Sometimes in art, as in literature, there comes upon the scene an

exceptional, initiative personality, whose influence seems out of all

proportion to the success of his work. Such was Keats, who engendered a

whole school of English romanticism; and such, too, was Liszt, whose

compositions, long neglected, afterwards came to be recognised as

containing the germs of a new symphonic form. Such also was Mily

Alexevich Balakirev, to whom Russian national music owes its second

renaissance. Born at Nijny-Novgorod, December 31st, 1836 (O.S.),

Balakirev was about eighteen when he came to St. Petersburg in 1855,

with an introduction to Glinka in his pocket. He had previously spent a

short time at the University of Kazan, but had actually been brought up

in the household of Oulibishev, author of the famous treatise on Mozart.

It is remarkable, and testifies to his sturdy independence of

character--that the young man had not been influenced by his

benefactor's limited and ultra-conservative views. Oulibishev, as we

know, thought there could be no advance upon the achievements of his

adored Mozart. Balakirev as a youth studied and loved Beethoven's

symphonies and quartets, Weber's "Der Freischütz," Mendelssohn's

Overtures and Chopin's works as a whole. He was by no means the

incapable amateur that his academic detractors afterwards strove to

prove him. His musical culture was solid. He had profited by

Oulibishev's excellent library, and by the private orchestra which he

maintained and permitted his young _protégé_ to conduct. Although

partially self-taught, Balakirev had already mastered the general

principles of musical form, composition and orchestration. He was not

versed in counterpoint and fugue; and certainly his art was not rooted

in Bach; but that could hardly be made a matter of reproach, seeing that

in Balakirev's youth the great poet-musician of Leipzig was neglected

even in his own land, and it is doubtful whether the budding schools of

Petersburg and Moscow, or even the long established conservatoires of

Germany, would then have added much to his education in that respect. In

his provincial home in the far east of Europe Balakirev stood aloof from

the Wagnerian controversies. But his mind, sensitive as a seismograph,

had already registered some vibrations of this distant movement which

announced a musical revolution. From the beginning he was preoccupied

with the question of transfusing fresh blood into the impoverished veins

of old and decadent forms. Happily the idea of solving the problem by

the aid of the Wagnerian theories never occurred to him. He had already

grasped the fact that for the Russians there existed an inexhaustible

source of fresh inspiration in their abundant and varied folk-music.

The great enthusiasm of his youth had been Glinka's music, and while

living at Nijny-Novgorod he had studied his operas to good purpose.

Filled with zeal for the new cause, Balakirev appeared in the capital

like a St. John the Baptist from the wilderness to preach the new gospel

of nationality in art to the adorers of Bellini and Meyerbeer. Glinka

was on the point of leaving Russia for what proved to be his last

earthly voyage. But during the weeks which preceded his departure he saw

enough of Balakirev to be impressed by his enthusiasm and intelligence,

and to point to him as the continuator of his work.

The environment of the capital proved beneficial to the young

provincial. For the first time he was able to mix with other musicians

and to hear much that was new to him, both at the opera and in the

concert room. But his convictions remained unshaken amid all these novel

experiences. From first to last he owed most to himself, and if he soon

became head and centre of a new musical school, it was because, as

Stassov has pointed out, "he had every gift for such a position:

astonishing initiative, love and knowledge of his art, and to crown all,

untiring energy."

Balakirev left no legacy of opera, but his influence on Russian music as

a whole was so predominant that it crops up in every direction, and

henceforth his name must constantly appear in these pages. Indeed the

history of Russian opera now becomes for a time the history of a small

brotherhood of enthusiasts, united by a common idea and fighting

shoulder to shoulder for a cause which ought to have been popular, but

which was long opposed by the press and the academic powers in the

artistic world of Russia, and treated with contempt by the "genteel"

amateur to whom a subscription to Italian opera stood as the external

sign of social and intellectual superiority. It was known as

"Balakirev's set," or by the ironical sobriquet of "the mighty band."

At the close of the 'fifties César Cui and Modeste Moussorgsky had

joined Balakirev's crusade on behalf of the national ideal. A year or

two later Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov were admitted to the circle; and

subsequently a gifted young amateur, Nicholas Lodyjensky, attached

himself for a time to the nationalists. To these names must be added

that of the writer, Vladimir Stassov, whose active brain and pen were

always at the service of the new school. Although Glinka had no further

personal intercourse with Balakirev and his friends, Dargomijsky, as we

have already seen, gladly opened his house as a meeting place for this

group of young enthusiasts, who eagerly discussed questions of art with

the older and more experienced musician, and watched with keen interest

the growth of his last opera, _The Stone Guest_.

Rimsky-Korsakov, in his "Chronicle of my Musical Life," gives some

interesting glimpses of the pleasant relations existing between the

members of the nationalist circle during the early years of its

existence. Rimsky-Korsakov, who was studying at the Naval School, St.

Petersburg, made the acquaintance of Balakirev in 1861. "My first

meeting with Balakirev made an immense impression upon me," he writes.

"He was an admirable pianist, playing everything from memory. The

audacity of his opinions and their novelty, above all, his gifts as a

composer, stirred me to a kind of veneration. The first time I saw him I

showed him my Scherzo in C minor, which he approved, after passing a few

remarks upon it, and some materials for a symphony. He ordained that I

should go on with the symphony.[30] Of course I was delighted. At his

house I met Cui and Moussorgsky. Balakirev was then orchestrating the

overture to Cui's early opera _The Prisoner in the Caucasus_. With what

enthusiasm I took a share in these actual discussions about

instrumentation, the distribution of parts, etc! Through November and

December I went to Balakirev's every Saturday evening and frequently

found Cui and Moussorgsky there. I also made the acquaintance of

Stassov. I remember an evening on which Stassov read aloud extracts from

"The Odyssey," more especially for my enlightenment. On another occasion

Moussorgsky read "Prince Kholmsky," the painter Myassedov read Gogol's

"Viya," and Balakirev and Moussorgsky played Schumann's symphonies

arranged for four hands, and Beethoven's quartets."

On these occasions the young brotherhood, all of whom were under thirty,

with the exception of Stassov, aired their opinions and criticised the

giants of the past with a frankness and freedom that was probably very

naïve, and certainly scandalised their academic elders. They adored

Glinka; regarded Haydn and Mozart as old-fashioned; admired Beethoven's

latest quartets; thought Bach--of whom they could have known little

beyond the Well-Tempered Clavier--a mathematician rather than a

musician; they were enthusiastic over Berlioz, while, as yet, Liszt had

not begun to influence them very greatly. "I drank in all these ideas,"

says Rimsky-Korsakov, "although I really had no grounds for accepting

them, for I had only heard fragments of many of the foreign works under

discussion, and afterwards I retailed them to my comrades (at the Naval

School) who were interested in music, as being my own convictions." From

the standpoint of a highly educated musician, a Professor at the St.

Petersburg Conservatoire, Rimsky-Korsakov adopts a frankly mocking tone

in his retrospective account of these youthful discussions; but it must

be admitted that it was far better for the future development of Russian

music that these young composers should have thought their own thoughts

about their art, instead of taking their opinions ready-made from German

text-books and the æsthetic dogmas laid down in the class rooms of the

conservatoires.

For Rimsky-Korsakov these happy days were short-lived, for in 1862 he

was gazetted to the cruiser "Almaz" and the next three years were spent

on foreign service which took him as far afield as New York and Rio

Janeiro.

Balakirev was distressed at this interruption to Rimsky's musical

career. If the disciple idealised the master in those days, the latter

in his turn treated the young sailor with fraternal affection,

declaring that he had been providentially sent to take the place of a

favourite pupil who had just gone abroad. A. Goussakovsky was a

brilliant youth who had recently finished his course at the university

and was specialising in chemistry. He appears to have been a strange,

wild, morbid nature. His compositions for piano were full of promise,

but he was unstable of purpose, flitted from one work to another and

finished none. He did not trouble to write down his ideas, and many of

his compositions existed only in Balakirev's memory. He flashes across

this page of Russian musical history and is lost to view, like a small

but bright falling star. Rimsky-Korsakov was endowed with far greater

tenacity of purpose, and in spite of all difficulties he continued to

work at his symphony on board ship and to post it piece by piece to

Balakirev from the most out-of-the-way ports in order to have his advice

and assistance.

Rimsky-Korsakov came back to St. Petersburg in the autumn of 1865 to

find that some important changes had taken place in Balakirev's circle

during his absence. In the first place, to the brotherhood was added a

new member of whom great things were expected. This was Alexander

Borodin, then assistant lecturer in chemistry at the Academy of

Medicine. Secondly, Balakirev, in conjunction with Lomakin, one of

Russia's most famous choir trainers, had founded the Free[31] School of

Music, a most interesting experiment. It has been said that this

institution was established in rivalry with the Conservatoire. The

concerts given in connection with it, and conducted by its two

initiators, were certainly much less conservative than those of the

official organisation of the I. R. M. S. At the same time it must be

borne in mind that during the 'sixties there was a great movement

"towards the people," and that an enthusiastic temperament such as

Balakirev's could hardly have escaped the passionate altruistic impulse

which was stirring society. Individual effort, long restricted by

official despotism, was becoming active in every direction. Between

1860-1870 a number of philanthropic schools were established in Russia,

and the Free School, with its avowed aim of defending individual

tendencies and upholding the cause of national music, was really only

one manifestation of a widespread sentiment.

Other important events which Rimsky-Korsakov missed during his three

years' cruise were the first production of Serov's opera _Judith_, and

Wagner's visit to the Russian capital when he conducted the orchestra of

the Philharmonic Society.

At this time, with the sole exception of Balakirev, every member of the

nationalist circle was earning his living by other means than music.

Cui was an officer of Engineers, and added to his modest income by

coaching. Moussorgsky was a lieutenant in the Preobrajensky Guards.

Rimsky-Korsakov was in the Imperial navy, and Borodin was a professor of

chemistry.

Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin soon became intimate, notwithstanding the

ten years difference in their ages. The former gives an interesting

picture of the composer of _Prince Igor_, whose life was divided between

chemistry and music, to both of which he was sincerely attached. "I

often found him at work in his laboratory," writes Rimsky-Korsakov,

"which communicated directly with his dwelling. When he was seated

before his retorts, which were filled with colourless gases of some

kind, forcing them by means of tubes from one vessel to another, I used

to tell him he was spending his time in pouring water into a sieve. As

soon as he was free he would take me to his livingrooms and there we

occupied ourselves with music and conversation, in the midst of which

Borodin would rush off to the laboratory to make sure that nothing was

burning or boiling over, making the corridor ring as he went with some

extraordinary passage of ninths or seconds. Then back again for more

music and talk." Borodin's life, between his scientific work, his

constant attendance at all kinds of boards and committee meetings,[32]

and his musical interests, was strenuous beyond description.

Rimsky-Korsakov, who grudged his great gifts to anything but music,

says: "My heart is torn when I look at his life, exhausted by his

continual self-sacrifice." He was endowed with great physical endurance

and was utterly careless of his health. Sometimes he would dine twice in

one day, if he chanced to call upon friends at mealtimes. On other

occasions he would only remember at 9 p.m. that he had forgotten to take

any food at all during the day. The hospitable board of the Borodins was

generally besieged and stormed by cats, who sat on the table and helped

themselves as they pleased, while their complacent owners related to

their human guests the chief events in the biography of their feline

_convives_. Borodin's wife was a woman of culture, and an accomplished

pianist, who had profound faith in her husband's genius. Their married

life was spoiled only by her failing health, for she suffered terribly

from asthma and was obliged to spend most of the winter months in the

drier air of Moscow, which meant long periods of involuntary separation

from her husband.

Another meeting place of Balakirev's circle was at the house of

Lioudmilla Ivanovna Shestakov, Glinka's married sister. Here, besides

the composers, came several excellent singers, mostly amateurs,

including the sisters Karmalina and Mme. S. I. Zotov, for whom

Rimsky-Korsakov wrote several of his early songs. Among those who

sympathised with the aims of the nationalists were the Pourgold family,

consisting of a mother and three daughters, two of whom were highly

accomplished musicians. Alexandra Nicholaevna had a fine mezzo-soprano

voice with high notes. She sang the songs of Cui, Balakirev and

Rimsky-Korsakov with wonderful sympathy and insight, and "created" most

of the female parts in the operas of "the mighty band" in the days when

they had to be satisfied with drawing-room performances of their works.

