmopolitan models. The composer
of _The Roussalka_, on the other hand, deliberately aimed at bringing
out the dramatic, realistic, and humorous elements which he observed in
his own race. The result was an opera containing a wonderful variety of
interest.

Russian folk-lore teems with references to the _Roussalki_, or water
nymphs, who haunt the streams and the still, dark, forest pools, lying
in wait for the belated traveller, and of all their innumerable legends
none is more racy of the soil than this dramatic poem by Poushkin in
which the actual and supernatural worlds are sketched by a master hand.
The story of the opera runs as follows:

A young Prince falls in love with Natasha, the Miller's daughter. He
pays her such devoted attention that the father hopes in time to see his
child become a princess. Natasha returns the Prince's passion, and gives
him not only her love but her honour. Circumstances afterwards compel
the Prince to marry in his own rank. Deserted in the hour of her need,
Natasha in despair drowns herself in the mill-stream. Now, in accordance
with Slavonic legends, she becomes a _Roussalka_, seeking always to lure
mortals to her watery abode. Misfortune drives the old Miller crazy and
the mill falls into ruins. Between the second act, in which the Prince's
nuptials are celebrated, and the third, a few years are supposed to
elapse. Meanwhile the Prince is not happy in his married life, and is
moreover perpetually haunted by the remembrance of his first love and by
remorse for her tragic fate. He spends hours near the ruined mill
dreaming of the past. One day a little _Roussalka_ child appears to him
and tells him that she is his daughter, and that she dwells with her
mother among the water-sprites. All his old passion is reawakened. He
stands on the brink of the water in doubt as to whether to respond to
the calls of Natasha and the child, or whether to flee from their malign
influence. Even while he hesitates, the crazy Miller appears upon the
scene and fulfils dramatic justice by flinging the betrayer of his
daughter into the stream. Here we have the elements of an exceedingly
dramatic libretto which offers fine opportunities to a psychological
musician of Dargomijsky's type. The scene in which the Prince, with
caressing grace and tenderness, tries to prepare Natasha for the news
of his coming marriage; her desolation when she hears that they must
part; her bitter disenchantment on learning the truth, and her cry of
anguish as she tries to make him realise the full tragedy of her
situation--all these emotions, coming in swift succession, are followed
by the music with astonishing force and flexibility. Very effective,
too, is the scene of the wedding festivities in which the wailing note
of the _Roussalka_ is heard every time the false lover attempts to kiss
his bride--the suggestion of an invisible presence which throws all the
guests into consternation. As an example of Dargomijsky's humour,
nothing is better than the recitative of the professional
marriage-maker, "Why so silent pretty lassies," and the answering chorus
of the young girls (in Act II.). As might be expected with a realistic
temperament like Dargomijsky's, the music of the _Roussalki_ is the
least successful part of the work. The sub-aquatic ballet in the last
act is rather commonplace; while Natasha's music, though expressive, has
been criticised as being too human and warm-blooded for a soulless
water-sprite. Undoubtedly the masterpiece of the opera is the musical
presentment of the Miller. At first a certain sardonic humour plays
about this crafty, calculating old peasant, but afterwards, when
disappointed greed and his daughter's disgrace have turned his brain,
how subtly the music is made to suggest the cunning of mania in that
strange scene in which he babbles of his hidden treasures, "stored safe
enough where the fish guard them with one eye!" With extraordinary power
Dargomijsky reproduces his hideous meaningless laugh as he pushes the
Prince into the swirling mill-stream. The character of the Miller alone
would suffice to prove that the composer possesses dramatic gifts of the
highest order.

_The Roussalka_, first performed at the Maryinsky Theatre in May 1856,
met with very little success. The Director of the opera, Glinka's old
enemy Gedeonov, having made up his mind that so "unpleasing" a work
could have no future, mounted it in the shabbiest style. Moreover, as
was usually the case with national opera then--and even at a later
date--the interpretation was entrusted to second-rate artists.
Dargomijsky, in a letter to his pupil Madame Karmalina, comments
bitterly upon this; unhappily he could not foresee the time, not so far
distant, when the great singer Ossip Petrov would electrify the audience
with his wonderful impersonation of the Miller; nor dream that fifty
years later Shaliapin would make one of his most legitimate triumphs in
this part. The critics met Dargomijsky's innovations without in the
least comprehending their drift. Serovit was before the days of his
opposition to the national cause--alone appreciated the novelty and
originality shown in the opera; he placed it above _A Life for the
Tsar_; but even his forcible pen could not rouse the public from their
indifference to every new manifestation of art. Dargomijsky himself
perfectly understood the reason of its unpopularity. In one of his
letters written at this time, he says: "Neither our amateurs nor our
critics recognise my talents. Their old-fashioned notions cause them to
seek for melody which is merely flattering to the ear. That is not _my_
first thought. I have no intention of indulging them with music as a
plaything. _I want the note to be the direct equivalent of the word._ I
want truth and realism. This they cannot understand."

Ten years after the first performance of _The Roussalka_, the public
began to reconsider its verdict. The emancipation of the serfs in 1861
changed the views of society towards the humble classes, and directed
attention towards all that concerned the past history of the peasantry.
A new spirit animated the national ideal. From Poushkin's poetry, with
its somewhat "Olympian" attitude to life, the reading public turned to
the people's poets, Nekrassov and Nikitin; while the realism of Gogol
was now beginning to be understood. To these circumstances we may
attribute the reaction in favour of _The Roussalka_, which came as a
tardy compensation towards the close of the composer's life.

During the ten years which followed the completion of _The Roussalka_,
Dargomijsky was steadily working towards the formulation of new
principles in vocal, and especially in dramatic music. We may watch his
progress in the series of songs and ballads which he produced at this
time. It is, however, in _The Stone Guest_ that Dargomijsky carries his
theories of operatic reform to a logical conclusion. One of his chief
aims, in which he succeeded in interesting the little band of disciples
whose work we shall presently review, was the elimination of the
artificial and conventional in the accepted forms of Italian opera.
Wagner had already experienced the same dissatisfaction, and was solving
the question of reform in the light of his own great genius. But the
Russian composers could not entirely adopt the Wagnerian theories.
Dargomijsky, while rejecting the old arbitrary divisions of opera, split
upon the question of the importance which Wagner gave to the orchestra.
Later on we shall see how each member of the newly-formed school tried
to work out the principles of reformation in his own way, keeping in
view the dominant idea that the dramatic interest should be chiefly
sustained by the singer, while the orchestra should be regarded as a
means of enhancing the interest of the vocal music. Dargomijsky himself
was the first to embody these principles in what must be regarded as one
of the masterpieces of Russian music--his opera _The Stone Guest_. Early
in the 'sixties he had been attracted to Poushkin's fine poem, which has
for subject the story of Don Juan, treated, not as we find it in
Mozart's opera, by a mere librettist, but with the dramatic force and
intensity of a great poet. Dargomijsky was repelled by the idea of
mutilating a fine poem; yet found himself overwhelmed by the
difficulties of setting the words precisely as they stood. Later on,
however, the illness from which he was suffering seems to have produced
in him a condition of rare musical clairvoyance. "I am singing my swan
song," he wrote to Madame Karmelina in 1868; "I am writing _The Stone
Guest_. It is a strange thing: my nervous condition seems to generate
one idea after another. I have scarcely any physical strength.... It is
not I who write, but some unknown power of which I am the instrument.
The thought of _The Stone Guest_ occupied my attention five years ago
when I was in robust health, but then I shrank from the magnitude of the
task. Now, ill as I am, I have written three-fourths of the opera in two
and a half months.... Needless to say the work will not appeal to the
many."

"Thank God," comments Stassov, in his energetic language, "that in 1863
Dargomijsky recoiled before so colossal an undertaking, since he was not
yet prepared for it. His musical nature was still growing and widening,
and he was gradually freeing himself from all stiffness and asperity,
from false notions of form, and from the Italian and French influences
which sometimes predominate in the works of his early and middle
periods. In each new composition Dargomijsky takes a step forward, but
in 1866 his preparations were complete. A great musician was ready to
undertake a great work. Here was a man who had cast off all musical
wrong thinking, whose mind was as developed as his talent, and who found
such inward force and greatness of character as inspired him to write
this work while he lay in bed, subject to the terrible assaults of a
mortal malady."

_The Stone Guest_, then, is the ultimate expression of that realistic
language which Dargomijsky employs in his early cantata _The Triumph of
Bacchus_, in _The Roussalka_, and in his best songs. It is applied not
to an ordinary ready-made libretto, but to a poem of such excellence
that the composer felt it a sacrilege to treat it otherwise than as on
an equal footing with the music. This effort to follow with absolute
fidelity every word of the book, and to make the note the
representative of the word, led to the adoption of a new operatic form,
and to the complete abandonment of the traditional soli, duets,
choruses, and concerted pieces. In _The Stone Guest_ the singers employ
that _melos_, or _mezzo-recitativo_, which is neither melody nor speech,
but the connecting link between the two. Some will argue, with Serov,
that there is nothing original in these ideas; they had already been
carried out by Wagner; and that _The Stone Guest_ does not prove that
Dargomijsky was an innovator but merely that he had the intelligence to
become the earliest of Wagner's disciples. Nothing could be further from
the truth. By 1866 Dargomijsky had some theoretical knowledge of
Wagner's views, but he can have heard little, if any, of his music.
Whether he was at all influenced by the former, it is difficult to
determine; but undoubtedly his efforts to attain to a more natural and
realistic method of expression date from a time when Wagner and
Wagnerism were practically a sealed book to him. One thing is certain:
from cover to cover of _The Stone Guest_ it would be difficult to find
any phrase which is strongly reminiscent of Wagner's musical style. What
he himself thought of Wagner's music we may gather from a letter written
to Serov in 1856, in which he says: "I have not returned your score of
"Tannhäuser," because I have not yet had time to go through the whole
work. You are right; in the scenic disposition there is much poetry; in
the music, too, he shows us a new and practical path; but in his
unnatural melodies and spiciness, although at times his harmonies are
very interesting, there is a sense of effort--_will und kann nicht!_
Truth--above all truth--but we may demand good taste as well."

Dargomijsky was no conscious or deliberate imitator of Wagner. The
passion for realistic expression which possessed him from the first led
him by a parallel but independent path to a goal somewhat similar to
that which was reached by Wagner. But Dargomijsky adhered more closely
to the way indicated a century earlier by that great musical reformer
Gluck. In doing this justice to the Russian composer, a sense of
proportion forbids me to draw further analogies between the two men.
Dargomijsky was a strong and original genius, who would have found his
way to a reformed music drama, even if Wagner had not existed. Had he
been sustained by a Ludwig of Bavaria, instead of being opposed by a
Gedeonov, he might have left his country a larger legacy from his
abundant inspiration; but fate and his surroundings willed that his
achievements should be comparatively small. Whereas Wagner, moving on
from strength to strength, from triumph to triumph, raised up
incontestable witnesses to the greatness of his genius.

In _The Stone Guest_ Dargomijsky has been successful in welding words
and music into an organic whole; while the music allotted to each
individual in the opera seems to fit like a skin. "Poetry, love,
passion, arresting tragedy, humour, subtle psychological sense and
imaginative treatment of the supernatural,[15] all these qualities,"
says Stassov, "are combined in this opera." The chief drawback of the
work is probably its lack of scenic interest, a fault which inevitably
results from the unity of its construction. The music, thoughtful,
penetrative, and emotional, is of the kind which loses little by the
absence of scenic setting. _The Stone Guest_ is essentially an opera
which may be studied at the piano. It unites as within a focus many of
the dominant ideas and tendencies of the school that proceeded from
Glinka and Dargomijsky, and proves that neither nationality of subject
nor of melody constitutes nationality of style, and that a tale which
bears the stamp and colour of the South may become completely Russian,
poetically and musically, when moulded by Russian hands. _The Stone
Guest_ has never attained to any considerable measure of popularity in
Russia. In spite of Dargomijsky's personal intimacy with his little
circle of disciples, in which respect his attitude to his fellow workers
was quite different to that of Glinka, the example which he set in _The
Stone Guest_ eventually found fewer imitators than Glinka's ideal model
_A Life for the Tsar_. At the same time in certain particulars, and
especially as regards melodic recitative, this work had a decided
influence upon a later school of Russian opera. But this is a matter to
be discussed in a later chapter.

[Illustration:

_Serov, V.A._

SEROV]




CHAPTER VI

WORK AND INFLUENCE OF SEROV


Glinka and Dargomijsky were to Russian music two vitalising sources, to
the power of which had contributed numerous affluent aspirations and
activities. They, in their turn, flowed forth in two distinct channels
of musical tendency, fertilising two different spheres of musical work.
Broadly speaking, they stand respectively for lyrical idealism as
opposed to dramatic realism in Russian opera. To draw some parallel
between them seems inevitable, since together they make up the sum total
of the national character. Their influences, too, are incalculable, for
with few exceptions scarcely an opera has been produced by succeeding
generations which does not give some sign of its filiation with one or
the other of these composers. Glinka had the versatility and spontaneity
we are accustomed to associate with the Slav temperament; Dargomijsky
had not less imagination but was more reflective. Glinka was not devoid
of wit; but Dargomijsky's humour was full flavoured and racy of the
soil. He altogether out-distanced Glinka as regards expression and
emotional intensity. Glinka's life was not rich in inward experiences
calculated to deepen his nature, and he had not, like Dargomijsky, that
gift of keen observation which supplies the place of actual experience.
The composer of _The Stone Guest_ was a psychologist, profound and
subtle, who not only observed, but knew how to express himself with the
laconic force of a man who has no use for the gossip of life.

When Glinka died in 1857, Russian musical life was already showing
symptoms of that division of aims and ideals which ultimately led to the
formation of two opposing camps: the one ultra-national, the other more
or less cosmopolitan. In order to understand the situation of Russian
opera at this time, it is necessary to touch upon the long hostility
which existed between the rising school of young home-bred musicians,
and those who owed their musical education to foreign sources, and in
whose hands were vested for a considerable time all academic authority,
and most of the paid posts which enabled a musician to devote himself
wholly to his profession.

While Dargomijsky was working at his last opera, and gathering round his
sick bed that group of young nationalists soon to be known by various
sobriquets, such as "The Invincible Band," and "The Mighty Five,"[16]
Anton Rubinstein was also working for the advancement of music in
Russia; but it was the general aspect of musical education which
occupied his attention, rather than the vindication of the art as an
expression of national temperament. Up to the middle of the eighteenth
century there had been but two musical elements in Russia, the creative
and the auditory. In the latter we may include the critics, almost a
negligible quantity in those days. At the close of the 'fifties a third
element was added to the situation--the music schools. "The time had
come," says Stassov, "when the necessity for schools, conservatoires,
incorporated societies, certificates, and all kinds of musical castes
and privileges, was being propagated among us. With these aims in view,
the services were engaged of those who had been brought up to consider
everything excellent which came from abroad, blind believers in all
kinds of traditional prejudices. Since schools and conservatoires
existed in Western Europe, we, in Russia, must have them too. Plenty of
amateurs were found ready to take over the direction of our new
conservatoires. Such enterprise was part of a genuine, but hasty,
patriotism, and the business was rushed through. It was asserted that
music in Russia was then at a very low ebb and that everything must be
done to raise the standard of it. With the object of extending the tone
and improving the knowledge of music, the Musical Society was founded in
1859, and its principal instrument, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in
1862.... Not long before the opening of this institution, Rubinstein
wrote an article,[17] in which he deplored the musical condition of the
country, and said that in Russia 'the art was practised only by
amateurs' ... and this at a time when Balakirev, Moussorgsky and Cui had
already composed several of their early works and had them performed in
public. Were these men really only amateurs? The idea of raising and
developing the standard of music was laudable, but was Russia truly in
such sore need of that kind of development and elevation when an
independent and profoundly national school was already germinating in
our midst? In discussing Russian music, the first questions should have
been: what have we new in our music; what is its character; what are its
idiosyncrasies, and what is necessary for its growth and the
preservation of its special qualities? But the people who thought to
encourage the art in Russia did not, or would not, take this indigenous
element into consideration, and from the lofty pinnacle of the Western
Conservatoire they looked down on our land as a _tabula rasa_, a wild
uncultivated soil which must be sown with good seed imported from
abroad.... In reply to Rubinstein's article I wrote:[18] 'How many
academies in Europe are grinding out and distributing certificated
students, who occupy themselves more or less with art? But they cannot
turn out artists; only people all agog to acquire titles, recognised
positions, and privileges. Why must this be? We do not give our literary
men certificates and titles, and yet a profoundly national literature
has been created and developed in Russia. It should be the same with
music.... Academic training and artistic progress are not synonymous
terms.... Germany's noblest musical periods _preceded_ the opening of
her conservatoires, and her greatest geniuses have all been educated
outside the schools. Hitherto all our teachers have been foreigners
brought up in the conservatoires abroad. Why then have we cause to
complain of the wretched state of musical education in Russia? Is it
likely that the teachers sent out into the world from our future
academies will be any better than those hitherto sent to us from abroad?
It is time to cease from this importation of foreign educative
influences, and to consider that which will be most truly profitable
and advantageous for our own race and country. Must we copy that which
exists abroad, merely that we may have the satisfaction of boasting a
vast array of teachers and classes, of fruitless distributions of prizes
and scholarships, of reams of manufactured compositions, and hosts of
useless musicians."[19]

I have quoted these extracts from Stassov's writings partly for the sake
of the sound common-sense with which he surrounds the burning question
of that and later days, and partly because his protest is interesting as
echoing the reiterated cry of the ultra-patriotic musical party in this
country.

Such protests, however, were few, while the body of public enthusiasm
was great; and Russian enthusiasm, it may be observed, too often takes
the externals into higher account than the essentials. Rubinstein found
a powerful patroness in the person of the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna;
the Imperial Russian Musical Society was founded under the highest
social auspices; and two years later all officialdom presided at the
birth of its offshoot, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire. Most of the
evils prophesied by Stassov actually happened, and prevailed, at least
for a time. But foreign influences, snobbery, official tyranny and
parsimony, the over-crowding of a privileged profession, and mistakes
due to the well-intentioned interference of amateurs in high
places--these things are but the inevitable stains on the history of
most human organisations. What Cheshikin describes as "alienomania," the
craze for everything foreign, always one of the weaknesses of Russian
society, was undoubtedly fostered to some extent under the early
cosmopolitan _régime_ of the conservatoire; but even if it temporarily
held back the rising tide of national feeling in music, it was powerless
in the end to limit its splendid energy. The thing most feared by the
courageous old patriot, Stassov, did not come to pass. The intense
fervour of the group known as "The Mighty Band" carried all things
before it. Russian music, above all Russian opera, triumphs to-day, both
at home and abroad, in proportion to its _amor patriæ_. It is not the
diluted cosmopolitan music of the schools, with its familiar echoes of
Italy, France and Germany, but the folk-song operas in their simple,
forceful and sincere expression of national character that have carried
Paris, Milan and London by storm.

The two most prominent representatives of the cosmopolitan and academic
tendencies in Russia were Anton Rubinstein and Alexander Serov. Both
were senior to any member of the nationalist circle, and their work
being in many respects very dissimilar in character to that of the
younger composers, I propose to give some account of it in this and the
following chapter, before passing on to that later group of workers who
made the expression of Russian sentiment the chief feature of their
operas.

Alexander Nicholaevich Serov, born in St. Petersburg January 11th, 1820
(O.S.), was one of the first enlightened musical critics in Russia. As a
child he received an excellent education. Later on he entered the School
of Jurisprudence, where he passed among his comrades as "peculiar," and
only made one intimate friend. This youth--a few years his junior--was
Vladimir Stassov, destined to become a greater critic than Serov
himself. Stassov, in his "Reminiscences of the School of Jurisprudence,"
has given a most interesting account of this early friendship, which
ended in something like open hostility when in later years the two men
developed into the leaders of opposing camps. When he left the School of
Jurisprudence in 1840, Serov had no definite views as to his future,
only a vague dreamy yearning for an artistic career. At his father's
desire he accepted a clerkship in a Government office, which left him
leisure for his musical pursuits. At that time he was studying the
violoncello. Gradually he formed, if not a definite theory of musical
criticism, at least strong individual proclivities. He had made some
early attempts at composition, which did not amount to much more than
improvisation. Reading his letters to Stassov, written at this early
period of his career, it is evident that joined to a vast, but vague,
ambition was the irritating consciousness of a lack of genuine creative
inspiration.

In 1842 Serov became personally acquainted with Glinka, and although he
was not at that period a fervent admirer of this master, yet personal
contact with him gave the younger man his first impulse towards more
serious work. He began to study _A Life for the Tsar_ with newly opened
eyes, and became enthusiastic over this opera, and over some of Glinka's
songs. But when in the autumn of the same year _Russlan and Liudmilla_
was performed for the first time, his enthusiasm seems to have received
a check. He announced to Stassov his intention of studying this opera
more seriously, but his views of it, judging from what he has written on
the subject, remain after all very superficial. All that was new and
lofty in its intention seems to have passed clean over his head. His
criticism is interesting as showing how indifferent he was at that time
to the great musical movement which Wagner was leading in Western
Europe, and to the equally remarkable activity which Balakirev was
directing in Russia. He was, indeed, still in a phase of Meyerbeer
worship.

In 1843 Serov began to think of composing an opera. He chose the subject
of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," but hardly had he made his first
essays, when his musical schemes were cut short by his transference from
St. Petersburg to the dull provincial town of Simferopol. Here he made
the acquaintance of the revolutionary Bakounin, who had not yet been
exiled to Siberia. The personality of Bakounin made a deep impression
upon Serov, as it did later upon Wagner. Under his influence Serov began
to take an interest in modern German philosophy and particularly in the
doctrines of Hegel. As his intellect expanded, the quality of his
musical ideas improved. They showed greater independence, but it was an
acquired originality rather than innate creative impulse. He acquired
the theory of music with great difficulty, and being exceedingly anxious
to master counterpoint, Stassov introduced him by letter to the
celebrated theorist Hunke, then residing in St. Petersburg. Serov
corresponded with Hunke, who gave him some advice, but the drawbacks of
a system of a college by post were only too obvious to the eager but not
very brilliant pupil, separated by two thousand versts from his teacher.
At this time he was anxious to throw up his appointment and devote
himself entirely to music, but his father sternly discountenanced what
he called "these frivolous dreams."

It was through journalism that Serov first acquired a much desired
footing in the musical world. At the close of the 'forties musical
criticism in Russia had touched its lowest depths. The two leading men
of the day, Oulibishev and Lenz, possessed undoubted ability, but had
drifted into specialism, the one as the panegyrist of Mozart, the other
of Beethoven. Moreover both of them published their works in German. All
the other critics of the leading journals were hardly worthy of
consideration. These were the men whom Moussorgsky caricatured in his
satirical songs "The Peepshow" and "The Classicist." It is not
surprising, therefore, that Serov's first articles, which appeared in
the "Contemporary" in 1851, should have created a sensation in the
musical world. We have seen that his literary equipment was by no means
complete, that his convictions were still fluctuant and unreliable; but
he was now awake to the movements of the time, and joined to a
cultivated intelligence a "wit that fells you like a mace." His early
articles dealt with Mozart, Beethoven, Donizetti, Rossini, Meyerbeer,
and Spontini, and in discussing the last-named, he explained and
defended the historical ideal of the music-drama. Considering that at
that time Serov was practically ignorant of Wagner's work, the
conclusions which he draws do credit to his foresight and reflection.

As I am considering Serov rather as a composer than as a critic, I need
not dwell at length upon this side of his work. Yet it is almost
impossible to avoid reference to that long and bitter conflict which he
waged with one whom, in matters of Russian art and literature, I must
regard as my master. The writings of Serov, valuable as they were half a
century ago, because they set men thinking, have now all the weakness of
purely subjective criticism. He was inconstant in his moods, violent in
his prejudices, and too often hasty in his judgments, and throughout the
three weighty volumes which represent his collected works, there is no
vestige of orderly method, nor of a reasoned philosophy of criticism.
The novelty of his style, the prestige of his personality, and perhaps
we must add the deep ignorance of the public he addressed, lent a kind
of sacerdotal authority to his utterances. But, like other sacerdotal
divulgations, they did not always tend to enlightenment and liberty of
conscience. With one hand Serov pointed to the great musical awakening
in Western Europe; with the other he sought persistently to blind
Russians to the important movement that was taking place around them.
In 1858 Serov returned from a visit to Germany literally hypnotised by
Wagner. To quote his own words: "I am now Wagner mad. I play him, study
him, read of him, talk of him, write about him, and preach his
doctrines. I would suffer at the stake to be his apostle." In this
exalted frame of mind he returned to a musical world of which Rubinstein
and Balakirev were the poles, which revolved on the axis of nationality.
In this working, practical world, busy with the realisation of its own
ideals and the solution of its own problems, there was, as yet, no place
for Wagnerism. And well it has proved for the development of music in
Europe that the Russians chose, at that time, to keep to the high road
of musical progress with Liszt and Balakirev, rather than make a rush
for the _cul-de-sac_ of Wagnerism. Serov had exasperated the old order
of critics by his justifiable attacks on their sloth and ignorance; had
shown an ungenerous depreciation of Balakirev and his school, and
adopted a very luke-warm attitude towards Rubinstein and the
newly-established Musical Society. Consequently, he found himself now in
an isolated position. Irritated by a sense of being "sent to Coventry,"
he attacked with extravagant temper the friend of years in whom, as the
champion of nationality, he imagined a new enemy. The long polemic
waged between Serov and Stassov is sometimes amusing, and always
instructive; but on the whole I should not recommend it as light
literature. Serov lays on with bludgeon and iron-headed mace; Stassov
retaliates with a two-edged sword. The combatants are not unfairly
matched, but Stassov's broader culture keeps him better armed at all
points, and he represents, to my mind, the nobler cause.

When Serov the critic felt his hold on the musical world growing
slacker, Serov the composer determined to make one desperate effort to
recover his waning influence. He was now over forty years of age, and
the great dream of his life--the creation of an opera--was still
unrealised. Having acquired the libretto of _Judith_, he threw himself
into the work of composition with an energy born of desperation. There
is something fine in the spectacle of this man, who had no longer the
confidence and elasticity of youth, carrying his smarting wounds out of
the literary arena, and replying to the taunts of his enemies, "show us
something better than we have done," with the significant words "wait
and see." Serov, with his extravagances and cocksureness of opinion, has
never been a sympathetic character to me; but I admire him at this
juncture. At first, the mere technical difficulties of composition
threatened to overwhelm him. The things which should have been learnt at
twenty were hard to acquire in middle-life. But with almost superhuman
energy and perseverance he conquered his difficulties one by one, and in
the spring of 1862 the opera was completed.

Serov had many influential friends in aristocratic circles, notably the
Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, who remained his generous patroness to
the last. On this occasion, thanks to the good offices of Count
Adelberg, he had not, like so many of his compatriots, to wait an
indefinite period before seeing his opera mounted. In March 1863 Wagner
visited St. Petersburg, and Serov submitted to him the score of
_Judith_. Wagner was particularly pleased with the orchestration, in
which he cannot have failed to see the reflection of his own influence.

The idea of utilising _Judith_ as the subject for an opera was suggested
to Serov by K. I. Zvantsiev, the translator of some of the Wagnerian
operas, after the two friends had witnessed a performance of the tragedy
"Giuditta," with Ristori in the leading part. At first Serov intended to
compose to an Italian libretto, but afterwards Zvantsiev translated into
the vernacular, and partially remodelled, Giustiniani's original text.
After a time Zvantsiev, being doubtful of Serov's capacity to carry
through the work, left the libretto unfinished, and it was eventually
completed by a young amateur, D. Lobanov.

The opera was first performed in St. Petersburg on May 16th, 1862
(O.S.). The part of Judith was sung by Valentina Bianchi, that of
Holofernes by Sariotti. The general style of _Judith_ recalls that of
"Tannhäuser," and of "Lohengrin," with here and there some reminiscences
of Meyerbeer. The opera is picturesque and effective, although the
musical colouring is somewhat coarse and flashy. Serov excels in showy
scenic effects, but we miss the careful attention to detail, and the
delicate musical treatment characteristic of Glinka's work, qualities
which are carried almost to a defect in some of Rimsky-Korsakov's
operas. But the faults which are visible to the critic seemed virtues to
the Russian public, and _Judith_ enjoyed a popular success rivalling
even that of _A Life for the Tsar_. The staging, too, was on a scale of
magnificence hitherto unknown in the production of national opera. The
subject of Judith and Holofernes is well suited to Serov's opulent and
sensational manner. It is said that the scene in the Assyrian camp,
where Holofernes is depicted surrounded by all the pomp and luxury of an
oriental court, was the composer's great attraction to the subject; the
music to this scene was written by him before all the rest of the opera,
and it is considered one of the most successful numbers in the work.
The chorus and dances of the Odalisques are full of the languor of
Eastern sentiment. The March of Holofernes, the idea of which is
probably borrowed from Glinka's March of Chernomor in _Russlan and
Liudmilla_, is also exceedingly effective; for whatever we may think of
the quality of that inspiration, which for over twenty years refused to
yield material for the making of any important musical work, there is no
doubt that Serov had now acquired from the study of Wagner a remarkable
power of effective orchestration. Altogether, when we consider the
circumstances under which it was created, we can only be surprised to
find how little _Judith_ smells of the lamp. We can hardly doubt that
the work possesses intrinsic charms and qualities, apart from mere
external glitter, when we see how it fascinated not only the general
public, but many of the young musical generation, of whom Tchaikovsky
was one. Although in later years no one saw more clearly the defects and
makeshifts of Serov's style, he always spoke of _Judith_ as "one of his
first loves in music." "A novice of forty-three," he wrote, "presented
the public of St. Petersburg with an opera which in every respect must
be described as _beautiful_, and shows no indications whatever of being
the composer's _first work_. The opera has many good points. It is
written with unusual warmth and sometimes rises to great emotional
heights. Serov, who had hitherto been unknown, and led a very humble
life, became suddenly the hero of the hour, the idol of a certain set,
in fact a celebrity. This unexpected success turned his head and he
began to regard himself as a genius. The childishness with which he
sings his own praises in his letters is quite remarkable. And Serov had
actually proved himself a gifted composer but not a genius of the first
order." It would be easy to find harsher critics of Serov's operas than
Tchaikovsky, but his opinion reflects on the whole that of the majority
of those who had felt the fascination of _Judith_ and been disillusioned
by the later works.

If _Judith_ had remained the solitary and belated offspring of Serov's
slow maturity it is doubtful whether his reputation would have suffered.
But there is no age at which a naturally vain man cannot be intoxicated
by the fumes of incense offered in indiscriminate quantities. The
extraordinary popular success of _Judith_ showed Serov the short cut to
fame. The autumn of the same year which witnessed its production saw him
hard at work upon a second opera. The subject of _Rogneda_ is borrowed
from an old Russian legend dealing with the time of Vladimir, "the
Glorious Sun," at the moment of conflict between Christianity and
Slavonic paganism. _Rogneda_ was not written to a ready-made libretto,
but, in Serov's own words, to a text adapted piecemeal "as necessary to
the musical situations." It was completed and staged in the autumn of
1865. We shall look in vain in _Rogneda_ for the higher purpose, the
effort at psychological delineation, the comparative solidity of
workmanship which we find in _Judith_. Nevertheless the work amply
fulfilled its avowed intention to take the public taste by storm. Once
more I will quote Tchaikovsky, who in his writings has given a good deal
of space to the consideration of Serov's position in the musical world
of Russia. He says: "The continued success of _Rogneda_, and the firm
place it holds in the Russian repertory, is due not so much to its
intrinsic beauty as to the subtle calculation of effects which guided
its composer.... The public of all nations are not particularly exacting
in the matter of æsthetics; they delight in sensational effects and
violent contrasts, and are quite indifferent to deep and original works
of art unless the _mise-en-scène_ is highly coloured, showy, and
brilliant. Serov knew how to catch the crowd; and if his opera suffers
from poverty of melodic inspiration, want of organic sequence, weak
recitative and declamation, and from harmony and instrumentation which
are crude and merely decorative in effect--yet what sensational effects
the composer succeeds in piling up! Mummers who are turned into geese
and bears; real horses and dogs, the touching episode of Ruald's death,
the Prince's dream made actually visible to our eyes; the Chinese gongs
made all too audible to our ears, all this--the outcome of a recognised
poverty of inspiration--literally crackles with startling effects.
Serov, as I have said, had only a mediocre gift, united to great
experience, remarkable intellect, and extensive erudition; therefore it
is not surprising to find in _Rogneda_ numbers--rare oases in a
desert--in which the music is excellent. As to these numbers which are
special favourites with the public, as is so frequently the case, their
real value proves to be in inverse ratio to the success they have won."

Some idea of the popularity of _Rogneda_ may be gathered from the fact
that the tickets were subscribed for twenty representations in advance.
This success was followed by a pause in Serov's literary and musical
activity. He could now speak with his enemies in the gate, and point
triumphantly to the children of his imagination. Success, too, seems to
have softened his hostility to the national school, for in 1866 he
delivered some lectures before the Musical Society upon Glinka and
Dargomijsky, which are remarkable not only for clearness of exposition,
but for fairness of judgment.

In 1867 Serov began to consider the production of a third opera, and
selected one of Ostrovsky's plays on which he founded a libretto
entitled _The Power of Evil_. Two quotations from letters written about
this time reveal his intention with regard to the new opera. "Ten years
ago," he says, "I wrote much about Wagner. Now it is time to act. To
embody the Wagnerian theories in a music-drama written in Russian, on a
Russian subject." And again: "In this work, besides observing as far as
possible the principles of dramatic truth, I aim at keeping more closely
than has yet been done to the forms of Russian popular music, as
preserved unchanged in our folk-songs. It is clear that this demands a
style which has nothing in common with the ordinary operatic forms, nor
even with my two former operas." Here we have Serov's programme very
clearly put before us: the sowing of Wagnerian theories in Russian soil.
But in order that the acclimatisation may be complete, he adopts the
forms of the folk-songs. He is seeking, in fact, to fuse Glinka and
Wagner, and produce a Russian music-drama. Serov was a connoisseur of
the Russian folk-songs, but he had not that natural gift for
assimilating the national spirit and breathing it back into the dry
bones of musical form as Glinka did. In creating this Russo-Wagnerian
work, Serov created something purely artificial: a hybrid, which could
bring forth nothing in its turn. It is characteristic, too, of Serov's
short-sighted egotism that we find him constantly referring to this
experiment of basing an opera upon the forms of the national music as a
purely original idea; ignoring the fact that Glinka, Dargomijsky and
Moussorgsky had all produced similar works, and that the latter had
undoubtedly written "music-dramas," which, though not strictly upon
Wagnerian lines, were better suited to the genius of the nation.

Ostrovsky's play,[20] upon which _The Power of Evil_ is founded, is a
strong and gloomy drama of domestic life. A merchant's son abducts a
girl from her parents, and has to atone by marrying her. He soon wearies
of enforced matrimony and begins to amuse himself away from home. One
day while drinking at an inn he sees a beautiful girl and falls
desperately in love with her. The neglected wife discovers her husband's
infidelity, and murders him in a jealous frenzy. The story sounds as
sordid as any of those one-act operas so popular with the modern Italian
composers of sensational music-drama. But in the preparation of the
libretto Serov had the co-operation of the famous dramatist Ostrovsky,
who wrote the first three acts of the book himself. Over the fourth act
a split occurred between author and composer; the former wished to
introduce a supernatural element, recalling the village festival in "Der
Freischütz" into the carnival scene; but Serov shrank from treating a
fantastic episode. The book was therefore completed by an obscure
writer, Kalashinkev. Thus the lofty literary treatment by which
Ostrovsky sought to raise the libretto above the level of a mere
"shocker" suffered in the course of its transformation. The action of
the play takes place at carnival time, which gives occasion for some
lively scenes from national life. The work never attained the same
degree of popularity as _Judith_ or _Rogneda_. Serov died rather
suddenly of heart disease in January 1871, and the orchestration of _The
Power of Evil_ was completed by one of his most talented pupils,
Soloviev.

We have read Tchaikovsky's views upon Serov. Vladimir Stassov, after the
lapse of thirty years, wrote in one of his last musical articles as
follows: "A fanatical admirer of Meyerbeer, he succeeded nevertheless in
catching up all the superficial characteristics of Wagner, from whom he
derived his taste for marches, processions, festivals, every sort of
'pomp and circumstance,' every kind of external decoration. But the
inner world, the spiritual world, he ignored and never entered; it
interested him not at all. The individualities of his _dramatis
personæ_ were completely overlooked. They are mere marionettes." His
influence on the Russian opera left no lasting traces. His strongest
quality was a certain robust dramatic sense which corrected his special
tendency to secure effects in the cheapest way, and kept him just on the
right side of that line which divides realism from offensive coarseness
and bathos.

Two more quotations show an interesting light on Serov. The first is a
confession of his musical tastes, written not long before his death:
"After Beethoven and Weber, I like Mendelssohn fairly well; I love
Meyerbeer; I adore Chopin; I detest Schumann and all his disciples. I am
fond of Liszt, with numerous exceptions, and I worship Wagner,
especially in his latest works, which I regard as the _ne plus ultra_ of
the symphonic form to which Beethoven led the way."

The second quotation is Wagner's tribute to the personality of his
disciple, and it seems only fair to print it here, since it contradicts
almost all the views of Serov as a man which we find in the writings of
his contemporaries in Russia. "For me Serov is not dead," says Wagner;
"for me he still lives actually and palpably. Such as he was to me, such
he remains and ever will: the noblest and highest-minded of men. His
gentleness of soul, his purity of feeling, his serenity, his mind,
which reflected all these qualities, made the friendship which he
cherished for me one of the gladdest gifts of my life."




CHAPTER VII

ANTON RUBINSTEIN


Anton Grigorievich Rubinstein was born November 16/28, 1829, in the
village of Vykhvatinets, in the government of Podolia. He was of Jewish
descent, his father being, however, a member of the Orthodox Church,
while his mother--a Löwenstein--came from Prussian Silesia. Shortly
after Anton's birth his parents removed to Moscow, in the neighbourhood
of which his father set up a factory for lead pencils and pins. Anton,
and his almost equally gifted brother Nicholas, began to learn the piano
with their mother, and afterwards the elder boy received instruction
from A. Villoins, a well-known teacher in Moscow. At ten years of age
Anton made his first public appearance at a summer concert given in the
Petrovsky Park, and the following year (1840) he accompanied Villoins to
Paris with the intention of entering the Conservatoire. This project was
not realised and the boy started upon an extensive tour as a prodigy
pianist. In 1843 he was summoned to play to the Court in St.
Petersburg, and afterwards gave a series of concerts in that city. The
following year he began to study music seriously in Berlin, where his
mother took him first to Mendelssohn and, acting on his advice,
subsequently placed him under Dehn. The Revolution of 1848 interrupted
the ordinary course of life in Berlin. Dehn, as one of the National
Guard, had to desert his pupils, shoulder a musket and go on duty as a
sentry before some of the public buildings, performing this task with a
self-satisfied air, "as though he had just succeeded in solving some
contrapuntal problem, such as a canon by retrogression." Rubinstein
hastened back to Russia, having all his music confiscated at the
frontier, because it was taken for some diplomatic cipher.

Soon after his return, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna appointed
Rubinstein her Court pianist and accompanist, a position which he
playfully described as that of "musical stoker" to the Court. In April
1852 his first essay in opera, _Dmitri Donskoi_ (Dmitri of the Don), the
libretto by Count Sollogoub, was given in St. Petersburg, but its
reception was disappointing. It was followed, in May 1853, by
_Thomouska-Dourachok_ (Tom the Fool), which was withdrawn after the
third performance at the request of the composer, who seems to have been
hurt at the lack of enthusiasm shown for his work. Two articles from
his pen which appeared in the German papers, and are quoted by Youry
Arnold in his "Reminiscences," show the bitterness of his feelings at
this time. "No one in his senses," he wrote, "would attempt to compose a
Persian, a Malay, or a Japanese opera; therefore to write an English,
French or Russian opera merely argues a want of sanity. Every attempt to
create a national musical activity is bound to lead to one
result--disaster."

