The idea of composing a national opera now began to take definite shape

in Glinka's mind. In the winter of 1834-1835, the poet Joukovsky was

living in the Winter Palace at St. Petersburg as tutor to the young

Tsarevich, afterwards Alexander II. The weekly gatherings which he held

there were frequented by Poushkin, Gogol, Odoievsky, Prince

Vyazemsky--in short, by all the higher _intelligentsia_ of the capital.

Here Glinka, the fame of whose songs sufficed to procure him the entrée

to this select society, was always welcome. When he confided to

Joukovsky his wish to create a purely Russian opera, the poet took up

the idea with ardour and suggested the subject of Ivan Sousanin, which,

as we have seen, had already been treated by Cavos. At first Joukovsky

offered to write the text of the work and actually supplied verses for

the famous trio in the last act: "Not to me, unhappy one, the storm wind

brought his last sign." But his many occupations made it impossible for

him to keep pace with Glinka's creative activity once his imagination

had been fired. Consequently the libretto had to be handed over to Baron

Rozen, a Russianised German, secretary to the young Tzarevich. Rozen

could hardly have been a whole-hearted patriot; certainly he was no

poet. The words of the opera leave much to be desired, but we must make

allowances for the fact that Glinka, in his impatience, sometimes

expected the librettist to supply words to ready-made music. The opera

was first called _Ivan Sousanin_. Among Glinka's papers was found the

original plan for the work: "_Ivan Sousanin_, a native tragi-heroic

opera, in five acts or sections. Actors: Ivan Sousanin (Bass), the chief

character; Antonida, his daughter (Soprano), tender and graceful; Alexis

(afterwards Bogdan) Sobinin, her affianced husband (tenor), a brave man;

Andrew (afterwards Vanya), an orphan boy of thirteen or fourteen (alto),

a simple-hearted character."

While at work upon the opera in 1835, Glinka married. This, the

fulfilment of a long-cherished wish, brought him great happiness. Soon

after his marriage he wrote to his mother, "my heart is once more

hopeful, I can feel and pray, rejoice and weep--my music is re-awakened;

I cannot find words to express my gratitude to Providence for this

bliss." In this beatific state of mind he threw himself into the

completion of his task. During the summer he took the two acts of the

libretto which were then ready into the country with him. While

travelling by carriage he composed the chorus in 5-4 measure: "Spring

waters flow o'er the fields," the idea of which had suddenly occurred to

him. Although a nervous man, he seems to have been able to work without

having recourse to the strictly guarded padded-room kind of isolation

necessary to so many creative geniuses. "Every morning," he says in his

autobiography, "I sat at a table in the big sitting-room of our house at

Novospasskoï, which was our favourite apartment; my mother, my sister

and my wife--in fact the whole family--were busy there, and the more

they laughed and talked and bustled about, the quicker my work went."

All through the winter, which was spent in St. Petersburg, he was busy

with the opera. "The scene where Sousanin leads the Poles astray in the

forest, I read aloud while composing, and entered so completely into the

situation of my hero that I used to feel my hair standing on end and

cold shivers down my back." During Lent, 1836, a trial rehearsal of the

first act was given at the house of Prince Youssipov, with the

assistance of his private orchestra. Glinka, satisfied with the results,

then made some efforts to get his opera put on the stage, but at first

he met with blank refusals from the Direction of the Imperial Theatres.

His cause was helped by the generous spirit of Cavos, who refused to see

in Glinka a rival in the sphere of patriotic opera, and was ready to

accept his work. Even then the Director of the Opera, Gedeonov, demanded

from Glinka a written undertaking not to claim any fee for the rights of

public performance. Glinka, who was not dependent upon music for a

livelihood, submitted to this injustice. The rehearsals were then begun

under the supervision of Cavos. The Emperor Nicholas I. attended one of

the rehearsals at the great Opera House and expressed his satisfaction,

and also his willingness to accept the dedication of the opera. It was

then that it received the title by which it has since become famous,

Glinka having previously changed the name of _Ivan Sousanin_ to that of

_Death for the Tsar_.

The first performance took place on November 27th (O.S.), 1836, in the

presence of the Emperor and the Court. "The first act was well

received," wrote Glinka, "the trio being loudly and heartily applauded.

The first scene in which the Poles appear (a ballroom in Warsaw) was

passed over in complete silence, and I went on the stage deeply wounded

by the attitude of the public." It seems, however, that the silence of

the audience proceeded from a certain timidity as to how they ought to

receive the appearance of these magnificent, swaggering Poles in the

presence of the Emperor, the Polish insurrection of 1830-1831 being

still painfully fresh in the public memory. The rest of the opera was

performed amid a scene of unparalleled enthusiasm. The acting of the

Russian chorus seems to have been even more realistic in those days than

it is now. "In the fourth act," to quote the composer himself, "the

representatives of the Polish soldiers in the scene in the forest, fell

upon Petrov (the famous bass who created the part of Sousanin) with such

fury that they broke his arm, and he was obliged to defend himself from

their attacks in good earnest." After the performance, Glinka was

summoned to the Emperor's box to receive his compliments, and soon

afterwards he was presented with a ring, worth 4,000 roubles, and

offered the post of Capellmeister to the Imperial Chapel.

Some account of the story of _A Life for the Tsar_ will be of interest

to those who have not yet seen the opera, for the passionate idealism of

the subject still appeals to every patriotic Russian. The action takes

place at one of the most stirring periods of Russian history, the

Russo-Polish war of 1633, just after the boy-king Michael

Feodorovich--first of the present Romanov line--had been elected to the

throne. Glinka himself sketched out the plot, which runs as follows:

The Poles, who have been supporting the claims of their own candidate

for the Russian throne, form a conspiracy against the life of the young

Romanov. A Polish army corps is despatched to Moscow, ostensibly on a

peaceful embassy, but in reality to carry out this sinister design. On

the march, they enter the hut of a loyal peasant, Ivan Sousanin, and

compel his services as a guide. Sousanin, who suspects their treachery,

forms a heroic resolve. He secretly sends his adopted son, the orphan

Vanya, to warn the Tsar of his danger; while, in order to gain time, he

misleads the Poles in the depths of the forest and falls a victim to

their vengeance when they discover the trick which has been played upon

them.

Whether the story be true or not--and modern historians deny its

authenticity[13]--Ivan Sousanin will always remain the typical

embodiment of the loyalty of the Russian peasant to his Tsar, a

sentiment which has hitherto resisted most of the agitations which have

affected the upper and middle classes of Russian society.

The music of _A Life for the Tsar_ was an immense advance on anything

that had been previously attempted by a Russian composer. Already the

overture--though not one of Glinka's best symphonic efforts--shows many

novel orchestral effects, which grew out of the fundamental material of

his music, the folk-songs of Great Russia. Generally speaking, his

tendency is to keep his orchestra within modest limits. Although he knew

something of the orchestration of Berlioz, it is Beethoven rather than

the French musician that Glinka takes as his model. "I do not care," he

says, "to make use of every luxury." Under this category he places

trombones, double bassoons, bass drum, English horn, piccolo and even

the harp. To the wind instruments he applies the term "orchestral

colour," while he speaks of the strings as "orchestral motion." With

regard to the strings, he thought that "the more these instruments

interlace their parts, the nearer they approach to their natural

character and the better they fulfil their part in the orchestra." It is

remarkable that Glinka usually gives free play to the various individual

groups of instruments, and that his orchestration is far less

conventional and limited than that of most operatic composers of his

time. The thematic material of _A Life for the Tsar_ is partly drawn

from national sources, not so much directly, as modelled on the

folk-song pattern. The crude folk-stuff is treated in a very different

way to that which prevailed in the early national operas. Glinka does

not interpolate a whole popular song--often harmonised in a very

ordinary manner--into his opera, in the naïve style of Fomin in his

_Aniouta_ or _The Miller_. With Glinka the material passes through the

melting pot of his genius, and flows out again in the form of a plastic

national idiom with which, as he himself expresses it, "his

fellow-countrymen could not fail to feel completely at home." Here are

one or two instances in which the folk-song element is recognisable in

_A Life for the Tsar_. In the first act, where Sousanin in his

recitative says it is no time to be dreaming of marriage feasts, occurs

a phrase which Glinka overheard sung by a cab-driver[14]; the familiar

folk-song "Down by Mother Volga," disguised in binary rhythm, serves as

accompaniment to Sousanin's words in the forest scene "I give ye

answer," and "Thither have I led ye," where its gloomy character is in

keeping with the situation; the recitative sung by Sobinin in the first

act, "Greeting, Mother Moscow," is also based upon a folk-tune. But

Glinka has also melodies of his own invention which are profoundly

national in character. As Alfred Bruneau remarks: "By means of a harmony

or a simple orchestral touch he can give to an air which is apparently

as Italian as possible a penetrating perfume of Russian nationality." An

example of this is to be found in Antonida's aria "I gaze upon the empty

fields" (Act I). The treatment of his themes is also in accordance with

national tradition; thus in the patriotic chorus in the first Act, "In

the storm and threatening tempest," we have an introduction for male

chorus, led by a precentor (Zapievets), a special feature of the

folk-singing of Great Russia. Another chorus has a pizzicato

accompaniment in imitation of the national instrument, the Balalaika, to

the tone of which we have grown fairly familiar in England during the

last few years. Many of Glinka's themes are built upon the mediæval

church modes which lie at the foundation of the majority of the national

songs.

For instance, the Peasants' chorus, "We go to our work in the woods," is

written in the hypo-dorian mode; the Song of the Rowers is in the Æolian

mode, which is identical with "the natural minor," which was the

favourite tonality of Glinka's predecessors. The strange beauty of the

_Slavsia_ lies in the use of the mixolydian mode, and its simple

harmonisation. The introduction to the opera is treated contrapuntally,

in the style of the folk-singing with its cantus firmus (_zapievkoya_)

and its imitations (_podgolossky_).

Glinka wrote the rôle of Sousanin for a bass. He has, indeed, been

reproached with giving preference for the bass at the expense of the

tenor parts, and other Russian composers have followed his example. But

when we bear in mind that Russia produces some of the most wonderful

bass voices in the world the preference seems natural enough, and even

assumes a certain national significance. Upon Sousanin's part centres

the chief interest of the opera and it is convincingly realised and

consistently Russian throughout. His opening phrases, in the Phrygian

mode, seem to delineate his individuality in a few clear broad touches.

Serov is disposed to claim for Glinka the definite and conscious use of

a _leitmotif_ which closely knits the patriotism of his hero with the

personality of the Tsar. Towards the close of the first act, Sousanin

sings a phrase to the words taken from the old Russian _Slavsia_ or Song

of Glory. Making a careful analysis of the score, Serov asserts that

traces of this motive may be found in many of Sousanin's recitatives and

arias, tending to the fusion of the musical and poetical ideas. Serov,

an enthusiastic Wagnerian student, seems to see _leitmotifs_ in most

unsuspected places and is inclined, we think, to exaggerate their

presence in _A Life for the Tsar_. But there are certainly moments in

the opera in which Glinka seems to have recourse consciously to this

phrase of the _Slavsia_ as befitting the dramatic situation. Thus in the

quartet in the third act, "God love the Tsar," the melody of the

_Slavsia_ may be recognised in the harmonic progression of the

instrumental basses given in 3-4 instead of 4-4; the treatment here is

interesting, because, as Cheshikin points out, it is in the antiphonal

style of the Orthodox Church, the vocal quartets singing "God love the

Tsar," while the string quartet replies with "Glory, glory, our Russian

Tsar." Again in another solemn moment in the opera the phrase from the

_Slavsia_ stands out still more clearly. When the Poles command Sousanin

to lead them instantly to the Tsar's abode, the hero answers in words

which rise far above the ordinary level of the libretto:

"O high and bright our Tsar's abode,

Protected by the power of God,

All Russia guards it day and night,

While on its walls, in raiment white,

The angels, heaven's winged sentries, wait

To keep all traitors from the gate."

These words are sung by Sousanin to a majestic cantilena in a flowing

6-4 measure, while the orchestra accompany in march rhythm with the

_Slavsia_, which, in spite of being somewhat veiled by the change of

rhythm and the vocal melody, may be quite easily identified.