But her strong point was the interpretation of Moussorgsky's songs,

which was a revelation of the composer's depth of feeling and close

observation of real life and natural declamation. I had the privilege of

visiting this gifted woman in later years when she was Mme. Molas,[33]

and I can never forget the impression made upon me by her rendering of

Moussorgsky's songs, "The Orphan," "Mushrooming," "Yeremoushka's Cradle

Song," and more especially of the realistic pictures of child-life

entitled "The Nursery." Her sister Nadejda Nicholaevna, who became Mme.

Rimsky-Korsakov, was a pupil of Herke and Zaremba, Tchaikovsky's first

master for theory. An excellent pianist and sight-reader, a musician to

her finger-tips, she was always available as an accompanist when any new

work by a member of the brotherhood needed a trial performance. She was

also a skilful arranger of orchestral and operatic works for

pianoforte.[34] The Pourgolds were devoted friends of Dargomijsky, and

during the autumn of 1868 the entire circle met almost daily at his

house, to which he was more or less confined by his rapidly failing

health.

I have spoken of so many friends of "the mighty band" that it might be

supposed that their movement was a popular one. This was not the case.

With the exception of Stassov and Cui, who in their different styles did

useful literary work for their circle, all the critics of the day, and

the academical powers _en bloc_, were opposed to these musical

Ishmaelites. Serov and Laroche carried weight, and were opponents worth

fighting. Theophil Tolstoy ("Rostislav") and Professor Famitzin,

although they wrote for important papers, represented musical criticism

in Russia at its lowest ebb, and would be wholly forgotten but for the

spurious immortality conferred upon them in Moussorgsky's musical satire

"The Peepshow." Nor was Anton Rubinstein's attitude to the new school

either just or generous. Tchaikovsky, who, during the first years of

their struggle for existence, was occupying the position of professor of

harmony at the Moscow Conservatoire, started with more friendly feelings

towards the brotherhood. His symphonic poem "Romeo and Juliet" (1870)

was written under the influence of Balakirev, and his symphonic poem

"The Tempest" (1873) was suggested by Vladimir Stassov. But as time went

on, Tchaikovsky stood more and more aloof from the circle, and in his

correspondence and criticisms he shows himself contemptuous and inimical

to their ideals and achievements, especially to Moussorgsky, the force

of whose innate genius he never understood. Throughout the 'sixties, the

solidarity between the members of Balakirev's set was so complete that

they could afford to live and work happily although surrounded by a

hostile atmosphere. Rimsky-Korsakov's "Chronicle" of these early days

often reminds us of the history of our own pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,

and we are moved to admire the devotion with which the members worked

for one another and for the advancement of their common cause. A more

ideal movement it would be difficult to find in the whole history of

art, and all the works produced at this time were the outcome of

single-minded and clear convictions, uninfluenced by the hope of

pecuniary gain, and with little prospect of popular appreciation.

CHAPTER IX

GRADUAL DISSOLUTION OF THE CIRCLE OF FRIENDS

It is difficult to fix the exact moment at which the little "rift within

the lute" became audible in the harmony of Balakirev's circle. In 1872

Balakirev himself was in full opposition on many points with the policy

of the I. R. M. S. and was maintaining his series of concerts in

connection with the Free School in avowed rivalry with the senior

institution. His programmes were highly interesting and their tendency

progressive, but the public was indifferent, and his pecuniary losses

heavy. In the autumn of that year he organised a concert at

Nijny-Novgorod in which he appeared as a pianist, hoping that for once a

prophet might not only find honour but substantial support in his own

country. He was doomed to disappointment; the room was empty and

Balakirev used to allude to this unfortunate event as "my Sedan." He

returned to St. Petersburg in low spirits and began to hold aloof from

his former friends and pupils. Eventually--so it is said--he took a

clerkship in the railway service. At this period of his life he began to

be preoccupied with those mystical ideas which absorbed him more or less

until the end of his days.

After a time he returned to the musical life, and in the letters of

Borodin and in Rimsky-Korsakov's "Chronicle" we get glimpses of the old

ardent propagandist "Mily Alexe'ich." From 1867 to 1869 he was Director

of the Imperial Chapel. But a few years later he again separated from

his circle and this time he shut himself off definitely from society,

emerging only on rare occasions to play at some charity concert, or

visit the house of one of the few friends with whom he was still in

sympathy. It was during these years that I first met him at the

Stassovs' house. So few strangers ever came in contact with Mily

Balakirev that I may be excused for giving my own personal impressions

of this remarkable man.

From the moment when I first began to study Russian music, Balakirev's

personality and genius exercised a great fascination for me. He was the

spark from whence proceeded not only a musical conflagration but the

warmth of my own poor enthusiasm. Naturally I was anxious to meet this

attractive, yet self-isolated personality. It was an early summer's

evening in St. Petersburg in 1901, and the excuses for the gathering

were a birthday in the Stassov family, and the presence of an English

enthusiast for Russian music. Balakirev was expected about 9 p.m.

Stassov left the grand piano open like a trap set for a shy bird. He

seemed to think that it would ensnare Mily Alexe'ich as the limed twig

ensnares the bullfinch. The ruse was successful. After greeting us all

round, Balakirev gravitated almost immediately to the piano. "I'm going

to play three sonatas," he announced without further ceremony,

"Beethoven's Appassionata, Chopin's B minor, and Schumann No. 3, in G

minor." Then he began to play.

Balakirev was rather short. I do not know his pedigree, but he did not

belong to the tall, fair type of Great Russia. There was to my mind a

touch of the oriental about him: Tatar, perhaps, not Jewish. His figure

was thickset, but his face was worn and thin, and his complexion

brownish; his air somewhat weary and nervous. He looked like a man who

strained his mental energies almost to breaking point; but his eyes--I

do not remember their colour--were extraordinarily magnetic, full of

fire and sympathy, the eyes of the seer and the bard. As he sat at the

piano he recalled for a moment my last remembrance of Hans von Bülow.

Something, too, in his style of playing confirmed this impression. He

was not a master of sensational technique like Paderewski or Rosenthal.

His execution was irreproachable, but one did not think of his

virtuosity in hearing him play for the first time; nor did he, as I

expected, carry me away on a whirlwind of fiery emotion. A nature so

ardent could not be a cold executant, but he had neither the emotional

force nor the poetry of expression which were the leading

characteristics of Rubinstein's art. What struck me most in Balakirev,

and reminded me of Bülow, was the intelligence, the sympathy, and the

authority of his interpretations. He observed, analysed, and set the

work in a lucid atmosphere. He might have adopted Stendhal's formula:

"_Voir clair dans ce qui est._" It would be wrong, however, to think of

Balakirev as a dry pedagogue. If he was a professor, he was an

enlightened one--a sympathetic and inspired interpreter who knew how to

reconstruct in imagination the period and personality of a composer

instead of substituting his own.

Having finished his rather arduous but self-imposed programme, we were

all afraid that he might disappear as quietly as he came. An inspiration

on my part to address him some remarks, in extremely ungrammatical

Russian, on the subject of his songs and their wonderful, independent

accompaniments, sent him back to the piano, where he continued to

converse with me, illustrating his words with examples of unusual

rhythms employed in his songs, and gliding half unconsciously into some

of his own and other people's compositions. He could not be persuaded to

play me "Islamey," the Oriental Fantasia beloved of Liszt, but I

remember one delicate and graceful valse which he had recently written.

By this time the _samovar_ was bubbling on the table and the room was

filled with the perfume of tea and lemon. Happily Balakirev showed no

signs of departure. He took his place at the table and talked with all

his old passion of music in general, but chiefly of the master who had

dominated the renaissance of Russian music--Michael Ivanovich Glinka.

Russians love to prolong their hospitality until far into the night. But

in May the nights in St. Petersburg are white and spectral. At midnight

the world is steeped in a strange light, neither twilight nor dawn, but

something like the ghost of the departed day haunting the night that has

slain it. Instead of dreams one's mind is filled with fantastic ideas.

As I drove home through the streets, as light as in the daytime, I

imagined that Balakirev was a wizard who had carried me back to the

past--to the stirring period of the 'sixties so full of faith and

generous hopes--so strong was the conviction that I had been actually

taking part in the struggles and triumphs of the new Russian

school.[35]

After this I never entirely lost sight of Balakirev. We corresponded

from time to time and he was always anxious to hear the fate of his

music in this country. Unfortunately I could seldom reassure him on this

point, for his works have never roused much enthusiasm in the British

public. He died on Sunday, May 29th, 1910. I had not long arrived in

Petersburg when I heard that he was suffering from a severe chill with

serious complications. Every day I hoped to hear that he was on the road

to recovery and able to see me. But on the 16th I received from him a

few pencilled lines--probably the last he ever wrote--in which he spoke

of his great weakness and said the doctor still forbade him to see his

friends. From that time until his death, he saw no one but Dimitri

Vassileivich, Stassov's surviving brother, and his devoted friend and

pupil Liapounov. He died, as he had lived for many years, alone, except

for his faithful old housekeeper. He departed a true and faithful son of

the Orthodox Church. In spite of his having spent nearly twenty years of

his life in pietistic retirement, the news of his death reawakened the

interest of his compatriots. From the time of his passing away until

his funeral his modest bachelor apartments could hardly contain the

stream of people of all ages and classes who wished to take part in the

short services held twice a day in the death chamber of the master. He

was buried in the Alexander Nevsky Cemetery, not far from the graves of

Dargomijsky, Glinka and Stassov.

The true reason for the loosening of the bonds between Balakirev and his

former pupils cannot be ascribed to differences in their religious

opinions. It was rather the inevitable result of the growth of artistic

individuality. Balakirev could not realise this, and was disenchanted by

the gradual neglect of his co-operative ideal. Borodin took a broad and

sensible view of the matter in writing to one of the sisters Karmalina

in 1876:--"It is clear that there are no rivalries or personal

differences between us; this would be impossible on account of the

respect we have for each other. It is thus in every branch of human

activity; in proportion to its development, individuality triumphs over

the schools, over the heritage that men have gathered from their

masters. A hen's eggs are all alike; the chickens differ somewhat, and

in time cease to resemble each other at all. One hatches out a

dark-plumed truculent cock, another a white and peaceful hen. It is the

same with us. We have all derived from the circle in which we lived the

common characteristics of genus and species; but each of us, like an

adult cock or hen, bears his own character and individuality. If, on

this account, we are thought to have separated from Balakirev,

fortunately it is not the case. We are as fond of him as ever, and spare

no pains to keep up the same relations as before. As to us, we continue

to interest ourselves in each other's musical works. If we are not

always pleased it is quite natural, for tastes differ, and even in the

same person vary with age. It could not be otherwise."

The situation was no doubt rendered more difficult by Balakirev's

unaccommodating attitude. "With his despotic character," says

Rimsky-Korsakov, "he demanded that every work should be modelled

precisely according to his instructions, with the result that a large

part of a composition often belonged to him rather than to its author.

We obeyed him without question, for his personality was irresistible."

It was inevitable that, as time went on and the members of "the mighty

band" found themselves less in need of guidance in their works than of

practical assistance in bringing them before the public, Balakirev's

circle should have become Belaiev's circle, and that the Mæcenas

publisher and concert-giver should by degrees have acquired a

preponderating influence in the nationalist school. This change took

place during the 'eighties.

Mitrofane Petrovich Belaiev, born February 10th, 1836, was a wealthy

timber merchant, with a sincere love of music. He was an exception to

the type of the Russian commercial man of his day, having studied the

violin and piano in his youth and found time amid the demands of a large

business to occupy his leisure with chamber music. My recollections of

Belaiev recall a brusque, energetic and somewhat choleric personality of

the "rough diamond" type; a passionate, but rather indiscriminate,

enthusiast, and an autocrat. Wishing to give some practical support to

the cause of national music, he founded a publishing house in Leipzig in

1885 where he brought out a great number of works by the members of the

then new school, including a fine edition of Borodin's _Prince Igor_. He

also founded the Russian Symphony Concerts, the programmes of which were

drawn exclusively from the works of native composers. In 1889 he

organised the Russian Concerts given with success at the Paris

Exhibition; and started the "Quartet Evenings" in St. Petersburg in

1891. Borodin, Rimsky-Korsakov, Glazounov and Liadov wrote a string

quartet in his honour, on the notes B-la-f. Belaiev died in 1904, but

the Leipzig house still continues its work under its original manager,

Herr Scheffer.

