PART IV

SONGS 83

LIST OF PRINCIPAL WORKS 97

INDEX 98

MOUSSORGSKY

INTRODUCTION

It would be idle to enter upon a consideration of the life and work

of Moussorgsky without first making some attempt to expound his

æsthetic outlook. Fortunately this does not involve reference to a

library of volumes such as that left by Wagner. The German composer

was at considerable pains that the public should know something of

his artistic aims, and also, be it said, of his social and political

views, and those who approach his music knowing nothing either of its

import or of the personality of its composer have only themselves to

blame.

With Moussorgsky it is a different matter, especially as regards

the British public, who until two or three years ago had no means

of obtaining any detailed information about either the man or his

work. He leaves nothing behind him in the shape of an artistic

confession of faith beyond the few scattered utterances that were

delivered in letters to his friends, and even these are for the most

part inaccessible to all who have no acquaintance with the Russian

tongue. This is the more unfortunate since in England the great

Russian composer first became known through one or two entirely

uncharacteristic works, examples which either had no artistic

significance whatever, or which represented his views only by their

text and not through its musical setting.

In the first category is the “Song of the Flea,” which was accorded

the quite unmerited honour of being among the first of his works

to be brought to England; in the second is “The Peepshow,” which

consists of a commentary upon, and an exposure of, the prejudices of

lesser composers, but which tells us nothing of Moussorgsky’s genius,

his musical style, or his manner of applying his æsthetic principles

in his own compositions.

There must still be a considerable number of British music-lovers to

whom Moussorgsky is known as the composer of one or two operas which

they have not yet had an opportunity of hearing, of a few songs, and

of some examples of symphonic music, such as the popular “Gopak.”

It is this section of the public that one addresses when pronouncing

Moussorgsky to be one of the very greatest figures in the annals of

Music--apart altogether from his creative output. In the world of Art

it does not very often happen that a man who formulates principles

has a sufficiently commanding creative power to provide his own

convincing examples of the application of those principles. As a rule

the artist who talks of reforms has not himself been highly endowed

with the gift of artistic creation.

In Moussorgsky’s art we have the reflection of his own convictions

and, what is more, their vindication. But since his works have an

appeal which does not depend upon a knowledge of the principles

they embody, there seems sufficient reason for supposing that the

creative qualities of the composer are at least equal in value to his

æsthetic preconceptions.

The art of Moussorgsky is based upon three fundamental principles:

(1) That Art is an expression of humanity, and, like humanity, is in

a constant state of evolution; (2) that Art, as such, can therefore

have no arbitrary formalistic boundaries; (3) that as the expression

of humanity is an office which ought to be carried out with a full

sense of the responsibility attaching to those entrusted with it, the

artist is called upon to be sincere in any art-work he may undertake.

Anyone who had lived in an artistic environment of his own making,

who had never been in touch with an outside world that looks upon

Art as a means of whiling away a superfluous hour, who had never

known of that problem with which the public artist is continuously

being confronted--the problem of how suitably to compromise with the

dull-witted section of humanity--would wonder why it should have

seemed necessary to Moussorgsky, or anyone else, to propound as his

confession of faith a series of such platitudinous axioms. Moreover,

in perusing the bare narrative of Moussorgsky’s life, one would not

discover on the surface anything entitling one to suppose that he in

particular should have been able to recognize the need for dwelling

upon matters that are to be clearly understood only by those who have

never been contaminated by close contact with the World.

It is only between the lines of that narrative that one can discover

the key to this mystery. In other walks of life than Art one hears

of the “conversion” of individuals who have hitherto followed the

moral line of least resistance. At a certain moment in their lives

there has come a sudden awakening, a realization that honesty and

decent behaviour as a whole should not be reckoned a policy, but an

obligation towards oneself.

A thief may arrive at such a psychological crisis through being

brought face to face with a circumstance revealing to him for the

first time that it is pleasant to be able to look his neighbour in

the eyes. A drunkard, surveying in a sober interval the ruin brought

upon his family, may resolve that there must surely be a happy medium

of temperance between the states of drunkenness with wine and what

Baudelaire called drunkenness with virtue. A great national crisis

may open the eyes of a politician so that he will henceforth consider

the party principle and his acquiescence in it as the betrayal of a

trust.

Such specimens of erring humanity, when awakened to a sense of duty

towards themselves and their fellows, are reckoned “converted.”

Moussorgsky, in his early days a musical “rake,” became a converted

musician.

He saw that Music was the sick man of Art, and that his past attitude

towards it was not likely to improve its condition. He saw that music

is given to man that he may give utterance to emotions inexpressible

by words. From this starting-point he was not slow in reaching the

conclusion that a nation which is satisfied to depend upon foreign

art-products has not yet become worthy to be reckoned in the full

sense a nation; that in conveying ideas which are too subtle for

verbal expression, music is ministering not to the mind but to the

temperament; and consequently that it would be absurd arbitrarily to

confine the expression of the subconscious emotions of one generation

within the forms employed by a previous generation. Finally he

perceived that, if Art was to be taken seriously as an expression of

humanity, it must no longer remain in a condition in which no earnest

human being could look upon it other than as a frivolous pastime.

Moussorgsky, once “converted,” began to urge the necessity of

expressing national aspirations by means of Art, of abolishing

the laws that were a mental product of a previous generation and

could therefore have no bearing upon the temperamental needs of the

present, of emancipating Music from a condition in which its relation

towards the other arts was that either of a brutal master, or a

lying, though nicely-mannered servant.

There are conventional terms which contain the essence of the

qualities considered by Moussorgsky to be indispensable conditions to

the welfare of his art. They are Truth, Freedom, and Progress.

The presence of the word Truth upon his banner did not cause a great

deal of concern among his contemporaries. They did not recognize that

artistic truth was a rarity. But the remainder of the legend seemed

to them to aim at the very foundations of the art of Music.