Between the composition of the _Dmitri Donskoi_ and _Tom the Fool_,
Rubinstein's amazingly active pen had turned out two one-act operas to
Russian words: _Hadji-Abrek_ and _Sibirskie Okhotniki_ (The Siberian
Hunters). But now he laid aside composition for a time and undertook a
long concert tour, starting in 1856 and returning to Russia in 1858.
During this tour[21] he visited Nice, where the Empress Alexandra
Feodorovna and the Grand Duchess Helena spent the winter of 1856-1857,
and it seems probable that this was the occasion on which the idea of
the Imperial Russian Musical Society[22] was first mooted, although the
final plans may have been postponed until Rubinstein's return to
Petersburg in 1858. Little time was lost in any case, for the society
was started in 1859, and the Moscow branch, under the direction of his
brother Nicholas, was founded in 1860.

Piqued by the failure of his Russian operas, Rubinstein now resolved to
compose to German texts and to try his luck abroad. Profiting by his
reputation as the greatest of living pianists, he succeeded in getting
his _Kinder der Heide_ accepted in Vienna (1861); while Dresden mounted
his _Feramors_ (based upon Moore's "Lalla Rookh") in 1863. Between two
concert tours--one in 1867, and the other, with Wienawski in America, in
1872--Rubinstein completed a Biblical opera _The Tower of Babel_, the
libretto by Rosenburg. This type of opera he exploited still further in
_The Maccabees_ (Berlin, 1875) and _Paradise Lost_, a concert
performance of which took place in Petersburg in 1876. Between the
completion of these sacred operas, he returned to a secular and national
subject, drawn from Lermontov's poem "The Demon," which proved to be the
most popular of his works for the stage. _The Demon_ was produced in St.
Petersburg on January 13th (O.S.), and a more detailed account of it
will follow. _Nero_ was brought out in Hamburg in 1875, and in Berlin in
1879. After this Rubinstein again reverted to a Russian libretto, this
time based upon Lermontov's metrical tale _The Merchant Kalashnikov_,
but the opera was unfortunate, being performed only twice, in 1880 and
1889, and withdrawn from the repertory on each occasion in consequence
of the action of the censor. _The Shulamite_, another Biblical opera,
dates from 1880 (Hamburg, 1883), and a comic opera, _Der Papagei_, was
produced in that city in 1884. _Goriousha_, a Russian opera on the
subject of one of Averkiev's novels, was performed at the Maryinsky
Theatre, St. Petersburg, in the autumn of 1889, when Rubinstein
celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his artistic career.

The famous series of "Historical Concerts," begun in Berlin in October,
1885, was concluded in London in May, 1886, after which Rubinstein
returned to St. Petersburg and resumed his duties as Director of the
Conservatoire, a position which he had relinquished since 1867. During
the next few years he composed the Biblical operas _Moses_ (Paris, 1892)
and _Christus_, a concert performance of which was given under his own
direction at Stuttgart, in 1893; the first stage performance following
in 1895, at Bremen.

In the winter of 1894 Rubinstein became seriously ill in Dresden, and,
feeling that his days were numbered, he returned in haste to his villa
at Peterhof. He lingered several months and died of heart disease in
November 1895. "His obsequies were solemnly carried out," says
Rimsky-Korsakov.[23] "His coffin was placed in the Ismailovsky
Cathedral, and musicians watched by it day and night. Liadov and I were
on duty from 2 to 3 a.m. I remember in the dim shadows of the church
seeing the black, mourning figure of Maleziomova[24] who came to kneel
by the dust of the adored Rubinstein. There was something fantastic
about the scene."

With Rubinstein's fame as a pianist, the glamour of which still
surrounds his name, with his vast output of instrumental music, good,
bad and indifferent, I have no immediate concern. Nor can I linger to
pay more than a passing tribute to his generous qualities as a man. His
position as a dramatic composer and his influence on the development of
Russian opera are all I am expected to indicate here. This need not
occupy many pages, since his influence is in inverse ratio to the
voluminous outpourings of his pen. Rubinstein's ideal oscillates midway
between national and cosmopolitan tendencies. The less people have
penetrated into the essential qualities of Russian music, the more they
are disposed to regard him as typically Russian; whereas those who are
most sensitive to the vibrations of Russian sentiment will find little
in his music to awaken their national sympathies. The glibness with
which he spun off music now to Russian, now to German texts, and
addressed himself in turn to either public, proves that he felt
superficially at ease with both idioms. It suggests also a kind of ready
opportunism which is far from admirable. His attack on the national
ideal in music, when he failed to impress the public with his _Dmitri
Donskoi_, and his rapid change of front when Dargomijsky and the younger
school had compelled the public to show some interest in Russian opera,
will not easily be forgiven by his compatriots. We have seen how he
fluctuated between German and Russian opera, and there is no doubt that
this diffusion of his ideals and activities, coupled with a singular
lack of self-criticism, is sufficient to account for the fact that of
his operas--about nineteen in all[25]--scarcely one has survived him.
Let a Russian pass judgment upon Rubinstein's claims to be regarded as a
national composer. Cheshikin, who divides his operas into two groups,
according as they are written to German or Russian librettos, sums up
the general characteristics of the latter as follows:

"Rubinstein's style bears a cosmopolitan stamp. He confused nationality
in music with a kind of dry ethnography, and thought the question hardly
worth a composer's study. A passage which occurs in his 'Music and its
Representatives' (Moscow, 1891) shows his views on this subject. 'It
seems to me,' he writes, 'that the national spirit of a composer's
native land must always impregnate his works, even when he lives in a
strange land and speaks its language. Look for instance at Handel, Gluck
and Mozart. But there is a kind of premeditated nationalism now in
vogue. It is very interesting, but to my mind it cannot pretend to
awaken universal sympathies, and can merely arouse an ethnographical
interest. This is proved by the fact that a melody that will bring tears
to the eyes of a Finlander will leave a Spaniard cold; and that a dance
rhythm that would set a Hungarian dancing would not move an Italian.'
Rubinstein [comments Cheshikin], is presuming that the whole essence of
nationality in music lies not in the structure of melody, or in harmony,
but in a dance rhythm. It is not surprising that holding these
superficial views his operas based on Russian life are not distinguished
for their musical colour, and that he is only unconsciously and
instinctively successful when he uses the oriental colouring which is in
keeping with his descent. He cultivated the commonly accepted forms of
melodic opera which were the fashion in the first half of the nineteenth
century. His musical horizon was bounded by Meyerbeer. He held Wagner in
something like horror, and kept contemptuous silence about all the
Russian composers who followed Glinka. This may be partly explicable on
the ground of his principles, which did not admit the claims of
declamatory opera; but it was partly a policy of tit for tat, because
Serov and 'the mighty band' had trounced Rubinstein unsparingly during
the 'sixties for his Teutonic tendencies in his double capacity as head
of the I. R. M. S. and Director of the Conservatoire. Narrow and
conventional forms, especially as regards his arias; melody as the sole
ideal in opera; an indeterminate cosmopolitan style, and now and again a
successful reflection of the oriental spirit--these are the
distinguishing characteristics of all Rubinstein's Russian operas from
_Dmitri Donskoi_ to _Goriousha_."[26]

It is impossible to speak in detail of all Rubinstein's operas. The
published scores are available for those who have time and inclination
for so unprofitable a study. Such works as _Hadji-Abrek_, based on
Lermontov's metrical tale of bloodshed and horror; or _Tom the Fool_,
which carries us a little further in the direction of nationalism, but
remains a mere travesty of Glinka's style; or _The Tower of Babel_; or
_Nero_, are hardly likely to rise again to the ranks of living operatic
works. His first national opera _Dmitri Donskoi_, in five acts, is
linked, by the choice of a heroic and historical subject, with such
patriotic works as Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_, Borodin's _Prince
Igor_ and Rimsky-Korsakov's _Maid of Pskov_ ("Ivan the Terrible"); but
it never succeeded in gripping the Russian public. The libretto is based
on an event often repeated by the contemporary monkish chroniclers who
tell how Dmitri, son of Ivan II., won a glorious victory over the
Mongolian Khan Mamaï at Kulikovo, in 1380, and freed Russia for the time
being from the Tatar yoke. Youry Arnold, comparing Rubinstein's _Dmitri
Donskoi_ with Dargomijsky's early work _Esmeralda_,[27] finds that,
judged by the formal standards of the period, it was in advance of
Dargomijsky's opera as regards technique, but, he says, "the realistic
emotional expression and unforced lyric inspiration of _Esmeralda_
undoubtedly makes a stronger appeal to our sympathies and we recognise
more innate talent in its author."

After the failure of _Dmitri Donskoi_, Rubinstein neglected the
vernacular for some years and composed only to German texts. But early
in the 'seventies the production of a whole series of Russian operas,
Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_, Serov's _The Powers of Evil_, Cui's
_William Ratcliff_, Rimsky-Korsakov's _Maid of Pskov_, and Moussorgsky's
_Boris Godounov_, resuscitated the public interest in the national ideal
and Rubinstein was obviously anxious not to be excluded from the
movement. His comparative failure with purely Russian subjects, and the
knowledge that he felt more at ease among Eastern surroundings, may have
influenced his choice of a subject in this emergency; but undoubtedly
Lermontov's poetry had a strong fascination for him, for _The Demon_ was
the third opera based upon the works of the Russian Byron. Lermontov's
romanticism, and the exquisite lyrical quality of his verse, which
almost suggests its own musical setting, may well have appealed to
Rubinstein's temperament. The poet Maikov took some part in arranging
the text for the opera, but the libretto was actually carried out by
Professor Vistakov, who had specialised in the study of Lermontov. When
_The Demon_ was finished, Rubinstein played it through to "the mighty
band" who assembled at Stassov's house to hear this addition to
national opera. It would be expecting too much from human nature to look
for a wholly favourable verdict from such a court of enquiry, but "the
five" picked out for approval precisely the two numbers that have best
withstood the test of time, namely, the Dances and the March of the
Caravan which forms the Introduction to the third scene of Act III. As a
national composer Rubinstein reached his highest level in _The Demon_.
The work was presented to the English public, in Italian, at Covent
Garden, on June 21, 1881, but as it is unknown to the younger generation
some account of its plot and general characteristics will not be out of
place here.[28]

The Demon, that "sad and exiled spirit," who is none other than the poet
Lermontov himself, thinly veiled in a supernatural disguise, is first
introduced to us hovering over the peak of Kazbec, in the Caucasus,
gazing in melancholy disenchantment upon the glorious aspects of the
world below him--a world which he regards with scornful indifference.
The Demon's malady is boredom. He is a mortal with certain "demoniacal"
attributes. Like Lermontov, he is filled with vague regrets for wasted
youth and yearns to find in a woman's love the refuge from his despair
and weariness. From the moment he sees the lovely Circassian, Tamara,
dancing with her maidens on the eve of her wedding, the Demon becomes
enamoured of her, and the first stirrings of love recall the
long-forgotten thought of redemption. Tamara is betrothed to Prince
Sinodal, who is slain by Tatar brigands on his way to claim his bride in
the castle of her father, Prince Gudal. The malign influence of the
Demon brings about this catastrophe. In order to escape from her unholy
passion for her mysterious lover, Tamara implores her father to let her
enter a convent, where she is supposed to be mourning her lost suitor.
But even within these sacred precincts the Demon follows her, although
not without some twinges of human remorse. For a moment he hesitates,
and is on the point of conquering his sinister desire; then the good
impulse passes, and with it the one chance of redemption through
unselfish love. He meets Tamara's good angel on the threshold of the
convent, and, later on, sees the apparition of the murdered Prince. The
Angel does not seem to be a powerful guardian spirit, but rather the
weak, tormented soul of Tamara herself. The Demon enters her cell, and
there follows the long love duet and his brief hour of triumph. Suddenly
the Angel and celestial voices are heard calling to the unhappy girl:
"Tamara, the spirit of doubt is passing." The nun tears herself from the
arms of her lover and falls dead at the Angel's feet. The Demon, baffled
and furious, is left gazing upon the corpse of Tamara. In the end the
gates of Paradise are opened to her, as to Margaret in "Faust," because
by its purity and self-sacrifice her passion works out its own
atonement. But the Demon remains isolated and despairing, "without hope
and without love."

The poem, with its inward drama of predestined passion, unsatisfied
yearning and possible redemption through love, almost fulfils the
Wagnerian demand for a subject in which emotion outweighs action; a
subject so purely lyrical that the drama may be said to be born of
music. Cheshikin draws a close emotional parallel between _The Demon_
and "Tristan and Isolde"; but perhaps its spirit might be more justly
compared with the romanticism of "The Flying Dutchman." Musically it
owes nothing to Wagner. Its treatment is that of pre-Wagnerian German
opera strongly tinged with orientalism. Rubinstein effectively contrasts
the tender monotonous chromaticism of eastern music, borrowed from
Georgian and Armenian sources, with the more vigorous melodies based on
Western and diatonic scales, and, in this respect, his powers of
invention were remarkable. Among the most successful examples of the
oriental style are the Georgian Song "We go to bright Aragva," sung by
Tamara's girl friends in the second scene of Act I.; the Eastern melody
sung in Gudal's castle in Act II.; the passing of the Caravan, and the
Dance for women in the same act. The Demon's arias are quite
cosmopolitan in character, and the opening chorus of Evil Spirits and
forces of Nature, though effective, are not strikingly original. There
is real passion in the great love duet in the last act, with its
energetic accompaniment that seems to echo the sound of the wild
turbulent river that rushes through the ravine below the convent walls.

_The Demon_ met with many objections from the Director of the Opera and
the Censor. The former mistrusted novelties, especially those with the
brand of nationality upon them, and was alarmed by the cost of the
necessary fantastic setting. The latter would not sanction the lamps and
_ikons_ in Tamara's cell, and insisted on the Angel being billed as "a
Good Genius." The singers proved rebellious, and finally it was decided
to produce the work for the first time on January 13th, 1875 (O.S.), on
Melnikov's benefit night, he himself singing the title rôle. The other
artists, who made up a fine caste, were: Tamara, Mme. Raab; the Angel,
Mme. Kroutikov; Prince Sinodal, Komessarievich; Prince Gudal, the
veteran Petrov, and the Nurse, Mme. Shreder. The immediate success of
_The Demon_ did much to establish Rubinstein's reputation as a popular
composer, and the opera is still regarded as his best dramatic work,
although many critics give the palm to _The Merchant Kalashnikov_, which
followed it about five years later.

As I have already said, the fate of this work, based on a purely Russian
subject, seems to have been strangely unjust. Twice received with
considerable enthusiasm in St. Petersburg, it was quashed by the Censor
on both occasions after the first night. The libretto, by Koulikov, is
founded on Lermontov's "Lay of the Tsar Ivan Vassilievich (The
Terrible), of the young Oprichnik[29], and the bold merchant
Kalashnikov." The opera is in three acts. In the first scene, which
takes place in the Tsar's apartments, the Oprichniki are about to
celebrate their religious service. Maliouta enters with the Tsar's
jester Nikitka, and tells them that the _Zemstvo_ has sent a deputation
to the Tsar complaining of their conduct, and that Nikitka has
introduced the delegates at Court. The Oprichniki fall upon the jester
and insist on his buying their forgiveness by telling them a tale.
Nikitka's recital is one of Rubinstein's best attempts to reproduce the
national colour. Afterwards the Tsar appears, the Oprichniki don their
black cloaks and there follows an effective number written in strict
church style. The service ended, the Tsar receives the members of the
_Zemstvo_. To this succeeds an animated scene in which Ivan feasts with
his guards. Observing that one of them, Kiribeievich, is silent and
gloomy, he asks the reason, and the young Oprichnik confesses that he is
in love, and sings his song "When I go into the garden," a Russian
melody treated by Rubinstein in a purely cosmopolitan style. The
_finale_ of the first act consists of dances by the Skomorokhi and a
chorus for the Oprichniki, the music being rather pretentious and
theatrical in style. The opening scene of Act II. takes place in the
streets of Moscow, and begins with a chorus of the people, who disperse
on hearing that the Oprichniki are in the vicinity. Alena, the wife of
the merchant Kalashnikov, now comes out of her house on her way to
vespers, accompanied by a servant. She sings a quiet recitative in which
she tells the maid to go home and await the return of the master of the
house, and reveals herself as a happy mother and devoted wife. She goes
her way to the church alone, pausing however to sing a pretty,
common-place Italianised aria, "I seek the Holy Temple." Kiribeievich
appears on the scene, makes passionate love to her and carries her off.
An old gossip who has watched this incident now emerges from her hiding
place and sings a song which introduces a touch of humour. Enter
Kalashnikov, who learns from her of his wife's departure with the young
Oprichnik; but she gives a false impression of the incident. His
recitative is expressive and touching. The scene ends with the return of
the populace who sing a chorus. In the second scene Kalashnikov plays an
important part and his doubts and fears after the return of Alena are
depicted with power. This is generally admitted to be one of
Rubinstein's few successful psychological moments, the realistic
expression of emotion being one of his weak points. Kalashnikov's scene,
in which he confers with his brothers, completes Act II. The curtain
rises in Act III. upon a Square in Moscow where the people are
assembling to meet the Tsar. Their chorus of welcome, "Praise to God in
Heaven," is not to be compared for impressiveness with similar massive
choruses in the operas of Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov. There are
some episodes of popular life, such as the scene between a Tatar and the
jester Nikitka, that are not lacking in humour; and the latter has
another tale about King David which is in the style of the so-called
"spiritual songs" of the sixteenth century. The accusations brought by
Kiribeievich are spirited. In a dramatic scene the Tsar listens to
Alena's prayer for mercy, and pardons the bold Kalashnikov who has dared
to defy his Pretorian guards, the Oprichniki. The opera winds up with a
final chorus of the people who escort the Merchant from prison.

_The Merchant Kalashnikov_, although somewhat of a hybrid as regards
style, with its Russian airs handled _à la Tedesca_, and its occasional
lapses into vulgarity, has at the same time more vitality and human
interest than most of Rubinstein's operas, so that it is to be regretted
that it has remained so long unknown alike to the public of Russia and
of Western Europe.

Rubinstein's Biblical operas have now practically fallen into oblivion.
Seeing their length, the cost involved in mounting them, and their lack
of strong, clear-cut characterisation, this is not surprising. The _Acts
of Artaxerxes_ and the _Chaste Joseph_, presented to the Court of Alexis
Mikhaïlovich, could hardly have been more wearisome than _The Tower of
Babel_ and _The Shulamite_. These stage oratorios are like a series of
vast, pale, pseudo-classical frescoes, and scarcely more moving than the
official odes and eclogues of eighteenth-century Russian literature.
Each work, it is true, contains some saving moments, such as the Song of
Victory, with chorus, "Beat the drums," sung by Leah, the heroic mother
of the Maccabees, in the opera bearing that title, in which the Hebrew
colouring is admirably carried out; the chorus "Baal has worked
wonders," from _The Tower of Babel_; and a few pages from the closing
scene of _Paradise Lost_; but these rare flashes of inspiration do not
suffice to atone for the long, flaccid Handelian recitatives, the tame
Mendelssohnian orchestration, the frequent lapses into a pomposity which
only the most naïve can mistake for sublimity of utterance, and the
fluent dulness of the operas as a whole.

Far more agreeable, because less pretentious, is the early secular
opera, a German adaptation of Thomas Moore's "Lalla Rookh," entitled
_Feramors_. The ballets from this opera, the Dance of Bayadères, with
chorus, in Act I., and The Lamplight Dance of the Bride of Kashmere (Act
II.) are still heard in the concert room; and more rarely, Feramor's
aria, "Das Mondlicht träumt auf Persiens See." From the dramatic side
the subject is weak, but, as Hanslick observes in his "Contemporary
Opera"--in which he draws the inevitable parallel between Félicien David
and the Russian composer--it was the oriental element in the poem that
proved the attraction to Rubinstein. Yet how different is the
conventional treatment of Eastern melody in _Feramors_ from Borodin's
natural and characteristic use of it in _Prince Igor_! But although it
is impossible to ignore Rubinstein's operas written to foreign texts for
a foreign public, they have no legitimate place in the evolution of
Russian national opera. It is with a sense of relief that we turn from
him with his reactionary views and bigoted adherence to pre-Wagnerian
conventions, to that group of enthusiastic and inspired workers who were
less concerned with riveting the fetters of old traditions upon Russian
music than with the glorious task of endowing their country with a
series of national operas alive and throbbing with the very spirit of
the people. We leave Rubinstein gazing westwards upon the setting sun of
German classicism, and turn our eyes eastwards where the dawn is rising
upon the patient expectations of a nation which has long been feeling
its way towards a full and conscious self-realisation in music.




CHAPTER VIII

BALAKIREV AND HIS DISCIPLES


Sometimes in art, as in literature, there comes upon the scene an
exceptional, initiative personality, whose influence seems out of all
proportion to the success of his work. Such was Keats, who engendered a
whole school of English romanticism; and such, too, was Liszt, whose
compositions, long neglected, afterwards came to be recognised as
containing the germs of a new symphonic form. Such also was Mily
Alexevich Balakirev, to whom Russian national music owes its second
renaissance. Born at Nijny-Novgorod, December 31st, 1836 (O.S.),
Balakirev was about eighteen when he came to St. Petersburg in 1855,
with an introduction to Glinka in his pocket. He had previously spent a
short time at the University of Kazan, but had actually been brought up
in the household of Oulibishev, author of the famous treatise on Mozart.
It is remarkable, and testifies to his sturdy independence of
character--that the young man had not been influenced by his
benefactor's limited and ultra-conservative views. Oulibishev, as we
know, thought there could be no advance upon the achievements of his
adored Mozart. Balakirev as a youth studied and loved Beethoven's
symphonies and quartets, Weber's "Der Freischütz," Mendelssohn's
Overtures and Chopin's works as a whole. He was by no means the
incapable amateur that his academic detractors afterwards strove to
prove him. His musical culture was solid. He had profited by
Oulibishev's excellent library, and by the private orchestra which he
maintained and permitted his young _protégé_ to conduct. Although
partially self-taught, Balakirev had already mastered the general
principles of musical form, composition and orchestration. He was not
versed in counterpoint and fugue; and certainly his art was not rooted
in Bach; but that could hardly be made a matter of reproach, seeing that
in Balakirev's youth the great poet-musician of Leipzig was neglected
even in his own land, and it is doubtful whether the budding schools of
Petersburg and Moscow, or even the long established conservatoires of
Germany, would then have added much to his education in that respect. In
his provincial home in the far east of Europe Balakirev stood aloof from
the Wagnerian controversies. But his mind, sensitive as a seismograph,
had already registered some vibrations of this distant movement which
announced a musical revolution. From the beginning he was preoccupied
with the question of transfusing fresh blood into the impoverished veins
of old and decadent forms. Happily the idea of solving the problem by
the aid of the Wagnerian theories never occurred to him. He had already
grasped the fact that for the Russians there existed an inexhaustible
source of fresh inspiration in their abundant and varied folk-music.

The great enthusiasm of his youth had been Glinka's music, and while
living at Nijny-Novgorod he had studied his operas to good purpose.
Filled with zeal for the new cause, Balakirev appeared in the capital
like a St. John the Baptist from the wilderness to preach the new gospel
of nationality in art to the adorers of Bellini and Meyerbeer. Glinka
was on the point of leaving Russia for what proved to be his last
earthly voyage. But during the weeks which preceded his departure he saw
enough of Balakirev to be impressed by his enthusiasm and intelligence,
and to point to him as the continuator of his work.

The environment of the capital proved beneficial to the young
provincial. For the first time he was able to mix with other musicians
and to hear much that was new to him, both at the opera and in the
concert room. But his convictions remained unshaken amid all these novel
experiences. From first to last he owed most to himself, and if he soon
became head and centre of a new musical school, it was because, as
Stassov has pointed out, "he had every gift for such a position:
astonishing initiative, love and knowledge of his art, and to crown all,
untiring energy."

Balakirev left no legacy of opera, but his influence on Russian music as
a whole was so predominant that it crops up in every direction, and
henceforth his name must constantly appear in these pages. Indeed the
history of Russian opera now becomes for a time the history of a small
brotherhood of enthusiasts, united by a common idea and fighting
shoulder to shoulder for a cause which ought to have been popular, but
which was long opposed by the press and the academic powers in the
artistic world of Russia, and treated with contempt by the "genteel"
amateur to whom a subscription to Italian opera stood as the external
sign of social and intellectual superiority. It was known as
"Balakirev's set," or by the ironical sobriquet of "the mighty band."

At the close of the 'fifties César Cui and Modeste Moussorgsky had
joined Balakirev's crusade on behalf of the national ideal. A year or
two later Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov were admitted to the circle; and
subsequently a gifted young amateur, Nicholas Lodyjensky, attached
himself for a time to the nationalists. To these names must be added
that of the writer, Vladimir Stassov, whose active brain and pen were
always at the service of the new school. Although Glinka had no further
personal intercourse with Balakirev and his friends, Dargomijsky, as we
have already seen, gladly opened his house as a meeting place for this
group of young enthusiasts, who eagerly discussed questions of art with
the older and more experienced musician, and watched with keen interest
the growth of his last opera, _The Stone Guest_.

Rimsky-Korsakov, in his "Chronicle of my Musical Life," gives some
interesting glimpses of the pleasant relations existing between the
members of the nationalist circle during the early years of its
existence. Rimsky-Korsakov, who was studying at the Naval School, St.
Petersburg, made the acquaintance of Balakirev in 1861. "My first
meeting with Balakirev made an immense impression upon me," he writes.
"He was an admirable pianist, playing everything from memory. The
audacity of his opinions and their novelty, above all, his gifts as a
composer, stirred me to a kind of veneration. The first time I saw him I
showed him my Scherzo in C minor, which he approved, after passing a few
remarks upon it, and some materials for a symphony. He ordained that I
should go on with the symphony.[30] Of course I was delighted. At his
house I met Cui and Moussorgsky. Balakirev was then orchestrating the
overture to Cui's early opera _The Prisoner in the Caucasus_. With what
enthusiasm I took a share in these actual discussions about
instrumentation, the distribution of parts, etc! Through November and
December I went to Balakirev's every Saturday evening and frequently
found Cui and Moussorgsky there. I also made the acquaintance of
Stassov. I remember an evening on which Stassov read aloud extracts from
"The Odyssey," more especially for my enlightenment. On another occasion
Moussorgsky read "Prince Kholmsky," the painter Myassedov read Gogol's
"Viya," and Balakirev and Moussorgsky played Schumann's symphonies
arranged for four hands, and Beethoven's quartets."

On these occasions the young brotherhood, all of whom were under thirty,
with the exception of Stassov, aired their opinions and criticised the
giants of the past with a frankness and freedom that was probably very
naïve, and certainly scandalised their academic elders. They adored
Glinka; regarded Haydn and Mozart as old-fashioned; admired Beethoven's
latest quartets; thought Bach--of whom they could have known little
beyond the Well-Tempered Clavier--a mathematician rather than a
musician; they were enthusiastic over Berlioz, while, as yet, Liszt had
not begun to influence them very greatly. "I drank in all these ideas,"
says Rimsky-Korsakov, "although I really had no grounds for accepting
them, for I had only heard fragments of many of the foreign works under
discussion, and afterwards I retailed them to my comrades (at the Naval
School) who were interested in music, as being my own convictions." From
the standpoint of a highly educated musician, a Professor at the St.
Petersburg Conservatoire, Rimsky-Korsakov adopts a frankly mocking tone
in his retrospective account of these youthful discussions; but it must
be admitted that it was far better for the future development of Russian
music that these young composers should have thought their own thoughts
about their art, instead of taking their opinions ready-made from German
text-books and the æsthetic dogmas laid down in the class rooms of the
conservatoires.

For Rimsky-Korsakov these happy days were short-lived, for in 1862 he
was gazetted to the cruiser "Almaz" and the next three years were spent
on foreign service which took him as far afield as New York and Rio
Janeiro.

Balakirev was distressed at this interruption to Rimsky's musical
career. If the disciple idealised the master in those days, the latter
in his turn treated the young sailor with fraternal affection,
declaring that he had been providentially sent to take the place of a
favourite pupil who had just gone abroad. A. Goussakovsky was a
brilliant youth who had recently finished his course at the university
and was specialising in chemistry. He appears to have been a strange,
wild, morbid nature. His compositions for piano were full of promise,
but he was unstable of purpose, flitted from one work to another and
finished none. He did not trouble to write down his ideas, and many of
his compositions existed only in Balakirev's memory. He flashes across
this page of Russian musical history and is lost to view, like a small
but bright falling star. Rimsky-Korsakov was endowed with far greater
tenacity of purpose, and in spite of all difficulties he continued to
work at his symphony on board ship and to post it piece by piece to
Balakirev from the most out-of-the-way ports in order to have his advice
and assistance.

Rimsky-Korsakov came back to St. Petersburg in the autumn of 1865 to
find that some important changes had taken place in Balakirev's circle
during his absence. In the first place, to the brotherhood was added a
new member of whom great things were expected. This was Alexander
Borodin, then assistant lecturer in chemistry at the Academy of
Medicine. Secondly, Balakirev, in conjunction with Lomakin, one of
Russia's most famous choir trainers, had founded the Free[31] School of
Music, a most interesting experiment. It has been said that this
institution was established in rivalry with the Conservatoire. The
concerts given in connection with it, and conducted by its two
initiators, were certainly much less conservative than those of the
official organisation of the I. R. M. S. At the same time it must be
borne in mind that during the 'sixties there was a great movement
"towards the people," and that an enthusiastic temperament such as
Balakirev's could hardly have escaped the passionate altruistic impulse
which was stirring society. Individual effort, long restricted by
official despotism, was becoming active in every direction. Between
1860-1870 a number of philanthropic schools were established in Russia,
and the Free School, with its avowed aim of defending individual
tendencies and upholding the cause of national music, was really only
one manifestation of a widespread sentiment.

Other important events which Rimsky-Korsakov missed during his three
years' cruise were the first production of Serov's opera _Judith_, and
Wagner's visit to the Russian capital when he conducted the orchestra of
the Philharmonic Society.

At this time, with the sole exception of Balakirev, every member of the
nationalist circle was earning his living by other means than music.
Cui was an officer of Engineers, and added to his modest income by
coaching. Moussorgsky was a lieutenant in the Preobrajensky Guards.
Rimsky-Korsakov was in the Imperial navy, and Borodin was a professor of
chemistry.

Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin soon became intimate, notwithstanding the
ten years difference in their ages. The former gives an interesting
picture of the composer of _Prince Igor_, whose life was divided between
chemistry and music, to both of which he was sincerely attached. "I
often found him at work in his laboratory," writes Rimsky-Korsakov,
"which communicated directly with his dwelling. When he was seated
before his retorts, which were filled with colourless gases of some
kind, forcing them by means of tubes from one vessel to another, I used
to tell him he was spending his time in pouring water into a sieve. As
soon as he was free he would take me to his livingrooms and there we
occupied ourselves with music and conversation, in the midst of which
Borodin would rush off to the laboratory to make sure that nothing was
burning or boiling over, making the corridor ring as he went with some
extraordinary passage of ninths or seconds. Then back again for more
music and talk." Borodin's life, between his scientific work, his
constant attendance at all kinds of boards and committee meetings,[32]
and his musical interests, was strenuous beyond description.
Rimsky-Korsakov, who grudged his great gifts to anything but music,
says: "My heart is torn when I look at his life, exhausted by his
continual self-sacrifice." He was endowed with great physical endurance
and was utterly careless of his health. Sometimes he would dine twice in
one day, if he chanced to call upon friends at mealtimes. On other
occasions he would only remember at 9 p.m. that he had forgotten to take
any food at all during the day. The hospitable board of the Borodins was
generally besieged and stormed by cats, who sat on the table and helped
themselves as they pleased, while their complacent owners related to
their human guests the chief events in the biography of their feline
_convives_. Borodin's wife was a woman of culture, and an accomplished
pianist, who had profound faith in her husband's genius. Their married
life was spoiled only by her failing health, for she suffered terribly
from asthma and was obliged to spend most of the winter months in the
drier air of Moscow, which meant long periods of involuntary separation
from her husband.

Another meeting place of Balakirev's circle was at the house of
Lioudmilla Ivanovna Shestakov, Glinka's married sister. Here, besides
the composers, came several excellent singers, mostly amateurs,
including the sisters Karmalina and Mme. S. I. Zotov, for whom
Rimsky-Korsakov wrote several of his early songs. Among those who
sympathised with the aims of the nationalists were the Pourgold family,
consisting of a mother and three daughters, two of whom were highly
accomplished musicians. Alexandra Nicholaevna had a fine mezzo-soprano
voice with high notes. She sang the songs of Cui, Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov with wonderful sympathy and insight, and "created" most
of the female parts in the operas of "the mighty band" in the days when
they had to be satisfied with drawing-room performances of their works.
But her strong point was the interpretation of Moussorgsky's songs,
which was a revelation of the composer's depth of feeling and close
observation of real life and natural declamation. I had the privilege of
visiting this gifted woman in later years when she was Mme. Molas,[33]
and I can never forget the impression made upon me by her rendering of
Moussorgsky's songs, "The Orphan," "Mushrooming," "Yeremoushka's Cradle
Song," and more especially of the realistic pictures of child-life
entitled "The Nursery." Her sister Nadejda Nicholaevna, who became Mme.
Rimsky-Korsakov, was a pupil of Herke and Zaremba, Tchaikovsky's first
master for theory. An excellent pianist and sight-reader, a musician to
her finger-tips, she was always available as an accompanist when any new
work by a member of the brotherhood needed a trial performance. She was
also a skilful arranger of orchestral and operatic works for
pianoforte.[34] The Pourgolds were devoted friends of Dargomijsky, and
during the autumn of 1868 the entire circle met almost daily at his
house, to which he was more or less confined by his rapidly failing
health.

I have spoken of so many friends of "the mighty band" that it might be
supposed that their movement was a popular one. This was not the case.
With the exception of Stassov and Cui, who in their different styles did
useful literary work for their circle, all the critics of the day, and
the academical powers _en bloc_, were opposed to these musical
Ishmaelites. Serov and Laroche carried weight, and were opponents worth
fighting. Theophil Tolstoy ("Rostislav") and Professor Famitzin,
although they wrote for important papers, represented musical criticism
in Russia at its lowest ebb, and would be wholly forgotten but for the
spurious immortality conferred upon them in Moussorgsky's musical satire
"The Peepshow." Nor was Anton Rubinstein's attitude to the new school
either just or generous. Tchaikovsky, who, during the first years of
their struggle for existence, was occupying the position of professor of
harmony at the Moscow Conservatoire, started with more friendly feelings
towards the brotherhood. His symphonic poem "Romeo and Juliet" (1870)
was written under the influence of Balakirev, and his symphonic poem
"The Tempest" (1873) was suggested by Vladimir Stassov. But as time went
on, Tchaikovsky stood more and more aloof from the circle, and in his
correspondence and criticisms he shows himself contemptuous and inimical
to their ideals and achievements, especially to Moussorgsky, the force
of whose innate genius he never understood. Throughout the 'sixties, the
solidarity between the members of Balakirev's set was so complete that
they could afford to live and work happily although surrounded by a
hostile atmosphere. Rimsky-Korsakov's "Chronicle" of these early days
often reminds us of the history of our own pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
and we are moved to admire the devotion with which the members worked
for one another and for the advancement of their common cause. A more
ideal movement it would be difficult to find in the whole history of
art, and all the works produced at this time were the outcome of
single-minded and clear convictions, uninfluenced by the hope of
pecuniary gain, and with little prospect of popular appreciation.




CHAPTER IX

GRADUAL DISSOLUTION OF THE CIRCLE OF FRIENDS


It is difficult to fix the exact moment at which the little "rift within
the lute" became audible in the harmony of Balakirev's circle. In 1872
Balakirev himself was in full opposition on many points with the policy
of the I. R. M. S. and was maintaining his series of concerts in
connection with the Free School in avowed rivalry with the senior
institution. His programmes were highly interesting and their tendency
progressive, but the public was indifferent, and his pecuniary losses
heavy. In the autumn of that year he organised a concert at
Nijny-Novgorod in which he appeared as a pianist, hoping that for once a
prophet might not only find honour but substantial support in his own
country. He was doomed to disappointment; the room was empty and
Balakirev used to allude to this unfortunate event as "my Sedan." He
returned to St. Petersburg in low spirits and began to hold aloof from
his former friends and pupils. Eventually--so it is said--he took a
clerkship in the railway service. At this period of his life he began to
be preoccupied with those mystical ideas which absorbed him more or less
until the end of his days.

After a time he returned to the musical life, and in the letters of
Borodin and in Rimsky-Korsakov's "Chronicle" we get glimpses of the old
ardent propagandist "Mily Alexe'ich." From 1867 to 1869 he was Director
of the Imperial Chapel. But a few years later he again separated from
his circle and this time he shut himself off definitely from society,
emerging only on rare occasions to play at some charity concert, or
visit the house of one of the few friends with whom he was still in
sympathy. It was during these years that I first met him at the
Stassovs' house. So few strangers ever came in contact with Mily
Balakirev that I may be excused for giving my own personal impressions
of this remarkable man.

From the moment when I first began to study Russian music, Balakirev's
personality and genius exercised a great fascination for me. He was the
spark from whence proceeded not only a musical conflagration but the
warmth of my own poor enthusiasm. Naturally I was anxious to meet this
attractive, yet self-isolated personality. It was an early summer's
evening in St. Petersburg in 1901, and the excuses for the gathering
were a birthday in the Stassov family, and the presence of an English
enthusiast for Russian music. Balakirev was expected about 9 p.m.
Stassov left the grand piano open like a trap set for a shy bird. He
seemed to think that it would ensnare Mily Alexe'ich as the limed twig
ensnares the bullfinch. The ruse was successful. After greeting us all
round, Balakirev gravitated almost immediately to the piano. "I'm going
to play three sonatas," he announced without further ceremony,
"Beethoven's Appassionata, Chopin's B minor, and Schumann No. 3, in G
minor." Then he began to play.

Balakirev was rather short. I do not know his pedigree, but he did not
belong to the tall, fair type of Great Russia. There was to my mind a
touch of the oriental about him: Tatar, perhaps, not Jewish. His figure
was thickset, but his face was worn and thin, and his complexion
brownish; his air somewhat weary and nervous. He looked like a man who
strained his mental energies almost to breaking point; but his eyes--I
do not remember their colour--were extraordinarily magnetic, full of
fire and sympathy, the eyes of the seer and the bard. As he sat at the
piano he recalled for a moment my last remembrance of Hans von Bülow.
Something, too, in his style of playing confirmed this impression. He
was not a master of sensational technique like Paderewski or Rosenthal.
His execution was irreproachable, but one did not think of his
virtuosity in hearing him play for the first time; nor did he, as I
expected, carry me away on a whirlwind of fiery emotion. A nature so
ardent could not be a cold executant, but he had neither the emotional
force nor the poetry of expression which were the leading
characteristics of Rubinstein's art. What struck me most in Balakirev,
and reminded me of Bülow, was the intelligence, the sympathy, and the
authority of his interpretations. He observed, analysed, and set the
work in a lucid atmosphere. He might have adopted Stendhal's formula:
"_Voir clair dans ce qui est._" It would be wrong, however, to think of
Balakirev as a dry pedagogue. If he was a professor, he was an
enlightened one--a sympathetic and inspired interpreter who knew how to
reconstruct in imagination the period and personality of a composer
instead of substituting his own.

Having finished his rather arduous but self-imposed programme, we were
all afraid that he might disappear as quietly as he came. An inspiration
on my part to address him some remarks, in extremely ungrammatical
Russian, on the subject of his songs and their wonderful, independent
accompaniments, sent him back to the piano, where he continued to
converse with me, illustrating his words with examples of unusual
rhythms employed in his songs, and gliding half unconsciously into some
of his own and other people's compositions. He could not be persuaded to
play me "Islamey," the Oriental Fantasia beloved of Liszt, but I
remember one delicate and graceful valse which he had recently written.
By this time the _samovar_ was bubbling on the table and the room was
filled with the perfume of tea and lemon. Happily Balakirev showed no
signs of departure. He took his place at the table and talked with all
his old passion of music in general, but chiefly of the master who had
dominated the renaissance of Russian music--Michael Ivanovich Glinka.