Undoubtedly Belaiev exercised a powerful influence on the destinies of

Russian music. Whether he was better fitted to be the central point of

its activities at a certain stage of its development than Balakirev is a

question which happily I am not called upon to decide. Money and

business capacity are useful, perhaps indispensable, adjuncts to

artistic progress in the present day, but they can never wholly take the

place of enthusiasm and unstinted devotion. "_Les choses de l'âme n'ont

pas de prix_," says Renan; nevertheless there is a good deal of bidding

done for them in this commercial age. It is easy to understand the

bitterness of heart with which the other-worldly and unconformable

Balakirev saw the members of his school passing one by one into "the

circle of Belaiev." He had steered the ship of their fortunes through

the storms and shoals that beset its early ventures; but another was to

guide it into the haven of prosperity and renown. Rimsky-Korsakov, in

his "Chronicle of my Musical Life," makes his recantation of old ideals

and enthusiasms in the following terms: "Balakirev's circle was

revolutionary; Belaiev's progressive. Balakirev's disciples numbered

five; Belaiev's circle was more numerous, and continued to grow in

numbers. All the five musicians who constituted the older school were

eventually acknowledged as leading representatives of Russian music; the

later circle was made up of more varied elements; some of its

representatives were men of great creative gifts, others were less

talented, and a few were not even composers, but conductors, like Dütsh,

or executants like Lavrov. Balakirev's circle consisted of musicians who

were weak--almost amateurish--on the technical side, who forced their

way to the front by the sheer force of their creative gifts; a force

which sometimes replaced technical knowledge, and sometimes--as was

frequently the case with Moussorgsky--did not suffice to cover their

deficiences in this respect. Belaiev's circle, on the contrary, was made

up of musicians who were well equipped and thoroughly educated.

Balakirev's pupils did not interest themselves in any music prior to

Beethoven's time; Belaiev's followers not only honoured their musical

fathers, but their remoter ancestors, reaching back to Palestrina....

The relations of the earlier circle to its chief were those of pupils to

their teacher; Belaiev was rather our centre than our head.... He was a

Mæcenas, but not an aristocrat Mæcenas, who throws away money on art to

please his own caprices and in reality does nothing to serve its

interests. In what he did he stood on firm and honourable ground. He

organised his concerts and publishing business without the smallest

consideration for his personal profit. On the contrary, he sacrificed

large sums of money, while concealing himself as far as possible from

the public eye.... We were drawn to Belaiev by his personality, his

devotion to art, and his wealth; not for its own sake but as the means

to an end, applied to lofty and irreproachable aims, which made him the

central attraction of a new musical circle which had only a few

hereditary ties with the original 'invincible band.'"

This is no doubt a sincere statement of the relations between Belaiev

and the modern Russian school, and it is only fair to quote this tribute

to his memory. At the same time, when the history of Russian music comes

to be written later in the century, both sides of the question will have

to be taken into consideration. My own views on some of the

disadvantages of the patronage system I have already expressed in the

"Edinburgh Review" for July 1912, and I venture to repeat them here:

"He who pays the piper will, directly or indirectly, call the tune. If

he be a Mæcenas of wide culture and liberal tastes he will perhaps call

a variety of tunes; if, on the other hand, he be a home-keeping

millionaire with a narrowly patriotic outlook he will call only for

tunes that awaken a familiar echo in his heart. So an edict--maybe an

unspoken one--goes forth that a composer who expects his patronage must

always write in the 'native idiom'; which is equivalent to laying down

the law that a painter's pictures will be disqualified for exhibition if

he uses more colours on his palette than those which appear in his

country's flag. Something of this kind occurred in the ultra-national

school of music in Russia, and was realised by some of its most fervent

supporters as time went on. It is not difficult to trace signs of

fatigue and perfunctoriness in the later works of its representatives.

At times the burden of nationality seems to hang heavy on their

shoulders; the perpetual burning of incense to one ideal dulled the

alertness of their artistic sensibilities. Less grew out of that

splendid outburst of patriotic feeling in the 'sixties than those who

hailed its first manifestations had reason to anticipate. Its bases were

probably too narrowly exclusive to support an edifice of truly imposing

dimensions. Gradually the inevitable has happened. The younger men threw

off the restrictions of the folk-song school, and sought new ideas from

the French symbolists, or the realism of Richard Strauss. There is very

little native idiom, although there are still distinctive features of

the national style, in the work of such latter day composers as

Scriabin, Tcherepnin and Medtner. The physiognomy of Russian music is

changing day by day, and although it is full of interest, one would

welcome a development on larger and more independent lines."

In 1867 Nicholas Lodyjensky joined the circle. He was a young amateur

gifted with a purely lyrical tendency, who played the piano remarkably

well and improvised fluently. He composed a number of detached pieces

and put together some fragments of a symphony and an opera, on the

subject of "The False Dimitrius." Rimsky-Korsakov says his music showed

a grace and beauty of expression which attracted the attention of the

nationalist group, especially the music for the Wedding Scene of

Dimitrius and Marina, and a setting for solo and chorus of Lermontov's

"Roussalka" (The Water Sprite). But Lodyjensky, like Goussakovsky, was a

typical dilettante; almost inspired, but unable to concentrate on the

completion of any important work. After a time he dropped out of the

circle, probably because he had to earn his living in some other way,

and the strain of a dual vocation discouraged all but the very strongest

musical spirits.[36]

A musician of greater reputation who was partly attached to the

nationalists was Anatol Liadov, whose work does not include any operatic

composition.

Whatever the changes in the constitution of the nationalist party,

Vladimir Stassov remained its faithful adherent through all

vicissitudes. Some account of this interesting personality will not be

out of place in a history of Russian opera. Vladimir Vassilievich

Stassov, who may be called the godfather of Russian music--he stood

sponsor for so many compositions of all kinds--was born in St.

Petersburg, January 14th, 1825. He originally intended to follow his

father's profession and become an architect. But eventually he was

educated at the School of Jurisprudence and afterwards went abroad for a

time. He studied art in many centres, but chiefly in Italy, and wrote a

few articles during his travels. He returned to St. Petersburg, having

acquired a command of many languages and laid the foundation of his wide

critical knowledge. For a time he frequented the Imperial Public

Library, St. Petersburg, where his industry and enthusiasm attracted the

notice of the Director, Baron Korf, who invited him to become his

temporary assistant. Subsequently Stassov entered the service of the

Library and became head of the department of Fine Arts. This, at least,

was his title, although at the time when I knew him his jurisdiction

seemed to have no defined limits. A man of wide culture, of strong

convictions and fearless utterance, he was a power in his day.

Physically he had a fine appearance, being a typical Russian of the old

school. The students at the Library used to call him the _Bogatyr_,[37]

or with more irreverence the "Father," for he might have sat as an ideal

model for the conventional representations of the First Person of the

Trinity. Stassov's views on art were always on the large side; but they

were sometimes extreme and paradoxical. In polemics his methods were

fierce, but not ungenerous. He was a kind of Slavonic Dr. Samuel

Johnson, and there were times when one might as well have tried to argue

calmly with the Car of Juggernaut. Those who were timid, inarticulate,

or physically incapable of sustaining a long discussion, would creep

away from his too-vigorous presence feeling baffled and hurt, and

nursing a secret resentment. This was unfortunate, for Stassov loved and

respected a relentless opponent, and only those who held their own to

the bitter end enjoyed the fine experience of a reconciliation with him.

And how helpful, considerate and generous he was in dispensing from his

rich stores of knowledge, or his modest stores of worldly possessions,

there must be many to testify; for his private room at the Public

Library was the highway of those in search of counsel or assistance of

any kind. He had a remarkable faculty for imparting to others a passion

for work, a most beneficial power in the days when dilettantism was one

of the worst banes of Russian society. In his home, too, he clung to the

old national ideal of hospitality for all who needed it, and no

questions asked. With all his rugged strength of character he had

moments of childlike vanity when he loved to appear before his admiring

guests attired in the embroidered scarlet shirt, wide velveteen knickers

and high boots which make up the holiday costume of the Russian peasant;

or dressed like a boyard of old. With all this, he was absolutely free

from the snobbishness which is sometimes an unpleasant feature of the

Russian _chinovnik_, or official. Naturally many stories were related of

Vladimir Stassov, but I have only space for two short anecdotes here.

The first illustrates the Russian weakness for hot, and often futile,

discussion; the second, Stassov's enthusiasm for art and indifference to

social conventions.

Once he had been arguing with Tourgeniev, whose cosmopolitan and rather

supercilious attitude towards the art of young Russia infuriated the

champion of nationalism. At last Tourgeniev, wearied perhaps with what

he called "this chewing of dried grass," and suffering acutely from

rheumatic gout, showed signs of yielding to Stassov's onslaughts.

"There," cried the latter triumphantly, "now I see you agree with me!"

This acted like the dart planted in the hide of the weary or reluctant

bull. Tourgeniev sprang from his chair and shuffled on his bandaged feet

to the window, exclaiming: "Agree with you indeed! If I felt I was

beginning to think like you, I should fling open the window (here he

suited the action to the word) and scream to the passers-by, 'Take me to

a lunatic asylum! I agree with Stassov!!'"

On another occasion "Vladimir Vassilich" returned late one evening from

his country cottage at Pargolovo, without troubling to change the

national dress which he usually wore there. This costume was looked upon

with disfavour in the capital, as savouring of a too-advanced liberalism

and sympathy with the people. On arriving home, his family reminded him

that Rubinstein was playing that night at a concert of the I. R. M. S.

and that by the time he had changed he would be almost too late to hear

him. "I cannot miss Rubinstein," said Vladimir Vassilich, "I must go as

I am." In vain his family expostulated, assuring him that "an exalted

personage" and the whole Court would be there, and consequently he must

put on more correct attire. "_I will not_ miss Rubinstein," was all the

answer they got for their pains. And Stassov duly appeared in the Salle

de la Noblesse in a red shirt with an embroidery of cocks and hens down

the front. He was forgiven such breaches of etiquette for the sake of

his true nobility and loyalty of heart.

Such was the doughty champion of the nationalists through good and evil

fortune. His writings on musical questions form only a small part of his

literary output, the result of over sixty years of indefatigable

industry; for he was an authority on painting, architecture and design.

Like Nestor, the faithful chronicler of mediæval Russia, he worked early

and late. He did great service to native art by carefully collecting at

the Imperial Public Library all the original manuscript scores of the

Russian composers, their correspondence, and every document that might

afterwards serve historians of the movement. He was the first to write

an important monograph on Glinka, and this, together with his book on

Borodin, his exhaustive articles on Dargomijsky and Moussorgsky, and his

general surveys of musical progress in Russia, are indispensable sources

of first-hand information for those who would study the question of

Russian music _à fonds_.[38] As a critic, time has proved that, in spite

of his ardent crusade on behalf of modernism and nationality, his

judgments were usually sound; as an historian he was painstaking and

accurate; as regards his appreciation of contemporary art, he showed a

remarkable _flair_ for latent talent, and sensed originality even when

deeply overlaid by crudity of thought and imperfect workmanship. He was

apparently the first to perceive the true genius and power concealed

under the foppishness and dilettantism of Moussorgsky's early manhood.

He considered that neither Balakirev, Cui, nor Rimsky-Korsakov

appreciated the composer of _Boris Godounov_ at his full value. He

upheld him against all contemptuous and adverse criticism, and the

ultimate triumph of Moussorgsky's works was one of the articles in his

artistic creed.

CHAPTER X

MOUSSORGSKY

We have seen that Glinka and Dargomijsky represented two distinct

tendencies in Russian operatic music. The one was lyrical and

idealistic; the other declamatory and realistic. It would seem that

Glinka's qualities were those more commonly typical of the Russian

musical temperament, since, in the second generation of composers, his

disciples outnumbered those of Dargomijsky, who had actually but one

close adherent: Modeste Moussorgsky. Cui, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov

were all--as we shall see when we come to a more detailed analysis of

their works--attracted in varying degrees to melodic and lyric opera.