The attitude of musicians towards music in Moussorgsky’s day was

not strikingly dissimilar from that observable in the twentieth

century. There was a reverence for tradition that was little short of

a mania. The older a masterpiece became, the more they venerated it.

The best music of the immediately previous generation was tolerated

apparently on the ground that it might one day become a classic.

Music of the present generation was by common consent ignored. To

such as these, therefore, the word Progress seemed to contain a very

impertinent challenge. But what of Freedom? Moussorgsky refused to

observe the laws that, according to him, had been formulated for

the benefit of those who wished merely to imitate the composers

of the past. It is generally assumed that he was too impatient

of technique to trouble himself about acquiring any considerable

knowledge of it. His complaint that, while he could discuss art with

painters and sculptors, he found that musicians never got as far as

Art, but confined themselves to questions of technique, explains in

some measure his attitude. “Is it,” he asks, “because it is my weak

point that I hate it?” This inquiry is not directly answered, but

is followed by a justification couched in metaphor. He likens the

exploitation of technique to the behaviour of your host who persists

in making known to you the ingredients of the delicious pudding he

offers you.

It would seem as though Moussorgsky found, in the technical training

prescribed for musicians, something which caused the student

to contract an ineradicable habit of looking backward. This he

considered inimical to the progress of the art. Naturally, it is

urged against him that, as a great deal of his work had to be revised

by Rimsky-Korsakof, he himself would have profited had he attained

a greater technical proficiency. As to this it is impossible to

judge fairly without comparing the originals with Rimsky-Korsakof’s

versions. When that is done one begins to perceive that a great

deal of the so-called “incorrect” or “crude” is music that did not

receive the sanction of his contemporaries, or of the immediately

succeeding generation, for the simple reason that he was at least

three generations ahead of his contemporaries. The advanced musician

of the present day is, therefore, protesting against the emendations,

because he finds in the original version something that he would

himself be proud of having invented.[1]

But apart altogether from this aspect of the question, if we compare

the creative work of the emendator and the emendated, we discover

that while Rimsky-Korsakof’s most recent music is beginning to sound

old-fashioned, Moussorgsky’s music of forty years ago is not. From

which we are entitled to infer that the music of a composer who

happens to be a great genius, though technically deficient, has a

greater vitality than the music of one who is a great artist and

technically proficient.

If that be a correct inference, it would seem to be in the interests

of musical progress that a few partnerships should be arranged

between geniuses who are hampered by a want of technique, and

artists whose training has destroyed or marred their prophetic vision.

This would perhaps prove a fruitful means of bringing into the

world a store of living music, of music that would not remind us at

intervals of some dead and gone composer.

The consideration of Moussorgsky’s opinions cannot in any case lessen

one’s appreciation of his music.

It will be found that whereas many will vehemently contest the

validity of Moussorgsky’s artistic principles, exceedingly few will

hear his music without supreme enjoyment. The acceptation of these

principles has been forced upon the musical world on every occasion

on which a genius has arisen. But the musical world has apparently

never become conscious of having accepted them. It prefers to go on

denying the existence of the mountain range in which the stream of

great music has its source.

The study of Moussorgsky’s life and work affords a rare opportunity

of observing that a composer who is frankly a futurist is not

necessarily either a fool, a wag, or a knave. For in listening to his

music, we of the present generation cannot imagine for the life of us

what all the pother was about. It is all quite acceptable. But the

principles--which are new to us, and, unlike the music, will always

be new to a wicked world--those we cannot ever bring ourselves to

uphold!

“When our efforts to put the actual living man in our music are

appreciated, ...” wrote Moussorgsky to his friend Stassof, “then

shall we have begun to make progress....”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In Yastrebtsef’s “Recollections of Rimsky-Korsakof” (now

in course of serial publication by the _Russian Musical

Gazette_), many of the latter’s utterances on this subject

are recorded.

PART I

CAREER

I.

Modeste Petrovich Moussorgsky was born on March 16th (O.S.), 1839, at

Karevo, a village situated in that district (Toropets) of the Pskof

Government nearest to the Muscovite boundary. The household at that

moment consisted of his father, Pyotr Alexeyevich, a small landowner;

his mother, whose maiden name was Shirikof; a brother, Filaret; and

the all-important nurse.

The child’s surroundings from the very first were such as to

contribute most happily to the development of his particular form

of genius. His father appears to have enjoyed music, although not

displaying any executive ability; his mother was a very fair pianist.

For her influence he was never tired of expressing his indebtedness

in terms such as leave no room for doubt as to his filial affection.

But it was to his nurse, as was the case with Pushkin, that he owed

the very seeds of his art. “My nurse,” wrote the composer in after

years, “made me intimately acquainted with Russian folk-lore.” Her

stories of the terrible Kashchei, the fearful Baba Yaga, the heroic

Ivan Tsarevich, and the inexhaustibly beautiful Tsarevna, played

so vividly upon the child’s imagination as to keep him awake at

night for hours together. As soon as he realized the functions of

the piano, he set about making childish musical pictures of these

personages. For the first ten years of his life he enjoyed a rural

environment, and at an early age he displayed that affection for the

land and its denizens that characterized his later outlook upon the

world.

Naturally it fell to his mother to give him his first lessons in

music. Seeing that the only region in which Moussorgsky ever reached

technical excellence was in that of piano-playing, it may be supposed

that her instruction was not wanting in method. But perceiving, no

doubt, that his studies would be of greater value if carried on under

the guidance of someone trained in the art of teaching, she lost no

time, once the boy’s gift was evident, in engaging a governess--a

German, whose qualifications were unexceptionable. In her hands

little Modeste made quite rapid strides. At the age of seven he could

already give a fair account of some light pieces of Liszt, and when

only nine he astonished the guests at an evening party by his mastery

over a concerto by John Field.