Russians love to prolong their hospitality until far into the night. But
in May the nights in St. Petersburg are white and spectral. At midnight
the world is steeped in a strange light, neither twilight nor dawn, but
something like the ghost of the departed day haunting the night that has
slain it. Instead of dreams one's mind is filled with fantastic ideas.
As I drove home through the streets, as light as in the daytime, I
imagined that Balakirev was a wizard who had carried me back to the
past--to the stirring period of the 'sixties so full of faith and
generous hopes--so strong was the conviction that I had been actually
taking part in the struggles and triumphs of the new Russian
school.[35]

After this I never entirely lost sight of Balakirev. We corresponded
from time to time and he was always anxious to hear the fate of his
music in this country. Unfortunately I could seldom reassure him on this
point, for his works have never roused much enthusiasm in the British
public. He died on Sunday, May 29th, 1910. I had not long arrived in
Petersburg when I heard that he was suffering from a severe chill with
serious complications. Every day I hoped to hear that he was on the road
to recovery and able to see me. But on the 16th I received from him a
few pencilled lines--probably the last he ever wrote--in which he spoke
of his great weakness and said the doctor still forbade him to see his
friends. From that time until his death, he saw no one but Dimitri
Vassileivich, Stassov's surviving brother, and his devoted friend and
pupil Liapounov. He died, as he had lived for many years, alone, except
for his faithful old housekeeper. He departed a true and faithful son of
the Orthodox Church. In spite of his having spent nearly twenty years of
his life in pietistic retirement, the news of his death reawakened the
interest of his compatriots. From the time of his passing away until
his funeral his modest bachelor apartments could hardly contain the
stream of people of all ages and classes who wished to take part in the
short services held twice a day in the death chamber of the master. He
was buried in the Alexander Nevsky Cemetery, not far from the graves of
Dargomijsky, Glinka and Stassov.

The true reason for the loosening of the bonds between Balakirev and his
former pupils cannot be ascribed to differences in their religious
opinions. It was rather the inevitable result of the growth of artistic
individuality. Balakirev could not realise this, and was disenchanted by
the gradual neglect of his co-operative ideal. Borodin took a broad and
sensible view of the matter in writing to one of the sisters Karmalina
in 1876:--"It is clear that there are no rivalries or personal
differences between us; this would be impossible on account of the
respect we have for each other. It is thus in every branch of human
activity; in proportion to its development, individuality triumphs over
the schools, over the heritage that men have gathered from their
masters. A hen's eggs are all alike; the chickens differ somewhat, and
in time cease to resemble each other at all. One hatches out a
dark-plumed truculent cock, another a white and peaceful hen. It is the
same with us. We have all derived from the circle in which we lived the
common characteristics of genus and species; but each of us, like an
adult cock or hen, bears his own character and individuality. If, on
this account, we are thought to have separated from Balakirev,
fortunately it is not the case. We are as fond of him as ever, and spare
no pains to keep up the same relations as before. As to us, we continue
to interest ourselves in each other's musical works. If we are not
always pleased it is quite natural, for tastes differ, and even in the
same person vary with age. It could not be otherwise."

The situation was no doubt rendered more difficult by Balakirev's
unaccommodating attitude. "With his despotic character," says
Rimsky-Korsakov, "he demanded that every work should be modelled
precisely according to his instructions, with the result that a large
part of a composition often belonged to him rather than to its author.
We obeyed him without question, for his personality was irresistible."
It was inevitable that, as time went on and the members of "the mighty
band" found themselves less in need of guidance in their works than of
practical assistance in bringing them before the public, Balakirev's
circle should have become Belaiev's circle, and that the Mæcenas
publisher and concert-giver should by degrees have acquired a
preponderating influence in the nationalist school. This change took
place during the 'eighties.

Mitrofane Petrovich Belaiev, born February 10th, 1836, was a wealthy
timber merchant, with a sincere love of music. He was an exception to
the type of the Russian commercial man of his day, having studied the
violin and piano in his youth and found time amid the demands of a large
business to occupy his leisure with chamber music. My recollections of
Belaiev recall a brusque, energetic and somewhat choleric personality of
the "rough diamond" type; a passionate, but rather indiscriminate,
enthusiast, and an autocrat. Wishing to give some practical support to
the cause of national music, he founded a publishing house in Leipzig in
1885 where he brought out a great number of works by the members of the
then new school, including a fine edition of Borodin's _Prince Igor_. He
also founded the Russian Symphony Concerts, the programmes of which were
drawn exclusively from the works of native composers. In 1889 he
organised the Russian Concerts given with success at the Paris
Exhibition; and started the "Quartet Evenings" in St. Petersburg in
1891. Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, Glazounov and Liadov wrote a string
quartet in his honour, on the notes B-la-f. Belaiev died in 1904, but
the Leipzig house still continues its work under its original manager,
Herr Scheffer.

Undoubtedly Belaiev exercised a powerful influence on the destinies of
Russian music. Whether he was better fitted to be the central point of
its activities at a certain stage of its development than Balakirev is a
question which happily I am not called upon to decide. Money and
business capacity are useful, perhaps indispensable, adjuncts to
artistic progress in the present day, but they can never wholly take the
place of enthusiasm and unstinted devotion. "_Les choses de l'âme n'ont
pas de prix_," says Renan; nevertheless there is a good deal of bidding
done for them in this commercial age. It is easy to understand the
bitterness of heart with which the other-worldly and unconformable
Balakirev saw the members of his school passing one by one into "the
circle of Belaiev." He had steered the ship of their fortunes through
the storms and shoals that beset its early ventures; but another was to
guide it into the haven of prosperity and renown. Rimsky-Korsakov, in
his "Chronicle of my Musical Life," makes his recantation of old ideals
and enthusiasms in the following terms: "Balakirev's circle was
revolutionary; Belaiev's progressive. Balakirev's disciples numbered
five; Belaiev's circle was more numerous, and continued to grow in
numbers. All the five musicians who constituted the older school were
eventually acknowledged as leading representatives of Russian music; the
later circle was made up of more varied elements; some of its
representatives were men of great creative gifts, others were less
talented, and a few were not even composers, but conductors, like Dütsh,
or executants like Lavrov. Balakirev's circle consisted of musicians who
were weak--almost amateurish--on the technical side, who forced their
way to the front by the sheer force of their creative gifts; a force
which sometimes replaced technical knowledge, and sometimes--as was
frequently the case with Moussorgsky--did not suffice to cover their
deficiences in this respect. Belaiev's circle, on the contrary, was made
up of musicians who were well equipped and thoroughly educated.
Balakirev's pupils did not interest themselves in any music prior to
Beethoven's time; Belaiev's followers not only honoured their musical
fathers, but their remoter ancestors, reaching back to Palestrina....
The relations of the earlier circle to its chief were those of pupils to
their teacher; Belaiev was rather our centre than our head.... He was a
Mæcenas, but not an aristocrat Mæcenas, who throws away money on art to
please his own caprices and in reality does nothing to serve its
interests. In what he did he stood on firm and honourable ground. He
organised his concerts and publishing business without the smallest
consideration for his personal profit. On the contrary, he sacrificed
large sums of money, while concealing himself as far as possible from
the public eye.... We were drawn to Belaiev by his personality, his
devotion to art, and his wealth; not for its own sake but as the means
to an end, applied to lofty and irreproachable aims, which made him the
central attraction of a new musical circle which had only a few
hereditary ties with the original 'invincible band.'"

This is no doubt a sincere statement of the relations between Belaiev
and the modern Russian school, and it is only fair to quote this tribute
to his memory. At the same time, when the history of Russian music comes
to be written later in the century, both sides of the question will have
to be taken into consideration. My own views on some of the
disadvantages of the patronage system I have already expressed in the
"Edinburgh Review" for July 1912, and I venture to repeat them here:

"He who pays the piper will, directly or indirectly, call the tune. If
he be a Mæcenas of wide culture and liberal tastes he will perhaps call
a variety of tunes; if, on the other hand, he be a home-keeping
millionaire with a narrowly patriotic outlook he will call only for
tunes that awaken a familiar echo in his heart. So an edict--maybe an
unspoken one--goes forth that a composer who expects his patronage must
always write in the 'native idiom'; which is equivalent to laying down
the law that a painter's pictures will be disqualified for exhibition if
he uses more colours on his palette than those which appear in his
country's flag. Something of this kind occurred in the ultra-national
school of music in Russia, and was realised by some of its most fervent
supporters as time went on. It is not difficult to trace signs of
fatigue and perfunctoriness in the later works of its representatives.
At times the burden of nationality seems to hang heavy on their
shoulders; the perpetual burning of incense to one ideal dulled the
alertness of their artistic sensibilities. Less grew out of that
splendid outburst of patriotic feeling in the 'sixties than those who
hailed its first manifestations had reason to anticipate. Its bases were
probably too narrowly exclusive to support an edifice of truly imposing
dimensions. Gradually the inevitable has happened. The younger men threw
off the restrictions of the folk-song school, and sought new ideas from
the French symbolists, or the realism of Richard Strauss. There is very
little native idiom, although there are still distinctive features of
the national style, in the work of such latter day composers as
Scriabin, Tcherepnin and Medtner. The physiognomy of Russian music is
changing day by day, and although it is full of interest, one would
welcome a development on larger and more independent lines."

In 1867 Nicholas Lodyjensky joined the circle. He was a young amateur
gifted with a purely lyrical tendency, who played the piano remarkably
well and improvised fluently. He composed a number of detached pieces
and put together some fragments of a symphony and an opera, on the
subject of "The False Dimitrius." Rimsky-Korsakov says his music showed
a grace and beauty of expression which attracted the attention of the
nationalist group, especially the music for the Wedding Scene of
Dimitrius and Marina, and a setting for solo and chorus of Lermontov's
"Roussalka" (The Water Sprite). But Lodyjensky, like Goussakovsky, was a
typical dilettante; almost inspired, but unable to concentrate on the
completion of any important work. After a time he dropped out of the
circle, probably because he had to earn his living in some other way,
and the strain of a dual vocation discouraged all but the very strongest
musical spirits.[36]

A musician of greater reputation who was partly attached to the
nationalists was Anatol Liadov, whose work does not include any operatic
composition.

Whatever the changes in the constitution of the nationalist party,
Vladimir Stassov remained its faithful adherent through all
vicissitudes. Some account of this interesting personality will not be
out of place in a history of Russian opera. Vladimir Vassilievich
Stassov, who may be called the godfather of Russian music--he stood
sponsor for so many compositions of all kinds--was born in St.
Petersburg, January 14th, 1825. He originally intended to follow his
father's profession and become an architect. But eventually he was
educated at the School of Jurisprudence and afterwards went abroad for a
time. He studied art in many centres, but chiefly in Italy, and wrote a
few articles during his travels. He returned to St. Petersburg, having
acquired a command of many languages and laid the foundation of his wide
critical knowledge. For a time he frequented the Imperial Public
Library, St. Petersburg, where his industry and enthusiasm attracted the
notice of the Director, Baron Korf, who invited him to become his
temporary assistant. Subsequently Stassov entered the service of the
Library and became head of the department of Fine Arts. This, at least,
was his title, although at the time when I knew him his jurisdiction
seemed to have no defined limits. A man of wide culture, of strong
convictions and fearless utterance, he was a power in his day.
Physically he had a fine appearance, being a typical Russian of the old
school. The students at the Library used to call him the _Bogatyr_,[37]
or with more irreverence the "Father," for he might have sat as an ideal
model for the conventional representations of the First Person of the
Trinity. Stassov's views on art were always on the large side; but they
were sometimes extreme and paradoxical. In polemics his methods were
fierce, but not ungenerous. He was a kind of Slavonic Dr. Samuel
Johnson, and there were times when one might as well have tried to argue
calmly with the Car of Juggernaut. Those who were timid, inarticulate,
or physically incapable of sustaining a long discussion, would creep
away from his too-vigorous presence feeling baffled and hurt, and
nursing a secret resentment. This was unfortunate, for Stassov loved and
respected a relentless opponent, and only those who held their own to
the bitter end enjoyed the fine experience of a reconciliation with him.
And how helpful, considerate and generous he was in dispensing from his
rich stores of knowledge, or his modest stores of worldly possessions,
there must be many to testify; for his private room at the Public
Library was the highway of those in search of counsel or assistance of
any kind. He had a remarkable faculty for imparting to others a passion
for work, a most beneficial power in the days when dilettantism was one
of the worst banes of Russian society. In his home, too, he clung to the
old national ideal of hospitality for all who needed it, and no
questions asked. With all his rugged strength of character he had
moments of childlike vanity when he loved to appear before his admiring
guests attired in the embroidered scarlet shirt, wide velveteen knickers
and high boots which make up the holiday costume of the Russian peasant;
or dressed like a boyard of old. With all this, he was absolutely free
from the snobbishness which is sometimes an unpleasant feature of the
Russian _chinovnik_, or official. Naturally many stories were related of
Vladimir Stassov, but I have only space for two short anecdotes here.
The first illustrates the Russian weakness for hot, and often futile,
discussion; the second, Stassov's enthusiasm for art and indifference to
social conventions.

Once he had been arguing with Tourgeniev, whose cosmopolitan and rather
supercilious attitude towards the art of young Russia infuriated the
champion of nationalism. At last Tourgeniev, wearied perhaps with what
he called "this chewing of dried grass," and suffering acutely from
rheumatic gout, showed signs of yielding to Stassov's onslaughts.
"There," cried the latter triumphantly, "now I see you agree with me!"
This acted like the dart planted in the hide of the weary or reluctant
bull. Tourgeniev sprang from his chair and shuffled on his bandaged feet
to the window, exclaiming: "Agree with you indeed! If I felt I was
beginning to think like you, I should fling open the window (here he
suited the action to the word) and scream to the passers-by, 'Take me to
a lunatic asylum! I agree with Stassov!!'"

On another occasion "Vladimir Vassilich" returned late one evening from
his country cottage at Pargolovo, without troubling to change the
national dress which he usually wore there. This costume was looked upon
with disfavour in the capital, as savouring of a too-advanced liberalism
and sympathy with the people. On arriving home, his family reminded him
that Rubinstein was playing that night at a concert of the I. R. M. S.
and that by the time he had changed he would be almost too late to hear
him. "I cannot miss Rubinstein," said Vladimir Vassilich, "I must go as
I am." In vain his family expostulated, assuring him that "an exalted
personage" and the whole Court would be there, and consequently he must
put on more correct attire. "_I will not_ miss Rubinstein," was all the
answer they got for their pains. And Stassov duly appeared in the Salle
de la Noblesse in a red shirt with an embroidery of cocks and hens down
the front. He was forgiven such breaches of etiquette for the sake of
his true nobility and loyalty of heart.

Such was the doughty champion of the nationalists through good and evil
fortune. His writings on musical questions form only a small part of his
literary output, the result of over sixty years of indefatigable
industry; for he was an authority on painting, architecture and design.
Like Nestor, the faithful chronicler of mediæval Russia, he worked early
and late. He did great service to native art by carefully collecting at
the Imperial Public Library all the original manuscript scores of the
Russian composers, their correspondence, and every document that might
afterwards serve historians of the movement. He was the first to write
an important monograph on Glinka, and this, together with his book on
Borodin, his exhaustive articles on Dargomijsky and Moussorgsky, and his
general surveys of musical progress in Russia, are indispensable sources
of first-hand information for those who would study the question of
Russian music _à fonds_.[38] As a critic, time has proved that, in spite
of his ardent crusade on behalf of modernism and nationality, his
judgments were usually sound; as an historian he was painstaking and
accurate; as regards his appreciation of contemporary art, he showed a
remarkable _flair_ for latent talent, and sensed originality even when
deeply overlaid by crudity of thought and imperfect workmanship. He was
apparently the first to perceive the true genius and power concealed
under the foppishness and dilettantism of Moussorgsky's early manhood.
He considered that neither Balakirev, Cui, nor Rimsky-Korsakov
appreciated the composer of _Boris Godounov_ at his full value. He
upheld him against all contemptuous and adverse criticism, and the
ultimate triumph of Moussorgsky's works was one of the articles in his
artistic creed.




CHAPTER X

MOUSSORGSKY


We have seen that Glinka and Dargomijsky represented two distinct
tendencies in Russian operatic music. The one was lyrical and
idealistic; the other declamatory and realistic. It would seem that
Glinka's qualities were those more commonly typical of the Russian
musical temperament, since, in the second generation of composers, his
disciples outnumbered those of Dargomijsky, who had actually but one
close adherent: Modeste Moussorgsky. Cui, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov
were all--as we shall see when we come to a more detailed analysis of
their works--attracted in varying degrees to melodic and lyric opera.
Although in the first flush of enthusiasm for Dargomijsky's music-drama
_The Stone Guest_--which Lenz once described as "a recitative in three
acts"--the younger nationalists were disposed to adopt it as "the Gospel
of the New School," Moussorgsky alone made a decisive attempt to bring
into practice the theories embodied in this work. Taking Dargomijsky's
now famous dictum: _I want the note to be the direct representation of
the word--I want truth and realism_, as his starting-point, Moussorgsky
proceeded to carry it to a logical conclusion. Rimsky-Korsakov speaks of
his having passed through an early phase of idealism when he composed
his Fantasia for piano "St. John's Eve" (afterwards remodelled for
orchestra and now known as "Night on the Bare Mountain"), "The
Destruction of Sennacherib," and the song "Night," to a poem by
Poushkin. But although at first he may not have been so consciously
occupied in the creation of what Rimsky-Korsakov calls "grey music," it
is evident that no sooner had he found his feet, technically speaking,
than he gripped fast hold of one dominant idea--the closer relationship
of music with actual life. Henceforward musical psychology became the
absorbing problem of his art, to which he devoted himself with all the
ardour of a self-confident and headstrong nature. In a letter to
Vladimir Stassov, dated October 1872, he reveals his artistic intentions
in the following words: "Assiduously to seek the more delicate and
subtle features of human nature--of the human crowd--to follow them into
unknown regions, and make them our own: this seems to me the true
vocation of the artist. Through the storm, past shoal and sunken rock,
make for new shores without fear, against all hindrance!... In the mass
of humanity, as in the individual, there are always some subtle
impalpable features which have been passed by, unobserved, untouched by
anyone. To mark these and study them, by reading, by actual observation,
by intuition--in other words, to feed upon humanity as a healthy diet
which has been neglected--there lies the whole problem of art." However
greatly we may disagree with Moussorgsky's æsthetic point of view, we
must confess that he carried out his theories with logical sequence, and
with the unflinching courage of a clear conviction. His operas and his
songs are human documents which bear witness to the spirit of their time
as clearly as any of the great works of fiction which were then
agitating the public conscience. In this connection I may repeat what I
have said elsewhere: that "had the realistic schools of painting and
fiction never come into being through the efforts of Perov, Repin,
Dostoievsky and Chernichevsky, we might still reconstruct from
Moussorgsky's works the whole psychology of Russian life."[39]

[Illustration: MOUSSORGSKY

_From a portrait by Repin painted shortly before his death_]

In order to understand his work and his attitude towards art, it is
necessary to realise something of the period in which Moussorgsky lived.
He was a true son of his time, that stirring time of the 'sixties
which followed the emancipation of the serfs, and saw all Russian
society agitated by the new, powerful stimulants of individual freedom
and fraternal sympathy. Of the little group of musicians then striving
to give utterance to their freshly awakened patriotism, none was so
passionately stirred by the literary and political movements of the time
as this born folk-composer. Every man, save the hide-bound official, or
the frivolous imitator of Byron and Lermontov, was asking himself in the
title of the most popular novel of the day: "What shall we do?" And the
answer given to them was as follows: "Throw aside artistic and social
conventions. Bring down Art from the Olympian heights and make her the
handmaid of humanity. Seek not beauty but truth. Go to the people. Hold
out the hand of fellowship to the liberated masses and learn from them
the true purpose of life." The ultra romanticism of Joukovsky and
Karamzin, the affectation of Byronism, and the all too aristocratic
demeanour of the admirers of Poushkin, invited this reaction. Men turned
with disgust to sincere and simple things. The poets led the way;
Koltsov and Nikitin with their songs of peasant life; Nekrassov with his
revolt against creeds and social conventions. The prose writers and
painters followed, and the new spirit invaded music when it found a
congenial soil in Moussorgsky's sincere and unsophisticated nature. Of
the young nationalist school, he was the one eminently fitted by
temperament and early education to give expression in music to this
democratic and utilitarian tendency; this contempt for the dandyism and
dilettantism of the past generation; and, above all, to this deep
compassion for "the humiliated and offended."

Modeste Moussorgsky was born March 16/28, 1839, at Karevo, in the
government of Pskov. He was of good family, but comparatively poor. His
childhood was spent amid rural surroundings, and not only the music of
the people, but their characteristics, good and bad, were impressed upon
his mind from his earliest years. He was equally conversant with the
folk literature, and often lay awake at night, his youthful imagination
over-excited by his nurse's tales of witches, water-sprites and
wood-demons. This was the seedtime of that wonderful harvest of national
music which he gave to his race as soon as he had shaken off the
superficial influences of the fashionable society into which he drifted
for a time. His father, who died in 1853, was not opposed to Modeste's
musical education, which was carried on at first by his mother, an
excellent pianist. The young man entered the Preobrajensky Guards, one
of the smartest regiments in the service, before he was eighteen.
Borodin met him for the first time at this period of his existence and
described him in a letter to Stassov as a typical military dandy,
playing selections from Verdi's operas to an audience of appreciative
ladies. He met him again two or three years later, when all traces of
foppishness had disappeared, and Moussorgsky astonished him by
announcing his intention of devoting his whole life to music; an
announcement which Borodin did not take seriously at the time. During
the interval Moussorgsky had been frequenting Dargomijsky's musical
evenings, where he met Balakirev, under whose inspiring influence he had
undergone something like a process of conversion, casting the slough of
dandyism, and becoming the most assiduous of workers.

While intercourse with Dargomijsky contributed to the forced maturing of
Moussorgsky's ideas about music, the circumstances of his life still
hindered his technical development. But he was progressing. His early
letters to Cui and Stassov show how deeply and independently he had
already thought out certain problems of his art. Meanwhile Balakirev
carried on his musical education in a far more effective fashion than
has ever been admitted by those who claim that Moussorgsky was wholly
self-taught, or, in other words, completely ignorant of his craft. The
"Symphonic Intermezzo," composed in 1861, shows how insistent and
thorough was Balakirev's determination that his pupils should grasp the
principles of tradition before setting up as innovators. Here we have a
sound piece of workmanship, showing clear traces of Bach's influence;
the middle movement, founded on a national air, being very original in
its development, but kept strictly within classical form. His earliest
operatic attempt, dating from his schooldays, and based upon Victor
Hugo's "Han d'Island," was quite abortive as regards the music. Of the
incidental music to "OEdipus," suggested by Balakirev, we have
Stassov's testimony that a few numbers were actually written down, and
performed at some of the friendly gatherings of the nationalist circle;
only one, however, has been preserved, a chorus sung by the people
outside the Temple of the Eumenides, which does not in any way presage
Moussorgsky's future style.

Faced with the prospect of service in a provincial garrison, Moussorgsky
resolved to leave the army in 1859. His friends, and more particularly
Stassov, begged him to reconsider his determination; but in vain. He had
now reached that phase of his development when he was impatient of any
duties which interfered with his artistic progress. Unfortunately
poverty compelled him to accept a small post under the government which
soon proved as irksome as regimental life. In 1856 he fell ill, and
rusticated for a couple of years on an out-of-the-way country property
belonging to his brother. During this period of rest he seems to have
found himself as a creative artist. After working for a time upon an
opera founded upon Flaubert's novel "Salammbô," he turned his attention
to song, and during these years produced a number of his wonderful vocal
pictures of Russian life, in its pathetic and humorous aspects. The
music which he composed for _Salammbô_ was far in advance of the
_OEdipus_. Already in this work we find Moussorgsky treating the
people, "the human crowd," as one of the most important elements of
opera. "In conformity with the libretto," says Stassov, "certain scenes
were full of dramatic movement in the style of Meyerbeer, evoking great
masses of the populace at moments of intense pathos or exaltation." Much
of the music of this opera was utilised in later works. Stassov informs
us that Salammbô's invocation to Tanit is now the recitative of the
dying Boris; the opening of the scene in the Temple of Moloch has become
the _Arioso_ in the third act of _Boris Godounov_; while the Triumphal
Hymn to Moloch is utilised as the people's chorus of acclamation to the
False Demetrius in the same opera.

Moussorgsky's next operatic essay took the form which he described as
"opera dialogué." The subject--Gogol's prose comedy "The
Match-Maker"--was admirably suited to him, and he started upon the work
full of enthusiasm for the task. His methods are shown in a letter
written to César Cui in the summer of 1868, in which he says: "I am
endeavouring as far as possible to observe very clearly the changes of
intonation made by the different characters in the course of
conversation; and made, so it appears, for trifling reasons, and on the
most insignificant words. Here, in my opinion, lies the secret of
Gogol's powerful humour.... How true is the saying: 'the farther we
penetrate into the forest the more trees we find!' How subtle Gogol is!
He has observed old women and peasants and discovered the most
fascinating types.... All this is very useful to me; the types of old
women are really precious." Moussorgsky abandoned _The Match-Maker_
after completing the first act. This was published by Bessel, in 1911,
under the editorship of Rimsky-Korsakov, and contains the following
note: "I leave the rights in this work of my pupilage unconditionally
and eternally to my dear Vladimir Vassilievich Stassov on this his
birthday, January 2nd, 1873. (Signed) Modeste Moussoryanin, alias
Moussorgsky. Written with a quill pen in Stassov's flat, Mokhovaya,
House Melnikov, amid a considerable concourse of people.

"The said MOUSSORGSKY."

Moussorgsky originally designated this work as "an attempt at dramatic
music set to prose." The fragment, with its sincere and forcible
declamation, is interesting as showing a phase in the evolution of his
genius immediately preceding the composition of _Boris Godounov_. The
four scenes which it comprises consist of conversations on the subject
of marriage carried on between four sharply defined and contrasted
characters: Podkolessin, a court councillor and petty official in the
Civil Service; Kocharev, his friend; Tekla Ivanovna, a professional
match-maker, and Stepan, Podkolessin's servant. Rimsky-Korsakov, who
often heard the music sung and played by its author, says in his preface
to the work that it should be executed _à piacere_; that is to say, that
for each individual a particular and characteristic _tempo_ must be
observed: for Podkolessin--a good-natured, vain and vacillating
creature--a slow and lazy time throughout; a more rapid movement for his
energetic friend Kocharev, who literally pushes him into matrimony; for
the Match-maker a moderate _tempo_, somewhat restrained, but alert; and
for Stepan rather a slow time. Stassov thought highly of this work, and
believed that as traditional prejudices vanished, and opera became a
more natural form of art, this prose comedy, the music of which fits
closely as a glove to every passing feeling and gesture suggested by the
text, would come to be highly appreciated.

One more unfinished opera engages our attention before we pass on to
consider Moussorgsky's two masterpieces. Fragments, consisting of an
introduction and several "Comic Scenes," based upon Gogol's "The Fair at
Sorochinsi," have been recently published by Bessel, with Russian text
only. The subject is peculiarly racy and the humour not very
comprehensible to those ignorant of Malo-Russian life; but the music,
though primitive, is highly characteristic, and may be commended to the
notice of all who wish to study Moussorgsky in as full a light as
possible.

The idea of basing a music-drama on Poushkin's tragedy "Boris Godounov"
was suggested by Prof. Nikolsky. From September 1868, to June 1870,
Moussorgsky was engaged upon this work. Each act as it was finished was
tried in a small circle of musical friends, the composer singing all the
male rôles in turn, while Alexandra Pourgold (afterwards Mme. Molas)
created the women's parts. Dargomijsky, who heard a portion of it before
his death in 1869, declared that Moussorgsky had entirely surpassed him
in his own sphere.

_Boris Godounov_ was rejected by the Direction of Imperial Opera on the
ground that it gave too little opportunity to the soloists. The unusual
form of the opera, the bold treatment of a dramatic, but unpopular,
episode in national history, and the democratic sentiment displayed in
making the People the protagonist in several scenes of the work, were
probably still stronger reasons for the attitude of disapproval always
shown by the "powers that be" towards _Boris Godounov_. Very
unwillingly, yielding only to the entreaties of his friends, the
composer consented to make some important changes in his work. The
original plan of the opera consisted of the following scenes: The crowd
awaiting the election of Boris, and his Coronation; Pimen in his cell;
the scene in the Inn, on the Lithuanian frontier; Boris and his
children, and the interview with Shouisky; the scene in the Duma, and
the death of Boris; the peasant revolt, and the entry of the Pretender.
It will be seen that the feminine element was curiously neglected. The
additional scenes, composed on the advice of Stassov and the
distinguished Russian architect V. Hartmann, were partially designed to
rectify this omission. They include the scenes in the house of the
Polish grandee Mnishek; the song of the Hostess of the Inn; portions of
the first scene of Act I.; the episodes of the Chiming Clock and the
Parrakeet; also some fine passages in the scene between Pimen and
Gregory (Scene I, Act II.). Portions of _Boris_ were given at
Kondratiev's benefit, at the Maryinski Theatre, in February, 1873, but
the production of the opera in its entirety was delayed until January
24th, 1874. How often has Stassov described to me the excitement of the
days that followed! The old-fashioned subscribers to the Opera sulked at
this interruption to its routine; the pedants of the Conservatoire
raged; the critics--Moussorgsky had already satirised them in "The
Peepshow"--baffled, and consequently infuriated, "foamed at the mouth."
So stupid were the intrigues organised against _Boris_ that some wreaths
offered by groups of young people and bearing messages of enthusiastic
homage to the composer, were intercepted at the doors of the opera house
and sent to Moussorgsky's private residence, in order to suppress a
public recognition of his obnoxious genius. For it was the young
generation that took _Boris_ straight to their hearts, and in spite of
all organised opposition, the work had twenty performances, the house
being always crowded; while students sang the choruses from the opera as
they went home through the streets at midnight.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN AS BORIS GODOUNOV]

While this controversy was raging, Moussorgsky was already occupied with
a new music-drama upon an historical subject, suggested to him by
Stassov, dealing with the tragic story of the Princes Khovansky and the
rising of the old Archers-of-the-Guard--the Streltsy. He was full of
confidence in his project, and just before the first performance of
_Boris_ in 1873, wrote to Stassov in the following characteristic
strain: "Now for judgment! It is jolly to feel that we are actually
thinking of and living for _Khovanstchina_ while we are being tried for
_Boris_. Joyfully and daringly we look to the distant musical horizon
that lures us onward, and are not afraid of the verdict. They will say:
'You are violating all laws, human and divine'; and we shall reply,
'Yes'; thinking to ourselves, 'so we shall again.' They will warn us,
'You will soon be forgotten for ever and a day'; and we shall answer,
'Non, non, et non, madame.'" This triumphant moment in Moussorgsky's
life was fleeting. _Boris Godounov_ was not suffered to become a
repertory opera, but was thrust aside for long periods. Its subsequent
revivals were usually due to some star artist who liked the title-rôle
and insisted on performing the work on his benefit night; and also to
private enterprise.

In 1871 Moussorgsky shared rooms with Rimsky-Korsakov until the marriage
of the latter in 1873. Then he took up his abode with the gifted poet
Count Golenishtiev-Koutouzov, whose idealistic and mystical tendencies
were not without influence on the champion of realism, as may be seen
from the two song-cycles, "Without sunshine" and "Songs and dances of
death," composed to his verses. "The Nursery," a series of children's
songs, the "Pictures from an exhibition," inspired by Hartmann's
drawings, and the orchestral piece, "Night on the Bare Mountain," date
from this period. Meanwhile the stress of poverty and the growing
distaste for his means of livelihood--a singularly unsuitable official
appointment--were telling on his health. Feeling, perhaps, that his time
on earth was short, he worked with feverish energy. Finally, some
friction with the authorities ended in his resigning his post in 1879,
and undertaking a tour in South Russia with the singer, Madame Leonova.
The appreciation shown to him during this journey afforded him some
moments of happiness; but his constitution was hopelessly shattered, and
in 1880 he was obliged to rest completely. A series of terrible nervous
attacks compelled him at last to take refuge in the Nicholas Military
Hospital, where he died on his forty-second birthday, March 16/28, of
paralysis of the heart and the spinal marrow.

The historical drama "Boris Godounov" was one of the fruits of the poet
Poushkin's exile at Mikhaïlovsky in 1824. Virtually imprisoned on his
father's estate to repent at leisure some youthful delinquencies, moral
and political, Poushkin occupied his time with the study of Karamzin's
History of Russia and Shakespeare's plays. "Boris Godounov" marks a
transition from the extreme influence of Byron to that of the creator of
"Macbeth." Ambition coupled with remorse is the moving passion of the
tragedy. The insane cruelty of Ivan the Terrible deprived Russia of
almost every strong and independent spirit with the exception of the
sagacious and cautious Boyard, Boris Godounov, the descendant of a Tatar
family. Brother-in-law and Regent of Ivan's weak-witted heir, Feodor,
Boris was already, to all intents and purposes, ruler of Russia before
ambition whispered that he might actually wear the crown. Only the
Tsarevich Dmitri, a child of six, stood between him and the fulfilment
of his secret desire. In 1581 Dmitri was murdered, and suspicion fell
upon Boris, who cleverly exculpated himself, and in due course was
chosen to succeed Feodor. He reigned wisely and with authority; but his
Nemesis finally appeared in the person of the monk Gregory, the False
Demetrius, whose pretentions were eagerly supported by the Poles. Boris,
unhinged by the secret workings of conscience, was brought to the verge
of madness just at the moment when the people--who had never quite
resigned themselves to a ruler of Tatar origin--wavered in their
allegiance. Urged by Rome, the Poles took advantage of the situation to
advance upon Moscow. At this critical juncture Boris was seized with a
fatal illness. The Tsars, as we know, may appoint their own successors;
Boris with his last breath nominated his son (also a Feodor), and died
in his fifty-sixth year, in April 1605.

The intellectual power and fine workmanship which Poushkin displayed in
"Boris Godounov" entitle this drama to rank as a classic in Russian
literature. It contains moments of forcible eloquence, and those
portions of the play which deal with the populace are undoubtedly the
strongest. Here Poushkin disencumbers himself of all theatrical
conventions, and shows not only accurate knowledge of the national
temperament, but profound observation of human nature as a whole. Such a
subject accorded well with Moussorgsky's genius, which, as we have seen,
was eminently democratic.

Moussorgsky arranged his own text for _Boris Godounov_, retaining
Poushkin's words intact wherever that was practicable, and simplifying,
remodelling, or adding to the original material when necessary. The
result is a series of living-pictures from Russian history, somewhat
disconnected if taken apart from the music, which is the coagulating
element of the work. The welding of these widely contrasting scenes is
effected partially by the use of recurrent leading motives, but chiefly
by a remarkable homogeneity of musical style. Moussorgsky, as may be
proved from his correspondence, was consciously concerned to find
appropriate musical phrases with which to accompany certain ideas in the
course of opera; but he does not use leading motives with the
persistency of Wagner. No person or thing is labelled in _Boris
Godounov_, and we need no thematic guide to thread our way through the
psychological maze of the work. There is one motive that plays several
parts in the music-drama. Where it occurs on page 49 of the pianoforte
score of 1908 (just after Pimen's words to Gregory: "He would now be
your age, and should be Tsar to-day"), it evokes the memory of the
murdered Tsarevich Dmitri; but it also enters very subtly into the
soul-states of the impostor who impersonates him, and those of the
remorseful Boris. There are other characteristic phrases for Boris,
suggesting his tenderness for his children and his ruthless ambition.

The opera opens with a prologue in which the people are gathered in the
courtyard of the many-towered monastery of Novo-Dievichy at Moscow,
whither Boris had withdrawn after the assassination of the Tsarevich.
The crowd moves to and fro in a listless fashion; it hardly knows why it
is there, but hopes vaguely that the election of a new ruler may bring
some amelioration of its sad lot. Meanwhile the astute Boris shows no
unseemly haste to snatch at the fruit of his crime. The simplicity and
economy of means with which Moussorgsky produces precisely the right
musical atmosphere is very striking. The constable enters, and with
threats and blows galvanises the weary and indifferent throng into
supplications addressed to Boris. The secretary of the Duma appears, and
announces that Boris refuses the crown; the crowd renews its entreaties.
When the pilgrims enter, the people wake to real life, pressing around
them, and showing that their enthusiasm is for spiritual rather than for
temporal things. In the second scene, which shows the coronation
procession across the Red Square in the Kremlin, the Song of Praise
(_Slavsia_) is sung with infinitely greater heartiness; for now the Tsar
comes into personal contact with his people. The scenes of the Prologue
and the Coronation move steadily on, just as they would do in real life;
there is scarcely a superfluous bar of musical accompaniment, and the
ordinary operatic conventions being practically non-existent, we are
completely convinced by the realism of the spectacle and the strangely
new, undisciplined character of the music. The truth is forcibly brought
home to us of M. Camille Bellaigue's assertion that every collective
thought, or passion, needs not only words, but music, if we are to
become completely sensible to it.

The text of the opening scene of Act I. is taken almost intact from
Poushkin's drama. Played as it now usually is between the strenuous
animation of the Prologue and the brilliant Coronation Scene, its
pervading atmosphere of dignity and monastic calm affords a welcome
interlude of repose. Moussorgsky handles his ecclesiastical themes with
sure knowledge. In early days Stassov tells us that he learnt from the
chaplain of the Military Academy "the very essence of the old Church
music, Greek and Catholic." The scene in the Inn, where Gregory and the
vagabond monks, Varlaam and Missail, halt on their flight into
Lithuania, is often cut out of the acting version. It contains, however,
two characteristic and popular solos: a lively folk-song for the
Hostess, and a rollicking drinking-song for Varlaam (bass); besides
frequent touches of the rough-hewn, sardonic humour which is a
distinguishing quality of Moussorgsky's genius. The unabashed
"naturalism" of this scene displeased a fashionable Russian audience;
although it was found possible to present it to a London audience which
must have travelled much farther from the homely ribaldry of Elizabethan
days than had the simple-minded "big public" of Russia to whom
Moussorgsky's work was designed to appeal a generation ago.

With the opening of Act II. we feel at once that Moussorgsky is treading
on alien ground. This portion of the opera--for which he was his own
librettist--was added in order that some conventional love interest
might be given to the work. The glamour of romance is a borrowed quality
in Moussorgsky's art; and, in spite of the charm of the scenic
surroundings, and some moments of sincere passion, the weakness of the
music proclaims the fact. He who penetrates so deeply into the
psychology of his own people, finds no better characterisation of the
Polish temperament than the use of the polacca or mazurka rhythms. True,
he may intend by these dance measures to emphasise the boastful vanity
of the Polish nobles and the light, cold nature of Marina Mnishek; but
the method becomes monotonous. Marina's solo takes this form, and again
in the duet by the fountain we are pursued by the eternal mazurka
rhythm.

The second scene of Act II. is packed full of varied interest, and in
every episode Moussorgsky is himself again. The lively dancing-songs for
the young Tsarevich and the Nurse are interrupted by the sudden entry of
Boris. In the scene which follows, where the Tsar forgets for a moment
the cares of State and the sting of conscience, and gives himself
whole-heartedly to his children, there is some exquisitely tender music,
and we begin for the first time to feel profound pity for the usurper.
The Tsarevich's recital of the incident of the parakeet, reproducing
with the utmost accuracy and transparent simplicity the varied
inflections of the child's voice, as he relates his tale without a trace
of self-consciousness, is equal to anything of the kind which
Moussorgsky has achieved in "The Nursery" song cycle. This delightful
interlude of comedy gives place on the entrance of Shouisky to the first
shadows of approaching tragedy. Darker and darker grows the mind of the
Tsar, until the scene ends in an almost intolerable crisis of madness
and despair. From the moment of Boris's terrible monologue the whole
atmosphere of the work becomes vibrant with terror and pity. But
realistic as the treatment may be, it is a realism--like that of
Shakespeare or Webster--that is exalted and vivified by a fervent and
forceful imagination.

In the opening scene of Act III., enacted amid a winter landscape in the
desolate forest of Kromy, Moussorgsky has concentrated all his powers
for the creation of a host of national types who move before our eyes in
a dazzling kaleidoscopic display. They are not attractive these revolted
and revolting peasants, revenging themselves upon the wretched
aristocrat who has fallen into their hands; for Moussorgsky, though he
raises the Folk to the dignity of a protagonist, never idealises it, or
sets it on a pedestal. But our pulses beat with the emotions of this
crowd, and its profound groan of anguish finds an echo in our hearts. It
is a living and terrible force, and beside it all other stage crowds
seem mechanical puppets. In the foreground of this shifting mass is seen
the village idiot, 'God's fool,' teased by the thoughtless children,
half-reverenced, half-pitied, by the men and women. After the False
Demetrius has passed through the forest, drawing the crowd in his wake,
the idiot is left sitting alone in the falling snow. He sings his
heart-breaking ditty: "Night and darkness are at hand. Woe to Russia!"
and the curtain falls to the sound of his bitter, paroxysmal weeping.