Although in the first flush of enthusiasm for Dargomijsky's music-drama

_The Stone Guest_--which Lenz once described as "a recitative in three

acts"--the younger nationalists were disposed to adopt it as "the Gospel

of the New School," Moussorgsky alone made a decisive attempt to bring

into practice the theories embodied in this work. Taking Dargomijsky's

now famous dictum: _I want the note to be the direct representation of

the word--I want truth and realism_, as his starting-point, Moussorgsky

proceeded to carry it to a logical conclusion. Rimsky-Korsakov speaks of

his having passed through an early phase of idealism when he composed

his Fantasia for piano "St. John's Eve" (afterwards remodelled for

orchestra and now known as "Night on the Bare Mountain"), "The

Destruction of Sennacherib," and the song "Night," to a poem by

Poushkin. But although at first he may not have been so consciously

occupied in the creation of what Rimsky-Korsakov calls "grey music," it

is evident that no sooner had he found his feet, technically speaking,

than he gripped fast hold of one dominant idea--the closer relationship

of music with actual life. Henceforward musical psychology became the

absorbing problem of his art, to which he devoted himself with all the

ardour of a self-confident and headstrong nature. In a letter to

Vladimir Stassov, dated October 1872, he reveals his artistic intentions

in the following words: "Assiduously to seek the more delicate and

subtle features of human nature--of the human crowd--to follow them into

unknown regions, and make them our own: this seems to me the true

vocation of the artist. Through the storm, past shoal and sunken rock,

make for new shores without fear, against all hindrance!... In the mass

of humanity, as in the individual, there are always some subtle

impalpable features which have been passed by, unobserved, untouched by

anyone. To mark these and study them, by reading, by actual observation,

by intuition--in other words, to feed upon humanity as a healthy diet

which has been neglected--there lies the whole problem of art." However

greatly we may disagree with Moussorgsky's æsthetic point of view, we

must confess that he carried out his theories with logical sequence, and

with the unflinching courage of a clear conviction. His operas and his

songs are human documents which bear witness to the spirit of their time

as clearly as any of the great works of fiction which were then

agitating the public conscience. In this connection I may repeat what I

have said elsewhere: that "had the realistic schools of painting and

fiction never come into being through the efforts of Perov, Repin,

Dostoievsky and Chernichevsky, we might still reconstruct from

Moussorgsky's works the whole psychology of Russian life."[39]

[Illustration: MOUSSORGSKY

_From a portrait by Repin painted shortly before his death_]

In order to understand his work and his attitude towards art, it is

necessary to realise something of the period in which Moussorgsky lived.

He was a true son of his time, that stirring time of the 'sixties

which followed the emancipation of the serfs, and saw all Russian

society agitated by the new, powerful stimulants of individual freedom

and fraternal sympathy. Of the little group of musicians then striving

to give utterance to their freshly awakened patriotism, none was so

passionately stirred by the literary and political movements of the time

as this born folk-composer. Every man, save the hide-bound official, or

the frivolous imitator of Byron and Lermontov, was asking himself in the

title of the most popular novel of the day: "What shall we do?" And the

answer given to them was as follows: "Throw aside artistic and social

conventions. Bring down Art from the Olympian heights and make her the

handmaid of humanity. Seek not beauty but truth. Go to the people. Hold

out the hand of fellowship to the liberated masses and learn from them

the true purpose of life." The ultra romanticism of Joukovsky and

Karamzin, the affectation of Byronism, and the all too aristocratic

demeanour of the admirers of Poushkin, invited this reaction. Men turned

with disgust to sincere and simple things. The poets led the way;

Koltsov and Nikitin with their songs of peasant life; Nekrassov with his

revolt against creeds and social conventions. The prose writers and

painters followed, and the new spirit invaded music when it found a

congenial soil in Moussorgsky's sincere and unsophisticated nature. Of

the young nationalist school, he was the one eminently fitted by

temperament and early education to give expression in music to this

democratic and utilitarian tendency; this contempt for the dandyism and

dilettantism of the past generation; and, above all, to this deep

compassion for "the humiliated and offended."

Modeste Moussorgsky was born March 16/28, 1839, at Karevo, in the

government of Pskov. He was of good family, but comparatively poor. His

childhood was spent amid rural surroundings, and not only the music of

the people, but their characteristics, good and bad, were impressed upon

his mind from his earliest years. He was equally conversant with the

folk literature, and often lay awake at night, his youthful imagination

over-excited by his nurse's tales of witches, water-sprites and

wood-demons. This was the seedtime of that wonderful harvest of national

music which he gave to his race as soon as he had shaken off the

superficial influences of the fashionable society into which he drifted

for a time. His father, who died in 1853, was not opposed to Modeste's

musical education, which was carried on at first by his mother, an

excellent pianist. The young man entered the Preobrajensky Guards, one

of the smartest regiments in the service, before he was eighteen.

Borodin met him for the first time at this period of his existence and

described him in a letter to Stassov as a typical military dandy,

playing selections from Verdi's operas to an audience of appreciative

ladies. He met him again two or three years later, when all traces of

foppishness had disappeared, and Moussorgsky astonished him by

announcing his intention of devoting his whole life to music; an

announcement which Borodin did not take seriously at the time. During

the interval Moussorgsky had been frequenting Dargomijsky's musical

evenings, where he met Balakirev, under whose inspiring influence he had

undergone something like a process of conversion, casting the slough of

dandyism, and becoming the most assiduous of workers.

While intercourse with Dargomijsky contributed to the forced maturing of

Moussorgsky's ideas about music, the circumstances of his life still

hindered his technical development. But he was progressing. His early

letters to Cui and Stassov show how deeply and independently he had

already thought out certain problems of his art. Meanwhile Balakirev

carried on his musical education in a far more effective fashion than

has ever been admitted by those who claim that Moussorgsky was wholly

self-taught, or, in other words, completely ignorant of his craft. The

"Symphonic Intermezzo," composed in 1861, shows how insistent and

thorough was Balakirev's determination that his pupils should grasp the

principles of tradition before setting up as innovators. Here we have a

sound piece of workmanship, showing clear traces of Bach's influence;

the middle movement, founded on a national air, being very original in

its development, but kept strictly within classical form. His earliest

operatic attempt, dating from his schooldays, and based upon Victor

Hugo's "Han d'Island," was quite abortive as regards the music. Of the

incidental music to "OEdipus," suggested by Balakirev, we have

Stassov's testimony that a few numbers were actually written down, and

performed at some of the friendly gatherings of the nationalist circle;

only one, however, has been preserved, a chorus sung by the people

outside the Temple of the Eumenides, which does not in any way presage

Moussorgsky's future style.

Faced with the prospect of service in a provincial garrison, Moussorgsky

resolved to leave the army in 1859. His friends, and more particularly

Stassov, begged him to reconsider his determination; but in vain. He had

now reached that phase of his development when he was impatient of any

duties which interfered with his artistic progress. Unfortunately

poverty compelled him to accept a small post under the government which

soon proved as irksome as regimental life. In 1856 he fell ill, and

rusticated for a couple of years on an out-of-the-way country property

belonging to his brother. During this period of rest he seems to have

found himself as a creative artist. After working for a time upon an

opera founded upon Flaubert's novel "Salammbô," he turned his attention

to song, and during these years produced a number of his wonderful vocal

pictures of Russian life, in its pathetic and humorous aspects. The

music which he composed for _Salammbô_ was far in advance of the

_OEdipus_. Already in this work we find Moussorgsky treating the

people, "the human crowd," as one of the most important elements of

opera. "In conformity with the libretto," says Stassov, "certain scenes

were full of dramatic movement in the style of Meyerbeer, evoking great

masses of the populace at moments of intense pathos or exaltation." Much

of the music of this opera was utilised in later works. Stassov informs

us that Salammbô's invocation to Tanit is now the recitative of the

dying Boris; the opening of the scene in the Temple of Moloch has become

the _Arioso_ in the third act of _Boris Godounov_; while the Triumphal

Hymn to Moloch is utilised as the people's chorus of acclamation to the

False Demetrius in the same opera.

Moussorgsky's next operatic essay took the form which he described as

"opera dialogué." The subject--Gogol's prose comedy "The

Match-Maker"--was admirably suited to him, and he started upon the work

full of enthusiasm for the task. His methods are shown in a letter

written to César Cui in the summer of 1868, in which he says: "I am

endeavouring as far as possible to observe very clearly the changes of

intonation made by the different characters in the course of

conversation; and made, so it appears, for trifling reasons, and on the

most insignificant words. Here, in my opinion, lies the secret of

Gogol's powerful humour.... How true is the saying: 'the farther we

penetrate into the forest the more trees we find!' How subtle Gogol is!

He has observed old women and peasants and discovered the most

fascinating types.... All this is very useful to me; the types of old

women are really precious." Moussorgsky abandoned _The Match-Maker_

after completing the first act. This was published by Bessel, in 1911,

under the editorship of Rimsky-Korsakov, and contains the following

note: "I leave the rights in this work of my pupilage unconditionally

and eternally to my dear Vladimir Vassilievich Stassov on this his

birthday, January 2nd, 1873. (Signed) Modeste Moussoryanin, alias

Moussorgsky. Written with a quill pen in Stassov's flat, Mokhovaya,

House Melnikov, amid a considerable concourse of people.

"The said MOUSSORGSKY."

Moussorgsky originally designated this work as "an attempt at dramatic

music set to prose." The fragment, with its sincere and forcible

declamation, is interesting as showing a phase in the evolution of his

genius immediately preceding the composition of _Boris Godounov_. The

four scenes which it comprises consist of conversations on the subject

of marriage carried on between four sharply defined and contrasted

characters: Podkolessin, a court councillor and petty official in the

Civil Service; Kocharev, his friend; Tekla Ivanovna, a professional

match-maker, and Stepan, Podkolessin's servant. Rimsky-Korsakov, who

often heard the music sung and played by its author, says in his preface

to the work that it should be executed _à piacere_; that is to say, that

for each individual a particular and characteristic _tempo_ must be

observed: for Podkolessin--a good-natured, vain and vacillating

creature--a slow and lazy time throughout; a more rapid movement for his

energetic friend Kocharev, who literally pushes him into matrimony; for

the Match-maker a moderate _tempo_, somewhat restrained, but alert; and

for Stepan rather a slow time. Stassov thought highly of this work, and

believed that as traditional prejudices vanished, and opera became a

more natural form of art, this prose comedy, the music of which fits

closely as a glove to every passing feeling and gesture suggested by the

text, would come to be highly appreciated.

One more unfinished opera engages our attention before we pass on to

consider Moussorgsky's two masterpieces. Fragments, consisting of an

introduction and several "Comic Scenes," based upon Gogol's "The Fair at

Sorochinsi," have been recently published by Bessel, with Russian text

only. The subject is peculiarly racy and the humour not very

comprehensible to those ignorant of Malo-Russian life; but the music,

though primitive, is highly characteristic, and may be commended to the

notice of all who wish to study Moussorgsky in as full a light as

possible.

The idea of basing a music-drama on Poushkin's tragedy "Boris Godounov"

was suggested by Prof. Nikolsky. From September 1868, to June 1870,

Moussorgsky was engaged upon this work. Each act as it was finished was

tried in a small circle of musical friends, the composer singing all the

male rôles in turn, while Alexandra Pourgold (afterwards Mme. Molas)

created the women's parts. Dargomijsky, who heard a portion of it before

his death in 1869, declared that Moussorgsky had entirely surpassed him

in his own sphere.

_Boris Godounov_ was rejected by the Direction of Imperial Opera on the

ground that it gave too little opportunity to the soloists. The unusual

form of the opera, the bold treatment of a dramatic, but unpopular,

episode in national history, and the democratic sentiment displayed in

making the People the protagonist in several scenes of the work, were

probably still stronger reasons for the attitude of disapproval always

shown by the "powers that be" towards _Boris Godounov_. Very

unwillingly, yielding only to the entreaties of his friends, the

composer consented to make some important changes in his work. The

original plan of the opera consisted of the following scenes: The crowd

awaiting the election of Boris, and his Coronation; Pimen in his cell;

the scene in the Inn, on the Lithuanian frontier; Boris and his

children, and the interview with Shouisky; the scene in the Duma, and

the death of Boris; the peasant revolt, and the entry of the Pretender.

It will be seen that the feminine element was curiously neglected. The

additional scenes, composed on the advice of Stassov and the

distinguished Russian architect V. Hartmann, were partially designed to

rectify this omission. They include the scenes in the house of the

Polish grandee Mnishek; the song of the Hostess of the Inn; portions of

the first scene of Act I.; the episodes of the Chiming Clock and the

Parrakeet; also some fine passages in the scene between Pimen and

Gregory (Scene I, Act II.). Portions of _Boris_ were given at

Kondratiev's benefit, at the Maryinski Theatre, in February, 1873, but

the production of the opera in its entirety was delayed until January

24th, 1874. How often has Stassov described to me the excitement of the

days that followed! The old-fashioned subscribers to the Opera sulked at

this interruption to its routine; the pedants of the Conservatoire

raged; the critics--Moussorgsky had already satirised them in "The

Peepshow"--baffled, and consequently infuriated, "foamed at the mouth."

