CHAPTER XI

BORODIN AND CUI

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.

RIMSKY-KORSAKOV From a portrait by Repin
0 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.