The last scene is pregnant with the "horror that awaits on princes." The
climax is built up step by step. After the lurking insanity of Boris,
barely curbed by the presence of the Council; after his interview with
Pimen, who destroys his last furtive hope that the young Tsarevich may
not have been murdered after all; after his access of mental and
physical agony, and his parting with his beloved son--it is with a
feeling of relief that we see death put an end to his unbearable
sufferings.

Although _Khovanstchina_ may in some ways approach more nearly to the
conventional ideal of opera, yet foreigners, I think, will find it more
difficult to understand than _Boris Godounov_. To begin with it lacks
the tragic dominant figure, swayed by such universal passions as
ambition, remorse, and paternal tenderness, which gives a psychological
unity to the earlier work. Here the dramatic interest is more widely
dispersed; it is as though Moussorgsky sought to crowd into this series
of historical pictures as many different types of seventeenth-century
Russia as possible; and these types are peculiarly national. Except that
it breaks through the rigid traditions of Byzantine art, the figures
being full of vitality, _Khovanstchina_ reminds us of those early
_ikons_ belonging to the period when the transport of pictures through
the forests, bogs, and wildernesses of Russia so restricted their
distribution, that the religious painter resorted to the expedient of
representing on one canvas as many saints as could be packed into it.

Stassov originated the idea of utilising the dramatic conflict between
old and new Russia at the close of the seventeenth century as the
subject of a music-drama. It was his intention to bring into relief a
group of representative figures of the period: Dositheus, head of the
sect known as the Rasskolniki, or Old Believers,[40] a man of lofty
character and prophetic insight; Ivan Khovansky, typical of fanatical,
half-oriental and conservative Russia; Galitsin, the westernised
aristocrat, who dreams of a new Russia, reformed on European lines; two
contrasting types of womanhood, both belonging to the Old Believers--the
passionate, mystical Martha, falling and redeeming herself through the
power of love, and Susan, in whom fanaticism has dried up the
well-springs of tenderness and sympathy; the dissolute young Andrew
Khovansky, ardently attracted by the pure, sweet young German girl,
Emma; the egotistical Scrivener, who has his humorous side; the fierce
Streltsy, and the oppressed and suffering populace--"all these
elements," says Stassov, "seemed to suggest characters and situations
which promised to be intensely stirring." It was also part of his
original design to bring upon the scene the young Tsar, Peter the Great,
and the Regent, the Tsarevna Sophia. But much of Stassov's original
scenarium had perforce to be dropped; partly because it would have
resulted in the building up of a work on an unpractically colossal
scale, but also because Moussorgsky's failing health spurred him on to
complete the drama at all costs. Had he lived a few years longer, he
would probably have made of _Khovanstchina_ a far better balanced and a
more polished work.

From the musical point of view there is undoubtedly more symmetry and
restraint in _Khovanstchina_ than in _Boris_. We are often impressed by
the almost classic simplicity of the music. A great deal of the thematic
material is drawn from ecclesiastical sources.

_Khovanstchina_ opens with an orchestral Prelude, descriptive of
daybreak over Moscow, than which nothing in Russian music is more
intensely or touchingly national in feeling. The curtain rises upon the
Red Square in the Kremlin, just as the rising sun catches the domes of
the churches, and the bells ring for early matins. A group of Streltsy
relate the havoc they have worked during the preceding night. The
Scrivener, a quaint type of the period, appears on the scene and is
roughly chaffed. When the Streltsy depart, the Boyard Shaklovity enters
and bribes the Scrivener to write down his denunciation of the
Khovanskys. No sooner is this done, than the elder Khovansky and his
suite arrive, attended by the Streltsy and the populace. In virtue of
his office as Captain of the Old Guard, the arrogant nobleman assumes
the airs of a sovereign, and issues autocratic commands, while the
people, impressed by his grandeur, sing him a song of flattery. When the
crowd has departed the Lutheran girl, Emma, runs in, hotly pursued by
the younger Khovansky. She tries in vain to rid herself of his hateful
attentions. At the climax of this scene, Martha, the young Rasskolnik
whom Prince Andrew has already loved and betrayed, comes silently upon
the stage and saves Emma from his embraces. Martha approaches Andrew,
who tries to stab her; but she parries the blow, and in one of her
ecstatic moods prophesies his ultimate fate. The elder Khovansky and his
followers now return, and the Prince inquires into the cause of the
disturbance. Prince Ivan admires Emma and orders the Streltsy to arrest
her; but Andrew, mad with jealousy, declares she shall not be taken
alive. At this juncture Dositheus enters, rebukes the young man's
violence, and restores peace.

Act II. shows us Prince Galitsin reading a letter from the Tsarevna
Sophia, with whom he has formerly had a love-intrigue. In spite of his
western education Galitsin is superstitious. The scene which follows, in
which Martha, gazing into a bowl of water, as into a crystal, foretells
his downfall and banishment, is one of the most impressive moments in
the work. Galitsin, infuriated by her predictions, orders his servants
to drown Martha on her homeward way. A long scene, devoted to a dispute
between Galitsin and Khovansky, is rather dry. Dositheus again acts as
peacemaker.

Act III. takes place in the quarter of Moscow inhabited by the Streltsy.
Martha, seated near the house of Andrew Khovansky, recalls her passion
for him in a plaintive folk-song. The song closes with one of her
prophetic allusions to the burning of the Old Believers. Susan, the old
fanatic, overhears Martha and reproves her for singing "shameless songs
of love." She threatens to have her brought before the Brethren and
tried as a witch; but Dositheus intervenes and sends Susan away,
terrified at the idea that she is the prey of evil spirits. Night falls,
and the stage is empty. Enter Shaklovity, who sings of the sorrows of
his country in an aria that is one of the most beautiful things in the
music-drama. The next scene is concerned with the Streltsy, who march in
to a drinking song. They encounter their womenfolk, who, unlike the
terrified populace of Moscow, have no hesitation in falling upon them
and giving them a piece of their mind. Undoubtedly the Streltsy were not
ideal in their domestic relations. While they are quarrelling, the
Scrivener comes in breathless, and announces the arrival of foreign
troopers and Peter the Great's bodyguard, "the Petrovtsy." The cause of
Old Russia is lost. Sobered and fearful, the Streltsy put up a prayer to
Heaven, for the religious instinct lurks in every type of the Russian
people, and even these savage creatures turn devout at a moment's
notice.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN AS DOSITHEUS IN "KHOVANSTCHINA"]

In Act IV. the curtain rises upon a hall in Prince Ivan Khovansky's
country house, where he is taking his ease, diverted by the songs of his
serving-maids and the dances of his Persian slaves. Shaklovity appears,
and summons him to attend the Tsarevna's Council. As Khovansky in his
robes of ceremony is crossing the threshold, he is stabbed, and falls
with a great cry. The servants disperse in terror, but Shaklovity
lingers a moment to mock the corpse of his enemy. The scene now changes
to the open space in front of the fantastic church of Vassily Blajeny,
and Galitsin is seen on his way to exile, escorted by a troop of
cavalry. When he has gone by, Dositheus soliloquises on the state of
Russia. Martha comes in and tells him that the foreign mercenaries have
orders to surround the Old Believers in their place of assemblage and
put them all to death. Dositheus declares that they will sooner perish
in self-ignited flames, willing martyrs for their faith. He enjoins
Martha to bring Prince Andrew among them. During the meeting between
Martha and Andrew, the young Prince implores her to bring back Emma, and
learning that the girl is safely married to her lover, he curses
Martha for a witch, and summons his Streltsy to put her to death. In
vain the Prince blows his horn, his only reply is the hollow knelling of
the bell called "Ivan Veliky." Presently the Streltsy enter, carrying
axes and blocks for their own execution. At the last moment a herald
proclaims that Peter has pardoned them, and they may return to their
homes.

In the fifth and last Act the Old Believers are assembled by moonlight
at their hermitage in the woods near Moscow. Dositheus encourages his
followers to remain true to their vows. Martha prays that she may save
Andrew's soul by the power of her love for him. Presently she hears him
singing an old love song which echoes strangely amid all this spiritual
tension. By sheer force of devotion she induces him to mount the pyre
which the Brethren, clothed in their white festal robes, have built up
close at hand. The trumpets of the troopers are heard drawing nearer,
and Martha sets a light to the pyre. The Old Believers sing a solemn
chant until they are overpowered by the flames. When the soldiers appear
upon the scene, they fall back in horror before this spectacle of
self-immolation; while the trumpets ring out arrogantly, as though
proclaiming the passing of the old faith and ideals and the dawning of a
new day for Russia.

"My first introduction to the works of Moussorgsky came through Vladimir
Stassov. Together we went through the earlier edition of _Boris
Godounov_ (1875), and _Khovanstchina_, already issued with
Rimsky-Korsakov's revisions. 'There is more vitality in Moussorgsky than
in any of our contemporary composers,' Stassov would declare to me in my
first moments of doubtful enthusiasm. 'These operas will go further
afield than the rest, and you will see their day, when I shall no longer
be here to follow their fortunes in Western Europe.' How surely his
predictions regarding this, and other questions, were destined to be
fulfilled is a fact borne in upon me every year that I live and work in
the world of music. Later on he gave me the new edition of _Boris_
(1896), edited by the composer's life-long friend, who was in some
degree his teacher--Rimsky-Korsakov. Theoretically, Stassov was fully
opposed to these editorial proceedings; for, while admitting
Moussorgsky's technical limitations, and his tendency to be slovenly in
workmanship, he thought it might be better for the world to see this
original and inspired composer with all his faults ruthlessly exposed to
view, than clothed and in his right mind with the assistance of
Rimsky-Korsakov. Stassov's attitude to Moussorgsky reminds me of the
Russian vagabond who said to Mr. Stephen Graham: 'Love us while we are
dirty, for when we are clean all the world will love us.' We who loved
Moussorgsky's music in spite of all its apparent dishevelment may not
unnaturally resent Rimsky-Korsakov's conscientious grooming of it. But
when it actually came to the question of producing the operas, even
Stassov, I am sure, realised the need for practical revisions, without
which Moussorgsky's original scores, with all their potential greatness,
ran considerable risk of becoming mere archæological curiosities. In
1908 Bessel published a later edition of _Boris_, restoring the scenes
cut out of the version of 1896. This is the edition now generally used;
the first one, on which I was educated, having become somewhat of a
rarity."[41]

At the present moment it is impossible to write of Moussorgsky's operas
without touching on this vexed question of Rimsky-Korsakov's right to
improve upon the original drafts of his friend's works, since it is
daily agitating the musical press of Russia and Paris.

Throughout his whole life, it was Rimsky-Korsakov's lot to occupy at
frequent intervals the most delicate, difficult and thankless position
which can well be thrust upon a man, when, time after time, he was asked
to complete works left unfinished in consequence of the illness,
untimely death, or incompetence of their authors. That he attacked this
altruistic work in a self-sacrificing and perfectly honest spirit cannot
for a moment be doubted by anyone who knew him personally. But his
temperament was not pliable, and as time went on and his æsthetic
theories became more set, it grew increasingly difficult for him to see
a work in any light but that of his own clearly illumined orderly
vision. The following conversation between himself and V.
Yastrebtsiev--if it contains no note of exaggeration--shows the
uncompromising view which he took of his editorial duties. In 1895 he
had expressed his intention of writing a purely critical article on "the
merits and demerits of _Boris Godounov_." But a year later he changed
his mind, because he said: "a new revised pianoforte score and a new
orchestral score will be a more eloquent testimony to future generations
of my views on this work, not only as a whole, but as regards the
details of every bar; the more so, because in this transcription of the
opera for orchestra, personality is not concerned, and I am only doing
that which Moussorgsky himself ought to have done, but which he did not
understand how to carry out, simply because of his lack of technique as
a composer. I maintain that in my intention to reharmonise and
re-orchestrate this great opera of Moussorgsky there is certainly
nothing for which I can be blamed; in any case I impute no sin to
myself. And now," he concluded, "when I have finished my revisions of
_Boris_ and _Sadko_ it will be necessary to go through the entire score
of Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_ (which was orchestrated by me), and
should I find anything in the instrumentation which seems to me not good
(and I think I shall find much) I will correct it, in order that in the
future none will be able to reproach me with carelessness as regards the
works of others. Only when I have revised the whole of Moussorgsky's
works shall I begin to be at peace and feel that my conscience is clear;
for then I shall have done all that can and ought to be done for his
compositions and his memory."[42]

Rimsky-Korsakov was a noble and devoted friend, but he was before all
things a craftsman of the highest excellence. When it came to a question
of what he believed to be an offence against art, he saved his friend's
musical soul at the expense of his individuality. We have therefore to
weigh his close personal knowledge of Moussorgsky's aims and technical
incapacity against the uncompromising musical rectitude which guided his
editorial pen. When the question arises whether we are to hear
Moussorgsky according to Rimsky-Korsakov, or according to
Diaghilev-Ravel-Stravinsky, for my own part, having grown accustomed to
the versions of Rimsky-Korsakov--which still leave in the operas so much
of Moussorgsky's essential genius that they have not hitherto failed in
their profound psychological impression--I feel considerable doubt as to
the wisdom of flying from them to evils that we know not of. For, after
all, Rimsky-Korsakov was no purblind pedant, but a gifted musician with
an immense experience of what was feasible on the operatic stage and of
all that could militate against the success of a work.




CHAPTER XI

BORODIN AND CUI


With Borodin we return to a position midway between the original type of
national lyric opera which Glinka inaugurated in _A Life for the Tsar_
and the dramatic realism of Moussorgsky.

Alexander Porphyrievich Borodin, born at St. Petersburg in 1834, was the
illegitimate son of a Prince of Imeretia, one of the fairest of the
Georgian provinces which the Russian General Todleben rescued from
Turkish occupation in 1770. The reigning princes of Imeretia boasted
that they were direct descendants of King David the Psalmist, and
quartered the harp and sling in their arms. Borodin's education was
chiefly confided to his mother. As a boy, his capacities were evenly
balanced between music and science, but, having to make his living, he
decided in favour of the latter and became a distinguished professor of
chemistry at the College of Medicine in St. Petersburg. As regards
music, he remained until his twenty-eighth year merely an intelligent
amateur. He played the piano, the violoncello and the flute, all with
some facility; he wrote a few songs and enjoyed taking part in
Mendelssohn's chamber music. It is clear that until he met Balakirev in
1862 there was never any serious conflict between duty and inclination.
Borodin was a man of sane and optimistic temperament which disposed him
to be satisfied with the career he had chosen, in which he seemed
destined for unusual success. Unlike Tchaikovsky, who felt himself an
alien among the bureaucrats and minor officials with whom he was
associated in the Ministry of Justice, Borodin was genuinely interested
in his work. But no one with a spark of artistic enthusiasm could pass
under Balakirev's influence and be the same man as before. Within a
short time of their first meeting, the story of Cui and Moussorgsky was
repeated in Borodin. All his leisure was henceforth consecrated to the
serious study of music. Harmony and musical analysis he worked up under
Balakirev; and all his contemporaries agree in asserting that
counterpoint came to him by intuition. His early marriage to a woman of
considerable talent as a musician was an important factor in his
artistic development.

Borodin's youth had been spent chiefly in cities; consequently he did
not start life with that intimate knowledge of the folk-music which
Balakirev and Moussorgsky had acquired. But his perception was so quick
and subtle, that no sooner had his attention been called to the national
element in music than he began to use it with mastery. This is already
noticeable in his first Symphony, in E flat major. This work is not free
from the faults of inexperience, but it displays all the potential
qualities of Borodin's talent--poetical impulse, a fine taste, an
originality which is not forced, and a degree of technical facility that
is astonishing, when we realise that music was merely the occupation of
his rare leisure hours.

Stassov saw in Borodin the making of a true national poet, and
encouraged his secret ambition to compose an epic opera. He first took
up the subject of Mey's drama "The Tsar's Bride;" but his progress was
so frequently interrupted that his interest flagged. It needed a subject
of unusual attraction to keep him faithful amid many professional
preoccupations to such a long and difficult task. But in 1869 Stassov
believed he had found an ideal source from which to draw the libretto of
a great national opera, and sketched out a rough plot which he persuaded
Borodin to consider. It is not easy to convey to those who have not
studied the early Slavonic literature any just and clear idea of the
national significance of "The Epic of the Army of Igor." The original
manuscript of this Rhapsody or Saga was bought from a monk by Count
Moussin-Poushkin as late as 1795, and published by him in 1800.
Unfortunately the original document was among the many treasures which
perished in the burning of Moscow in 1812. Its authenticity has since
been the cause of innumerable disputes. Many scholars, including the
late Professor of Slavonic languages at Oxford, Mr. W. R. Morfill, have
been disposed to regard it as one of those many ingenious frauds--like
the Poems of Ossian--which were almost a feature of literary history in
the eighteenth century. Others affirm that all the Russian poets of the
eighteenth century put together had not sufficient imagination to have
produced a single line of "The Epic of Igor." In any case, it so far
surpasses in interest most of the mediæval Slavonic chronicles that it
has taken a strong hold on the popular imagination, and the majority
prefer to believe in its genuine origin in spite of differences of
opinion among the learned. In order to give some idea of its
significance and interest, perhaps I may compare it--in certain
respects--with the Arthurian Legends. The period is of course much
later--the close of the twelfth century.

The book of _Prince Igor_, planned by Stassov and written by Borodin,
runs as follows:

The Prologue takes place in the market-place of Poultivle, the residence
of Igor, Prince of Seversk. The Prince and his army are about to start
in pursuit of the Polovtsy, an Oriental tribe of Tatar origin. Igor
wishes to meet his enemies in the plains of the Don, whither they have
been driven by a rival Russian prince, Sviatoslav of Kiev. An eclipse of
the sun darkens the heavens, and at this fatal passage the people
implore Igor to postpone his expedition. But the Prince is resolute. He
departs with his youthful son Vladimir Igorievich, commending his wife
Yaroslavna to the care of his brother-in-law, Prince Galitsky, who
remains to govern Poultivle, in the absence of its lord. The first scene
depicts the treachery and misrule of this dissolute nobleman, who tries
to win over the populace with the assistance of two deserters from
Igor's army. Eroshka and Skoula are players on the _goudok_, or rebeck,
types of the gleemen, or minnesingers, of that period. They are the
comic villains of the opera. In the second scene of Act I. some young
girls complain to the Princess Yaroslavna of the abduction of one of
their companions, and implore her protection from Prince Galitsky.
Yaroslavna discovers the perfidy of her brother, and after a violent
scene drives him from her presence, at the very moment when a messenger
arrives with the news that Igor's army has been defeated on the banks of
the Kayala. "At the third dawn," says the rhapsody, "the Russian
standards fell before the foe, for no blood was left to shed." Igor and
Vladimir are taken prisoners and the Polovsty are marching on Poultivle.
The news of this heroic disaster causes a reaction of loyal sentiment,
and, as the curtain falls, the Boyards draw their swords and swear to
defend Yaroslavna to the death.

The second and third acts take place in the enemy's camp, and are full
of Oriental colour. Khan Konchak, as depicted in the opera, is a noble
type of Eastern warrior. He has one beautiful daughter, Konchakovna,
with whom the young Prince Vladimir falls passionately in love. The
serenade which he sings before her tent is perhaps the most fascinating
number in the whole work. There is also a fine bass solo for Prince
Igor, in which he gives vent to the grief and shame he suffers in
captivity. Ovlour, one of the Polovetz soldiers, who is a Christian
convert, offers to facilitate Igor's escape. But the Prince feels bound
by the chivalrous conduct of Khan Konchak to refuse his offer. In the
second act the Khan gives a banquet in honour of his noble captive,
which serves as a pretext for the introduction of Oriental dances,
choruses, and gorgeous scenic effects.

In the third act the conquering army of the Polovsty return to camp,
bringing the prisoners and spoils taken from Poultivle. At this sight,
Igor, filled with pity for the sorrows of his wife and people, consents
to flee. While the soldiers are dividing the spoil from Poultivle,
Ovlour plies them liberally with koumiss and, after a wild orgy, the
whole camp falls into a drunken sleep. Borodin has been severely
censured by certain critics for the robust realism with which he has
treated this scene. When the Khan's daughter discovers their secret
preparations for flight, she entreats Vladimir not to forsake her. He is
on the point of yielding, when his father sternly recalls him to a sense
of duty. But Konchakovna's glowing Oriental passion is not to be
baulked. At the last moment, when Ovlour gives the signal for escape,
she flings herself upon her lover, and holds him back until Igor has
mounted and galloped out of the camp, unconscious that his son is left
behind. Detained against his will, Vladimir finds no great difficulty in
accommodating himself to circumstances. The soldiers would like to kill
him in revenge for his father's escape. But the Khan philosophically
remarks: "Since the old falcon has taken flight, we must chain the young
falcon by giving him a mate. He must be my daughter's husband." In the
fourth Act Yaroslavna sings her touching lament, as she stands on the
terrace of her ruined palace and gazes over the fertile plains, now
ravaged by the hostile army. Even while she bemoans the cruelty of
fate, two horsemen come in sight. They prove to be Igor and the
faithful Ovlour, returned in safety from their perilous ride. The joy of
reunion between husband and wife may be perhaps a trifle
over-emphasised. It is the man who speaks here, rather than the artist;
for Borodin, who lived in perfect domestic happiness with his wife,
knew, however, many long and enforced separations from her. The picture
of conjugal felicity which he gives us in _Igor_ is undoubtedly
reflected from his own life.

The opera closes with a touch of humour. Igor and Yaroslavna enter the
Kremlin at Poultivle at the same moment as the two deserters Eroshka and
Skoula. The precious pair are shaking in their shoes, for if Igor
catches sight of them they are lost. To get out of their difficulty they
set the bells a-ringing and pretend to be the first bearers of the glad
tidings of Igor's escape. Probably because they are merry ruffians and
skilful with their _goudoks_, no one reveals their treachery and they
get off scot-free.

When we consider that _Prince Igor_ was written piecemeal, in intervals
snatched between medical commissions, boards of examination, lectures,
and laboratory work, we marvel to find it so astonishingly cohesive, so
delightfully fresh. Borodin describes the difficulties he had to contend
with in a letter to an intimate friend. "In winter," he says, "I can
only compose when I am too unwell to give my lectures. So my friends,
reversing the usual custom, never say to me, 'I hope you are well' but
'I do hope you are ill.' At Christmas I had influenza, so I stayed at
home and wrote the Thanksgiving Chorus in the last act of _Igor_."

Borodin took his work very seriously, as we might expect from a
scientist. He had access to every document bearing on the period of his
opera, and he received from Hunfalvi, the celebrated traveller, a number
of melodies collected among the tribes of Central Asia which he employed
in the music allotted to the Polovtsy. But there is nothing of
meticulous pedantry apparent in Borodin's work. He has drawn a vivid
picture of the past, a worthy pendant to the historical paintings of his
contemporary Vasnietsov, who has reconstructed mediæval Russia with such
astonishing force and realism. Borodin modelled his opera upon Glinka's
_Russlan and Liudmilla_ rather than on Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_.
He had his own personal creed as regards operatic form. "Recitative does
not conform to my temperament," he says, "although according to some
critics I do not handle it badly. I am far more attracted to melody and
cantilena. I am more and more drawn to definite and concrete forms. In
opera, as in decorative art, minutiæ are out of place. Bold outlines
only are necessary. All should be clear and fit for practical
performance from the vocal and instrumental standpoints. The voices
should take the first place; the orchestra the second."

_Prince Igor_, in its finished form, is a compromise between the new and
the old methods; for the declamation, although not of such primary
importance as with Dargomijsky, is more developed than with Glinka.
Borodin keeps to the accepted divisions of Italian opera, and gives to
Igor a long aria quite in the traditional style. The music of _Prince
Igor_ has some features in common with Glinka's _Russlan_, in which the
Oriental element is also made to contrast with the national Russian
colouring. But the Eastern music in Borodin's opera is more daring and
characteristic. Comparing the two operas, Cheshikin says: "The epic
beauty of _Prince Igor_ reminds us of the serene poetry of Goncharov, of
the so-called 'poetry of daily life'; while Glinka may be more suitably
compared to Poushkin. Borodin's calm, cheerful, objective attitude
towards the national life is manifested in the general style of the
opera; in the wonderfully serene character of its melody; in the
orchestral colour, in the transparency of the harmony, and the lightness
and agility of the counterpoint. In spite of his reputation as an
innovator, Borodin has introduced nothing startlingly new into this
opera; his orchestral style is still that of Glinka.... The poetry of
common things exercised such a fascination for Borodin that he
completely forgot the heroic tendencies of Glinka. His folk, as
represented by him amid an epidemic of alcoholism, and the hard-worked,
ubiquitous _goudok_ players, Eroshka and Skoula, throw into the shade
the leading characters whose musical outlines are somewhat sketchy and
impermanent. Borodin's Igor recalls Glinka's Russlan; Yaroslavna is not
a very distinguished personality; Galitsky is not far removed from
Eroshka and Skoula; and Konchakovna and Vladimir are ordinary operatic
lovers. The chief beauty of Glinka's _Russlan_ lies in the solo parts
and in a few concerted numbers. On the other hand, the principal hero of
Borodin's opera is 'the folk'; while its chief beauty is to be found in
the choruses based on Russian and Tatar folk-song themes. What affects
us chiefly in the music may be traced to that normal optimism with which
the whole work is impregnated." Borodin, it should be added, had far
more humour than Glinka, who could never have created two such broadly
and robustly comic types as Skoula and Eroshka. There is a distinctly
Shakespearian flavour in the quality of Borodin's humour. In this
respect he approaches Moussorgsky.

In the atmosphere of healthy, popular optimism which pervades it
throughout; in the prevalence of major over minor keys; in the
straightforwardness of its emotional appeal--_Prince Igor_ stands almost
alone among Russian operas. The spirit of pessimism which darkens
Russian literature inevitably crept into the national opera; because
music and literature are more closely associated in Russia than in any
other country. Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_ is a tragedy of loyal
self-sacrifice; Tchaikovsky took his brooding melancholy into his
operatic works, which are nearly all built on some sad or tragic
libretto; Cui deals in romantic melodrama; Moussorgsky depicts the
darkest phases in Russian history. _Prince Igor_ comes as a serene and
restful interlude after the stress and horror which characterise many
Russian national operas. Nor is it actually less national because of its
optimistic character. There are two sides to the Russian temperament;
the one overshadowed by melancholy and mysticism; prone to merciless
analysis; seeing only the contradictions and vanities of life, the
mortality and emptiness of all that is. I doubt if this is the true
Russian temperament; if it is not rather a morbid condition, the result
of sudden and copious doses of culture, administered too hastily to a
people just emerging from a semi-barbaric state--the kind of result
that follows alcohol taken on an empty stomach; a quick elation, an
equally speedy reaction to extreme depression. The other side of the
Russian character is really more normal. It shows itself in the popular
literature. The folk-songs and _bylini_ are not all given up to
resentful bitterness and despair. We find this healthier spirit in the
masses, where it takes the form of a desire for practical knowledge, a
shrewdness in making a bargain and a co-operative spirit that properly
guided would accomplish wonders. It shows itself, too, in a great
capacity for work which belongs to the vigorous youth of the nation and
in a cheerful resignation to inevitable hardships. Borodin was attracted
by temperament to this saner aspect of national character.

The most distinctive feature of Russian art and literature is the power
to reflect clearly, as in a glass, various phases of popular life. This
has also been the aim of the Russian composers, with few exceptions.
They cheerfully accepted the limitations imposed by the national vision,
and have won appreciation abroad by the sheer force of genius manifested
in their works. They resolutely sought the kingdom of the Ideal, and
would have been greatly surprised to find such things as universal fame
added to them. Borodin, for example, cherished no illusions as to
winning the approval of Berlin or Paris for his work. _Prince Igor_, he
said, with admirable philosophy, "is essentially an opera for the
Russians. It would never bear transplantation." For many years, however,
it could not even be said to be "a work for the Russians" in the fullest
sense, because it was not offered to the right public. Works like
_Prince Igor_ and _Boris Godounov_, which should have been mounted at a
People's Palace in St. Petersburg, for the enjoyment of a large and
really popular audience, were laid aside for many years awaiting the
patriotic enterprise of rich men like Mamantov, who occasionally gave a
series of Russian operas at their own expense, or the generous impulse
of artists such as Melnikov and Shaliapin, who were willing to risk the
production of a national masterpiece on their benefit nights.

César Cui offers in most respects a complete contrast to the composer of
_Prince Igor_. It is true that he shares with Borodin the lyrical,
rather than the declamatory, tendency in operatic music, but whereas the
latter is a follower of Glinka in his close adherence to the national
style, we find in the music of César Cui a strong blend of foreign
influences. As in Tchaikovsky's dramatic works we discern from first to
last some traces of his earliest love in music--the Italian opera--so in
Cui's compositions we never entirely lose sight of his French descent.
Cui's position as a composer must strike us as paradoxical. The first
disciple to join Balakirev, and always a staunch supporter of the new
Russian school, we might naturally expect to find some strong,
progressive, and national tendency in his music. We might suppose that
he would assume the virtue of nationality even if he had it not. But
this is not the case. The French element, combined, curiously enough,
with Schumann's influence, is everywhere predominant. Nevertheless, Cui
has been a distinct force in the evolution of modern Russian music, for
to him is generally attributed the origin of that "second generation" of
composers with whom inspiration ranks after the cult of form, and "the
idea" becomes subordinate to elaborate treatment. This tendency is also
represented by Glazounov in his early work, and still more strongly by
Liadov and one or two composers for the pianoforte.

Cui was born at Vilna, in Poland, in 1835. His father had served in
Napoleon's army, and was left behind during the retreat from Moscow in
1812. He afterwards married a Lithuanian lady and settled down as
teacher of French in the Vilna High School. Here Cui received his early
education. He showed a precocious musical talent and, besides learning
the pianoforte, picked up some theoretical knowledge from Moniuszko;
but he never--as is sometimes stated--received regular instruction from
the Polish composer. Except for what he owed in later life to
Balakirev's guidance, Cui is actually that _rara avis_, a self-taught
composer.

From the time he entered the School of Military Engineering in 1850,
until he passed out with honours in 1857, Cui had no time to devote to
his favourite pursuit. On obtaining officer's rank he was appointed
sub-Professor of Fortification, and lecturer on the same subject at the
Staff College and School of Artillery. Among his pupils he reckoned the
present Emperor, Nicholas II. Cui has now risen to be a Lieut.-General
of Engineers and President of the I. R. M. S. At first his military
appointments barely sufficed to keep him, and when he married--early in
life--he and his wife were obliged to add to their income by keeping a
preparatory school for boys intended eventually for the School of
Engineering. Here Cui taught all day, when not lecturing in the military
schools; while his nights were largely devoted to the study of harmony,
and afterwards to composition and musical criticism. Very few of the
Russian composers, with their dual occupations to fulfil, have known the
luxury of an eight hours' day.

Cui first met Balakirev in 1856, and was introduced by him to
Dargomijsky. His earliest operatic attempt, a work in one act entitled
_The Mandarin's Son_, was a very slight composition in the style of
Auber. An opera composed about the same time (1858-1859) on Poushkin's
dramatic poem _The Captive in the Caucasus_ was a much more ambitious
effort. Many years later--in 1881--Cui considered this work worth
remodelling, and he also interpolated a second act. The patch is rather
obvious, but _The Captive in the Caucasus_ is an interesting work to
study, because it reveals very clearly the difference between Cui's
earlier and later styles. Cui's reputation as an operatic composer
actually began, however, with the performance of _William Ratcliff_,
produced at the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, in February 1869,
under the direction of Napravnik, on the occasion of Mme. Leonova's
benefit. A composer who is also a critic is certainly at a disadvantage
in many respects. Cui, who contributed during the 'sixties a whole
series of brilliant--and often mercilessly satirical--articles to the
Russian press,[43] gave his adversaries an excellent opportunity to
attack him for inconsistency when _Ratcliff_ made its appearance. Cui's
literary precepts do undoubtedly move somewhat in advance of his
practice as a composer, and _Ratcliff_ conforms in very few respects to
the creed of the new Russian school as formulated by him in his
well-known articles "La Musique en Russie." That is to say, instead of
following the example of Dargomijsky in _The Stone Guest_, Cui to a
great extent replaces free-recitative by arioso; while at the same time
the absence of such broad and flowing melody as we find in the operas of
Glinka, Borodin, and Tchaikovsky places _William Ratcliff_ in a position
midway between declamatory and lyric opera. Some of the hostile
criticisms showered upon this work are not altogether unjust. The
subject of Heine's early tragedy, the outcome of his "Sturm und Drang"
period, is undoubtedly crude and sensational; even in Plestcheiev's fine
translation it was hardly likely to be acceptable to a nation who was
beginning to base its dramatic traditions on the realistic plays of
Gogol and Ostrovsky, rather than upon the romanticism of Schiller's
"Robbers," and kindred dramas. The music is lacking in realistic power
and certainly makes no pretensions to fulfil Dargomijsky's dictum that
"the note must represent the word." Although the action of _William
Ratcliff_ takes place across the border, neither the sentiment nor the
colour of the music would satisfy a Scottish composer. But Cui's critics
show a lack of perception when they neglect to praise the grace and
tenderness which characterise his heroine Mary, and the sincerity and
warmth of emotion which occasionally kindles and glows into passion as
in the love-duet between William and Mary in the last act.

The public verdict which began by echoing that of the critics, with the
inimical Serov at their head, afterwards became more favourable, and
_William Ratcliff_, when produced in 1900 by the Private Opera Company
in Moscow, was received with considerable enthusiasm.

Tchaikovsky, writing of this opera in 1879, says: "It contains charming
things, but unfortunately it suffers from a certain insipidity, and from
over-elaboration in the development of the parts. It is obvious that the
composer has spent a long time over each individual bar, and lovingly
completed it in every detail, with the result that his musical outline
has lost its freedom and every touch is too deliberate. By nature Cui is
more drawn towards light and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the
demands of 'the invincible band,' which he has joined, compel him to do
violence to his natural gifts and to follow those paths of would-be
original harmony which do not suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of
age and has only composed two operas and two or three dozen songs. He
was engaged for ten years upon his opera _Ratcliff_. It is evident that
the work was composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style."
This criticism contains a germ of carefully observed truth. The score of
_William Ratcliff_, which looks deceptively simple and seems to be
packed with dance rhythms in the style of Auber (Leslie's song in Act
II. for instance might be a chansonette from "Fra Diavolo"), shows on
closer examination rather a tiresome succession of harmonic surprise
tricks, intended perhaps to draw attention from themes which have not in
themselves an impressive dramatic quality. At the same time, only
prejudice could ignore the true poetry and passion expressed in the love
scenes between William and Mary.

_William Ratcliff_ was followed by a series of admirable songs which
indicated that Cui's talent as a vocal composer was rapidly maturing. A
new opera, in four acts, entitled _Angelo_,[44] was completed and
performed in St. Petersburg in February 1876, under the direction of
Napravnik, the occasion being the benefit of the great baritone
Melnikov. The book of _Angelo_ is based upon a play of Victor Hugo--a
tale of passionate love; of rivalry between two beautiful and
contrasting types of womanhood; of plotted revenge, and final atonement,
when Tisbe saves the life of her rival at the expense of her own. The
scene is laid in Padua during the middle of the sixteenth century. This
work is generally regarded as the fruit of Cui's maturity. The subject
is more suited to his temperament than Heine's "Ratcliff," and lends
itself to the frequent employment of a chorus. Here Cui has been very
successful, especially in the lighter choruses written in Italian dance
rhythms, such as the tarantella "The moon rides in the clear bright
sky," in the third act, and the graceful valse-like chorus "Far o'er the
sea." The love duet between Catarina and Rodolfo is preferred by many to
the great love duet in _Ratcliff_. Cui, whose heroines are more
convincing than his male types, has found congenial material in Catarina
and Tisbe, who have been described as "Woman in Society and Woman
outside it"; thus combining in two typical personalities "all women and
all womanhood." There is power, too, in the purely dramatic moments, as
when Ascanio addresses the populace. The opera concludes with a fine
elegiac chorus, in which the character of the period and
locality--mediæval Italy, tragic and intense--is not unsuccessfully
reflected.

In _Angela_ Cui made a supreme effort to achieve breadth of style and to
break through the limitations he had imposed upon himself by adopting
the methods and peculiarities of such composers as Schumann and Chopin.
But this effort seems to have been followed by a speedy reaction. After
the appearance of _Angelo_ his manner becomes more distinctly finical
and artificial. His military duties and his literary work made
increasing demands on his time, and the flow of inspiration dropped
below its highest level. Songs and miniatures for pianoforte were now
his chief preoccupation, and, greater undertakings being perhaps out of
the question, he became absorbed in the cult of small and finished
forms, and fell increasingly under the influence of Schumann. It was at
this time that he wrote the additional act for _The Captive in the
Caucasus_, to which reference has already been made. Here the contrast
between the simplicity and sincerity of his first style, and the formal
polish and "preciousness" of his middle period, is very pronounced. The
use of local colour in _The Captive in the Caucasus_ is not very
convincing. Cui is no adept in the employment of Oriental themes, and
the Caucasus has never been to him the source of romantic inspiration it
has proved to so many other Russian poets and composers.

Another four-act opera _The Saracen_, the subject taken from a play by
the elder Dumas entitled "Charles VII. chez ses grands Vasseaux," was
first performed at the Maryinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg in 1899, and
revived by the Private Opera Company at Moscow in 1902. The subject is
gloomy and highly dramatic, with sensational elements almost as lurid as
anything in _William Ratcliff_. The interest of the opera fluctuates
between the love of the King for Agnes Sorel--two figures which stand
out in relief from the dark historical background of that period, when
Jeanne d'Arc was fighting the battles of her weak and indolent
sovereign--and the domestic affairs of the saturnine Count Saverny and
his wife Bérangère; complicated by the inner drama which is carried on
in the soul of the Saracen slave Jakoub, who is in love with the
Countess, and finally murders her husband at her instigation. As usual,
Cui is most successful in the purely lyrical numbers--the love scenes
between the King and Agnes Sorel. Here the music, almost effeminately
tender, has that touching and sensuous quality which caused a celebrated
French critic to write of Cui as "the Bellini of the North." The
"berceuse," sung, strangely enough, by the harsh Count de Saverny as he
keeps watch over the King's son on the threshold of his bed-chamber, is
a strikingly original number which should be better known in the
concert-room.

_Le Flibustier_, composed between 1888-1889, was dedicated to that
distinguished amateur the Countess Mercy-Argenteau, whose influence
counted for so much in Cui's later musical development. This work,
written to a French libretto from a play by Jean Richepin, was
originally produced at the Opéra Comique, Paris, in 1894. It is
described as a "_Comédie lyrique en trois actes_." It is frankly French
in style and contains some graceful and effective music, but lacks the
natural emotion and ardour which in _Ratcliff_ and _Angelo_ atone for
some limitations of expression and for the lack of unity of style.

An opera in one act, _Mam'selle Fifi_, based upon Guy de Maupassant's
well-known tale of the Franco-Prussian war, was produced by the Private
Opera Company at the Hermitage Theatre in the autumn of 1903. The work
was well received by the public. The scene is laid in a chateau near
Rouen which is occupied by a detachment of Prussians and their
commanding officers. Bored by their life of inaction, the officers
induce some young women from Rouen to come and amuse them. They
entertain them at dinner, and sub-lieutenant von Eirich (nicknamed
Mam'selle Fifi) pays attention to the patriotic Rachel; but while at
table he irritates her to such a degree by his insulting remarks and
vulgar jokes that she seizes a knife and stabs him mortally in the
throat. Afterwards she makes her escape. Kashkin says: "The music of
this opera flows on smoothly in concise declamatory scenes, only
interrupted from time to time by the chorus of officers, and the
light-hearted songs of Amanda. Rachel's aria introduces a more tragic
note. The music is so closely welded to the libretto that it appears to
be an essential part of it, clothing with vitality and realism scenes
which would otherwise be merely the dry bones of opera."