So stupid were the intrigues organised against _Boris_ that some wreaths

offered by groups of young people and bearing messages of enthusiastic

homage to the composer, were intercepted at the doors of the opera house

and sent to Moussorgsky's private residence, in order to suppress a

public recognition of his obnoxious genius. For it was the young

generation that took _Boris_ straight to their hearts, and in spite of

all organised opposition, the work had twenty performances, the house

being always crowded; while students sang the choruses from the opera as

they went home through the streets at midnight.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN AS BORIS GODOUNOV]

While this controversy was raging, Moussorgsky was already occupied with

a new music-drama upon an historical subject, suggested to him by

Stassov, dealing with the tragic story of the Princes Khovansky and the

rising of the old Archers-of-the-Guard--the Streltsy. He was full of

confidence in his project, and just before the first performance of

_Boris_ in 1873, wrote to Stassov in the following characteristic

strain: "Now for judgment! It is jolly to feel that we are actually

thinking of and living for _Khovanstchina_ while we are being tried for

_Boris_. Joyfully and daringly we look to the distant musical horizon

that lures us onward, and are not afraid of the verdict. They will say:

'You are violating all laws, human and divine'; and we shall reply,

'Yes'; thinking to ourselves, 'so we shall again.' They will warn us,

'You will soon be forgotten for ever and a day'; and we shall answer,

'Non, non, et non, madame.'" This triumphant moment in Moussorgsky's

life was fleeting. _Boris Godounov_ was not suffered to become a

repertory opera, but was thrust aside for long periods. Its subsequent

revivals were usually due to some star artist who liked the title-rôle

and insisted on performing the work on his benefit night; and also to

private enterprise.

In 1871 Moussorgsky shared rooms with Rimsky-Korsakov until the marriage

of the latter in 1873. Then he took up his abode with the gifted poet

Count Golenishtiev-Koutouzov, whose idealistic and mystical tendencies

were not without influence on the champion of realism, as may be seen

from the two song-cycles, "Without sunshine" and "Songs and dances of

death," composed to his verses. "The Nursery," a series of children's

songs, the "Pictures from an exhibition," inspired by Hartmann's

drawings, and the orchestral piece, "Night on the Bare Mountain," date

from this period. Meanwhile the stress of poverty and the growing

distaste for his means of livelihood--a singularly unsuitable official

appointment--were telling on his health. Feeling, perhaps, that his time

on earth was short, he worked with feverish energy. Finally, some

friction with the authorities ended in his resigning his post in 1879,

and undertaking a tour in South Russia with the singer, Madame Leonova.

The appreciation shown to him during this journey afforded him some

moments of happiness; but his constitution was hopelessly shattered, and

in 1880 he was obliged to rest completely. A series of terrible nervous

attacks compelled him at last to take refuge in the Nicholas Military

Hospital, where he died on his forty-second birthday, March 16/28, of

paralysis of the heart and the spinal marrow.

The historical drama "Boris Godounov" was one of the fruits of the poet

Poushkin's exile at Mikhaïlovsky in 1824. Virtually imprisoned on his

father's estate to repent at leisure some youthful delinquencies, moral

and political, Poushkin occupied his time with the study of Karamzin's

History of Russia and Shakespeare's plays. "Boris Godounov" marks a

transition from the extreme influence of Byron to that of the creator of

"Macbeth." Ambition coupled with remorse is the moving passion of the

tragedy. The insane cruelty of Ivan the Terrible deprived Russia of

almost every strong and independent spirit with the exception of the

sagacious and cautious Boyard, Boris Godounov, the descendant of a Tatar

family. Brother-in-law and Regent of Ivan's weak-witted heir, Feodor,

Boris was already, to all intents and purposes, ruler of Russia before

ambition whispered that he might actually wear the crown. Only the

Tsarevich Dmitri, a child of six, stood between him and the fulfilment

of his secret desire. In 1581 Dmitri was murdered, and suspicion fell

upon Boris, who cleverly exculpated himself, and in due course was

chosen to succeed Feodor. He reigned wisely and with authority; but his

Nemesis finally appeared in the person of the monk Gregory, the False

Demetrius, whose pretentions were eagerly supported by the Poles. Boris,

unhinged by the secret workings of conscience, was brought to the verge

of madness just at the moment when the people--who had never quite

resigned themselves to a ruler of Tatar origin--wavered in their

allegiance. Urged by Rome, the Poles took advantage of the situation to

advance upon Moscow. At this critical juncture Boris was seized with a

fatal illness. The Tsars, as we know, may appoint their own successors;

Boris with his last breath nominated his son (also a Feodor), and died

in his fifty-sixth year, in April 1605.

The intellectual power and fine workmanship which Poushkin displayed in

"Boris Godounov" entitle this drama to rank as a classic in Russian

literature. It contains moments of forcible eloquence, and those

portions of the play which deal with the populace are undoubtedly the

strongest. Here Poushkin disencumbers himself of all theatrical

conventions, and shows not only accurate knowledge of the national

temperament, but profound observation of human nature as a whole. Such a

subject accorded well with Moussorgsky's genius, which, as we have seen,

was eminently democratic.

Moussorgsky arranged his own text for _Boris Godounov_, retaining

Poushkin's words intact wherever that was practicable, and simplifying,

remodelling, or adding to the original material when necessary. The

result is a series of living-pictures from Russian history, somewhat

disconnected if taken apart from the music, which is the coagulating

element of the work. The welding of these widely contrasting scenes is

effected partially by the use of recurrent leading motives, but chiefly

by a remarkable homogeneity of musical style. Moussorgsky, as may be

proved from his correspondence, was consciously concerned to find

appropriate musical phrases with which to accompany certain ideas in the

course of opera; but he does not use leading motives with the

persistency of Wagner. No person or thing is labelled in _Boris

Godounov_, and we need no thematic guide to thread our way through the

psychological maze of the work. There is one motive that plays several

parts in the music-drama. Where it occurs on page 49 of the pianoforte

score of 1908 (just after Pimen's words to Gregory: "He would now be

your age, and should be Tsar to-day"), it evokes the memory of the

murdered Tsarevich Dmitri; but it also enters very subtly into the

soul-states of the impostor who impersonates him, and those of the

remorseful Boris. There are other characteristic phrases for Boris,

suggesting his tenderness for his children and his ruthless ambition.

The opera opens with a prologue in which the people are gathered in the

courtyard of the many-towered monastery of Novo-Dievichy at Moscow,

whither Boris had withdrawn after the assassination of the Tsarevich.

The crowd moves to and fro in a listless fashion; it hardly knows why it

is there, but hopes vaguely that the election of a new ruler may bring

some amelioration of its sad lot. Meanwhile the astute Boris shows no

unseemly haste to snatch at the fruit of his crime. The simplicity and

economy of means with which Moussorgsky produces precisely the right

musical atmosphere is very striking. The constable enters, and with

threats and blows galvanises the weary and indifferent throng into

supplications addressed to Boris. The secretary of the Duma appears, and

announces that Boris refuses the crown; the crowd renews its entreaties.

When the pilgrims enter, the people wake to real life, pressing around

them, and showing that their enthusiasm is for spiritual rather than for

temporal things. In the second scene, which shows the coronation

procession across the Red Square in the Kremlin, the Song of Praise

(_Slavsia_) is sung with infinitely greater heartiness; for now the Tsar

comes into personal contact with his people. The scenes of the Prologue

and the Coronation move steadily on, just as they would do in real life;

there is scarcely a superfluous bar of musical accompaniment, and the

ordinary operatic conventions being practically non-existent, we are

completely convinced by the realism of the spectacle and the strangely

new, undisciplined character of the music. The truth is forcibly brought

home to us of M. Camille Bellaigue's assertion that every collective

thought, or passion, needs not only words, but music, if we are to

become completely sensible to it.

The text of the opening scene of Act I. is taken almost intact from

Poushkin's drama. Played as it now usually is between the strenuous

animation of the Prologue and the brilliant Coronation Scene, its

pervading atmosphere of dignity and monastic calm affords a welcome

interlude of repose. Moussorgsky handles his ecclesiastical themes with

sure knowledge. In early days Stassov tells us that he learnt from the

chaplain of the Military Academy "the very essence of the old Church

music, Greek and Catholic." The scene in the Inn, where Gregory and the

vagabond monks, Varlaam and Missail, halt on their flight into

Lithuania, is often cut out of the acting version. It contains, however,

two characteristic and popular solos: a lively folk-song for the

Hostess, and a rollicking drinking-song for Varlaam (bass); besides

frequent touches of the rough-hewn, sardonic humour which is a

distinguishing quality of Moussorgsky's genius. The unabashed

"naturalism" of this scene displeased a fashionable Russian audience;

although it was found possible to present it to a London audience which

must have travelled much farther from the homely ribaldry of Elizabethan

days than had the simple-minded "big public" of Russia to whom

Moussorgsky's work was designed to appeal a generation ago.

With the opening of Act II. we feel at once that Moussorgsky is treading

on alien ground. This portion of the opera--for which he was his own

librettist--was added in order that some conventional love interest

might be given to the work. The glamour of romance is a borrowed quality

in Moussorgsky's art; and, in spite of the charm of the scenic

surroundings, and some moments of sincere passion, the weakness of the

music proclaims the fact. He who penetrates so deeply into the

psychology of his own people, finds no better characterisation of the

Polish temperament than the use of the polacca or mazurka rhythms. True,

he may intend by these dance measures to emphasise the boastful vanity

of the Polish nobles and the light, cold nature of Marina Mnishek; but

the method becomes monotonous. Marina's solo takes this form, and again

in the duet by the fountain we are pursued by the eternal mazurka

rhythm.

The second scene of Act II. is packed full of varied interest, and in

every episode Moussorgsky is himself again. The lively dancing-songs for

the young Tsarevich and the Nurse are interrupted by the sudden entry of

Boris. In the scene which follows, where the Tsar forgets for a moment

the cares of State and the sting of conscience, and gives himself

whole-heartedly to his children, there is some exquisitely tender music,

and we begin for the first time to feel profound pity for the usurper.

The Tsarevich's recital of the incident of the parakeet, reproducing

with the utmost accuracy and transparent simplicity the varied

inflections of the child's voice, as he relates his tale without a trace

of self-consciousness, is equal to anything of the kind which

Moussorgsky has achieved in "The Nursery" song cycle. This delightful

interlude of comedy gives place on the entrance of Shouisky to the first

shadows of approaching tragedy. Darker and darker grows the mind of the

Tsar, until the scene ends in an almost intolerable crisis of madness

and despair. From the moment of Boris's terrible monologue the whole

atmosphere of the work becomes vibrant with terror and pity. But

realistic as the treatment may be, it is a realism--like that of

Shakespeare or Webster--that is exalted and vivified by a fervent and

forceful imagination.

In the opening scene of Act III., enacted amid a winter landscape in the

desolate forest of Kromy, Moussorgsky has concentrated all his powers

for the creation of a host of national types who move before our eyes in

a dazzling kaleidoscopic display. They are not attractive these revolted

and revolting peasants, revenging themselves upon the wretched

aristocrat who has fallen into their hands; for Moussorgsky, though he

raises the Folk to the dignity of a protagonist, never idealises it, or

sets it on a pedestal. But our pulses beat with the emotions of this

crowd, and its profound groan of anguish finds an echo in our hearts. It

is a living and terrible force, and beside it all other stage crowds

seem mechanical puppets. In the foreground of this shifting mass is seen

the village idiot, 'God's fool,' teased by the thoughtless children,

half-reverenced, half-pitied, by the men and women. After the False

Demetrius has passed through the forest, drawing the crowd in his wake,

the idiot is left sitting alone in the falling snow. He sings his

heart-breaking ditty: "Night and darkness are at hand. Woe to Russia!"

and the curtain falls to the sound of his bitter, paroxysmal weeping.

The last scene is pregnant with the "horror that awaits on princes." The

climax is built up step by step. After the lurking insanity of Boris,

barely curbed by the presence of the Council; after his interview with

Pimen, who destroys his last furtive hope that the young Tsarevich may

not have been murdered after all; after his access of mental and

physical agony, and his parting with his beloved son--it is with a

feeling of relief that we see death put an end to his unbearable

sufferings.

Although _Khovanstchina_ may in some ways approach more nearly to the

conventional ideal of opera, yet foreigners, I think, will find it more

difficult to understand than _Boris Godounov_. To begin with it lacks

the tragic dominant figure, swayed by such universal passions as

ambition, remorse, and paternal tenderness, which gives a psychological

unity to the earlier work. Here the dramatic interest is more widely

dispersed; it is as though Moussorgsky sought to crowd into this series

of historical pictures as many different types of seventeenth-century

Russia as possible; and these types are peculiarly national. Except that

it breaks through the rigid traditions of Byzantine art, the figures

being full of vitality, _Khovanstchina_ reminds us of those early

_ikons_ belonging to the period when the transport of pictures through

the forests, bogs, and wildernesses of Russia so restricted their

distribution, that the religious painter resorted to the expedient of

representing on one canvas as many saints as could be packed into it.