Two great scenes are allotted to Sousanin. The first occurs when the

Poles insist on his acting as their guide and he resolves to lay down

his life for the Tsar. Here the orchestra plays an important part,

suggesting the agitations which rend the soul of the hero; now it

reflects his super-human courage, and again those inevitable, but

passing, fears and regrets without which his deed would lose half its

heroism. The alternating rhythms--Sousanin sings in 2-4 and the Poles

3-4--are effectively managed. Sousanin's second great moment occurs when

the Poles, worn out with hunger and fatigue, fall asleep round their

camp fire and the peasant-hero, watching for the tardy winter sunrise

which will bring death to him and safety to the young Tsar, sings in a

mood of intense exaltation the aria "Thou comest Dawn, for the last time

mine eyes shall look on thee!" a touching and natural outburst of

emotion that never fails to stir a Russian audience to its emotional

depths, although some of the national composers have since reached

higher levels, judged from a purely musical standpoint.

In _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka conceived the idea, interesting in

itself, of contrasting the characters of the two nations by means of

their national music. To this end he devotes the whole of the second act

entirely to the Poles. Here it seems to me that he is far less

successful than with any other portion of the work. Some critics have

supposed that the composer really wished to give an impression of the

Poles as a superficial people literally dancing and revelling through

life, and possessed of no deeper feelings to be expressed in music. But

Glinka was too intelligent a man to take such naïve views of national

character. It seems more probable that not being supersaturated with

Polish as he was with Russian folk-music, he found it difficult to

indicate the personality of the Pole in anything but conventional dance

rhythms. This passes well enough in the second act, where the scene is

laid at a brilliant festival in the Polish capital, and the ballroom

dances which follow constitute the ballet of the opera. But in other

parts of the work, as, for instance, when the Polish soldiers burst into

Sousanin's cottage and order him to act as their guide, the strains of a

stately polonaise seem distinctly out of place; and again, when they

have lost their way in the forest and their situation is extremely

precarious, they express their alarm and suspicion in mazurka rhythm.

The polonaise, cracoviak, the valse in 6-8 time and the mazurka and

finale which form the ballet are somewhat ordinary in character, but

presented with a charm and piquancy of orchestration which has made them

extremely popular. The representative theme of the Poles, a phrase from

the polonaise, hardly suggests the part they play in the opera--their

evil designs upon Moscow and the young Michael Feodorovich, about which

they sing in the succeeding chorus. But others seem to find this music

more impressive, for, says M. Camille Bellaigue, "even when restricted

to strictly national forms and formulas, the Russian genius has a

tendency to enlarge them. In the polonaise and especially in the sombre

and sinister mazurka in _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka obtains from local

rhythms an intimate dramatic emotion.... He raises and generalises, and

from the music of a race makes the music of humanity."

In the last act of _A Life for the Tsar_ Glinka has concentrated the

ardent patriotism and the profound human sympathy which is not only a

feature of his music but common to the whole school of which he is the

prototype. The curtain rises upon a street in Moscow, the people are

hurrying to the Kremlin to acclaim the young Tsar, and as they go they

sing that beautiful hymn-march "Glory, glory, Holy Russia," a superb

representation of the patriotic ideal. In contrast to the gladness of

the crowd, Glinka shows us the unfortunate children of Ivan Sousanin,

the lad Vanya, Antonida, and her betrothed, Sobinin. Some of the people

stop to ask the cause of their sadness, and in reply they sing the

touching trio which describes the fate of Sousanin. Then the scene

changes to the Red Square under the walls of the Kremlin, and all

individual sentiment is merged in a flood of loftier emotion. The close

of the act is the apotheosis of the Tsar and of the spirit of loyalty.

Here on the threshold of the Kremlin Michael Feodorovich pauses to

salute the dead body of the peasant-hero. Once again the great crowd

takes up the Slavsia or Glory motive, and amid the pealing of the bells

the opera ends with a triumphant chorus which seems to sum up the whole

character of the Russian people. "Every element of national beauty,"

says M. Camille Bellaigue, "is pressed into the service here. The

people, their ruler and God himself are present. Not one degree in all

the sacred hierarchy is lacking; not one feature of the ideal, not one

ray from the apotheosis of the fatherland."

With all its weaknesses and its occasional lapses into Italian

phraseology, _A Life for the Tsar_ still remains a patriotic and popular

opera, comparable only in these respects with some of the later works

which it engendered, or, among contemporary operas, with Weber's _Der

Freischütz_.

With the unparalleled success of _A Life for the Tsar_, Glinka reached

the meridian of his fame and power. He followed up the opera by some of

his finest songs, contained in the collection entitled "Farewell to St.

Petersburg," and by the beautiful incidental music to Koukolnik's

tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_, of which Tchaikovsky, by no means an

indulgent critic of his great predecessor, says: "Glinka here shows

himself to be one of the greatest symphonic composers of his day. Many

touches in _Prince Kholmsky_ recall the brush of Beethoven. There is the

same moderation in the means employed, and in the total absence of all

striving after mere external effects; the same sober beauty and clear

exposition of ideas that are not laboured but inspired; the same

plasticity of form and mould. Finally there is the same inimitable

instrumentation, so remote from all that is affected or far-fetched....

Every entr'acte which follows the overture is a little picture drawn by

a master-hand. These are symphonic marvels which would suffice a

second-rate composer for a whole series of long symphonies."

The idea of a second national opera began to occupy Glinka's mind very

soon after the production of _A Life for the Tsar_. It was his

intention to ask Poushkin to furnish him with a libretto based upon his

epic poem "Russlan and Liudmilla." The co-operation of Russia's greatest

poet with her leading musical genius should have been productive of

great results. Unhappily the plan was frustrated by the tragic death of

Poushkin, who was shot in a duel in 1837. Glinka, however, did not

renounce the subject to which he had been attracted, and sketched out

the plot and even some musical numbers, falling as before into the fatal

mistake of expecting his librettist to supply words to music already

written. The text for _Russlan and Liudmilla_ was supplied by

Bakhtourin, but several of Glinka's friends added a brick here and there

to the structure, with very patchy results. The introduction and finale

were sketched out in 1839, but the composer, partly on account of

failing health, did not work steadily at the opera until the winter of

1841. The score was actually completed by April 1842, when he submitted

it on approval to Gedeonov. This time Glinka met with no difficulties

from the Director of the Imperial Opera; the work was accepted at once

and the date of the first production fixed in the following November.

The subject of _Russlan and Liudmilla_, though equally national, has not

the poignant human interest that thrills us in _A Life for the Tsar_.

The story belongs to a remote and legendary period in Russian history,

and the characters are to a great extent fantastic and mythical. It had

none of those qualities which in the first opera made for an immediate

popular success in every stratum of Russian society. The days are now

long past when the musical world of Russia was split into two hostile

camps, the one led by Serov, who pronounced _Russlan_ to be the last

aberration of a lamentably warped genius; the other by Stassov, who saw

in it the mature expression of Glinka's inspiration. At the same time

Stassov was quite alive to the weaknesses and impossible scenic moments

of the libretto, faults which are doubtless the reason why seventy years

have not sufficed to win popularity for the work, although the lapse of

time has strengthened the conviction of all students of Russian opera as

to the actual musical superiority of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ over _A

Life for the Tsar_.

The story of the opera runs as follows:

In days of old--when the Slavs were still Pagans--Prince Svietozar of

Kiev had one beautiful daughter, Liudmilla. The maiden had three

suitors, the knights-errant Russlan and Farlaf, and the young Tatar

prince, Ratmir. Liudmilla's love was bestowed upon Russlan, and Prince

Svietozar prepares to celebrate their marriage. Meanwhile the wicked

wizard Chernomor has fallen desperately in love with Liudmilla. At the

wedding feast he carries off the bride by means of his magic arts.

Prince Svietozar sends the three knights to rescue his daughter and

promises to give her to the one who succeeds in the quest. The knights

meet with many adventures by the way. Farlaf seeks the help of the

sorceress Naina, who agrees to save him from the rivalry of Ratmir, by

luring the ardent young Oriental aside from his quest. Russlan takes

council with the benevolent wizard Finn, who tells him how to acquire a

magic sword with which to deliver his bride from the hands of Chernomor.

Russlan saves Liudmilla, but on their homeward journey to Kiev they are

intercepted by Farlaf, who casts them both into a magic slumber. Leaving

Russlan by the wayside, Farlaf carries the heroine back to her father's

house, where he passes himself off as her deliverer and claims her for

his bride. Russlan awakes and arrives in time to denounce his treachery,

and the opera ends with the marriage of the true lovers, which was

interrupted in the first act.

The overture to _Russlan and Liudmilla_ is a solid piece of work,

sketched on broad lines and having a fantastic colouring quite in

keeping with the subject of the opera. The opening subject is national

in character, being divided into two strains which lend themselves to

contrapuntal treatment.

An introduction follows, consisting of a chorus and two solos for Bayan

(tenor), the famous bard of old, who is supposed to relate the legend.

This introduction is largely built upon a phrase of eight notes, the

characteristic utterance of Bayan when he speaks of the "deeds of long

ago." Afterwards this phrase is repeated in the Dorian mode, and the

music acquires an archaic character in conformity with the remote period

of the action.

The opera itself may be said to begin with a wedding chorus, followed by

a cavatina for Liudmilla in which she takes leave of her father. In

writing for his primadonne Glinka seems to have found it difficult to

avoid the conventional Italian influence, and this solo, in common with

most of the music for Liudmilla, lacks vigour and originality. Far more

interesting from the musical point of view is the chorus in 5-4 measure,

an invocation to Lel, the Slavonic God of Love. At the close of this

number a loud clap of thunder is heard and the scene is plunged in

darkness, during which the wizard Chernomor carries away the bride. The

consternation of the guests is cleverly depicted over a pedal point for

horn on E flat which extends for a hundred and fifty bars. Prince

Svietozar then bids the knights-errant to go in search of his daughter,

and with a short chorus imploring the aid of Perun upon their quest the

act comes to an end.

The orchestral prelude to the second act is based upon a broad impetuous

theme which afterwards appears as the motive of the Giant's head in Act

III. The first scene represents a hilly region and the cave of the good

wizard Finn. The character of Finn, half humorous and half pathetic,

with its peculiar combination of benevolence, vacillation, and

pessimistic regret, is essentially Russian. Such characters have been

made typical in the novels of Tourgeniev and Tolstoy. Finn relates how,

in a vain endeavour to win Naina the sorceress, he has changed himself

into a shepherd, a fisherman, and a warrior, and finally into a wizard.

In this last character he has succeeded in touching her heart. But now

alas, they have awakened to the realisation that there is nothing left

to them but regret for lost possibilities fled beyond recall. Glinka

expresses all these psychological changes in Finn's famous Ballade which

forms the opening number of this act; but admirable as it is, critics

have some ground for their reproach that its great length delays the

action of the plot. Russlan, having listened to Finn's love-story,

receives from him the sword with which he is to attack the Giant's Head.

In the next scene Farlaf meets the elderly but once beautiful Naina, and

the two sing a humorous duet. Farlaf's chief air, a rondo in

opera-bouffe style, is rather ordinary, but Naina's music is a

successful piece of character-painting. The last scene of the second act

is one of the most fantastic in this fantastic opera. The stage is

enveloped in mist. Russlan enters and sings his aria, of which the

opening recitative is the strongest part, the _Allegro_ section, which

Glinka has written in sonata-form, being somewhat diffuse. While he is

singing, the mist slowly disperses, and the rising moon reveals the

lonely steppe and shines upon the bleached bones which strew an ancient

battle-field. Russlan now sees with horror the apparition of the Giant's

Head. This in its turn sees Russlan, and threatens the audacious knight

who has ventured upon the haunted field. But Russlan overcomes the

monster head with the magic sword, as directed by Finn. In order to give

weight to the Giant's voice Glinka has supplemented the part by a small

male chorus which sings from within the head.

The prelude to the third act is generally omitted, and is not in fact

printed in the pianoforte score of the opera. The opening number, a

Persian chorus for female voices, "The Night lies heavy on the fields,"

is full of grace and oriental languor. The subject of the chorus is a

genuine Persian melody and the variations which form the accompaniment

add greatly to the beauty of these pages. The chorus is followed by an

aria for Gorislava (soprano), Ratmir's former love, whom he has deserted

for Liudmilla. This air with its clarinet obbligato is one of the most

popular solos in the opera. In answer to Gorislava's appeal, Ratmir

appears upon the scene and sings a charming nocturne accompanied by _cor

anglais_. The part of the young oriental lover is usually taken by a

woman (contralto). For this number Glinka makes use of a little Tatar

air which Ferdinand David afterwards introduced, transposed into the

major, in his symphonic poem "Le Désert." It is a beautiful piece of

landscape painting which makes us feel the peculiar sadness of the

twilight in Russia as it falls on the vast spaces of the Steppes. A

French critic has said that it might have been written by an oriental

Handel. The scene described as the seduction of Ratmir consists of a

ballet in rococo style entitled "Naina's magic dance." Then follows a

duet for Gorislava and Ratmir, after which the maidens of the harem

surround Ratmir and screen Gorislava from him. Afterwards the enchanted

palace created by Naina to ensnare Ratmir suddenly vanishes and we see

the open plain once more. The act concludes with a quartet in which

Russlan and Finn take part with the two oriental lovers.