While I was in Russia in the spring of 1901, Cui played to me a
"dramatic scene," or one-act opera, entitled _A Feast in Time of
Plague_. It proved to be a setting of a curious poem by Poushkin which
he pretended to have translated from Wilson's "City of the Plague."
Walsingham, a young English nobleman, dares to indulge in "impious
orgies" during the visitation of the Great Plague. The songs of the
revellers are interrupted at intervals by a funeral march, as the
dead-cart goes its round to collect its victims. Cui has set Poushkin's
poem word for word, consequently this little work is more closely
modelled upon Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_ than any other of his
operas. When I heard the work, I was under the impression that it was
intended only as a dramatic cantata, but it was afterwards produced as
an opera at the New Theatre, Moscow, in the autumn of 1901. The song
sung by Walsingham's mistress, Mary ("Time was"), which is Scotch in
character, has considerable pathetic charm, and struck me as the most
spontaneous number in the work, which, on the whole, seems an effort to
fit music not essentially tragic in character to a subject of the
gloomiest nature.

In summing up Cui's position as a composer, I must return to my
assertion that it is paradoxical. First, we may conclude from the
preponderance of operatic music and songs that Cui is more gifted as a
vocal than as an instrumental composer; that, in fact, he needs a text
to bring out his powers of psychological analysis. But when we come to
examine his music, the methods--and even the mannerisms--of such
instrumental composers as Chopin and Schumann are reflected in all
directions. A style obviously founded on Schumann will necessarily lack
the qualities which we are accustomed to regard as essential to a great
operatic style. Cui has not the luminous breadth and powerful flow of
simple and effective melody which we find in the older type of opera;
nor the pre-eminent skill in declamation which is indispensable to the
newer forms of music-drama. His continuous use of arioso becomes
monotonous and ineffective, because, with him, the clear edges of melody
and recitative seem perpetually blurred. This arises partly from the
fact that Cui's melody, though delicate and refined, is not strongly
individual. He is not a plagiarist in the worst sense of the word, but
the influences which a stronger composer would have cast off at maturity
seem to obtain a stronger hold on him as time goes on. His talent
reminds me of those complex recipes for pot-pourri which we find in the
day-books of our great-grandmothers. It is compounded of many more or
less delightful ingredients: French predilections, Schumannesque
mannerisms, some essence distilled from the grace and passion of Chopin,
a dash of Russian sincerity--a number of fragrant and insidious aromas,
in which the original element of individuality is smothered in the rose
leaves and lavender winnowed from other people's gardens. Then there is
a second perplexing consideration which follows the study of Cui's
music. Possessed of this fragrant, but not robust, talent, Cui elects to
apply it to themes of the ultra-romantic type with all their grisly
accompaniments of moonlit heaths, blood-stained daggers, vows of
vengeance, poison-cups, and the rest. It is as though a Herrick were
posing as a John Webster. Surely in these curious discrepancies between
the artist's temperament and his choice of subject and methods of
treatment we find the reason why of all Cui's operas not one has taken a
permanent hold on the public taste in Russia or abroad. And this in
spite of their lyrical charm and graceful workmanship.

Cui is now the sole remaining member of "the invincible band" who
originally gathered round Balakirev for the purpose of founding a
national school of music. He is now in his eightieth year, but still
composes and keeps up his interest in the Russian musical world. Within
the last three years he has published a four-act opera on the subject of
Poushkin's tale, "The Captain's Daughter."[45]




CHAPTER XII

RIMSKY-KORSAKOV


A contemporary critic has pointed to Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky as
having, between them, built up Russian music to its present proud
condition, "constructing their majestic edifice upon the everlasting
foundation laid by Glinka." Making some allowance for grandiloquence of
language, this observation is particularly true as applied to
Rimsky-Korsakov, for not only was he consistently true to the national
ideal in all his works, but during his long activity as a teacher he
trained a whole group of distinguished musicians--Liadov, Arensky,
Ippolitov-Ivanov Grechyaninov, Tcherepnin, Stravinsky--who have all
added their stones to the building up of this temple of Russian art. At
the same time, we must regard Rimsky-Korsakov as the last of those
national composers who chose to build with exclusively local materials
and in purely Russian style. The younger generation are shaping their
materials under more varied influences. Rimsky-Korsakov, therefore,
stands out in the history of Russian opera as one of the most
distinguished and distinctively racial composers of that circle to whom
we owe the inauguration of the national school of music in Russia.

The subject of this chapter was born in the little village of Tikvin, in
the government of Novgorod, on March 6th, 1844, and, until he was twelve
years old, he continued to live on his father's estate, among the lakes
and forests of northern Russia, where music was interwoven with every
action of rustic life. His gifts were precocious; between six and seven
he began to play the pianoforte, and made some attempts at composition
before he was nine. It was almost a matter of tradition that the men of
the Korsakov family should enter the navy; consequently in 1856,
Nicholas Andreivich was sent to the Naval College at St. Petersburg,
where he remained for six years. Not without difficulty he managed to
continue his pianoforte lessons on Sundays and holidays with the
excellent teacher Kanillé. The actual starting point of his musical
career, however, was his introduction to Balakirev and his circle. From
this congenial companionship Rimsky-Korsakov was abruptly severed in
1863, when he was ordered to sea in the cruiser "Almaz." The ship was
absent on foreign service for three years, during which she practically
made the round of the world. While on this voyage Rimsky-Korsakov wrote
and revised a Symphony, Op. 1 in E Minor, and surely never was an
orchestral work composed under stranger or less propitious conditions.
Balakirev performed this work at one of the concerts of the Free School
of Music in the winter of 1866. It was the first symphony ever composed
by a Russian, and the music, though not strong, is agreeable; but like
many other early _opus_ numbers it bears evidence of strong external
influences.

In the chapters dealing with Balakirev and his circle I have given a
picture of the social and artistic conditions in St. Petersburg to which
the young sailor returned in the autumn of 1865. In common with other
members of this school, Rimsky-Korsakov's musical development at this
time was carried on as it were _à rebours_, Schumann, Berlioz, Liszt and
Glinka being his early ideals and models. During the years of his
pupilage with Balakirev, he composed, besides his first symphony, the
Symphonic Picture "Sadko," a Fantasia on Servian Themes, the Symphony
with an Oriental programme entitled "Antar," and the opera _The Maid of
Pskov_, now usually given abroad under the title of _Ivan the Terrible_.
In his "Chronicle of my Musical Life" Rimsky-Korsakov shows clearly that
after passing through a phase of blind idolatry for Balakirev and his
methods, he began, largely by reason of his orderly, industrious, and
scrupulously conscientious nature, to feel the need of a more academic
course of training. He realised the defects in his theoretical education
most keenly when, in 1871, Asanchievsky, who had just succeeded Zaremba
as Director of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, offered him a post as
professor of practical composition and also the direction of the
orchestral class. Urged by his friends, and prompted by a certain
self-assurance which he asserts was born of his ignorance,
Rimsky-Korsakov accepted the post, being permitted at the same time to
remain in the naval service. Although he had composed "Sadko," "Antar,"
and other attractive and well-sounding compositions, he had worked, so
far, more or less intuitively and had not been grounded in the
particular subjects which form the curriculum of a musical academy.
Probably it mattered much less than his scrupulous rectitude prompted
him to suppose, that he felt unfit to lecture upon _rondo_-form, and had
his work as a conductor yet to learn. The main thing was that he brought
a fresh, breezy, and wholly Russian current of thought into the stuffy
atmosphere of pedantic classicism which must have been engendered under
Zaremba's directorate.[46] Indeed, according to his own modest account,
things seem to have gone well with the orchestral and instrumentation
classes. From this time, however, began that strong reaction in favour
of classicism and "the schools," upon which his progressive friends
looked with dismay; to them his studies appeared merely the cult of
musical archæology--a retrogressive step to be deeply deplored. On the
other hand Tchaikovsky hailed it as a sign of grace and repentance.
"Rimsky-Korsakov," writes the composer of the "Pathetic" symphony to N.
von Meck, in 1877, "is the one exception (in the matter of conceit and
stiff-necked pride) to the rest of the new Russian school. He was
overcome by despair when he realised how many profitable years he had
lost and that he was following a road which led nowhere. He began to
study with such zeal that during one summer he achieved innumerable
exercises in counterpoint and sixty-four fugues, ten of which he sent me
for inspection." Rimsky-Korsakov may have felt himself braced and
strengthened by this severe course of musical theory; it may have been
a relief to his extremely sensitive artistic conscience to feel that
henceforward he could rely as much on experience as on intuition; but
his remorse for the past--supposing him ever to have felt the sting of
such keen regret--never translated itself into the apostasy of his
earlier principles. After the sixty-four fugues and the exhaustive study
of Bach's works, he continued to walk with Berlioz and Liszt in what
Zaremba would have regarded as the way of sinners, because in his
opinion it coincided with the highway of musical progress, as well as
with his natural inclinations. He knew the forms demanded by his
peculiar temperament. Genius, and even superior talent, almost
invariably possess this intuition. No one should have known better than
Tchaikovsky that in spite of well-intentioned efforts to push a composer
a little to the right or the left, the question of form remains--and
will always remain--self-selective. Rimsky-Korsakov, after, as before,
his initiation into classicism, chose the one path open to the honest
artist--musician, painter, or poet--the way of individuality.

In 1873 Rimsky-Korsakov, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke
Constantine, was appointed Inspector of Naval Bands, in which capacity
he had great opportunities for practical experiments in
instrumentation. At this time, he tells us, he went deeply into the
study of acoustics and the construction and special qualities of the
instruments of the orchestra. This appointment practically ended his
career as an officer on the active list, at which he must have felt
considerable relief, for with all his "ideal conscientiousness" it is
doubtful whether he would ever have made a great seaman. The following
letter, written to Cui during his first cruise on the "Almaz," reveals
nothing of the cheery optimism of a true "sea-dog"; but it does reveal
the germ of "Sadko" and of much finely descriptive work in his later
music. "What a thing to be thankful for is the naval profession," he
writes; "how glorious, how agreeable, how elevating! Picture yourself
sailing across the North Sea. The sky is grey, murky, and colourless;
the wind screeches through the rigging; the ship pitches so that you can
hardly keep your legs; you are constantly besprinkled with spray, and
sometimes washed from head to foot by a wave; you feel chilly, and
rather sick. Oh, a sailor's life is really jolly!"

But if his profession did not benefit greatly by his services, his art
certainly gained something from his profession. It is this actual
contact with nature, choral in moments of stress and violence, as well
as in her milder rhythmic moods, that we hear in "Sadko" the orchestral
fantasia, and in _Sadko_ the opera. We feel the weight of the wind
against our bodies and the sting of the brine on our faces. We are left
buffeted and breathless by the elemental fury of the storm when the Sea
King dances with almost savage vigour to the sound of Sadko's _gusslee_,
or by the vehement realism of the shipwreck in "Scheherezade."

Of his early orchestral works, "Sadko" displays the national Russian
element, while the second symphony, "Antar," shows his leaning towards
Oriental colour. These compositions prove the tendency of his musical
temperament, but they do not show the more delicate phases of his work.
They are large and effective canvases and display extraordinary vigour
and much poetical sentiment. But the colour, although laid on with
science, is certainly applied with a palette knife. We must go to his
operas and songs to discover what this artist can do in the way of
discriminating and exquisite brush-work. In speaking of Korsakov's work,
it seems natural to drop into the language of the studio, for, to me, he
always appears as a descriptive poet, or still more as a landscape
painter who has elected music for his medium. Gifted with a brilliant
imagination, yet seeing with a realist's vision, he is far more
attracted to what is capable of definite expression than towards
abstract thought. Lyrical he is; but more in the sense of Wordsworth
than of Shelley. With a nature to which the objective world makes so
strong an appeal, impassioned self-revelation is not a primary and
urgent necessity. In this respect he is the antithesis of Tchaikovsky.
The characteristic vein of realism which we have found in all our
Russian composers, and most strongly marked in Moussorgsky, exists also
in Korsakov; but in his case it is controlled by an almost fastidious
taste, and a love of beautiful details which sometimes stifle the
fundamental idea of his work. From these preliminary remarks you will
have formed for yourselves some idea as to the spirit in which this
composer would approach the sphere of dramatic music.

He came to it first by way of Russian history. The _Maid of Pskov_
("Pskovityanka"[47]) was completed in 1872, and performed in St.
Petersburg in January, 1873. The cast was a remarkably good one: Ivan
the Terrible--Petrov; Michael Toucha--Orlov; Prince Tokmakov--Melnikov;
Olga--Platonova; Vlassievna--Leonova. Napravnik was the conductor.
Opinions as to its success vary greatly, but the early fate of the work
does not seem to have been happy, partly because, as Stassov says, the
public, accustomed only to Italian opera, were incapable of appreciating
this attempt at serious historical music-drama, and partly because the
opera suffered severely at the hands of the critics and the Censor.

In _The Maid of Pskov_ ("Ivan the Terrible") Rimsky-Korsakov started
under the influence of Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_, to the theory of
which all the new Russian school at first subscribed. Afterwards
Rimsky-Korsakov, like Tchaikovsky, alternated between lyrical and
declamatory opera and occasionally effected a union of the two styles.
In _The Maid of Pskov_ the solo parts consisted at first chiefly of
mezzo-recitative of a somewhat dry quality, relieved by great variety of
orchestral colour in the accompaniments. The choruses, on the other
hand, were very national in style and full of melody and movement. The
work underwent many revisions before it appeared in its present form. In
1877 the composer added the Overture to the Prologue and the Entr'actes.
At this time he was assisting to edit the "monumental" edition of
Glinka's operas which the master's sister Liudmilla Shestakov was
bringing out at her own expense. "This occupation," says
Rimsky-Korsakov, "proved to be an unexpected schooling, and enabled me
to penetrate into every detail of Glinka's structural style." The first
revision of _The Maid of Pskov_ and the editing of _A Life for the
Tsar_ and _Russlan_ were carried on simultaneously. Therefore it is not
surprising that Rimsky-Korsakov set himself to polish and tone down many
youthful crudities which appeared in the original score of his own
opera. Cui, Moussorgsky and Stassov, although at first they approved his
resolution to revise the work, showed some disappointment at the
results; while the composer's wife deeply regretted its first form. It
was evident to all that what the work had gained in structure and
technical treatment it had lost in freshness and lightness of touch. In
1878 the composer offered it once more, in this revised edition, to
Baron Kistner, Director of the Imperial Opera, but without success. The
work was laid aside until 1894, when it was again re-modelled and
revived by the initiative of an amateur society at the Panaevsky
Theatre, St. Petersburg, in April 1895. In this version it was mounted
at the Imperial Opera House, Moscow, when Shaliapin appeared in the part
of Ivan the Terrible. On this occasion the opera was preceded by the
Prologue _Boyarinya Vera Sheloga_, composed in 1899. Its reception was
extremely enthusiastic, and in the autumn of 1903--thirty years after
its first performance--it was restored to the repertory of the St.
Petersburg Opera.

The subject of _The Maid of Pskov_ is taken from one of Mey's dramas,
dealing with an episode from the history of the sixteenth century when
Ivan the Terrible, jealous of the enterprise and independence of the
twin cities of Pskov and Novgorod, resolved to humble their pride and
curtail their power. Novgorod fell; but the awful doom of Pskov was
mitigated by the Tsar's discovery that Olga, who passes for the daughter
of Prince Tokmakov, the chief magistrate of the city, was in reality his
own natural child, the daughter of Vera Sheloga whom he had loved in
youth, and for whose memory the tyrant could still feel some spark of
affection and some pangs of remorse. One of the finest moments in the
opera is the summoning of the _Vêche_, or popular assembly, in the
second act. The great city of mediæval Russia, with all it contained of
characteristic energy, of almost Elizabethan vigour and enterprise, is
set before us in this musical picture. The stress and anger of the
populace; the fine declamatory monologue for Prince Tokmakov; the song
sung by Michael Toucha, Olga's lover, who leads the rebellious spirits
of Pskov; the impressive knell of the tocsin calling the citizens to
attend the _Vêche_--all unite to form a dramatic scene worthy to compare
with the finale of Glinka's _Russlan and Liudmilla_, or with the
_Slavsia_ (the chorus of acclamation) which makes the Kremlin ring in _A
Life for the Tsar_. Russians, as everyone knows who has lived in their
country, have a passion for bells, and often reproduce their effects in
their music: witness the orchestral prelude "Dawn Breaking over Moscow"
in Moussorgsky's _Khovanstchina_ and the familiar Overture "1812" by
Tchaikovsky. The bell effects in _The Maid of Pskov_ are extraordinarily
moving. Recalling, as it does, traditions of political liberty and free
speech, this bell--so I have been told--appeared in the eyes of the
Censor the most objectionable and revolutionary character in the whole
opera. The scenes in which the old nurse Vlassievna takes part--a
_Nianka_ is so much a part of domestic life in Russia that no play or
opera seems complete without one--are full of quiet humour and
tenderness. The love-music for Michael and Olga is graceful rather than
passionate, more warmth and tenderness being shown in the relations
between the young girl and the Tsar, for whom she has an instinctive
filial feeling. Psychologically the later scenes in the opera, in which
we see the relentless and superstitious heart of Ivan gradually
softening under the influence of paternal love, interest and touch us
most deeply. In 1899 Rimsky-Korsakov added, at Shaliapin's request, the
aria now sung by the Tsar in his tent, in the last act. This number
reveals much of Ivan's strange and complex nature; in it he is
alternately the despot, the remorseful lover, and the weary old man
aching for a daughter's tenderness. Cheshikin points out the remarkable
effect which the composer produces at the end of this solo, where the
key fluctuates between B flat major and G minor, with the final cadence
in D major, giving a sense of weakness and irresolution appropriate to
Ivan's weariness of body and soul. The final scene in the opera, in
which the death of Olga snatches from the wretched Tsar his last hope of
redemption through human love, has but one fault: that of almost
unendurable poignancy.

With the accession of Alexander III. in 1881 began a more encouraging
period for Russian composers. The Emperor showed a distinct predilection
for native opera, and particularly for the works of Tchaikovsky. A
series of musical events, such as the raising of the Glinka monument at
Smolensk by national subscription (1885), Rubinstein's jubilee (1889),
the publication of Serov's critical works, and the public funeral
accorded to Tchaikovsky (1893), all had his approval and support, and in
some instances were carried out entirely at his own expense. Henceforth
the repertory of Russian music-dramas was not permitted to languish, and
after the death of Tchaikovsky, the Directorate of the Opera Houses
seems to have turned to Rimsky-Korsakov in the expectation of at least
one novelty in each season. Consequently his achievement in this sphere
of music far exceeds that of his immediate predecessors and
contemporaries, amounting in all to thirteen operatic works. Of this
number, none can be said to have been really a failure, and only one has
dropped completely out of the repertory of the two capitals and the
provinces, although some are undoubtedly more popular than others. To
speak in detail of all these works would require a volume devoted to the
subject. I propose, therefore, to give a brief account of the greater
number, devoting a little more space to those which seem most likely
ever to be given in this country.

The two operas which follow in 1879 and 1880, while possessing many
features in common with each other, differ wholly in character from _The
Maid of Pskov_. In _A Night in May_ and _The Snow Maiden_
("Sniegourochka") the dramatic realism of historical opera gives place
to lyrical inspiration and the free flight of fancy. _A Night in May_ is
taken from one of Gogol's Malo-Russian tales. _The Snow Maiden: a Legend
of Springtide_ is founded upon a national epic by the dramatist
Ostrovsky. Both operas offer that combination of legendary, picturesque
and humorous elements which always exercised an attraction for
Rimsky-Korsakov's musical temperament. In both works he shows that he
has attained to a supreme mastery of orchestration, and the
accompaniments in every instance go far to atone for his chief
weakness--a certain dryness of melodic invention, except where the style
of the melody coincides with that of the folk tune. _A Night in May_
reveals the composer as a humorist of delicate and fantastic quality.
Rimsky-Korsakov's humour is entirely native and individual, having
nothing akin to the broad, saturnine, biting wit of Moussorgsky, nor to
the vigorous humour of Borodin's comic villains Eroshka and Skoula, in
_Prince Igor_. Rimsky-Korsakov can be sprightly, fanciful, and arch; his
humour is more often expressed by witty orchestral comments upon the
text than by the melodies themselves.

The first performance of _A Night in May_ took place at the Maryinsky
Theatre, St. Petersburg, in January 1880, but it was soon withdrawn from
the repertory and only revived in 1894, at the Imperial Mikhaïlovsky
Theatre. In 1896 it was given at the Folk Theatre, in Prague; and
produced for the first time in Moscow in 1898. Besides being more
lyrical and melodious in character than _The Maid of Pskov_, this opera
shows evidences of Rimsky-Korsakov's intervening studies in the
contrapuntal treatment of the choruses and concerted numbers. The scene
of _A Night in May_, as in several of Gogol's tales, is laid near the
village of Dikanka in Little Russia. Levko (tenor), the son of the
Golova or Headman of the hamlet, is in love with Hanna (mezzo-soprano),
but his father will not give consent to the marriage, because he admires
the girl himself. In the first act Levko is discovered serenading Hanna
in the twilight. Presently she emerges from her cottage and they sing a
love duet. Then Hanna asks Levko to tell her the legend of the old
deserted manor house that stands beside the mere. He appears reluctant,
but finally relates how once a Pan (a Polish gentleman) dwelt there with
the Pannochka, his fair daughter. He was a widower, and married again,
but his second wife proved to be a witch who caused him to turn his
daughter out of the house. The girl in despair drowned herself in the
mere and became a Roussalka. She haunted the lake at night, and at last,
catching her stepmother perilously near the edge of the water, she lured
her down into its depths. Levko tells his sweetheart that the present
owner wants to erect a distillery on the site of the mansion and has
already sent a distiller there. The lovers then say good-bye and Hanna
re-enters her cottage. Next follows an episode in which the village
drunkard Kalenik (baritone) tries to dance the _Gopak_ while the village
girls sing a chorus of mockery. When the stage is empty the Headman
(bass) appears and sings a song to Hanna in which, while he implores
her to listen to his love, he tells her that she ought to be very proud
to have him for a suitor. Hanna, however, will have nothing to say to
him. Levko, who has overheard this scene and wishes to teach his father
the lesson "of leaving other people's sweethearts alone," points him out
to some woodcutters on their way home from work and encourages them to
seize him and hold him up to ridicule. The Headman, however, pushes them
aside and makes his escape. The act ends with a song for Levko and the
chorus of woodcutters.

In the second act the curtain rises on the interior of the Headman's
hut, where, with his sister-in-law and the Distiller, he is discussing
the fate of the old manor house. Levko and the woodcutters are heard
singing their impertinent song outside the house. The Headman, beside
himself with rage, rushes out and catches one of the singers, who is
dressed in a sheepskin coat turned inside out. Now follows a farcical
scene of tumult; the singer escapes, and the Headman, by mistake, shuts
up his sister-in-law in a closet. There is a general hue and cry after
the culprit and the wrong people are continually being arrested,
including the village drunkard Kalenik. In the last act Levko is
discovered singing a serenade to the accompaniment of the Little-Russian
_bandoura_ before the haunted manor house by the mere. Apparently the
wraith of the Pannochka appears at one of the windows. Then the
Roussalki are seen on the edge of the lake, where they sit weaving
chaplets of water-plants. At the request of the Pannochka-Roussalka,
Levko leads the choral dances with his _bandoura_. Afterwards the
Pannochka rewards him by giving him a letter in which she orders the
Headman not to oppose Levko's marriage with Hanna. When the dawn breaks,
the Headman, accompanied by the Scrivener, the Desyatsky (a kind of
village superintendent) and others, arrive upon the scene, still in
search of the culprit, who proves to be his own son. Levko gives the
letter to his father, who feels obliged to consent to the young people's
marriage. Hanna with her girl friends now come upon the scene and the
opera ends with a chorus of congratulations to the bride and bridegroom.

Perhaps the most graceful of all Rimsky-Korsakov's early operas is _The
Snow Maiden_, in the music of which he has reflected the indelible
impressions of a childhood spent amid sylvan surroundings. There is
something of the same vernal impulsion in pages of _The Snow Maiden_ of
which we are conscious in Wagner's Forest Murmurs. What a profound loss
to the poetry of a nation is the disappearance of its forests! It is not
only the rivers which grow drier and poorer for the ruthless wielding
of the axe. None of Korsakov's operas show a greater profusion of little
lyrical gems than this one, which embodies the Slavonic legend of the
spring. The Snow Maiden is the daughter of jolly King Frost and the
Fairy Spring. She is brought up by her parents in the solitary wintry
woods, because envious Summer has foretold her death when the first ray
of sunlight and love shall touch her icy beauty. But the child is
attracted by the songs of the shepherd Lel, whom she has seen sporting
with the village girls in the meadows. She longs to lead a mortal's
life, and her parents unwillingly consent, and confide her to a worthy
peasant couple who promise to treat her as a daughter. The Fairy Spring
bids her child to seek her should she be in trouble--"you will find me
by the lake-side in the valley and I will grant your request whatever it
may be" are the parting words of her mother. Then the Snow Maiden begins
her sad mortal existence. She admires the gay shepherd, who does not
respond to her fancy. Mizgyr, a young Tatar merchant, falls madly in
love with her, and for her sake deserts his promised bride Kupava. The
passionate Kupava appears at the Court of the king of Berendei and
demands justice. The fickle lover makes but one defence: "O, Tsar," he
says, "if you could but see the Snow Maiden." At this juncture she
appears, and the King, beholding her beauty, cannot believe that she is
heartless. He promises her hand and rich rewards to any one of his young
courtiers who can woo and win her before the next sunrise. In a
wonderful forest scene we are shown the arcadian revels of the people of
Berendei. Lel makes love to the deserted Kupava; while Mizgyr pursues
the Snow Maiden with his passionate addresses. The wood-spirits
interfere on her behalf and Mizgyr gets lost in the forest. The Snow
Maiden sees Lel and Kupava wandering together under the trees and
endeavours to separate them, but in vain. In her trouble she remembers
her mother and seeks her by the lake-side. The Fairy Spring appears, and
moved by her daughter's entreaties, she accords her the power to love
like a mortal. When the Snow Maiden sees Mizgyr again she loses her
heart to him, and speaks of the new, sweet power of love which she feels
stirring within her. But even as she speaks, a ray of sunlight pierces
the clouds, and, falling on the young girl, melts her body and soul into
the rising spring waters. Mizgyr, in despair, kills himself, and the
opera closes with a song of thanksgiving to the Midsummer Sun.

The poetical death-scene of the Snow Maiden; Kupava's passionate love
song and her incantation to the bees; the pastoral songs of the
shepherd Lel; the folk-song choruses; sometimes with accompaniments for
the _gusslee_; the fairy scene in the forest and the return of the birds
with the flight of winter--these things cannot fail to charm those who
have not altogether outgrown the glamour of the world's youth with its
belief in the personification of natural forces. This opera is truly
national, although it deals with legendary rather than historical
events. This, however, as M. Camille Bellaigue points out, does not mean
that its nationality is superficial or limited. Speaking of the
wonderful scene in the palace of the King of Berendei, where he is seen
sitting on his throne surrounded by a company of blind bards singing
solemn airs to the accompaniment of their primitive harps, the French
critic says: "Such a chorus as this has nothing in common with the
official chorus of the courtiers in old-fashioned opera. In the
amplitude and originality of the melody, in the vigour of the arpeggio
accompaniment, in the exotic savour of the cadence and the tonality, we
divine something which belongs not merely to the unknown but to
infinitude.... But there is something which the music of Rimsky-Korsakov
expresses with still greater force and charm, with an originality which
is at once both stronger and sweeter, and that is the natural landscape,
the forms and colours, the very face of Russia itself. In this respect
the music is something more than national, it is to a certain extent
native, like the soil and sky of the country."[48]

In 1889 Rimsky-Korsakov began a fourth opera, the history of which is
connected with the co-operative tendency that distinguished the national
school of musicians. The composition of collective works was, I believe,
one of Balakirev's early ideals; the Paraphrases, a set of clever
variations on a childish theme, dedicated to Liszt by Borodin, Cui,
Liadov and Rimsky-Korsakov, and the Quartet in honour of Balaiev are
examples of this spirit of combination. In 1872 Gedeonov, then Director
of the Opera, proposed that Borodin, Moussorgsky, Cui and
Rimsky-Korsakov should each undertake one act of a ballet-opera for a
plot of his own providing, entitled _Mlada_. The music was written, but
lack of funds prevented the enterprise from being carried out, and each
composer utilised the material left on his hands in his own way.
Rimsky-Korsakov incorporated his share with the fantastic scenes of _A
Night in May_. In 1889, however, he took up the subject once more and
_Mlada_ was completed by the autumn of the same year. Produced at the
Maryinsky Theatre in October 1892, it failed to win the success it
undoubtedly deserved. In the opera the part of Prince Mstivoy was taken
by Stravinsky, and that of the Czech minstrel, Liumir, by Dolina. In the
ballet, the Shade of Mlada was represented by the famous _ballerina_
Petipa, and the Shade of Cleopatra by Skorsiouka. The subject is taken
from the history of the Baltic Slavs in the ninth century; but although
in this work he returns to an historical episode, the composer does not
go back to the declamatory style of _The Maid of Pskov_. Cheshikin
considers that _Mlada_ is highly effective from the theatrical point of
view. Moreover, the old Slavonic character of the music is cleverly
maintained throughout, the ordinary minor scale being replaced by the
"natural minor" (the Æolian Mode). The scenes representing the ancient
Pagan customs of the Slavs are highly picturesque and, except on the
grounds of its expensive setting, it is difficult to understand why this
work should have passed out of the repertory of the Russian opera.

The most distinctly humorous of all Rimsky-Korsakov's operas is the
_Christmas Eve Revels_, a subject also treated by Tchaikovsky under the
title of _Cherevichek_ and re-published as _Le Caprice d'Oxane_. The
composer, as we have seen, rarely went outside his own land for literary
material. But even within this circle of national subjects there exist
many shades of thought and sentiment. Gogol's characters differ widely
from those portrayed in such a legend as "Sadko." The Malo-Russian and
Cossack population are more vivacious, and also more dreamy and
sentimental, than the Great Russians. In fact the difference between the
inhabitants of the Ukraine and those of the government of Novgorod is as
great as that between a southern Irishman and a Yorkshireman, and lies
much in the same directions.

The _Christmas Eve Revels_ opens with an orchestral introduction, "The
Holy Night," descriptive of the serene beauty of the night upon which
the Christ Child came into the world to put all the powers of darkness
under his feet. It is based upon two calm and solemn themes, the first
rather mystical in character, the second of child-like transparency. But
with the rising of the curtain comes an entire change of sentiment, and
we are immediately brought into an atmosphere of peculiarly national
humour. This sudden change from the mystical to the grotesque recalls
the Russian miracle plays of the Middle Ages. The moon and stars are
shining on a Little-Russian village; the hut of Choub the Cossack
occupies the central position. Out of the chimney of one of the huts
emerges the witch-woman Solokha, riding upon a broomstick. She sings a
very old "Kolyadka," or Christmas song. Now the Devil appears upon the
scene to enjoy the beauty of the night. These shady characters confide
their grievances to each other. Solokha has a weakness for the Cossack
Choub, but her son Vakoula the Smith is making love to Choub's beautiful
daughter Oxana, and this is a great hindrance to her own plans, so she
wishes to put an end to the courtship if possible. To-night Choub is
going to supper with the Sacristan and Vakoula is sure to take that
opportunity of visiting his sweetheart, who is, however, deaf to all his
entreaties. The Devil has his own grudge against Vakoula, because he has
drawn a caricature of his satanic majesty upon the wall of the village
church. The Devil and the Witch decide to help each other. They steal
the moon and stars and fly off, leaving the village plunged in darkness.
Ridiculous complications occur. Choub and the Sacristan go out, but
wander round in a circle, and after a time find themselves back at the
Cossack's hut, where Vakoula is making love to Oxana. In the darkness
Vakoula mistakes Choub for a rival lover and drives him out of his own
courtyard. Matters are set right by the return of the moon and stars,
who have managed to escape from the Devil and his companion.

[Illustration: RIMSKY-KORSAKOV

_From a portrait by Repin_]

In the end Oxana declares she will only accept Vakoula on condition that
he presents her with a pair of the Empress's shoes. The Smith departs
upon this unpromising errand. Thanks to his Cossack friends he finds his
way into the palace. During the festivities of the evening, the Cossacks
are called upon to perform their national dances in order to amuse the
Court. The Empress, in high good humour, is informed of Vakoula's quest,
and good-naturedly gives him her shoes. He returns in triumph to his
native village and marries his capricious beauty.

Although Rimsky-Korsakov had apparently abandoned the original operatic
theories of the new school, Dargomijsky's methods must still have
exercised some attraction for him, for in 1897 he set Poushkin's
dramatic duologue _Mozart and Salieri_ without making the least change
in the text, and dedicated it to the memory of the composer of _The
Stone Guest_. Its production by the Private Opera Company at Moscow, in
1898, was memorable for a wonderful interpretation by Shaliapin of the
part of Salieri. Mozart (tenor) was sung by Shkafer, the conductor being
Esposito. The same artists sang in the work when it was given in St.
Petersburg in the following year. In _Mozart and Salieri_, which is not
called an opera but merely a dramatic scene, we have melodic recitative
without any relapse into cantilena. The declamation of the two musical
heroes is relieved and embellished by apt comments heard in the
accompaniments. For instance, when Salieri speaks of a "simple scale," a
scale is heard in the orchestra; when he mentions an organ, a pedal
point is introduced into the accompaniment. This sounds extremely naïve,
but in reality this miniature music-drama is remarkably clever as
regards craftsmanship and musical repartee. The style of the work is
completely in keeping with the period--the eighteenth century--and
excellent imitations of Mozart's style occur when the master sits down
to the piano and plays two tiny movements, _allegretto semplice_ and
_grave_.

Rimsky-Korsakov wrote one more work in a similar style to _Mozart and
Salieri_, the Dramatic Prologue in one act _Boyarinya Vera Sheloga_,
which was really intended to precede _The Maid of Pskov_ and elucidate
the history of Olga, the heroine of that opera. The little work was
first performed in this way by the Private Opera Company at Moscow in
1898. It tells in fuller detail the story of the two sisters Vera and
Nadejda Nassonov, to which Prince Tokmakov refers in his conversation
with Matouta in the first act of _The Maid of Pskov_, and introduces the
Boyard Ivan Sheloga and Vlassievna, the faithful nurse of the orphaned
Olga. The work contains a charming lullaby sung by Vera to her little
daughter. This number is published apart from the Prologue and has
become extremely popular with amateur singers.

_Sadko, A Legendary Opera_ (Opera-bylina), in seven tableaux, composed
between 1895-1896, is a compromise between lyrical and declamatory opera
so skilfully effected that this work has come to be regarded as the
perfect fruit of Rimsky-Korsakov's maturity, and the most complete
exposition of his artistic creed. The work was produced by the Private
Opera Company at Moscow in December, 1897, and introduced to St.
Petersburg by the same company in the following year.

Sekar-Rojansky, a young tenor possessed of a beautiful fresh voice,
created the title rôle. The work was received with extraordinary
enthusiasm, and shortly afterwards the Directorate of the Imperial
Operas, who had at first refused to consider it, took up the opera and
staged it with great magnificence. A. M. Vaznietsov, brother of the
artist who painted the frescoes of the cathedral of Kiev, was sent to
Old Novgorod and other parts of northern Russia to make sketches for the
scenery. The archæological details and the landscapes on the margin of
Lake Ilmen were faithfully reproduced. The first performance took place
at the Maryinsky Theatre in January, 1901, under Napravnik's direction;
on this occasion Davidov impersonated the hero.

At the outset of his career, Rimsky-Korsakov was attracted by this
legend of the eleventh century belonging to the Cycle of Novgorod. Sadko
is a poor but adventurous minstrel, often referred to in the folk-songs
as "the nightingale of Novgorod." He does not win his renown by
chivalrous actions and prowess in the field, like Ilya Mouramets and the
heroes of the Cycle of Kiev. The Novgorodians were an energetic but
commercial race. Sadko, driven to desperation by poverty, lays a wager
against the rich merchants of Novgorod that he will catch gold-fish in
Lake Ilmen. The merchants stake their goods, the minstrel all he has--a
far more valuable asset--"his dare-devil head," as the legends say. How
Sadko charms the Sea King by his singing and playing upon the _gusslee_,
how he secures the gold-fish and, with them, all the wealth of Novgorod,
is told in the ballad of Nejata, the young minstrel. After a while Sadko
grows restless in spite of his good fortune. He sets sail with his fleet
of merchant vessels in search of fresh adventures. The ships are
overtaken by a tempest, and it becomes necessary to propitiate the wrath
of the Sea King. Lots are cast, and the unlucky one invariably falls to
Sadko. It is characteristic of the astute merchant-hero that he cheats
in every possible way in order to avert his doom! Finally, he is cast
overboard and drifts away upon a plank, clinging to his cherished
_gusslee_: a pagan Jonah; a Slavonic Arion. His adventures at the bottom
of the seas; the Sea King's welcome to his virtuoso-guest; his efforts
to marry Sadko to one of his daughters; the procession of these
beautiful sea-maidens--some three hundred in number--demanding of Sadko
a judgment far more difficult and delicate than anything Paris was
called upon to pronounce; the cleverness with which Sadko extricates
himself from the difficult situation, by selecting the only plain lady
of the party, so that there is no risk of permanently falling in love
with her and forgetting his wife in Novgorod; the wild glee of the Sea
King at the playing of the famous minstrel, and his dance, which
imperils the earth and can only be stopped by the shattering of the
precious _gusslee_; Sadko's return to his faithful and anxious wife--all
these incidents are set forth in the opera with a Wagnerian luxury of
stage accessories and scenic effects.

As regards structure, _Sadko_ combines--as I have said--the lyrical and
declamatory elements. It is pre-eminently a national opera in which the
composer has conveyed a truthful picture of the customs and sentiments
of an archaic period. In _Sadko_ we find many melodies completely modal
in character. The Sea Queen's slumber song in the seventh scene is
Dorian, Sadko's aria in the fifth scene is Phrygian, and so on. The
song of Nejata has an accompaniment for harps and pianino which gives
the effect of the _gusslee_.

Besides the national element, Rimsky-Korsakov introduces characteristic
songs of other countries. In the scene in which Sadko generously
restores to the merchants the goods won from them in his wager, keeping
only a fleet of merchant vessels for himself, he requests some of the
foreign traders to sing the songs of their distant lands. The Varangian
guest sings a song in a brisk, energetic rhythm, quite Scandinavian in
character; the Venetian complies with a graceful barcarolle, while the
Indian merchant charms the audience with an Oriental melody of rare
beauty. The musical interest of _Sadko_ is in fact very great.

If there is any truth in the suggestion that Rimsky-Korsakov composed
_Mozart and Salieri_ and dedicated it to Dargomijsky as a kind of
recantation of certain Wagnerian methods, such as a limited use of
_leitmotifs_ to which he had had recourse in _Sadko_, then his return to
the purely lyrical style in his ninth opera, _The Tsar's Bride_
(_Tsarsky Nievesta_), may equally have been a kind of apology to the
memory of Glinka. But it seems far more probable that he worked
independently of all such ideas and suited the musical style to the
subject of the opera. _The Tsar's Bride_, in three acts, was produced by
the Private Opera Company at Moscow in 1899, Ippolitov-Ivanov being the
conductor. From Moscow it travelled first to the provinces, and reached
St. Petersburg in the spring of 1900. As it is perhaps the most popular
of all Rimsky-Korsakov's operas, and one that is likely to find its way
abroad, it is advisable to give some account of the plot. It is based on
one of Mey's dramas, the subject of which had temporarily attracted
Borodin some twenty years earlier. The Oprichnik Gryaznoy falls madly in
love with Martha, the beautiful daughter of a merchant of Novgorod named
Sobakin; but she is betrothed to the Boyard Lykov. Gryaznoy vows she
shall never marry another, and procures from Bomely, court-physician to
Ivan the Terrible, a magic potion which is to help his cause. His former
mistress Lioubasha overhears the conversation between the Oprichnik and
Bomely. She makes a desperate effort to win Gryaznoy back to her, but in
vain. In the second act the people are coming away from vespers and
talking about the Tsar's choice of a bride. Martha, with two companions,
comes out of the church. While she is standing alone, two men emerge
from the shadow of the houses, one of whom is Ivan the Terrible in
disguise. He gazes intently at Martha and then goes his way, leaving
her vaguely terrified. Meanwhile Lioubasha has been watching Martha from
a window. Then she in her turn goes to Bomely and asks him for some
potion that will injure her rival. He replies that he will give her what
she requires, but the price of it will be a kiss from her lips.
Reluctantly she consents. In the third act, Lykov and Gryaznoy are
seated at table with the merchant Sobakin, who has just informed them
that the wedding of Lykov and Martha must be postponed. Lykov asks
Gryaznoy what he would do in his place if by any chance the Tsar's
choice should fall upon Martha. The Oprichnik gives an evasive answer.
Meanwhile, in one of the cups of mead poured out by the host, he drops
his magic potion, and when Martha joins them at table he offers it to
her to drink. Suddenly the maidservant rushes in with the news that a
deputation of boyards has arrived, and a moment later Maliouta enters to
announce that the Tsar has chosen Martha to be his bride. In the final
scene, which takes place in an apartment in the Tsar's palace, Sobakin
is seen bewailing his daughter's illness. Gryaznoy enters with an order
from Ivan to inquire after her health. The Oprichnik believes that her
illness is caused by the potion he administered. Presently Maliouta with
the rest of the Oprichniki come upon the scene. Gryaznoy informs Martha
that her former suitor Lykov, having confessed to the fiendish design of
poisoning her, has been executed by order of the Tsar. Martha gives a
cry and becomes unconscious. When she comes to herself her mind is
affected, and she mistakes Gryaznoy for her lover Lykov, calling him
"Ivan" and speaking caressingly to him. Gryaznoy now sees that his plot
for getting rid of Lykov has been a failure. Touched by Martha's madness
he is prepared to give himself up to Maliouta for judgment; but the
latter gives him an opportunity of inquiring into the deception played
upon him by Bomely. Lioubasha now comes forward and confesses that she
changed the potion. Gryaznoy stabs her and then imploring Martha's
forgiveness, quits the scene, while the poor mad girl, still mistaking
him for her lost lover, cries after him "Come back to-morrow, my Ivan."