Stassov originated the idea of utilising the dramatic conflict between

old and new Russia at the close of the seventeenth century as the

subject of a music-drama. It was his intention to bring into relief a

group of representative figures of the period: Dositheus, head of the

sect known as the Rasskolniki, or Old Believers,[40] a man of lofty

character and prophetic insight; Ivan Khovansky, typical of fanatical,

half-oriental and conservative Russia; Galitsin, the westernised

aristocrat, who dreams of a new Russia, reformed on European lines; two

contrasting types of womanhood, both belonging to the Old Believers--the

passionate, mystical Martha, falling and redeeming herself through the

power of love, and Susan, in whom fanaticism has dried up the

well-springs of tenderness and sympathy; the dissolute young Andrew

Khovansky, ardently attracted by the pure, sweet young German girl,

Emma; the egotistical Scrivener, who has his humorous side; the fierce

Streltsy, and the oppressed and suffering populace--"all these

elements," says Stassov, "seemed to suggest characters and situations

which promised to be intensely stirring." It was also part of his

original design to bring upon the scene the young Tsar, Peter the Great,

and the Regent, the Tsarevna Sophia. But much of Stassov's original

scenarium had perforce to be dropped; partly because it would have

resulted in the building up of a work on an unpractically colossal

scale, but also because Moussorgsky's failing health spurred him on to

complete the drama at all costs. Had he lived a few years longer, he

would probably have made of _Khovanstchina_ a far better balanced and a

more polished work.

From the musical point of view there is undoubtedly more symmetry and

restraint in _Khovanstchina_ than in _Boris_. We are often impressed by

the almost classic simplicity of the music. A great deal of the thematic

material is drawn from ecclesiastical sources.

_Khovanstchina_ opens with an orchestral Prelude, descriptive of

daybreak over Moscow, than which nothing in Russian music is more

intensely or touchingly national in feeling. The curtain rises upon the

Red Square in the Kremlin, just as the rising sun catches the domes of

the churches, and the bells ring for early matins. A group of Streltsy

relate the havoc they have worked during the preceding night. The

Scrivener, a quaint type of the period, appears on the scene and is

roughly chaffed. When the Streltsy depart, the Boyard Shaklovity enters

and bribes the Scrivener to write down his denunciation of the

Khovanskys. No sooner is this done, than the elder Khovansky and his

suite arrive, attended by the Streltsy and the populace. In virtue of

his office as Captain of the Old Guard, the arrogant nobleman assumes

the airs of a sovereign, and issues autocratic commands, while the

people, impressed by his grandeur, sing him a song of flattery. When the

crowd has departed the Lutheran girl, Emma, runs in, hotly pursued by

the younger Khovansky. She tries in vain to rid herself of his hateful

attentions. At the climax of this scene, Martha, the young Rasskolnik

whom Prince Andrew has already loved and betrayed, comes silently upon

the stage and saves Emma from his embraces. Martha approaches Andrew,

who tries to stab her; but she parries the blow, and in one of her

ecstatic moods prophesies his ultimate fate. The elder Khovansky and his

followers now return, and the Prince inquires into the cause of the

disturbance. Prince Ivan admires Emma and orders the Streltsy to arrest

her; but Andrew, mad with jealousy, declares she shall not be taken

alive. At this juncture Dositheus enters, rebukes the young man's

violence, and restores peace.

Act II. shows us Prince Galitsin reading a letter from the Tsarevna

Sophia, with whom he has formerly had a love-intrigue. In spite of his

western education Galitsin is superstitious. The scene which follows, in

which Martha, gazing into a bowl of water, as into a crystal, foretells

his downfall and banishment, is one of the most impressive moments in

the work. Galitsin, infuriated by her predictions, orders his servants

to drown Martha on her homeward way. A long scene, devoted to a dispute

between Galitsin and Khovansky, is rather dry. Dositheus again acts as

peacemaker.

Act III. takes place in the quarter of Moscow inhabited by the Streltsy.

Martha, seated near the house of Andrew Khovansky, recalls her passion

for him in a plaintive folk-song. The song closes with one of her

prophetic allusions to the burning of the Old Believers. Susan, the old

fanatic, overhears Martha and reproves her for singing "shameless songs

of love." She threatens to have her brought before the Brethren and

tried as a witch; but Dositheus intervenes and sends Susan away,

terrified at the idea that she is the prey of evil spirits. Night falls,

and the stage is empty. Enter Shaklovity, who sings of the sorrows of

his country in an aria that is one of the most beautiful things in the

music-drama. The next scene is concerned with the Streltsy, who march in

to a drinking song. They encounter their womenfolk, who, unlike the

terrified populace of Moscow, have no hesitation in falling upon them

and giving them a piece of their mind. Undoubtedly the Streltsy were not

ideal in their domestic relations. While they are quarrelling, the

Scrivener comes in breathless, and announces the arrival of foreign

troopers and Peter the Great's bodyguard, "the Petrovtsy." The cause of

Old Russia is lost. Sobered and fearful, the Streltsy put up a prayer to

Heaven, for the religious instinct lurks in every type of the Russian

people, and even these savage creatures turn devout at a moment's

notice.

[Illustration: SHALIAPIN AS DOSITHEUS IN "KHOVANSTCHINA"]

In Act IV. the curtain rises upon a hall in Prince Ivan Khovansky's

country house, where he is taking his ease, diverted by the songs of his

serving-maids and the dances of his Persian slaves. Shaklovity appears,

and summons him to attend the Tsarevna's Council. As Khovansky in his

robes of ceremony is crossing the threshold, he is stabbed, and falls

with a great cry. The servants disperse in terror, but Shaklovity

lingers a moment to mock the corpse of his enemy. The scene now changes

to the open space in front of the fantastic church of Vassily Blajeny,

and Galitsin is seen on his way to exile, escorted by a troop of

cavalry. When he has gone by, Dositheus soliloquises on the state of

Russia. Martha comes in and tells him that the foreign mercenaries have

orders to surround the Old Believers in their place of assemblage and

put them all to death. Dositheus declares that they will sooner perish

in self-ignited flames, willing martyrs for their faith. He enjoins

Martha to bring Prince Andrew among them. During the meeting between

Martha and Andrew, the young Prince implores her to bring back Emma, and

learning that the girl is safely married to her lover, he curses

Martha for a witch, and summons his Streltsy to put her to death. In

vain the Prince blows his horn, his only reply is the hollow knelling of

the bell called "Ivan Veliky." Presently the Streltsy enter, carrying

axes and blocks for their own execution. At the last moment a herald

proclaims that Peter has pardoned them, and they may return to their

homes.

In the fifth and last Act the Old Believers are assembled by moonlight

at their hermitage in the woods near Moscow. Dositheus encourages his

followers to remain true to their vows. Martha prays that she may save

Andrew's soul by the power of her love for him. Presently she hears him

singing an old love song which echoes strangely amid all this spiritual

tension. By sheer force of devotion she induces him to mount the pyre

which the Brethren, clothed in their white festal robes, have built up

close at hand. The trumpets of the troopers are heard drawing nearer,

and Martha sets a light to the pyre. The Old Believers sing a solemn

chant until they are overpowered by the flames. When the soldiers appear

upon the scene, they fall back in horror before this spectacle of

self-immolation; while the trumpets ring out arrogantly, as though

proclaiming the passing of the old faith and ideals and the dawning of a

new day for Russia.

"My first introduction to the works of Moussorgsky came through Vladimir

Stassov. Together we went through the earlier edition of _Boris

Godounov_ (1875), and _Khovanstchina_, already issued with

Rimsky-Korsakov's revisions. 'There is more vitality in Moussorgsky than

in any of our contemporary composers,' Stassov would declare to me in my

first moments of doubtful enthusiasm. 'These operas will go further

afield than the rest, and you will see their day, when I shall no longer

be here to follow their fortunes in Western Europe.' How surely his

predictions regarding this, and other questions, were destined to be

fulfilled is a fact borne in upon me every year that I live and work in

the world of music. Later on he gave me the new edition of _Boris_

(1896), edited by the composer's life-long friend, who was in some

degree his teacher--Rimsky-Korsakov. Theoretically, Stassov was fully

opposed to these editorial proceedings; for, while admitting

Moussorgsky's technical limitations, and his tendency to be slovenly in

workmanship, he thought it might be better for the world to see this

original and inspired composer with all his faults ruthlessly exposed to

view, than clothed and in his right mind with the assistance of

Rimsky-Korsakov. Stassov's attitude to Moussorgsky reminds me of the

Russian vagabond who said to Mr. Stephen Graham: 'Love us while we are

dirty, for when we are clean all the world will love us.' We who loved

Moussorgsky's music in spite of all its apparent dishevelment may not

unnaturally resent Rimsky-Korsakov's conscientious grooming of it. But

when it actually came to the question of producing the operas, even

Stassov, I am sure, realised the need for practical revisions, without

which Moussorgsky's original scores, with all their potential greatness,

ran considerable risk of becoming mere archæological curiosities. In

1908 Bessel published a later edition of _Boris_, restoring the scenes

cut out of the version of 1896. This is the edition now generally used;

the first one, on which I was educated, having become somewhat of a

rarity."[41]

At the present moment it is impossible to write of Moussorgsky's operas

without touching on this vexed question of Rimsky-Korsakov's right to

improve upon the original drafts of his friend's works, since it is

daily agitating the musical press of Russia and Paris.

Throughout his whole life, it was Rimsky-Korsakov's lot to occupy at

frequent intervals the most delicate, difficult and thankless position

which can well be thrust upon a man, when, time after time, he was asked

to complete works left unfinished in consequence of the illness,

untimely death, or incompetence of their authors. That he attacked this

altruistic work in a self-sacrificing and perfectly honest spirit cannot

for a moment be doubted by anyone who knew him personally. But his

temperament was not pliable, and as time went on and his æsthetic

theories became more set, it grew increasingly difficult for him to see

a work in any light but that of his own clearly illumined orderly

vision. The following conversation between himself and V.

Yastrebtsiev--if it contains no note of exaggeration--shows the

uncompromising view which he took of his editorial duties. In 1895 he

had expressed his intention of writing a purely critical article on "the

merits and demerits of _Boris Godounov_." But a year later he changed

his mind, because he said: "a new revised pianoforte score and a new

orchestral score will be a more eloquent testimony to future generations

of my views on this work, not only as a whole, but as regards the

details of every bar; the more so, because in this transcription of the

opera for orchestra, personality is not concerned, and I am only doing

that which Moussorgsky himself ought to have done, but which he did not

understand how to carry out, simply because of his lack of technique as

a composer. I maintain that in my intention to reharmonise and

re-orchestrate this great opera of Moussorgsky there is certainly

nothing for which I can be blamed; in any case I impute no sin to

myself. And now," he concluded, "when I have finished my revisions of

_Boris_ and _Sadko_ it will be necessary to go through the entire score

of Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_ (which was orchestrated by me), and

should I find anything in the instrumentation which seems to me not good

(and I think I shall find much) I will correct it, in order that in the

future none will be able to reproach me with carelessness as regards the

works of others. Only when I have revised the whole of Moussorgsky's

works shall I begin to be at peace and feel that my conscience is clear;

for then I shall have done all that can and ought to be done for his

compositions and his memory."[42]

Rimsky-Korsakov was a noble and devoted friend, but he was before all

things a craftsman of the highest excellence. When it came to a question

of what he believed to be an offence against art, he saved his friend's

musical soul at the expense of his individuality. We have therefore to

weigh his close personal knowledge of Moussorgsky's aims and technical

incapacity against the uncompromising musical rectitude which guided his

editorial pen. When the question arises whether we are to hear

Moussorgsky according to Rimsky-Korsakov, or according to

Diaghilev-Ravel-Stravinsky, for my own part, having grown accustomed to

the versions of Rimsky-Korsakov--which still leave in the operas so much

of Moussorgsky's essential genius that they have not hitherto failed in

their profound psychological impression--I feel considerable doubt as to

the wisdom of flying from them to evils that we know not of. For, after

all, Rimsky-Korsakov was no purblind pedant, but a gifted musician with

an immense experience of what was feasible on the operatic stage and of

all that could militate against the success of a work.

CHAPTER XI

BORODIN AND CUI

With Borodin we return to a position midway between the original type of

national lyric opera which Glinka inaugurated in _A Life for the Tsar_

and the dramatic realism of Moussorgsky.

