The Russian Opera
by Rosa Newmarch · English · Gutenberg #46587 · 565,125 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Russian Opera
Author: Rosa Newmarch
Release date: August 14, 2014 [eBook #46587]
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Language: English
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[Illustration: FEODOR IVANOVICH SHALIAPIN]
THE
RUSSIAN OPERA
BY
ROSA
NEWMARCH
[Illustration: colophon]
WITH SIXTEEN
ILLUSTRATIONS
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
ARUNDEL PLACE HAYMARKET
LONDON S.W. MCMXIV
THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD., TIPTREE, ESSEX.
TO
FEODOR IVANOVICH SHALIAPIN
IN MEMORY OF OUR OLD FRIEND
VLADIMIR VASSILIEVICH STASSOV
PREFACE
Between January 19th, 1900, and April 4th, 1905, I read before the
Musical Association of London five papers dealing with the Development
of National Opera in Russia, covering a period from the first
performance of Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_ in 1836, to the production
of Rimsky-Korsakov's opera _The Tsar's Bride_, in 1899. These lectures
were illustrated by the following artists: the late Mrs. Henry J. Wood,
Miss Grainger Kerr, Mr. Seth Hughes, Mr. Robert Maitland; Sir (Mr.)
Henry J. Wood and Mr. Richard Epstein at the piano. While using these
lectures as the scaffolding of my present book, I have added a
considerable amount of new material, amassed during ten years
unremitting research into my subject. The additions concern chiefly the
earlier phases of Russian music, and the operas that have appeared since
1900. The volume also contains some account of the foundation of the
nationalist school of composers under the leadership of Balakirev. It
has been my privilege to meet and converse with most of the members of
this circle. I give also a few details about the literary champion of
"the Invincible Band," Vladimir Stassov, under whose guidance I first
studied the history of Russian music. With all modesty I believe I may
claim to have been a pioneer worker in this field. When in 1895 I
published my translation (from the French edition of M. Habets) of
Stassov's book on Borodin, and followed it up in 1897 by a series of
articles--the fruits of my first visit to Russia--in that short-lived
weekly _The Musician_, the literature of the subject was by no means
copious, even in Russia itself; while the daily increasing public in
Western Europe who were anxious to learn something about the remarkable
galaxy of composers newly arisen in the east, based their knowledge and
opinions almost entirely upon César Cui's pamphlet _La Musique en
Russie_, an interesting, but in many respects misleading, statement of
the phenomenon; or upon the views propagated by Rubinstein and his
followers, wherefrom they learnt that the Russians, though musically
gifted, were only represented by incapable amateurs.
Happily for its own enjoyment, the world has grown wiser. The last few
years have witnessed the vindication of Moussorgsky's genius in France
and England; a consummation devoutly wished, but hardly anticipated, by
those who had been convinced from the beginning of the nobility and
sincerity of spirit and motive which entitles his two finished operas to
be regarded as masterpieces. During Sir Joseph Beecham's season of
Russian Opera at Drury Lane last year, Rimsky-Korsakov's early
music-drama _Ivan the Terrible_ ("The Maid of Pskov") made a profound
impression, with Shaliapin in the part of the tyrant Tsar. In the
forthcoming season it is Borodin's turn to be introduced to the British
public, and I confidently predict the success of his lyric opera _Prince
Igor_. So, one by one, these Russians, "eaters of tallow candles, Polar
bears, too long consumers of foreign products, are admitted in their
turn in the character of producers."[1]
In view of the extended interest now felt in Russian opera, drama and
ballet, it has been thought worth while to offer to the public this
outline of the development of a genuine national opera, from the history
of which we have much to learn in this country, both as regards the
things to be attempted and those to be shunned. Too much technical
analysis has been intentionally avoided in this volume. The musician can
supply this deficiency by the study of the scores mentioned in the book,
which, dating from Glinka's time, have nearly all been published and are
therefore accessible to the student; the average opera-goer will be glad
to gain a general view of the subject, unencumbered by the monotonous
terminology of musical analysis.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE DAWN OF MUSIC IN RUSSIA
.....PAGE
Primitive music of the Russian Slavs. The four periods of Russian music.
The Skomorokhi or Gleemen. Clerical Intolerance. Church pageants. Tsar
Alexis Mikhaïlovich, the first patron of music and the drama. Biblical
plays with incidental music. Mystery plays of Dmitri of Rostov. Origin
of the Ballet. First public theatre in Russia, 1703......1
CHAPTER II
THE RUSSIAN OPERA PRIOR TO GLINKA
Accession of Empress Anne. Cultivation of the folk melodies. Change of
taste. The Italians bring in secular plays. Feodor Volkov. Music under
Catherine the Great. Fomin and his operas. Berezovsky and Bortniansky.
Further change of taste under Alexander I. Patriotic enthusiasm
following French invasion of 1812. Cavos exploits national melody.
Verstovsky and Alabiev......32
CHAPTER III
MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA
Childhood and education of Glinka. His awakening to music. Early years
in the country. Love of nature. First music lessons. He enters the Civil
Service. Begins to write songs. Visit to Italy. Musical studies in
Berlin......69
CHAPTER IV
GLINKA'S OPERAS
Marriage and home surroundings. _A Life for the Tsar._ Features of the
music. Its reception in Russia. _Prince Kholmsky_ and the songs.
_Russlan and Liudmilla._ Later works. Failure of health. His
interpretation of Russian nationality in music......89
CHAPTER V
DARGOMIJSKY
Alexander Sergeivich Dargomijsky. His meeting with Glinka. Visit to
Paris. _Esmeralda_ and _The Triumph of Bacchus_. Growing interest in
national music. Begins work on Poushkin's _Roussalka_. Second tour in
Western Europe. Balakirev and his circle. _The Stone Guest._ His
treatment of national character as compared with Glinka's......117
CHAPTER VI
SEROV
Musical life in Russia at the time of Glinka and Dargomijsky. Musical
criticism and the academic party. Rapid increase of conservatoires and
schools. Struggle between the young nationalists in music and the
officials to whom foreign composers were supreme. Two great musical
critics, Alexander Serov and Vladimir Stassov. Serov's writings and
compositions. His devotion to Wagner. Production of _Judith_ and
_Rogneda_. Estimate of Serov's music......137
CHAPTER VII
ANTON RUBINSTEIN
Early life and education. His début as a prodigy pianist. Musical
studies in Berlin. Court pianist at St. Petersburg. His early operas.
_Dmitri Donskoi_ and _Thomoushka Dourachok_. Imperial Russian Musical
Society. Biblical operas, _The Tower of Babel_, _The Maccabees_,
_Paradise Lost_, _The Shulamite_. Secular and national operas, _The
Demon_, _Nero_, and _The Merchant Kalashnikov_. Historical Concerts.
Rubinstein's opportunism. Estimate of his work and influence......162
CHAPTER VIII
BALAKIREV AND HIS DISCIPLES
Balakirev. The nationalist circle. Social intercourse. Rimsky-Korsakov.
Goussakovsky. The Free School. Borodin. The Pourgolds. Hostility of the
Press. Solidarity of "the Invincible Band.".....183
CHAPTER IX
PERSONAL MEMORIES OF BALAKIREV'S CIRCLE
Gradual dissolution of the circle of friends. Personal reminiscences of
Balakirev. Individual development of "the Invincible Band." Belaiev.
Lodyjensky. Liadov. Vladimir Stassov. Personal Reminiscences......198
CHAPTER X
MOUSSORGSKY
Two tendencies in Russian opera, the lyrical and the declamatory.
Moussorgsky the disciple of Dargomijsky. Literary and social influences.
Biographical details. Early unfinished operas. _Boris Godounov._
_Khovanstchina._ Rimsky-Korsakov as editor......218
CHAPTER XI
BORODIN AND CUI
Borodin. Biographical details. _Prince Igor._ Comparison of _Igor_ with
Glinka's _Russlan and Liudmilla._ Orientalism and optimism in _Prince
Igor._ Death of Borodin. César Cui. His French descent. Early operas,
_The Mandarin's Son_, _The Captive in the Caucasus_, _William Ratcliff_,
_Angelo_, _The Saracen_. A French opera, _Le Flibustier._ _Mam'selle
Fifi._ Analysis of Cui's style......253
CHAPTER XII
RIMSKY-KORSAKOV
Rimsky-Korsakov's position as a national composer and as a teacher.
Biographical. Joins Balakirev's circle. Leaves the naval service. His
early works. A tone-painter. His first Opera. _The Maid of Pskov_ (Ivan
the Terrible). Accession of the Emperor Alexander III. He encourages
Russian music. _A Night in May._ _The Snow-Maiden_ (Sniegourochka).
_Mlada._ _Christmas Eve Revels._ _Mozart and Salieri._ _Boyarinya Vera
Sheloga._ _Sadko._ _The Tsar's Bride._ _The Legend of Tsar Saltan._ The
use of the _leitmotif_. _Servilia._ _Kastchei the Immortal._ Wagnerian
influence. _Pan Voyevode._ _The Tale of the City of Kitezh._ _The Golden
Cock._.....281
CHAPTER XIII
TCHAIKOVSKY
Tchaikovsky considered apart from the nationalist circle. His early love
of Italian opera. _The Voyevode._ _Undine._ _The Oprichnik._ The
libretto described. _Cherevichek_, or _Le Caprice d'Oxane_. Passing
influence of Balakirev's circle. _Eugene Oniegin._ _The Maid of
Orleans._ The composer's enthusiasm for this opera. _Mazeppa._ Analysis
of the subject. _Charodeika_ (_The Enchantress_). _The Queen of Spades._
_Iolanthe._ Analysis of Tchaikovsky's operatic styles......334
CHAPTER XIV
CONCLUSION
Some minor composers. Napravnik: _The Citizens of Nijny-Novgorod_,
_Harold_, _Doubrovsky_, _Francesca da Rimini_. Blaramberg: _Skomorokhi_,
_The Roussalka-Maiden_, _Toushino_, _The Wave_. Arensky: _A Dream on the
Volga_, _Raphael_, _Nal and Damyanti_. Rachmaninov: _Aleko_.
Grechyaninov: _Dobrynia Nikitich_. Ippolitov-Ivanov: _Ruth_, _Assya_.
Kalinnikov: _The Year 1812_. Taneiev: _Orestes_. Foreign influence in
contemporary Russian music. Rebikov: _In the Storm_, _The Christmas
Tree_. Kazachenko, Korestchenko, Kochetov, Stravinsky. Famous operatic
singers: Platonova, Petrov, Melnikov, the Figners, Shaliapin. Mamantov
and the Moscow Private Opera Company. Great increase of opera companies
in Russia. Concluding observations......362
THE RUSSIAN OPERA
THE RUSSIAN OPERA
CHAPTER I
THE DAWN OF MUSIC IN RUSSIA
The early history of the development of the national music, like that of
most popular movements in Russia, has its aspects of oppression and
conflict with authority. On the one hand we see a strong natural impulse
moving irresistibly towards fulfilment; on the other, a policy of
repression amounting at moments to active persecution. That the close of
the nineteenth century has witnessed the triumph of Russian music at
home and abroad proves how strong was the innate capacity of this
people, and how deep their love of this art, since otherwise they could
never have finally overcome every hindrance to its development. That
from primitive times the Slavs were easily inspired and moved by music,
and that they practised it in very early phases of their civilisation,
their early historians are all agreed. In the legend of "Sadko, the Rich
Merchant" (one of the _byline_ of the Novgorodian Cycle) the hero, a
kind of Russian Orpheus, who suffers the fate of Jonah, makes the
Sea-king dance to the sound of his _gusslee_, and only stays his hand
when the wild gyrations of the marine deity have created such a storm on
earth that all the ships on the ocean above are in danger of being
wrecked. In the "Epic of the Army of Igor," when the minstrel Boyan
sings, he draws "the grey wolf over the fields, and the blue-black eagle
from the clouds." In peace and war, music was the joy of the primitive
Slavs. In the sixth century the Wends told the Emperor in Constantinople
that music was their greatest pleasure, and that on their travels they
never carried arms but musical instruments which they made themselves.
Procopius, the Byzantine historian, describing a night attack made by
the Greeks, A.D. 592, upon the camp of the Slavs, says that the latter
were so completely absorbed in the delights of singing that they had
forgotten to take any precautionary measures, and were oblivious of the
enemy's approach. Early in their history, the Russian Slavs used a
considerable number of musical instruments: the _gusslee_, a kind of
horizontal harp, furnished with seven or eight strings, and the
_svirel_, a reed pipe (chalumet), being the most primitive. Soon,
however, we read of the _goudok_, a species of fiddle with three
strings, played with a bow; the _dombra_, an instrument of the guitar
family, the forerunner of the now fashionable _balalaïka_, the strings
of which were vibrated with the fingers; and the _bandoura_, or _kobza_,
of the Malo-Russians, which had from eight to twenty strings. Among the
primitive wind instruments were the _sourna_, a shrill pipe of Eastern
origin, and the _doudka_, the bagpipe, or cornemuse. The drum, the
tambourine, and the cymbals were the instruments of percussion chiefly
in use.
Berezovsky makes a convenient division of the history of Russian music
into four great periods. The first, within its limits, was purely
national. It included all the most ancient folksongs and _byline_, or
metrical legends; it saw the rise and fall of the _Skomorokhi_, the
minstrels who were both the composers and preservers of these old epics
and songs. This period reached its highest development in the reign of
Vladimir, "The Red Sun," first Christian prince of Russia, about A.D.
988. The second period, which Berezovsky describes as already falling
away from the purely national ideal, dates from the establishment of
Christianity in Russia, at the close of the tenth century, when the folk
music lost much of its independence and fell under Byzantine influence.
Russian music entered upon its third period about the middle of the
eighteenth century; national songs now regained some of their former
importance, but its progress was checked because the tastes of Western
Europe were already paramount in the country. Italian music had reached
the capital and long held the field. The first twenty years of the
nineteenth century witnessed a passionate revival of interest in the
national music, and when, in 1836, Glinka created _A Life for the Tsar_,
he inaugurated a fourth period in the history of national art, the
limits of which have yet to be ultimately defined.
Of the first, the primitive period in Russian music, there are few
records beyond the allusions to the love of minstrelsy which we find in
the earliest known songs and legends of the Russian Slavs. When we reach
the second period, at which the national music entered upon a struggle
with the spiritual authorities, we begin to realise from the intolerance
of the clerical attitude how deeply the art must have already laid hold
upon the spirit of the people. Whether from a desire to be faithful to
oriental asceticism, and to the austere spirit which animated the Church
during the first centuries which followed the birth of Christ, or
because of the need to keep a nation so recently converted, and still so
deeply impregnated with paganism, fenced off from all contaminating
influences, the Church soon waged relentless war upon every description
of profane recreation. The Orthodox clergy were not only opposed to
music, but to every form of secular art. Moreover the folksongs were of
pagan origin; therefore, just as the priests of to-day still look
askance at the songs and legends of the Brittany peasants which
perpetuate the memory of heathen customs, so the Byzantine monks of the
eleventh century, and onwards, denounced the national songs of Russia as
being hostile to the spirit of Christianity. Songs, dances, and
spectacular amusements were all condemned. Even at the weddings of the
Tsars, as late as the seventeenth century, dancing and singing were
rigorously excluded, only fanfares of trumpets, with the music of flutes
and drums, and fireworks, being permitted. Professor Milioukhov, in his
"Sketch for a History of Russian Culture," quotes one of the austere
moralists of mediæval times who condemns mirth as a snare of the evil
one; "laughter does not edify or save us; on the contrary it is the ruin
of edification. Laughter displeases the Holy Spirit and drives out
virtue, because it makes men forget death and eternal punishment. Lord,
put mirth away from me; give me rather tears and lamentations." So
persistent and effectual was the repression of all secular enjoyments
that one monkish chronicler was able to remark with evident satisfaction
that, for the time being, "there was silence in all the land of
Russia."
Under these conditions the primitive music had little chance of
development. Driven from the centres of dawning civilisation, it took
refuge in forest settlements and remote villages. With it fled the bards
and the mummers, the gleemen--those "merry lads" as the Russians called
them--so dear to the hearts of the people. These musicians were
originally of two classes: minstrels and _gusslee_ players (harpists),
such as the famous Skald, Bayan; and the _Skomorokhi_, or mummers, who
sang and juggled for the diversion of the people. In course of time we
find allusions to several subdivisions in the band of _Skomorokhi_, all
of which may now be said to have their modern equivalents in Russia.
There was the _Skomorokh-pievets_, or singer of the mythical or heroic
songs, who afterwards became absorbed into the ranks of the poets with
the rise of a school of poetry at the close of the sixteenth century;
the _Skomorokh-goudets_, who played for dancing, and was afterwards
transformed into the orchestral player, exchanging his _gusslee_
or _dombra_ for some more modern western instrument; the
_Skomorokh-plyassoun_, the dancer, now incorporated in the
corps-de-ballet; and the _Skomorokh-gloumosslovets_, the buffoon or
entertainer, who eventually became merged in the actor.
Monkish persecution could not entirely stamp out the love of music in
the land. To attain that end it would have been necessary to uproot the
very soul of the nation. Despite the fulminations of the clergy, the
nobles still secretly cherished and patronised their singers, who
beguiled the tedium of the long winters in their _poteshni palati_.
These dependents of the aristocracy were the first actors known to the
Russians. At the same time such fanatical teaching could not fail to
alter in some degree the temper of a people wholly uneducated and prone
to superstition. The status of the minstrels gradually declined. They
ceased to be "welcome guests" in hut and hall, and the _Skomorokhi_
degenerated into companies of roving thieves, numbering often from fifty
to a hundred, who compelled the peasants to supply them with food, as
they moved from place to place, driven onward by their clerical
denunciators. By way of compromise, the gleemen now appear to have
invented a curious class of song which they called "spiritual," in which
pagan and Christian sentiments were mingled in a strange and unedifying
jumble. The pure delight of singing having been condemned as a sin, and
practised more or less _sub rosa_, the standard of songs became very
much corrupted. The degeneracy of music and kindred forms of recreation
was most probably the outcome of this intolerant persecution. But though
they had helped to bring about this state of affairs, there was no
doubt something to be said for the attitude of the clergy, if we may
believe the testimony of western travellers in Russia in the sixteenth
century. The minstrels in the service of the richer nobles deteriorated
as a class, and claimed their right to give entertainments in towns and
villages, which were often of scandalous coarseness and profanity. The
same may be said of the puppet-shows (_Koukolnaya teatr_), of somewhat
later date, the abominable performances of which shocked the traveller
Adam Olearius when he accompanied the ambassador sent by Frederick Duke
of Holstein to the Great Duke of Muscovy in 1634 and 1636. The long
struggle between spiritual authority and the popular craving for secular
recreation continued until the reign of Alexis Mikhaïlovich (1645-1676).
In a measure the Church was successful in turning the thoughts of the
people from worldly amusements to the spiritual drama enacted within her
doors. During these long dark centuries, when Russia had neither
universities nor schools, nor any legitimate means of recreation, the
people found a dramatic sensation in the elaborate and impressive ritual
of the Orthodox Church. Patouillet, in his book "Le Théâtre de Moeurs
Russes," says: "the iconostasis, decorated with paintings, erected
between the altar and the faithful, resembles, with its three doors, an
antique proscenium. The 'imperial' door, reserved for the officiating
priest, and formerly for the Emperor, recalls by its name, if not by its
destination, the 'royal' entrance of the Greek theatre. Thus there is,
as it were, a double scene being enacted, one which takes place before
the eyes of the congregation, the other hidden from them during certain
portions of the ritual, particularly at the moment of the 'Holy
Mysteries' (the Consecration of the elements). These alternations of
publicity and mystery; the celebrant reappearing and disappearing; the
deacon, who goes in and out at the side doors and stands upon the
_Ambon_, like a kind of [Greek: logeion], to declare the divine word to
the assembled Christians, dialoguing sometimes with them, sometimes with
the officiating priest; the double choir of singers, arranged even in
this day on each side of the iconostasis, and finally the attitude of
the faithful themselves--rather that of a crowd of spectators than of
participants--all these details formed a spectacle full of dramatic
interest in times of simple faith."
On certain religious festivals, allegorical representations, such as the
Washing of the Feet and the Entrance of Christ into Jerusalem, were
enacted in public places. The early marriage service of the Orthodox
Church, with its pompous religious ceremonial and social customs, such
as the pretended lamentations of the bride, and the choruses of the
young girls, held distinctly dramatic elements. In these ecclesiastical
ceremonies and social usages may be traced the first germs of the
Russian drama.