A few years later the two brothers were taken to Petrograd and

placed in a school. Modeste was eventually to enter the army, but

the parents, rejoicing at his evident gift for music, determined

to do everything in their power to develop it. Necessary inquiries

having been made, their choice fell upon Herke, a teacher with a

considerable following, whom they engaged to direct the youngster’s

studies. The master was able at once to endorse the opinion of

Modeste’s parents, and undertook his training with great enthusiasm.

The little fellow soon showed that his teacher’s confidence was not

misplaced. He made such progress that after a year’s tuition he was

allowed to take part in a small concert; he acquitted himself so

well, and attracted so much attention, that his delighted master

bestowed on him a copy of a Beethoven sonata as a mark of his esteem.

In 1852, Moussorgsky entered a private preparatory institution,

from whence he passed into the school for Ensigns of the Guard. His

first composition was an “Ensigns’ Polka,” which he dedicated to his

comrades. Herke, with whom he was still taking lessons, insisted on

publishing the piece. During the last two years of his course at the

school, which ended in 1855, he was obliged to devote rather less

attention to music; his military studies were taking up a good deal

of his time. He went to Herke once a week, and was allowed also to

attend when the daughter of the school director took her lessons.

Moussorgsky appears to have been a particularly diligent scholar. His

biographers record that at this time, in addition to his military

and musical studies, he displayed a decided liking for history and

philosophy; he is said to have begun a translation of Lavater while

still in the early ’teens, surely a remarkable taste in a youth.

Hardly less odd, perhaps, was the desire to acquaint himself with the

basic principles of the music of the Greek Church, for which purpose

he studied privately with one of the school staff. A little later in

life he had every reason to congratulate himself on having made these

researches. Moussorgsky wrote no music which could be called, in the

strict sense of the term, sacred, but in the two music-dramas, “Boris

Godounof” and “Khovanshchina,” as well as in a satirical song, he has

proved that the hours passed with the priest Kroupsky were well spent.

Already during his school-days he had made one or two musical

friends; among them was Azanchevsky, who eventually became Director

of the Petrograd Conservatoire; and on entering the Preobajensky

regiment of Guards (in 1856), he found himself among quite a number

of young amateurs of music. Sub-lieutenant Orfano had a weakness, for

which his name seems to account, for Italian opera; Orlof’s taste

ran in the direction of the military march; Demidof, afterwards a

friend of Dargomijsky and class inspector at the Conservatoire,

was a popular song-writer; while Prince Obolensky, the nature of

whose proclivities is not defined, was deemed worthy to receive the

dedication of a little piano piece written by Moussorgsky at this

time.

It is clear that the young composer had no intention of limiting his

efforts to the region of salon music, for not long after his entrance

into the Preobajensky he began his first attempt at opera. Here,

however, desire outran performance, and neither the libretto which he

tried to adapt from Hugo’s “Han d’Islande,” nor its abortive musical

setting, resulted in anything more tangible than the respectful

admiration of his comrades.

It is likely that, had his musical environment not been enlarged,

he might not have been encouraged to widen his outlook upon the art.

Hitherto his social circle had consisted of young men who regarded

music purely as a diversion, and the possession of a pleasant

baritone voice and a marked talent for piano-playing was sufficient

to secure a considerable popularity among them.

II.

Towards the early autumn of 1856, however, he fell in with someone

whose aims were a little more elevated, someone serious enough to

realize the futility of Moussorgsky’s musical life at that moment.

This was A. P. Borodin, now known to the world as the composer of

“Prince Igor,” but then a young man of some twenty-two years who

divided his time between scientific research and the pursuit of

music. Borodin has left us a pen-picture which describes in graphic

fashion the young guardsman himself and the musical society he was

then wont to affect.

“My first meeting with Moussorgsky took place in September or

October, 1856. I had just been made an army surgeon. Moussorgsky was

then seventeen years of age. We met in the hospital common-room. We

were both rather bored by our duties and were glad of an opportunity

for conversation. In a few moments we had discovered our common

interest. That evening we had been invited to the quarters of

the chief medical officer Popof. The latter had a marriageable

daughter.... Moussorgsky was at this time a real dandy ... with

the airs of a great personage.... He had a rather affected way

of talking, and his conversation was interlarded with French

expressions.... He would seat himself at the piano and play snatches

of ‘Trovatore’ or ‘Traviata,’ to the delight of the assembled company

of ladies.... I only saw Moussorgsky three or four times, and then

lost sight of him....”

More important in its effect upon Moussorgsky’s musical development

was his meeting, a month or so later, with Dargomijsky, to whom

he was introduced by one of his comrades, Vanliarsky by name. The

composer of “Russalka,” which had just been produced, took a great

liking for the young officer, and under this influence the latter’s

taste rapidly underwent a change. He began to feel a need for a more

serious type of music and a more discriminating audience. As time

went on he became conscious that beneath his superficial respect

for the vanities of life and of art lay a desire to come to grips

with their realities. There was thus a good deal in common between

Dargomijsky and his young disciple.

Just about a year after the chance meeting described by Borodin,

Moussorgsky became acquainted with two others, whose names are now

invariably associated not only with his own and Borodin’s, but

with that of Rimsky-Korsakof, who afterwards joined and completed

the little côterie subsequently famous as the “Five.” These two,

Mili Alexeyevich Balakiref and Cesar Antonovich Cui, were frequent

visitors at Dargomijsky’s. In the previous year Balakiref had come

to Petrograd to complete the musical studies he had until then

been prosecuting under the guidance of Oulibishef, the biographer

of Mozart. Oulibishef had given his young _protégé_ a letter to

Glinka, and the composer of “A Life for the Tsar” had been mightily

pleased to meet with one who was so obviously suited to conduct a

propaganda on behalf of his cherished nationalistic ideal. Balakiref

was not long in the capital before he met Cui. Both were young men

under twenty, and their common dissatisfaction with the condition of

musical taste in Petrograd served as a bond of friendship. Cui had

known Dargomijsky for some little time, and was thus well versed in

the principles of the Glinkist ideal. Balakiref and Cui resolved that

the prevailing taste for all things foreign must be discouraged, and

that, in music at any rate, a national style should be founded which

should oust the German, French, and Italian traditions that had so

long been objects of worship in Russia.

