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 composedthe 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 thegusslee, 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’sPetroushka. 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 weddingprocession. 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 chiefand 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,” shedisappears 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 operaThe 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 Cockis 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 humannature of Poushkin’sGolden 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.”
“A fairy-tale, not solid truth,It holds a moral good for youth.”
“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 theproject, 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 comicbusiness 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, andmocks 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 ofThe 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 blackslaves. 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 patrioticideal. 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 theleitmotif. 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 onomatopœia. 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, andoccasionally 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’scris de cœur.
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.
TYPICALLYRussian 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 tofrequent 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 writtenThe Voyevodeas 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 withUndine. 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 Oprichnikwas 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 toexcellent 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 uponThe Oprichnik, with its crying need for national colour and special treatment, a portion of the pretty Italianised music ofThe 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 operaThe 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 ofThe Oprichnikbrieflystated: 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’sBoris Godounovor Rimsky-Korsakov’sMaid of Pskov.
THE GREAT OPERA HOUSE, MOSCOWTHE 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 firstrehearsals! It has neither action, style, nor inspiration!”
Both judgments are too severe.The Oprichnikis 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 remodellingThe Oprichnikat 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 wasorganised for the best setting of Polonsky’s text under the title ofVakoula 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 itCherevichek(“The Little Shoes”). It is also known in foreign editions asLe Caprice d’Oxane. The libretto follows the general lines of theChristmas 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. InCherevichekTchaikovsky makes a palpable effort to break away from conventional Italian forms and to write more in the style of Dargomijsky. But, as Stassov haspointed 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.Cherevichekfell 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 inCherevichekhe 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 FourthSymphony, 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 themise en scèneof a charming opera upon Poushkin’s poem.”
Some of my readers may remember the production ofEugene Onieginin 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 operaEugene Onieginnot 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 Oniegindefies 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 ofEugene Onieginis 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’schef-d’œuvrebeing mutilated for the purposes of a libretto, and resented the appearance of the almost canonized figure of Tatiana upon the stage. Gradually, however,Eugene Onieginacquired 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 Joanof Arc, about whom he had written a poem at the age of seven. After the completion ofEugene 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 isactually represented at the stake surrounded by the leaping flames.
Tchaikovsky worked atThe Maid of Orleanswith 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 ofThe 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 Orleanswon little more than asuccès 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 asEugene Onieginto one so universal and heroic in character asThe Maid of Orleans, seems to have presented difficulties. Just as the national significance ofThe Oprichniksuffered from moments of purely Italian influence, soThe Maid of Orleanscontains 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 ofThe Maid of Orleanswas the spirit in which Tchaikovsky started upon his next opera. One of his earliest references toMazeppaoccurs 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 ofMazeppa, adapted by Bourenin from Poushkin’spoem ‘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 atEugene 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 mountingMazeppa. 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 musicalpresentment 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 ofEugene 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—backto 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 ofEugene 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”) followedMazeppain 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.”TheEnchantresswas 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 uponCharodeikawere 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 inThe 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 wascompleted in six weeks, during a visit to Florence.
The story ofThe Queen of Spadesis 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 inEugene 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 herextraordinary 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 withextraordinary 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 withEugene Oniegin. It is strange that this opera has never found its way to the English stage. Less distinctively national thanEugene 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. “InIolanthe,” 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 ofIolantheis 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 inThe Oprichnikhe passed inCherevichekto more modern methods, to the use of melodic recitative and ariosos; whileEugene Onieginshows a combination of both these styles. This first operatic period is purely lyrical. Afterwards, inThe Maid of Orleans,Mazeppa, andCharodeika, he passed through a second period of dramatic tendency. WithPique-Damehe 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. InIolanthehe 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 embodyhis 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 OnieginandThe Queen of Spadesachieved popular success, andThe OprichnikandMazeppahave 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 ofThe OprichnikandMazeppa, though dramatic, are exceedingly lugubrious. But Polonsky’s charming text toCherevichekshould 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 intoconsideration. 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 asThe Oprichnik,The Maid of Orleans, andMazeppa, 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 theobjective 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.
ALTHOUGHI 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 adiffusion 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’sA Life for the Tsar; of Tchaikovsky’sEugene Oniegin,The Oprichnik, andThe Queen of Spades; and of Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas, both of his early and late period, have distinguished his reignas 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 ofA 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 sentimentas 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 isHarold, 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 asuccès d’estime, for the work, which is declamatory rather than lyrical, contains a good deal of monotonous recitative and—because it is more modern andWagnerian in form—the fine choral effects which lent interest to Napravnik’s first opera are lacking here. In 1888Haroldwas 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 thanHaroldorDoubrovsky, the musical value ofFrancescais 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 theMoscow Viedomostyand 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 inthree 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 ofopera 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 ofThe Roussalka-Maidenis 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, couldalone have invested the subject with dramatic interest; whereas Blaramberg has clothed it in music of rather conventional and insipid character. In common withSkomorokhi, 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, entitledThe 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 Orientalfiorituri.” 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. Onleaving 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 operaA Dream on the Volgawas 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 theold 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 operaRaphaelwas 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’sEugene Oniegin; but it is more closely united with the text, and greater attention is paid to the natural accentuation of the words. BetweenRaphaeland 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 inNal and Damyanti.
The libretto of this opera was prepared by Modeste Tchaikovsky from Joukovsky’s free translation of Rückert’s poem.Nal and Damyantiwas 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 alack 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 operaAleko, 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.Alekowas 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, bornOctober 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 operaDobrynia Nikitichon the subject of one of the ancientBylinyor 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 Nikitichobviously owes much to Glinka’sRusslanandLiudmillaand Borodin’sPrince Igor.
SHALIAPIN IN BOÏTO’S “MEFISTOFELE”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 operaRuthwas 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 inRuth, a graceful, idyllic opera, the libretto of which does not keep very strictly to Biblical traditions. In 1900 Ippolitov-Ivanov’s second operaAssya—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’sEugene 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 entitledThe Year 1812, which was never finishedin consequence of the musician’s failing health and untimely death. Kalinnikov hardly had time to outgrow his early phase of Tchaikovsky worship.