In Western Russia we find the school drama (Shkolnaya-drama) established
in the ecclesiastical Academy of Kiev as early as the close of the
fifteenth century. The students used to recite the events of the
Nativity in public places and illustrate their words by the help of the
_Vertep_, a kind of portable retable on which were arranged figures
representing the Birth of Christ. The Passion of Our Lord was
represented in the same way, and the recital was interspersed with
choral singing, and not infrequently with interludes of a secular or
comic nature. This form of drama had found its way into Russia from
Poland. In 1588 Giles Fletcher, Queen Elizabeth's ambassador to Russia,
gives an account of a representation in Moscow, which reminds us of the
Scoppio del Carro, the Easter ceremony at Florence, when a mechanical
dove carrying the "Pazzi fire," lit from the sacred flint brought back
from the Holy Sepulchre, is set rushing along a wire from the altar to
the car, hung about with fireworks, which stands outside the great West
Door of the Duomo. When the bird comes in contact with the car the
pyrotechnical display is ignited, and if all goes without a hitch the
vintage and harvest will prosper.
Says Fletcher: "The weeke before the Nativitie of Christ every bishop in
his cathedral church setteth forth a shew of the three children in the
oven.[2] Where the Angell is made to come flying from the roof of the
church, with great admiration of the lookers-on, and many terrible
flashes of fire are made with rosen and gun-powder by the Chaldeans (as
they call them), that run about the town all the twelve days, disguised
in their plaiers coats, and make much good sport for the honour of the
bishop's pageant. At the Mosko, the emperour himselfe and the empress
never faile to be at it, though it be but the same matter plaid every
yeere, without any new invention at all."
Dr. Giles Fletcher was a member of the family so well-known in the
history of English literature; he was the uncle of John Fletcher, the
dramatist, and the father of Phineas Fletcher, the author of the poem
"The Purple Island." How naïve and almost barbarous must this Russian
mystery play have seemed to the Englishman who had probably witnessed
some of the innumerable comedies, tragi-comedies, farces, and tragedies
which were then enacted at home in the universities, the Inns of Court,
and elsewhere; and who may very likely already have frequented the
theatre in Blackfriars or Shoreditch, and seen the plays of Marlowe and
Greene, although as yet hardly anything of Shakespeare!
Ivan the Terrible (1533-1584), who first sent for printers from Germany
and published the earliest Russian book (containing the Acts of the
Apostles and the Epistles) in 1564, did nothing towards the secular
education of his Court or of the people. Nor was there much progress in
this respect in the reign of Boris Godounov (1598-1605). Secular
dramatic art continued to be discouraged by the Church, without any
patronage being accorded to it in high places until the reign of Alexis
Mikhaïlovich. This prince, who may justly be called the founder of a
national theatre in Russia, showed a real interest in the fine arts. He
summoned a few musicians to Moscow, who taught the Russians the use of
instruments hitherto unused by them. This encouragement of music at his
Court provoked a final outburst of clerical intolerance. In 1649, by
order of the Patriarch Joseph, all the musical instruments in the city
of Moscow were confiscated and burnt in the open market place. Those
belonging to the Tsar's private band were spared, perhaps from a fear of
offending their royal patron, but more probably because their owners,
being Germans, were welcome to go to perdition in their own way.
When we come to the middle of the seventeenth century and the advent of
the enlightened Alexis Mikhaïlovich, the history of Russian drama, so
closely associated with that of its opera, assumes a more definite
outline. This prince married Natalia Naryshkin, the adopted daughter of
the Boyard Artamon Matveiev. Matveiev's wife was of Scottish origin--her
maiden name was Hamilton--so that the outlook of this household was
probably somewhat cosmopolitan. The Tsaritsa Natalia was early
interested in the theatre; partly perhaps because she had heard of it
from her adopted parents, but most probably her taste was stimulated by
witnessing one of the performances which were given from time to time
among the foreigners in the German quarter of Moscow. Lord Carlisle, in
his "Relation of Three Embassies from His Majesty Charles II. to the
Great Duke of Moscovy," makes mention of one of these performances in
1664. He says: "Our Musique-master composed a Handsome Comedie in Prose,
which was acted in our house."
Travelled nobles and ambassadors also told of the great enjoyment
derived from the theatre in Western Europe. Likhatchev, who was sent to
Florence in 1658, wrote with naïve enthusiasm of an opera which he had
seen there; but he seems to have been more impressed by the scenic
effects, which included a moving sea filled with fish, and a vanishing
palace, than by the music which accompanied these wonders. Potemkin, who
represented the Tsar at the Court of the Grand Monarque, saw Molière's
company in "Amphitryon" in 1668, and doubtless communicated his
impressions to his sovereign. But before this date, as early as 1660,
Alexis Mikhaïlovich had given orders to an Englishman in his service to
engage for him "Master Glassblowers, Master Engravers and Master Makers
of comedies." It was long, however, before Russia actually attained to
the possession of this last class of workers. Finally, incited by his
wife's tastes, by the representations of his more polished nobles, and
not a little by personal inclinations, Alexis issued an _Oukaz_, on May
15th, 1672, ordering Count Von-Staden to recruit in Courland all kinds
"of good master workmen, together with very excellent skilled
trumpeters, and masters who would know how to organise plays."
Unfortunately the reputation of Russia as a dwelling-place was not
attractive. Doubtless the inhabitants of Eastern Europe still spoke with
bated breath of the insane cruelties of Ivan the Terrible which had
taken place a hundred years earlier. At any rate the Courlanders showed
no great anxiety to take service under the Tsar, and Staden returned
from his mission to Riga and other towns, in December, 1672, with only
"one trumpeter" and "four musicians." Nevertheless the _Oukaz_ itself is
an important landmark in the cultural evolution of Russia, marking,
according to Tikhonraviev, the end of her long term of secular isolation
as regards the drama. These five imported musicians formed the nucleus
of what was to expand one day into the orchestra of the Imperial Opera.
Alexis Mikhaïlovich was evidently impatient to see some kind of drama
enacted at his Court; for in June of the same year, without waiting for
"the masters who would know how to organise plays," he determined to
celebrate the birthday of his son Peter--later to be known as Peter the
Great--with a theatrical performance. The Tsar therefore commissioned
Yagan (otherwise Johann) Gottfried Gregory, one of the protestant
pastors residing in the German quarter of Moscow, to write a play, or
"act" as it is described in the Tsar's edict, dealing with the Biblical
subject of Esther. As a temporary theatre, a room was specially arranged
at Preobrajensky, a village on the outskirts of Moscow which now forms
part of the city. Red and green hangings, carpets and tapestries of
various sorts were lent from the Tsar's household to decorate the walls
and the seats of honour; the bulk of the audience, however, had to
content themselves with bare wooden benches. The scenery was painted by
a Dutchman named Peter Inglis, who received the pompous title of
"Master-Perspective-Maker." The Boyard Matveiev, the Tsaritsa's adoptive
father, took an active interest in the organisation of this primitive
theatre, and was appointed about this time, "Director of the Tsar's
Entertainments," being in fact the forerunner of the later "Intendant"
or Director of the Imperial Opera. Pastor Gregory, aided by one or two
teachers in the German school, wrote the text of a "tragi-comedy"
entitled _The Acts of Artaxerxes_. Gregory, who had been educated at the
University of Jena, probably selected just such a subject as he had been
accustomed to see presented in German theatres in his early youth.
Although he had long resided in Moscow he does not seem to have acquired
complete command of the Russian language, which was then far from being
the subtle and beautiful medium of expression which it has since become.
The tragi-comedy was written in a strange mixture of Russian and German,
and we read that he had the assistance of two translators from the
Chancellery of Ambassadors. A company numbering sixty-four untrained
actors was placed at his service; they were drawn from among the
children of foreign residents and from the better class of tradesfolk.
Music evidently played an important part in the performance; the
orchestra consisting of Germans, and of servants from Matveiev's
household who played on "organs, viols and other instruments." The
organist of the German church, Simon Gutovsky, was among the musicians.
A chorus also took part in the play, consisting of the choir of the
Court Chapel, described as "the Imperial Singing-Deacons."
The actual performance of _The Acts of Artaxerxes_ took place on October
17th, 1672 (O.S.), and is said to have lasted ten hours, making demands
upon the endurance of the audience which puts Wagnerian enthusiasts
completely to shame. The Tsar watched the spectacle with unflagging
attention and afterwards generously rewarded those who had taken part in
the performance. The attitude of the clergy had so far changed that the
Tsar's chaplain, the Protopope Savinov, undertook to set at rest his
master's last scruples of conscience by pointing to the example of the
Greek emperors and other potentates.
Gaining courage, and also a growing taste for this somewhat severe form
of recreation, Alexis went on to establish a more permanent theatrical
company. In the following year (1673) Pastor Gregory was commanded to
instruct twenty-six young men, some drawn from the clerks of the
Chancellery of State, others from the lower orders of the merchants or
tradespeople, who were henceforth to be known as "the Comedians of His
Majesty the Tsar." At first the audience consisted only of the favoured
intimate circle of the Tsar, and apparently no ladies were present; but
after a time the Tsaritsa and the Tsarevnas were permitted to witness
the performance from the seclusion of a Royal Box protected by a
substantial _grille_. The theatre was soon transferred from
Preobrajensky to the Poteshny Dvorets in the Kremlin.
_The Acts of Artaxerxes_ was followed by a series of pieces, nearly all
of a highly edifying nature, written or arranged by Gregory and others:
_Tobias_, _The Chaste Joseph_, _Adam and Eve_, _Orpheus and Eurydice_
(with couplets and choruses) and _How Judith cut off the head of
Holofernes_. The libretto of the last-named play is still in existence,
and gives us some idea of the patient endurance of primitive
theatre-goers in Russia. It is in seven acts, subdivided into
twenty-nine scenes, with a prologue and an interlude between the third
and fourth acts; the characters number sixty-three; all the female parts
were acted by youths. The libretto is constructed more or less on the
plan of the German comedies of the period, but what gives the piece a
special importance in the history of Russian opera is the fact that it
contains arias and choruses linked with the action of the piece, such as
the Song of the Kings, in which they bewail their sad fate when taken
captive by Holofernes, a soldier's Drinking Song, a Love-Song sung by
Vagav at Judith's feast, and a Jewish Song of Victory, the words of
which are paraphrased from Biblical sources. The author is supposed,
without much foundation in fact, to have been Simeon Polotsky, of whom
we shall hear later. The piece was probably translated from German
sources. A custom was then started, which prevailed for a considerable
time in Russia, of confiding the translation of plays to the clerks in
the Chancellery of the Ambassadors, which department answered in some
measure to our Foreign Office. The composer of the music is unknown, but
Cheshikin, in his "History of Russian Opera," considers himself fully
justified in describing it as the _first Russian opera_. Two hundred
years later Serov composed a popular opera on the subject of Judith, an
account of which will be found on page 150.
All the Russian operas of the eighteenth century follow this style of
drama, or comedy, with some musical numbers interpolated; it is the type
of opera which is known in Germany as the _Singspiel_. As _Judith_
represents the prototype of many succeeding Russian operas, a few
details concerning it will not be out of place here. The work is
preserved in manuscript in the Imperial Public Library. It is evident
that the dramatic action was strongly supported by the music; for
instance, to quote only one scenic direction in the piece, "Seloum beats
the drum and cries aloud," alarm is here expressed by the aid of
trumpets and drums. The action develops very slowly, and the heroine
does not appear until the fourth act. In Act I. Nebuchadnezzar and his
great men take counsel about the invasion of Judea; the king summons
Holofernes and appoints him leader of his army. In Act II. the
sufferings of the Jews are depicted; and the embassy to Holofernes from
the Asiatic kings. Act III. is concerned with the speech which the
God-fearing man Achior delivers in honour of Israel, in the presence of
Holofernes; and with the wrath of the leader who orders the punishment
of Achior. Act IV. contains a conversation between Judith and her
handmaiden Arboya about the miserable plight of Judea. In Act V. occurs
the Lament of Israel: Judith persuades the people not to capitulate to
Holofernes and prays God to come to their rescue. Act VI., Judith's
Farewell to the Jewish Elders, and her departure for the camp of
Holofernes; she slays Holofernes and the Jews return to Bethulia. The
whole work concludes with Israel's Song of Victory. Side by side with
these dramatic scenes are interpolated comic interludes in the
characteristic German style of the seventeenth century. The language
contains many Germanisms and South Russian locutions, as though the
translator had been a Malo-Russian. The piece is certainly tedious and
contains much sententious moralising, with a reflection of sentiment
which seems to belong peculiarly to the Orthodox Church. The pious tone
of the work was indispensable at that period, and it was not until the
Tsar's patronage of the drama became more assured that Pastor Gregory
ventured on the production of a secular play founded on a distant echo
of Marlowe's "Tamerlane the Great" (1586), written on the same lines as
_Judith_, and containing also musical numbers.
Besides pieces of the nature of the Singspiel, Patouillet tells us that
there were ballets at the Court of Alexis Mikhaïlovich. School dramas
were in vogue at the Ecclesiastical Academy (of Zaikonospasskaya), for
which Simeon Polotsky, and later on Daniel Touptalo (afterwards
canonised as Saint Dimitri of Rostov), wrote sacred plays. Polotsky,
educated at the Academy of Kiev, joined the Ecclesiastical School of
Moscow, in 1660, as professor of Latin. He adapted, or wrote, _St.
Alexis_, _Nebuchadnezzar_, _The Golden Calf, and the Three Children who
were not consumed in the Fiery Furnace_, and _The Prodigal Son_. The
last-named play was undoubtedly performed before the Court, and was
reprinted in 1685 with a number of plates showing the costumes of the
actors and spectators.
Dimitri of Rostov, who was also a student at Kiev, composed a series of
Mystery Plays with rhymed verse. _The Prodigal Son_, by Simeon Polotsky,
says Patouillet, "had interludes which have not been preserved, and in
Dimitri of Rostov's _Nativity_, the scene of the Adoration of the
Shepherds was long in favour on account of a certain naïve folk-style of
diction" None of these plays can be claimed as literature, but they are
interesting as marking the transition from sacred to secular drama, and
in some of them there was a faint reflection of contemporary manners.
But this was not a spontaneous or popular movement; it was merely a
Court ordinance. The clerks and artisans who were trained as actors
often took part in these spectacles against the wish of their parents,
who were only partly reconciled by the Tsar's example to seeing their
sons adopt what they had long been taught to regard as a disorderly and
irreligious career. Because the movement had no roots in the life of the
people it could not flourish healthily. When Alexis died in 1670, the
"Chamber of Comedians" was closed, Matveiev was exiled, and there was a
reaction in favour of asceticism.
But the impetus had been given, and henceforth the drama was never to be
entirely banished from Russian life. Some of the westernised Boyards now
maintained private theatres--just as their ancestors had maintained the
bards and the companies of _Skomorokhi_--in which were played pieces
based upon current events or upon folk legends; while the School Drama
long continued to be given within the walls of the Ecclesiastical
Academy of Zaikonospasskaya. Thus the foundations of Russian dramatic
art, including also the first steps towards the opera and the ballet,
were laid before the last decade of the seventeenth century.
The advent of Peter the Great to the throne was not on the whole
favourable to music. The fine arts made no special appeal to the
utilitarian mind of this monarch. Music had now ceased to be regarded as
one of the seven deadly sins, but suffered almost a worse fate, since in
the inrush of novel cosmopolitan ideas and customs the national songs
seem for a time to have been completely forgotten. With the drama things
advanced more quickly. Peter the Great, who conceived his mission in
life to be the more or less forcible union of Russia with Western
Europe, realised the importance of the theatre as a subordinate means
to this end. During his travels abroad he had observed the influence
exercised by the drama upon the social life of other countries. In 1697
he was present at a performance of the ballet "Cupidon," at Amsterdam,
and in Vienna and London he heard Italian opera, which was just coming
into vogue in this country, and waxed enthusiastic over the singing of
our prima donna Cross. During his sojourn in Vienna he took part
himself, attired in the costume of a Friesland peasant, in a pastoral
pageant (_Wirthschaft_) given at the Court. Thus the idea of
reorganising the "Comedians' Chamber" founded by his father was
suggested to him. As Alexis had formerly sent Von-Staden to find foreign
actors for Russia, so Peter now employed a Slovak, named Splavsky, a
captain in the Russian army, on a similar mission. The Boyard Golovin
was also charged with the erection of a suitable building near to the
Kremlin. After two journeys, Splavsky succeeded in bringing back to
Russia a German troupe collected by an _entrepreneur_ in Dantzig, Johann
Christian Kunst. At first the actors were as unwilling to come as were
those of a previous generation, having heard bad accounts of the country
from a certain Scottish adventurer, Gordon, who had been connected with
a puppet-show, and who seems to have been a bad character and to have
been punished with the knout for murder. Finally, in April, 1702, Kunst
signed a contract by which his principal comedians undertook for the
yearly sum of about 4,200 roubles in the present currency "to make it
their duty like faithful servants to entertain and cheer His Majesty the
Tsar by all sorts of inventions and diversions, and to this end to keep
always sober, vigilant and in readiness." Kunst's company consisted of
himself, designated "Director of the Comedians of His Majesty the Tsar,"
his wife Anna, and seven actors. Hardly had he settled in Moscow before
he complained that Splavsky had hastened his departure from Germany
before he had had time or opportunity to engage good comedians skilled
in "singing-plays." The actors played in German, but a certain number of
clerks in the Chancellery of the Embassies were sent to Kunst to be
taught the repertory in Russian. It was not until 1703 that the first
public theatre in Russia, a wooden building, was erected near the
Kremlin in Moscow. Meanwhile the plays were given at the residence of
General Franz Lefort, in the German quarter of the city. Here, on the
occasion of the state entry of Peter into Moscow, Kunst performed
_Alexander and Darius_, followed by _The Cruelty of Nero_, a comedy in
seven acts, _Le Médecin malgré lui_, and _Mahomet and Zulima_, a comedy
interspersed with songs and dances. The new theatre was a genuine
attempt on the part of the Tsar Peter to bring this form of
entertainment within reach of a larger public than the privileged circle
invited to witness the plays given at the Court of Alexis. For the
country and period, the installation was on quite a sumptuous scale.
There were seats at four prices: ten, six, five and three kopecks. In
1704 there were two performances in the week which usually lasted about
five hours, from five to ten p.m. Peter the Great gave orders in 1705
that the pieces should be given alternately in Russian and German, and
that at the performance of the plays "the musicians were to play on
divers instruments." Russians of all ranks, and foreigners, were bidden
to attend "as they pleased, quite freely, having nothing to fear." On
the days of performance the gates leading into the Kremlin, the
Kitaï-gorod and the Bieli-gorod were left open till a later hour in
order to facilitate the passage of theatre-goers. From the outset Kunst
demanded facilities for the mounting of opera, and also an orchestra.
Seven musicians were engaged by special contract in Hamburg and an agent
was commissioned "to purchase little boys in Berlin with oboes and
pipes." By this time a few Russian magnates had started private bands in
imitation of those maintained by some of the nobility in Germany.
Prince Gregory Oginsky contributed four musicians from his private band
for the royal service in Moscow. To the director of the musicians from
Hamburg, Sienkhext, twelve Russian singers were handed over to be taught
the oboe. We learn nothing as to the organisation of a company of
singers, because in all probability, in accordance with the custom of
those days, the actors were also expected to be singers.
In the comedy of _Scipio Africanus_, and _The Fall of Sophonisba_, _The
Numidian Queen_, an adaptation from Loenstein's tragedy _Sophonisba_
(1666), short airs and other incidental music formed part of the play.
Music also played a subordinate part in an adaptation of Cicconini's
tragic opera _Il tradimento per l'honore, overo il vendicatore pentito_
(Bologna, 1664), and in an adaptation of Molière's _Don Juan_. These and
other pieces from the repertory of the day were culled from various
European sources, but almost invariably passed into the Russian through
the intermediary of the German language. The work continued to be
carried on in the Chancellery of the Embassies, where alone could be
found men with some knowledge of foreign tongues. The translations were
perfunctory and inaccurate, and there is no literary vitality whatever
in the productions of this period, unless it is found in the interludes
of a somewhat coarse humour which found more favour with the
uncultivated public than did the pieces themselves. Simeon Smirnov was
the first Russian who wrote farcical interludes of this kind, which were
almost as rough and scandalous as the plays of the _Skomorokhi_ of
earlier centuries. It cannot be proved that in the time of Peter the
Great an opera in the sense of a drama in which music preponderated was
ever put upon the stage, but it is an undoubted fact, according to
Cheshikin, that there exists the manuscript of a libretto for an opera
on the subject of Daphne. It seems to be the echo of what had taken
place in Florence at least a hundred years previously, when translations
of the book of "Daphne," composed by Caccini and Peri in 1594, gradually
made their way into various parts of Europe. In 1635 we hear of its
being given in Warsaw in the original Italian, and two or three years
later it was translated into Polish, running through three editions;
from one of these it was put into Russian early in the eighteenth
century by an anonymous author. The manuscript of the translation exists
in the Imperial Public Library, under one of the usual voluminous titles
of the period, _Daphnis pursued by the love of Apollo is changed into a
laurel bush_, or _the Act of Apollo and the fair Daphne; how Apollo
conquered the evil snake Python and was himself overcome by little
Cupid_. It bears the signature of one Dimitri Ilyinski, graduate of the
Slaviano-Latin Academy of Moscow, who appears to have been merely the
copyist, not the author, and the date "St. Petersburg, 1715." The pupils
of this Academy kept alive for some time the traditions of the "School
Drama" side by side with the official theatre subsidised by the state.