Moussorgsky’s association with Dargomijsky and his two disciples was

the means of leading him to the study of a work of which, in one

sense, “Boris Godounof” is to be considered the prototype. Glinka’s

“A Life for the Tsar,” of which he appears hitherto to have known

little or nothing, contains at least two of the elements that are

characteristics of Moussorgsky’s music-drama. It has a purely Russian

subject, and it glorifies the Russian people. Here, then, was a work

which could hardly fail to inspire a man who had but lately turned

away from the facile successes of the drawing-room.

Besides these, there are other components to be discovered in

Moussorgsky’s operatic and vocal works which are to be traced, not

to the influence of Glinka, but to that of Dargomijsky. Discussion

of this influence must, however, be deferred; for the moment we

are concerned only with drawing attention to the circumstances

responsible for Moussorgsky’s remarkable emancipation. The young

guardsman had found himself; he had seen, as it were, a reflection of

his own latent creative powers and tendencies in the works of Glinka

and Dargomijsky; the patriotism of the first and the sincerity of

the second drove him to realize that this type of music must for the

future monopolize his attention and interest. He would, in his own

words, devote himself to “real” music.

III.

As up to this time Moussorgsky’s musical activities had been largely

of a social kind, he felt that in order to take his place, as he

desired, beside his new associates, he must render himself conversant

with the form and structure of music; to this end he resolved to

take lessons from Balakiref, whose knowledge was sufficiently wide

to enable him to take the place of leader in the newly established

côterie.[2]

Balakiref’s account of his method of instruction is a little

astonishing. Master and pupil played through, in four-handed

arrangements, the works of the classic masters, and those of such

moderns as Schumann, Berlioz, and Liszt. “So well did I explain to

him their musical form,” says a communication to Stassof, “that he

was soon able to compose a symphonic Allegro which was not altogether

wanting in merit.”

Balakiref was plainly cognizant that these lessons were not to be

regarded as comprehensive. He avows that his own knowledge did not

permit of anything more than the analysis of forms, that he was

unable to undertake instruction in harmony; but he appears to have

been satisfied that for Moussorgsky such knowledge was negligible.

He was at all events sufficiently pleased with his pupil’s early

essays in composition to recommend them for performance, with

the result that one of two orchestral scherzos (that in B minor)

was played in 1860 at a concert of the Russian Musical Society,

under the conductorship of Anton Rubinstein. The choral setting of

Sophocles’ “Œdipus,” also written at this time, was performed in the

following year--Constantin Lyadof, the father of the famous composer,

conducting.

With the development of his creative capacity, Moussorgsky began to

conceive an aversion from his military duties, and his transference

to a station at some little distance from Petrograd served to

increase his desire to be freed from them. Arguing to himself that

absence from the capital would involve a cessation of his musical

activities, he resolved to send in his papers.

Stassof’s reminder that the great Lermontof had contrived to

reconcile the two occupations of poet and soldier met with the

laconic reply: “Lermontof and I are two different people.” He had

also to argue with his other friends. Despite all remonstrance, he

carried his determination into effect and, forsaking Mars, devoted

himself henceforth to St. Cecilia.

The cause of Moussorgsky’s subsequent physical degeneration is now

known to have been intemperance, but there can be little doubt

that his nervous system was far from normal. More than once in the

chronicle of his short life one finds a record of nervous breakdown.

The first of these occurred shortly after the severance of his

connection with the army, and in consequence he was obliged to betake

himself from Petrograd for a time. The medicinal waters at Tikhvin,

the birthplace of Rimsky-Korsakof, brought about an improvement in

his health which enabled him to resume his activities as a composer.

During the summer he wrote a “Children’s Scherzo” and an “Impromptu

Passionné,” both for piano; the latter, which is said to have been

inspired by a perusal of a then popular “problem” novel, was not

published until after his death.

The change in Moussorgsky has been referred to as a physical

degeneration; it should be understood that the later intellectual

decay did not manifest itself during the period now under review.

On the contrary, he has left indisputable evidence of a spiritual

awakening which seems to have begun soon after his resignation

from the army. In a letter to Cui, written from his mother’s

house at Toropets, he records his exasperation at the behaviour of

the reactionaries who had set themselves energetically to oppose

the emancipation of serfs, which had just then been effected. The

composer of the “Ensigns’ Polka” was becoming aware that the real

greatness of Russia lay in the temper of its people. The triumphs

of the smart guardsman were forgotten; he had now an altogether

different social ideal.

Borodin, who again met Moussorgsky in the autumn of 1859, was

apparently struck rather by the physical than the mental change,

although the former tells us that the latter’s views on music had

undergone a remarkable transformation. “He looked much older, had

grown stouter, and had lost his military bearing. As might be

supposed, we talked a good deal about music. I was at that time a

devotee of Mendelssohn; of Schumann I knew nothing.... Ivanovsky

(assistant professor at the Medical Academy), seeing that we had a

common ground of sympathy, asked us to play a four-handed arrangement

of Mendelssohn’s A minor symphony. Moussorgsky demurred at first,

but consented on condition that the Andante, which he submitted was

not symphonic and savoured of the ‘Songs without words,’ should be

omitted.... Later Moussorgsky spoke enthusiastically of Schumann’s

symphonies.... He began to play excerpts from the one in E flat.

Arrived at the development section, he stopped for a moment, saying:

‘Now for the musical mathematics!’”