The music of _The Tsar's Bride_ is melodious; and the orchestration,
though simpler than is generally the case with Rimsky-Korsakov, is not
lacking in variety and colour. Though by no means the strongest of his
operas, it seems to exercise a great attraction for the public; possibly
because its nationalism is less strenuously demonstrated than in some of
its predecessors.

_The Legend of Tsar Saltan, of his Son the famous and doughty Warrior,
Prince Gvidon Saltanovich, and of the beautiful Tsarevna Liebed_ (the
Swan-queen), an opera in four acts with a Prologue, the libretto drawn
from Poushkin's poem of the same title, was produced by the Private
Opera Company in Moscow in December 1906. Previously to the first
performance of the work, an orchestral suite consisting of three of the
entr'actes was played in St. Petersburg at one of the concerts of the I.
R. M. S. The work follows the model of _Sadko_ rather than that of
purely lyrical operas. Here Rimsky-Korsakov makes a more extended and
systematic use of the _leitmotif_. The leading characters, Saltan,
Militrissa, Tsarevna Liebed and the Sea Rovers, have their
characteristic themes, but a number of minor motives are used in
connection with particular sentiments and even to represent various
natural objects. The story, which is too long to give in all its
details, deals with the adventures of Tsar Saltan and the Three Sisters;
the two elders--recalling the story of Cinderella--are jealous of the
youngest Militrissa who marries the Tsar's son, and during Saltan's
absence from home they revenge themselves upon her by sending a false
message announcing that she has borne her husband a daughter instead of
a son. The tale offers a strange mixture of the fantastic and the
realistic. The opera is remarkable for its fine orchestral numbers and
the novelty and brilliancy of its instrumentation, and for the free use
of folk melodies.[49]

In his eleventh opera, _Servilia_, Rimsky-Korsakov makes one of his rare
excursions in search of a subject outside Russian folk-lore or history.
The libretto is based upon a drama by his favourite author Mey, but the
scene of the plot is laid in Rome. In _Servilia_ Rimsky-Korsakov returns
once more to the declamatory style, as exemplified in _Mozart and
Salieri_, without, however, entirely abandoning the use of the
_leitmotif_. The first performance of the work took place at the
Maryinsky Theatre in the autumn of 1902. Servilia's passionate love for
the Tribune Valerius Rusticus, from which she suddenly turns on her
conversion to Christianity in the last act of the opera, offers
considerable opportunities for psychological delineation. But "the
inward strife between her pagan passion and ascetic instincts," says
Cheshikin, "is not enacted on the stage; it takes place chiefly behind
the scenes and the spectator is shown only the result." It is not
surprising that the success of the opera does not lie in the delineation
of the heroine but in certain interesting details, and especially in the
skilful use of local colour. The Hymn to Athena in the first act; the
Anacreontic song for Montanus in the second act (in the Mixolydian),
with its characteristic figures of accompaniment for flute; the Dance of
the Mænads; and a graceful Spinning-song for female voices in the third
act, are the most successful numbers in the work. On the whole,
_Servilia_ is regarded by Russian critics as a retrograde step after
_Sadko_ and _Tsar Saltan_.

_Kastchei the Immortal_ is described as "a legend of the autumn" in one
act and three scenes, with uninterrupted music throughout. The sketch of
the libretto was given to the composer by E. M. Petrovsky and is a free
adaptation of a very old fairy tale. The opera was produced by the
Private Opera Company in Moscow in 1902, and aroused a good deal of
comment in consequence of several new procedures on the part of the
composer, revealing a more decisive tendency to follow in the steps of
Wagner. The charge of imitation is based upon the use of _leitmotifs_
and also upon the content of the libretto, in which, as in many of
Wagner's operas, the idea of redemption plays a prominent part.
Kastcheievna, the daughter of the wicked wizard Kastchei, is redeemed
by intense suffering from her own jealous fury, when she lets fall a
tear, in the crystal sphere of which Kastchei has enclosed his own fate.
But Rimsky-Korsakov does not give us merely an internal drama in the
Wagnerian sense, for we see enacted upon the stage the wholly external
drama of the rescue of the unhappy Tsarevna, spell-bound by the evil
Kastchei, at the hands of Ivan Korolevich. The opera ends with the
downfall of the barriers which shut out the gloomy, autumnal,
sin-oppressed kingdom of Kastchei from the happier world outside. "This
symbolism," says Cheshikin, "may be taken in its widest acceptation; but
in anything which is freed from a despotic power, our public is prepared
to see a social tendency which is to their taste and they applaud it
with satisfaction." _Kastchei_ chanced to be the opera which was
represented in St. Petersburg (in March, 1905) at the moment when
Rimsky-Korsakov was expelled from his professorship at the Conservatoire
in consequence of his frank criticisms of the existing bureaucracy, and
each representation was made the occasion of an ovation in his honour.
The opera contains many fine moments, such as the fierce chorus--a kind
of _trepak_--sung by the snow-spirits at the close of the first act; the
two contrasting love-duets, one which Ivan Korolevich sings with
Kastcheievna, and a later one in which the Tsarevna takes part, in the
third act; and the sinister slumber-song which the unhappy Tsarevna is
forced to sing for Kastchei, while wishing that his sleep was the sleep
of death, is distinguished for its marked originality. As regards
harmony, Rimsky-Korsakov in _Kastchei_ indulges in a good deal that is
piquant and unusual; there is much chromaticism in the fantastic scenes
and a general tendency to what one critic describes as "studied
cacophany," which is unusual in the work of this composer. _Kastchei_
stands out as one of the most Wagnerian among Russian operas.

_Pan Voyevode_ was completed in 1903, and produced by the Private Opera
Company in St. Petersburg in October, 1904. The scene of the libretto is
laid in Poland about the beginning of the seventeenth century, and the
story concerns the love affairs of Chaplinsky, a young nobleman, and
Maria, a poor orphan girl of good family. While out hunting, Pan
Voyevode--governor of the district--sees Maria and loses his heart to
her. At his command the lovers are separated by force, and the Voyevode
declares his intention of marrying Maria. Yadviga, a rich widow, who has
claims upon the Voyevode, determines to prevent the marriage at any
cost. She takes counsel with a sorcerer, from whom she procures poison.
The preparations for the wedding are all made, and the Voyevode is
entertaining his friends at a banquet, when Yadviga appears, an
uninvited guest, to warn him that Chaplinsky and his friends are coming
to effect the rescue of Maria. At the banquet Maria sings the "Song of
the Swan," but its yearning sadness oppresses the Voyevode and his
guests. Suddenly the injured lover bursts into the hall with his
followers and a wild scuffle ensues. In the last act, Chaplinsky having
been taken prisoner and condemned to death, the interrupted festival
recommences. In the meantime Yadviga has poured poison into Maria's
goblet. Needless to say that in the end the cups get changed and it is
the Voyevode who drinks the fatal potion. Maria, after a prayer by his
dead body, orders the release of Chaplinsky and all ends happily.

_Pan Voyevode_ gives occasion for a whole series of Polish dances, a
Krakoviak, a Kazachok, or Cossack dance, a Polonaise, and a Mazurka. The
incantation scene, when Yadviga seeks the sorcerer, and the Song of the
Swan are favourite numbers in the work. _Pan Voyevode_ was produced in
Moscow in 1905 under the conductorship of Rachmaninov.

The idea of the Legendary Opera, _The Tale of the Invisible City of
Kitezh and the Maiden Fevronia_, was in Rimsky-Korsakov's mind for
nearly ten years before he actually composed the work between
1903-1905. The first performance in St. Petersburg took place at the
Maryinsky Theatre early in the spring of 1907, and Moscow heard the
opera in the following season. The opera starts with an orchestral
introduction based upon a folk-melody. There is great charm in the
opening scene laid in the forests surrounding Little Kitezh, where
Fevronia is discovered sitting among the tall grasses and singing a song
in praise of all living creatures. There she is joined by a bear, and a
crane, and other birds, all of which she welcomes as friends; and there
the young Prince Vsievolod sees her and loses his heart to the beautiful
child of nature. Their love scene is interrupted by the sound of horns,
introducing a company of archers in search of the Prince. Fevronia then
finds out her lover's identity. The next act shows the market-place in
Little Kitezh crowded with all manner of archaic Russian types: a
showman leading a bear, a minstrel singing and playing the _gusslee_,
old men and women, young men and girls--one of those animated canvases
which recall certain pages in Moussorgsky's operas and are the
precursors of similar scenes in Stravinsky's _Petroushka_. Some
"Superior People" are grumbling at the marriage of the Prince to the
unknown and homeless girl Fevronia. Soon the bride appears accompanied
by the wedding procession. She receives the congratulations of the
populace, but the "Superior People" show some disdain. Suddenly a fresh
group of people rush on in terror, followed by the Tatars who break up
the crowd and seize Fevronia. Under threats of torture they compel the
crazy drunkard Kouterma to guide them to Kitezh the Great. Fevronia puts
up a prayer for the city as the Tatars carry her off on one of their
rough carts.

The scene changes to Kitezh the Great, where the old Prince and his son,
the bridegroom, are listening to the account given by the fugitives of
the destruction of Little Kitezh by the Tatars. All are horrified to
hear that Fevronia has fallen into their ruthless hands. The Prince
assembles his soldiers and goes out to meet the enemy. While the women
are singing a chorus of lamentation, the church bell begins to ring of
its own accord. The old Prince declares it is a miraculous sign that the
town will be saved. The curtain rises next on the Tatar encampment on
the shores of the Shining Lake. Fevronia in despair is still sitting in
the Tatars' cart. The half-crazy Kouterma has been bound hand and foot
because the Tatars suspected him. Their two leaders have fought; one is
left dead on the ground; all the others have fallen asleep. Fevronia
takes a knife from the dead Tatar chief and cuts Kouterma's bonds. He
is about to escape when the sound of a bell arrests him. He rushes madly
to the lake with the intention of drowning himself, but at that moment a
ray of sunlight falls on the water in which he sees reflected the city
of Kitezh the Invisible. Now he really makes his escape, taking Fevronia
with him. The Tatars are awakened, and running to the edge of the lake,
they, too, see the miraculous reflection and exclaim in terror: "Awful
in truth is the God of the Russians."

Fevronia passes some terrible hours alone in the gloom of the enchanted
forest with Kouterma; but she prays, and presently he leaves her. Then
little lamps appear in the trees, and gold and silver flowers spring up
in the grass, while the Paradise Birds, Aklonost and Sirin, sing to
comfort her. Aklonost tells her he is the messenger of death. She
replies that she has no fear of death, and weaves herself a garland of
immortal flowers. Presently the spirit of the young Prince appears to
her. He tells her that he has been killed, "but now," he says, "thank
God, I am alive." He gives Fevronia some bread, bidding her eat before
she starts on her long journey; "who tastes our bread knows eternal
happiness," he says. Fevronia eats and throws some of the crumbs to the
birds; then with a prayer, "Christ receive me into the habitations of
the just," she disappears with the spirit of the Prince. After an
orchestral interlude, the curtain rises upon the apotheosis of the City
of Kitezh, and the Paradise Birds are heard proclaiming: "The Celestial
gates are open to us; time has ceased; Eternity has begun." The people
come out to welcome Fevronia and the Prince, and sing their
epithalamium. Fevronia now learns that Kitezh did not fall, but only
disappeared; that the northern lights bore the prayers of the just to
heaven; and also the cause of the blessed and miraculous sound heard by
Kouterma. Then the Prince leads his bride into the cathedral while the
people sing: "Here shall there be no more tears or sorrow, but
everlasting joy and peace."

Rimsky-Korsakov died of angina pectoris on June 8th, 1908 at Lioubensk,
near St. Petersburg, where he was spending the summer with his family.
In the previous year he had finished his last opera _The Golden Cock_,
the production of which was not sanctioned by the Censor during the
composer's lifetime. It is said that this vexation, following upon his
difficulties with the authorities of the Conservatoire, helped to hasten
his end.

_The Golden Cock_ is composed to a libretto by V. Bielsky, based upon
Poushkin's well-known poem. The author of the book says in his preface
to the opera: "the purely human nature of Poushkin's _Golden
Cock_--that instructive tragi-comedy of the unhappy consequences
following upon mortal passions and weaknesses--permits us to place the
plot in any region and in any period." In spite of the Eastern origin of
the tale, and the Italian names, Duodo and Guidone, all which
constitutes the historical character of the story and recalls the simple
customs and the daily life of the Russian people, with its crude, strong
colouring, its exuberance and liberty, so dear to the artist. The work
opens with a Prologue, in which the Astrologer tells us that although
the opera is

    "A fairy-tale, not solid truth,
     It holds a moral good for youth."

In the first scene we are introduced to a hall in the Palace of King
Dodon, where he is holding a council with his Boyards. He tells them
that he is weary of kingly responsibilities and especially of the
perpetual warfare with his hostile neighbours, and that he longs to rest
for a while. First he asks the advice of his heir, Prince Gvidon, who
says that instead of fighting on the frontier he should withdraw his
troops and let them surround the capital, which should first be well
provisioned. Then, while the enemy was destroying the rest of the
country, the King might repose and think of some new way of
circumventing him. But the old Voyevode Polkan does not approve of the
project, for he thinks it will be worse to have the hostile army
surrounding the city, and perhaps attacking the King himself. Nor does
he agree with the equally foolish advice of the King's younger son
Aphron. Very soon the whole assembly is quarrelling as to the best way
out of the difficulty, when the Astrologer arrives upon the scene. He
offers King Dodon a present of a Golden Cock which would always give
warning in case of danger. At first the King does not believe him, but
the cock is brought in and cries at once: "Kikeriki, kikerikou! Be on
your guard, mind what you do!" The King is enchanted and feels that he
can now take his ease. He offers to give the Astrologer whatever reward
he asks. The latter replies that he does not want treasures or honours,
but a diploma drawn up in legal form. "Legal," says the King, "I don't
know what you mean. My desires and caprices are the only laws here; but
you may rest assured of my gratitude." Dodon's bed is brought in, and
the chatelaine of the Palace tucks him up and keeps watch by him until
he falls into a sound sleep. Suddenly the shrill crowing of the Golden
Cock awakens the King and all his attendants. The first time this
happens he has to send his unwilling sons to the war; the second time he
is obliged to go himself. There is a good deal of comic business about
the departure of the King, who is obviously afraid of his warhorse.

In the second act Dodon and the Voyevode Polkan, with their army, come
to a narrow pass among the rocks which has evidently been the scene of a
battle. The corpses of the warriors lie pale in the moonlight, while
birds of prey hover around the spot. Here Dodon comes suddenly upon the
dead bodies of his two sons, who have apparently killed each other. The
wretched, egotistical king is reduced to tears at the sight. His
attention is soon distracted, for, as the distant mist clears away, he
perceives under the shelter of the hillside a large tent lit up by the
first rays of the sun. He thinks it is the tent of the hostile leader,
and Polkan endeavours to lead on the timid troops in hopes of capturing
him. But, to the great astonishment of the King and his Voyevode, a
beautiful woman emerges from the tent followed by her slaves bearing
musical instruments. She sings a song of greeting to the dawn. Dodon
approaches and asks her name. She replies modestly, with downcast eyes,
that she is the Queen of Shemakha. Then follows a long scene in which
she lures on the old King until he is hopelessly infatuated with her
beauty. Her recital of her own attractions is made without any reserve,
and soon she has completely turned Dodon's head. She insists on his
singing, and mocks at his unmusical voice; she forces him to dance
until he falls exhausted to the ground, and laughs at his uncouth
movements. This scene really constitutes the ballet of the opera.
Finally the Queen of Shemakha consents to return to his capital and
become his bride. Amid much that is genuinely comic there are a few
touches of unpleasant realism in this scene, in which the ineffectual,
indolent, and sensual old King is fooled to the top of his bent by the
capricious and heartless queen. Here we have travelled far from the
beautiful idealism of _The City of Kitezh_; the humour of the situation
has a sharp tang to it which belies the spirit of Poushkin and Russian
humour in general; we begin to speculate as to whether Bielsky has not
studied to some purpose the plays of George Bernard Shaw, so much read
in Russia.

The curtain rises in the third act upon another of those scenes of
bustle and vigorous movement characteristic of Russian opera. The people
are awaiting the return of King Dodon. "Jump and dance, grin and bow,
show your loyalty but don't expect anything in return," says the
sardonic chatelaine, Amelfa. There enters a wonderful procession which
reminds us of an Eastern fairy tale: the advance guard of the King; the
Queen of Shemakha, in a bizarre costume, followed by a grotesque cortege
of giants, dwarfs, and black slaves. The spectacle for the time being
allays the evident anxiety of the people. As the King and Queen pass by
in their golden chariot the former appears aged and care-worn; but he
gazes on his companion with uxorious tenderness. The Queen shows evident
signs of boredom. At this juncture the Astrologer makes his appearance
and a distant storm, long threatening, bursts over the city. The King
gives a flattering welcome to the Astrologer and expresses his readiness
to reward him for the gift of the Golden Cock. The Astrologer asks
nothing less than the gift of the Queen of Shemakha herself. The King
refuses with indignation, and orders the soldiers to remove the
Astrologer. But the latter resists, and reminds Dodon once more of his
promise. The King, beside himself with anger, hits the Astrologer on the
head with his sceptre. General consternation in the crowd. The Queen
laughs a cold, cruel laugh, but the King is terrified, for he perceives
that he has killed the Astrologer. He tries to recover himself and takes
comfort from the presence of the Queen, but now she openly throws off
all pretence of affection and drives him away from her. Suddenly the
Cock gives out a shrill, threatening cry; he flies on to the King's head
and with one blow of his beak pierces his skull. The King falls dead. A
loud clap of thunder is followed by darkness, during which the silvery
laugh of the Queen is heard. When it grows light again Queen and Cock
have both disappeared. The unhappy and bewildered people sing a chorus
of regret for the King: "Our Prince without a peer, was prudent, wise,
and kind; his rage was terrible, he was often implacable; he treated us
like dogs; but when once his rage was over he was a Golden King. O
terrible disaster! Where shall we find another king!" The opera
concludes with a short Epilogue in which the Astrologer bids the
spectators dry their tears, since the whole story is but fiction, and in
the kingdom of Dodon there were but two real human beings, himself and
the Queen.

The music of this opera is appropriately wild and barbaric. We feel that
in spite of forty years development it is essentially the work of the
same temperament that produced the Symphonic Poems "Sadko" and the
Oriental symphony "Antar."

A close study of the works of Rimsky-Korsakov reveals a distinguished
musical personality; a thinker; a fastidious and exquisite craftsman; in
a word--an artist of a refined and discriminating type who concerns
himself very little with the demands and appreciation of the general
public. Outside Russia, he has been censured for his subserviency to
national influences, his exclusive devotion to a patriotic ideal. On
the other hand, some Russian critics have accused him of introducing
Wagnerism into national opera. This is only true in so far that he has
grafted upon opera of the older, more melodic type the effective
employment of some modern methods, more particularly the moderate use of
the _leitmotif_. As regards orchestration, I have already claimed for
him the fullest recognition. He has a remarkable faculty for the
invention of new, brilliant, prismatic orchestral effects, and is a
master in the skilful employment of onomatopoeia. Those who
assert--not entirely without reason--that Rimsky-Korsakov is not a
melodist of copious and vivid inspiration must concede the variety,
colour, independence and flashing wit of his accompaniments. This want
of balance between the essential and accessory is certainly a
characteristic of his music. Some of his songs and their accompaniments
remind me of those sixteenth-century portraits in which some slim,
colourless, but distinguished Infanta is gowned in a robe of brocade
rich enough to stand by itself, without the negative aid of the wearer.

Rimsky-Korsakov does not correspond to our stereotyped idea of the
Russian temperament. He is not lacking in warmth of feeling, which
kindles to passion in some of his songs; but his moods of exaggerated
emotion are very rare. His prevailing tones are bright and serene, and
occasionally flushed with glowing colour. If he rarely shocks our
hearts, as Moussorgsky does, into a poignant realisation of darkness and
despair, neither has he any of the hysterical tendency which sometimes
detracts from the impressiveness of Tchaikovsky's _cris de coeur_.

When a temperament, musically endowed, sees its subject with the direct
and observant vision of the painter, instead of dreaming it through a
mist of subjective exaltation, we get a type of mind that naturally
tends to a programme, more or less clearly defined. Rimsky-Korsakov
belongs to this class. Labelled or not, we feel in all his music the
desire to depict.

This representative of a school, reputed to be revolutionary, who has
arrayed himself in the full panoply of musical erudition and scholarly
restraint; this poet whose imagination revels in the folk-lore of Russia
and the fantastic legends of the East; this professor who has written
fugues and counterpoints by the dozen; this man who looked like an
austere school-master, and can on occasion startle us with an almost
barbaric exuberance of colour and energy, offers, to my mind, one of the
most fascinating analytical studies in all contemporary music.




CHAPTER XIII

TCHAIKOVSKY


Typically Russian by temperament and in his whole attitude to life;
cosmopolitan in his academic training and in his ready acceptance of
Western ideals; Tchaikovsky, although the period of his activity
coincided with that of Balakirev, Cui, and Rimsky-Korsakov, cannot be
included amongst the representatives of the national Russian school. His
ideals were more diffused, and his ambitions reached out towards more
universal appreciation. Nor had he any of the communal instincts which
brought together and cemented in a long fellowship the circle of
Balakirev. He belonged in many respects to an older generation, the
"Byroniacs," the incurable pessimists of Lermontov's day, to whom life
appeared as "a journey made in the night time." He was separated from
the nationalists, too, by an influence which had been gradually becoming
obliterated in Russian music since the time of Glinka--I allude to the
influence of Italian opera.

The first æsthetic impressions of an artist's childhood are rarely quite
obliterated in his subsequent career. We may often trace some peculiar
quality of a man's genius back to the very traditions he imbibed in the
nursery. Tchaikovsky's family boasted no skilled performers, and, being
fond of music, had an orchestrion sent from the capital to their
official residence among the Ural Mountains. Peter Ilich, then about six
years old, was never tired of hearing its operatic selections; and in
after life declared that he owed to this mechanical contrivance his
passion for Mozart and his unchanging affection for the music of the
Italian school.

It is certain that while Glinka was influenced by Beethoven, Serov by
Wagner and Meyerbeer, Cui by Chopin and Schumann, Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov by Liszt and Berlioz, Tchaikovsky never ceased to blend
with the characteristic melody of his country an echo of the sensuous
beauty of the South. This reflection of what was gracious and ideally
beautiful in Italian music is undoubtedly one of the secrets of
Tchaikovsky's great popularity with the public. It is a concession to
human weakness of which we gladly avail ourselves; although, as moderns,
we have graduated in a less sensuous school, we are still willing to
worship the old gods of melody under a new name.

Tchaikovsky began quite early in life to frequent the Italian Opera in
St. Petersburg; consequently his musical tastes developed far earlier on
the dramatic than on the symphonic side. He knew and loved the operatic
masterpieces of the Italian and French schools long before he knew the
Symphonies of Beethoven or any of Schumann's works. His first opera,
_The Voyevode_, was composed about a year after he left the St.
Petersburg Conservatoire, in 1866. He had just been appointed professor
of harmony at Moscow, but was still completely unknown as a composer. At
this time he was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of the great
dramatist Ostrovsky, who generously offered to supply his first
libretto. In spite of the prestige of the author's name, it was not
altogether satisfactory, for Ostrovsky had originally written _The
Voyevode_ as a comedy in five acts, and in adapting it to suit the
requirements of conventional opera many of its best features had to be
sacrificed.

The music was pleasing and quite Italian in style. The work coincides
with Tchaikovsky's orchestral fantasia "Fatum" or "Destiny," and also
with the most romantic love-episode of his life--his fascination for
Madame Désiré-Artôt, then the star of Italian Opera in Moscow. Thus all
things seemed to combine at this juncture in his career to draw him to
dramatic art, and especially towards Italianised opera.

_The Voyevode_, given at the Grand Opera, Moscow, in January, 1869,
provoked the most opposite critical opinions. It does not seem to have
satisfied Tchaikovsky himself for, having made use of some of the music
in a later opera (_The Oprichnik_), he destroyed the greater part of the
score.

The composer's second operatic attempt was made with _Undine_. This
work, submitted to the Director of the Imperial Opera in St. Petersburg
in 1869, was rejected, and the score mislaid by some careless official.
When, after some years, it was discovered and returned to the composer,
he put it in the fire without remorse. Neither of these immature efforts
are worth serious consideration as affecting the development of Russian
opera.

_The Oprichnik_ was begun in January 1870, and completed in April 1872.
Tchaikovsky attacked this work in a complete change of spirit. This time
his choice fell upon a purely national and historical subject.
Lajechnikov's tragedy "The Oprichnik" is based upon an episode of the
period of Ivan the Terrible, and possesses qualities which might well
appeal to a composer of romantic proclivities. A picturesque setting;
dramatic love and political intrigue; a series of effective--even
sensational--situations, and finally several realistic pictures from
national life; all these things might have been turned to excellent
account in the hands of a skilled librettist. Unluckily the book was not
well constructed, while, in order to comply with the demands of the
Censor, the central figure of the tragedy--the tyrant himself--had to be
reduced to a mere nonentity. The most serious error, however, was
committed by Tchaikovsky himself, when he grafted upon _The Oprichnik_,
with its crying need for national colour and special treatment, a
portion of the pretty Italianised music of _The Voyevode_. The
interpolation of half an act from a comedy subject into the libretto of
an historical tragedy confused the action without doing much to relieve
the lurid and sombre atmosphere of the piece.

The "Oprichniki," as we have already seen in Rubinstein's opera _The
Bold Merchant Kalashnikov_, were the "Bloods" and dandies of the court
of Ivan the Terrible--young noblemen of wild and dissolute habits who
bound themselves together by sacrilegious vows to protect the tyrant and
carry out his evil desires. Their unbridled insolence, the tales of
their Black Masses and secret crimes, and their utter disrespect for age
or sex, made them the terror of the populace. Sometimes they masqueraded
in the dress of monks, but they were in reality robbers and murderers,
hated and feared by the people whom they oppressed.

Here is the story of _The Oprichnik_ briefly stated: Andrew Morozov,
the descendant of a noble but impoverished house, and the only son of
the widowed Boyarinya Morozova, is in love with the beautiful Natalia,
daughter of Prince Jemchoujny. His poverty disqualifies him as a suitor.
While desperately in need of money, Andrew falls in with Basmanov, a
young Oprichnik, who persuades him to join the community, telling him
that an Oprichnik can always fill his own pockets. Andrew consents, and
takes the customary oath of celibacy. Afterwards, circumstances cause
him to break his vow and marry Natalia against her father's wish. Prince
Viazminsky, the leader of the Oprichniki, cherishes an old grudge
against the family of Morozov, and works for Andrew's downfall. On his
wedding-day he breaks in upon the feast with a message from the Tsar.
Ivan the Terrible has heard of the bride's beauty, and desires her
attendance at the royal apartments. Andrew, with gloomy forebodings in
his heart, prepares to escort his bride, when Viazminsky, with a meaning
smile, explains that the invitation is for the bride alone. Andrew
refuses to let his wife go into the tyrant's presence unprotected.
Viazminsky proclaims him a rebel and a traitor to his vows. Natalia is
carried away by force, and the Oprichniki lead Andrew into the
market-place to suffer the death-penalty at their hands. Meanwhile
Boyarinya Morozova, who had cast off her son when he became an
Oprichnik, has softened towards him, and comes to see him on his
wedding-day. She enters the deserted hall where Viazminsky, alone, is
gloating over the success of his intrigue. She inquires unsuspectingly
for Andrew, and he leads her to the window. Horror-stricken, she
witnesses the execution of her own son by his brother Oprichniki, and
falls dead at the feet of her implacable enemy.

During its first season, this work was given fourteen times; so that its
success--for a national opera--may be reckoned decidedly above the
average. Those who represented the advanced school of musical opinion in
Russia condemned its forms as obsolete. Cui, in particular, called it
the work of a schoolboy who knew nothing of the requirements of the
lyric drama, and pronounced it unworthy to rank with such masterpieces
of the national school as Moussorgsky's _Boris Godounov_ or
Rimsky-Korsakov's _Maid of Pskov_.

[Illustration: THE GREAT OPERA HOUSE, MOSCOW]

But the most pitiless of critics was Tchaikovsky himself, who declared
that he always took to his heels during the rehearsals of the third and
fourth acts to avoid hearing a bar of the music. "Is it not strange," he
writes, "that in process of composition it seemed charming? But what
disenchantment followed the first rehearsals! It has neither action,
style, nor inspiration!"

Both judgments are too severe. _The Oprichnik_ is not exactly popular,
but it has never dropped out of the repertory of Russian opera. Many
years ago I heard it in St. Petersburg, and noted my impressions. The
characters, with the exception of the Boyarinya Morozova, are not
strongly delineated; the subject is lurid, "horror on horror's head
accumulates"; the Russian and Italian elements are incongruously
blended; yet there are saving qualities in the work. Certain moments are
charged with the most poignant dramatic feeling. In this opera, even as
in the weakest of Tchaikovsky's music, there is something that appeals
to our common humanity. The composer himself must have modified his
early judgment, since he was actually engaged in remodelling _The
Oprichnik_ at the time of his death.

In 1872 the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna commissioned Serov to compose
an opera on the subject of Gogol's Malo-Russian tale "Christmas Eve
Revels." A celebrated poet, Polonsky, had already prepared the libretto,
when the death of the Grand Duchess, followed by that of Serov himself,
put an end to the scheme. Out of respect to the memory of this generous
patron, the Imperial Musical Society resolved to carry out her wishes. A
competition was organised for the best setting of Polonsky's text under
the title of _Vakoula the Smith_, and Tchaikovsky's score carried off
both first and second prizes. In after years he made considerable
alterations in this work and renamed it _Cherevichek_ ("The Little
Shoes"). It is also known in foreign editions as _Le Caprice d'Oxane_.
The libretto follows the general lines of the _Christmas Eve Revels_,
described in the chapter dealing with Rimsky-Korsakov.

Early in the 'seventies Tchaikovsky came under the ascendency of
Balakirev, Stassov, and other representatives of the ultra-national and
modern school. _Cherevichek_, like the Second Symphony--which is also
Malo-Russian in colouring--and the symphonic poems "Romeo and Juliet"
(1870), "The Tempest" (1874), and "Francesca di Rimini" (1876), may be
regarded as the outcome of this phase of influence. The originality and
captivating local colour, as well as the really poetical lyrics with
which the book of this opera is interspersed, no doubt commended it to
Tchaikovsky's fancy. Polonsky's libretto is a mere series of episodes,
treated however with such art that he has managed to preserve the spirit
of Gogol's text in the form of his polished verses. In _Cherevichek_
Tchaikovsky makes a palpable effort to break away from conventional
Italian forms and to write more in the style of Dargomijsky. But, as
Stassov has pointed out, this more modern and realistic style is not so
well suited to Tchaikovsky, because he is not at his strongest in
declamation and recitative. Nor was he quite in sympathy with Gogol's
racy humour which bubbles up under the veneer of Polonsky's elegant
manner. Tchaikovsky was not devoid of a certain subdued and whimsical
humour, but his laugh is not the boisterous reaction from despair which
we find in so many Slav temperaments. _Cherevichek_ fell as it were
between two stools. The young Russian party, who had partially inspired
it, considered it lacking in realism and modern feeling; while the
public, who hoped for something lively, in the style of "Le Domino
Noir," found an attempt at serious national opera the thing which, above
all others, bored them most.

The want of marked success in opera did not discourage Tchaikovsky.
Shortly after his disappointment in _Cherevichek_ he requested Stassov
to furnish him with a libretto based on Shakespeare's "Othello." Stassov
was slow to comply with this demand, for he believed the subject to be
ill-suited to Tchaikovsky's genius. At last, however, he yielded to
pressure; but the composer's enthusiasm cooled of its own accord, and he
soon abandoned the idea.

During the winter of 1876-1877, he was absorbed in the composition of
the Fourth Symphony, which may partially account for the fact that
"Othello" ceased to interest him. By May he had completed three
movements of the Symphony, when suddenly the tide of operatic passion
came surging back, sweeping everything before it. Friend after friend
was consulted in the search for a suitable subject. The celebrated
singer Madame Lavrovsky suggested Poushkin's popular novel in verse,
"Eugene Oniegin." "The idea," says Tchaikovsky, "struck me as curious.
Afterwards, while eating a solitary meal in a restaurant, I turned it
over in my mind and it did not seem bad. Reading the poem again, I was
fascinated. I spent a sleepless night, the result of which was the _mise
en scène_ of a charming opera upon Poushkin's poem."

Some of my readers may remember the production of _Eugene Oniegin_ in
this country, conducted by Henry J. Wood, during Signor Lago's opera
season in the autumn of 1892. It was revived in 1906 at Covent Garden,
but without any regard for its national setting. Mme. Destinn, with all
her charm and talent, did not seem at home in the part of Tatiana; and
to those who had seen the opera given in Russia the performance seemed
wholly lacking in the right, intimate spirit. It was interpreted better
by the Moody-Manners Opera Company, in the course of the same year.

The subject was in many respects ideally suited to Tchaikovsky--the
national colour suggested by a master hand, the delicate realism which
Poushkin was the first to introduce into Russian poetry, the elegiac
sentiment which pervades the work, and, above all, its intensely
subjective character, were qualities which appealed to the composer's
temperament.

In May 1877 he wrote to his brother: "I know the opera does not give
great scope for musical treatment, but a wealth of poetry, and a deeply
interesting tale, more than atone for all its faults." And again,
replying to some too-captious critic, he flashes out in its defence:
"Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in action! I am in love
with Tatiana, I am under the spell of Poushkin's verse, and I am drawn
to compose the music as it were by an irresistible attraction." This was
the true mood of inspiration--the only mood for success.

We must judge the opera _Eugene Oniegin_ not so much as Tchaikovsky's
greatest intellectual, or even emotional, effort, but as the outcome of
a passionate, single-hearted impulse. Consequently the sense of joy in
creation, of perfect reconciliation with his subject, is conveyed in
every bar of the music. As a work of art, _Eugene Oniegin_ defies
criticism, as do some charming but illusive personalities. It would be a
waste of time to pick out its weaknesses, which are many, and its
absurdities, which are not a few. It answers to no particular standard
of dramatic truth or serious purpose. It is too human, too lovable, to
fulfil any lofty intention. One might liken it to the embodiment of some
captivating, wayward, female spirit which subjugates all emotional
natures, against their reason, if not against their will. The story is
as obsolete as a last year's fashion-plate. The hero is the demon-hero
of the early romantic reaction--"a Muscovite masquerading in the cloak
of Childe Harold." His friend Lensky is an equally romantic being; more
blighted than demoniac, and overshadowed by that gentle and fatalistic
melancholy which endeared him still more to the heart of Tchaikovsky.
The heroine is a survival of an even earlier type. Tatiana, with her
young-lady-like sensibilities, her superstitions, her girlish gush,
corrected by her primness of propriety, might have stepped out of one of
Richardson's novels. She is a Russian Pamela, a belated example of the
decorous female, rudely shaken by the French Revolution, and doomed to
final annihilation in the pages of Georges Sand. But in Russia, where
the emancipation of women was of later date, this virtuous and
victimised personage lingered on into the nineteenth century, and served
as a foil to the Byronic and misanthropical heroes of Poushkin and
Lermontov.

The music of _Eugene Oniegin_ is the child of Tchaikovsky's fancy, born
of his passing love for the image of Tatiana, and partaking of her
nature--never rising to great heights of passion, nor touching depths of
tragic despair, tinged throughout by those moods of romantic melancholy
and exquisitely tender sentiment which the composer and his heroine
share in common.

The opera was first performed by the students of the Moscow
Conservatoire in March, 1879. Perhaps the circumstances were not
altogether favourable to its success; for although the composer's
friends were unanimous in their praise, the public did not at first show
extraordinary enthusiasm. Apart from the fact that the subject probably
struck them as daringly unconventional and lacking in sensational
developments, a certain section of purists were shocked at Poushkin's
_chef-d'oeuvre_ being mutilated for the purposes of a libretto, and
resented the appearance of the almost canonized figure of Tatiana upon
the stage. Gradually, however, _Eugene Oniegin_ acquired a complete sway
over the public taste and its serious rivals became few in number. There
are signs, however, that its popularity is on the wane.

From childhood Tchaikovsky had cherished a romantic devotion for the
personality of Joan of Arc, about whom he had written a poem at the age
of seven. After the completion of _Eugene Oniegin_, looking round for a
fresh operatic subject, his imagination reverted to the heroine of his
boyhood. During a visit to Florence, in December, 1878, Tchaikovsky
first approached this idea with something like awe and agitation. "My
difficulty," he wrote, "does not lie in any lack of inspiration, but
rather in its overwhelming force. The idea has taken furious possession
of me. For three whole days I have been tormented by the thought that
while the material is so vast, human strength and time amount to so
little. I want to complete the whole work in an hour, as sometimes
happens to one in a dream." From Florence, Tchaikovsky went to Paris for
a few days, and by the end of December settled at Clarens, on the Lake
of Geneva, to compose his opera in these peaceful surroundings. To his
friend and benefactress, Nadejda von Meck, he wrote expressing his
satisfaction with his music, but complaining of his difficulty in
constructing the libretto. This task he had undertaken himself, using
Joukovsky's translation of Schiller's poem as his basis. It is a pity he
did not adhere more closely to the original work, instead of
substituting for Schiller's ending the gloomy and ineffective last
scene, of his own construction, in which Joan is actually represented
at the stake surrounded by the leaping flames.

Tchaikovsky worked at _The Maid of Orleans_ with extraordinary rapidity.
He was enamoured of his subject and convinced of ultimate success. From
Clarens he sent a droll letter to his friend and publisher Jurgenson, in
Moscow, which refers to his triple identity as critic, composer, and
writer of song-words. It is characteristic of the man in his lighter
moods:

"There are three celebrities in the world with whom you are well
acquainted: the rather poor rhymer 'N. N.'; 'B. L.,' formerly musical
critic of the "Viedomosti," and the composer and ex-professor Mr.
Tchaikovsky. A few hours ago Mr. T. invited the other two gentlemen to
the piano and played them the whole of the second act of _The Maid of
Orleans_. Mr. Tchaikovsky is very intimate with these gentlemen,
consequently he had no difficulty in conquering his nervousness and
played them his new work with spirit and fire. You should have witnessed
their delight.... Finally the composer, who had long been striving to
preserve his modesty intact, went completely off his head, and all three
rushed on to the balcony like madmen to soothe their excited nerves in
the fresh air."