The plays continued to consist chiefly of Biblical episodes, and were
usually so framed as to be a defence of the Orthodox Church. They were
given periodically and were bare of all reference to contemporary life.
Side by side with these we may place the allegorical and panegyrical
plays performed by the medical students of the great hospital in Moscow.
Crude as were the productions of these two institutions they represent,
however, the more spontaneous movement of the national life rather than
the purely imported literary wares of the official theatre.
Kunst died in 1703, and was succeeded by Otto Fürst, whose Russian name
was Artemiem. He was a fair Russian scholar, and in a short time the
company became accustomed to playing in the vernacular. But it cannot be
said that this tentative national theatre was truly a success. It was a
hothouse plant, tended and kept alive by royal favour, and when the Tsar
removed his Court to St. Petersburg it gradually failed more and more to
hold the attention of the public. The theatre in the Red Square was
demolished before 1707. Fürst's company, however, continued to give
performances at Preobrajensky, the residence of the Tsarevna Natalia
Alexseievna, youngest sister of Peter the Great, and later on at the
palace of the Tsaritsa Prascovya Feodorovna at Ismailov. The private
theatre of this palace was never closed during the life of the widowed
Tsaritsa, who died in 1723. Her eldest daughter, the Duchess of
Mecklenburg, was fond of all sorts of gaiety; while her second daughter,
the Duchess of Courland, afterwards the Empress Anne of Russia, who
often visited her mother at Ismailov, was also a lover of the theatre.
The ladies in waiting joined Fürst's pupils in the performance of plays,
while the Duchess of Mecklenburg frequently acted as stage manager. The
entrance was free, and although the places were chiefly reserved for the
courtiers, the public seems to have been admitted somewhat
indiscriminately, if we can believe the account of the page in waiting,
Bergholds, who says that once his tobacco was stolen from his pocket and
that two of his companions complained of losing their silk
handkerchiefs.
About 1770 a theatrical company, consisting entirely of native actors
and actresses, was established in St. Petersburg under the patronage of
the Tsarevna Natalia Alexseievna, who herself wrote two plays for them
to perform. This princess did all in her power to second the efforts of
Peter the Great to popularise the drama. In 1720 the Tsar sent
Yagoujinsky to Vienna to raise a company of actors who could speak
Czech, thinking that they would learn Russian more quickly than the
Germans, but the mission was not successful. In 1723 a German company,
under the direction of Mann, visited the new capital and gave
performances in their own tongue. They were patronised by the Empress
Catherine I. At that time the Duke of Holstein, who afterwards married
the Tsarevna Anne, was visiting St. Petersburg, and the Court seem to
have frequently attended the theatre; but there is no definite record of
Mann's company giving performances of opera. A new theatre was
inaugurated in St. Petersburg in 1725, the year of Peter the Great's
death.
CHAPTER II
RUSSIAN OPERA PRIOR TO GLINKA
The history of Russian music enters upon a new period with the
succession of the Empress Anne. The national melodies now began to be
timidly cultivated, but the inauguration of a native school of music was
still a very remote prospect, because the influence of Western Europe
was now becoming paramount in Russian society. Italian music had just
reached the capital, and there, as in England, it held the field against
all rivals for many years to come.
Soon after her coronation, in 1732, the pleasure-loving Empress Anne
organised private theatricals in her Winter Palace and wrote to Bishop
Theofane Prokovich, asking him to supply her with three church singers.
The piece given was a "school drama" entitled _The Act of Joseph_, and
in its mounting and composition, a famous pupil of the Slaviano-Latin
Academy took part, Vassily Cyrillovich Trediakovsky, poet and
grammarian, and one of the first creators of the literary language of
Russia. The rest of the actors consisted of the singers lent by the
Bishop and of pupils selected from the Cadet Corps, among them Peter and
Carl, sons of Anne's favourite, Biron. Some of the actors' parts are
still in existence, with descriptions of their costumes, and details as
to the requirements of the piece, which seem to show that the entire
Biblical story of Joseph was presented, and that some allegorical
personages such as Chastity, Splendour, Humility, and Envy, were
introduced into the play. Splendour was attired in a red cloth garment,
slashed and trimmed with silver braid; Chastity was in white without
ornaments, crowned with a laurel wreath and carrying a sheaf of lilies.
Besides Jacob, Joseph, and his Brethren, there were parts for King
Pharaoh and two of his senators, Wise Men, slaves, attendants, and an
executioner, who, we read, was clad in a short tunic of red linen and
wore a yellow cap with a feather.
These old-fashioned, edifying plays soon bored the Empress Anne. Italian
actors appeared at the Court and gave amusing comedies, occasionally
containing musical interludes. The Empress employed Trediakovsky to
translate the pieces that were played before her; for she was no Italian
scholar. The new form of entertainment was so much to her liking that
she determined to establish a permanent Italian company in St.
Petersburg, and was the first to open a theatre in Russia exclusively
for opera. This brings upon the scene a personality inseparably linked
with the history of Russian opera: Francesco Araja, who is the first
palpable embodiment of operatic music in Russia, for all his
predecessors who composed for the plays of Kunst and Fürst have remained
anonymous.
Araja was born at Naples in 1700. His first opera, _Berenice_, was given
at the Court of Tuscany in 1730; his second, _Amore per Regnante_, was
produced soon afterwards in Rome. This seemed to have attracted the
attention of the Russian ambassador to Italy, and in 1735 the composer
was invited to St. Petersburg as director of the new Italian opera
company. The performances took place in the Winter Palace during the
winter, and in the summer in the Theatre of the Summer Garden. It is
possible that Araja's first season opened with a performance of one of
his own works with Russian text. Trediakovsky's translation of _La Forza
dell'Amore e dell'Odio_ is described as "a drama for music performed at
the New Theatre, by command of Her Imperial Highness Anna Johannovna,
Autocrat of all the Russias. Published in St. Petersburg by the Imperial
Academy of Science." It is not impossible that this comparatively
unimportant work actually led to Trediakovsky's great literary
innovation: the replacing of syllabic verse by tonic accent. It is
significant that his book on this subject came out in the same year, and
Cheshikin thinks that the study of the Italian opera of the eighteenth
century, with its correct versification, may have suggested to him the
theories which he sets forth in it. The same opera was given two years
later in Italian under the title of _Abizare_. Other operas by Araja
given in the Russian language are _Seleucus_ (1744), _Mithriadates_
(1747), _Eudocia Crowned, or Theodosia II._ (1751), and _Dido Forsaken_,
the libretto by Metastasio (1758); the last named was given in Moscow
the following year, and was apparently the first of Araja's works to be
heard in the old capital.
The Empress Elizabeth succeeded her cousin Anne in 1741, and Araja
continued to be Court Capellmeister. Like Peter the Great, Elizabeth was
anxious to popularise the drama in Russia. She showed a taste for Gallic
art, and established a company which gave French comedies and tragedies
alternately with Araja's opera company. Elizabeth urged her ladies in
waiting to attend every performance, and occasionally announced that the
upper classes among the merchants might be present on certain nights
"provided they were properly dressed."[3]
Russian opera made a decided step in advance when in 1751 Araja
composed music to a purely Russian text. The subject, _La Clemenza di
Tito_, which Mozart subsequently treated in 1791, had nothing in common
with the national life, but the libretto was the work of F. G. Volkov,
and the effect was quite homogeneous, for all the singers sang in the
vernacular instead of some using the Russian and some the Italian
language as was formerly done. This tasteless custom did not wholly die
out until well into the nineteenth century, but it became less and less
general. Thus in 1755 we hear of Araja's _Cephalus and Procius_ being
confided entirely to singers of Russian birth. The book of this opera
was by Soumarakov, based on materials borrowed from the "Metamorphoses"
of Ovid. The work is said to have been published in 1764, and is claimed
by some to be the earliest piece of music printed in Russia. J. B.
Jurgenson, head of the famous firm of music publishers in Moscow, who
has diligently collected the Russian musical publications of the
eighteenth century, states that he has never found any of Araja's operas
printed with music type. The fact that music was printed in Russia
before the reign of Catherine II. still needs verification. The scenery
of _Cephalus_ was painted by Valeriani, who bore one of the high
sounding titles which it was customary to bestow at the Court of
Russia--being distinguished as "First Historical Painter, Professor of
Perspective (scene painting) and Theatrical Engineer at the Imperial
Court of Russia." Among the singers who took part in the performance
were Elizabeth Bielogradsky, daughter of a famous lute player, Count
Razoumovsky, and Gravrilo Martsenkovich, known as Gravriloushko. The
success of the opera was brilliant, and the Empress presented the
composer with a fine sable coat as a mark of her gratification. In 1755,
Araja, having amassed considerable wealth, returned to Italy and spent
the remaining years of his life at Bologna.
Music under the Empress Elizabeth became a fashionable craze. Every
great landowner started his private band or choir. About this time, the
influence of the Empress's favourite, Razoumovsky, made itself felt in
favour of Russian melodies. By this time, too, a few talented native
musicians had been trained either in the Court Chapel or in some of the
private orchestras established by the aristocracy; but the influx of
foreigners into Russia threatened to swamp the frail craft of native
talent which had just been launched with pride upon the social sea. The
majority of these foreigners were mediocrities who found it easier to
impose upon the unsophisticated Russians than to make a living in their
own country; but the names of Sarti, Paisiello, and Cimarosa stand out
as glorious exceptions among this crowd of third and fourth rate
composers.
To Feodor Grigorievich Volkov, whose name has been already mentioned as
the author of the first genuine Russian libretto, has been also accorded
the honour of producing the first Russian opera boasting some
pretensions to the national style. Volkov was born at Kostroma, in 1729,
the son of a merchant. On his father's death and his mother's
re-marriage his home was transferred to Yaroslav. Here he received his
early education from a German pastor in the service of Biron, Duke of
Courland, then in banishment at Yaroslav. During a visit to St.
Petersburg in 1746, Volkov was so captivated by his first impressions of
Italian opera that he determined to start a theatrical company of his
own in Yaroslav. He gathered together a few enthusiastic amateurs and
began by giving performances in his own home. The attempt was so
successful that the fame of his entertainments reached the Empress
Elisabeth, and the young actors were summoned to her Court in 1752,
where they gave a private performance of a "comedy" with musical
interludes entitled _The Sinner's Repentance_, by Dimitri, metropolitan
of Rostov. One result of this production was that the Empress resolved
to continue the education of two members of the company, one of whom,
Ivan Dmitrievsky, became the most famous Russian actor of his day. In
1759 Volkov was sent to Moscow to establish a "Court theatre" there. The
festivities with which the coronation of Catherine II. was celebrated in
the old capital included a sumptuous masquerade entitled _Minerva
Triumphant_, arranged by Volkov, in which choral music played a part.
While engaged in organising the procession, Volkov caught a severe chill
from which he never recovered, and died in April 1763. He was an amateur
of music and made use of it in the entertainments which he produced; but
there seem to be grave doubts as to whether he was capable of composing
music to the first Russian comic opera, _Taniousha or The Fortunate
Meeting_, said to have been produced in November 1756. Gorbounov thinks
it highly improbable that such an opera ever existed,[4] because
Volkov's biographer, Rodislavsky, had no better foundation for assuming
its composition and production than some old handbills belonging to the
actor Nossov, which seem to have existed only in the imagination of
their collector. The assertion that _Taniousha_ was the first Russian
national opera must therefore be accepted with reserve.
Evstignei Platovich Fomin was born August 5th 1741 (O.S.), in St.
Petersburg. He was a pupil of the Imperial Academy of Arts, and in view
of his promising musical talent was sent to study in Italy, where he
entered for a time the Academy of Music at Bologna, and made rapid
progress. He began his musical career in Moscow in 1770, but appears to
have migrated to St. Petersburg before the death of Catherine II. He was
commissioned to compose the music for a libretto from the pen of the
Empress herself, entitled _Boeslavich, the Novgorodian Hero_. Catherine
not being quite confident as to Fomin's powers submitted the score to
Martini. The result appears to have been satisfactory. In 1797 Fomin was
employed at the Imperial Theatres as musical coach and _répétiteur_; he
was also expected to teach singing to the younger artists of both sexes
in the Schools, and to accompany in the orchestra for the French and
Italian operas. For these duties he received an annual sum of 720
roubles. Fomin died in St. Petersburg in April, 1800. He wrote a
considerable number of operas, including _Aniouta_ (1772), the libretto
by M. V. Popov; _The Good Maiden_ (_Dobraya Devka_), libretto by
Matinsky (1777); _Regeneration_ (_Pereiojdenia_), (1777)[5]; in January
1779 his _Wizard-Miller_ (_Melnik-Koldoun_) an opera in three acts, the
libretto by Ablessimov, was produced for the first time, and proved one
of the most successful operas of the eighteenth century; a one-act
opera, the book by Nikolaiev, entitled _The Tutor Professor, or Love's
Persuasive Eloquence_, was given in Moscow; and in 1786 _Boeslavich_, in
five acts, the text by Catherine II., was mounted at the Hermitage
Palace; _The Wizard, The Fortune Teller and The Matchmaker_, in three
acts, dates from 1791. In 1800 appeared two operas, _The Americans_, the
libretto by Kloushin, and _Chlorida and Milon_, the words of which were
furnished by the well-known writer Kapnist. As far as is known, Fomin
composed ten operas and also wrote music to a melodrama entitled
_Orpheus_.[6] It is probable, however, that Fomin really produced many
more musical works for the stage, for it has been proved that he
occasionally took an assumed name for fear of his work proving a
failure. Of his voluminous output only three works need be discussed
here.
_Aniouta_ owed some of its success to Popov's libretto, which was a mild
protest against the feudal aristocracy. The peasant Miron sings in the
first act some naïve verses in which he bewails the hard fate of the
peasant; "Ah, how tired I am," he says. "Why are we peasants not nobles?
Then, we might crunch sugar all day long, lie warm a'top of the stove
and ride in our carriages." If we put aside the idea that Volkov's
_Taniousha_ was the first opera written by a Russian composer, then this
honour must be rendered to Fomin's _Aniouta_.
Contemporary proof of the immense success of _The Miller_
(_Melnik-Koldoun_) is not wanting. The Dramatic Dictionary for 1787
informs us that it was played twenty-seven nights running and that the
theatre was always full. Not only were the Russians pleased with it, but
it interested the foreigners at Court. The most obvious proof of its
popularity may be found in the numerous inferior imitations which
followed in its wake.
The libretto of _The Miller_, like that of _Aniouta_, was tinged by a
cautious liberalism. Here it is not a peasant, but a peasant proprietor,
who "tills and toils and from the peasants collects the rent" who plays
the principal rôle. The part of the Miller was admirably acted by
Kroutitsky (1754-83), who, after the first performance, was called to
the Empress's box and presented with a gold watch. But undoubtedly
Fomin's music helped the success of the opera. The work has been
reissued with an interesting preface by P. Karatagyn (Jurgenson,
Moscow), so that it is easily accessible to those who are interested in
the early history of Russian opera. The music is somewhat amateurish and
lacking in technical resource. Fomin does not venture upon a chorus,
although there are occasionally couplets with choral refrains; lyric
follows lyric, and the duets are really alternating solos with a few
phrases in thirds at the close of the verses. But the public in Russia
in the eighteenth century was not very critical, and took delight in the
novel sensation of hearing folk-songs on the stage. In the second act
the heroine Aniouta sings a pretty melody based on a familiar folk-tune
which awakened great enthusiasm among the audience. The songs and their
words stand so close to the original folk-tunes that no doubt they
carried away all the occupants of the pit and the cheap places; while,
for the more exacting portion of the audience, the rôle of the Miller
was written in the conventional style of the _opera buffa_. This
judicious combination pleased all tastes.
We find far greater evidences of technical capacity in Fomin's opera
_The Americans_, composed some thirteen years later. In the second act
there is a fairly developed love-duet between Gusman and Zimara; the
quartets and choruses, though brief, are freer and more expressive;
there is greater variety of modulation, and altogether the work shows
some reflection of Mozart's influence, and faintly foreshadows a more
modern school to come. The libretto is extremely naïve, the Americans
being in reality the indigenous inhabitants, the Red Indians; but there
is nothing in the music allotted to them which differentiates them from
the Spanish characters in the opera. The advance, however, in the music
as compared with that of his earlier operas proves that Fomin must have
possessed real and vital talent. Yet it is by _The Miller_ that he will
live in the memory of the Russian people, thanks to his use of the
folk-tunes. To quote from Karatagyn's preface to this work: "Fomin has
indisputably the right to be called our first national composer. Before
the production of _The Miller_, opera in Russia had been entirely in the
hands of travelling Italian _maestri_. Galuppi, Sarti, Paisiello,
Cimarosa, Salieri, Martini, and others ruled despotically over the Court
orchestra and singers. Only Italian music was allowed to have an
existence and Russian composers could not make their way at all except
under the patronage of the Italians." This sometimes led to tragic
results, as in the case of Berezovsky, whose efforts to free himself
from the tutelage of Sarti cost him the patronage of the great Potemkin
and drove him to a pitch of despair which ended in suicide. Too much
weight, however, must not be attached to this resentment against the
Italian influence, so loudly expressed in Russia and elsewhere. The
Italians only reigned supreme in the lands of their musical conquest so
long as there existed no national composer strong enough to compete with
them. Fomin's success clearly proves that as soon as a native musician
appeared upon the scene who could give the people of their own, in a
style that was not too elevated for their immature tastes, he had not to
complain of any lack of enthusiasm.
It is to be regretted that none of his contemporaries thought it worth
while to write his biography, but at that time Russian literature was
purely aristocratic, and Fomin, though somewhat of a hero, was of the
people--a serf.
Contemporary history is equally silent as regards Michael Matinsky, who
died in the second decade of the nineteenth century. He, too, was a
serf, born on the estate of Count Yagjinsky and sent by his master to
study music in Italy. He composed several operas, the most successful of
which was _The Gostinny Dvor in St. Petersburg_, a work that eventually
travelled to Moscow. In his youth Matinsky is said to have played in
Count Razoumovsky's private band. In addition to his musical activity he
held the post of professor of geometry in the Smolny Institute in St.
Petersburg.
Vassily Paskievich was chamber-musician to the Empress Catherine II. In
1763 he was engaged, first as violinist, and then as composer, at the
theatres in St. Petersburg; he also conducted the orchestra at the state
balls. Some of his songs, which are sentimental, but pleasingly national
in colour, are still popular in Russia. He is said to have written seven
operas in all. The first of these, _Love brings Trouble_, was produced
at the Hermitage Theatre in 1772. Some years later he was commissioned
to set to music a libretto written by the Empress Catherine herself. The
subject of this opera is taken from the tale of _Tsarevich Feveï_, a
panegyric upon the good son of a Siberian king who was patriotic and
brave--in fact possessed of all the virtues. In her choice of subject
the Empress seems to have been influenced by her indulgent affection for
her favourite grandchild, the future Alexander I. Prince Feveï does
nothing to distinguish himself, but most of the characters in the opera
go into ecstasies over his charms and qualities, and it is obvious that
in this libretto Catherine wished to pay a flattering compliment to her
grandson. There are moments in the music which must have appealed to the
Russian public, especially an aria "Ah, thou, my little father," sung in
the style of an old village dame. Other numbers in the opera have the
same rather sickly-sweet flavour that prevails in Paskievich's songs.
The redeeming feature of the opera was probably its Kalmuc element,
which must have imparted a certain humour and oriental character to
both words and music. In one place the text runs something like this:
"Among the Kalmuc folk we eat kaimak, souliak, tourmak, smoke tabac(co)
and drink koumiss," and the ring of these unfamiliar words may have
afforded some diversion to the audiences of those days.[7]
[Illustration:
A CHURCH SERVICE, PROCESSION OF BOYARDS
_From 16th century contemporary prints, attributed to Jost Amman._
]
But however dull the subject of _Feveï_ may appear to modern
opera-goers, that of Paskievich's third opera, _Fedoul and Her
Children_, must surely take the prize for ineptitude even among Russian
operas of the eighteenth century. Fedoul, a widow, announces to her
fifteen grown-up children her intention of getting married again to a
young widower; at first the family not unnaturally grumble at the
prospect of a step-father, but having been scandalised by the marriage
with the prince in the first act, they solemnly sing his praises in the
finale of the last.
In co-operation with Sarti and Canobbio, Paskievich composed the music
to another book by the Empress Catherine, entitled _The Early Reign of
Oleg_, produced at the Hermitage Theatre, St. Petersburg, September,
1794. Paskievich's share of this work seems to have been the choruses,
which give a touch of national sentiment to the opera. Here he uses
themes that have now become familiar to us in the works of later
Russian musicians, such as the _Slavsia_ in honour of the Tsar, and the
Little Russian theme "The Crane" (_Jouravel_), which Tchaikovsky
employed in his Second Symphony. The orchestral accompaniments sometimes
consist of variations upon the theme, a form much favoured by Russian
musicians of a more modern school. Other operas by Paskievich are _The
Two Antons_ (1804) and _The Miser_ (1811). Paskievich had not as strong
a talent as Fomin, but we must give him credit, if not for originating,
at least for carrying still further the use of the folksong in Russian
opera.