The entr'acte preceding the fourth act consists of a march movement

(_Marcia allegro risoluto_). The curtain then rises upon Chernomor's

enchanted garden, where Liudmilla languishes in captivity. An oriental

ballet then follows, but this is preceded by the March of the Wizard

Chernomor. This quaint march which personifies the invisible monster is

full of imagination, although it tells its tale so simply that it takes

us back to the fairyland of childhood. The first of the Eastern dances

(_allegretto quasi andante_) is based upon a Turkish song in 6-8

measure. Afterwards follows the Danse Arabesque and finally a Lezginka,

an immensely spirited dance built upon another of the Tatar melodies

which were given to Glinka by the famous painter Aivazovsky. A chorus of

naiads and a chorus of flowers also form part of the ballet, which is

considered one of Glinka's _chefs d'oeuvre_. While the chorus is being

sung we see in the distance an aerial combat between Russlan and

Chernomor, and throughout the whole of the movement the wizard's

_leitmotif_ is prominent in the music. Russlan, having overcome

Chernomor, wakes Liudmilla from the magic sleep into which she has been

cast by his spells.

The first scene of the last act takes place in the Steppes, where Ratmir

and Gorislava, now reconciled, have pitched their tent. Russlan's

followers break in upon the lovers with the news that Farlaf has

treacherously snatched Liudmilla from their master. Then Finn arrives

and begs Ratmir to carry to Russlan a magic ring which will restore the

princess from her trance. In the second scene the action returns to

Prince Svietozar's palace. Liudmilla is still under a spell, and her

father, who believes her to be dead, reproaches Farlaf in a fine piece

of recitative (Svietozar's music throughout the work is consistently

archaic in character). Farlaf declares that Liudmilla is not dead and

claims her as his reward. Svietozar is reluctantly about to fulfil his

promise, when Russlan arrives with the magic ring and denounces the

false knight. The funeral march which had accompanied the Prince's

recitative now gives place to the chorus "Love and joy." Liudmilla in

her sleep repeats the melody of the chorus in a kind of dreamy ecstasy.

Then Russlan awakens her and the opera concludes with a great chorus of

thanksgiving and congratulation. Throughout the finale the

characteristics of Russian and Eastern music are combined with brilliant

effect.

_Russlan and Liudmilla_ was received with indifference by the public and

with pronounced hostility by most of the critics. Undoubtedly the

weakness of the libretto had much to do with its early failure; but it

is equally true that in this, his second opera, Glinka travelled so far

from Italian tradition and carried his use of national colour so much

further and with such far greater conviction, that the music became

something of an enigma to a public whose enthusiasm was still wholly

reserved for the operas of Donizetti, Bellini and Rossini. Looking back

from the present condition of Russian opera we can trace the immense

influence of _Russlan and Liudmilla_ upon the later generation of

composers both as regards opera and ballet. It is impossible not to

realise that the fantastic Russian ballets of the present day owe much

to Glinka's first introduction of Eastern dances into _Russlan and

Liudmilla_.

The coldness of the public towards this work, the fruit of his mature

conviction, was a keen disappointment to Glinka. He had not the

alternative hope of being appreciated abroad, for he had deliberately

chosen to appeal to his fellow-countrymen, and when they rejected him he

had no heart for further endeavour. His later symphonic works,

"Kamarinskaya" and "The Jota Aragonese," show that his gift had by no

means deteriorated. Of the former Tchaikovsky has truly said that Glinka

has succeeded in concentrating in one short work what a dozen

second-rate talents could only have invented with the whole expenditure

of their powers. Possibly Glinka would have had more courage and energy

to meet his temporary dethronement from the hearts of his own people had

not his health been already seriously impaired. After the production of

_Russlan_ he lived chiefly abroad. In his later years he was much

attracted to the music of Bach and to the older polyphonic schools of

Italy and Germany. Always preoccupied with the idea of nationality in

music, he made an elaborate study of Russian church music, but his

failing health did not permit him to carry out the plans which he had

formed in this connection. In April 1856 he left St. Petersburg for the

last time and went to Berlin, where he intended to pursue these studies

with the assistance of Dehn. Here he lived very quietly for some months,

working twice a week with his old master and going occasionally to the

opera to hear the works of Gluck and Mozart. In January 1857 he was

taken seriously ill, and passed peacefully away during the night of

February 2nd. In the following May his remains were brought from Germany

to St. Petersburg and laid in the cemetery of the Alexander Nevsky

monastery near to those of other national poets, Krylov, Baratinsky and

Joukovsky.

Glinka was the first inspired interpreter of the Russian nationality in

music. During the period which has elapsed since his death the impress

of his genius upon that of his fellow countrymen has in no way

weakened. For this reason a knowledge of his music is an indispensable

introduction to the appreciation of the later school of Russian music;

for in his works and in those of Dargomijsky, we shall find the key to

all that has since been accomplished.

CHAPTER V

DARGOMIJSKY

Glinka, in his memoirs, relates how in the autumn of 1834 he met at a

musical party in St. Petersburg, "a little man with a shrill treble

voice, who, nevertheless, proved a redoubtable virtuoso when he sat down

to the piano." The little man was Alexander Sergeivich Dargomijsky, then

about twenty-one years of age, and already much sought after in society

as a brilliant pianist and as the composer of agreeable drawing-room

songs. Dargomijsky's diary contains a corresponding entry recording this

important meeting of two men who were destined to become central points

whence started two distinct currents of tendency influencing the whole

future development of Russian music. "Similarity of education and a

mutual love of music immediately drew us together," wrote Dargomijsky,

"and this in spite of the fact that Glinka was ten years my senior." For

the remainder of Glinka's life Dargomijsky was his devoted friend and

fellow-worker, but never his unquestioning disciple.

Dargomijsky was born, February 2/14, 1813, at a country estate in the

government of Toula, whither his parents had fled from their own home

near Smolensk before the French invaders in 1812. It is said that

Dargomijsky, the future master of declamation, only began to articulate

at five years of age. In 1817 his parents migrated to St. Petersburg.

They appear to have taken great interest in the musical education of

their son; at six he received his first instruction on the piano, and

two years later took up the violin; while at eleven he had already tried

his hand at composition. His education being completed, he entered the

Government service, from which, however, he retired altogether in 1843.

Thanks to his parents' sympathy with his musical talent, Dargomijsky's

training had been above the average and a long course of singing lessons

with an excellent master, Tseibikha, no doubt formed the basis of his

subsequent success as a composer of vocal music. But at the time of his

first meeting with Glinka, both on account of his ignorance of theory

and of the narrowness of his general outlook upon music, he can only be

regarded as an amateur. One distinguishing feature of his talent seems

to have been in evidence even then, for Glinka, after hearing his first

song, written to humorous words, declared that if Dargomijsky would turn

his attention to comic opera he would certainly surpass all his

predecessors in that line. Contact with Glinka's personality effected

the same beneficial change in Dargomijsky that Rubinstein's influence

brought about in Tchaikovsky some thirty years later; it changed him

from a mere dilettante into a serious musician. "Glinka's example," he

wrote in his autobiography, "who was at that time (1834) taking Prince

Usipov's band through the first rehearsals of his opera _A Life for the

Tsar_, assisted by myself and Capellmeister Johannes, led to my decision

to study the theory of music. Glinka handed over to me the five exercise

books in which he had worked out Dehn's theoretical system and I copied

them in my own hand, and soon assimilated the so-called mysterious

wisdom of harmony and counterpoint, because I had been from childhood

practically prepared for this initiation and had occupied myself with

the study of orchestration." These were the only books of theory ever

studied by Dargomijsky, but they served to make him realise the

possession of gifts hitherto unsuspected. After this course of

self-instruction he felt strong enough to try his hand as an operatic

composer, and selected a libretto founded on Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame

de Paris." Completed and translated into Russian in 1839, the work,

entitled _Esmeralda_, was not accepted by the Direction of the Imperial

Opera until 1847, when it was mounted for the first time at Moscow. By

this time Dargomijsky had completely outgrown this immature essay. The

light and graceful music pleased the Russian public, but the success of

this half-forgotten child of his youth gave little satisfaction to the

composer himself. He judged the work in the following words: "The music

is slight and often trivial--in the style of Halévy and Meyerbeer; but

in the more dramatic scenes there are already some traces of that

language of force and realism which I have since striven to develop in

my Russian music."

In 1843 Dargomijsky went abroad, and while in Paris made the

acquaintance of Auber, Meyerbeer, Halévy, and Fétis. The success of

_Esmeralda_ encouraged him to offer to the Directors of the Imperial

Theatre an opera-ballet entitled _The Triumph of Bacchus_, which he had

originally planned as a cantata; but the work was rejected, and only saw

the light some twenty years later, when it was mounted in Moscow.

Dargomijsky's correspondence during his sojourn abroad is extremely

interesting, and shows that his views on music were greatly in advance

of his time and quite free from the influences of fashion and

convention.

In 1853 we gather from a letter addressed to a friend that he was

attracted to national music. As a matter of fact the new opera, upon

which he had already started in 1848, was based upon a genuine Russian

folk-subject--Poushkin's dramatic poem "The Roussalka" (The Water

Sprite). Greatly discouraged by the refusal of the authorities to accept

_The Triumph of Bacchus_, Dargomijsky laid aside _The Roussalka_ until

1853. During this interval most of his finest songs and declamatory

ballads were written, as well as those inimitably humorous songs which,

perhaps, only a Russian can fully appreciate. But though he matured

slowly, his intellectual and artistic development was serious and

profound. Writing to Prince Odoevsky about this time, he says: "The more

I study the elements of our national music, the more I discover its

many-sidedness. Glinka, who so far has been the first to extend the

sphere of our Russian music, has, I consider, only touched one phase of

it--the lyrical. In _The Roussalka_ I shall endeavour as much as

possible to bring out the dramatic and humorous elements of our national

music. I shall be glad if I achieve this, even though it may seem a half

protest against Glinka." Here we see Dargomijsky not as the disciple,

but as the independent worker, although he undoubtedly kept _Russlan and

Liudmilla_ in view as the model for _The Roussalka_. The work was given

for the first time at the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, in 1856,

but proved too novel in form and treatment to please a public that was

still infatuated with Italian opera.

In 1864-1865 Dargomijsky made a second tour in Western Europe, taking

with him the scores of _The Roussalka_ and of his three Orchestral

Fantasias, "Kazachok" (The Cossack), a "Russian Legend," and "The Dance

of the Mummers" (Skomorokhi). In Leipzig he made the acquaintance of

many prominent musicians, who contented themselves with pronouncing his

music "_sehr neu_" and "_ganz interessant_," but made no effort to bring

it before the public. In Paris he was equally unable to obtain a

hearing; but in Belgium--always hospitable to Russian musicians--he gave

a concert of his own compositions with considerable success. On his way

back to Russia he spent a few days in London and ever after spoke of our

capital with enthusiastic admiration.

In 1860 Dargomijsky had been appointed director of the St. Petersburg

section of the Imperial Russian Musical Society. This brought him in

contact with some of the younger contemporary musicians, and after his

return from abroad, in 1865, he became closely associated with Balakirev

and his circle and took a leading part in the formation of the new

national and progressive school of music. By this time he handled that

musical language of "force and realism," of which we find the first

distinct traces in _The Roussalka_, with ease and convincing eloquence.

For his fourth opera he now selected the subject of _The Stone Guest_

(Don Juan); not the version by Da Ponte which had been immortalised by

Mozart's music, but the poem in which the great Russian poet Poushkin

had treated this ubiquitous tale. This work occupied the last years of

Dargomijsky's life, and we shall speak of it in detail a little further

on. Soon after the composer's return from abroad his health began to

fail and the new opera had constantly to be laid aside. From

contemporary accounts it seems evident that he did not shut himself away

from the world in order to keep alive the flickering flame of life that

was left to him, but that on the contrary he liked to be surrounded by

the younger generation, to whom he gave out freely of his own richly

gifted nature. The composition of _The Stone Guest_ was a task fulfilled

in the presence of his disciples, reminding us of some of the great

painters who worked upon their masterpieces before their pupils' eyes.