Further light upon Moussorgsky’s changing outlook on life is shed

by his choice of a mode of living on his return from Toropets to

Petrograd. He now joined a party of young progressives, whose views

on the prevailing topic are revealed in the name given to their

côterie, “La Commune.”

Some half-dozen of them shared a flat, each having a private

room; their evenings were spent in a common-room, in which took

place lively discussions on music, art, and sociological matters.

This arrangement was of a kind very popular at that time among

students, single officers, and State employees. Their “gospel” was

Chernishevsky’s socialistic volume, “Shto dyelat?” (What is to be

done?), in which the problems of the newly freed peasantry had been

dealt with.

In this circle Moussorgsky was the only member not employed by the

State. But after a time he discovered that to live by music alone

was impossible, and he began to undertake translation work. This

occupation, while solving the one problem, raised another. His health

began once more to give way. His brother Filaret tried to induce him

to give up the “Commune.” Moussorgsky at first refused, but when a

little later his constitution gave signs of a breakup, he gave way,

left Petrograd, and established himself at Minkino. This sojourn in

the country, which lasted until 1868, was altogether beneficial to

his health.

IV.

Although Moussorgsky was worried both by a decline in health and

by money matters, the period spent with the “Commune” was not

entirely unfruitful. Considering, indeed, the ultimate fate of the

composition which represents that period, it may be regarded as

singularly important.

One of the literary topics discussed by the little côterie had been a

newly issued Russian version of Flaubert’s “Salammbô.”

Moussorgsky’s work as a whole shows far less of a predilection for

Orientalism than that of his colleagues of the “Five.” Yet this

subject appealed to him sufficiently to suggest itself as the plot of

an opera, and having contrived to adapt the original for its dramatic

purpose, entered upon his first serious operatic undertaking. On

his departure from Petrograd he put this on one side. It was never

resumed, but various fragments of the three completed scenes were

afterwards drawn upon, and are now to be heard in the mature works

with which the world is familiar. Thus “Salammbô,” although itself

an abortive work, may be considered as foreshadowing the composer’s

maturity. The songs composed contemporaneously, “Night” and

“Kallistrate,” are also to be classed with his later vocal works in

point of quality and style.

In the meantime Moussorgsky had fallen more and more under the

influence of Dargomijsky. The latter’s epoch-making opera “The Stone

Guest” was attracting the attention of the Circle as a whole, and

performances of the completed portions were a prominent feature

of the gatherings which now took place at Dargomijsky’s house.

Moussorgsky’s share in the proceedings was the doubling of the parts

of Leporello and Don Carlos, but his attention to the work did

not end with this; he had arrived at a complete agreement with its

composer as to the method of operatic construction employed therein.

“When Moussorgsky left St. Petersburg for the country in 1866,” says

M. Olenin d’Alheim, “his friends in parting with him expressed the

hope that he would return with an opera. No sooner had he settled

down to country life than he hastened to comply.”[3]

Of the Circle two other members had begun to write operas, of which

the method of construction was to be in conformity with that of “The

Stone Guest.” Balakiref had taken the subject of “The Golden Bird,”

in a version resembling Grimm’s story, whilst Borodin was occupied

with a setting of Mey’s “The Tsar’s Bride,” a dramatized record of

an episode in the life of Ivan the Terrible. Both these attempts

were abandoned. Balakiref discovered that he had no gift for Opera,

and Borodin soon realized that his vocation lay in following Glinka

rather than Dargomijsky. Lyricism and not dramatic realism was the

medium natural to him. As to Cui, he was not precisely disenchanted

with the Dargomijskian method; it may be said that he persevered with

the decreed principles, but in putting them into practice he was but

partially successful.

Moussorgsky’s choice of a libretto fell on Gogol’s well-known play

“The Matchmaker.” The task of providing this with a musical setting

would hardly have attracted anyone who had not been in complete

sympathy with the propaganda on foot in the Circle. Viewed even as

a demonstration of the principle that “the word must be reflected

in the sound,” which was Dargomijsky’s watchword, Gogol’s “utterly

incredible comedy” might well have been considered as presenting

certain insuperable difficulties. “The Matchmaker” is throughout

in colloquial prose; no one who had been brought up to respect the

settled traditions of Opera could for one moment have dreamed of

such a libretto. With Moussorgsky it was different. He knew “The

Stone Guest”; it never occurred to him to regard it as a “recitative

in three acts” (it was thus described on its first performance by

a cynical critic); he saw in it an attempt to give dignity to the

name of Opera, and as this had become his own particular desire he

resolved to make a similar attempt.

When Moussorgsky returned for a short time to Petrograd, he did not

bring an opera with him. But, far from showing any disappointment,

his friends displayed the greatest interest in the plan of the

projected work. On leaving the capital once again he addressed

himself immediately to the composition of the music for “The

Matchmaker.” Writing on July 3rd, 1868, to Cui, from the village

of Chilof, he reports progress: “... No sooner had I got away from

St. Petersburg than I finished the first scene.... The first act is

divided into three scenes.... I am trying to work out the various

inflections of intonation which will be heard from the performers in

the course of the dialogue, and this, moreover, is to be observed

in the minutest particular. In this, in my opinion, is to be found

the secret of the greatness of Gogol’s humour....” To this letter

Moussorgsky adds a postscript, dated July 10th: “I have finished the

first act.... There will be four instead of three scenes: it had to

be.” The composer’s enthusiasm for the subject is shown in a further

communication to his friend, written a month or so later: “What a

subtle imagination Gogol has! He has studied the peasant class and

has discovered some most captivating types among them.... His old

women are priceless.”

In addition to his actual creative work Moussorgsky had for some

time been striving to improve his very deficient technique. “In

Balakiref’s community,” writes Rimsky-Korsakof in his Memoirs,

“it was the custom to regard such studies as those of harmony and

counterpoint as negligible....” If Moussorgsky at that time (1866-67)

was capable of “making a virtue of his ignorance,” it is certain that

he very soon realized the futility of so doing, even if he did not

reveal his altered attitude to his friends.