_The Maid of Orleans_ won little more than a _succès d'estime_. There
is much that is effective in this opera, but at the same time it
displays those weaknesses which are most characteristic of Tchaikovsky's
unsettled convictions in the matter of style. The transition from an
opera so Russian in colouring and so lyrical in sentiment as _Eugene
Oniegin_ to one so universal and heroic in character as _The Maid of
Orleans_, seems to have presented difficulties. Just as the national
significance of _The Oprichnik_ suffered from moments of purely Italian
influence, so _The Maid of Orleans_ contains incongruous lapses into the
Russian style. What have the minstrels at the court of Charles VI. in
common with a folk-song of Malo-Russian origin? Or why is the song of
Agnes Sorel so reminiscent of the land of the steppes and birch forests?
The gem of the opera is undoubtedly Joan's farewell to the scenes of her
childhood, which is full of touching, idyllic sentiment.

In complete contrast to the fervid enthusiasm which carried him through
the creation of _The Maid of Orleans_ was the spirit in which
Tchaikovsky started upon his next opera. One of his earliest references
to _Mazeppa_ occurs in a letter to Nadejda von Meck, written in the
spring of 1882. "A year ago," he says, "Davidov (the 'cellist) sent me
the libretto of _Mazeppa_, adapted by Bourenin from Poushkin's poem
'Poltava.' I tried to set one or two scenes to music, but made no
progress. Then one fine day I read the libretto again and also
Poushkin's poem. I was stirred by some of the verses, and began to
compose the scene between Maria and Mazeppa. Although I have not
experienced the profound creative joy I felt while working at _Eugene
Oniegin_, I go on with the opera because I have made a start and in its
way it is a success."

Not one of Tchaikovsky's operas was born to a more splendid destiny. In
August, 1883, a special meeting was held by the directors of the Grand
Opera in St. Petersburg to discuss the simultaneous production of the
opera in both capitals. Tchaikovsky was invited to be present, and was
so astonished at the lavishness of the proposed expenditure that he felt
convinced the Emperor himself had expressed a wish that no expense
should be spared in mounting _Mazeppa_. It is certain the royal family
took a great interest in this opera, which deals with so stirring a page
in Russian history.

The Mazeppa of Poushkin's masterpiece does not resemble the imaginary
hero of Byron's romantic poem. He is dramatically, but realistically,
depicted as the wily and ambitious soldier of fortune; a brave leader,
at times an impassioned lover, and an inexorable foe. Tchaikovsky has
not given a very powerful musical presentment of this daring and
passionate Cossack, who defied even Peter the Great. But the
characterisation of the heroine's father Kochubey, the tool and victim
of Mazeppa's ambition, is altogether admirable. The monologue in the
fortress of Bielotserkov, where Kochubey is kept a prisoner after
Mazeppa has treacherously laid upon him the blame of his own conspiracy,
is one of Tchaikovsky's finest pieces of declamation. Most of his
critics are agreed that this number, with Tatiana's famous Letter Scene
in the second act of _Eugene Oniegin_, are the gems of his operatic
works, and display his powers of psychological analysis at their
highest.

The character of Maria, the unfortunate heroine of this opera, is also
finely conceived. Tchaikovsky is almost always stronger in the
delineation of female than of male characters. "In this respect," says
Cheshikin, in his volume on Russian Opera, "he is the Tourgeniev of
music." Maria has been separated from her first love by the passion with
which the fascinating Hetman of Cossacks succeeds in inspiring her. She
only awakens from her infatuation when she discovers all his cruelty and
treachery towards her father. After the execution of the latter, and the
confiscation of his property, the unhappy girl becomes crazed. She
wanders--a kind of Russian Ophelia--back to the old homestead, and
arrives just in time to witness an encounter between Mazeppa and her
first lover, Andrew. Mazeppa wounds Andrew fatally, and, having now
attained his selfish ends, abandons the poor mad girl to her fate. Then
follows the most pathetic scene in the opera. Maria does not completely
recognise her old lover, nor does she realise that he is dying. Taking
the young Cossack in her arms, she speaks to him as to a child, and
unconsciously lulls him into the sleep of death with a graceful,
innocent slumber song. This melody, so remote from the tragedy of the
situation, produces an effect more poignant than any dirge. _Mazeppa_,
partly because of the unrelieved gloom of the subject, has never enjoyed
the popularity of _Eugene Oniegin_. Yet it holds its place in the
repertory of Russian opera, and deservedly, since it contains some of
Tchaikovsky's finest inspirations.

_Charodeika_ ("The Enchantress") followed _Mazeppa_ in 1887, and was a
further step towards purely dramatic and national opera. Tchaikovsky
himself thought highly of this work, and declared he was attracted to it
by a deep-rooted desire to illustrate in music the saying of Goethe:
"das Ewigweibliche zieht uns hinan," and to demonstrate the fatal
witchery of woman's beauty, as Verdi had done in "La Traviata" and Bizet
in "Carmen." _The Enchantress_ was first performed at the Maryinsky
Theatre, St. Petersburg, in October 1887. Tchaikovsky himself conducted
the first performances, and, having hoped for a success, was deeply
mortified when, on the fourth performance, he mounted to the conductor's
desk without a sign of applause. For the first time the composer
complained bitterly of the attitude of the press, to whom he attributed
this failure. As a matter of fact, the criticisms upon _Charodeika_ were
less hostile than on some previous occasions; but perhaps for this
reason they were none the less damning. It had become something like a
pose to misunderstand any effort on Tchaikovsky's part to develop the
purely dramatic side of his musical gifts. He was certainly very
strongly attracted to lyric opera; and it was probably as much natural
inclination as deference to critical opinion which led him back to this
form in _The Queen of Spades_ ("Pique-Dame").

The libretto of this opera, one of the best ever set by the composer,
was originally prepared by Modeste Tchaikovsky for a musician who
afterwards declined to make use of it. In 1889 the Director of the Opera
suggested that the subject would suit Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky. The opera
was commissioned, and all arrangements made for its production before a
note of it was written. The actual composition was completed in six
weeks, during a visit to Florence.

The story of _The Queen of Spades_ is borrowed from a celebrated
prose-tale of the same name, by the poet Poushkin. The hero is of the
romantic type, like Manfred, Réné, Werther, or Lensky in _Eugene
Oniegin_--a type which always appealed to Tchaikovsky, whose cast of
mind, with the exception of one or two peculiarly Russian qualities,
seems far more in harmony with the romantic first than with the
realistic second half of the nineteenth century.

Herman, a young lieutenant of hussars, a passionate gambler, falls in
love with Lisa, whom he has only met walking in the Summer Garden in St.
Petersburg. He discovers that she is the grand-daughter of an old
Countess, once well known as "the belle of St. Petersburg," but
celebrated in her old age as the most assiduous and fortunate of
card-players. On account of her uncanny appearance and reputation she
goes by the name of "The Queen of Spades." These two women exercise a
kind of occult influence over the impressionable Herman. With Lisa he
forgets the gambler's passion in the sincerity of his love; with the old
Countess he finds himself a prey to the most sinister apprehensions and
impulses. Rumour has it that the Countess possesses the secret of three
cards, the combination of which is accountable for her extraordinary
luck at the gaming-table. Herman, who is needy, and knows that without
money he can never hope to win Lisa, determines at any cost to discover
the Countess's secret. Lisa has just become engaged to the wealthy
Prince Yeletsky, but she loves Herman. Under pretext of an assignation
with Lisa, he manages to conceal himself in the old lady's bedroom at
night. When he suddenly appears, intending to make her divulge her
secret, he gives her such a shock that she dies of fright without
telling him the names of the cards. Herman goes half-mad with remorse,
and is perpetually haunted by the apparition of the Countess. The
apparition now shows him the three fatal cards.

The night after her funeral he goes to the gaming-house and plays
against his rival Yeletsky. Twice he wins on the cards shown him by the
Countess's ghost. On the third card he stakes all he possesses, and
turns up--not the expected ace, but the Queen of Spades. At that moment
he sees a vision of the Countess, who smiles triumphantly and vanishes.
Herman in despair puts an end to his life.

The subject, although somewhat melodramatic, offers plenty of incident
and its thrill is enhanced by the introduction of the supernatural
element. The work entirely engrossed Tchaikovsky. "I composed this opera
with extraordinary joy and fervour," he wrote to the Grand Duke
Constantine, "and experienced so vividly in myself all that happens in
the tale, that at one time I was actually afraid of the spectre of the
Queen of Spades. I can only hope that all my creative fervour, my
agitation and my enthusiasm will find an echo in the hearts of my
audience." In this he was not disappointed. _The Queen of Spades_, first
performed in St. Petersburg in December, 1890, soon took a strong hold
on the public, and now vies in popularity with _Eugene Oniegin_. It is
strange that this opera has never found its way to the English stage.
Less distinctively national than _Eugene Oniegin_, its psychological
problem is stronger, its dramatic appeal more direct; consequently it
would have a greater chance of success.

_Iolanthe_, a lyric opera in one act, was Tchaikovsky's last production
for the stage. It was first given in St. Petersburg in December, 1893,
shortly after the composer's death. "In _Iolanthe_," says Cheshikin,
"Tchaikovsky has added one more tender and inspired creation to his
gallery of female portraits ... a figure reminding us at once of
Desdemona and Ophelia." The music of _Iolanthe_ is not strong, but it is
pervaded by an atmosphere of tender and inconsolable sadness; by
something which seems a faint and weak echo of the profoundly emotional
note sounded in the "Pathetic" Symphony.

We may sum up Tchaikovsky's operatic development as follows: Beginning
with conventional Italian forms in _The Oprichnik_ he passed in
_Cherevichek_ to more modern methods, to the use of melodic recitative
and ariosos; while _Eugene Oniegin_ shows a combination of both these
styles. This first operatic period is purely lyrical. Afterwards, in
_The Maid of Orleans_, _Mazeppa_, and _Charodeika_, he passed through a
second period of dramatic tendency. With _Pique-Dame_ he reaches perhaps
the height of his operatic development; but this work is the solitary
example of a third period which we may characterise as lyrico-dramatic.
In _Iolanthe_ he shows a tendency to return to simple lyrical forms.

From the outset of his career he was equally attracted to the dramatic
and symphonic elements in music. Of the two, opera had perhaps the
greater attraction for him. The very intensity of its fascination seems
to have stood in the way of his complete success. Once bitten by an
operatic idea, he went blindly and uncritically forward, believing in
his subject, in the quality of his work, and in its ultimate triumph,
with that kind of undiscerning optimism to which the normally
pessimistic sometimes fall unaccountable victims. The history of his
operas repeats itself: a passion for some particular subject, feverish
haste to embody his ideas; certainty of success; then disenchantment,
self-criticism, and the hankering to remake and remodel which pursued
him through life.

Only a few of Tchaikovsky's operas seem able to stand the test of time.
_Eugene Oniegin_ and _The Queen of Spades_ achieved popular success, and
_The Oprichnik_ and _Mazeppa_ have kept their places in the repertory of
the opera houses in St. Petersburg and in the provinces; but the rest
must be reckoned more or less as failures. Considering Tchaikovsky's
reputation, and the fact that his operas were never allowed to languish
in obscurity, but were all brought out under the most favourable
circumstances, there must be some reason for this luke-warm attitude on
the part of the public, of which he himself was often painfully aware.
The choice of subjects may have had something to do with this; for the
books of _The Oprichnik_ and _Mazeppa_, though dramatic, are exceedingly
lugubrious. But Polonsky's charming text to _Cherevichek_ should at
least have pleased a Russian audience.

I find another reason for the comparative failure of so many of
Tchaikovsky's operas. It was not so much that the subjects in themselves
were poor, as that they did not always suit the temperament of the
composer; and he rarely took this fact sufficiently into consideration.
Tchaikovsky's outlook was essentially subjective, individual,
particular. He himself knew very well what was requisite for the
creation of a great and effective opera: "breadth, simplicity, and an
eye to decorative effect," as he says in a letter to Nadejda von Meck.
But it was exactly in these qualities, which would have enabled him to
treat such subjects as _The Oprichnik_, _The Maid of Orleans_, and
_Mazeppa_, with greater power and freedom, that Tchaikovsky was lacking.
In all these operas there are beautiful moments; but they are almost
invariably the moments in which individual emotion is worked up to
intensely subjective expression, or phases of elegiac sentiment in which
his own temperament could have full play.

Tchaikovsky had great difficulty in escaping from his intensely
emotional personality, and in viewing life through any eyes but his own.
He reminds us of one of those actors who, with all their power of
touching our hearts, never thoroughly conceal themselves under the part
they are acting. Opera, above all, cannot be "a one-man piece." For its
successful realisation it demands breadth of conception, variety of
sentiment and sympathy, powers of subtle adaptability to all kinds of
situations and emotions other than our own. In short, opera is the one
form of musical art in which the objective outlook is indispensable.
Whereas in lyric poetry self-revelation is a virtue; in the drama
self-restraint and breadth of view are absolute conditions of greatness
and success. We find the man reflected in Shakespeare's sonnets, but
humanity in his plays. Tchaikovsky's nature was undoubtedly too
emotional and self-centred for dramatic uses. To say this, is not to
deny his genius; it is merely an attempt to show its qualities and its
limitations. Tchaikovsky had genius, as Shelley, as Byron, as Heine, as
Lermontov had genius; not as Shakespeare, as Goethe, as Wagner had it.
As Byron could never have conceived "Julius Cæsar" or "Twelfth Night,"
so Tchaikovsky could never have composed such an opera as "Die
Meistersinger." Of Tchaikovsky's operas, the examples which seem
destined to live longest are those into which he was able, by the nature
of their literary contents, to infuse most of his exclusive temperament
and lyrical inspiration.




CHAPTER XIV

CONCLUSION


Although I have now passed in review the leading representatives of
Russian opera, my work would be incomplete if I omitted to mention some
of the many talented composers--the minor poets of music--who have
contributed works, often of great value and originality, to the
repertories of the Imperial Theatres and private opera companies in
Russia. To make a just and judicious selection is no easy task, for
there is an immense increase in the number of composers as compared to
five-and-twenty years ago, and the general level of technical culture
has steadily risen with the multiplication of provincial opera houses,
schools, and orchestras. If we cannot now discern such a galaxy of
native geniuses as Russia possessed in the second half of the nineteenth
century, we observe at least a very widespread and lively activity in
the musical life of the present day. The tendency to work in schools or
groups seems to be dying out, and the art of the younger musicians shows
a diffusion of influences, and a variety of expression, which make the
classification of contemporary composers a matter of considerable
difficulty.

In point of seniority, Edward Franzovich Napravnik has probably the
first claim on our attention. Born August 12/26, 1839, at Beisht, near
Königgratz, in Bohemia, he came to St. Petersburg in 1861 as director of
Prince Youssipov's private orchestra. In 1863 he was appointed organist
to the Imperial Theatres, and assistant to Liadov, who was then first
conductor at the opera. In consequence of the latter's serious illness
in 1869, Napravnik was appointed his successor and has held this
important post for over fifty years. He came into power at a time when
native opera was sadly neglected, and it is to his credit that he
continued his predecessor's work of reparation with tact and zeal. The
repertory of the Maryinsky Theatre, the home of Russian Opera in St.
Petersburg, has been largely compiled on his advice, and although some
national operas may have been unduly ignored, Napravnik has effected a
steady improvement on the past. Memorable performances of Glinka's _A
Life for the Tsar_; of Tchaikovsky's _Eugene Oniegin_, _The Oprichnik_,
and _The Queen of Spades_; and of Rimsky-Korsakov's operas, both of his
early and late period, have distinguished his reign as a conductor.
Under his command the orchestra of the Imperial Opera has come to be
regarded as one of the finest and best disciplined in the world. He has
also worked indefatigably to raise the social and cultural condition of
the musicians.

As a composer Napravnik is not strikingly original. His music has the
faults and the qualities generally found side by side in the creative
works of men who follow the conductor's vocation. His operas, as might
be expected from so experienced a musician, are solidly constructed,
written with due consideration for the powers of the soloists, and
effective as regards the use of choral masses. On the other hand, they
contain much that is purely imitative, and flashes of the highest
musical inspiration come at long intervals. His first opera, _The
Citizens of Nijny-Novgorod_,[50] was produced at the Maryinsky Theatre
in 1868. The libretto by N. Kalashnikov deals with an episode from the
same stirring period in Russian history as that of _A Life for the
Tsar_, when Minin, the heroic butcher of Nijny-Novgorod, gathered
together his fellow townsfolk and marched with the Boyard Pojarsky to
the defence of Moscow. The national sentiment as expressed in
Napravnik's music seems cold and conventional as compared with that of
Glinka or Moussorgsky. The choruses are often interesting, especially
one in the church style, sung at the wedding of Kouratov and Olga--the
hero and heroine of the opera--which, Cheshikin says, is based on a
theme borrowed from Bortniansky, and very finely handled. On the whole,
the work has suffered, because the nature of its subject brought it into
competition with Glinka's great patriotic opera. Tchaikovsky thought
highly of it, and considered that it held the attention of the audience
from first to last by reason of Napravnik's masterly sense of climax;
while he pronounced the orchestration to be brilliant, but never
overpowering.

A more mature work is _Harold_, an opera in five acts, or nine scenes,
first performed in St. Petersburg in November, 1886, with every possible
advantage in the way of scenery and costumes. Vassilievich, Melnikov and
Stravinsky took the leading male parts; while Pavlovskaya and Slavina
created the two chief female characters. The success of the opera was
immediate, the audience demanding the repetition of several numbers; but
it must have been to some extent a _succès d'estime_, for the work,
which is declamatory rather than lyrical, contains a good deal of
monotonous recitative and--because it is more modern and Wagnerian in
form--the fine choral effects which lent interest to Napravnik's first
opera are lacking here. In 1888 _Harold_ was given in Moscow and Prague.
Napravnik's third operatic work, _Doubrovsky_, was produced at the
Maryinsky Theatre in 1895, and soon travelled to Moscow, and the round
of the provincial opera houses, finding its way to Prague in 1896, and
to Leipzig in 1897. The libretto by Modeste Tchaikovsky, brother of the
composer, based upon Poushkin's ultra-romantic Byronic tale "Doubrovsky"
is not very inspiring. Such dramatic and emotional qualities as the
story contains have been ruthlessly deleted in this colourless
adaptation for operatic purposes. The musical material matches the book
in its facile and reminiscent quality; but this experienced conductor
writes gratefully and skilfully for the singers, the orchestra being
carefully subordinated to vocal effects. Interpolated in the opera, by
way of a solo for Doubrovsky, is a setting of Coppée's charming words
"Ne jamais la voir, ni l'entendre."

Napravnik's fourth opera, _Francesca da Rimini_, is composed to a
libretto by E. Ponomariev founded on Stephen Phillip's "Francesca and
Paolo." It was first presented to the public in November 1902, the
leading parts being created by that gifted pair, Nicholas and Medea
Figner. Less popular than _Harold_ or _Doubrovsky_, the musical value
of _Francesca_ is incontestably greater. Although the composer cannot
altogether free himself from the influence of Wagner's "Tristan und
Isolde," the subject has inspired him to write some very expressive and
touching music, especially in the scene where the unhappy lovers,
reading of Lancelot, seal their own doom with one supreme and guilty
kiss; and in the love duet in the third act. Besides these operas,
Napravnik composed a Prologue and six choral numbers for Count Alexis
Tolstoy's dramatic poem "Don Juan."

Although not of influential importance, the name of Paul Ivanovich
Blaramberg cannot be omitted from a history of Russian opera. The son of
a distinguished General of French extraction, he was born in Orenburg,
September 14/26, 1841. His first impulsion towards a musical career
originated in his acquaintance with Balakirev's circle; but his
relations with the nationalist school must have been fleeting, as some
time during the 'sixties he went abroad for a long stay, and on his
return to Russia, in 1870, he settled in Moscow, where he divided his
time between writing for the _Moscow Viedomosty_ and teaching theory in
the Philharmonic School. Later on he went to live on an estate belonging
to him in the Crimea.

Blaramberg has written five operas in all. _Skomorokhi_ (_The Mummers_),
a comic opera in three acts, based on one of Ostrovsky's comedies, was
composed in 1881, and was partly produced by the pupils of the opera
class of the Moscow Philharmonic Society, in the Little Theatre, in
1887. The opera is a curious blend, some portions of it being in the
declamatory manner of Dargomijsky, without his expressive realism, and
others in the conventional style of _opera buffa_, degenerating at times
into mere farcical patter-singing. It contains, however, a few
successful numbers in the folk-style, especially the love-duet in 5-4
measure, and shows the influence of the national school. The music of
_The Roussalka-Maiden_ is more cohesive, and written with a clearer
sense of form. There are fresh and pleasant pages in this work, in which
local colour is used with unaffected simplicity. Blaramberg's third
opera, _Mary of Burgundy_, is a more pretentious work, obviously
inspired by Meyerbeer. The subject is borrowed from Victor Hugo's drama
"Marie Tudor." It was produced at the Imperial Opera House, Moscow, in
1888. In his fourth opera, Blaramberg has not been fortunate in his
choice of a libretto, which is based upon one of Ostrovsky's "Dramatic
Chronicles," _Toushino_--rather a dull historical play dating from 1606,
the period of Boris Godounov's regency. Strong, direct, elementary
treatment, such as it might have received at the hands of Moussorgsky,
could alone have invested the subject with dramatic interest; whereas
Blaramberg has clothed it in music of rather conventional and insipid
character. In common with _Skomorokhi_, however, the work contains some
admirable touches of national colour, the composer imitating the style
of the folk-singing with considerable success. Blaramberg's fifth
operatic work, entitled _The Wave_ (_Volna_), is described as "an Idyll
in two acts," the subject borrowed from Byron's "Don Juan": namely, the
episode of Haidée's love for Don Juan, who is cast at her feet
"half-senseless from the sea." Of this work Cheshikin says: "It consists
of a series of duets and trios, with a set of Eastern dances and a
ballad for bass, thrown in for variety's sake, but having no real
connection with the plot. The music is reminiscent of Gounod; the melody
is of the popular order, but not altogether commonplace, and embellished
by Oriental _fiorituri_." An atmosphere of Eastern languor pervades the
whole opera, which may be attributed to the composer's long sojourn in
the Crimea.

A name more distinguished in the annals of Russian music is that of
Anton Stepanovich Arensky, born in Old Novgorod, in 1861. The son of a
medical man, he received his musical education at the St. Petersburg
Conservatoire, where he studied under Rimsky-Korsakov. On leaving this
institution, in 1882, he was appointed to a professorship at the Moscow
Conservatoire. He was also a member of the Council of the Synodal School
of Church Music at Moscow, and conducted the concerts of the Russian
choral society for a period of over seven years. In 1894, Balakirev
recommended Arensky for the Directorship of the Imperial Chapel at St.
Petersburg, a post which he held until 1901. Arensky's first opera _A
Dream on the Volga_ was produced at the Imperial Opera House, Moscow, in
December 1892. The work was not given in St. Petersburg until 1903, when
it was performed at the People's Palace. The subject is identical with
Ostrovsky's comedy "The Voyevode," which the dramatist himself arranged
for Tchaikovsky's use in 1867. Tchaikovsky, as we have seen, destroyed
the greater part of the opera which he wrote to this libretto, but the
manuscript of the book remained, and in 1882, at Arensky's request, he
handed it over to him "with his benediction." Arensky approached the
subject in a different spirit to Tchaikovsky, giving to his music
greater dramatic force and veracity, and making more of the Russian
element contained in the play. The scene entitled "The Voyevode's
Dream," in the fourth act, in which the startled, nightmare cries of the
guilty old Voyevode are heard in strange contrast to the lullaby sung by
the old woman as she rocks the child in the cradle, is highly
effective. In his use of the folk-tunes Arensky follows Melgounov's
system of the "natural minor," and his handling of national themes is
always appropriate and interesting. His harmonisation and elaboration by
means of variations of the familiar tune "Down by Mother Volga" is an
excellent example of his skill in this respect. Arensky's melody has not
the sweeping lines and sustained power of Tchaikovsky's, but his
tendency is lyrical and romantic rather than realistic and declamatory,
and his use of arioso is marked by breadth and clearness of outline.

Arensky's second opera _Raphael_ was composed for the first Congress of
Russian Artists held in Moscow; the occasion probably gives us the clue
to his choice of subject. The first production of the opera took place
in April 1894, and in the autumn of the following year it was given at
the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg. The part of Raphael, which is
written for a female voice, was sung by Slavina, La Fornarina being
represented by Mravina. The work consists of a series of small
delicately wrought musical cameos. By its tenderness and sweet romantic
fancy the music often recalls Tchaikovsky's _Eugene Oniegin_; but it is
more closely united with the text, and greater attention is paid to the
natural accentuation of the words. Between _Raphael_ and his last
opera, _Nal and Damyanti_, Arensky wrote music to Poushkin's poem "The
Fountain of Bakhchisarai," for the commemoration of the centenary of the
poet's birth. The analysis of this work does not come within the scope
of my subject, but I mention it because it was a great advance on any of
his previous vocal works and led up to the increased maturity shown in
_Nal and Damyanti_.

The libretto of this opera was prepared by Modeste Tchaikovsky from
Joukovsky's free translation of Rückert's poem. _Nal and Damyanti_ was
first performed at the Moscow Opera House in January 1904. Some external
influences are still apparent in the work, but they now proceed from
Wagner rather than from Tchaikovsky. The orchestral introduction, an
excellent piece of work, is occasionally heard in the concert room; it
depicts the strife between the spirits of light and darkness which forms
the basis of this Oriental poem. This opera is the most suitable for
stage performance of any of Arensky's works; the libretto is well
written, the plot holds our attention and the scenic effects follow in
swift succession. Here Arensky has thrown off the tendency to miniature
painting which is more or less perceptible in his earlier dramatic
works, and has produced an opera altogether on broader and stronger
lines. It is unfortunate, however, that he still shows a lack of
complete musical independence; as Cheshikin remarks: "from Tchaikovsky
to Wagner is rather an abrupt modulation!"

Perhaps the nearest approach to a recognised "school" now extant in
Russia is to be found in Moscow, where the influence of Tchaikovsky
lingers among a few of his direct disciples, such as Rachmaninov,
Grechyaninov, and Ippolitov-Ivanov.

Sergius Vassilievich Rachmaninov (b. 1873), so well known to us in
England as a pianist and composer of instrumental music, was a pupil of
the Moscow Conservatoire, where he studied under Taneiev and Arensky.
Dramatic music does not seem to exercise much attraction for this
composer. His one-act opera _Aleko_, the subject borrowed from
Poushkin's poem "The Gipsies," was originally written as a diploma work
for his final examination at the Conservatoire in 1872, and had the
honour of being produced at the Imperial Opera House, Moscow, in the
following season. _Aleko_ was given in St. Petersburg, at the Taurida
Palace, during the celebration of the Poushkin centenary in 1899, when
Shaliapin took part in the performance. It is a blend of the declamatory
and lyrical styles, and the music, though not strikingly original, runs
a pleasing, sympathetic, and somewhat uneventful course.

Alexander Tikhonovich Grechyaninov, born October 13/25 1864, in Moscow,
entered the Conservatoire of his native city where he made the
pianoforte his chief study under the guidance of Vassily Safonov. In
1893 he joined the St. Petersburg Conservatoire in order to learn
composition from Rimsky-Korsakov. The following year a quartet by him
won the prize at the competition organised by the St. Petersburg Chamber
Music Society. He wrote incidental music to Ostrovsky's "Snow Maiden"
and to Count Alexis Tolstoy's historical dramas "Tsar Feodor" and "Ivan
the Terrible" before attempting to compose the opera _Dobrynia Nikitich_
on the subject of one of the ancient _Byliny_ or national legends. The
introduction and third act of this work was first given in public in
February 1903, at one of Count Sheremetiev's popular concerts, and in
the following spring it was performed in its entirety at the Imperial
Opera House, with Shaliapin in the title rôle. It is a picturesque,
wholly lyrical work. Kashkin describes the music as agreeable and
flowing, even in those scenes where the nature of the subject demands a
more robust and vigorous musical treatment. _Dobrynia Nikitich_
obviously owes much to Glinka's _Russlan_ and _Liudmilla_ and Borodin's
_Prince Igor_.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN IN BOÏTO'S "MEFISTOFELE"]

Another musician who is clearly influenced by Tchaikovsky is Michael
Ippolitov-Ivanov (b. 1859), a distinguished pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov
at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire. He was afterwards appointed
Director of the School of Music, and of the Opera, at Tiflis in the
Caucasus, where his first opera _Ruth_ was produced in 1887. In 1893 he
accepted a professorship at the Moscow Conservatoire, and became
conductor of the Private Opera Company. Ippolitov-Ivanov is a great
connoisseur of the music of the Caucasian races, and also of the old
Hebrew melodies. He makes good use of the latter in _Ruth_, a graceful,
idyllic opera, the libretto of which does not keep very strictly to
Biblical traditions. In 1900 Ippolitov-Ivanov's second opera
_Assya_--the libretto borrowed from Tourgeniev's tale which bears the
same title--was produced in Moscow by the Private Opera Company. The
tender melancholy sentiment of the music reflects the influence of
Tchaikovsky's _Eugene Oniegin_; but by way of contrast there are some
lively scenes from German student life.

With the foregoing composers we may link the name of Vassily Sergeivich
Kalinnikov (1866-1900), who is known in this country by his Symphonies
in G minor and A major. He composed incidental music to Count Alexis
Tolstoy's play "Tsar Boris" (Little Theatre, Moscow, 1897) and the
Prologue to an opera entitled _The Year 1812_, which was never finished
in consequence of the musician's failing health and untimely death.
Kalinnikov hardly had time to outgrow his early phase of Tchaikovsky
worship.

Another Muscovite composer of widely different temperament to
Ippolitov-Ivanov, or Kalinnikov, is Sergius Ivanovich Taneiev,[51] born
November 13/25, 1856, in the Government of Vladimir. He studied under
Nicholas Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky at the Moscow Conservatoire and made
his début as a pianist at one of the concerts of the I.R.M.S. in 1875.
He remained Tchaikovsky's friend long after he had ceased to be his
pupil, and among the many letters they exchanged in after years there is
one published in Tchaikovsky's "Life and Letters," dated January 14/26,
1891, which appears to be a reply to Taneiev's question: "How should
Opera be written?" At this time Taneiev was engaged upon his _Orestes_,
the only work of the kind he has ever composed. The libretto, based upon
the Aeschylean tragedy, is the work of Benkstern and has considerable
literary merit. _Orestes_, although described by Taneiev as a Trilogy,
is, in fact, an opera in three acts entitled respectively: (1)
Agamemnon, (2) Choephoroe, (3) Eumenides. Neither in his choice of
subject, nor in his treatment of it, has Taneiev followed the advice
given him by Tchaikovsky in the letter mentioned above. Perhaps it was
not in his nature to write opera "just as it came to him," or to show
much emotional expansiveness. Neither does he attempt to write music
which is archaic in style; on the contrary, _Orestes_ is in many
respects a purely Wagnerian opera. _Leitmotifs_ are used freely, though
less systematically than in the later Wagnerian music-dramas. The opera,
though somewhat cold and laboured, is not wanting in dignity, and is
obviously the work of a highly educated musician. The representative
themes, if they are rather short-winded, are often very expressive; this
is the case with the _leitmotif_ of the ordeal of Orestes, which stands
out prominently in the first part of the work, and also forms the motive
of the short introduction to the Trilogy.

Towards the close of last century the new tendencies which are labelled
respectively "impressionism," "decadence," and "symbolism," according to
the point of view from which they are being discussed, began to make
themselves felt in Russian art, resulting in a partial reaction from the
vigorous realism of the 'sixties and 'seventies, and also from the
academic romanticism which was the prevalent note of the cosmopolitan
Russian school. What Debussy had derived from his study of Moussorgsky
and other Russian composers, the Slavs now began to take back with
interest from the members of the younger French school. The flattering
tribute of imitation hitherto offered to Glinka, Tchaikovsky, and Wagner
was now to be transferred to Gabriel Fauré, Debussy, and Ravel. In two
composers this new current of thought is clearly observed.

Vladimir Ivanovich Rebikov (b. 1866) received most of his musical
education in Berlin and Vienna. On his return to Russia he settled for a
time at Odessa, where his first opera _In the Storm_ was produced in
1894. A few years later he organised a new branch of the I.R.M.S. at
Kishiniev, but in 1901 he took up his abode permanently in Moscow.
Rebikov has expressed his own musical creed in the following words:
"Music is the language of the emotions. Our emotions have neither
starting point, definite form, nor ending: when we transmit them through
music it should be in conformity with this point of view."[52] Acting
upon this theory, Rebikov's music, though it contains a good deal that
is original, leaves an impression of vagueness and formlessness on the
average mind; not, of course, as compared with the very latest examples
of modernism, but in comparison with what immediately precedes it in
Russian music. In his early opera _In the Storm_, based on Korolenko's
legend "The Forest is Murmuring" (_Liess Shoumit_), the influence of
Tchaikovsky is still apparent. His second work, _The Christmas Tree_,
was produced at the Aquarium Theatre, Moscow, in 1903. Cheshikin says
that the libretto is a combination of one of Dostoievsky's tales with
Hans Andersen's "The Little Match-Girl" and Hauptmann's "Hannele." The
contrast between the sad reality of life and the bright visions of
Christmastide lend themselves to scenic effects. The music is
interesting by reason of its extreme modern tendencies. The opera
contains several orchestral numbers which seem to have escaped the
attention of enterprising conductors--a Valse, a March of Gnomes, a
Dance of Mummers, and a Dance of Chinese Dolls.

The second composer to whom I referred as showing signs of French
impressionist influence is Serge Vassilenko (b. 1872, Moscow). He first
came before the public in 1902 with a Cantata, _The Legend of the City
of Kitezh_. Like Rachmaninov's _Aleko_, this was also a diploma work.
The following year it was given in operatic form by the Private Opera
Company in Moscow. Some account of the beautiful mystical legend of the
city that was miraculously saved from the Tatars by the fervent prayers
of its inhabitants has already been given in the chapter dealing with
Rimsky-Korsakov. It remains to be said that Vassilenko's treatment of
the subject is in many ways strong and original. He is remarkably
successful in reviving the remote, fantastic, rather austere atmosphere
of Old Russia, and uses Slavonic and Tatar melodies in effective
contrast. The work, which does not appear to have become a repertory
opera, is worth the study of those who are interested in folk-music.

There is little satisfaction in presenting my readers with a mere list
of names, but space does not permit me to do much more in the case of
the following composers:

G. A. Kazachenko (b. 1858), of Malo-Russian origin, has written two
operas: _Prince Serebryany_ (1892) and _Pan Sotnik_ (1902),[53] which
have met with some success. A. N. Korestchenko, the composer of
_Belshazzar's Feast_ (1892), _The Angel of Death_ (Lermontov), and _The
Ice Palace_ (1900). N. R. Kochetov, whose _Terrible Revenge_ (Gogol) was
produced in St. Petersburg in 1897; and Lissenko, sometimes called "the
Malo-Russian Glinka," the composer of a whole series of operas that
enjoy some popularity in the southern provinces of Russia.

This list is by no means exhaustive, for the proportion of Russian
composers who have produced operatic works is a striking fact in the
artistic history of the country--a phenomenon which can only be
attributed to the encouragement held out to musicians by the great and
increasing number of theatres scattered over the vast surface of the
Empire.

As we have seen, all the leading representatives of Russian music,
whether they belonged to the nationalist movement or not, occupied
themselves with opera. There are, however, two distinguished exceptions.
Anatol Constantinovich Liadov (b. 1855) and Alexander Constantinovich
Glazounov (b. 1865) were both members, at any rate for a certain period
of their lives, of the circles of Balakirev and Belaiev, but neither of
them have shared the common attraction to dramatic music. Glazounov, it
is true, has written some remarkably successful ballets--"Raymonda" and
"The Seasons"--but shows no inclination to deal with the problems of
operatic style.

The "opera-ballet," which is not--what at the present moment it is
frequently being called--a new form of operatic art, but merely the
revival of an old one,[54] is engaging the attention of the followers of
Rimsky-Korsakov. At the same time it should be observed that the
application of this term to _A Night in May_ and _The Golden Cock_ is
not sanctioned by what the composer himself has inscribed upon the title
pages.

At the present time the musical world is eagerly expecting the
production of Igor Stravinsky's first opera _The Nightingale_. This
composer, by his ballets _The Bird of Fire_, _Petrouchka_, and _The
Sacrifice to Spring_, has worked us up through a steady _crescendo_ of
interest to a climax of curiosity as to what he will produce next. So
far, we know him only as the composer of highly original and often
brilliant instrumental works. It is difficult to prophesy what his
treatment of the vocal element in music may prove to be. The work is in
three acts, based upon Hans Andersen's story of the Emperor of China and
the Nightingale. The opera was begun several years ago, and we are
therefore prepared to find in it some inequality of style; but the
greater part of it, so we are told, bears the stamp of Stravinsky's
"advanced" manner, and the fundamental independence and novelty of the
score of _The Sacrifice to Spring_ leads us to expect in _The
Nightingale_ a work of no ordinary power.

Russia, from the earliest institution of her opera houses, has always
been well served as regards foreign artists. All the great European
stars have been attracted there by the princely terms offered for their
services. Russian opera, however, had to be contented for a long period
with second-rate singers. Gradually the natural talent of the race was
cultivated, and native singers appeared upon the scene who were equal in
every respect to those imported from abroad. The country has always been
rich in bass and baritone voices. One of the most remarkable singers of
the last century, O. A. Petrov (1807-1878), was a bass-baritone of a
beautiful quality, with a compass extending from B to G sharp. He made
his début at the Imperial Opera, St. Petersburg, in 1830, as Zoroaster
in "The Magic Flute." Stassov often spoke to me of this great artist,
the operatic favourite of his young days. There were few operatic stars,
at least at that period, who did not--so Stassov declared--make
themselves ridiculous at times. Petrov was the exception. He was a great
actor; his facial play was varied and expressive, without the least
exaggeration; he was picturesque, forcible, graceful, and, above all,
absolutely free from conventional pose. His interpretation of the parts
of Ivan Sousanin in _A Life for the Tsar_, the Miller in _The
Roussalka_, of Leporello in _The Stone Guest_, and, even in his last
days, of Varlaam in _Boris Godounov_, were inimitable for their depth of
feeling, historic truth, intellectual grasp, and sincerity. Artistically
speaking, Petrov begat Shaliapin.

To Petrov succeeded Melnikov, a self-taught singer, who was particularly
fine in the parts of Russlan, the Miller, and Boris Godounov. Among true
basses Karyakin possessed a phenomenal voice, but not much culture. A
critic once aptly compared his notes for power, depth, and roundness to
a row of mighty oaken barrels.

Cui, in his "Recollections of the Opera," speaks of the following
artists, stars of the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, between 1872
and 1885: Menshikova, who possessed a powerful soprano voice of rare
beauty; Raab, who was musically gifted; Levitskaya, distinguished for
her sympathetic qualities, and Pavlovskaya, a remarkably intelligent and
"clever" artist. But his brightest memories of this period centre around
Platonova. Her voice was not of exceptional beauty, but she was so
naturally gifted, and her impersonation so expressive, that she never
failed to make a profound impression. "How she loved Russian art," says
Cui, "and with what devotion she was prepared to serve it in comparison
with most of the favourite singers of the day! None of us native
composers, old or young, could have dispensed with her. The entire
Russian repertory rested on her, and she bore the burden courageously
and triumphantly." Her best parts were Antonida in _A Life for the
Tsar_, Natasha in _The Roussalka_, Marina in _Boris Godounov_, and
Donna Anna in _The Stone Guest_.

Among contraltos, after Leonova's day, Lavrovskaya and Kroutikova were
the most popular. The tenors Nikolsky, Orlov, and Vassiliev all had fine
voices. Orlov was good as Michael Toucha in _The Maid of Pskov_; while
Vassiliev's best part was the King of Berendei in Rimsky-Korsakov's
_Snow Maiden_. Another tenor, whose reputation however was chiefly made
abroad, was Andreiev.