Dargomijsky died of heart disease in January 1869. On his deathbed he

entrusted the unfinished manuscript of _The Stone Guest_ to Cui and

Rimsky-Korsakov, instructing the latter to carry out the orchestration

of it. The composer fixed three thousand roubles (about £330) as the

price of his work, but an obsolete law made it illegal for a native

composer to receive more than £160 for an opera. At the suggestion of

Vladimir Stassov, the sum was raised by private subscription, and _The

Stone Guest_ was performed in 1872. Of its reception by the public

something will be said when we come to the analysis of the work.

We may dismiss _Esmeralda_ as being practically of no account in the

development of Russian opera; but the history of _The Roussalka_ is

important, for this work not only possesses intrinsic qualities that

have kept it alive for over half a century, but its whole conception

shows that Dargomijsky was already in advance of his time as regards

clear-cut musical characterisation and freedom from conventional

restraint. In this connection it is interesting to remember that _The

Roussalka_ preceded Bizet's "Carmen" by some ten or twelve years.

As early as 1843 Dargomijsky had thought of _The Roussalka_ as an

excellent subject for opera. He avoided Glinka's methods of entrusting

his libretto to several hands. In preparing the book he kept as closely

as possible to Poushkin's poem, and himself carried out the

modifications necessary for musical treatment. It is certain that he had

begun the work by September 1848. It was completed in 1855.

As we have already seen, he was aware that Glinka was not fully in

touch with the national character; there were sides of it which he had

entirely ignored in both his operas, because he was temperamentally

incapable of reflecting them. Glinka's humour, as Dargomijsky has

truthfully said, was not true to Russian life. His strongest tendency

was towards a slightly melancholy lyricism, and when he wished to supply

some comic relief he borrowed it from cosmopolitan models. The composer

of _The Roussalka_, on the other hand, deliberately aimed at bringing

out the dramatic, realistic, and humorous elements which he observed in

his own race. The result was an opera containing a wonderful variety of

interest.

Russian folk-lore teems with references to the _Roussalki_, or water

nymphs, who haunt the streams and the still, dark, forest pools, lying

in wait for the belated traveller, and of all their innumerable legends

none is more racy of the soil than this dramatic poem by Poushkin in

which the actual and supernatural worlds are sketched by a master hand.

The story of the opera runs as follows:

A young Prince falls in love with Natasha, the Miller's daughter. He

pays her such devoted attention that the father hopes in time to see his

child become a princess. Natasha returns the Prince's passion, and gives

him not only her love but her honour. Circumstances afterwards compel

the Prince to marry in his own rank. Deserted in the hour of her need,

Natasha in despair drowns herself in the mill-stream. Now, in accordance

with Slavonic legends, she becomes a _Roussalka_, seeking always to lure

mortals to her watery abode. Misfortune drives the old Miller crazy and

the mill falls into ruins. Between the second act, in which the Prince's

nuptials are celebrated, and the third, a few years are supposed to

elapse. Meanwhile the Prince is not happy in his married life, and is

moreover perpetually haunted by the remembrance of his first love and by

remorse for her tragic fate. He spends hours near the ruined mill

dreaming of the past. One day a little _Roussalka_ child appears to him

and tells him that she is his daughter, and that she dwells with her

mother among the water-sprites. All his old passion is reawakened. He

stands on the brink of the water in doubt as to whether to respond to

the calls of Natasha and the child, or whether to flee from their malign

influence. Even while he hesitates, the crazy Miller appears upon the

scene and fulfils dramatic justice by flinging the betrayer of his

daughter into the stream. Here we have the elements of an exceedingly

dramatic libretto which offers fine opportunities to a psychological

musician of Dargomijsky's type. The scene in which the Prince, with

caressing grace and tenderness, tries to prepare Natasha for the news

of his coming marriage; her desolation when she hears that they must

part; her bitter disenchantment on learning the truth, and her cry of

anguish as she tries to make him realise the full tragedy of her

situation--all these emotions, coming in swift succession, are followed

by the music with astonishing force and flexibility. Very effective,

too, is the scene of the wedding festivities in which the wailing note

of the _Roussalka_ is heard every time the false lover attempts to kiss

his bride--the suggestion of an invisible presence which throws all the

guests into consternation. As an example of Dargomijsky's humour,

nothing is better than the recitative of the professional

marriage-maker, "Why so silent pretty lassies," and the answering chorus

of the young girls (in Act II.). As might be expected with a realistic

temperament like Dargomijsky's, the music of the _Roussalki_ is the

least successful part of the work. The sub-aquatic ballet in the last

act is rather commonplace; while Natasha's music, though expressive, has

been criticised as being too human and warm-blooded for a soulless

water-sprite. Undoubtedly the masterpiece of the opera is the musical

presentment of the Miller. At first a certain sardonic humour plays

about this crafty, calculating old peasant, but afterwards, when

disappointed greed and his daughter's disgrace have turned his brain,

how subtly the music is made to suggest the cunning of mania in that

strange scene in which he babbles of his hidden treasures, "stored safe

enough where the fish guard them with one eye!" With extraordinary power

Dargomijsky reproduces his hideous meaningless laugh as he pushes the

Prince into the swirling mill-stream. The character of the Miller alone

would suffice to prove that the composer possesses dramatic gifts of the

highest order.

_The Roussalka_, first performed at the Maryinsky Theatre in May 1856,

met with very little success. The Director of the opera, Glinka's old

enemy Gedeonov, having made up his mind that so "unpleasing" a work

could have no future, mounted it in the shabbiest style. Moreover, as

was usually the case with national opera then--and even at a later

date--the interpretation was entrusted to second-rate artists.

Dargomijsky, in a letter to his pupil Madame Karmalina, comments

bitterly upon this; unhappily he could not foresee the time, not so far

distant, when the great singer Ossip Petrov would electrify the audience

with his wonderful impersonation of the Miller; nor dream that fifty

years later Shaliapin would make one of his most legitimate triumphs in

this part. The critics met Dargomijsky's innovations without in the

least comprehending their drift. Serovit was before the days of his

opposition to the national cause--alone appreciated the novelty and

originality shown in the opera; he placed it above _A Life for the

Tsar_; but even his forcible pen could not rouse the public from their

indifference to every new manifestation of art. Dargomijsky himself

perfectly understood the reason of its unpopularity. In one of his

letters written at this time, he says: "Neither our amateurs nor our

critics recognise my talents. Their old-fashioned notions cause them to

seek for melody which is merely flattering to the ear. That is not _my_

first thought. I have no intention of indulging them with music as a

plaything. _I want the note to be the direct equivalent of the word._ I

want truth and realism. This they cannot understand."

Ten years after the first performance of _The Roussalka_, the public

began to reconsider its verdict. The emancipation of the serfs in 1861

changed the views of society towards the humble classes, and directed

attention towards all that concerned the past history of the peasantry.

A new spirit animated the national ideal. From Poushkin's poetry, with

its somewhat "Olympian" attitude to life, the reading public turned to

the people's poets, Nekrassov and Nikitin; while the realism of Gogol

was now beginning to be understood. To these circumstances we may

attribute the reaction in favour of _The Roussalka_, which came as a

tardy compensation towards the close of the composer's life.

During the ten years which followed the completion of _The Roussalka_,

Dargomijsky was steadily working towards the formulation of new

principles in vocal, and especially in dramatic music. We may watch his

progress in the series of songs and ballads which he produced at this

time. It is, however, in _The Stone Guest_ that Dargomijsky carries his

theories of operatic reform to a logical conclusion. One of his chief

aims, in which he succeeded in interesting the little band of disciples

whose work we shall presently review, was the elimination of the

artificial and conventional in the accepted forms of Italian opera.

Wagner had already experienced the same dissatisfaction, and was solving

the question of reform in the light of his own great genius. But the

Russian composers could not entirely adopt the Wagnerian theories.

Dargomijsky, while rejecting the old arbitrary divisions of opera, split

upon the question of the importance which Wagner gave to the orchestra.

Later on we shall see how each member of the newly-formed school tried

to work out the principles of reformation in his own way, keeping in

view the dominant idea that the dramatic interest should be chiefly

sustained by the singer, while the orchestra should be regarded as a

means of enhancing the interest of the vocal music. Dargomijsky himself

was the first to embody these principles in what must be regarded as one

of the masterpieces of Russian music--his opera _The Stone Guest_. Early

in the 'sixties he had been attracted to Poushkin's fine poem, which has

for subject the story of Don Juan, treated, not as we find it in

Mozart's opera, by a mere librettist, but with the dramatic force and

intensity of a great poet. Dargomijsky was repelled by the idea of

mutilating a fine poem; yet found himself overwhelmed by the

difficulties of setting the words precisely as they stood. Later on,

however, the illness from which he was suffering seems to have produced

in him a condition of rare musical clairvoyance. "I am singing my swan

song," he wrote to Madame Karmelina in 1868; "I am writing _The Stone

Guest_. It is a strange thing: my nervous condition seems to generate

one idea after another. I have scarcely any physical strength.... It is

not I who write, but some unknown power of which I am the instrument.

The thought of _The Stone Guest_ occupied my attention five years ago

when I was in robust health, but then I shrank from the magnitude of the

task. Now, ill as I am, I have written three-fourths of the opera in two

and a half months.... Needless to say the work will not appeal to the

many."

"Thank God," comments Stassov, in his energetic language, "that in 1863

Dargomijsky recoiled before so colossal an undertaking, since he was not

yet prepared for it. His musical nature was still growing and widening,

and he was gradually freeing himself from all stiffness and asperity,

from false notions of form, and from the Italian and French influences

which sometimes predominate in the works of his early and middle

periods. In each new composition Dargomijsky takes a step forward, but

in 1866 his preparations were complete. A great musician was ready to

undertake a great work. Here was a man who had cast off all musical

wrong thinking, whose mind was as developed as his talent, and who found

such inward force and greatness of character as inspired him to write

this work while he lay in bed, subject to the terrible assaults of a

mortal malady."

_The Stone Guest_, then, is the ultimate expression of that realistic

language which Dargomijsky employs in his early cantata _The Triumph of

Bacchus_, in _The Roussalka_, and in his best songs. It is applied not

to an ordinary ready-made libretto, but to a poem of such excellence

that the composer felt it a sacrilege to treat it otherwise than as on

an equal footing with the music. This effort to follow with absolute

fidelity every word of the book, and to make the note the

representative of the word, led to the adoption of a new operatic form,

and to the complete abandonment of the traditional soli, duets,

choruses, and concerted pieces. In _The Stone Guest_ the singers employ

that _melos_, or _mezzo-recitativo_, which is neither melody nor speech,

but the connecting link between the two. Some will argue, with Serov,

that there is nothing original in these ideas; they had already been

carried out by Wagner; and that _The Stone Guest_ does not prove that

Dargomijsky was an innovator but merely that he had the intelligence to

become the earliest of Wagner's disciples. Nothing could be further from

the truth. By 1866 Dargomijsky had some theoretical knowledge of

Wagner's views, but he can have heard little, if any, of his music.

Whether he was at all influenced by the former, it is difficult to

determine; but undoubtedly his efforts to attain to a more natural and

realistic method of expression date from a time when Wagner and

Wagnerism were practically a sealed book to him. One thing is certain:

from cover to cover of _The Stone Guest_ it would be difficult to find

any phrase which is strongly reminiscent of Wagner's musical style. What

he himself thought of Wagner's music we may gather from a letter written

to Serov in 1856, in which he says: "I have not returned your score of

"Tannhäuser," because I have not yet had time to go through the whole

work. You are right; in the scenic disposition there is much poetry; in

the music, too, he shows us a new and practical path; but in his

unnatural melodies and spiciness, although at times his harmonies are

very interesting, there is a sense of effort--_will und kann nicht!_

Truth--above all truth--but we may demand good taste as well."

Dargomijsky was no conscious or deliberate imitator of Wagner. The

passion for realistic expression which possessed him from the first led

him by a parallel but independent path to a goal somewhat similar to

that which was reached by Wagner. But Dargomijsky adhered more closely

to the way indicated a century earlier by that great musical reformer

Gluck. In doing this justice to the Russian composer, a sense of

proportion forbids me to draw further analogies between the two men.

Dargomijsky was a strong and original genius, who would have found his

way to a reformed music drama, even if Wagner had not existed. Had he

been sustained by a Ludwig of Bavaria, instead of being opposed by a

Gedeonov, he might have left his country a larger legacy from his

abundant inspiration; but fate and his surroundings willed that his

achievements should be comparatively small. Whereas Wagner, moving on

from strength to strength, from triumph to triumph, raised up

incontestable witnesses to the greatness of his genius.