In a book which is intended to give a general survey of the history of
Russian opera to English readers, it is hardly necessary to enter into
details about such composers as Vanjour, Bulant, Briks, A. Plestcheiev,
Nicholas Pomorsky, the German, Hermann Raupach, Canobbio, Kerzelli,
Troinni, Staubinger, and other musicians, Russian and foreign, who
played more or less useful minor parts in the musical life of St.
Petersburg and Moscow during the second half of the eighteenth century.
Three Italians and two Russians, however, besides those already
mentioned, stand out more prominently from the ranks and deserve to be
mentioned here.
Vincente Martin (Martin y Solar), of Spanish descent, born about 1754,
migrated in his boyhood to Italy, where he was known as _lo Spagnulo_.
He wrote an opera, _Iphigenia in Aulis_, for the carnival in Florence in
1781, and having won some reputation as a composer in Italy, went to
Vienna in 1785. Here his success was immense, so much so that his opera
_Una Cosa Rara_ was a serious rival to Mozart's "Nozze di Figaro." A
year later Mozart paid Martin the compliment of introducing a fragment
of _Una Cosa Rara_ into the finale of the second act of "Don Juan."
Martin went to St. Petersburg in 1788, at the invitation of the Italian
opera company. During his stay in Russia eight of his operas were given
in the vernacular, including _Dianino_, an _opera d'occasion_, the text
by Catherine the Great; _La Cosa Rara_, translated by Dmitrievsky;
_Fedoul and her Children_, in which he co-operated with the native
composer Paskievich; _A Village Festival_, the libretto by V. Maikov,
and a comic opera in one act, _Good Luke, or Here's my day_, the words
by Kobyakov. The fact that he wrote so frequently to Russian texts
entitles him to a place in the history of Russian opera. Martin was held
in great honour in the capital, and the Emperor Paul I. made him a Privy
Councillor. This did not prevent him, however, from suffering from the
fickleness of fashion, for in 1808 the Italians were replaced by a
French opera company and Martin lost his occupation. He continued,
however, to live in Russia, teaching at the Smolny monastery and in the
aristocratic families of St. Petersburg, where he died in May, 1810.
Among the foreigners who visited Russia in the time of Catherine the
Great, none was more distinguished than Guiseppe Sarti. Born at Faenza
in December, 1729, celebrated as a composer of opera by the time he was
twenty-four, he was appointed in 1753 Director of the Italian opera, and
Court Capellmeister to Frederick V. of Denmark. He lived in Copenhagen,
with one interval of three years, until the summer of 1775, when he
returned to Italy and subsequently became Maestro di Capella of the
cathedral of Milan. Here he spent nine years of extraordinary activity
composing fifteen operas, besides cantatas, masses and motets. In 1784
Catherine the Great tempted him to visit St. Petersburg, and constituted
him her Court-composer. His opera _Armida_ was received with great
enthusiasm in the Russian capital in 1786. It was sung in Italian, for
it was not until 1790 that Sarti took part in the composition of an
opera written to a Russian libretto. This was the _Early Rule of Oleg_,
the book from the pen of the Empress herself, in which he co-operated
with Paskievich. He also composed a _Te Deum_ in celebration of the fall
of Ochakov before the army of Potemkin; this was for double chorus, its
triumphal effect being enhanced by drums and salvos of artillery; a
procedure which no doubt set a precedent for Tchaikovsky when he came to
write his occasional Overture "1812." Many honours fell to Sarti's lot
during the eighteen years he lived in Russia, among others the
membership of the Academy of Science. The intrigues of the Italian
singer Todi obliged him to retire for a time to a country estate
belonging to Potemkin in the Ukraine; but he was eventually reinstated
in Catherine's good graces. After the Empress's death he determined to
return to Italy, but stayed for a time in Berlin, where he died in 1802.
Giovanni Paesiello (1741-1816) was another famous Italian whom Catherine
invited to St. Petersburg in 1776, where he remained as "Inspector of
the Italian operas both serious and buffa" until 1784. Not one of the
series of operas which he wrote during his sojourn in St. Petersburg was
composed to a Russian libretto or sung in the Russian tongue. His
_Barber of Seville_, written during the time when he was living in St.
Petersburg, afterwards became so popular with the Italians that when
Rossini ventured to make use of the same subject the public regarded it
as a kind of sacrilege. Paesiello's influence on Russian opera was
practically nil.
The generous offers of Catherine the Great drew Baldassare Galuppi
(1706-1785) to St. Petersburg in 1765. One can but admire the spirit of
these eighteenth-century Italian musicians--many of them being well
advanced in years--who were willing to leave the sunny skies of Italy
for the "Boreal clime" of St. Petersburg. Galuppi acted as the Director
of the Imperial Court Chapel for three years, and was the first
foreigner to compose music to a text in the ecclesiastical Slavonic, and
to introduce the motet (the Russian name for which is "concert") into
the service of the Orthodox Church. His operas, _Il Ré Pastore_,
_Didone_, and _Iphigenia in Taurida_, the last named being composed
expressly for the St. Petersburg opera, were all given during his
sojourn in the capital, but there is no record to prove that any one of
these works was sung in Russian.
Maxim Sozontovich Berezovsky[8] (1745-1777) studied at the School of
Divinity at Kiev, whence, having a remarkably fine voice, he passed into
the Imperial Court Chapel. In 1765 he was sent at the Government expense
to study under the famous Padre Martini at Bologna. His studies were
brilliant, and he returned to St. Petersburg full of hope and ambition,
only to find himself unequal to coping with the intrigues of the Italian
musicians at Court. Discouraged and disappointed, his mind gave way, and
he committed suicide at the age of thirty-two. He left a few sacred
compositions (_a capella_) which showed the highest promise. While in
Italy he composed an opera to an Italian libretto entitled _Demofonti_
which was performed with success at Bologna and Livorno.
Dmitri Stepanovich Bortniansky, born in 1751, also began his career as a
chorister in the Court Choir, where he attracted the attention of
Galuppi, who considered his talents well worth cultivation. When Galuppi
returned to Italy in 1768, Bortniansky was permitted to join him the
following year in Venice, where he remained until 1779. He was then
recalled to Russia and filled various important posts connected with the
Imperial Court Choir. He is now best known as a composer of sacred
music, some of his compositions being still used in the services of the
Orthodox Church. Although somewhat mellifluous and decidedly Italianised
in feeling, his church music is not lacking in beauty. He wrote four
operas, two to Italian and two to French texts. The titles of the
Italian operas are as follows: _Alcide, Azioni teatrale postea in musica
da Demetrio Bortnianski, 1778, in Venezia_; and _Quinto Fabio, drama
per musica rappresentata nel ducal teatro di Modena, il carnavale
dell'anno 1779_. The French comic opera _Le Faucon_ was composed for the
entertainment of the Tsarevich Paul Petrovich and his Court at Gatchina
(1786); while _Le Fils Rival_ was produced at the private theatre at
Pavlovsk in 1787, also for the Tsarevich Paul and his wife Maria
Feodorovna.
Throughout the preceding chapters I have used the word "opera" as a
convenient general term for the works reviewed in them; but although a
few such works composed by Italians, or under strong Italian influences,
might be accurately described as melodic opera, the nearer they approach
to this type the less they contain of the Russian national style. For
the most part, however, these productions of the eighteenth century were
in the nature of vaudevilles: plays with couplets and other incidental
music inserted, in which, as Cheshikin points out, the verses were often
rather spoken than sung; consequently the form was more declamatory than
melodic. Serov, in a sweeping criticism of the music of this period,
says that it was for the most part commissioned from the pack of needy
Italians who hung about the Court in the various capacities of _maîtres
d'hôtel_, wig-makers, costumiers, and confectioners. This, as we have
seen, is somewhat exaggerated, since Italy sent some of her best men to
the Court of Catherine II. But even admitting that a large proportion of
the musicians who visited Russia were less than second-rate, yet beneath
this tawdry and superficial foreign disguise the pulse of national music
beat faintly and irregularly. If some purely Italian tunes joined to
Russian words made their way into various spheres of society, and came
to be accepted by the unobservant as genuine national melodies, on the
other hand some true folk-songs found their way into semi-Italian operas
and awoke the popular enthusiasm, as we have witnessed in the works of
Fomin and Paskievich. In one respect the attitude of the Russian public
in the eighteenth century towards imported opera differed from our own.
All that was most successful in Western Europe was brought in course of
time to St. Petersburg, but a far larger proportion of the foreign
operas were translated into the vernacular than was the case in this
country.
With regard to the location of opera, the first "opera house" was
erected by the Empress Anne in St. Petersburg, but was not used
exclusively for opera, French plays and other forms of entertainment
being also given there. The building was burnt down in 1749, and the
theatrical performances were continued temporarily in the Empress's
state apartment. A new, stone-built opera house was opened in St.
Petersburg in 1750, after the accession of the Empress Elizabeth. It was
situated near the Anichkov Palace. Catherine the Great added another
stone theatre to the capital in 1774, which was known as "The Great
Theatre." After damage from fire it was reconstructed and reopened in
1836.[9] Rebuilt again in 1880, it became the home of the Conservatoire
and the office of the Imperial Musical Society. Besides these buildings,
the Hermitage Theatre, within the walls of the Winter Palace, was often
used in the time of Catherine the Great.
In Moscow the Italian _entrepreneur_ Locatelli began to solicit the
privilege of building a new theatre in 1750. Six years later he was
accorded the necessary permission, and the building was opened in
January, 1759. But Locatelli was not very successful, and his tenure
only lasted three years. Titov managed the Moscow theatre from 1766 to
the death of Catherine in 1796. After this the direction passed into the
hands of Prince Ouroussov, who in association with a Jew named
Medoks[10] proceeded to build a new and luxurious theatre in Petrovsky
Street. Prince Ouroussov soon retired, leaving Medoks sole manager. The
season began with comic operas such as _The Miller_ by Fomin. In 1805
the Petrovsky theatre shared the fate of so many Russian buildings and
was destroyed by fire.
Alexander I. succeeded the unfortunate Paul Petrovich, done to death in
the Mikhaïlovsky Palace during the night of March 23rd, 1801. With his
advent, social sentiment in Russia began to undergo a complete
revolution. The Napoleonic wars in Western Europe, in which the Russian
troops took part, culminating in the French invasion of 1812, awoke all
the latent patriotism of the nation. The craze for everything foreign,
so marked under the rule of Catherine II., now gave place to
ultra-patriotic enthusiasm. This reaction, strongly reflected in the
literature of the time, was not without its influence on musical taste.
In Russia, music and literature have always been closely allied, and the
works of the great poet Poushkin, of the fabulist Krylov, and the
patriotic historian Karamzin, gave a strong impulse and a new tone to
the art. At the same time a wave of romanticism passed over Russia. This
was partly the echo of Byron's popularity, then at its height in England
and abroad; and partly the outcome of the annexation of the old kingdom
of Georgia, in 1801, which turned the attention of Young Russia to the
magic beauty and glamour of the Caucasus.
There was now much discussion about national music, and a great deal
was done to encourage its progress; but during the first quarter of the
nineteenth century composers had but a superficial idea of the meaning
of a national school, and were satisfied that a Russian subject and a
selection of popular tunes constituted the only formula necessary for
the production of a native opera.
During his short reign the Emperor Paul had not contributed to the
advancement of music, but in spite of somewhat unfavourable conditions,
an Italian opera company under the management of Astarito[11] visited
St. Petersburg in 1797. Among their number was a talented young Italian,
Catterino Cavos, whose name is inseparably connected with the musical
history of Russia. Born at Venice in 1776, the son of the musical
director of the celebrated "Fenice" Theatre, it is said that at fourteen
Cavos was the chosen candidate for the post of organist of St. Mark's
Cathedral, but relinquished his chance in favour of a poor musician. The
story is in accordance with what we read of his magnanimity in later
life. His gifts were remarkable, and in 1799 he was appointed Court
Capellmeister. In 1803 he became conductor of the Italian, Russian and
French opera companies. Part of his duties consisted in composing for
all three institutions. Light opera and ballet, given by the French
company, was then all the fashion in St. Petersburg. Cavos quickly
realised the direction and scope of the public taste, and soon began to
write operas to romantic and legendary subjects borrowed from Russian
history and folk-lore, and endeavoured to give his music a decided touch
of national colour. In May, 1804, he made an immense success with his
_Roussalka of the Dneiper_, in which he had the co-operation of Davidov.
The following year he dispensed with all assistance and produced a
four-act opera to a Russian text called _The Invisible Prince_, which
found great favour with the public. Henceforth, through over thirty
years of unresting creative activity, Cavos continued to work this
popular vein. His operas have practically all sunk into oblivion, but
the catalogue of their titles is still of some interest to students of
Russian opera, because several of his subjects have since been treated
and re-vitalised by a more recent generation of native composers. His
chief works, given chronologically, are as follows: _Ilya the Hero_, the
libretto by Krilov (1806); _The Three Hunchback Brothers_ (1808); _The
Cossack Poet_ (1812); _The Peasants, or the Unexpected Meeting_ (1814);
_Ivan Sousanin_ (1815); _The Ruins of Babylon_ (1818); _Dobrinya
Nikitich_ (1810); and _The Bird of Fire_ (1822)--the last two in
co-operation with Antonolini; _Svietlana_, text by Joukovsky (1822);
_The Youth of Joan III._ (1822); _The Mountains of Piedmont, or The
Devil's Bridge_ (1825); _Miroslava, or the Funeral Pyre_ (1827).
The foregoing list does not include any works which Cavos wrote to
French or Italian texts, amounting to nearly thirty in all. In _Ilya the
Hero_ Cavos made his first attempt to produce a national epic opera.
Founded on the Legend of Ilya Mouromets, from the Cycle of Kiev, the
opera is not lacking in spirit, and evoked great enthusiasm in its day,
especially one martial aria, "Victory, victory, Russian hero!" Cavos was
fortunate in having secured as librettist a very capable writer, Prince
Shakovsky, who also supplied the text for _Ivan Sousanin_, the most
successful of all Cavos's national operas; although we shall see in the
next chapter how completely it was supplanted in the popular favour by
Glinka's work dealing with the same subject.
In the spring of 1840 Cavos's health began to fail, and he received
leave of absence from his many arduous but lucrative official posts. He
became, however, rapidly much worse and had to abandon the idea of a
journey. He died in St. Petersburg on April 28th (O.S.). His loss was
deeply felt by the Russian artists, to whom, unlike many of his Italian
predecessors, he had always shown generous sympathy; they paid him a
last tribute of respect by singing Cherubini's _Requiem_ at his funeral.
The Russian musician Youry Arnold, who was well acquainted with Cavos in
the later years of his life, describes him at sixty as a robust and
energetic man, who was at his piano by 9 a.m., rehearsing the soloists
till 1 p.m., when he took the orchestral rehearsals. If by any chance
these ended a little sooner than he expected, he would occupy himself
again with the soloists. At 5 p.m. he made his report to the Director of
the Imperial Theatres, and then went home to dine. But he never failed
to appear at the Opera House punctually at 7 o'clock. On evenings when
there was no performance he devoted extra time to his soloists. He
worked thus conscientiously and indefatigably year after year. He was
not, however, indifferent to the pleasures of the table and was
something of a _gourmet_. Even in the far-distant north he managed to
obtain consignments of his favourite "_vino nero_." "He told me more
than once," said Arnold, "that except with tea, he had never in the
whole course of his life swallowed a mouthful of water: '_Perchè cosa
snaturalle, insoffribile e nocevole!_'"
Cavos was an admirable and painstaking conductor, and his long _régime_
must have greatly contributed to the discipline and good organisation
of the opera, both as regards orchestra and singers. His own works, as
might be expected from a musician whose whole life was spent in studying
the scores of other composers, were not highly original. He wrote well,
and with knowledge, for the voice, and his orchestration was adequate
for that period, but his music lacks homogeneity, and reminiscences of
Mozart, Cherubini and Méhul mingle with echoes of the Russian folk-songs
in the pages of his operas. But the public of his day were on the whole
well satisfied with Russian travesties of Italian and Viennese
vaudevilles. It is true that new sentiments were beginning to rouse the
social conscience, but the public was still a long way from desiring
idealistic truth, let alone realism, in its music and literature. In
spite of the one electrical thrill which Glinka administered to the
public in _A Life for the Tsar_, opera was destined to be regarded for
many years to come as a pleasing and not too exacting form of
recreation. The libretto of Cavos's _Ivan Sousanin_ shows what society
demanded from opera even as late as 1815; for here this tragedy of
unquestioning loyalty to an ideal is made to end quite happily. At the
moment when the Poles were about to slay him in the forest, Sousanin is
rescued by a Russian boyard and his followers, and the hero, robust and
jovial, lives to moralise over the footlights in the following
couplets, in which he takes leave of the audience:
Now let the cruel foe beware,
And tremble all his days;
But let each loyal Russian heart
Rejoice in songs of praise.
At the same time it must be admitted that in this opera Cavos sometimes
gives an echo of the genuine national spirit. The types of Sousanin and
his young son Alexis, and of Masha and her husband, Matthew, are so
clearly outlined, says Cheshikin, that Glinka had only to give them more
relief and finish. The well-constructed overture, the duet between Masha
and Alexis, and the folk-chorus "Oh, do not rave wild storm-wind" are
all far in advance of anything to be found in the Russian operas of the
eighteenth century.
Among those who were carried along by the tide of national feeling which
rose steadily in Russia from 1812 onward was the gifted amateur Alexis
Nicholaevich Verstovsky. Born in 1799, near Tambov, the son of a country
gentleman, Verstovsky was educated at the Institute of Engineers, St.
Petersburg, where he took pianoforte lessons from John Field, and later
on from Steibelt. He also learnt some theory from Brandt and Steiner;
singing from an operatic artist named Tarquini; and violin from Böhm and
Maurer. Verstovsky composed his first vaudeville at nineteen and its
success encouraged him to continue on the same lines. In 1823 he was
appointed Director of the Moscow Opera, where he produced a whole series
of operettas and vaudevilles, many of which were settings of texts
translated from the French. After a time he became ambitious of writing
a serious opera, and in May 1828, he produced his _Pan Tvardovsky_, the
libretto by Zagoskin and Aksakov, well known literary men of the day.
The book is founded on an old Polish or Malo-Russian legend, the hero
being a kind of Slavonic Faust. The music was influenced by Méhul and
Weber, but Verstovsky introduced a gipsy chorus which in itself won
immediate popularity for the opera. Its success, though brilliant, was
short-lived.
_Pan Tvardovsky_ was followed by _Vadim, or the Twenty Sleeping
Maidens_, based on a poem by Joukovsky, but the work is more of the
nature of incidental music to a play than pure opera.
_Askold's Tomb_, Verstovsky's third opera, by which he attained his
greatest fame, will be discussed separately.
_Homesickness_ (_Toska po rodine_), the scene laid in Spain, was a poor
work produced for the benefit night of the famous Russian bass O. A.
Petrov, the precursor of Shaliapin.
_The Boundary Hills, or the Waking Dream_, stands nearest in order of
merit to _Askold's Tomb_. The scene is laid in mythical times, and the
characters are supernatural beings, such as Domovoi (the House Spirit),
Vodyanoi (the Water Sprite) and Liessnoi (the Wood Spirit). The music
breathes something of the spirit of Russian folk-song, and a Slumber
Song, a Triumphal March, and a very effectively mounted Russian Dance,
which the composer subsequently added to the score, were the favourite
numbers in this opera.
Verstovsky's last opera _Gromoboi_ was based upon the first part of
Joukovsky's poem "The Twenty Sleeping Maidens." An oriental dance
(_Valakhsky Tanets_) from this work was played at one of the concerts of
the Imperial Russian Musical Society, and Serov speaks of it as being
quite Eastern in colour, original and attractive as regards melody but
poorly harmonised and orchestrated as compared with the _Lezginka_ from
Glinka's _Russlan and Liudmilla_, the lively character of the dance
being very similar.
A few of the composers mentioned in the previous chapter were still
working in Russia at the same time as Verstovsky. Of those whose
compositions belong more particularly to the first forty years of the
nineteenth century, the following are most worthy of notice:
Joseph Antonovich Kozlovsky (1757-1831), of Polish birth, began life as
a soldier in Prince Potemsky's army. The prince's attention having been
called to the young man's musical talents, he appointed him director of
his private band in St. Petersburg. Kozlovsky afterwards entered the
orchestra of the Imperial Opera. He wrote music to Oserov's tragedy
_[OE]dipus in Athens_ (1804); to _Fingal_ (1805), _Deborah_, libretto by
Shakovsky (1810), _OEdipus Rex_ (1811), and to Kapnist's translation
of Racine's _Esther_ (1816).