Alexander Porphyrievich Borodin, born at St. Petersburg in 1834, was the

illegitimate son of a Prince of Imeretia, one of the fairest of the

Georgian provinces which the Russian General Todleben rescued from

Turkish occupation in 1770. The reigning princes of Imeretia boasted

that they were direct descendants of King David the Psalmist, and

quartered the harp and sling in their arms. Borodin's education was

chiefly confided to his mother. As a boy, his capacities were evenly

balanced between music and science, but, having to make his living, he

decided in favour of the latter and became a distinguished professor of

chemistry at the College of Medicine in St. Petersburg. As regards

music, he remained until his twenty-eighth year merely an intelligent

amateur. He played the piano, the violoncello and the flute, all with

some facility; he wrote a few songs and enjoyed taking part in

Mendelssohn's chamber music. It is clear that until he met Balakirev in

1862 there was never any serious conflict between duty and inclination.

Borodin was a man of sane and optimistic temperament which disposed him

to be satisfied with the career he had chosen, in which he seemed

destined for unusual success. Unlike Tchaikovsky, who felt himself an

alien among the bureaucrats and minor officials with whom he was

associated in the Ministry of Justice, Borodin was genuinely interested

in his work. But no one with a spark of artistic enthusiasm could pass

under Balakirev's influence and be the same man as before. Within a

short time of their first meeting, the story of Cui and Moussorgsky was

repeated in Borodin. All his leisure was henceforth consecrated to the

serious study of music. Harmony and musical analysis he worked up under

Balakirev; and all his contemporaries agree in asserting that

counterpoint came to him by intuition. His early marriage to a woman of

considerable talent as a musician was an important factor in his

artistic development.

Borodin's youth had been spent chiefly in cities; consequently he did

not start life with that intimate knowledge of the folk-music which

Balakirev and Moussorgsky had acquired. But his perception was so quick

and subtle, that no sooner had his attention been called to the national

element in music than he began to use it with mastery. This is already

noticeable in his first Symphony, in E flat major. This work is not free

from the faults of inexperience, but it displays all the potential

qualities of Borodin's talent--poetical impulse, a fine taste, an

originality which is not forced, and a degree of technical facility that

is astonishing, when we realise that music was merely the occupation of

his rare leisure hours.

Stassov saw in Borodin the making of a true national poet, and

encouraged his secret ambition to compose an epic opera. He first took

up the subject of Mey's drama "The Tsar's Bride;" but his progress was

so frequently interrupted that his interest flagged. It needed a subject

of unusual attraction to keep him faithful amid many professional

preoccupations to such a long and difficult task. But in 1869 Stassov

believed he had found an ideal source from which to draw the libretto of

a great national opera, and sketched out a rough plot which he persuaded

Borodin to consider. It is not easy to convey to those who have not

studied the early Slavonic literature any just and clear idea of the

national significance of "The Epic of the Army of Igor." The original

manuscript of this Rhapsody or Saga was bought from a monk by Count

Moussin-Poushkin as late as 1795, and published by him in 1800.

Unfortunately the original document was among the many treasures which

perished in the burning of Moscow in 1812. Its authenticity has since

been the cause of innumerable disputes. Many scholars, including the

late Professor of Slavonic languages at Oxford, Mr. W. R. Morfill, have

been disposed to regard it as one of those many ingenious frauds--like

the Poems of Ossian--which were almost a feature of literary history in

the eighteenth century. Others affirm that all the Russian poets of the

eighteenth century put together had not sufficient imagination to have

produced a single line of "The Epic of Igor." In any case, it so far

surpasses in interest most of the mediæval Slavonic chronicles that it

has taken a strong hold on the popular imagination, and the majority

prefer to believe in its genuine origin in spite of differences of

opinion among the learned. In order to give some idea of its

significance and interest, perhaps I may compare it--in certain

respects--with the Arthurian Legends. The period is of course much

later--the close of the twelfth century.

The book of _Prince Igor_, planned by Stassov and written by Borodin,

runs as follows:

The Prologue takes place in the market-place of Poultivle, the residence

of Igor, Prince of Seversk. The Prince and his army are about to start

in pursuit of the Polovtsy, an Oriental tribe of Tatar origin. Igor

wishes to meet his enemies in the plains of the Don, whither they have

been driven by a rival Russian prince, Sviatoslav of Kiev. An eclipse of

the sun darkens the heavens, and at this fatal passage the people

implore Igor to postpone his expedition. But the Prince is resolute. He

departs with his youthful son Vladimir Igorievich, commending his wife

Yaroslavna to the care of his brother-in-law, Prince Galitsky, who

remains to govern Poultivle, in the absence of its lord. The first scene

depicts the treachery and misrule of this dissolute nobleman, who tries

to win over the populace with the assistance of two deserters from

Igor's army. Eroshka and Skoula are players on the _goudok_, or rebeck,

types of the gleemen, or minnesingers, of that period. They are the

comic villains of the opera. In the second scene of Act I. some young

girls complain to the Princess Yaroslavna of the abduction of one of

their companions, and implore her protection from Prince Galitsky.

Yaroslavna discovers the perfidy of her brother, and after a violent

scene drives him from her presence, at the very moment when a messenger

arrives with the news that Igor's army has been defeated on the banks of

the Kayala. "At the third dawn," says the rhapsody, "the Russian

standards fell before the foe, for no blood was left to shed." Igor and

Vladimir are taken prisoners and the Polovsty are marching on Poultivle.

The news of this heroic disaster causes a reaction of loyal sentiment,

and, as the curtain falls, the Boyards draw their swords and swear to

defend Yaroslavna to the death.

The second and third acts take place in the enemy's camp, and are full

of Oriental colour. Khan Konchak, as depicted in the opera, is a noble

type of Eastern warrior. He has one beautiful daughter, Konchakovna,

with whom the young Prince Vladimir falls passionately in love. The

serenade which he sings before her tent is perhaps the most fascinating

number in the whole work. There is also a fine bass solo for Prince

Igor, in which he gives vent to the grief and shame he suffers in

captivity. Ovlour, one of the Polovetz soldiers, who is a Christian

convert, offers to facilitate Igor's escape. But the Prince feels bound

by the chivalrous conduct of Khan Konchak to refuse his offer. In the

second act the Khan gives a banquet in honour of his noble captive,

which serves as a pretext for the introduction of Oriental dances,

choruses, and gorgeous scenic effects.

In the third act the conquering army of the Polovsty return to camp,

bringing the prisoners and spoils taken from Poultivle. At this sight,

Igor, filled with pity for the sorrows of his wife and people, consents

to flee. While the soldiers are dividing the spoil from Poultivle,

Ovlour plies them liberally with koumiss and, after a wild orgy, the

whole camp falls into a drunken sleep. Borodin has been severely

censured by certain critics for the robust realism with which he has

treated this scene. When the Khan's daughter discovers their secret

preparations for flight, she entreats Vladimir not to forsake her. He is

on the point of yielding, when his father sternly recalls him to a sense

of duty. But Konchakovna's glowing Oriental passion is not to be

baulked. At the last moment, when Ovlour gives the signal for escape,

she flings herself upon her lover, and holds him back until Igor has

mounted and galloped out of the camp, unconscious that his son is left

behind. Detained against his will, Vladimir finds no great difficulty in

accommodating himself to circumstances. The soldiers would like to kill

him in revenge for his father's escape. But the Khan philosophically

remarks: "Since the old falcon has taken flight, we must chain the young

falcon by giving him a mate. He must be my daughter's husband." In the

fourth Act Yaroslavna sings her touching lament, as she stands on the

terrace of her ruined palace and gazes over the fertile plains, now

ravaged by the hostile army. Even while she bemoans the cruelty of

fate, two horsemen come in sight. They prove to be Igor and the

faithful Ovlour, returned in safety from their perilous ride. The joy of

reunion between husband and wife may be perhaps a trifle

over-emphasised. It is the man who speaks here, rather than the artist;

for Borodin, who lived in perfect domestic happiness with his wife,

knew, however, many long and enforced separations from her. The picture

of conjugal felicity which he gives us in _Igor_ is undoubtedly

reflected from his own life.

The opera closes with a touch of humour. Igor and Yaroslavna enter the

Kremlin at Poultivle at the same moment as the two deserters Eroshka and

Skoula. The precious pair are shaking in their shoes, for if Igor

catches sight of them they are lost. To get out of their difficulty they

set the bells a-ringing and pretend to be the first bearers of the glad

tidings of Igor's escape. Probably because they are merry ruffians and

skilful with their _goudoks_, no one reveals their treachery and they

get off scot-free.

When we consider that _Prince Igor_ was written piecemeal, in intervals

snatched between medical commissions, boards of examination, lectures,

and laboratory work, we marvel to find it so astonishingly cohesive, so

delightfully fresh. Borodin describes the difficulties he had to contend

with in a letter to an intimate friend. "In winter," he says, "I can

only compose when I am too unwell to give my lectures. So my friends,

reversing the usual custom, never say to me, 'I hope you are well' but

'I do hope you are ill.' At Christmas I had influenza, so I stayed at

home and wrote the Thanksgiving Chorus in the last act of _Igor_."

Borodin took his work very seriously, as we might expect from a

scientist. He had access to every document bearing on the period of his

opera, and he received from Hunfalvi, the celebrated traveller, a number

of melodies collected among the tribes of Central Asia which he employed

in the music allotted to the Polovtsy. But there is nothing of

meticulous pedantry apparent in Borodin's work. He has drawn a vivid

picture of the past, a worthy pendant to the historical paintings of his

contemporary Vasnietsov, who has reconstructed mediæval Russia with such

astonishing force and realism. Borodin modelled his opera upon Glinka's

_Russlan and Liudmilla_ rather than on Dargomijsky's _The Stone Guest_.

He had his own personal creed as regards operatic form. "Recitative does

not conform to my temperament," he says, "although according to some

critics I do not handle it badly. I am far more attracted to melody and

cantilena. I am more and more drawn to definite and concrete forms. In

opera, as in decorative art, minutiæ are out of place. Bold outlines

only are necessary. All should be clear and fit for practical

performance from the vocal and instrumental standpoints. The voices

should take the first place; the orchestra the second."

_Prince Igor_, in its finished form, is a compromise between the new and

the old methods; for the declamation, although not of such primary

importance as with Dargomijsky, is more developed than with Glinka.

Borodin keeps to the accepted divisions of Italian opera, and gives to

Igor a long aria quite in the traditional style. The music of _Prince

Igor_ has some features in common with Glinka's _Russlan_, in which the

Oriental element is also made to contrast with the national Russian

colouring. But the Eastern music in Borodin's opera is more daring and

characteristic. Comparing the two operas, Cheshikin says: "The epic

beauty of _Prince Igor_ reminds us of the serene poetry of Goncharov, of

the so-called 'poetry of daily life'; while Glinka may be more suitably

compared to Poushkin. Borodin's calm, cheerful, objective attitude

towards the national life is manifested in the general style of the

opera; in the wonderfully serene character of its melody; in the

orchestral colour, in the transparency of the harmony, and the lightness

and agility of the counterpoint. In spite of his reputation as an

innovator, Borodin has introduced nothing startlingly new into this

opera; his orchestral style is still that of Glinka.... The poetry of

common things exercised such a fascination for Borodin that he

completely forgot the heroic tendencies of Glinka. His folk, as

represented by him amid an epidemic of alcoholism, and the hard-worked,

ubiquitous _goudok_ players, Eroshka and Skoula, throw into the shade

the leading characters whose musical outlines are somewhat sketchy and

impermanent. Borodin's Igor recalls Glinka's Russlan; Yaroslavna is not

a very distinguished personality; Galitsky is not far removed from

Eroshka and Skoula; and Konchakovna and Vladimir are ordinary operatic

lovers. The chief beauty of Glinka's _Russlan_ lies in the solo parts

and in a few concerted numbers. On the other hand, the principal hero of

Borodin's opera is 'the folk'; while its chief beauty is to be found in

the choruses based on Russian and Tatar folk-song themes. What affects

us chiefly in the music may be traced to that normal optimism with which

the whole work is impregnated." Borodin, it should be added, had far

more humour than Glinka, who could never have created two such broadly

and robustly comic types as Skoula and Eroshka. There is a distinctly

Shakespearian flavour in the quality of Borodin's humour. In this

respect he approaches Moussorgsky.