It is unfortunately impossible to determine his progress. “The

Destruction of Sennacherib” (after Byron’s poem), a work for chorus

and orchestra, is supposed to have been an “exercise” prompted by the

consciousness of an improvement in the art of instrumentation, but

this, like the “Night on the Bare Mountain,” composed in 1867, has

been published in the later version, in which the instrumentation is

that of Rimsky-Korsakof; the version of the latter now used is so

different from the symphonic tableau of 1867 that it throws no more

light upon the composer’s technical capabilities at the date at which

it was written than does the choral work.

Some interesting specimens of vocal writing are also to be associated

with this period. Among them are the popular “Gopak” (to a text by

the Ukrainian Shevchenko); “The Seminarist,” a song in the satirical

vein, which portrays a theological student “whose efforts to grapple

with some Latin substantives are sadly disturbed by the intruding

mental vision of his teacher’s fair daughter”;[4] “The Orphan,” a

wonderful example of the musical reflection of the spoken accent; and

“Yeremoushka’s Cradle Song.”

Such specimens as “The Seminarist” and “The Orphan” are obviously

by-products of “The Matchmaker” period. In the one we are able to

recognize the spiritual affinity between Moussorgsky and Gogol; in

the other we may observe the realization of the Dargomijskian ideal

in a small form.

The period above referred to was destined to reach an abrupt

termination. “The Matchmaker” was never finished. On the resumption

of the meetings of the Circle in the autumn of 1868, the first act

was given a drawing-room performance at Dargomijsky’s house, the

parts being played by the composer, Dargomijsky, Velyaminof--an

amateur vocalist--and the two sisters Pourgold--Alexandra in the

title-rôle, and Nadejda, who afterwards married Rimsky-Korsakof, at

the piano. The last-named composer records in his Memoirs that the

fragment made a profound impression, especially upon Stassof, to whom

the work was afterwards dedicated. The composer of “The Stone Guest,”

we are told, considered that Moussorgsky had a little over-reached

himself, in what respect does not transpire; one imagines that

exception was taken to the meticulousness with which in “The

Matchmaker” Moussorgsky sought a co-ordination of text and music.

The cause of Moussorgsky’s sudden resolve to abandon his “_opera

dialogué_” was that the subject of “Boris Godounof” had been

suggested to him. In that section of the musical world in which

this great national music-drama is well known, there must surely be

something approaching unanimity of opinion that of the two the latter

work could less be spared. “Boris” is of course a much more genial

score. And without approaching at all closely the conventional opera,

it is at all events more in conformity with that type than the quite

revolutionary “Matchmaker.” But if, as one hopes may be, the reform

of Opera is ever carried to the same lengths as have already been

reached in the domain of the drama pure and simple, Moussorgsky’s

fragment must then be estimated at a higher value. It is a work that

makes no concessions whatever. It is a musical comedy in which the

effect of the humour of the original is heightened by its musical

setting. “The Matchmaker” demonstrates that music may be married to

drama without danger of its becoming a mere handmaiden of the other

art. Moussorgsky has been himself a matchmaker; the marriage he

brought about must surely have received the sanction of St. Cecilia;

it is a great misfortune that the union should have been shortlived.

V.

On Moussorgsky’s return to urban life he sought the hospitable

shelter offered by some friends of his mother, Opochinin by name.

Here he continued to live for two years, during half of which period

he held a post in the Department of Woods and Forests. The composer

has left tributes to the kindness shown him by these friends in

the shape of various dedications. The unfinished song entitled

“Death--an Epitaph” is inscribed “To N.P.O...chi...n,” and is said

to have been inspired by his grief at the lady’s death. It was under

the Opochinins’ roof that much of “Boris Godounof” was written.

Its subject was suggested to the composer by Vladimir Vassilievich

Nikolsky, a professor at the University of Petrograd, whom

Moussorgsky had met at the house of Mme Shestakof, Glinka’s sister.

For the libretto he went to the famous work of Pushkin, interpolating

certain interesting historical episodes from Karamzin’s chronicles

of the period. This initial version was subsequently modified to no

small extent, not without some reluctance, however, on Moussorgsky’s

part.

Aware that a successful treatment of the subject would entitle him

to wear the mantle of no less a man than Glinka, he threw himself

into his work with immense enthusiasm, and “Boris” progressed with

wonderful rapidity. Begun on September 6th, 1868, it was completed

within a year. Its first act was finished in a little over two

months, and won the warm approval of Dargomijsky, who, despite his

failing health, still took part in the meetings of the Circle. There

was, however, a complete unanimity of opinion as to certain defects

in the general plan of “Boris,” one of them being an absence of

feminine interest. To this the composer demurred.

But when in the autumn of 1870 he submitted the work to the operatic

authorities, he was forced to see that even if the criticism was

uncalled for, the hiatus complained of would militate against his

chances of seeing the opera accepted.

The Imperial Operatic Committee consisted of Napravnik, Manjean,

and Betz, the respective conductors of Russian, French, and German

Opera, and Ferrero, a double-bass player who was apparently watching

over the interests of Italian music. The novelty of the composer’s

music was not viewed with the sympathy it commanded in his own

immediate circle, and the absence of a prominent female character

was pronounced by the Committee to be a vital defect. There were

some other quite frivolous objections, among them the point raised

by Ferrero, who took exception to certain “impossible” passages for

his own instrument. Moussorgsky was of course deeply offended, but he

seems to have realized that his scenario left much to be desired. At

any rate he set about making some radical alterations. He inserted

the Polish Act, which brought in a love interest; and the scene in

the Kromy forest, hitherto the penultimate, was now placed at the end

of the opera. The episodes of the striking clock and the parakeet,

which occur in the second act (the Tsar’s apartments), were also

added.