In _The Stone Guest_ Dargomijsky has been successful in welding words

and music into an organic whole; while the music allotted to each

individual in the opera seems to fit like a skin. "Poetry, love,

passion, arresting tragedy, humour, subtle psychological sense and

imaginative treatment of the supernatural,[15] all these qualities,"

says Stassov, "are combined in this opera." The chief drawback of the

work is probably its lack of scenic interest, a fault which inevitably

results from the unity of its construction. The music, thoughtful,

penetrative, and emotional, is of the kind which loses little by the

absence of scenic setting. _The Stone Guest_ is essentially an opera

which may be studied at the piano. It unites as within a focus many of

the dominant ideas and tendencies of the school that proceeded from

Glinka and Dargomijsky, and proves that neither nationality of subject

nor of melody constitutes nationality of style, and that a tale which

bears the stamp and colour of the South may become completely Russian,

poetically and musically, when moulded by Russian hands. _The Stone

Guest_ has never attained to any considerable measure of popularity in

Russia. In spite of Dargomijsky's personal intimacy with his little

circle of disciples, in which respect his attitude to his fellow workers

was quite different to that of Glinka, the example which he set in _The

Stone Guest_ eventually found fewer imitators than Glinka's ideal model

_A Life for the Tsar_. At the same time in certain particulars, and

especially as regards melodic recitative, this work had a decided

influence upon a later school of Russian opera. But this is a matter to

be discussed in a later chapter.

[Illustration:

_Serov, V.A._

SEROV]

CHAPTER VI

WORK AND INFLUENCE OF SEROV

Glinka and Dargomijsky were to Russian music two vitalising sources, to

the power of which had contributed numerous affluent aspirations and

activities. They, in their turn, flowed forth in two distinct channels

of musical tendency, fertilising two different spheres of musical work.

Broadly speaking, they stand respectively for lyrical idealism as

opposed to dramatic realism in Russian opera. To draw some parallel

between them seems inevitable, since together they make up the sum total

of the national character. Their influences, too, are incalculable, for

with few exceptions scarcely an opera has been produced by succeeding

generations which does not give some sign of its filiation with one or

the other of these composers. Glinka had the versatility and spontaneity

we are accustomed to associate with the Slav temperament; Dargomijsky

had not less imagination but was more reflective. Glinka was not devoid

of wit; but Dargomijsky's humour was full flavoured and racy of the

soil. He altogether out-distanced Glinka as regards expression and

emotional intensity. Glinka's life was not rich in inward experiences

calculated to deepen his nature, and he had not, like Dargomijsky, that

gift of keen observation which supplies the place of actual experience.

The composer of _The Stone Guest_ was a psychologist, profound and

subtle, who not only observed, but knew how to express himself with the

laconic force of a man who has no use for the gossip of life.

When Glinka died in 1857, Russian musical life was already showing

symptoms of that division of aims and ideals which ultimately led to the

formation of two opposing camps: the one ultra-national, the other more

or less cosmopolitan. In order to understand the situation of Russian

opera at this time, it is necessary to touch upon the long hostility

which existed between the rising school of young home-bred musicians,

and those who owed their musical education to foreign sources, and in

whose hands were vested for a considerable time all academic authority,

and most of the paid posts which enabled a musician to devote himself

wholly to his profession.

While Dargomijsky was working at his last opera, and gathering round his

sick bed that group of young nationalists soon to be known by various

sobriquets, such as "The Invincible Band," and "The Mighty Five,"[16]

Anton Rubinstein was also working for the advancement of music in

Russia; but it was the general aspect of musical education which

occupied his attention, rather than the vindication of the art as an

expression of national temperament. Up to the middle of the eighteenth

century there had been but two musical elements in Russia, the creative

and the auditory. In the latter we may include the critics, almost a

negligible quantity in those days. At the close of the 'fifties a third

element was added to the situation--the music schools. "The time had

come," says Stassov, "when the necessity for schools, conservatoires,

incorporated societies, certificates, and all kinds of musical castes

and privileges, was being propagated among us. With these aims in view,

the services were engaged of those who had been brought up to consider

everything excellent which came from abroad, blind believers in all

kinds of traditional prejudices. Since schools and conservatoires

existed in Western Europe, we, in Russia, must have them too. Plenty of

amateurs were found ready to take over the direction of our new

conservatoires. Such enterprise was part of a genuine, but hasty,

patriotism, and the business was rushed through. It was asserted that

music in Russia was then at a very low ebb and that everything must be

done to raise the standard of it. With the object of extending the tone

and improving the knowledge of music, the Musical Society was founded in

1859, and its principal instrument, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in

1862.... Not long before the opening of this institution, Rubinstein

wrote an article,[17] in which he deplored the musical condition of the

country, and said that in Russia 'the art was practised only by

amateurs' ... and this at a time when Balakirev, Moussorgsky and Cui had

already composed several of their early works and had them performed in

public. Were these men really only amateurs? The idea of raising and

developing the standard of music was laudable, but was Russia truly in

such sore need of that kind of development and elevation when an

independent and profoundly national school was already germinating in

our midst? In discussing Russian music, the first questions should have

been: what have we new in our music; what is its character; what are its

idiosyncrasies, and what is necessary for its growth and the

preservation of its special qualities? But the people who thought to

encourage the art in Russia did not, or would not, take this indigenous

element into consideration, and from the lofty pinnacle of the Western

Conservatoire they looked down on our land as a _tabula rasa_, a wild

uncultivated soil which must be sown with good seed imported from

abroad.... In reply to Rubinstein's article I wrote:[18] 'How many

academies in Europe are grinding out and distributing certificated

students, who occupy themselves more or less with art? But they cannot

turn out artists; only people all agog to acquire titles, recognised

positions, and privileges. Why must this be? We do not give our literary

men certificates and titles, and yet a profoundly national literature

has been created and developed in Russia. It should be the same with

music.... Academic training and artistic progress are not synonymous

terms.... Germany's noblest musical periods _preceded_ the opening of

her conservatoires, and her greatest geniuses have all been educated

outside the schools. Hitherto all our teachers have been foreigners

brought up in the conservatoires abroad. Why then have we cause to

complain of the wretched state of musical education in Russia? Is it

likely that the teachers sent out into the world from our future

academies will be any better than those hitherto sent to us from abroad?

It is time to cease from this importation of foreign educative

influences, and to consider that which will be most truly profitable

and advantageous for our own race and country. Must we copy that which

exists abroad, merely that we may have the satisfaction of boasting a

vast array of teachers and classes, of fruitless distributions of prizes

and scholarships, of reams of manufactured compositions, and hosts of

useless musicians."[19]

I have quoted these extracts from Stassov's writings partly for the sake

of the sound common-sense with which he surrounds the burning question

of that and later days, and partly because his protest is interesting as

echoing the reiterated cry of the ultra-patriotic musical party in this

country.

Such protests, however, were few, while the body of public enthusiasm

was great; and Russian enthusiasm, it may be observed, too often takes

the externals into higher account than the essentials. Rubinstein found

a powerful patroness in the person of the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna;

the Imperial Russian Musical Society was founded under the highest

social auspices; and two years later all officialdom presided at the

birth of its offshoot, the St. Petersburg Conservatoire. Most of the

evils prophesied by Stassov actually happened, and prevailed, at least

for a time. But foreign influences, snobbery, official tyranny and

parsimony, the over-crowding of a privileged profession, and mistakes

due to the well-intentioned interference of amateurs in high

places--these things are but the inevitable stains on the history of

most human organisations. What Cheshikin describes as "alienomania," the

craze for everything foreign, always one of the weaknesses of Russian

society, was undoubtedly fostered to some extent under the early

cosmopolitan _régime_ of the conservatoire; but even if it temporarily

held back the rising tide of national feeling in music, it was powerless

in the end to limit its splendid energy. The thing most feared by the

courageous old patriot, Stassov, did not come to pass. The intense

fervour of the group known as "The Mighty Band" carried all things

before it. Russian music, above all Russian opera, triumphs to-day, both

at home and abroad, in proportion to its _amor patriæ_. It is not the

diluted cosmopolitan music of the schools, with its familiar echoes of

Italy, France and Germany, but the folk-song operas in their simple,

forceful and sincere expression of national character that have carried

Paris, Milan and London by storm.

The two most prominent representatives of the cosmopolitan and academic

tendencies in Russia were Anton Rubinstein and Alexander Serov. Both

were senior to any member of the nationalist circle, and their work

being in many respects very dissimilar in character to that of the

younger composers, I propose to give some account of it in this and the

following chapter, before passing on to that later group of workers who

made the expression of Russian sentiment the chief feature of their

operas.

Alexander Nicholaevich Serov, born in St. Petersburg January 11th, 1820

(O.S.), was one of the first enlightened musical critics in Russia. As a

child he received an excellent education. Later on he entered the School

of Jurisprudence, where he passed among his comrades as "peculiar," and

only made one intimate friend. This youth--a few years his junior--was

Vladimir Stassov, destined to become a greater critic than Serov

himself. Stassov, in his "Reminiscences of the School of Jurisprudence,"

has given a most interesting account of this early friendship, which

ended in something like open hostility when in later years the two men

developed into the leaders of opposing camps. When he left the School of

Jurisprudence in 1840, Serov had no definite views as to his future,

only a vague dreamy yearning for an artistic career. At his father's

desire he accepted a clerkship in a Government office, which left him

leisure for his musical pursuits. At that time he was studying the

violoncello. Gradually he formed, if not a definite theory of musical

criticism, at least strong individual proclivities. He had made some

early attempts at composition, which did not amount to much more than

improvisation. Reading his letters to Stassov, written at this early

period of his career, it is evident that joined to a vast, but vague,

ambition was the irritating consciousness of a lack of genuine creative

inspiration.

In 1842 Serov became personally acquainted with Glinka, and although he

was not at that period a fervent admirer of this master, yet personal

contact with him gave the younger man his first impulse towards more

serious work. He began to study _A Life for the Tsar_ with newly opened

eyes, and became enthusiastic over this opera, and over some of Glinka's

songs. But when in the autumn of the same year _Russlan and Liudmilla_

was performed for the first time, his enthusiasm seems to have received

a check. He announced to Stassov his intention of studying this opera

more seriously, but his views of it, judging from what he has written on

the subject, remain after all very superficial. All that was new and

lofty in its intention seems to have passed clean over his head. His

criticism is interesting as showing how indifferent he was at that time

to the great musical movement which Wagner was leading in Western

Europe, and to the equally remarkable activity which Balakirev was

directing in Russia. He was, indeed, still in a phase of Meyerbeer

worship.

In 1843 Serov began to think of composing an opera. He chose the subject

of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," but hardly had he made his first

essays, when his musical schemes were cut short by his transference from

St. Petersburg to the dull provincial town of Simferopol. Here he made

the acquaintance of the revolutionary Bakounin, who had not yet been

exiled to Siberia. The personality of Bakounin made a deep impression

upon Serov, as it did later upon Wagner. Under his influence Serov began

to take an interest in modern German philosophy and particularly in the

doctrines of Hegel. As his intellect expanded, the quality of his

musical ideas improved. They showed greater independence, but it was an

acquired originality rather than innate creative impulse. He acquired

the theory of music with great difficulty, and being exceedingly anxious

to master counterpoint, Stassov introduced him by letter to the

celebrated theorist Hunke, then residing in St. Petersburg. Serov

corresponded with Hunke, who gave him some advice, but the drawbacks of

a system of a college by post were only too obvious to the eager but not

very brilliant pupil, separated by two thousand versts from his teacher.

At this time he was anxious to throw up his appointment and devote

himself entirely to music, but his father sternly discountenanced what

he called "these frivolous dreams."

It was through journalism that Serov first acquired a much desired

footing in the musical world. At the close of the 'forties musical

criticism in Russia had touched its lowest depths. The two leading men

of the day, Oulibishev and Lenz, possessed undoubted ability, but had

drifted into specialism, the one as the panegyrist of Mozart, the other

of Beethoven. Moreover both of them published their works in German. All

the other critics of the leading journals were hardly worthy of

consideration. These were the men whom Moussorgsky caricatured in his

satirical songs "The Peepshow" and "The Classicist." It is not

surprising, therefore, that Serov's first articles, which appeared in

the "Contemporary" in 1851, should have created a sensation in the

musical world. We have seen that his literary equipment was by no means

complete, that his convictions were still fluctuant and unreliable; but

he was now awake to the movements of the time, and joined to a

cultivated intelligence a "wit that fells you like a mace." His early

articles dealt with Mozart, Beethoven, Donizetti, Rossini, Meyerbeer,

and Spontini, and in discussing the last-named, he explained and

defended the historical ideal of the music-drama. Considering that at

that time Serov was practically ignorant of Wagner's work, the

conclusions which he draws do credit to his foresight and reflection.