Later on, during the 'eighties and 'nineties, Kamenskaya, a fine
soprano, was inimitable in the part of Rogneda (Serov), and in
Tchaikovsky's _Maid of Orleans_. Dolina, a rich and resonant
mezzo-soprano, excelled as Ratmir in Glinka's _Russlan_. Slavina, whose
greatest success was in Bizet's "Carmen," and Mravina, a high
_coloratura_ soprano, were both favourites at this time. To this period
also belong the triumphs of the Figners--husband and wife. Medea Figner
was perhaps at her best as Carmen, and her husband was an admirable Don
José, but it is as the creator of Lensky in _Eugene Oniegin_, and of
Herman in _The Queen of Spades_ that he will live in the affections of
the Russian public.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN AS DON QUIXOTE]

In Feodor Ivanovich Shaliapin, Russia probably possesses the greatest
living operatic artist. Born February 1/13, 1873, in the picturesque
old city of Kazan, he is of peasant descent. He had practically no
education in childhood, and as regards both his intellectual and musical
culture he is, to all intents and purposes, an autodidact. For a time he
is said to have worked with a shoe-maker in the same street where Maxim
Gorky was toiling in the baker's underground shop, so graphically
described in his tale "Twenty-six and One." For a short period Shaliapin
sang in the Archbishop's choir, but at seventeen he joined a local
operetta company which was almost on the verge of bankruptcy. When no
pay was forthcoming, he earned a precarious livelihood by frequenting
the railway station and doing the work of an outporter. He was often
perilously near starvation. Later on, he went with a travelling company
of Malo-Russians to the region of the Caspian and the Caucasus. On this
tour he sang--and danced, when occasion demanded. In 1892 he found
himself in Tiflis, where his voice and talents attracted the attention
of a well-known singer Oussatov, who gave him some lessons and got him
engaged at the opera in that town. He made his début at Tiflis in _A
Life for the Tsar_. In 1894 he sang in St. Petersburg, at the Summer
Theatre in the Aquarium, and also at the Panaevsky Theatre. The
following year he was engaged at the Maryinsky Theatre, but the
authorities seem to have been blind to the fact that in Shaliapin
they had acquired a second Petrov. His appearances there were not very
frequent. It was not until 1896, when the lawyer-millionaire Mamantov
paid the fine which released him from the service of the Imperial Opera
House, and invited him to join the Private Opera Company at Moscow, that
Shaliapin got his great chance in life. He became at once the idol of
the Muscovites, and admirers journeyed from St. Petersburg and the
provinces to hear him. When I visited St. Petersburg in 1897, I found
Vladimir Stassov full of enthusiasm for the genius of Shaliapin.
Unluckily for me, the season of the Private Opera Company had just come
to an end, but I learnt at secondhand to know and appreciate Shaliapin
in all his great impersonations. By 1899 the Imperial Opera of Moscow
had engaged him at a salary of 60,000 roubles a year. His fame soon
spread abroad and he was in request at Monte Carlo, Buenos Aires, and
Milan; in the last named city he married, and installed himself in a
house there for a time. Visits to New York and Paris followed early in
this century, and finally, through the enterprise of Sir Joseph Beecham,
London had an opportunity of hearing this great artist during the season
of 1913. Speaking to me of his London experiences, Shaliapin was
evidently deeply moved by, and not a little astonished at, the
enthusiastic welcome accorded to him and to his compatriots. He had, of
course, been told that we were a cold and phlegmatic race, but he found
in our midst such heart-felt warmth and sincerity as he had never before
experienced outside Russia.

Shaliapin's romantic history has proved a congenial soil for the growth
of all manner of sensational tales and legends around his life and
personality. They make amusing material for newspaper and magazine
articles; but as I am here concerned with history rather than with
fiction, I will forbear to repeat more than one anecdote connected with
his career. The incident was related to me by a famous Russian musician.
I will not, however, vouch for its veracity, but only for its highly
picturesque and dramatic qualities. A few years ago the chorus of the
Imperial Opera House desired to present a petition to the Emperor. It
was arranged that after one of the earlier scenes in _Boris Godounov_
the curtain should be rung up again, and the chorus should be discovered
kneeling in an attitude of supplication, their faces turned towards the
Imperial box, while their chosen representative should offer the
petition to the "exalted personage" who was attending the opera that
night. When the curtain went up for the second time it disclosed an
unrehearsed effect. Shaliapin, who was not aware of the presentation of
the petition by the chorus, had not left the stage in time. There, among
the crowd of humble petitioners, stood Tsar Boris; dignified, colossal,
the very personification of kingly authority, in his superb robes of
cloth of gold, with the crown of Monomakh upon his head. For one
thrilling, sensational moment Tsar Boris stood face to face with Tsar
Nicholas II.; then some swift impulse, born of custom, of good taste, or
of the innate spirit of loyalty that lurks in every Russian heart,
brought the dramatic situation to an end. Tsar Boris dropped on one
knee, mingling with the supplicating crowd, and etiquette triumphed, to
the inward mortification of a contingent of hot-headed young
revolutionists who had hoped to see him defy convention to the last.

In Russia, where some kind of political _leitmotif_ is bound to
accompany a great personality through life, however much he may wish to
disassociate himself from it, attempts have been made to identify
Shaliapin with the extreme radical party. It is sufficient, and much
nearer the truth, to say that he is a patriot, with all that the word
implies of love for one's country as it is, and hope for what its
destinies may yet be. Shaliapin could not be otherwise than patriotic,
seeing that he is Russian through and through. When we are in his
society the two qualities which immediately rivet our attention are his
Herculean virility and his _Russian-ness_. He is Russian in his
sincerity and candour, in his broad human sympathies, and in a certain
child-like simplicity which is particularly engaging in this
much-worshipped popular favourite. He is Russian, too, in his extremes
of mood, which are reflected so clearly in his facial expression. Silent
and in repose, he has the look of almost tragic sadness and patient
endurance common in the peasant types of Great Russia. But suddenly his
whole face is lit up with a smile which is full of drollery, and his
humour is frank and infectious.

As an actor his greatest quality appears to me to be his extraordinary
gift of identification with the character he is representing. Shaliapin
does not merely throw himself into the part, to use a phrase commonly
applied to the histrionic art. He seems to disappear, to empty himself
of all personality, that Boris Godounov or Ivan the Terrible may be
re-incarnated for us. It might pass for some occult process; but it is
only consummate art. While working out his own conception of a part,
unmoved by convention or opinion, Shaliapin neglects no accessory study
that can heighten the realism of his interpretation. It is impossible to
see him as Ivan the Terrible, or Boris, without realising that he is
steeped in the history of those periods, which live again at his
will.[55] In the same way he has studied the masterpieces of Russian art
to good purpose, as all must agree who have compared the scene of Ivan's
frenzied grief over the corpse of Olga, in the last scene of
Rimsky-Korsakov's opera, with Repin's terrible picture of the Tsar,
clasping in his arms the body of the son whom he has just killed in a
fit of insane anger. The agonising remorse and piteous senile grief have
been transferred from Repin's canvas to Shaliapin's living picture,
without the revolting suggestion of the shambles which mars the
painter's work. Sometimes, too, Shaliapin will take a hint from the
living model. His dignified make-up as the Old Believer Dositheus, in
Moussorgsky's _Khovanstchina_, owes not a little to the personality of
Vladimir Stassov.

Here is an appreciation of Shaliapin which will be of special interest
to the vocalist:

"One of the most striking features of his technique is the remarkable
fidelity of word utterance which removes all sense of artificiality, so
frequently associated with operatic singing. His diction floats on a
beautiful cantilena, particularly in his _mezzo-voce_ singing,
which--though one would hardly expect it from a singer endowed with such
a noble bass voice--is one of the most telling features of his
performance. There is never any striving after vocal effects, and his
voice is always subservient to the words. This style of singing is
surely that which Wagner so continually demanded from his interpreters;
but it is the antithesis of that staccato 'Bayreuth bark' which a few
years ago so woefully misrepresented the master's ideal of fine lyric
diction. The atmosphere and tone-colour which Shaliapin imparts to his
singing are of such remarkable quality that one feels his interpretation
of Schubert's 'Doppelgänger' must of necessity be a thing of genius,
unapproachable by other contemporary singers. The range of his voice is
extensive, for though of considerable weight in the lower parts, his
upper register is remarkable in its conformity to his demands. The
sustained upper E natural with which he finishes that great song 'When
the king went forth to war,' is uttered with a delicate _pianissimo_
that would do credit to any lyric tenor or soprano. Yet his technique is
of that high order that never obtrudes itself upon the hearer. It is
always his servant, never his master. His readings are also his own, and
it is his absence of all conventionality that makes his singing of the
'Calunnia' aria from 'Il Barbiere' a thing of delight, so full of humour
is its interpretation, and so satisfying to the demands of the most
exacting '_bel cantist_.' The reason is not far to seek, for his method
is based upon a thoroughly sound breath control, which produces such
splendid _cantabile_ results. Every student should listen to this great
singer and profit by his art."[56]

A few concluding words as to the present conditions of opera in Russia.
They have greatly changed during the last thirty years. In St.
Petersburg the Maryinsky Theatre, erected in 1860, renovated in 1894,
and more or less reorganised in 1900, was for a long time the only
theatre available for Russian opera in the capital. In 1900 the People's
Palace, with a theatre that accommodates 1,200 spectators, was opened
with a performance of _A Life for the Tsar_; here the masterpieces of
national opera are now given from time to time at popular prices. Opera
is also given in the great hall of the Conservatoire, formerly the
"Great Theatre"; and occasionally in the "Little Theatre." In Moscow the
"Great Theatre" or Opera House is the official home of music-drama. It
now has as rivals, the Zimin Opera (under the management of S. I. Zimin)
and the National Opera. In 1897 the Moscow Private Opera Company was
started with the object of producing novelties by Russian composers,
and encouraging native opera in general. It was located at first in the
Solodovnikov Theatre, under the management of Vinter, and the
conductorship of Zeleny. It soon blossomed into a fine organisation when
S. Mamantov, a wealthy patron of art, came to its support. Through its
palmy days (1897-1900), Ippolitov-Ivanov was the conductor, and a whole
series of national operas by Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, and others were
superbly staged. Shaliapin first made his mark at this time.

Numerous private opera companies sprang up in Russia about the close of
last century. Cheshikin gives a list of over sixty, mounting opera in
the provinces between 1896 and 1903; indeed the whole country from
Archangel to Astrakhan and from Vilna to Vladivostok seems to have been
covered by these enterprising managers; and the number has doubtless
increased in the last ten years. When, in addition to these, we reckon
the many centres which boast a state-supported opera house, it would
appear that Russians have not much to complain of as regards this form
of entertainment. But the surface of the country is vast, and there are
still districts where cultivated music, good or bad, is an unknown
enjoyment. Nor must we imagine that the standard of these provincial
private companies is always an exalted one, or that national operas, if
presented at all, are mounted as we are accustomed to see them in
Western Europe. We may hope that the case cited by a critic, of a Moscow
manager who produced Donizetti's "La Fille du Régiment" under the title
of "A Daughter of the Regiment of La Grande Armée," in a Russian version
said to have been the work of an English nursery governess, with a
picture of the Battle of Marengo as a set background, was altogether
exceptional. But indifferent performances do occur, even in a country so
highly educated in operatic matters as Russia may fairly claim to be.

As I write the last pages of this book, the comprehensiveness of its
title fills me with dismay. "An Introduction to the Study of Russian
Opera" would have been more modest and appropriate, since no complete
and well-balanced survey of the subject could possibly be contained in a
volume of this size. Much that is interesting has been passed over
without comment; and many questions demanded much fuller treatment. One
fact, however, I have endeavoured to set forth in these pages in the
clearest and most emphatic terms: Russian opera is beyond all question a
genuine growth of the Russian soil; it includes the aroma and flavour of
its native land "as the wine must taste of its own grapes." Its roots
lie deep in the folk-music, where they have spread and flourished
naturally and without effort. So profoundly embedded and so full of
vitality are its fibres, that nothing has been able to check their
growth and expansion. Discouraged by the Church, its germs still lived
on in the music of the people; neglected by the professional element, it
found shelter in the hearts of amateurs; refused by the Imperial Opera
Houses, it flourished in the drawing-rooms of a handful of enthusiasts.
It has always existed in some embryonic form as an inherent part of the
national life; and when at last it received official recognition, it
quickly absorbed all that was given to it in the way of support and
attention, but persisted in throwing out its vigorous branches in
whatever direction it pleased. Persecution could not kill it, nor
patronage spoil it; because it is one with the soul of the people. May
it long retain its lofty idealism and sane vigour!




INDEX OF OPERAS


Abizare, 35

Acts of Artaxerxes, The, 16, 17

Act of Joseph, The, 32

Adam and Eve, 18

Alcide, 53

Aleko, 373

Alexander and Darius, 25

Americans, The, 41, 43

Amore per Regnante, 34

Angel of Death, The, 380

Angelo, 272, 273, 274

Aniouta, 40, 41, 42, 96

Armida, 50

Askold's Tomb, 64

Assya, 375


Belshazzar's Feast, 380

Berenice, 34

Bird of Fire, The, 59, 382

Boeslavich, The Novgorodian Hero, 40, 41

Boris Godounov, 225, 228-240, 250, 388

Boundary Hills, The, 64

Boyarinya Vera Sheloga, 291, 308


Caprice d'Oxane, Le (_see_ Cherevichek), 304

Captain's Daughter, The, 280

Captive in the Caucasus, The, 269, 274

Cephalus and Procius, 36

Charodeika (_see_ The Enchantress)

Chaste Joseph, The, 18

Cherevichek, 342, 343, 358, 359

Chlorida and Milon, 41

Christmas Eve Revels, 304, 305, 306, 341

Christmas Festivals of Old, 67

Christmas Tree, The, 379

Christus, 166

Citizens of Nijny-Novgorod, The, 364, 365

Clemenza di Tito, La, 36

Cosa Rara, La, 49

Cossack Poet, The, 59

Credulity, 67

Cruelty of Nero, The, 25


Daphnis Pursued, 28

Deborah, 66

Demofonti, 53

Demon, The, 165, 172-177

Dianino, 49

Dido Forsaken, 35

Didone, 52

Dmitri Donskoi, 163, 168-172

Dobrynia Nikitich, 59, 374

Doubrovsky, 366

Dream on the Volga, A, 370, 371


Early Reign of Oleg, The, 47, 50

Enchantress, The, 353, 354, 358

Epic of the Army of Igor, The, 2

Esmeralda, 119, 124, 171

Esther, 66

Eudocia Crowned, or Theodosia II, 35

Eugene Oniegin, 344-347, 350, 353, 355, 357, 358, 359, 363, 371, 375


Fair at Sorochinsi, The, 228

Fall of Sophonisba, The, 27

Faucon, Le, 54

Feast in Time of Plague, A, 277

Fedoul and Her Children, 47, 49

Feramors, 165, 181

Feveï, Tsarevich, 46, 47

Fils Rival, Le, 54

Fingal, 66

Flibustier, Le, 275, 276

Forced Marriage, The, 67

Forza dell'Amore e dell'Odio, La, 34

Francesca da Rimini, 366, 367


Golden Calf, The, 22

Golden Cock, The, 325-331, 382

Good Luke, or Here's my Day, 49

Good Maiden, The, 40

Goriousha, 166

Gostinny Dvor of St. Petersburg, The, 45

Gromoboi, 65


Hadji-Abrek, 164, 171

Harold, 365, 366

Homesickness, 64


Ice Palace, The, 380

Ilya the Hero, 59, 60

In the Storm, 378

Invisible Prince, The, 59

Iolanthe, 357, 358

Iphigenia in Aulis, 49

Iphigenia in Taurida, 52

Ivan Sousanin, 59, 60, 62, 90, 91, 92

Ivan the Terrible (_see_ The Maid of Pskov)


Judith, 150-154, 191

Judith cut off the head of Holofernes, How, 18, 19, 20


Kastchei the Immortal, 318, 319, 320

Khovanstchina, 241-248, 293

Kinder der Heide, 165

Kitezh, the Invisible City of, 321-325, 329

---- The legend of the City of, 379, 380


Legend of Tsar Saltan, The, 315, 316

Life for the Tsar, A, 62, 86, 93-104, 145, 171, 291, 292, 363, 393

Love Brings Trouble, 46


Maccabees, The, 165

Mahomet and Zulima, 25

Maid of Orleans, The, 349, 350, 358

Maid of Pskov, The, 171, 283, 289-295, 308, 340

Mam'selle Fifi, 276

Mandarin's Son, The, 269

Mary of Burgundy, 368

Match-Maker, The, 226, 227

Mazeppa, 350-353, 358, 359

Médecin malgré lui, Le, 25

Merchant Kalashnikov, The, 166, 177-180

Miller, The Wizard-, 40, 42, 44, 56, 96

Minerva Triumphant, 39

Miroslava, or the Funeral Pyre, 60

Miser, The, 48

Mithriadates, 35

Mlada, 303, 304

Moonlight Night, or The Domovoi, A, 68

Moses, 166

Mountains of Piedmont, The, 60

Mozart and Salieri, 307, 317

Mummers, The, 367


Nal and Damyanti, 372

Nativity, 22

Nebuchadnezzar, 21

Nero, 165, 171

Night in May, A, 295-299, 382

Nightingale, The, 382


OEdipus, 224, 225

OEdipus in Athens, 66

OEdipus Rex, 66

Oprichnik, The, 337-341, 350, 358, 359, 363

Orestes, 376, 377

Orpheus, 41

Orpheus and Eurydice, 18

Pan Sotnik, 380

Pan Tvardovsky, 64

Pan Voyevode, 320, 321

Papagei, Der, 166

Paradise Lost, 165

Peasants, The, or The Unexpected Meeting, 59

Petrouchka, 322, 382

Pique-Dame (_see_ The Queen of Spades)

Power of Evil, The, 157, 158, 159

Prince Igor, 171, 182, 192, 206, 256-266, 296, 374

Prince Kholmsky, 104

Prince Serebryany, 380

Prisoner in the Caucasus, The, 68, 188

Prodigal Son, The, 22


Queen of Spades, The, 354-357, 358, 359, 363

Quinto Fabio, 53


Raphael, 371

Regeneration, 40

Ré Pastore, Il, 52

Rogneda, 154, 155, 156

Roussalka, The, 121-130

Roussalka of the Dnieper, The, 59

Roussalka-Maiden, The, 368

Ruins of Babylon, The, 59

Russlan and Liudmilla, 77, 83, 105-114, 145, 261, 291, 292, 374

Ruth, 375


Sadko, The Rich Merchant, 1

Sadko, a legendary opera, 251, 288, 309-312

Saint Alexis, 21

Salammbô, 225

Saracen, The, 274, 275

Scipio Africanus, 27

Seleucus, 35

Servilia, 317, 318

Shulamite, The, 166, 180

Sibirskie Okhotniki (The Siberian Hunters), 164

Sinner's Repentance, The, 38

Skomorokhi (_see_ The Mummers)

Snow-Maiden, The, 295, 299-303

Stone Guest, The, 123, 130-136, 187, 218, 251, 261, 290

Svietlana, 60


Tale of the Invisible City of Kitezh, The, (_see_ Kitezh)

Taniousha, or the Fortunate Meeting, 39, 42

Terrible Revenge, 380

Three Hunchback Brothers, The, 59

Tobias, 18

Tom the Fool (Thomouska-Dourachok), 163

Toushino, 368

Tower of Babel, The, 165, 171, 180

Tradimento per l'honore, Il, 27

Triumph of Bacchus, The, 120, 122

Tsar's Bride, The, 312-315

Tutor-Professor, The, 41

Two Antons, The, 48


Undine, 337


Vadim, or The Twenty Sleeping Maidens, 64

Vakoula the Smith (_see_ Le Caprice d'Oxane), 304, 342

Veillée des Paysans, La, 67

Village Festival, a, 49

Voyevode, The, 336-338


Wave, The, 369

William Ratcliff, 269-272

Wizard, The Fortune-Teller and the Match-maker, The, 41


Year 1812, The, 375

Youth of John III, The, 60




INDEX OF NAMES


Ablessimov, 40

Aivazovsky, 112

Aksakov, 64

Alabiev, 66, 67, 68, 88

Alekseievna, Tsarevna Natalia, 30

Alexander I., 46, 57

---- II, 89

---- III, 294

Andreiev, 385

Anne, Empress (Duchess of Courland), 30, 32, 55

Antonolini, 59

Araja, Francesco, 34, 35, 36, 37

Arensky, Anton Stepanovich, 281, 369, 373

Arnold, Youry, 61, 164, 171

Asanchievsky, 284


Bakhtourin, 105

Bakounin, 146

Balakirev, Mily Alexeich, 122, 145, 149,
   183-197, 198-207, 217, 223, 254, 267, 280, 282, 334, 335, 367, 381

Baratinsky, 115

Basili, 85

Bayan, the Skald, 6, 108

Belaiev, Mitrofane Petrovich, 205-209, 381

Bellaigue, M. Camille, 102, 103, 236, 302

Berezovsky, M. S., 44, 52, 53

---- V. V., 3

Bielsky, V., 325, 329

Biron, Duke of Courland, 33, 38

Blaramberg, Paul Ivanovich, 367-369

Borodin, Alexander, 186, 190, 192, 199, 204, 206, 216, 253-266, 270, 303

Bortniansky, Dmitri Stepanovich, 53, 54, 365

Bourenin, 250

Bruneau, Alfred, 97


Canobbio, 47

Carlisle, Lord, 13

Catherine I, Empress, 31

---- II, 36, 39, 40, 45, 49-52, 56

Cavos, Catterino, 58-63, 69, 92

Cheshikin, 19, 28, 35, 54, 63, 99, 143, 168,
   175, 262, 294, 304, 317, 319, 352, 357, 365, 369, 373, 379, 394

Cimarosa, 37, 44

Constantine, the Grand Duke, 286, 357

Cui, César, 186, 188, 192, 194,
   217, 223, 264, 266-280, 291, 303, 335, 340, 384


Dargomijsky, Alexander Sergeivich, 117-136, 137,
   138, 156, 168, 171, 186, 195, 216, 218, 223, 228, 270, 307, 368

Davidov, 309

Dehn, Siegfried, 87, 88, 115, 119, 163

Dimitri of Rostov (Daniel Touptalo), 21, 22, 38

Dmitrievsky, Ivan, 38, 39

Dolina, 385

Dostoievsky, 379

Dütsh, 208


Elizabeth, Empress, 35, 38, 56

Esposito, 307


Famitzin, Professor, 196

Feodorovna, Tsaritsa Prascovya, 30

---- Empress Alexandra, 164

Field, John, 63, 79, 86

Figner, Nicholas and Medea, 366, 385

Fletcher, Giles, 10, 11

Fomin, E. Platovich, 39-45, 55, 96

Fürst, Otto, 29, 30


Galuppi, Baldassare, 44, 52, 53

Gedeonov, 92, 105, 128, 134, 303

Glazounov, Alexander C., 206, 267, 381

Glinka, Michael Ivanovich, 4, 62, 63, 68-88,
   118, 119, 120, 137, 145, 153, 156, 185, 202,
   216, 218, 253, 262, 270, 281, 290, 294, 334, 365

---- his Operas, 88-116

Godounov, Boris, 12, 368

Gogol, 88, 129, 270, 295, 341

Golenishtiev-Koutouzov, Count, 231

Golovin, Boyard, 24

Goncharov, 262

Gorbounov, 35, 39

Goussakovsky, A., 211

Gregory, Yagan Gottfried, 15, 16, 17, 21

Gretchyaninov, Alexander Tikhonovich, 281, 373

Gutovsky, Simon, 17


Herke, 195

Holstein, Duke of, 8, 31

Hunke, 146


Ilyinski, Dimitri, 29

Inglis, Peter, 16

Ippolitov-Ivanov, Michael, 281, 374, 394

Ivan the Terrible, 12


Joseph, the Patriarch, 12

Joukovsky, 60, 64, 65, 86, 89, 115, 221, 348, 372

Jurgenson, J. B., 36, 42


Kalashinkev, 159

Kalashnikov, N., 364

Kalinnikov, Vassily Sergeivich, 375

Kamenskaya, 385

Kanillé, 282

Kapnist, 41

Karamzin, 57, 221, 233

Karatagyn, 42, 44

Karmalina, the sisters, 128, 131, 194, 204

Karyakin, 384

Kashkin, 276, 374

Kazachenko, G. A., 380

Kistner, Baron, 291

Kobyakov, 49

Kochetov, N. R., 380

Koltsov, 221

Kondratiev, 230

Korestchenko, A. N., 380

Korf, Baron, 212

Korolenko, 379

Koslov, 86

Koukolnik, 104

Koulikov, 177

Kozlovsky, Joseph Antonovich, 65, 66

Kroutitsky, 42

Kroutikova, 385

Krylov, 57, 59, 115

Kunst, Johann Christian, 24, 25, 26, 29


Lajechnikov, 337

Laroche, 195

Lavrov, 208

Lavrovsky, Madame, 344, 385

Lefort, General Franz, 25

Lenz, 147, 218

Leonova, Mme., 232, 269, 289, 385

Lermontov, 165, 172, 177, 211, 267, 334, 380

Levitskaya, 384

Liadov, Anatol C., 167, 206, 211, 281, 363, 381

Liapounov, 203

Likhatchiev, 13

Lissenko, 380

Lobanov, D., 152

Locatelli, 56

Lodyjensky, Nicholas, 186, 211

Lomakin, 190


Maikov, V., 49, 172

Maleziomova, Mme., 167

Mamantov, 266, 387, 394

Mann, 31

Martin, Vincente, 48, 49

Martini, Padre, 44

Matinsky, Michael, 40, 45

Matveiev, Boyard, 13, 16, 17, 23

Maupassant, Guy de, 276

Maurer, Ludwig, 63, 66

Meck, Nadejda von, 285, 348, 360

Medoks, 56

Melgounov, 371

Melnikov, 176, 266, 272, 289, 365, 384

Menshikova, 384

Mey, 291

Meyer, Carl, 79

Mikhaïlovich, Alexis Tsar, 8, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 21, 22

Milioukhov, Professor, 5

Molas, Mme. (_see_ Pourgold), 194

Moniuszko, 268

Morfill, R. W. Professor, 256

Moussorgsky, Modeste, 70, 140,
   147, 186, 188, 192, 196, 216,
   217-252, 253, 264, 289, 291, 303, 365

Mravina, 371, 385

Muscovy, Grand Duke of, 8

Myassedov, 188


Napravnik, Edward Franzovich, 269, 289, 309, 363-367

Naryshkin, Natalia, 13

Nekrassov, 129, 221

Nicholas I, the Emperor, 92

---- II, 268

Nikitin, 129, 221

Nikolaiev, 41

Nikolsky, Professor, 228

Nikolsky (Singer), 385

Nossov, 39


Obmana, 79

Odoevsky, Prince, 89, 121

Oginsky, Prince Gregory, 27

Olearius, Adam, 8

Orlov, 289, 385

Oserov, 66

Ostrovsky, 157, 158, 270, 295, 336, 368, 370

Oulibishev, 147, 183

Ouroussov, Prince, 56

Oussatov, 386


Paesiello, Giovanni, 37, 44, 51

Paskievich, Vassily, 45, 46, 47, 48, 55

Patouillet, 8, 21, 22

Paul I, the Emperor, 49

---- Petrovich, Tsarevich, 54, 57

Pavlovna, Grand Duchess Helena, 142, 151, 163, 164, 341

Pavlovskaya, 365, 384

Peter the Great, 23, 24, 26, 31

Petrov, Ossip, 64, 93, 128, 176, 289, 383

Petrovsky, 318

Platonova, 289, 384

Plestcheiev, 67, 270

Procopius, 2

Prokovich, Bishop Theofane, 32

Polonsky, 341, 342, 359

Polotsky, Simeon, 19, 21, 22

Ponomariev, E., 366

Popov, M. V., 40, 41

Potemkin, 14, 44, 51

Pourgold, Alexandra N. (_see_ Molas), 194, 228

---- Nadejda N. (_see_ Rimsky-Korsakov), 195

Poushkin, 57, 89, 105, 121, 123, 129, 131, 221,
   233, 234, 262, 269, 277, 280, 307, 325, 344, 350, 355, 366, 373

---- Count Moussin-, 256


Raab, 384

Rachmaninov, Sergius Vassilievich, 321, 373

Raphael, 371

Razoumovsky, Count, 37, 45

Rebikov, Vladimir Ivanovich, 378

Richepin, Jean, 276

Rimsky-Korsakov, 70, 123, 167, 186,
   187, 188, 189, 192, 196, 199, 205,
   206, 216, 219, 226, 231, 248-252, 281-333, 369, 365

---- Mme. (_see_ Pourgold), 195

Rodislavsky, 39

Rosenburg, 165

Rozen, Baron, 90

Rubinstein, Anton, 139, 142, 143, 149, 162-182, 196, 201, 215, 294

---- Nicholas, 165, 376


Salieri, 44

Sarti, Giuseppe, 37, 44, 47, 50, 51

Savinov, the Protopope, 17

Sekar-Rojansky, 309

Serov, Alexander, 19,
   54, 65, 98, 106, 128, 133,
   143-160, 170, 191, 195, 271, 294, 335, 341

---- his operas, 150-160

Shakovsky, Prince, 60, 66

Shaliapin, Feodor I., 64, 128, 266, 291,
   293, 307, 373, 374, 383, 385-393, 394

Sheremetiev, Count, 374

Shestakov, Liudmilla Ivanovna, 194, 290

Shkafer, 307

Slavina, 365, 371, 385

Smirnov, Simeon, 28

Sollogoub, Count, 163

Soloviev, 94, 159

Soumarakov, 36

Splavsky, 24, 25

Stassov, Vladimir, 77, 78, 84, 88,
   106, 123, 132, 135, 139, 144, 150,
   159, 173, 186, 195, 199, 212-217, 223,
   225, 226, 231, 248, 255, 290, 343, 383, 391

Steibelt, 63

Steiner, 63

Stravinsky, Igor, 281, 322, 382

Stravinsky (Singer), 365


Taneiev, Sergius Ivanovich, 373, 376

Tarquini, 63

Tchaikovsky, P. T., 48, 51, 70, 114,
   155, 195, 196, 254, 266, 271, 281,
   285, 294, 333, 334, 361, 365, 370, 373, 376, 379

---- Modeste, 354, 366, 372

Tcherepnin, 210, 281

Tikhonraviev, 15

Titov, 56

---- Alexis, Nicholas, and Sergius, 66, 67

Todi, 51

Tolstoy, Count Alexis, 109, 367

---- Theophil, 195

Tourgeniev, 109, 214

Trediakovsky, Vassily Cyrillovich, 32, 33, 34

Tseibikha, 118


Usipov, Prince, 119


Vassilenko, Serge, 379

Vassiliev, 385

Vassilievich, 365

Vaznietsov, 261, 309

Verstovsky, Alexis Nicholaevich, 63-67

Villoins, A., 162

Vinter, 394

Vistakov, Professor, 172

Vladimir, "The Red Sun", 3

Volkov, F. G., 36, 38, 39

Von-Staden, Count, 14

Vyazemsky, Prince, 89


Wagner, 151, 160


Yagjinsky, Count, 45

Yagoujinsky, 31

Yastrebtsiev, V., 250

Youssipov, Prince, 91, 363


Zagoskin, 64

Zaremba, 195, 284

Zeleny, 394

Zeuner, 79

Zimin, 393

Zotov, Mme. S. I., 194

Zvantsiev, K. I., 151


FOOTNOTES:

 [1] Letter from Borodin to Countess Mercy-Argenteau.

 [2] The show refers to a legend of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra, the
 saint held in most honour by the Russians.

 [3] Gorbounov. "A Sketch for the History of Russian Opera" (in
 Russian).

 [4] Gorbounov. "A Sketch for the History of Russian Opera."

 [5] Some authorities believe that the music, as well as the text of
 this opera, was written by Matinsky.

 [6] Karatagyn gives a list of twenty-six operas in the preface to
 Jurgenson's edition of _The Miller_.

 [7] A History of Russian Opera (_Istoriya Russ. Operî_), Jurgenson,
 St. Petersburg, 1905.

 [8] He must not be confounded with V. V. Berezovsky, whose "Russian
 Music" (Rousskaya Muzyka: Kritiko-istorichesky Ocherk) appeared in
 1898.

 [9] The first performance of Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_ took place
 here in November of that year.

 [10] Possibly Madox.

 [11] Sometimes written Astaritta.

 [12] In Grove's Dictionary of Music I give the date of Alabiev's birth
 as August 30th, 1787, following most of the approved authorities of
 the day. But more recent investigations have revealed the correct date
 as August 4th.

 [13] Soloveiv asserts that Sousanin did not save the Tsar from the
 Poles but from the Russian Cossacks who had become demoralised during
 the long interregnum.

 [14] This fragment of a familiar melody drew down on Glinka the
 criticism of an aristocratic amateur that the music of _A Life for the
 Tsar_ was fit for coachmen and serfs, and provoked Glinka's sarcastic
 retort: "What matter, since the servants are better than their
 masters."

 [15] The appearance of the Commandatore is accompanied by a sinister
 progression as thrilling in its way as that strange and horrible chord
 with which Richard Strauss leads up to Salome's sacrilegious kiss in
 the closing scene of this opera.

 [16] Balakirev, Cui, Moussorgsky, Borodin, and Rimsky-Korsakov.

 [17] In _Vek_ (The Century). No. I.

 [18] In _Severnoy Pchela_ (The Northern Bee).

 [19] Reprinted in "Twenty-five Years of Russian Art." The collected
 works (Sobranie Sochinenie) of Vladimir Stassov. Vol. I.

 [20] "Accept life as it comes." (_Nie tak iivi kak khochetsya._)

 [21] He also visited England, making his appearance at one of the
 concerts of the Philharmonic Society, in May 1857.

 [22] Henceforth alluded to as the I. R. M. S., or the Musical Society.

 [23] "The Chronicle of my Musical Life" (Lietopis moi muzykalnoi
 Jizn), 1844-1906. N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov (Edited by his widow). St.
 Petersburg, 1909.

 [24] Mme. Maleziomova, whom I met in St. Petersburg, was for many
 years _dame de compagnie_, or chaperon, at Rubinstein's classes at
 the Conservatoire. She was a devoted friend of the master's, and
 few people knew more of his fascinating personality or spoke more
 eloquently of his teaching.

 [25] Eight Russian and eleven German operas. Six of the latter were
 secular and five based on Biblical subject.

 [26] "A History of Russian Opera" (Istoriya Russ. Opera). V.
 Cheshikin. St. Petersburg, 1905. P. Jurgenson.

 [27] _Dmitri Donskoi_ was produced in St. Petersburg in 1852;
 _Esmeralda_, first staged in Moscow in 1847, was brought out in the
 modern capital in 1853.

 [28] For a fuller analysis of Lermontov's poem see "Poetry and
 Progress in Russia," by Rosa Newmarch. John Lane, The Bodley Head,
 London and New York.

 [29] The Oprichniki, a band of hot-headed and dissolute young nobles
 who formed the bodyguard of Ivan the Terrible and were always prepared
 to carry out his orders. They carried a dog's head and a broom at
 their saddle-bow, to show that they worried the enemies of the Tsar
 and swept them from the face of the earth.

 [30] Rimsky-Korsakov was the first of the Russian composers to write a
 symphony.

 [31] Free in the sense of offering gratuitous instruction.

 [32] He was a warm advocate of the higher education of women, and one
 of the founders of the School of Medicine for Women at St. Petersburg.

 [33] She married a naval officer, the Admiral Molas who went down in
 the flagship _Petropavlovsk_ at the entrance of the harbour of Port
 Arthur during the Russo-Japanese war. With him perished the great war
 painter, Vassily Verestchagin.

 [34] Mme. Rimsky-Korsakov still takes an active interest in musical
 questions. Articles over her initials often appear in the Russian
 musical papers, and recently she has taken up her pen in defence of
 her husband's editorial work for Moussorgsky's operas.

 [35] These impressions are taken from an article of mine (in French)
 published in the Sammelbände der Internationalen Musik Gesellschaft
 (Jahrgang IV. Heft I.), Oktober-Dezember 1902. Leipzig, Breitkopf and
 Härtel.

 [36] In 1908 he was Russian consul at New York.

 [37] The _Bogatyri_ were the heroes of ancient and legendary days.

 [38] Collected Works (Sobranye Sochinenie, 4 Volumes). "Twenty-five
 years of Russian Art" (musical section), Vol. I. "In the Tracks of
 Russian Art" (musical section), Vol. I. "A. S. Dargomijsky." "A. N.
 Serov." "Gabriel Lomakin." "Perov and Moussorgsky" (Vol. II.), are
 among his chief contributions to musical literature. But there are a
 number of critical articles on first performances, etc., which cannot
 be enumerated here.

 [39] My article on Moussorgsky in Grove's "Dictionary of Music."

 [40] In the reign of Alexis the revision of the Bible carried out
 by the Patriarch Nicon (1655) resulted in a great schism in the
 Orthodox Church, a number of people clinging to the old version of the
 Scriptures in spite of the errors it contained. Thus was formed the
 sect of the Old Believers which still exists in Russia.

 [41] Quoted from an article by me, "Moussorgsky's Operas," in the
 "Musical Times," July 1st, 1913.

 [42] Published by V. Yastrebtsiev in the Moscow weekly, "Musika." No.
 135, June 22 (O.S.), 1913.

 [43] He was appointed musical critic of the St. Petersburg
 "Viedomosty" in 1864.

 [44] Ponchielli has used the same subject for his opera "Gioconda";
 while Mascagni, influenced possibly by the Russian realists, made a
 literal setting of Heine's poem "William Ratcliff" in the style of
 _The Stone Guest_ ("Guglielmo Ratcliff," Milan 1895.)

 [45] The opera was produced in St. Petersburg in February, 1911, the
 Emperor and Empress being present. It will be given shortly by the
 Zimin Opera Company, in Moscow. Published by Jurgenson, Moscow.

 [46] It will be remembered that Zaremba was satirized in Moussorgsky's
 humorous Scena "The Musician's Peep-show" as that "denizen of
 cloudland" who used to deliver to his bewildered classes inspired
 dictums something in this style:

    "Mark my words: the minor key
     Is the source of man's first downfall;
     But the major still can give
     Salvation to your erring souls."


 [47] This opera is now given abroad under the title of _Ivan the
 Terrible_, which brings home to foreigners some realisation of its
 period and of its gloomy central figure.

 [48] _Impressions Musicales et Littéraires_, par Camille Bellaigue.

 [49] There are no less than ten true folk-themes contained in the
 opera of _Tsar Saltan_. The theme of the Elder Sisters, in the
 Introduction, may be found in Rimsky-Korsakov's collection of National
 Songs, No. 24, communicated by Balakirev. The theme of the Tale of
 the Old Grand-father is a street cry ("Any fruit or greens"); a theme
 used by the Prince Gvidon is taken from a child's song, No. 66, in
 Korsakov's collection; others may be found in the same volume; also in
 the collections of Stakhovich and Prach.

 [50] _Citizens of the Lower-town_ would be a more literal translation
 of the title, but would convey nothing to foreigners.

 [51] This composer must not be confused with his nephew A. S. Taneiev,
 the composer of a rather Frenchified opera entitled "Love's Revenge."

 [52] Quoted in the article on this composer in the Russian edition of
 Riemann's Musical Dictionary, 1904.

 [53] Pan is the title of the Polish gentry, Sotnik, literally a
 centurion, a military grade.

 [54] For example, the Court ballets of the sixteenth and seventeenth
 centuries were practically opera-ballets, since they included songs,
 dances and spoken dialogue.

 [55] "A singer's mind becomes subtler with every mental excursion into
 history, sacred or profane."--D. Ffrangcon Davies. "The Singing of the
 Future." John Lane, The Bodley Head.

 [56] Communicated at my request by my friend, Mr. Herbert Heyner, who
 has made a special study of Shaliapin's art both at the opera and from
 gramophone records.

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Toushinets=> Toushino {pg xv}

than the officia=> than the official {pg 180}

I took a a share=> I took a share {pg 188}

oftens reminds us=> often reminds us {pg 196}

October-Dezember=> Oktober-Dezember {pg 203}

henceforward he he could rely=> henceforward he could rely {pg 286}

The caste was a remarkably good one=> The cast was a remarkably good one
{pg 289}

into the deception played upon by him Bomely=> into the deception played
upon him by Bomely {pg 315}

Presently the the spirit=> Presently the spirit {pg 324}

whch might well appeal=> which might well appeal {pg 337}

formerly musical crici of the=> formerly musical critic of the {pg 349}

Médecin malgre lui, Le, 25=> Médecin malgré lui, Le, 25 {pg 398}

Kunst, Johann Christain, 24, 25, 26, 29=> Kunst, Johann Christian, 24,
25, 26, 29 {pg 401}








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