The whole of the year 1871 was devoted to the reconstruction of

“Boris.” Moussorgsky was guided in this labour by several of

his friends, Stassof the critic, Hartmann the architect, whose

name he has immortalized in “The Picture-Show,” Nikolsky, and

Rimsky-Korsakof, with whom he had now begun to share rooms.

One imagines the latter to be right in supposing this to be the

single instance of two composers thus joining forces. He gives

us an assurance that each of the pair was able to carry on his

work (Moussorgsky was occupied with the revision of “Boris,” and

Rimsky-Korsakof was composing his first opera, “The Maid of Pskof”)

without any sort of clash. The latter spent two mornings a week at

the Conservatoire (he was already a professor in that institution);

the former left the house at about noon to attend to his official

duties at the Ministry of Woods and Forests, and often dined at the

Opochinins’. “Nothing,” records Rimsky-Korsakof, “could have turned

out better.... In that autumn and the following winter there was a

constant exchange of ideas and plans.”

This arrangement became really opportune when Gedeonof approached

the Circle with his historic proposal. The then Director of the

Imperial Opera brought forward his “Mlada” project, soliciting the

co-operation of Borodin, Cui, Moussorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakof. The

scheme of “Mlada” was to be a combination of ballet, opera, and

fairy-tale, on a subject taken from the chronicles of the Polabian

Slavs. The ballet dances were entrusted to Minkus, and the rest of

the music to the four composers named. The second and third sections

of “Mlada” fell to Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakof; and as the pagan

deity Chernobog figured prominently in the libretto, the former

proposed to make use of the unpublished “Night on the Bare Mountain,”

in the programme of which the Black god is a protagonist.

For reasons not unconnected with finance, Gedeonof was obliged to

renounce his ambitious project, and the four composers were left with

their musical material on their hands. Long afterwards, when editing

Borodin’s compositions, Rimsky-Korsakof, at the suggestion of Lyadof,

went to this subject for the literary foundation of his opera-ballet

“Mlada.”

VI.

Moussorgsky returned at once to his work on “Boris.” While yet thus

occupied Stassof, whose judgment had so often been sought in the

choice of a libretto (it is supposed that he had been consulted

in the matter of “Mlada”), recommended to Moussorgsky the subject

of “Khovanshchina.” In Stassof’s opinion “the antagonism between

the old Russia and the new, and the triumph of the latter, would

provide excellent material.... Moussorgsky,” continues the critic,

“was of the same mind.... He set to work with ardour. To study the

history of the Raskolniks (Old Believers) and the chronicles of

seventeenth-century Russia involved immense labour. The many long

letters he wrote me at this time were full of information as to his

researches and his views in regard to the music, characters, and

scenes of the opera. The best sections were written between 1872 and

1875.”

It so happened that, during the earliest days of his occupation with

this subject, it was proposed to stage a fragment of “Boris Godounof”

at the Maryinsky Theatre on the occasion of a “benefit” given to the

_régisseur_ Kondratief. The portions chosen were the Inn scene--the

famous Petrof undertaking the rôle of Varlaam--and the scene at the

fountain, from the Polish Act. The performance, which took place in

February, 1873, was so successful that it was decided to stage the

whole opera forthwith. From Rimsky-Korsakof one learns that, at a

supper held after this preliminary performance, the composer and his

opera were toasted in champagne.

The circumstance of this somewhat belated acceptance of “Boris

Godounof” called forth the caustic communication (in a birthday

letter) addressed to Stassof on January 2nd, 1873: “... When we are

crucified by the musical Pharisees, then shall we have begun to

make progress.... It is highly gratifying to think that whilst they

are reproaching us for ‘Boris’ we are absorbed in ‘Khovanshchina.’

Our gaze is fixed upon the future, and we are not to be deterred by

criticism. They will accuse us of having violated all the divine and

human canons. We shall just say ‘Yes,’ adding to ourselves that there

will be ere long many such violations. ‘You will soon be forgotten,’

they will croak, ‘for ever and aye,’ and our answer will be: ‘_Non,

non, et non, Madame._’” In a postscript he explains to Stassof that

the final French denial is a quotation from a certain Princess

Volkonsky.

The first complete representation of “Boris Godounof” took place on

January 24th, 1874, at the Maryinsky Theatre. With the result of

this performance Moussorgsky and his friends had every reason to

be satisfied. “We were all triumphant,” says Rimsky-Korsakof. The

reception of the work by the public was in no respect lacking in

warmth. Bands of enthusiasts left the theatre singing passages from

the familiar folk-tunes it contains. “Four wreaths, appropriately

inscribed, were brought to the theatre on one of the evenings,

but through the machinations of an infuriated opposition, their

presentation, intended to take place during the performance, was

obstructed, and they had to be sent to Moussorgsky’s private

dwelling.”[5]

The “infuriated opposition” appears to have been organized by the

reactionary critics. These accused the composer of “technical

ignorance, vulgarity, want of taste....” It would appear that the

critical faction wielded a power so great as to defeat popular

enthusiasm. After running for twenty performances, “Boris Godounof”

disappeared from the placards of the Imperial Opera, and was kept

quite in the background for many years.

VII.

The period in which the preparation of “Boris Godounof” bulks so

largely is also notable for some other important compositions.