As I am considering Serov rather as a composer than as a critic, I need

not dwell at length upon this side of his work. Yet it is almost

impossible to avoid reference to that long and bitter conflict which he

waged with one whom, in matters of Russian art and literature, I must

regard as my master. The writings of Serov, valuable as they were half a

century ago, because they set men thinking, have now all the weakness of

purely subjective criticism. He was inconstant in his moods, violent in

his prejudices, and too often hasty in his judgments, and throughout the

three weighty volumes which represent his collected works, there is no

vestige of orderly method, nor of a reasoned philosophy of criticism.

The novelty of his style, the prestige of his personality, and perhaps

we must add the deep ignorance of the public he addressed, lent a kind

of sacerdotal authority to his utterances. But, like other sacerdotal

divulgations, they did not always tend to enlightenment and liberty of

conscience. With one hand Serov pointed to the great musical awakening

in Western Europe; with the other he sought persistently to blind

Russians to the important movement that was taking place around them.

In 1858 Serov returned from a visit to Germany literally hypnotised by

Wagner. To quote his own words: "I am now Wagner mad. I play him, study

him, read of him, talk of him, write about him, and preach his

doctrines. I would suffer at the stake to be his apostle." In this

exalted frame of mind he returned to a musical world of which Rubinstein

and Balakirev were the poles, which revolved on the axis of nationality.

In this working, practical world, busy with the realisation of its own

ideals and the solution of its own problems, there was, as yet, no place

for Wagnerism. And well it has proved for the development of music in

Europe that the Russians chose, at that time, to keep to the high road

of musical progress with Liszt and Balakirev, rather than make a rush

for the _cul-de-sac_ of Wagnerism. Serov had exasperated the old order

of critics by his justifiable attacks on their sloth and ignorance; had

shown an ungenerous depreciation of Balakirev and his school, and

adopted a very luke-warm attitude towards Rubinstein and the

newly-established Musical Society. Consequently, he found himself now in

an isolated position. Irritated by a sense of being "sent to Coventry,"

he attacked with extravagant temper the friend of years in whom, as the

champion of nationality, he imagined a new enemy. The long polemic

waged between Serov and Stassov is sometimes amusing, and always

instructive; but on the whole I should not recommend it as light

literature. Serov lays on with bludgeon and iron-headed mace; Stassov

retaliates with a two-edged sword. The combatants are not unfairly

matched, but Stassov's broader culture keeps him better armed at all

points, and he represents, to my mind, the nobler cause.

When Serov the critic felt his hold on the musical world growing

slacker, Serov the composer determined to make one desperate effort to

recover his waning influence. He was now over forty years of age, and

the great dream of his life--the creation of an opera--was still

unrealised. Having acquired the libretto of _Judith_, he threw himself

into the work of composition with an energy born of desperation. There

is something fine in the spectacle of this man, who had no longer the

confidence and elasticity of youth, carrying his smarting wounds out of

the literary arena, and replying to the taunts of his enemies, "show us

something better than we have done," with the significant words "wait

and see." Serov, with his extravagances and cocksureness of opinion, has

never been a sympathetic character to me; but I admire him at this

juncture. At first, the mere technical difficulties of composition

threatened to overwhelm him. The things which should have been learnt at

twenty were hard to acquire in middle-life. But with almost superhuman

energy and perseverance he conquered his difficulties one by one, and in

the spring of 1862 the opera was completed.

Serov had many influential friends in aristocratic circles, notably the

Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, who remained his generous patroness to

the last. On this occasion, thanks to the good offices of Count

Adelberg, he had not, like so many of his compatriots, to wait an

indefinite period before seeing his opera mounted. In March 1863 Wagner

visited St. Petersburg, and Serov submitted to him the score of

_Judith_. Wagner was particularly pleased with the orchestration, in

which he cannot have failed to see the reflection of his own influence.

The idea of utilising _Judith_ as the subject for an opera was suggested

to Serov by K. I. Zvantsiev, the translator of some of the Wagnerian

operas, after the two friends had witnessed a performance of the tragedy

"Giuditta," with Ristori in the leading part. At first Serov intended to

compose to an Italian libretto, but afterwards Zvantsiev translated into

the vernacular, and partially remodelled, Giustiniani's original text.

After a time Zvantsiev, being doubtful of Serov's capacity to carry

through the work, left the libretto unfinished, and it was eventually

completed by a young amateur, D. Lobanov.

The opera was first performed in St. Petersburg on May 16th, 1862

(O.S.). The part of Judith was sung by Valentina Bianchi, that of

Holofernes by Sariotti. The general style of _Judith_ recalls that of

"Tannhäuser," and of "Lohengrin," with here and there some reminiscences

of Meyerbeer. The opera is picturesque and effective, although the

musical colouring is somewhat coarse and flashy. Serov excels in showy

scenic effects, but we miss the careful attention to detail, and the

delicate musical treatment characteristic of Glinka's work, qualities

which are carried almost to a defect in some of Rimsky-Korsakov's

operas. But the faults which are visible to the critic seemed virtues to

the Russian public, and _Judith_ enjoyed a popular success rivalling

even that of _A Life for the Tsar_. The staging, too, was on a scale of

magnificence hitherto unknown in the production of national opera. The

subject of Judith and Holofernes is well suited to Serov's opulent and

sensational manner. It is said that the scene in the Assyrian camp,

where Holofernes is depicted surrounded by all the pomp and luxury of an

oriental court, was the composer's great attraction to the subject; the

music to this scene was written by him before all the rest of the opera,

and it is considered one of the most successful numbers in the work.

The chorus and dances of the Odalisques are full of the languor of

Eastern sentiment. The March of Holofernes, the idea of which is

probably borrowed from Glinka's March of Chernomor in _Russlan and

Liudmilla_, is also exceedingly effective; for whatever we may think of

the quality of that inspiration, which for over twenty years refused to

yield material for the making of any important musical work, there is no

doubt that Serov had now acquired from the study of Wagner a remarkable

power of effective orchestration. Altogether, when we consider the

circumstances under which it was created, we can only be surprised to

find how little _Judith_ smells of the lamp. We can hardly doubt that

the work possesses intrinsic charms and qualities, apart from mere

external glitter, when we see how it fascinated not only the general

public, but many of the young musical generation, of whom Tchaikovsky

was one. Although in later years no one saw more clearly the defects and

makeshifts of Serov's style, he always spoke of _Judith_ as "one of his

first loves in music." "A novice of forty-three," he wrote, "presented

the public of St. Petersburg with an opera which in every respect must

be described as _beautiful_, and shows no indications whatever of being

the composer's _first work_. The opera has many good points. It is

written with unusual warmth and sometimes rises to great emotional

heights. Serov, who had hitherto been unknown, and led a very humble

life, became suddenly the hero of the hour, the idol of a certain set,

in fact a celebrity. This unexpected success turned his head and he

began to regard himself as a genius. The childishness with which he

sings his own praises in his letters is quite remarkable. And Serov had

actually proved himself a gifted composer but not a genius of the first

order." It would be easy to find harsher critics of Serov's operas than

Tchaikovsky, but his opinion reflects on the whole that of the majority

of those who had felt the fascination of _Judith_ and been disillusioned

by the later works.

If _Judith_ had remained the solitary and belated offspring of Serov's

slow maturity it is doubtful whether his reputation would have suffered.

But there is no age at which a naturally vain man cannot be intoxicated

by the fumes of incense offered in indiscriminate quantities. The

extraordinary popular success of _Judith_ showed Serov the short cut to

fame. The autumn of the same year which witnessed its production saw him

hard at work upon a second opera. The subject of _Rogneda_ is borrowed

from an old Russian legend dealing with the time of Vladimir, "the

Glorious Sun," at the moment of conflict between Christianity and

Slavonic paganism. _Rogneda_ was not written to a ready-made libretto,

but, in Serov's own words, to a text adapted piecemeal "as necessary to

the musical situations." It was completed and staged in the autumn of

1865. We shall look in vain in _Rogneda_ for the higher purpose, the

effort at psychological delineation, the comparative solidity of

workmanship which we find in _Judith_. Nevertheless the work amply

fulfilled its avowed intention to take the public taste by storm. Once

more I will quote Tchaikovsky, who in his writings has given a good deal

of space to the consideration of Serov's position in the musical world

of Russia. He says: "The continued success of _Rogneda_, and the firm

place it holds in the Russian repertory, is due not so much to its

intrinsic beauty as to the subtle calculation of effects which guided

its composer.... The public of all nations are not particularly exacting

in the matter of æsthetics; they delight in sensational effects and

violent contrasts, and are quite indifferent to deep and original works

of art unless the _mise-en-scène_ is highly coloured, showy, and

brilliant. Serov knew how to catch the crowd; and if his opera suffers

from poverty of melodic inspiration, want of organic sequence, weak

recitative and declamation, and from harmony and instrumentation which

are crude and merely decorative in effect--yet what sensational effects

the composer succeeds in piling up! Mummers who are turned into geese

and bears; real horses and dogs, the touching episode of Ruald's death,

the Prince's dream made actually visible to our eyes; the Chinese gongs

made all too audible to our ears, all this--the outcome of a recognised

poverty of inspiration--literally crackles with startling effects.

Serov, as I have said, had only a mediocre gift, united to great

experience, remarkable intellect, and extensive erudition; therefore it

is not surprising to find in _Rogneda_ numbers--rare oases in a

desert--in which the music is excellent. As to these numbers which are

special favourites with the public, as is so frequently the case, their

real value proves to be in inverse ratio to the success they have won."

Some idea of the popularity of _Rogneda_ may be gathered from the fact

that the tickets were subscribed for twenty representations in advance.

This success was followed by a pause in Serov's literary and musical

activity. He could now speak with his enemies in the gate, and point

triumphantly to the children of his imagination. Success, too, seems to

have softened his hostility to the national school, for in 1866 he

delivered some lectures before the Musical Society upon Glinka and

Dargomijsky, which are remarkable not only for clearness of exposition,

but for fairness of judgment.

In 1867 Serov began to consider the production of a third opera, and

selected one of Ostrovsky's plays on which he founded a libretto

entitled _The Power of Evil_. Two quotations from letters written about

this time reveal his intention with regard to the new opera. "Ten years

ago," he says, "I wrote much about Wagner. Now it is time to act. To

embody the Wagnerian theories in a music-drama written in Russian, on a

Russian subject." And again: "In this work, besides observing as far as

possible the principles of dramatic truth, I aim at keeping more closely

than has yet been done to the forms of Russian popular music, as

preserved unchanged in our folk-songs. It is clear that this demands a

style which has nothing in common with the ordinary operatic forms, nor

even with my two former operas." Here we have Serov's programme very

clearly put before us: the sowing of Wagnerian theories in Russian soil.

But in order that the acclimatisation may be complete, he adopts the

forms of the folk-songs. He is seeking, in fact, to fuse Glinka and

Wagner, and produce a Russian music-drama. Serov was a connoisseur of

the Russian folk-songs, but he had not that natural gift for

assimilating the national spirit and breathing it back into the dry

bones of musical form as Glinka did. In creating this Russo-Wagnerian

work, Serov created something purely artificial: a hybrid, which could

bring forth nothing in its turn. It is characteristic, too, of Serov's

short-sighted egotism that we find him constantly referring to this

experiment of basing an opera upon the forms of the national music as a

purely original idea; ignoring the fact that Glinka, Dargomijsky and

Moussorgsky had all produced similar works, and that the latter had

undoubtedly written "music-dramas," which, though not strictly upon

Wagnerian lines, were better suited to the genius of the nation.

Ostrovsky's play,[20] upon which _The Power of Evil_ is founded, is a

strong and gloomy drama of domestic life. A merchant's son abducts a

girl from her parents, and has to atone by marrying her. He soon wearies

of enforced matrimony and begins to amuse himself away from home. One

day while drinking at an inn he sees a beautiful girl and falls

desperately in love with her. The neglected wife discovers her husband's

infidelity, and murders him in a jealous frenzy. The story sounds as

sordid as any of those one-act operas so popular with the modern Italian

composers of sensational music-drama. But in the preparation of the

libretto Serov had the co-operation of the famous dramatist Ostrovsky,

who wrote the first three acts of the book himself. Over the fourth act

a split occurred between author and composer; the former wished to

introduce a supernatural element, recalling the village festival in "Der

Freischütz" into the carnival scene; but Serov shrank from treating a

fantastic episode. The book was therefore completed by an obscure

writer, Kalashinkev. Thus the lofty literary treatment by which

Ostrovsky sought to raise the libretto above the level of a mere

"shocker" suffered in the course of its transformation. The action of

the play takes place at carnival time, which gives occasion for some

lively scenes from national life. The work never attained the same

degree of popularity as _Judith_ or _Rogneda_. Serov died rather

suddenly of heart disease in January 1871, and the orchestration of _The

Power of Evil_ was completed by one of his most talented pupils,

Soloviev.