In the atmosphere of healthy, popular optimism which pervades it

throughout; in the prevalence of major over minor keys; in the

straightforwardness of its emotional appeal--_Prince Igor_ stands almost

alone among Russian operas. The spirit of pessimism which darkens

Russian literature inevitably crept into the national opera; because

music and literature are more closely associated in Russia than in any

other country. Glinka's _A Life for the Tsar_ is a tragedy of loyal

self-sacrifice; Tchaikovsky took his brooding melancholy into his

operatic works, which are nearly all built on some sad or tragic

libretto; Cui deals in romantic melodrama; Moussorgsky depicts the

darkest phases in Russian history. _Prince Igor_ comes as a serene and

restful interlude after the stress and horror which characterise many

Russian national operas. Nor is it actually less national because of its

optimistic character. There are two sides to the Russian temperament;

the one overshadowed by melancholy and mysticism; prone to merciless

analysis; seeing only the contradictions and vanities of life, the

mortality and emptiness of all that is. I doubt if this is the true

Russian temperament; if it is not rather a morbid condition, the result

of sudden and copious doses of culture, administered too hastily to a

people just emerging from a semi-barbaric state--the kind of result

that follows alcohol taken on an empty stomach; a quick elation, an

equally speedy reaction to extreme depression. The other side of the

Russian character is really more normal. It shows itself in the popular

literature. The folk-songs and _bylini_ are not all given up to

resentful bitterness and despair. We find this healthier spirit in the

masses, where it takes the form of a desire for practical knowledge, a

shrewdness in making a bargain and a co-operative spirit that properly

guided would accomplish wonders. It shows itself, too, in a great

capacity for work which belongs to the vigorous youth of the nation and

in a cheerful resignation to inevitable hardships. Borodin was attracted

by temperament to this saner aspect of national character.

The most distinctive feature of Russian art and literature is the power

to reflect clearly, as in a glass, various phases of popular life. This

has also been the aim of the Russian composers, with few exceptions.

They cheerfully accepted the limitations imposed by the national vision,

and have won appreciation abroad by the sheer force of genius manifested

in their works. They resolutely sought the kingdom of the Ideal, and

would have been greatly surprised to find such things as universal fame

added to them. Borodin, for example, cherished no illusions as to

winning the approval of Berlin or Paris for his work. _Prince Igor_, he

said, with admirable philosophy, "is essentially an opera for the

Russians. It would never bear transplantation." For many years, however,

it could not even be said to be "a work for the Russians" in the fullest

sense, because it was not offered to the right public. Works like

_Prince Igor_ and _Boris Godounov_, which should have been mounted at a

People's Palace in St. Petersburg, for the enjoyment of a large and

really popular audience, were laid aside for many years awaiting the

patriotic enterprise of rich men like Mamantov, who occasionally gave a

series of Russian operas at their own expense, or the generous impulse

of artists such as Melnikov and Shaliapin, who were willing to risk the

production of a national masterpiece on their benefit nights.

César Cui offers in most respects a complete contrast to the composer of

_Prince Igor_. It is true that he shares with Borodin the lyrical,

rather than the declamatory, tendency in operatic music, but whereas the

latter is a follower of Glinka in his close adherence to the national

style, we find in the music of César Cui a strong blend of foreign

influences. As in Tchaikovsky's dramatic works we discern from first to

last some traces of his earliest love in music--the Italian opera--so in

Cui's compositions we never entirely lose sight of his French descent.

Cui's position as a composer must strike us as paradoxical. The first

disciple to join Balakirev, and always a staunch supporter of the new

Russian school, we might naturally expect to find some strong,

progressive, and national tendency in his music. We might suppose that

he would assume the virtue of nationality even if he had it not. But

this is not the case. The French element, combined, curiously enough,

with Schumann's influence, is everywhere predominant. Nevertheless, Cui

has been a distinct force in the evolution of modern Russian music, for

to him is generally attributed the origin of that "second generation" of

composers with whom inspiration ranks after the cult of form, and "the

idea" becomes subordinate to elaborate treatment. This tendency is also

represented by Glazounov in his early work, and still more strongly by

Liadov and one or two composers for the pianoforte.

Cui was born at Vilna, in Poland, in 1835. His father had served in

Napoleon's army, and was left behind during the retreat from Moscow in

1812. He afterwards married a Lithuanian lady and settled down as

teacher of French in the Vilna High School. Here Cui received his early

education. He showed a precocious musical talent and, besides learning

the pianoforte, picked up some theoretical knowledge from Moniuszko;

but he never--as is sometimes stated--received regular instruction from

the Polish composer. Except for what he owed in later life to

Balakirev's guidance, Cui is actually that _rara avis_, a self-taught

composer.

From the time he entered the School of Military Engineering in 1850,

until he passed out with honours in 1857, Cui had no time to devote to

his favourite pursuit. On obtaining officer's rank he was appointed

sub-Professor of Fortification, and lecturer on the same subject at the

Staff College and School of Artillery. Among his pupils he reckoned the

present Emperor, Nicholas II. Cui has now risen to be a Lieut.-General

of Engineers and President of the I. R. M. S. At first his military

appointments barely sufficed to keep him, and when he married--early in

life--he and his wife were obliged to add to their income by keeping a

preparatory school for boys intended eventually for the School of

Engineering. Here Cui taught all day, when not lecturing in the military

schools; while his nights were largely devoted to the study of harmony,

and afterwards to composition and musical criticism. Very few of the

Russian composers, with their dual occupations to fulfil, have known the

luxury of an eight hours' day.

Cui first met Balakirev in 1856, and was introduced by him to

Dargomijsky. His earliest operatic attempt, a work in one act entitled

_The Mandarin's Son_, was a very slight composition in the style of

Auber. An opera composed about the same time (1858-1859) on Poushkin's

dramatic poem _The Captive in the Caucasus_ was a much more ambitious

effort. Many years later--in 1881--Cui considered this work worth

remodelling, and he also interpolated a second act. The patch is rather

obvious, but _The Captive in the Caucasus_ is an interesting work to

study, because it reveals very clearly the difference between Cui's

earlier and later styles. Cui's reputation as an operatic composer

actually began, however, with the performance of _William Ratcliff_,

produced at the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, in February 1869,

under the direction of Napravnik, on the occasion of Mme. Leonova's

benefit. A composer who is also a critic is certainly at a disadvantage

in many respects. Cui, who contributed during the 'sixties a whole

series of brilliant--and often mercilessly satirical--articles to the

Russian press,[43] gave his adversaries an excellent opportunity to

attack him for inconsistency when _Ratcliff_ made its appearance. Cui's

literary precepts do undoubtedly move somewhat in advance of his

practice as a composer, and _Ratcliff_ conforms in very few respects to

the creed of the new Russian school as formulated by him in his

well-known articles "La Musique en Russie." That is to say, instead of

following the example of Dargomijsky in _The Stone Guest_, Cui to a

great extent replaces free-recitative by arioso; while at the same time

the absence of such broad and flowing melody as we find in the operas of

Glinka, Borodin, and Tchaikovsky places _William Ratcliff_ in a position

midway between declamatory and lyric opera. Some of the hostile

criticisms showered upon this work are not altogether unjust. The

subject of Heine's early tragedy, the outcome of his "Sturm und Drang"

period, is undoubtedly crude and sensational; even in Plestcheiev's fine

translation it was hardly likely to be acceptable to a nation who was

beginning to base its dramatic traditions on the realistic plays of

Gogol and Ostrovsky, rather than upon the romanticism of Schiller's

"Robbers," and kindred dramas. The music is lacking in realistic power

and certainly makes no pretensions to fulfil Dargomijsky's dictum that

"the note must represent the word." Although the action of _William

Ratcliff_ takes place across the border, neither the sentiment nor the

colour of the music would satisfy a Scottish composer. But Cui's critics

show a lack of perception when they neglect to praise the grace and

tenderness which characterise his heroine Mary, and the sincerity and

warmth of emotion which occasionally kindles and glows into passion as

in the love-duet between William and Mary in the last act.

The public verdict which began by echoing that of the critics, with the

inimical Serov at their head, afterwards became more favourable, and

_William Ratcliff_, when produced in 1900 by the Private Opera Company

in Moscow, was received with considerable enthusiasm.

Tchaikovsky, writing of this opera in 1879, says: "It contains charming

things, but unfortunately it suffers from a certain insipidity, and from

over-elaboration in the development of the parts. It is obvious that the

composer has spent a long time over each individual bar, and lovingly

completed it in every detail, with the result that his musical outline

has lost its freedom and every touch is too deliberate. By nature Cui is

more drawn towards light and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the

demands of 'the invincible band,' which he has joined, compel him to do

violence to his natural gifts and to follow those paths of would-be

original harmony which do not suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of

age and has only composed two operas and two or three dozen songs. He

was engaged for ten years upon his opera _Ratcliff_. It is evident that

the work was composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style."

This criticism contains a germ of carefully observed truth. The score of

_William Ratcliff_, which looks deceptively simple and seems to be

packed with dance rhythms in the style of Auber (Leslie's song in Act

II. for instance might be a chansonette from "Fra Diavolo"), shows on

closer examination rather a tiresome succession of harmonic surprise

tricks, intended perhaps to draw attention from themes which have not in

themselves an impressive dramatic quality. At the same time, only

prejudice could ignore the true poetry and passion expressed in the love

scenes between William and Mary.

_William Ratcliff_ was followed by a series of admirable songs which

indicated that Cui's talent as a vocal composer was rapidly maturing. A

new opera, in four acts, entitled _Angelo_,[44] was completed and

performed in St. Petersburg in February 1876, under the direction of

Napravnik, the occasion being the benefit of the great baritone

Melnikov. The book of _Angelo_ is based upon a play of Victor Hugo--a

tale of passionate love; of rivalry between two beautiful and

contrasting types of womanhood; of plotted revenge, and final atonement,

when Tisbe saves the life of her rival at the expense of her own. The

scene is laid in Padua during the middle of the sixteenth century. This

work is generally regarded as the fruit of Cui's maturity. The subject

is more suited to his temperament than Heine's "Ratcliff," and lends

itself to the frequent employment of a chorus. Here Cui has been very

successful, especially in the lighter choruses written in Italian dance

rhythms, such as the tarantella "The moon rides in the clear bright

sky," in the third act, and the graceful valse-like chorus "Far o'er the

sea." The love duet between Catarina and Rodolfo is preferred by many to

the great love duet in _Ratcliff_. Cui, whose heroines are more

convincing than his male types, has found congenial material in Catarina

and Tisbe, who have been described as "Woman in Society and Woman

outside it"; thus combining in two typical personalities "all women and

all womanhood." There is power, too, in the purely dramatic moments, as

when Ascanio addresses the populace. The opera concludes with a fine

elegiac chorus, in which the character of the period and

locality--mediæval Italy, tragic and intense--is not unsuccessfully

reflected.

In _Angela_ Cui made a supreme effort to achieve breadth of style and to

break through the limitations he had imposed upon himself by adopting

the methods and peculiarities of such composers as Schumann and Chopin.

But this effort seems to have been followed by a speedy reaction. After

the appearance of _Angelo_ his manner becomes more distinctly finical

and artificial. His military duties and his literary work made

increasing demands on his time, and the flow of inspiration dropped

below its highest level. Songs and miniatures for pianoforte were now

his chief preoccupation, and, greater undertakings being perhaps out of

the question, he became absorbed in the cult of small and finished

forms, and fell increasingly under the influence of Schumann. It was at

this time that he wrote the additional act for _The Captive in the

Caucasus_, to which reference has already been made. Here the contrast

between the simplicity and sincerity of his first style, and the formal

polish and "preciousness" of his middle period, is very pronounced. The

use of local colour in _The Captive in the Caucasus_ is not very

convincing. Cui is no adept in the employment of Oriental themes, and

the Caucasus has never been to him the source of romantic inspiration it

has proved to so many other Russian poets and composers.

Another four-act opera _The Saracen_, the subject taken from a play by

the elder Dumas entitled "Charles VII. chez ses grands Vasseaux," was

first performed at the Maryinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg in 1899, and

revived by the Private Opera Company at Moscow in 1902. The subject is

gloomy and highly dramatic, with sensational elements almost as lurid as

anything in _William Ratcliff_. The interest of the opera fluctuates

between the love of the King for Agnes Sorel--two figures which stand

out in relief from the dark historical background of that period, when

Jeanne d'Arc was fighting the battles of her weak and indolent

sovereign--and the domestic affairs of the saturnine Count Saverny and

his wife Bérangère; complicated by the inner drama which is carried on

in the soul of the Saracen slave Jakoub, who is in love with the

Countess, and finally murders her husband at her instigation. As usual,

Cui is most successful in the purely lyrical numbers--the love scenes

between the King and Agnes Sorel. Here the music, almost effeminately

tender, has that touching and sensuous quality which caused a celebrated

French critic to write of Cui as "the Bellini of the North." The

"berceuse," sung, strangely enough, by the harsh Count de Saverny as he

keeps watch over the King's son on the threshold of his bed-chamber, is

a strikingly original number which should be better known in the

concert-room.