Ludwig Maurer (1789-1878), a famous German violinist, played in the
orchestra at Riga in his early days, and after touring abroad and in
Russia settled in St. Petersburg about 1820, where he was appointed
leader of the orchestra at the French theatre in 1835. Ten years later
he returned to Germany and gave many concerts in Western Europe; but in
1851 he went back to St. Petersburg as Inspector-General of all the
State theatrical orchestras. Maurer is best known by his instrumental
compositions, especially his Concertos for four violins and orchestra,
but he wrote music for several popular vaudevilles with Russian text,
and co-operated occasionally with Verstovsky and Alabiev.
The brothers Alexis and Sergius Titov were types of the distinguished
amateurs who played such an important part in the musical life of Russia
during the first half of the last century. Alexis (d. 1827) was the
father of that Nicholas Titov often called "the ancestor of Russian
song." He served in the Cavalry Guards and rose to the rank of
Major-General. An admirable violinist, he was also a voluminous
composer. Stassov gives a list of at least fourteen operas, melodramas,
and other musical works for the stage, many of which were written to
French words. His younger brother Sergius (b. 1770) is supposed to have
supplied music to _The Forced Marriage_, text by Plestcheiev (1789), _La
Veillée des Paysans_ (1809), _Credulity_ (1812), and, in co-operation
with Bluhm, _Christmas Festivals of Old_ (1813). It is probable that he
had a hand in the long list of works attributed to his brother Alexis,
and most of the Russian musical historians seem puzzled to decide how to
apportion to each of the brothers his due share of creative activity.
A composer belonging to this period is known by name even beyond the
Russian frontiers, owing to the great popularity of one of his songs,
"The Nightingale." Alexander Alexandrovich Alabiev was born at Moscow,
August 4th, 1787[12] (O.S.). He entered the military service and,
becoming acquainted with Verstovsky, co-operated in several of his
vaudevilles. For some breach of discipline Alabiev was exiled for a time
to Tobolsk. Inspired by the success of Cavos's semi-national operas,
Alabiev attempted a Russian fairy opera entitled _A Moonlight Night or
the Domovoï_. The opera was produced in St. Petersburg and Moscow, but
did not long hold a place in the repertory of either theatre. He next
attempted music to scenes from Poushkin's poem _The Prisoner in the
Caucasus_, a naïve work in which the influence of Bellini obscures the
faint national and Eastern colour which the atmosphere of the work
imperatively demands. Alabiev, after his return from Siberia, settled in
Moscow, where he died February 22nd, 1851 (O.S.).
[Illustration: MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA
_From a portrait by Repin_]
CHAPTER III
MICHAEL IVANOVICH GLINKA
In the preceding chapters I have shown how long and persistently Russian
society groped its way towards an ideal expression of nationalism in
music. Gifted foreigners, such as Cavos, had tried to catch some faint
echo of the folk-song and reproduce it disguised in Italian accents;
talented, but poorly equipped, Russian musicians had exploited the music
of the people with a certain measure of success, but without sufficient
conviction or genius to form the solid basis of a national school. Yet
all these strivings and aspirations, these mistaken enthusiasms and
immature presentiments, were not wasted. Possibly the sacrifice of many
talents is needed before the manifestation of one genius can be
fulfilled. When the yearning after a musical Messiah had acquired
sufficient force, the right man appeared in the person of Michael
Ivanovich Glinka. With his advent we reach the first great climax in the
history of Russian music.
It is in accordance with the latent mysticism and the ardour smouldering
under the semi-oriental indolence of the Russian temperament that so
many of their great men--especially their musicians--seem to have
arrived at the consciousness of their vocation through a kind of process
of conversion. Moussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov, to mention
but one or two examples, all awoke suddenly from a condition of mental
sloth or frivolity to the conviction of their artistic mission; and some
of them were prepared to sacrifice social position and an assured
livelihood for the sake of a new, ideal career. Glinka was no exception.
He, too, heard his divine call and followed it. Lounging in the theatres
and concert rooms of Italy, listening to Italian singers and fancying
himself "deeply moved" by Bellini's operas, suddenly it flashed upon
Glinka, a cultivated amateur, that this was not what he needed to
stimulate his inspiration. This race, this art, were alien to him and
could never take the place of his own people. This swift sense of
remoteness, this sudden change of thought and ideal, constituted the
psychological moment in the history of Russian music. Glinka's first
impulse was merely to write a better Russian opera than his
predecessors; but this impulse held the germ of the whole evolution of
the new Russian School as we know it to-day.
It is rather remarkable that outside the Russian language so little has
been written about this germinal genius, who summed up the ardent
desires of many generations and begat a great school of national music.
The following details of his childhood and early youth are taken from
his Autobiographical Notes and now appear for the first time in an
English translation.
"I was born on June 2nd (May 20th, O.S.), 1804, in the glow of the
summer dawn at the village of Novospasskoï, which belonged to my father,
Ivan Nicolaevich Glinka, a retired army captain.... Shortly after my
birth, my mother, Eugenia Andreievna (_née_ Glinka), was obliged to
leave my early bringing up to my grandmother who, having taken
possession of me, had me transferred to her own room. Here in company
with her, a foster mother, and my nurse, I spent the first three or four
years of my life, rarely seeing anything of my parents. I was a child of
delicate constitution and of nervous tendencies. My grandmother was in
her declining years, and almost always ailing, consequently the
temperature of her room in which I lived was never less than 20
Réaumur.... In spite of this, I was not allowed to take off my pelisse,
and night and day I was given tea with cream and quantities of sugar in
it, and also cracknels and fancy bread of all kinds. I seldom went into
the fresh air, and then only in hot weather. There is no doubt that
this early upbringing had a great influence on my physical development
and explains my unconquerable affection for warm climates....
"My grandmother spoilt me to an incredible degree and never denied me
anything I wanted. In spite of this I was a gentle and well-behaved
child, and only indulged in passing fits of peevishness--as indeed I
still do when disturbed at one of my favourite occupations. One of my
chief amusements was to lie flat on the floor and draw churches and
trees with a bit of chalk. I was piously inclined, and church
ceremonies, especially at the great festivals, filled me heart and soul
with the liveliest poetic enthusiasm. Having learnt to read at a
remarkably early age, I often moved my grandmother and her elderly
friends to tears by reading the Scriptures aloud to them. My musical
proclivities showed themselves at that time in a perfect passion for the
sound of bells; I drank in these harsh sounds, and soon learnt how to
imitate them rather cleverly by means of two copper bowls. When I was
ill they used to give me a little hand-bell to keep me amused.
"On the death of my grandmother, my way of living underwent some
changes. My mother spoilt me rather less, and tried to accustom me to
the fresh air; but her efforts in this direction were not very
successful.... My musical sense still remained undeveloped and crude. In
my eighth year (1812), when we were delivered from the French invasion,
I listened with all my old delight to the ringing of the bells,
distinguishing the peals of the different churches, and imitating them
on my copper bowls.
"Being entirely surrounded by women, and having for playmates only my
sister, who was a year younger than myself, and my nurse's little
daughter, I was never like other boys of my age; moreover the passion
for study, especially of geography and drawing--and in the latter I had
begun to make sensible progress--drew me away from childish pastimes,
and I was, from the first, of a quiet and gentle disposition.
"At my father's house we often received many relatives and guests; this
was usually the case on his name-day, or when someone came to stay whom
he wished to entertain with special honours. On these occasions he would
send for the musicians belonging to my maternal uncle, who lived eight
versts away. They often remained with us for several days, and when the
dances were over and the guests departed, they used to play all sorts of
pieces. I remember once (it was in 1814, or 1815, when I was about ten)
they played a quartet by Cruselli; this music produced in me an
inconceivably new and rapturous effect; after hearing it I remained all
day long in a state of feverish excitement, lost in inexplicably sweet
dreamy emotions, and the next day at my drawing lesson I was quite
absent-minded. My distracted condition increased as the lesson
proceeded, and my teacher, remarking that I was drawing very carelessly,
scolded me repeatedly, until finally guessing what was the matter with
me, said that I now thought of nothing but music. 'What's to be done?' I
answered: 'music is the soul of me!'
"In truth at that time I loved music passionately. My uncle's orchestra
was the source of the liveliest delight to me. When they played dances,
such as écossaises, quadrilles and valses, I used to snatch up a violin
or piccolo and join in with them, simply alternating between tonic and
dominant. My father was often annoyed with me because I did not dance,
and deserted our guests; but at the first opportunity I slipped back
again among the musicians. During supper they generally played Russian
folk-songs arranged for two flutes, two clarinets, two horns, and two
bassoons; this poignantly tender, but for me perfectly satisfactory,
combination delighted me (I could hardly endure shrill sounds, even the
lower notes of the horn when they were not played loud), and perhaps
these songs, heard in my childhood, were the first cause of my
preference in later years for Russian folk-melodies. About this time we
had a governess from St. Petersburg called Barbara Klemmer. She was a
girl about twenty, very tall, strict and exacting. She taught us
Russian, French, German, geography and music.... Although our music
lessons, which included reading from notes and the rudiments of the
piano, were rather mechanical, yet I made rapid progress with her, and
shortly after she came one of the first violins from my uncle's band was
employed to teach me the fiddle. Unfortunately he himself did not play
quite in tune and held his bow very stiffly, a bad habit which he passed
on to me.
"Although I loved music almost unconsciously, yet I remember that at
that time I preferred those pieces which were most accessible to my
immature musical intelligence. I enjoyed the orchestra most of all, and
next to the Russian songs, my favourite items in their repertory were:
the Overtures to 'Ma Tante Aurore,' by Boieldieu, to 'Lodoïska,' by
Rodolph Kreutzer, and to 'Les Deux Aveugles,' by Méhul. The last two I
liked playing on the piano, as well as some of Steibelt's sonatas,
especially 'The Storm,' which I played rather neatly."
I have quoted _verbatim_ from Glinka's record of his childish
impressions, because they undoubtedly influenced his whole after career,
and the nature of his genius was conditioned by them. Like most of the
leading representatives of Russian music, Glinka was born and spent the
early years of his life in the country, where he assimilated
subconsciously the purer elements of the national music which had
already begun to be vulgarized, if not completely obliterated, in the
great cities. Saved from the multitudinous distractions of town life,
the love of the folk-music took root in his heart and grew undisturbed.
Had he been brought up in one of the capitals, taken early, as Russian
children often were, and still are, to the opera and to concerts, his
outlook would have been widened at the expense of his individuality.
Later on, as we shall see, he was led away from the tracks of
nationality by his enthusiasm for Italian opera; but the strong
affections of his childhood guided him back instinctively to that way of
art in which he could best turn his gifts to account. It has been said
that Glinka remained always somewhat narrow in his ideas and activities;
but it was precisely this exclusiveness and concentration that could
best serve Russia at the time when he appeared. In his letters and
Autobiographical Notes, he often adopts the tone of a genius
misunderstood, and hints that an unkind Providence enjoyed putting
obstacles in his path. It is true that in later life, after the
production of his second opera, _Russlan and Liudmilla_, he had some
grounds for complaining of the fickleness and mental indolence of the
Russian public. But his murmurings against destiny must be discounted by
the fact that Glinka, the spoilt and delicate child, grew up into
Glinka, the idolised and hypochondriacal man. On the whole his life was
certainly favourable to his artistic development.
Stassov, in his fine monograph upon the composer, lays stress on this
view of Glinka's career. The history of art, he argues, contains only
too many instances of perverted talent; even strongly gifted natures
have succumbed to the ill-judged advice of friends, or to the mistaken
promptings of their own nature, so that they have wasted valuable years
in the manufacture of works which reached to a certain standard of
academic excellence, and even beauty, before they realised their true
individual vocation and their supreme powers. Glinka was fortunate in
his parents, who never actually opposed his inclinations; and perhaps he
was equally lucky in his teachers, for if they were not of the very
highest class they did not at any rate interfere with his natural
tendencies, nor impose upon him severe restrictions of routine and
method. Another happy circumstance in his early life, so Stassov thinks,
was his almost wholly feminine environment. Glinka's temperament was
dual; on the one hand he possessed a rich imagination, both receptive
and creative, and was capable of passionate feeling; in the other side
of his nature we find an element of excessive sensibility, a something
rather passive and morbidly sentimental. Women had power to soothe and
at the same time to stimulate his temperament. Somewhere in his memoirs,
Glinka, speaking of his early manhood, says: "At that time I did not
care for the society of my own sex, preferring that of women and girls
who appreciated my musical gifts." Stassov considers that these words
might be applied to the whole of Glinka's life, for he always seemed
most at ease in the company of ladies.
In the autumn of 1817, being then thirteen, he was sent to the newly
opened school for the sons of the aristocracy, where he remained until
1822. His schooldays appear to have been happy and profitable. He was
industrious and popular alike with the masters and pupils. In the
drawing class the laborious copying from the flat, with its tedious
cross-hatching and stippling then in vogue, soon disgusted him.
Mathematics did not greatly interest him. Dancing and fencing were
accomplishments in which he never shone. But he acquired languages with
a wonderful ease, taking up Latin, French, German, English and Persian.
In after years he dropped to some extent Persian and English, but became
proficient in Italian and Spanish. Geography and zoology both attracted
him. That he loved and observed nature is evident from all his writings;
and the one thing in which he resembled other boys was in his affection
for birds, rabbits, and other pets. While travelling in the Caucasus in
1823 he tamed and kept wild goats, and sometimes had as many as sixteen
caged birds in his room at once, which he would excite to song by
playing the violin.
Glinka's parents spared nothing to give their son a good general
education, but the idea that they were dealing with a budding musical
genius never occurred to them. As he had shown some aptitude for the
piano and violin in childhood, he was allowed to continue both these
studies while at school in St. Petersburg. He started lessons with the
famous Irish composer and pianist John Field, who, being on the eve of
his departure for Moscow, was obliged to hand Glinka over to his pupil
Obmana. Afterwards he received some instruction from Zeuner, and
eventually worked with Carl Meyer, an excellent pianist and teacher,
with whom he made rapid progress. At the school concert in 1822, Glinka
was the show pupil and played Hummel's A minor Concerto, Meyer
accompanying him on a second piano. With the violin he made less
progress, although he took lessons from Bohm, a distinguished master and
virtuoso who had not, however, so Glinka declared, the gift of imparting
his own knowledge to others. Bohm would sigh over his pupil's faulty
bowing and remark: "_Messieu Klinka, fous ne chouerez chamais du
fiolon._"
Glinka's repertory at nineteen contained nothing more profound than the
virtuoso music of Steibelt, Herz, Hummel and Kalkbrenner. Although
Beethoven had already endowed the world with his entire series of
sonatas, and was then at the zenith of his fame, his music only began to
make headway in Russia some ten years later. As time went on, Glinka
heard and met most of the great pianists of his day, and his criticisms
of their various styles are unconventional and interesting, but would
lead us far away from the subject of Russian opera.
Imperfect as his mastery of the violin appears to have been, it was of
more importance to his subsequent career than his fluency as a pianist,
because during the vacations at home he was now able to take part in
earnest in his uncle's small orchestra. The band generally visited the
Glinkas' estate once a fortnight, and sometimes stayed a whole week.
Before the general rehearsal, the son of the house would take each
member of the orchestra through his part--with the exception of the
leaders--and see that they were all note perfect and played in tune. In
this way he learnt a good deal about instrumentation and something about
the technique of conducting. Their repertory included overtures by
Cherubini, Méhul, and Mozart; and three symphonies, Haydn in B, Mozart
in G minor, and Beethoven's second symphony, in D major, the last named
being Glinka's special favourite.
In St. Petersburg he began to frequent the opera, which was not then so
exclusively given over to Italian music as it was a few years later.
Méhul's "Joseph," Cherubini's "Water-Carriers," Isouard's "Gioconda" and
Boieldieu's "Le Bonnet Rouge" were among the works which he heard and
admired in the early 'twenties.
In 1824 Glinka entered the Government service as a clerk in the Ministry
of Ways and Communications. Here he found several amateurs as
enthusiastic as himself, and was soon launched in a social circle where
his musical gifts were greatly appreciated and he ran the risk of
degenerating into a spoilt dilettante. From the beginning to the end of
his career Glinka remained an amateur in that higher sense of the word
which implies that he merely wrote what he liked and was exempt from the
necessity of composing to order for the sake of a livelihood.
He himself has related the circumstances of his first creative impulse.
In the spring of 1822, when he was about nineteen, he made the
acquaintance of a young lady "of fascinating appearance, who played the
harp and had also a beautiful voice. This voice was not to be compared
to any musical instrument; it was just a resonant silvery soprano, and
she sang naturally and with extraordinary charm. Her attractive
qualities and her kindness to me (she called me her nephew and I called
her aunt) stirred my heart and my imagination." We see the rest of the
picture: a Petersburg drawing room with its semi-French decoration, an
amiable grandpapa reposing in his armchair, while Glinka played by the
hour and the young lady joined in with her silvery soprano. So the first
compositions were written--"to do her a service and laid at her
feet"--variations upon her favourite theme from Weigel's "Swiss Family,"
an opera then all the vogue, variations for harp and piano on a theme by
Mozart and an original Valse in F for piano. Of these only the
variations for harp survive.
At twenty Glinka took singing lessons from the Italian Belloli. This led
to his first essays in song writing, and after one hopeless failure he
succeeded in setting some words by Baratynsky, "Do not needlessly
torment me."
Henceforth Glinka began to be conscious of his powers, and between 1825
and 1830 he was constantly composing. Although the best of relations
existed between himself and his father, he does not seem to have shown
him anything of his deeper artistic nature, and Glinka's family accepted
his music merely as an agreeable addition to his social qualities.
Meanwhile he wrote many of the songs of his first period, and a few
isolated dramatic scenas with orchestral accompaniment, including the
Chorus on the Death of a Hero, in C minor, and an Aria for baritone, a
part of which he used in the finale of the second act of his opera
_Russlan and Liudmilla_. He also learnt Italian and received some
instruction in theory from Zamboni. In 1829 he published an album
containing most of his early compositions.
From time to time Glinka was incapacitated by an affection of the eyes,
and his general health was far from satisfactory. He was possessed of a
craving to travel in Spain or Italy, and his father's refusal to let him
go abroad "hurt me," he says, "to the point of tears." However, a famous
doctor having examined him, reported to his father that the young man
had "a whole quadrille of ailments" and ought to be sent to a warm
climate for at least three years. Glinka left Russia for Italy in 1830,
and remained abroad until the spring of 1834.
During his visit to Italy, Glinka wrote regularly and fully to his
family, but unfortunately the correspondence was not deemed worthy of
preservation, and the letters were destroyed shortly after his return.
If we may judge by the communications to his friends sent later in life
from Spain, France and Germany, the destruction of these records of his
early impressions is a real loss to musical biography.
The two chief objects of Glinka's journey abroad were to improve his
physical condition and to perfect his musical studies. As regards his
health, he was benefited perhaps but not cured. "All his life," says
Stassov, "Glinka was a martyr to doctors and remedies," and his
autobiography is full of details concerning his fainting fits and
nervous depression, and his bodily sufferings in general. He had,
however, sufficient physical and moral strength to work at times with
immense energy.
As regards his musical education, Glinka had now begun to realise that
his technical equipment did not keep pace with his creative impulse. He
felt the need of that theoretical knowledge which Kirnberg says is to
the composer what wings are to a bird. He was by no means so completely
ignorant of the theory of his art as many of his critics have
insinuated. He had already composed music which was quite on a level
with much that was popular in his day, and had won some flattering
attentions from musical society in St. Petersburg. We must respect the
self-criticism which prompted him to put himself to school again at
six-and-twenty. But Italy could not give him that deeper and sounder
musical culture of which he was in search. In Milan he began to work
under Basili, the Director of the Milan Conservatoire, distinguished for
having refused a scholarship to Verdi because he showed no aptitude for
music. Basili does not seem to have had _la main heureuse_ with budding
genius; Glinka found his methods so dry and pedantic that he soon
abandoned his lessons as a waste of time. Nevertheless Italy, then and
now the Mecca of all aspiring art students, had much to give to the
young Russian. He was deeply impressed by the beauty of his
surroundings, but, from the practical side, it was in the art of singing
and writing for the voice that Glinka made real progress during his
sojourn in the South. He had arrived in Italy in company with Ivanov,
who became later on the most famous Russian operatic tenor. Glinka's
father had persuaded the tenor to accompany his son abroad and had
succeeded in getting him two years leave of absence from the Imperial
Chapel. The opera season 1830-1831 was unusually brilliant at Milan, and
the two friends heard Grisi, Pasta, Rubini, Galli and Orlandi. Their
greatest experience came at the end of the season, when Bellini's "La
Sonnambula" was mounted for the first time, "Pasta and Rubini singing
their very best in order to uphold their favourite _maestro_." "We, in
our box," continues Glinka, "shed torrents of tears--tears of emotion
and enthusiasm." But still more important to his appreciation of vocal
music was his acquaintance in Naples with Nozzari and Fodor-Mainville.