We have read Tchaikovsky's views upon Serov. Vladimir Stassov, after the

lapse of thirty years, wrote in one of his last musical articles as

follows: "A fanatical admirer of Meyerbeer, he succeeded nevertheless in

catching up all the superficial characteristics of Wagner, from whom he

derived his taste for marches, processions, festivals, every sort of

'pomp and circumstance,' every kind of external decoration. But the

inner world, the spiritual world, he ignored and never entered; it

interested him not at all. The individualities of his _dramatis

personæ_ were completely overlooked. They are mere marionettes." His

influence on the Russian opera left no lasting traces. His strongest

quality was a certain robust dramatic sense which corrected his special

tendency to secure effects in the cheapest way, and kept him just on the

right side of that line which divides realism from offensive coarseness

and bathos.

Two more quotations show an interesting light on Serov. The first is a

confession of his musical tastes, written not long before his death:

"After Beethoven and Weber, I like Mendelssohn fairly well; I love

Meyerbeer; I adore Chopin; I detest Schumann and all his disciples. I am

fond of Liszt, with numerous exceptions, and I worship Wagner,

especially in his latest works, which I regard as the _ne plus ultra_ of

the symphonic form to which Beethoven led the way."

The second quotation is Wagner's tribute to the personality of his

disciple, and it seems only fair to print it here, since it contradicts

almost all the views of Serov as a man which we find in the writings of

his contemporaries in Russia. "For me Serov is not dead," says Wagner;

"for me he still lives actually and palpably. Such as he was to me, such

he remains and ever will: the noblest and highest-minded of men. His

gentleness of soul, his purity of feeling, his serenity, his mind,

which reflected all these qualities, made the friendship which he

cherished for me one of the gladdest gifts of my life."

CHAPTER VII

ANTON RUBINSTEIN

Anton Grigorievich Rubinstein was born November 16/28, 1829, in the

village of Vykhvatinets, in the government of Podolia. He was of Jewish

descent, his father being, however, a member of the Orthodox Church,

while his mother--a Löwenstein--came from Prussian Silesia. Shortly

after Anton's birth his parents removed to Moscow, in the neighbourhood

of which his father set up a factory for lead pencils and pins. Anton,

and his almost equally gifted brother Nicholas, began to learn the piano

with their mother, and afterwards the elder boy received instruction

from A. Villoins, a well-known teacher in Moscow. At ten years of age

Anton made his first public appearance at a summer concert given in the

Petrovsky Park, and the following year (1840) he accompanied Villoins to

Paris with the intention of entering the Conservatoire. This project was

not realised and the boy started upon an extensive tour as a prodigy

pianist. In 1843 he was summoned to play to the Court in St.

Petersburg, and afterwards gave a series of concerts in that city. The

following year he began to study music seriously in Berlin, where his

mother took him first to Mendelssohn and, acting on his advice,

subsequently placed him under Dehn. The Revolution of 1848 interrupted

the ordinary course of life in Berlin. Dehn, as one of the National

Guard, had to desert his pupils, shoulder a musket and go on duty as a

sentry before some of the public buildings, performing this task with a

self-satisfied air, "as though he had just succeeded in solving some

contrapuntal problem, such as a canon by retrogression." Rubinstein

hastened back to Russia, having all his music confiscated at the

frontier, because it was taken for some diplomatic cipher.

Soon after his return, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna appointed

Rubinstein her Court pianist and accompanist, a position which he

playfully described as that of "musical stoker" to the Court. In April

1852 his first essay in opera, _Dmitri Donskoi_ (Dmitri of the Don), the

libretto by Count Sollogoub, was given in St. Petersburg, but its

reception was disappointing. It was followed, in May 1853, by

_Thomouska-Dourachok_ (Tom the Fool), which was withdrawn after the

third performance at the request of the composer, who seems to have been

hurt at the lack of enthusiasm shown for his work. Two articles from

his pen which appeared in the German papers, and are quoted by Youry

Arnold in his "Reminiscences," show the bitterness of his feelings at

this time. "No one in his senses," he wrote, "would attempt to compose a

Persian, a Malay, or a Japanese opera; therefore to write an English,

French or Russian opera merely argues a want of sanity. Every attempt to

create a national musical activity is bound to lead to one

result--disaster."

Between the composition of the _Dmitri Donskoi_ and _Tom the Fool_,

Rubinstein's amazingly active pen had turned out two one-act operas to

Russian words: _Hadji-Abrek_ and _Sibirskie Okhotniki_ (The Siberian

Hunters). But now he laid aside composition for a time and undertook a

long concert tour, starting in 1856 and returning to Russia in 1858.

During this tour[21] he visited Nice, where the Empress Alexandra

Feodorovna and the Grand Duchess Helena spent the winter of 1856-1857,

and it seems probable that this was the occasion on which the idea of

the Imperial Russian Musical Society[22] was first mooted, although the

final plans may have been postponed until Rubinstein's return to

Petersburg in 1858. Little time was lost in any case, for the society

was started in 1859, and the Moscow branch, under the direction of his

brother Nicholas, was founded in 1860.

Piqued by the failure of his Russian operas, Rubinstein now resolved to

compose to German texts and to try his luck abroad. Profiting by his

reputation as the greatest of living pianists, he succeeded in getting

his _Kinder der Heide_ accepted in Vienna (1861); while Dresden mounted

his _Feramors_ (based upon Moore's "Lalla Rookh") in 1863. Between two

concert tours--one in 1867, and the other, with Wienawski in America, in

1872--Rubinstein completed a Biblical opera _The Tower of Babel_, the

libretto by Rosenburg. This type of opera he exploited still further in

_The Maccabees_ (Berlin, 1875) and _Paradise Lost_, a concert

performance of which took place in Petersburg in 1876. Between the

completion of these sacred operas, he returned to a secular and national

subject, drawn from Lermontov's poem "The Demon," which proved to be the

most popular of his works for the stage. _The Demon_ was produced in St.

Petersburg on January 13th (O.S.), and a more detailed account of it

will follow. _Nero_ was brought out in Hamburg in 1875, and in Berlin in

1879. After this Rubinstein again reverted to a Russian libretto, this

time based upon Lermontov's metrical tale _The Merchant Kalashnikov_,

but the opera was unfortunate, being performed only twice, in 1880 and

1889, and withdrawn from the repertory on each occasion in consequence

of the action of the censor. _The Shulamite_, another Biblical opera,

dates from 1880 (Hamburg, 1883), and a comic opera, _Der Papagei_, was

produced in that city in 1884. _Goriousha_, a Russian opera on the

subject of one of Averkiev's novels, was performed at the Maryinsky

Theatre, St. Petersburg, in the autumn of 1889, when Rubinstein

celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his artistic career.

The famous series of "Historical Concerts," begun in Berlin in October,

1885, was concluded in London in May, 1886, after which Rubinstein

returned to St. Petersburg and resumed his duties as Director of the

Conservatoire, a position which he had relinquished since 1867. During

the next few years he composed the Biblical operas _Moses_ (Paris, 1892)

and _Christus_, a concert performance of which was given under his own

direction at Stuttgart, in 1893; the first stage performance following

in 1895, at Bremen.

In the winter of 1894 Rubinstein became seriously ill in Dresden, and,

feeling that his days were numbered, he returned in haste to his villa

at Peterhof. He lingered several months and died of heart disease in

November 1895. "His obsequies were solemnly carried out," says

Rimsky-Korsakov.[23] "His coffin was placed in the Ismailovsky

Cathedral, and musicians watched by it day and night. Liadov and I were

on duty from 2 to 3 a.m. I remember in the dim shadows of the church

seeing the black, mourning figure of Maleziomova[24] who came to kneel

by the dust of the adored Rubinstein. There was something fantastic

about the scene."

With Rubinstein's fame as a pianist, the glamour of which still

surrounds his name, with his vast output of instrumental music, good,

bad and indifferent, I have no immediate concern. Nor can I linger to

pay more than a passing tribute to his generous qualities as a man. His

position as a dramatic composer and his influence on the development of

Russian opera are all I am expected to indicate here. This need not

occupy many pages, since his influence is in inverse ratio to the

voluminous outpourings of his pen. Rubinstein's ideal oscillates midway

between national and cosmopolitan tendencies. The less people have

penetrated into the essential qualities of Russian music, the more they

are disposed to regard him as typically Russian; whereas those who are

most sensitive to the vibrations of Russian sentiment will find little

in his music to awaken their national sympathies. The glibness with

which he spun off music now to Russian, now to German texts, and

addressed himself in turn to either public, proves that he felt

superficially at ease with both idioms. It suggests also a kind of ready

opportunism which is far from admirable. His attack on the national

ideal in music, when he failed to impress the public with his _Dmitri

Donskoi_, and his rapid change of front when Dargomijsky and the younger

school had compelled the public to show some interest in Russian opera,

will not easily be forgiven by his compatriots. We have seen how he

fluctuated between German and Russian opera, and there is no doubt that

this diffusion of his ideals and activities, coupled with a singular

lack of self-criticism, is sufficient to account for the fact that of

his operas--about nineteen in all[25]--scarcely one has survived him.

Let a Russian pass judgment upon Rubinstein's claims to be regarded as a

national composer. Cheshikin, who divides his operas into two groups,

according as they are written to German or Russian librettos, sums up

the general characteristics of the latter as follows:

"Rubinstein's style bears a cosmopolitan stamp. He confused nationality

in music with a kind of dry ethnography, and thought the question hardly

worth a composer's study. A passage which occurs in his 'Music and its

Representatives' (Moscow, 1891) shows his views on this subject. 'It

seems to me,' he writes, 'that the national spirit of a composer's

native land must always impregnate his works, even when he lives in a

strange land and speaks its language. Look for instance at Handel, Gluck

and Mozart. But there is a kind of premeditated nationalism now in

vogue. It is very interesting, but to my mind it cannot pretend to

awaken universal sympathies, and can merely arouse an ethnographical

interest. This is proved by the fact that a melody that will bring tears

to the eyes of a Finlander will leave a Spaniard cold; and that a dance

rhythm that would set a Hungarian dancing would not move an Italian.'

Rubinstein [comments Cheshikin], is presuming that the whole essence of

nationality in music lies not in the structure of melody, or in harmony,

but in a dance rhythm. It is not surprising that holding these

superficial views his operas based on Russian life are not distinguished

for their musical colour, and that he is only unconsciously and

instinctively successful when he uses the oriental colouring which is in

keeping with his descent. He cultivated the commonly accepted forms of

melodic opera which were the fashion in the first half of the nineteenth

century. His musical horizon was bounded by Meyerbeer. He held Wagner in

something like horror, and kept contemptuous silence about all the

Russian composers who followed Glinka. This may be partly explicable on

the ground of his principles, which did not admit the claims of

declamatory opera; but it was partly a policy of tit for tat, because

Serov and 'the mighty band' had trounced Rubinstein unsparingly during

the 'sixties for his Teutonic tendencies in his double capacity as head

of the I. R. M. S. and Director of the Conservatoire. Narrow and

conventional forms, especially as regards his arias; melody as the sole

ideal in opera; an indeterminate cosmopolitan style, and now and again a

successful reflection of the oriental spirit--these are the

distinguishing characteristics of all Rubinstein's Russian operas from

_Dmitri Donskoi_ to _Goriousha_."[26]

It is impossible to speak in detail of all Rubinstein's operas. The

published scores are available for those who have time and inclination

for so unprofitable a study. Such works as _Hadji-Abrek_, based on

Lermontov's metrical tale of bloodshed and horror; or _Tom the Fool_,

which carries us a little further in the direction of nationalism, but

remains a mere travesty of Glinka's style; or _The Tower of Babel_; or

_Nero_, are hardly likely to rise again to the ranks of living operatic

works. His first national opera _Dmitri Donskoi_, in five acts, is

linked, by the choice of a heroic and historical subject, with such

patriotic works as Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_, Borodin's _Prince

Igor_ and Rimsky-Korsakov's _Maid of Pskov_ ("Ivan the Terrible"); but

it never succeeded in gripping the Russian public. The libretto is based

on an event often repeated by the contemporary monkish chroniclers who

tell how Dmitri, son of Ivan II., won a glorious victory over the

Mongolian Khan Mamaï at Kulikovo, in 1380, and freed Russia for the time

being from the Tatar yoke. Youry Arnold, comparing Rubinstein's _Dmitri

Donskoi_ with Dargomijsky's early work _Esmeralda_,[27] finds that,

judged by the formal standards of the period, it was in advance of

Dargomijsky's opera as regards technique, but, he says, "the realistic

emotional expression and unforced lyric inspiration of _Esmeralda_

undoubtedly makes a stronger appeal to our sympathies and we recognise

more innate talent in its author."