Ivanov studied with both masters, and Glinka was permitted to be present
at his lessons. Nozzari had already retired from the stage, but his
voice was still in its fullest beauty. His compass was two octaves, from
B to B, and his scale so perfect that Glinka says it could only be
compared to Field's scale upon the piano. Under the influence of Italian
music, he wrote at this time a few piano pieces and two songs to Russian
words. His setting of Koslov's "Venetian Night" was merely an echo of
his surroundings; "The Victor," music to Joukovsky's words, showed more
promise of originality, and here we find for the first time the use of
the plagal cadence which he employed so effectively in _A Life for the
Tsar_.
During the third year of his visit, he felt a conviction that he was
moving on the wrong track, and that there was a certain insincerity in
all that he was attempting. "It cost me some pains to counterfeit the
Italian _sentimento brilliante_," he says. "I, a dweller in the North,
felt quite differently (from the children of the sunny South); with us,
things either make no impression at all, or they sink deep into the
soul; it is either a frenzy of joy or bitter tears." These reflections,
joined to an acute fit of homesickness, led to his decision to return to
Russia. After a few pleasant days spent in Vienna, he travelled direct
to Berlin, where he hoped to make up some of the deficiencies of his
Italian visit with the assistance of the well-known theorist Siegfried
Dehn.
Dehn saw at once that his pupil was gifted with genius, but impatient of
drudgery. He gave himself the trouble to devise a short cut to the
essentials of musical theory. In five months he succeeded in giving
Glinka a bird's-eye view of harmony and counterpoint, fugue and
instrumentation; the whole course being concentrated into four small
exercise books. "There is no doubt," writes Glinka, "that I owe more to
Dehn than to any of my masters. He not only put my musical knowledge
into order but also my ideas on art in general, and after his lessons I
no longer groped my way along, but worked with the full consciousness of
what I was doing."
While studying with Dehn, he still found time for composition, and it is
noticeable that what he wrote at this time is by no means Germanised
music. Two songs, "The Rustling Oak," words by Joukovsky, and Delvig's
poem, "Say not that love has fled," the Variations for piano on
Alabiev's "Nightingale," and outlines of the melody for the Orphan's
Song "When they slew my mother," afterwards used in a _Life for the
Tsar_, besides a sketch for one of the chief themes in the overture of
the opera, all tend to prove that he was now deeply preoccupied with the
expression of national sentiment in music.
In April 1834 his profitable studies with Dehn were cut short by the
death of his father, which necessitated his immediate return to Russia.
Stassov sums up the results of this period abroad in the words: "Glinka
left us a _dilettante_ and returned a _maestro_."
CHAPTER IV
GLINKA'S OPERAS
The idea of composing a national opera now began to take definite shape
in Glinka's mind. In the winter of 1834-1835, the poet Joukovsky was
living in the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg as tutor to the young
Tsarevich, afterwards Alexander II. The weekly gatherings which he held
there were frequented by Poushkin, Gogol, Odoievsky, Prince
Vyazemsky--in short, by all the higher _intelligentsia_ of the capital.
Here Glinka, the fame of whose songs sufficed to procure him the entrée
to this select society, was always welcome. When he confided to
Joukovsky his wish to create a purely Russian opera, the poet took up
the idea with ardour and suggested the subject of Ivan Sousanin, which,
as we have seen, had already been treated by Cavos. At first Joukovsky
offered to write the text of the work and actually supplied verses for
the famous trio in the last act: "Not to me, unhappy one, the storm wind
brought his last sign." But his many occupations made it impossible for
him to keep pace with Glinka's creative activity once his imagination
had been fired. Consequently the libretto had to be handed over to Baron
Rozen, a Russianised German, secretary to the young Tzarevich. Rozen
could hardly have been a whole-hearted patriot; certainly he was no
poet. The words of the opera leave much to be desired, but we must make
allowances for the fact that Glinka, in his impatience, sometimes
expected the librettist to supply words to ready-made music. The opera
was first called _Ivan Sousanin_. Among Glinka's papers was found the
original plan for the work: "_Ivan Sousanin_, a native tragi-heroic
opera, in five acts or sections. Actors: Ivan Sousanin (Bass), the chief
character; Antonida, his daughter (Soprano), tender and graceful; Alexis
(afterwards Bogdan) Sobinin, her affianced husband (tenor), a brave man;
Andrew (afterwards Vanya), an orphan boy of thirteen or fourteen (alto),
a simple-hearted character."
While at work upon the opera in 1835, Glinka married. This, the
fulfilment of a long-cherished wish, brought him great happiness. Soon
after his marriage he wrote to his mother, "my heart is once more
hopeful, I can feel and pray, rejoice and weep--my music is re-awakened;
I cannot find words to express my gratitude to Providence for this
bliss." In this beatific state of mind he threw himself into the
completion of his task. During the summer he took the two acts of the
libretto which were then ready into the country with him. While
travelling by carriage he composed the chorus in 5-4 measure: "Spring
waters flow o'er the fields," the idea of which had suddenly occurred to
him. Although a nervous man, he seems to have been able to work without
having recourse to the strictly guarded padded-room kind of isolation
necessary to so many creative geniuses. "Every morning," he says in his
autobiography, "I sat at a table in the big sitting-room of our house at
Novospasskoï, which was our favourite apartment; my mother, my sister
and my wife--in fact the whole family--were busy there, and the more
they laughed and talked and bustled about, the quicker my work went."
All through the winter, which was spent in St. Petersburg, he was busy
with the opera. "The scene where Sousanin leads the Poles astray in the
forest, I read aloud while composing, and entered so completely into the
situation of my hero that I used to feel my hair standing on end and
cold shivers down my back." During Lent, 1836, a trial rehearsal of the
first act was given at the house of Prince Youssipov, with the
assistance of his private orchestra. Glinka, satisfied with the results,
then made some efforts to get his opera put on the stage, but at first
he met with blank refusals from the Direction of the Imperial Theatres.
His cause was helped by the generous spirit of Cavos, who refused to see
in Glinka a rival in the sphere of patriotic opera, and was ready to
accept his work. Even then the Director of the Opera, Gedeonov, demanded
from Glinka a written undertaking not to claim any fee for the rights of
public performance. Glinka, who was not dependent upon music for a
livelihood, submitted to this injustice. The rehearsals were then begun
under the supervision of Cavos. The Emperor Nicholas I. attended one of
the rehearsals at the great Opera House and expressed his satisfaction,
and also his willingness to accept the dedication of the opera. It was
then that it received the title by which it has since become famous,
Glinka having previously changed the name of _Ivan Sousanin_ to that of
_Death for the Tsar_.
The first performance took place on November 27th (O.S.), 1836, in the
presence of the Emperor and the Court. "The first act was well
received," wrote Glinka, "the trio being loudly and heartily applauded.
The first scene in which the Poles appear (a ballroom in Warsaw) was
passed over in complete silence, and I went on the stage deeply wounded
by the attitude of the public." It seems, however, that the silence of
the audience proceeded from a certain timidity as to how they ought to
receive the appearance of these magnificent, swaggering Poles in the
presence of the Emperor, the Polish insurrection of 1830-1831 being
still painfully fresh in the public memory. The rest of the opera was
performed amid a scene of unparalleled enthusiasm. The acting of the
Russian chorus seems to have been even more realistic in those days than
it is now. "In the fourth act," to quote the composer himself, "the
representatives of the Polish soldiers in the scene in the forest, fell
upon Petrov (the famous bass who created the part of Sousanin) with such
fury that they broke his arm, and he was obliged to defend himself from
their attacks in good earnest." After the performance, Glinka was
summoned to the Emperor's box to receive his compliments, and soon
afterwards he was presented with a ring, worth 4,000 roubles, and
offered the post of Capellmeister to the Imperial Chapel.
Some account of the story of _A Life for the Tsar_ will be of interest
to those who have not yet seen the opera, for the passionate idealism of
the subject still appeals to every patriotic Russian. The action takes
place at one of the most stirring periods of Russian history, the
Russo-Polish war of 1633, just after the boy-king Michael
Feodorovich--first of the present Romanov line--had been elected to the
throne. Glinka himself sketched out the plot, which runs as follows:
The Poles, who have been supporting the claims of their own candidate
for the Russian throne, form a conspiracy against the life of the young
Romanov. A Polish army corps is despatched to Moscow, ostensibly on a
peaceful embassy, but in reality to carry out this sinister design. On
the march, they enter the hut of a loyal peasant, Ivan Sousanin, and
compel his services as a guide. Sousanin, who suspects their treachery,
forms a heroic resolve. He secretly sends his adopted son, the orphan
Vanya, to warn the Tsar of his danger; while, in order to gain time, he
misleads the Poles in the depths of the forest and falls a victim to
their vengeance when they discover the trick which has been played upon
them.
Whether the story be true or not--and modern historians deny its
authenticity[13]--Ivan Sousanin will always remain the typical
embodiment of the loyalty of the Russian peasant to his Tsar, a
sentiment which has hitherto resisted most of the agitations which have
affected the upper and middle classes of Russian society.
The music of _A Life for the Tsar_ was an immense advance on anything
that had been previously attempted by a Russian composer. Already the
overture--though not one of Glinka's best symphonic efforts--shows many
novel orchestral effects, which grew out of the fundamental material of
his music, the folk-songs of Great Russia. Generally speaking, his
tendency is to keep his orchestra within modest limits. Although he knew
something of the orchestration of Berlioz, it is Beethoven rather than
the French musician that Glinka takes as his model. "I do not care," he
says, "to make use of every luxury." Under this category he places
trombones, double bassoons, bass drum, English horn, piccolo and even
the harp. To the wind instruments he applies the term "orchestral
colour," while he speaks of the strings as "orchestral motion." With
regard to the strings, he thought that "the more these instruments
interlace their parts, the nearer they approach to their natural
character and the better they fulfil their part in the orchestra." It is
remarkable that Glinka usually gives free play to the various individual
groups of instruments, and that his orchestration is far less
conventional and limited than that of most operatic composers of his
time. The thematic material of _A Life for the Tsar_ is partly drawn
from national sources, not so much directly, as modelled on the
folk-song pattern. The crude folk-stuff is treated in a very different
way to that which prevailed in the early national operas. Glinka does
not interpolate a whole popular song--often harmonised in a very
ordinary manner--into his opera, in the naïve style of Fomin in his
_Aniouta_ or _The Miller_. With Glinka the material passes through the
melting pot of his genius, and flows out again in the form of a plastic
national idiom with which, as he himself expresses it, "his
fellow-countrymen could not fail to feel completely at home." Here are
one or two instances in which the folk-song element is recognisable in
_A Life for the Tsar_. In the first act, where Sousanin in his
recitative says it is no time to be dreaming of marriage feasts, occurs
a phrase which Glinka overheard sung by a cab-driver[14]; the familiar
folk-song "Down by Mother Volga," disguised in binary rhythm, serves as
accompaniment to Sousanin's words in the forest scene "I give ye
answer," and "Thither have I led ye," where its gloomy character is in
keeping with the situation; the recitative sung by Sobinin in the first
act, "Greeting, Mother Moscow," is also based upon a folk-tune. But
Glinka has also melodies of his own invention which are profoundly
national in character. As Alfred Bruneau remarks: "By means of a harmony
or a simple orchestral touch he can give to an air which is apparently
as Italian as possible a penetrating perfume of Russian nationality." An
example of this is to be found in Antonida's aria "I gaze upon the empty
fields" (Act I). The treatment of his themes is also in accordance with
national tradition; thus in the patriotic chorus in the first Act, "In
the storm and threatening tempest," we have an introduction for male
chorus, led by a precentor (Zapievets), a special feature of the
folk-singing of Great Russia. Another chorus has a pizzicato
accompaniment in imitation of the national instrument, the Balalaika, to
the tone of which we have grown fairly familiar in England during the
last few years. Many of Glinka's themes are built upon the mediæval
church modes which lie at the foundation of the majority of the national
songs.
For instance, the Peasants' chorus, "We go to our work in the woods," is
written in the hypo-dorian mode; the Song of the Rowers is in the Æolian
mode, which is identical with "the natural minor," which was the
favourite tonality of Glinka's predecessors. The strange beauty of the
_Slavsia_ lies in the use of the mixolydian mode, and its simple
harmonisation. The introduction to the opera is treated contrapuntally,
in the style of the folk-singing with its cantus firmus (_zapievkoya_)
and its imitations (_podgolossky_).
Glinka wrote the rôle of Sousanin for a bass. He has, indeed, been
reproached with giving preference for the bass at the expense of the
tenor parts, and other Russian composers have followed his example. But
when we bear in mind that Russia produces some of the most wonderful
bass voices in the world the preference seems natural enough, and even
assumes a certain national significance. Upon Sousanin's part centres
the chief interest of the opera and it is convincingly realised and
consistently Russian throughout. His opening phrases, in the Phrygian
mode, seem to delineate his individuality in a few clear broad touches.
Serov is disposed to claim for Glinka the definite and conscious use of
a _leitmotif_ which closely knits the patriotism of his hero with the
personality of the Tsar. Towards the close of the first act, Sousanin
sings a phrase to the words taken from the old Russian _Slavsia_ or Song
of Glory. Making a careful analysis of the score, Serov asserts that
traces of this motive may be found in many of Sousanin's recitatives and
arias, tending to the fusion of the musical and poetical ideas. Serov,
an enthusiastic Wagnerian student, seems to see _leitmotifs_ in most
unsuspected places and is inclined, we think, to exaggerate their
presence in _A Life for the Tsar_. But there are certainly moments in
the opera in which Glinka seems to have recourse consciously to this
phrase of the _Slavsia_ as befitting the dramatic situation. Thus in the
quartet in the third act, "God love the Tsar," the melody of the
_Slavsia_ may be recognised in the harmonic progression of the
instrumental basses given in 3-4 instead of 4-4; the treatment here is
interesting, because, as Cheshikin points out, it is in the antiphonal
style of the Orthodox Church, the vocal quartets singing "God love the
Tsar," while the string quartet replies with "Glory, glory, our Russian
Tsar." Again in another solemn moment in the opera the phrase from the
_Slavsia_ stands out still more clearly. When the Poles command Sousanin
to lead them instantly to the Tsar's abode, the hero answers in words
which rise far above the ordinary level of the libretto:
"O high and bright our Tsar's abode,
Protected by the power of God,
All Russia guards it day and night,
While on its walls, in raiment white,
The angels, heaven's winged sentries, wait
To keep all traitors from the gate."
These words are sung by Sousanin to a majestic cantilena in a flowing
6-4 measure, while the orchestra accompany in march rhythm with the
_Slavsia_, which, in spite of being somewhat veiled by the change of
rhythm and the vocal melody, may be quite easily identified.
Two great scenes are allotted to Sousanin. The first occurs when the
Poles insist on his acting as their guide and he resolves to lay down
his life for the Tsar. Here the orchestra plays an important part,
suggesting the agitations which rend the soul of the hero; now it
reflects his super-human courage, and again those inevitable, but
passing, fears and regrets without which his deed would lose half its
heroism. The alternating rhythms--Sousanin sings in 2-4 and the Poles
3-4--are effectively managed. Sousanin's second great moment occurs when
the Poles, worn out with hunger and fatigue, fall asleep round their
camp fire and the peasant-hero, watching for the tardy winter sunrise
which will bring death to him and safety to the young Tsar, sings in a
mood of intense exaltation the aria "Thou comest Dawn, for the last time
mine eyes shall look on thee!" a touching and natural outburst of
emotion that never fails to stir a Russian audience to its emotional
depths, although some of the national composers have since reached
higher levels, judged from a purely musical standpoint.
In _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka conceived the idea, interesting in
itself, of contrasting the characters of the two nations by means of
their national music. To this end he devotes the whole of the second act
entirely to the Poles. Here it seems to me that he is far less
successful than with any other portion of the work. Some critics have
supposed that the composer really wished to give an impression of the
Poles as a superficial people literally dancing and revelling through
life, and possessed of no deeper feelings to be expressed in music. But
Glinka was too intelligent a man to take such naïve views of national
character. It seems more probable that not being supersaturated with
Polish as he was with Russian folk-music, he found it difficult to
indicate the personality of the Pole in anything but conventional dance
rhythms. This passes well enough in the second act, where the scene is
laid at a brilliant festival in the Polish capital, and the ballroom
dances which follow constitute the ballet of the opera. But in other
parts of the work, as, for instance, when the Polish soldiers burst into
Sousanin's cottage and order him to act as their guide, the strains of a
stately polonaise seem distinctly out of place; and again, when they
have lost their way in the forest and their situation is extremely
precarious, they express their alarm and suspicion in mazurka rhythm.
The polonaise, cracoviak, the valse in 6-8 time and the mazurka and
finale which form the ballet are somewhat ordinary in character, but
presented with a charm and piquancy of orchestration which has made them
extremely popular. The representative theme of the Poles, a phrase from
the polonaise, hardly suggests the part they play in the opera--their
evil designs upon Moscow and the young Michael Feodorovich, about which
they sing in the succeeding chorus. But others seem to find this music
more impressive, for, says M. Camille Bellaigue, "even when restricted
to strictly national forms and formulas, the Russian genius has a
tendency to enlarge them. In the polonaise and especially in the sombre
and sinister mazurka in _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka obtains from local
rhythms an intimate dramatic emotion.... He raises and generalises, and
from the music of a race makes the music of humanity."
In the last act of _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka has concentrated the
ardent patriotism and the profound human sympathy which is not only a
feature of his music but common to the whole school of which he is the
prototype. The curtain rises upon a street in Moscow, the people are
hurrying to the Kremlin to acclaim the young Tsar, and as they go they
sing that beautiful hymn-march "Glory, glory, Holy Russia," a superb
representation of the patriotic ideal. In contrast to the gladness of
the crowd, Glinka shows us the unfortunate children of Ivan Sousanin,
the lad Vanya, Antonida, and her betrothed, Sobinin. Some of the people
stop to ask the cause of their sadness, and in reply they sing the
touching trio which describes the fate of Sousanin. Then the scene
changes to the Red Square under the walls of the Kremlin, and all
individual sentiment is merged in a flood of loftier emotion. The close
of the act is the apotheosis of the Tsar and of the spirit of loyalty.
Here on the threshold of the Kremlin Michael Feodorovich pauses to
salute the dead body of the peasant-hero. Once again the great crowd
takes up the Slavsia or Glory motive, and amid the pealing of the bells
the opera ends with a triumphant chorus which seems to sum up the whole
character of the Russian people. "Every element of national beauty,"
says M. Camille Bellaigue, "is pressed into the service here. The
people, their ruler and God himself are present. Not one degree in all
the sacred hierarchy is lacking; not one feature of the ideal, not one
ray from the apotheosis of the fatherland."
With all its weaknesses and its occasional lapses into Italian
phraseology, _A Life for the Tsar_ still remains a patriotic and popular
opera, comparable only in these respects with some of the later works
which it engendered, or, among contemporary operas, with Weber's _Der
Freischütz_.
With the unparalleled success of _A Life for the Tsar_, Glinka reached
the meridian of his fame and power. He followed up the opera by some of
his finest songs, contained in the collection entitled "Farewell to St.
Petersburg," and by the beautiful incidental music to Koukolnik's
tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_, of which Tchaikovsky, by no means an
indulgent critic of his great predecessor, says: "Glinka here shows
himself to be one of the greatest symphonic composers of his day. Many
touches in _Prince Kholmsky_ recall the brush of Beethoven. There is the
same moderation in the means employed, and in the total absence of all
striving after mere external effects; the same sober beauty and clear
exposition of ideas that are not laboured but inspired; the same
plasticity of form and mould. Finally there is the same inimitable
instrumentation, so remote from all that is affected or far-fetched....
Every entr'acte which follows the overture is a little picture drawn by
a master-hand. These are symphonic marvels which would suffice a
second-rate composer for a whole series of long symphonies."
The idea of a second national opera began to occupy Glinka's mind very
soon after the production of _A Life for the Tsar_. It was his
intention to ask Poushkin to furnish him with a libretto based upon his
epic poem "Russlan and Liudmilla." The co-operation of Russia's greatest
poet with her leading musical genius should have been productive of
great results. Unhappily the plan was frustrated by the tragic death of
Poushkin, who was shot in a duel in 1837. Glinka, however, did not
renounce the subject to which he had been attracted, and sketched out
the plot and even some musical numbers, falling as before into the fatal
mistake of expecting his librettist to supply words to music already
written. The text for _Russlan and Liudmilla_ was supplied by
Bakhtourin, but several of Glinka's friends added a brick here and there
to the structure, with very patchy results. The introduction and finale
were sketched out in 1839, but the composer, partly on account of
failing health, did not work steadily at the opera until the winter of
1841. The score was actually completed by April 1842, when he submitted
it on approval to Gedeonov. This time Glinka met with no difficulties
from the Director of the Imperial Opera; the work was accepted at once
and the date of the first production fixed in the following November.
The subject of _Russlan and Liudmilla_, though equally national, has not
the poignant human interest that thrills us in _A Life for the Tsar_.