After the failure of _Dmitri Donskoi_, Rubinstein neglected the

vernacular for some years and composed only to German texts. But early

in the 'seventies the production of a whole series of Russian operas,

Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_, Serov's _The Powers of Evil_, Cui's

_William Ratcliff_, Rimsky-Korsakov's _Maid of Pskov_, and Moussorgsky's

_Boris Godounov_, resuscitated the public interest in the national ideal

and Rubinstein was obviously anxious not to be excluded from the

movement. His comparative failure with purely Russian subjects, and the

knowledge that he felt more at ease among Eastern surroundings, may have

influenced his choice of a subject in this emergency; but undoubtedly

Lermontov's poetry had a strong fascination for him, for _The Demon_ was

the third opera based upon the works of the Russian Byron. Lermontov's

romanticism, and the exquisite lyrical quality of his verse, which

almost suggests its own musical setting, may well have appealed to

Rubinstein's temperament. The poet Maikov took some part in arranging

the text for the opera, but the libretto was actually carried out by

Professor Vistakov, who had specialised in the study of Lermontov. When

_The Demon_ was finished, Rubinstein played it through to "the mighty

band" who assembled at Stassov's house to hear this addition to

national opera. It would be expecting too much from human nature to look

for a wholly favourable verdict from such a court of enquiry, but "the

five" picked out for approval precisely the two numbers that have best

withstood the test of time, namely, the Dances and the March of the

Caravan which forms the Introduction to the third scene of Act III. As a

national composer Rubinstein reached his highest level in _The Demon_.

The work was presented to the English public, in Italian, at Covent

Garden, on June 21, 1881, but as it is unknown to the younger generation

some account of its plot and general characteristics will not be out of

place here.[28]

The Demon, that "sad and exiled spirit," who is none other than the poet

Lermontov himself, thinly veiled in a supernatural disguise, is first

introduced to us hovering over the peak of Kazbec, in the Caucasus,

gazing in melancholy disenchantment upon the glorious aspects of the

world below him--a world which he regards with scornful indifference.

The Demon's malady is boredom. He is a mortal with certain "demoniacal"

attributes. Like Lermontov, he is filled with vague regrets for wasted

youth and yearns to find in a woman's love the refuge from his despair

and weariness. From the moment he sees the lovely Circassian, Tamara,

dancing with her maidens on the eve of her wedding, the Demon becomes

enamoured of her, and the first stirrings of love recall the

long-forgotten thought of redemption. Tamara is betrothed to Prince

Sinodal, who is slain by Tatar brigands on his way to claim his bride in

the castle of her father, Prince Gudal. The malign influence of the

Demon brings about this catastrophe. In order to escape from her unholy

passion for her mysterious lover, Tamara implores her father to let her

enter a convent, where she is supposed to be mourning her lost suitor.

But even within these sacred precincts the Demon follows her, although

not without some twinges of human remorse. For a moment he hesitates,

and is on the point of conquering his sinister desire; then the good

impulse passes, and with it the one chance of redemption through

unselfish love. He meets Tamara's good angel on the threshold of the

convent, and, later on, sees the apparition of the murdered Prince. The

Angel does not seem to be a powerful guardian spirit, but rather the

weak, tormented soul of Tamara herself. The Demon enters her cell, and

there follows the long love duet and his brief hour of triumph. Suddenly

the Angel and celestial voices are heard calling to the unhappy girl:

"Tamara, the spirit of doubt is passing." The nun tears herself from the

arms of her lover and falls dead at the Angel's feet. The Demon, baffled

and furious, is left gazing upon the corpse of Tamara. In the end the

gates of Paradise are opened to her, as to Margaret in "Faust," because

by its purity and self-sacrifice her passion works out its own

atonement. But the Demon remains isolated and despairing, "without hope

and without love."

The poem, with its inward drama of predestined passion, unsatisfied

yearning and possible redemption through love, almost fulfils the

Wagnerian demand for a subject in which emotion outweighs action; a

subject so purely lyrical that the drama may be said to be born of

music. Cheshikin draws a close emotional parallel between _The Demon_

and "Tristan and Isolde"; but perhaps its spirit might be more justly

compared with the romanticism of "The Flying Dutchman." Musically it

owes nothing to Wagner. Its treatment is that of pre-Wagnerian German

opera strongly tinged with orientalism. Rubinstein effectively contrasts

the tender monotonous chromaticism of eastern music, borrowed from

Georgian and Armenian sources, with the more vigorous melodies based on

Western and diatonic scales, and, in this respect, his powers of

invention were remarkable. Among the most successful examples of the

oriental style are the Georgian Song "We go to bright Aragva," sung by

Tamara's girl friends in the second scene of Act I.; the Eastern melody

sung in Gudal's castle in Act II.; the passing of the Caravan, and the

Dance for women in the same act. The Demon's arias are quite

cosmopolitan in character, and the opening chorus of Evil Spirits and

forces of Nature, though effective, are not strikingly original. There

is real passion in the great love duet in the last act, with its

energetic accompaniment that seems to echo the sound of the wild

turbulent river that rushes through the ravine below the convent walls.

_The Demon_ met with many objections from the Director of the Opera and

the Censor. The former mistrusted novelties, especially those with the

brand of nationality upon them, and was alarmed by the cost of the

necessary fantastic setting. The latter would not sanction the lamps and

_ikons_ in Tamara's cell, and insisted on the Angel being billed as "a

Good Genius." The singers proved rebellious, and finally it was decided

to produce the work for the first time on January 13th, 1875 (O.S.), on

Melnikov's benefit night, he himself singing the title rôle. The other

artists, who made up a fine caste, were: Tamara, Mme. Raab; the Angel,

Mme. Kroutikov; Prince Sinodal, Komessarievich; Prince Gudal, the

veteran Petrov, and the Nurse, Mme. Shreder. The immediate success of

_The Demon_ did much to establish Rubinstein's reputation as a popular

composer, and the opera is still regarded as his best dramatic work,

although many critics give the palm to _The Merchant Kalashnikov_, which

followed it about five years later.

As I have already said, the fate of this work, based on a purely Russian

subject, seems to have been strangely unjust. Twice received with

considerable enthusiasm in St. Petersburg, it was quashed by the Censor

on both occasions after the first night. The libretto, by Koulikov, is

founded on Lermontov's "Lay of the Tsar Ivan Vassilievich (The

Terrible), of the young Oprichnik[29], and the bold merchant

Kalashnikov." The opera is in three acts. In the first scene, which

takes place in the Tsar's apartments, the Oprichniki are about to

celebrate their religious service. Maliouta enters with the Tsar's

jester Nikitka, and tells them that the _Zemstvo_ has sent a deputation

to the Tsar complaining of their conduct, and that Nikitka has

introduced the delegates at Court. The Oprichniki fall upon the jester

and insist on his buying their forgiveness by telling them a tale.

Nikitka's recital is one of Rubinstein's best attempts to reproduce the

national colour. Afterwards the Tsar appears, the Oprichniki don their

black cloaks and there follows an effective number written in strict

church style. The service ended, the Tsar receives the members of the

_Zemstvo_. To this succeeds an animated scene in which Ivan feasts with

his guards. Observing that one of them, Kiribeievich, is silent and

gloomy, he asks the reason, and the young Oprichnik confesses that he is

in love, and sings his song "When I go into the garden," a Russian

melody treated by Rubinstein in a purely cosmopolitan style. The

_finale_ of the first act consists of dances by the Skomorokhi and a

chorus for the Oprichniki, the music being rather pretentious and

theatrical in style. The opening scene of Act II. takes place in the

streets of Moscow, and begins with a chorus of the people, who disperse

on hearing that the Oprichniki are in the vicinity. Alena, the wife of

the merchant Kalashnikov, now comes out of her house on her way to

vespers, accompanied by a servant. She sings a quiet recitative in which

she tells the maid to go home and await the return of the master of the

house, and reveals herself as a happy mother and devoted wife. She goes

her way to the church alone, pausing however to sing a pretty,

common-place Italianised aria, "I seek the Holy Temple." Kiribeievich

appears on the scene, makes passionate love to her and carries her off.

An old gossip who has watched this incident now emerges from her hiding

place and sings a song which introduces a touch of humour. Enter

Kalashnikov, who learns from her of his wife's departure with the young

Oprichnik; but she gives a false impression of the incident. His

recitative is expressive and touching. The scene ends with the return of

the populace who sing a chorus. In the second scene Kalashnikov plays an

important part and his doubts and fears after the return of Alena are

depicted with power. This is generally admitted to be one of

Rubinstein's few successful psychological moments, the realistic

expression of emotion being one of his weak points. Kalashnikov's scene,

in which he confers with his brothers, completes Act II. The curtain

rises in Act III. upon a Square in Moscow where the people are

assembling to meet the Tsar. Their chorus of welcome, "Praise to God in

Heaven," is not to be compared for impressiveness with similar massive

choruses in the operas of Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov. There are

some episodes of popular life, such as the scene between a Tatar and the

jester Nikitka, that are not lacking in humour; and the latter has

another tale about King David which is in the style of the so-called

"spiritual songs" of the sixteenth century. The accusations brought by

Kiribeievich are spirited. In a dramatic scene the Tsar listens to

Alena's prayer for mercy, and pardons the bold Kalashnikov who has dared

to defy his Pretorian guards, the Oprichniki. The opera winds up with a

final chorus of the people who escort the Merchant from prison.

_The Merchant Kalashnikov_, although somewhat of a hybrid as regards

style, with its Russian airs handled _à la Tedesca_, and its occasional

lapses into vulgarity, has at the same time more vitality and human

interest than most of Rubinstein's operas, so that it is to be regretted

that it has remained so long unknown alike to the public of Russia and

of Western Europe.

Rubinstein's Biblical operas have now practically fallen into oblivion.

Seeing their length, the cost involved in mounting them, and their lack

of strong, clear-cut characterisation, this is not surprising. The _Acts

of Artaxerxes_ and the _Chaste Joseph_, presented to the Court of Alexis

Mikhaïlovich, could hardly have been more wearisome than _The Tower of

Babel_ and _The Shulamite_. These stage oratorios are like a series of

vast, pale, pseudo-classical frescoes, and scarcely more moving than the

official odes and eclogues of eighteenth-century Russian literature.

Each work, it is true, contains some saving moments, such as the Song of

Victory, with chorus, "Beat the drums," sung by Leah, the heroic mother

of the Maccabees, in the opera bearing that title, in which the Hebrew

colouring is admirably carried out; the chorus "Baal has worked

wonders," from _The Tower of Babel_; and a few pages from the closing

scene of _Paradise Lost_; but these rare flashes of inspiration do not

suffice to atone for the long, flaccid Handelian recitatives, the tame

Mendelssohnian orchestration, the frequent lapses into a pomposity which

only the most naïve can mistake for sublimity of utterance, and the

fluent dulness of the operas as a whole.

Far more agreeable, because less pretentious, is the early secular

opera, a German adaptation of Thomas Moore's "Lalla Rookh," entitled

_Feramors_. The ballets from this opera, the Dance of Bayadères, with

chorus, in Act I., and The Lamplight Dance of the Bride of Kashmere (Act

II.) are still heard in the concert room; and more rarely, Feramor's

aria, "Das Mondlicht träumt auf Persiens See." From the dramatic side

the subject is weak, but, as Hanslick observes in his "Contemporary

Opera"--in which he draws the inevitable parallel between Félicien David

and the Russian composer--it was the oriental element in the poem that

proved the attraction to Rubinstein. Yet how different is the

conventional treatment of Eastern melody in _Feramors_ from Borodin's

natural and characteristic use of it in _Prince Igor_! But although it

is impossible to ignore Rubinstein's operas written to foreign texts for

a foreign public, they have no legitimate place in the evolution of

Russian national opera. It is with a sense of relief that we turn from

him with his reactionary views and bigoted adherence to pre-Wagnerian

conventions, to that group of enthusiastic and inspired workers who were

less concerned with riveting the fetters of old traditions upon Russian

music than with the glorious task of endowing their country with a

series of national operas alive and throbbing with the very spirit of

the people. We leave Rubinstein gazing westwards upon the setting sun of

German classicism, and turn our eyes eastwards where the dawn is rising

upon the patient expectations of a nation which has long been feeling

its way towards a full and conscious self-realisation in music.

CHAPTER VIII

BALAKIREV AND HIS DISCIPLES