The story belongs to a remote and legendary period in Russian history,
and the characters are to a great extent fantastic and mythical. It had
none of those qualities which in the first opera made for an immediate
popular success in every stratum of Russian society. The days are now
long past when the musical world of Russia was split into two hostile
camps, the one led by Serov, who pronounced _Russlan_ to be the last
aberration of a lamentably warped genius; the other by Stassov, who saw
in it the mature expression of Glinka's inspiration. At the same time
Stassov was quite alive to the weaknesses and impossible scenic moments
of the libretto, faults which are doubtless the reason why seventy years
have not sufficed to win popularity for the work, although the lapse of
time has strengthened the conviction of all students of Russian opera as
to the actual musical superiority of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ over _A
Life for the Tsar_.
The story of the opera runs as follows:
In days of old--when the Slavs were still Pagans--Prince Svietozar of
Kiev had one beautiful daughter, Liudmilla. The maiden had three
suitors, the knights-errant Russlan and Farlaf, and the young Tatar
prince, Ratmir. Liudmilla's love was bestowed upon Russlan, and Prince
Svietozar prepares to celebrate their marriage. Meanwhile the wicked
wizard Chernomor has fallen desperately in love with Liudmilla. At the
wedding feast he carries off the bride by means of his magic arts.
Prince Svietozar sends the three knights to rescue his daughter and
promises to give her to the one who succeeds in the quest. The knights
meet with many adventures by the way. Farlaf seeks the help of the
sorceress Naina, who agrees to save him from the rivalry of Ratmir, by
luring the ardent young Oriental aside from his quest. Russlan takes
council with the benevolent wizard Finn, who tells him how to acquire a
magic sword with which to deliver his bride from the hands of Chernomor.
Russlan saves Liudmilla, but on their homeward journey to Kiev they are
intercepted by Farlaf, who casts them both into a magic slumber. Leaving
Russlan by the wayside, Farlaf carries the heroine back to her father's
house, where he passes himself off as her deliverer and claims her for
his bride. Russlan awakes and arrives in time to denounce his treachery,
and the opera ends with the marriage of the true lovers, which was
interrupted in the first act.
The overture to _Russlan and Liudmilla_ is a solid piece of work,
sketched on broad lines and having a fantastic colouring quite in
keeping with the subject of the opera. The opening subject is national
in character, being divided into two strains which lend themselves to
contrapuntal treatment.
An introduction follows, consisting of a chorus and two solos for Bayan
(tenor), the famous bard of old, who is supposed to relate the legend.
This introduction is largely built upon a phrase of eight notes, the
characteristic utterance of Bayan when he speaks of the "deeds of long
ago." Afterwards this phrase is repeated in the Dorian mode, and the
music acquires an archaic character in conformity with the remote period
of the action.
The opera itself may be said to begin with a wedding chorus, followed by
a cavatina for Liudmilla in which she takes leave of her father. In
writing for his primadonne Glinka seems to have found it difficult to
avoid the conventional Italian influence, and this solo, in common with
most of the music for Liudmilla, lacks vigour and originality. Far more
interesting from the musical point of view is the chorus in 5-4 measure,
an invocation to Lel, the Slavonic God of Love. At the close of this
number a loud clap of thunder is heard and the scene is plunged in
darkness, during which the wizard Chernomor carries away the bride. The
consternation of the guests is cleverly depicted over a pedal point for
horn on E flat which extends for a hundred and fifty bars. Prince
Svietozar then bids the knights-errant to go in search of his daughter,
and with a short chorus imploring the aid of Perun upon their quest the
act comes to an end.
The orchestral prelude to the second act is based upon a broad impetuous
theme which afterwards appears as the motive of the Giant's head in Act
III. The first scene represents a hilly region and the cave of the good
wizard Finn. The character of Finn, half humorous and half pathetic,
with its peculiar combination of benevolence, vacillation, and
pessimistic regret, is essentially Russian. Such characters have been
made typical in the novels of Tourgeniev and Tolstoy. Finn relates how,
in a vain endeavour to win Naina the sorceress, he has changed himself
into a shepherd, a fisherman, and a warrior, and finally into a wizard.
In this last character he has succeeded in touching her heart. But now
alas, they have awakened to the realisation that there is nothing left
to them but regret for lost possibilities fled beyond recall. Glinka
expresses all these psychological changes in Finn's famous Ballade which
forms the opening number of this act; but admirable as it is, critics
have some ground for their reproach that its great length delays the
action of the plot. Russlan, having listened to Finn's love-story,
receives from him the sword with which he is to attack the Giant's Head.
In the next scene Farlaf meets the elderly but once beautiful Naina, and
the two sing a humorous duet. Farlaf's chief air, a rondo in
opera-bouffe style, is rather ordinary, but Naina's music is a
successful piece of character-painting. The last scene of the second act
is one of the most fantastic in this fantastic opera. The stage is
enveloped in mist. Russlan enters and sings his aria, of which the
opening recitative is the strongest part, the _Allegro_ section, which
Glinka has written in sonata-form, being somewhat diffuse. While he is
singing, the mist slowly disperses, and the rising moon reveals the
lonely steppe and shines upon the bleached bones which strew an ancient
battle-field. Russlan now sees with horror the apparition of the Giant's
Head. This in its turn sees Russlan, and threatens the audacious knight
who has ventured upon the haunted field. But Russlan overcomes the
monster head with the magic sword, as directed by Finn. In order to give
weight to the Giant's voice Glinka has supplemented the part by a small
male chorus which sings from within the head.
The prelude to the third act is generally omitted, and is not in fact
printed in the pianoforte score of the opera. The opening number, a
Persian chorus for female voices, "The Night lies heavy on the fields,"
is full of grace and oriental languor. The subject of the chorus is a
genuine Persian melody and the variations which form the accompaniment
add greatly to the beauty of these pages. The chorus is followed by an
aria for Gorislava (soprano), Ratmir's former love, whom he has deserted
for Liudmilla. This air with its clarinet obbligato is one of the most
popular solos in the opera. In answer to Gorislava's appeal, Ratmir
appears upon the scene and sings a charming nocturne accompanied by _cor
anglais_. The part of the young oriental lover is usually taken by a
woman (contralto). For this number Glinka makes use of a little Tatar
air which Ferdinand David afterwards introduced, transposed into the
major, in his symphonic poem "Le Désert." It is a beautiful piece of
landscape painting which makes us feel the peculiar sadness of the
twilight in Russia as it falls on the vast spaces of the Steppes. A
French critic has said that it might have been written by an oriental
Handel. The scene described as the seduction of Ratmir consists of a
ballet in rococo style entitled "Naina's magic dance." Then follows a
duet for Gorislava and Ratmir, after which the maidens of the harem
surround Ratmir and screen Gorislava from him. Afterwards the enchanted
palace created by Naina to ensnare Ratmir suddenly vanishes and we see
the open plain once more. The act concludes with a quartet in which
Russlan and Finn take part with the two oriental lovers.
The entr'acte preceding the fourth act consists of a march movement
(_Marcia allegro risoluto_). The curtain then rises upon Chernomor's
enchanted garden, where Liudmilla languishes in captivity. An oriental
ballet then follows, but this is preceded by the March of the Wizard
Chernomor. This quaint march which personifies the invisible monster is
full of imagination, although it tells its tale so simply that it takes
us back to the fairyland of childhood. The first of the Eastern dances
(_allegretto quasi andante_) is based upon a Turkish song in 6-8
measure. Afterwards follows the Danse Arabesque and finally a Lezginka,
an immensely spirited dance built upon another of the Tatar melodies
which were given to Glinka by the famous painter Aivazovsky. A chorus of
naiads and a chorus of flowers also form part of the ballet, which is
considered one of Glinka's _chefs d'oeuvre_. While the chorus is being
sung we see in the distance an aerial combat between Russlan and
Chernomor, and throughout the whole of the movement the wizard's
_leitmotif_ is prominent in the music. Russlan, having overcome
Chernomor, wakes Liudmilla from the magic sleep into which she has been
cast by his spells.
The first scene of the last act takes place in the Steppes, where Ratmir
and Gorislava, now reconciled, have pitched their tent. Russlan's
followers break in upon the lovers with the news that Farlaf has
treacherously snatched Liudmilla from their master. Then Finn arrives
and begs Ratmir to carry to Russlan a magic ring which will restore the
princess from her trance. In the second scene the action returns to
Prince Svietozar's palace. Liudmilla is still under a spell, and her
father, who believes her to be dead, reproaches Farlaf in a fine piece
of recitative (Svietozar's music throughout the work is consistently
archaic in character). Farlaf declares that Liudmilla is not dead and
claims her as his reward. Svietozar is reluctantly about to fulfil his
promise, when Russlan arrives with the magic ring and denounces the
false knight. The funeral march which had accompanied the Prince's
recitative now gives place to the chorus "Love and joy." Liudmilla in
her sleep repeats the melody of the chorus in a kind of dreamy ecstasy.
Then Russlan awakens her and the opera concludes with a great chorus of
thanksgiving and congratulation. Throughout the finale the
characteristics of Russian and Eastern music are combined with brilliant
effect.
_Russlan and Liudmilla_ was received with indifference by the public and
with pronounced hostility by most of the critics. Undoubtedly the
weakness of the libretto had much to do with its early failure; but it
is equally true that in this, his second opera, Glinka travelled so far
from Italian tradition and carried his use of national colour so much
further and with such far greater conviction, that the music became
something of an enigma to a public whose enthusiasm was still wholly
reserved for the operas of Donizetti, Bellini and Rossini. Looking back
from the present condition of Russian opera we can trace the immense
influence of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ upon the later generation of
composers both as regards opera and ballet. It is impossible not to
realise that the fantastic Russian ballets of the present day owe much
to Glinka's first introduction of Eastern dances into _Russlan and
Liudmilla_.
The coldness of the public towards this work, the fruit of his mature
conviction, was a keen disappointment to Glinka. He had not the
alternative hope of being appreciated abroad, for he had deliberately
chosen to appeal to his fellow-countrymen, and when they rejected him he
had no heart for further endeavour. His later symphonic works,
"Kamarinskaya" and "The Jota Aragonese," show that his gift had by no
means deteriorated. Of the former Tchaikovsky has truly said that Glinka
has succeeded in concentrating in one short work what a dozen
second-rate talents could only have invented with the whole expenditure
of their powers. Possibly Glinka would have had more courage and energy
to meet his temporary dethronement from the hearts of his own people had
not his health been already seriously impaired. After the production of
_Russlan_ he lived chiefly abroad. In his later years he was much
attracted to the music of Bach and to the older polyphonic schools of
Italy and Germany. Always preoccupied with the idea of nationality in
music, he made an elaborate study of Russian church music, but his
failing health did not permit him to carry out the plans which he had
formed in this connection. In April 1856 he left St. Petersburg for the
last time and went to Berlin, where he intended to pursue these studies
with the assistance of Dehn. Here he lived very quietly for some months,
working twice a week with his old master and going occasionally to the
opera to hear the works of Gluck and Mozart. In January 1857 he was
taken seriously ill, and passed peacefully away during the night of
February 2nd. In the following May his remains were brought from Germany
to St. Petersburg and laid in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky
monastery near to those of other national poets, Krylov, Baratinsky and
Joukovsky.
Glinka was the first inspired interpreter of the Russian nationality in
music. During the period which has elapsed since his death the impress
of his genius upon that of his fellow countrymen has in no way
weakened. For this reason a knowledge of his music is an indispensable
introduction to the appreciation of the later school of Russian music;
for in his works and in those of Dargomijsky, we shall find the key to
all that has since been accomplished.
CHAPTER V
DARGOMIJSKY
Glinka, in his memoirs, relates how in the autumn of 1834 he met at a
musical party in St. Petersburg, "a little man with a shrill treble
voice, who, nevertheless, proved a redoubtable virtuoso when he sat down
to the piano." The little man was Alexander Sergeivich Dargomijsky, then
about twenty-one years of age, and already much sought after in society
as a brilliant pianist and as the composer of agreeable drawing-room
songs. Dargomijsky's diary contains a corresponding entry recording this
important meeting of two men who were destined to become central points
whence started two distinct currents of tendency influencing the whole
future development of Russian music. "Similarity of education and a
mutual love of music immediately drew us together," wrote Dargomijsky,
"and this in spite of the fact that Glinka was ten years my senior." For
the remainder of Glinka's life Dargomijsky was his devoted friend and
fellow-worker, but never his unquestioning disciple.
Dargomijsky was born, February 2/14, 1813, at a country estate in the
government of Toula, whither his parents had fled from their own home
near Smolensk before the French invaders in 1812. It is said that
Dargomijsky, the future master of declamation, only began to articulate
at five years of age. In 1817 his parents migrated to St. Petersburg.
They appear to have taken great interest in the musical education of
their son; at six he received his first instruction on the piano, and
two years later took up the violin; while at eleven he had already tried
his hand at composition. His education being completed, he entered the
Government service, from which, however, he retired altogether in 1843.
Thanks to his parents' sympathy with his musical talent, Dargomijsky's
training had been above the average and a long course of singing lessons
with an excellent master, Tseibikha, no doubt formed the basis of his
subsequent success as a composer of vocal music. But at the time of his
first meeting with Glinka, both on account of his ignorance of theory
and of the narrowness of his general outlook upon music, he can only be
regarded as an amateur. One distinguishing feature of his talent seems
to have been in evidence even then, for Glinka, after hearing his first
song, written to humorous words, declared that if Dargomijsky would turn
his attention to comic opera he would certainly surpass all his
predecessors in that line. Contact with Glinka's personality effected
the same beneficial change in Dargomijsky that Rubinstein's influence
brought about in Tchaikovsky some thirty years later; it changed him
from a mere dilettante into a serious musician. "Glinka's example," he
wrote in his autobiography, "who was at that time (1834) taking Prince
Usipov's band through the first rehearsals of his opera _A Life for the
Tsar_, assisted by myself and Capellmeister Johannes, led to my decision
to study the theory of music. Glinka handed over to me the five exercise
books in which he had worked out Dehn's theoretical system and I copied
them in my own hand, and soon assimilated the so-called mysterious
wisdom of harmony and counterpoint, because I had been from childhood
practically prepared for this initiation and had occupied myself with
the study of orchestration." These were the only books of theory ever
studied by Dargomijsky, but they served to make him realise the
possession of gifts hitherto unsuspected. After this course of
self-instruction he felt strong enough to try his hand as an operatic
composer, and selected a libretto founded on Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame
de Paris." Completed and translated into Russian in 1839, the work,
entitled _Esmeralda_, was not accepted by the Direction of the Imperial
Opera until 1847, when it was mounted for the first time at Moscow. By
this time Dargomijsky had completely outgrown this immature essay. The
light and graceful music pleased the Russian public, but the success of
this half-forgotten child of his youth gave little satisfaction to the
composer himself. He judged the work in the following words: "The music
is slight and often trivial--in the style of Halévy and Meyerbeer; but
in the more dramatic scenes there are already some traces of that
language of force and realism which I have since striven to develop in
my Russian music."
In 1843 Dargomijsky went abroad, and while in Paris made the
acquaintance of Auber, Meyerbeer, Halévy, and Fétis. The success of
_Esmeralda_ encouraged him to offer to the Directors of the Imperial
Theatre an opera-ballet entitled _The Triumph of Bacchus_, which he had
originally planned as a cantata; but the work was rejected, and only saw
the light some twenty years later, when it was mounted in Moscow.
Dargomijsky's correspondence during his sojourn abroad is extremely
interesting, and shows that his views on music were greatly in advance
of his time and quite free from the influences of fashion and
convention.
In 1853 we gather from a letter addressed to a friend that he was
attracted to national music. As a matter of fact the new opera, upon
which he had already started in 1848, was based upon a genuine Russian
folk-subject--Poushkin's dramatic poem "The Roussalka" (The Water
Sprite). Greatly discouraged by the refusal of the authorities to accept
_The Triumph of Bacchus_, Dargomijsky laid aside _The Roussalka_ until
1853. During this interval most of his finest songs and declamatory
ballads were written, as well as those inimitably humorous songs which,
perhaps, only a Russian can fully appreciate. But though he matured
slowly, his intellectual and artistic development was serious and
profound. Writing to Prince Odoevsky about this time, he says: "The more
I study the elements of our national music, the more I discover its
many-sidedness. Glinka, who so far has been the first to extend the
sphere of our Russian music, has, I consider, only touched one phase of
it--the lyrical. In _The Roussalka_ I shall endeavour as much as
possible to bring out the dramatic and humorous elements of our national
music. I shall be glad if I achieve this, even though it may seem a half
protest against Glinka." Here we see Dargomijsky not as the disciple,
but as the independent worker, although he undoubtedly kept _Russlan and
Liudmilla_ in view as the model for _The Roussalka_. The work was given
for the first time at the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, in 1856,
but proved too novel in form and treatment to please a public that was
still infatuated with Italian opera.
In 1864-1865 Dargomijsky made a second tour in Western Europe, taking
with him the scores of _The Roussalka_ and of his three Orchestral
Fantasias, "Kazachok" (The Cossack), a "Russian Legend," and "The Dance
of the Mummers" (Skomorokhi). In Leipzig he made the acquaintance of
many prominent musicians, who contented themselves with pronouncing his
music "_sehr neu_" and "_ganz interessant_," but made no effort to bring
it before the public. In Paris he was equally unable to obtain a
hearing; but in Belgium--always hospitable to Russian musicians--he gave
a concert of his own compositions with considerable success. On his way
back to Russia he spent a few days in London and ever after spoke of our
capital with enthusiastic admiration.
In 1860 Dargomijsky had been appointed director of the St. Petersburg
section of the Imperial Russian Musical Society. This brought him in
contact with some of the younger contemporary musicians, and after his
return from abroad, in 1865, he became closely associated with Balakirev
and his circle and took a leading part in the formation of the new
national and progressive school of music. By this time he handled that
musical language of "force and realism," of which we find the first
distinct traces in _The Roussalka_, with ease and convincing eloquence.
For his fourth opera he now selected the subject of _The Stone Guest_
(Don Juan); not the version by Da Ponte which had been immortalised by
Mozart's music, but the poem in which the great Russian poet Poushkin
had treated this ubiquitous tale. This work occupied the last years of
Dargomijsky's life, and we shall speak of it in detail a little further
on. Soon after the composer's return from abroad his health began to
fail and the new opera had constantly to be laid aside. From
contemporary accounts it seems evident that he did not shut himself away
from the world in order to keep alive the flickering flame of life that
was left to him, but that on the contrary he liked to be surrounded by
the younger generation, to whom he gave out freely of his own richly
gifted nature. The composition of _The Stone Guest_ was a task fulfilled
in the presence of his disciples, reminding us of some of the great
painters who worked upon their masterpieces before their pupils' eyes.
Dargomijsky died of heart disease in January 1869. On his deathbed he
entrusted the unfinished manuscript of _The Stone Guest_ to Cui and
Rimsky-Korsakov, instructing the latter to carry out the orchestration
of it. The composer fixed three thousand roubles (about £330) as the
price of his work, but an obsolete law made it illegal for a native
composer to receive more than £160 for an opera. At the suggestion of
Vladimir Stassov, the sum was raised by private subscription, and _The
Stone Guest_ was performed in 1872. Of its reception by the public
something will be said when we come to the analysis of the work.
We may dismiss _Esmeralda_ as being practically of no account in the
development of Russian opera; but the history of _The Roussalka_ is
important, for this work not only possesses intrinsic qualities that
have kept it alive for over half a century, but its whole conception
shows that Dargomijsky was already in advance of his time as regards
clear-cut musical characterisation and freedom from conventional
restraint. In this connection it is interesting to remember that _The
Roussalka_ preceded Bizet's "Carmen" by some ten or twelve years.
As early as 1843 Dargomijsky had thought of _The Roussalka_ as an
excellent subject for opera. He avoided Glinka's methods of entrusting
his libretto to several hands. In preparing the book he kept as closely
as possible to Poushkin's poem, and himself carried out the
modifications necessary for musical treatment. It is certain that he had
begun the work by September 1848. It was completed in 1855.
As we have already seen, he was aware that Glinka was not fully in
touch with the national character; there were sides of it which he had
entirely ignored in both his operas, because he was temperamentally
incapable of reflecting them. Glinka's humour, as Dargomijsky has
truthfully said, was not true to Russian life. His strongest tendency
was towards a slightly melancholy lyricism, and when he wished to supply
some comic relief he borrowed it from cosmopolitan models. The composer
of _The Roussalka_, on the other hand, deliberately aimed at bringing
out the dramatic, realistic, and humorous elements which he observed in
his own race. The result was an opera containing a wonderful variety of
interest.
Russian folk-lore teems with references to the _Roussalki_, or water
nymphs, who haunt the streams and the still, dark, forest pools, lying
in wait for the belated traveller, and of all their innumerable legends
none is more racy of the soil than this dramatic poem by Poushkin in
which the actual and supernatural worlds are sketched by a master hand.
The story of the opera runs as follows:
A young Prince falls in love with Natasha, the Miller's daughter. He
pays her such devoted attention that the father hopes in time to see his
child become a princess. Natasha returns the Prince's passion, and gives
him not only her love but her honour. Circumstances afterwards compel
the Prince to marry in his own rank. Deserted in the hour of her need,
Natasha in despair drowns herself in the mill-stream. Now, in accordance
with Slavonic legends, she becomes a _Roussalka_, seeking always to lure
mortals to her watery abode. Misfortune drives the old Miller crazy and
the mill falls into ruins. Between the second act, in which the Prince's
nuptials are celebrated, and the third, a few years are supposed to
elapse. Meanwhile the Prince is not happy in his married life, and is
moreover perpetually haunted by the remembrance of his first love and by
remorse for her tragic fate. He spends hours near the ruined mill
dreaming of the past. One day a little _Roussalka_ child appears to him
and tells him that she is his daughter, and that she dwells with her
mother among the water-sprites. All his old passion is reawakened. He
stands on the brink of the water in doubt as to whether to respond to
the calls of Natasha and the child, or whether to flee from their malign
influence. Even while he hesitates, the crazy Miller appears upon the
scene and fulfils dramatic justice by flinging the betrayer of his
daughter into the stream. Here we have the elements of an exceedingly
dramatic libretto which offers fine opportunities to a psychological
musician of Dargomijsky's type. The scene in which the Prince, with
caressing grace and tenderness, tries to prepare Natasha for the news
of his coming marriage; her desolation when she hears that they must
part; her bitter disenchantment on learning the truth, and her cry of
anguish as she tries to make him realise the full tragedy of her
situation--all these emotions, coming in swift succession, are followed
by the music with astonishing force and flexibility. Very effective,
too, is the scene of the wedding festivities in which the wailing note
of the _Roussalka_ is heard every time the false lover attempts to kiss
his bride--the suggestion of an invisible presence which throws all the
guests into consternation. As an example of Dargomijsky's humour,
nothing is better than the recitative of the professional
marriage-maker, "Why so silent pretty lassies," and the answering chorus
of the young girls (in Act II.). As might be expected with a realistic
temperament like Dargomijsky's, the music of the _Roussalki_ is the
least successful part of the work. The sub-aquatic ballet in the last
act is rather commonplace; while Natasha's music, though expressive, has
been criticised as being too human and warm-blooded for a soulless
water-sprite. Undoubtedly the masterpiece of the opera is the musical
presentment of the Miller. At first a certain sardonic humour plays
about this crafty, calculating old peasant, but afterwards, when
disappointed greed and his daughter's disgrace have turned his brain,
how subtly the music is made to suggest the cunning of mania in that
strange scene in which he babbles of his hidden treasures, "stored safe
enough where the fish guard them with one eye!" With extraordinary power
Dargomijsky reproduces his hideous meaningless laugh as he pushes the
Prince into the swirling mill-stream. The character of the Miller alone
would suffice to prove that the composer possesses dramatic gifts of the
highest order.
_The Roussalka_, first performed at the Maryinsky Theatre in May 1856,
met with very little success. The Director of the opera, Glinka's old
enemy Gedeonov, having made up his mind that so "unpleasing" a work
could have no future, mounted it in the shabbiest style. Moreover, as
was usually the case with national opera then--and even at a later
date--the interpretation was entrusted to second-rate artists.
Dargomijsky, in a letter to his pupil Madame Karmalina, comments
bitterly upon this; unhappily he could not foresee the time, not so far
distant, when the great singer Ossip Petrov would electrify the audience
with his wonderful impersonation of the Miller; nor dream that fifty
years later Shaliapin would make one of his most legitimate triumphs in
this part. The critics met Dargomijsky's innovations without in the
least comprehending their drift. Serovit was before the days of his
opposition to the national cause--alone appreciated the novelty and
originality shown in the opera; he placed it above _A Life for the
Tsar_; but even his forcible pen could not rouse the public from their
indifference to every new manifestation of art. Dargomijsky himself
perfectly understood the reason of its unpopularity. In one of his
letters written at this time, he says: "Neither our amateurs nor our
critics recognise my talents. Their old-fashioned notions cause them to
seek for melody which is merely flattering to the ear. That is not _my_
first thought. I have no intention of indulging them with music as a
plaything. _I want the note to be the direct equivalent of the word._ I
want truth and realism. This they cannot understand."
Ten years after the first performance of _The Roussalka_, the public
began to reconsider its verdict. The emancipation of the serfs in 1861
changed the views of society towards the humble classes, and directed
attention towards all that concerned the past history of the peasantry.
A new spirit animated the national ideal. From Poushkin's poetry, with
its somewhat "Olympian" attitude to life, the reading public turned to
the people's poets, Nekrassov and Nikitin; while the realism of Gogol
was now beginning to be understood. To these circumstances we may
attribute the reaction in favour of _The Roussalka_, which came as a
tardy compensation towards the close of the composer's life.
During the ten years which followed the completion of _The Roussalka_,
Dargomijsky was steadily working towards the formulation of new
principles in vocal, and especially in dramatic music. We may watch his
progress in the series of songs and ballads which he produced at this
time. It is, however, in _The Stone Guest_ that Dargomijsky carries his
theories of operatic reform to a logical conclusion. One of his chief
aims, in which he succeeded in interesting the little band of disciples
whose work we shall presently review, was the elimination of the
artificial and conventional in the accepted forms of Italian opera.
Wagner had already experienced the same dissatisfaction, and was solving
the question of reform in the light of his own great genius. But the
Russian composers could not entirely adopt the Wagnerian theories.
Dargomijsky, while rejecting the old arbitrary divisions of opera, split
upon the question of the importance which Wagner gave to the orchestra.
Later on we shall see how each member of the newly-formed school tried
to work out the principles of reformation in his own way, keeping in
view the dominant idea that the dramatic interest should be chiefly
sustained by the singer, while the orchestra should be regarded as a
means of enhancing the interest of the vocal music. Dargomijsky himself
was the first to embody these principles in what must be regarded as one
of the masterpieces of Russian music--his opera _The Stone Guest_. Early
in the 'sixties he had been attracted to Poushkin's fine poem, which has
for subject the story of Don Juan, treated, not as we find it in
Mozart's opera, by a mere librettist, but with the dramatic force and
intensity of a great poet. Dargomijsky was repelled by the idea of
mutilating a fine poem; yet found himself overwhelmed by the
difficulties of setting the words precisely as they stood. Later on,
however, the illness from which he was suffering seems to have produced
in him a condition of rare musical clairvoyance. "I am singing my swan
song," he wrote to Madame Karmelina in 1868; "I am writing _The Stone
Guest_. It is a strange thing: my nervous condition seems to generate
one idea after another. I have scarcely any physical strength.... It is
not I who write, but some unknown power of which I am the instrument.
The thought of _The Stone Guest_ occupied my attention five years ago
when I was in robust health, but then I shrank from the magnitude of the
task. Now, ill as I am, I have written three-fourths of the opera in two
and a half months.... Needless to say the work will not appeal to the
many."
"Thank God," comments Stassov, in his energetic language, "that in 1863
Dargomijsky recoiled before so colossal an undertaking, since he was not
yet prepared for it. His musical nature was still growing and widening,
and he was gradually freeing himself from all stiffness and asperity,
from false notions of form, and from the Italian and French influences
which sometimes predominate in the works of his early and middle
periods. In each new composition Dargomijsky takes a step forward, but
in 1866 his preparations were complete. A great musician was ready to
undertake a great work. Here was a man who had cast off all musical
wrong thinking, whose mind was as developed as his talent, and who found
such inward force and greatness of character as inspired him to write
this work while he lay in bed, subject to the terrible assaults of a
mortal malady."
_The Stone Guest_, then, is the ultimate expression of that realistic
language which Dargomijsky employs in his early cantata _The Triumph of
Bacchus_, in _The Roussalka_, and in his best songs. It is applied not
to an ordinary ready-made libretto, but to a poem of such excellence
that the composer felt it a sacrilege to treat it otherwise than as on
an equal footing with the music. This effort to follow with absolute
fidelity every word of the book, and to make the note the
representative of the word, led to the adoption of a new operatic form,
and to the complete abandonment of the traditional soli, duets,
choruses, and concerted pieces. In _The Stone Guest_ the singers employ
that _melos_, or _mezzo-recitativo_, which is neither melody nor speech,
but the connecting link between the two. Some will argue, with Serov,
that there is nothing original in these ideas; they had already been
carried out by Wagner; and that _The Stone Guest_ does not prove that
Dargomijsky was an innovator but merely that he had the intelligence to
become the earliest of Wagner's disciples. Nothing could be further from
the truth. By 1866 Dargomijsky had some theoretical knowledge of
Wagner's views, but he can have heard little, if any, of his music.
Whether he was at all influenced by the former, it is difficult to
determine; but undoubtedly his efforts to attain to a more natural and
realistic method of expression date from a time when Wagner and
Wagnerism were practically a sealed book to him. One thing is certain:
from cover to cover of _The Stone Guest_ it would be difficult to find
any phrase which is strongly reminiscent of Wagner's musical style. What
he himself thought of Wagner's music we may gather from a letter written
to Serov in 1856, in which he says: "I have not returned your score of
"Tannhäuser," because I have not yet had time to go through the whole
work. You are right; in the scenic disposition there is much poetry; in
the music, too, he shows us a new and practical path; but in his
unnatural melodies and spiciness, although at times his harmonies are
very interesting, there is a sense of effort--_will und kann nicht!_
Truth--above all truth--but we may demand good taste as well."
Dargomijsky was no conscious or deliberate imitator of Wagner. The
passion for realistic expression which possessed him from the first led
him by a parallel but independent path to a goal somewhat similar to
that which was reached by Wagner. But Dargomijsky adhered more closely
to the way indicated a century earlier by that great musical reformer
Gluck. In doing this justice to the Russian composer, a sense of
proportion forbids me to draw further analogies between the two men.
Dargomijsky was a strong and original genius, who would have found his
way to a reformed music drama, even if Wagner had not existed. Had he
been sustained by a Ludwig of Bavaria, instead of being opposed by a
Gedeonov, he might have left his country a larger legacy from his
abundant inspiration; but fate and his surroundings willed that his
achievements should be comparatively small. Whereas Wagner, moving on
from strength to strength, from triumph to triumph, raised up
incontestable witnesses to the greatness of his genius.
In _The Stone Guest_ Dargomijsky has been successful in welding words
and music into an organic whole; while the music allotted to each
individual in the opera seems to fit like a skin. "Poetry, love,
passion, arresting tragedy, humour, subtle psychological sense and
imaginative treatment of the supernatural,[15] all these qualities,"
says Stassov, "are combined in this opera." The chief drawback of the
work is probably its lack of scenic interest, a fault which inevitably
results from the unity of its construction. The music, thoughtful,
penetrative, and emotional, is of the kind which loses little by the
absence of scenic setting. _The Stone Guest_ is essentially an opera
which may be studied at the piano. It unites as within a focus many of
the dominant ideas and tendencies of the school that proceeded from
Glinka and Dargomijsky, and proves that neither nationality of subject
nor of melody constitutes nationality of style, and that a tale which
bears the stamp and colour of the South may become completely Russian,
poetically and musically, when moulded by Russian hands. _The Stone
Guest_ has never attained to any considerable measure of popularity in
Russia. In spite of Dargomijsky's personal intimacy with his little
circle of disciples, in which respect his attitude to his fellow workers
was quite different to that of Glinka, the example which he set in _The
Stone Guest_ eventually found fewer imitators than Glinka's ideal model
_A Life for the Tsar_. At the same time in certain particulars, and
especially as regards melodic recitative, this work had a decided
influence upon a later school of Russian opera. But this is a matter to
be discussed in a later chapter.
[Illustration:
_Serov, V.A._
SEROV]
CHAPTER VI
WORK AND INFLUENCE OF SEROV
Glinka and Dargomijsky were to Russian music two vitalising sources, to
the power of which had contributed numerous affluent aspirations and
activities. They, in their turn, flowed forth in two distinct channels
of musical tendency, fertilising two different spheres of musical work.
Broadly speaking, they stand respectively for lyrical idealism as
opposed to dramatic realism in Russian opera. To draw some parallel
between them seems inevitable, since together they make up the sum total
of the national character. Their influences, too, are incalculable, for
with few exceptions scarcely an opera has been produced by succeeding
generations which does not give some sign of its filiation with one or
the other of these composers. Glinka had the versatility and spontaneity
we are accustomed to associate with the Slav temperament; Dargomijsky
had not less imagination but was more reflective. Glinka was not devoid
of wit; but Dargomijsky's humour was full flavoured and racy of the
soil. He altogether out-distanced Glinka as regards expression and
emotional intensity. Glinka's life was not rich in inward experiences
calculated to deepen his nature, and he had not, like Dargomijsky, that
gift of keen observation which supplies the place of actual experience.
The composer of _The Stone Guest_ was a psychologist, profound and
subtle, who not only observed, but knew how to express himself with the
laconic force of a man who has no use for the gossip of life.
When Glinka died in 1857, Russian musical life was already showing
symptoms of that division of aims and ideals which ultimately led to the
formation of two opposing camps: the one ultra-national, the other more
or less cosmopolitan. In order to understand the situation of Russian
opera at this time, it is necessary to touch upon the long hostility
which existed between the rising school of young home-bred musicians,
and those who owed their musical education to foreign sources, and in
whose hands were vested for a considerable time all academic authority,
and most of the paid posts which enabled a musician to devote himself
wholly to his profession.
While Dargomijsky was working at his last opera, and gathering round his
sick bed that group of young nationalists soon to be known by various
sobriquets, such as "The Invincible Band," and "The Mighty Five,"[16]
Anton Rubinstein was also working for the advancement of music in
Russia; but it was the general aspect of musical education which
occupied his attention, rather than the vindication of the art as an
expression of national temperament. Up to the middle of the eighteenth
century there had been but two musical elements in Russia, the creative
and the auditory. In the latter we may include the critics, almost a
negligible quantity in those days. At the close of the 'fifties a third
element was added to the situation--the music schools. "The time had
come," says Stassov, "when the necessity for schools, conservatoires,
incorporated societies, certificates, and all kinds of musical castes
and privileges, was being propagated among us. With these aims in view,
the services were engaged of those who had been brought up to consider
everything excellent which came from abroad, blind believers in all
kinds of traditional prejudices. Since schools and conservatoires
existed in Western Europe, we, in Russia, must have them too. Plenty of
amateurs were found ready to take over the direction of our new
conservatoires. Such enterprise was part of a genuine, but hasty,
patriotism, and the business was rushed through. It was asserted that
music in Russia was then at a very low ebb and that everything must be
done to raise the standard of it. With the object of extending the tone
and improving the knowledge of music, the Musical Society was founded in
1859, and its principal instrument, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in
1862.... Not long before the opening of this institution, Rubinstein
wrote an article,[17] in which he deplored the musical condition of the
country, and said that in Russia 'the art was practised only by
amateurs' ... and this at a time when Balakirev, Moussorgsky and Cui had
already composed several of their early works and had them performed in
public. Were these men really only amateurs? The idea of raising and
developing the standard of music was laudable, but was Russia truly in
such sore need of that kind of development and elevation when an
independent and profoundly national school was already germinating in
our midst? In discussing Russian music, the first questions should have
been: what have we new in our music; what is its character; what are its
idiosyncrasies, and what is necessary for its growth and the
preservation of its special qualities? But the people who thought to
encourage the art in Russia did not, or would not, take this indigenous
element into consideration, and from the lofty pinnacle of the Western
Conservatoire they looked down on our land as a _tabula rasa_, a wild
uncultivated soil which must be sown with good seed imported from
abroad.... In reply to Rubinstein's article I wrote:[18] 'How many
academies in Europe are grinding out and distributing certificated
students, who occupy themselves more or less with art? But they cannot
turn out artists; only people all agog to acquire titles, recognised
positions, and privileges. Why must this be? We do not give our literary
men certificates and titles, and yet a profoundly national literature
has been created and developed in Russia. It should be the same with
music.... Academic training and artistic progress are not synonymous
terms.... Germany's noblest musical periods _preceded_ the opening of
her conservatoires, and her greatest geniuses have all been educated
outside the schools. Hitherto all our teachers have been foreigners
brought up in the conservatoires abroad. Why then have we cause to
complain of the wretched state of musical education in Russia? Is it
likely that the teachers sent out into the world from our future
academies will be any better than those hitherto sent to us from abroad?
It is time to cease from this importation of foreign educative
influences, and to consider that which will be most truly profitable
and advantageous for our own race and country. Must we copy that which
exists abroad, merely that we may have the satisfaction of boasting a
vast array of teachers and classes, of fruitless distributions of prizes
and scholarships, of reams of manufactured compositions, and hosts of
useless musicians."[19]
I have quoted these extracts from Stassov's writings partly for the sake
of the sound common-sense with which he surrounds the burning question
of that and later days, and partly because his protest is interesting as
echoing the reiterated cry of the ultra-patriotic musical party in this
country.
Such protests, however, were few, while the body of public enthusiasm
was great; and Russian enthusiasm, it may be observed, too often takes
the externals into higher account than the essentials. Rubinstein found
a powerful patroness in the person of the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna;
the Imperial Russian Musical Society was founded under the highest
social auspices; and two years later all officialdom presided at the
birth of its offshoot, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire. Most of the
evils prophesied by Stassov actually happened, and prevailed, at least
for a time. But foreign influences, snobbery, official tyranny and
parsimony, the over-crowding of a privileged profession, and mistakes
due to the well-intentioned interference of amateurs in high
places--these things are but the inevitable stains on the history of
most human organisations. What Cheshikin describes as "alienomania," the
craze for everything foreign, always one of the weaknesses of Russian
society, was undoubtedly fostered to some extent under the early
cosmopolitan _régime_ of the conservatoire; but even if it temporarily
held back the rising tide of national feeling in music, it was powerless
in the end to limit its splendid energy. The thing most feared by the
courageous old patriot, Stassov, did not come to pass. The intense
fervour of the group known as "The Mighty Band" carried all things
before it. Russian music, above all Russian opera, triumphs to-day, both
at home and abroad, in proportion to its _amor patriæ_. It is not the
diluted cosmopolitan music of the schools, with its familiar echoes of
Italy, France and Germany, but the folk-song operas in their simple,
forceful and sincere expression of national character that have carried
Paris, Milan and London by storm.
The two most prominent representatives of the cosmopolitan and academic
tendencies in Russia were Anton Rubinstein and Alexander Serov. Both
were senior to any member of the nationalist circle, and their work
being in many respects very dissimilar in character to that of the
younger composers, I propose to give some account of it in this and the
following chapter, before passing on to that later group of workers who
made the expression of Russian sentiment the chief feature of their
operas.
Alexander Nicholaevich Serov, born in St. Petersburg January 11th, 1820
(O.S.), was one of the first enlightened musical critics in Russia. As a
child he received an excellent education. Later on he entered the School
of Jurisprudence, where he passed among his comrades as "peculiar," and
only made one intimate friend. This youth--a few years his junior--was
Vladimir Stassov, destined to become a greater critic than Serov
himself. Stassov, in his "Reminiscences of the School of Jurisprudence,"
has given a most interesting account of this early friendship, which
ended in something like open hostility when in later years the two men
developed into the leaders of opposing camps. When he left the School of
Jurisprudence in 1840, Serov had no definite views as to his future,
only a vague dreamy yearning for an artistic career. At his father's
desire he accepted a clerkship in a Government office, which left him
leisure for his musical pursuits. At that time he was studying the
violoncello. Gradually he formed, if not a definite theory of musical
criticism, at least strong individual proclivities. He had made some
early attempts at composition, which did not amount to much more than
improvisation. Reading his letters to Stassov, written at this early
period of his career, it is evident that joined to a vast, but vague,
ambition was the irritating consciousness of a lack of genuine creative
inspiration.
In 1842 Serov became personally acquainted with Glinka, and although he
was not at that period a fervent admirer of this master, yet personal
contact with him gave the younger man his first impulse towards more
serious work. He began to study _A Life for the Tsar_ with newly opened
eyes, and became enthusiastic over this opera, and over some of Glinka's
songs. But when in the autumn of the same year _Russlan and Liudmilla_
was performed for the first time, his enthusiasm seems to have received
a check. He announced to Stassov his intention of studying this opera
more seriously, but his views of it, judging from what he has written on
the subject, remain after all very superficial. All that was new and
lofty in its intention seems to have passed clean over his head. His
criticism is interesting as showing how indifferent he was at that time
to the great musical movement which Wagner was leading in Western
Europe, and to the equally remarkable activity which Balakirev was
directing in Russia. He was, indeed, still in a phase of Meyerbeer
worship.
In 1843 Serov began to think of composing an opera. He chose the subject
of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," but hardly had he made his first
essays, when his musical schemes were cut short by his transference from
St. Petersburg to the dull provincial town of Simferopol. Here he made
the acquaintance of the revolutionary Bakounin, who had not yet been
exiled to Siberia. The personality of Bakounin made a deep impression
upon Serov, as it did later upon Wagner. Under his influence Serov began
to take an interest in modern German philosophy and particularly in the
doctrines of Hegel. As his intellect expanded, the quality of his
musical ideas improved. They showed greater independence, but it was an
ac
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