The first among these is the satirical song known as “The

Classicist.” The arrogance of “The Invincible Band” as a whole, and

particularly that displayed by Cui in his criticisms, was a constant

source of vexation to the orthodox party. Balakiref, as conductor

of the Russian Musical Society’s concerts, came in for a good share

of the opprobrium heaped upon the Circle; and the constitution of

a programme, given in 1869, in which the compositions of the “New

Russian School” figured somewhat prominently, was warmly criticized

by such writers as Serof, Theophilus Tolstoi, and Famintsin, on the

score of its neglect of the classics. The chief object of the attack

was Borodin’s E flat major symphony, the leading assailant being

Famintsin. A short time after this, Rimsky-Korsakof’s symphonic

tableau “Sadko” was performed. Its theme had been suggested by

Moussorgsky, who at one time had intended making use of it himself,

and his ire was thoroughly aroused when Famintsin greeted the work

with a particularly spiteful article. It needed no more than a

mere suggestion from Stassof to provoke the composition of “The

Classicist,” a satire on the reactionary critic with a special

allusion to the disapproval of certain manifestations of modernism in

“Sadko,” from which work “The Classicist” contains a quotation.

A few months later Moussorgsky applied himself to a general

castigation of the opposing party by means of the thongs of satire.

“In ‘The Peepshow’ he did not confine himself as before to the

lampooning of one critic, but committed himself to a characteristic

reproduction of the particular musical foible of each.... It invites

inspection of a series of puppets in a showman’s booth.”[6] Zaremba,

director of the Conservatoire, the pietist for whom the minor mode

signified original sin, the major, redemption; Theophilus Tolstoi,

an unqualified critic whose ignorance and whose admiration of Patti

have been suitably dealt with by Cui in a “fable” which is really a

masterpiece of satire; Famintsin, whose appearance is accompanied

by a reference to some law proceedings instituted against Stassof;

and lastly Serof the Wagnerian, referred to by means of a quotation

from his “Rogneda”--these were the subjects of Moussorgsky’s musical

caricature. When a further attack was suggested--Stassof proposed a

song to be called “The Crab”--Moussorgsky must surely have considered

that this would be tantamount to thrashing a dead horse; at any rate

he did not act upon the hint.

Another work belonging to this period, one which possesses a far

greater significance as a work of art, is the set of seven songs

called “The Nursery.” The first of these, “Nurse, Tell Me a Tale,” is

dedicated to Dargomijsky, whose encouragement is responsible for the

subsequent completion of the series. In “The Nursery” is to be found

the most remarkable of the composer’s manifestations of genius.

In two respects these little sketches of child-life are absolutely

unconventional. In the first place, as the composer not only loved

children, but possessed the rare faculty of understanding them, he

does not portray them from the view-point of those “grown-ups” who

are so confident of the advantages of experience that they forget to

give credit for intuitive insight. Moussorgsky looked upon children

not as miniature and inexperienced men and women, but as beings

peopling a world of their own. Secondly, he repudiated the tradition

that when writing for the voice a lyrical method must invariably be

employed. The method of “The Nursery” is not the mere expression in

music of emotions aroused by the text. The music fulfils the function

of description concurrently with the text; it speaks with the

words; it describes, moreover, the very gestures and actions of the

_dramatis personæ_.

The circumstances under which the “Picture-Show” was composed should

here be related, since it was in 1874 that Moussorgsky undertook

this novel kind of musical memorial. It was proposed by Stassof,

in the spring of that year, to hold an exhibition of drawings and

water-colours by the architect Victor Hartmann--one of the designers

of the Nijni Novgorod monument in commemoration of the thousandth

anniversary of the foundation of the Russian State--who had recently

died. Moussorgsky had been on very friendly terms with the artist,

and wished to pay a tribute of his own devising. He determined,

therefore, to attempt the reproduction of some of the pictures in

terms of descriptive music. Aiming at something more than a mere

reproduction, he gives, in the “Promenade” which connects the little

pieces, a clue to his own emotions when contemplating Hartmann’s work.

VIII.

We have already recorded the enthusiasm with which Moussorgsky began

his preparation of the material for the libretto of “Khovanshchina,”

the subject recommended to him by Stassof in 1872. His researches

kept him busy until late in the autumn of the following year, when he

began work on the music. In course of its construction the libretto

underwent several changes of plan, some of them dictated by the

Censor. The music progressed but slowly, for the composer’s powers

had already begun to suffer from the excesses in which for some

time he had been indulging. He was unable to apply himself for any

length of time to one particular task, and had contracted a habit of

dividing his attention among a number of projects simultaneously.

Thus with “Khovanshchina” little more than begun, he was deep in

plans for a comic opera on the subject of Gogol’s “Sorochinsk Fair.”

Like the former, “Sorochinsk Fair” was never finished; under stress

of poverty, however, the composer was prevailed upon by a publisher

to issue one or two numbers arranged for piano solo. These pieces

gave no indication whatever as to their dramatic import.

Moussorgsky’s dissipated habits were by this time beginning to

estrange him from his boon companions. A certain eccentricity of

manner had also begun to show itself. What annoyed his friends

most was an affectation of superiority, which seems to have been

prompted partly by the success of “Boris,” by the unreserved praise

of Stassof, and by the admiration of people unworthy to express an

opinion on Moussorgsky’s work. In spite of these changes, however,

his connection with the Circle was not entirely severed, and the

composer of “Khovanshchina” occasionally brought to their evenings

the fruit of his intermittent labours upon that score.

In 1879, Rimsky-Korsakof introduced into the programme of a concert

at the Free School of Music the chorus of Streltsy, Martha’s song,

and the Persian Dances. At another he gave a scene from “Boris.”

The conductor’s account of Moussorgsky’s behaviour at the rehearsal

of this concert shows pretty plainly the degree to which his mental

decay had already proceeded.

The excerpt from “Khovanshchina,” given at the first-mentioned

Free School Concert, was performed by the then well-known singer

Mlle Leonof, who had recently opened a small academy of music in

Petrograd. This lady’s education had been somewhat scanty, but

she possessed sufficient acumen to perceive that while her name

would undoubtedly attract pupils, her capacity for instruction was

too slender to enable her to retain them. Moussorgsky’s financial

position was just then an extremely unfortunate one, and in order to

improve matters he engaged himself to Mlle Leonof as supervisor of

studies in her school.

In the summer of 1880 he went with her on a concert tour of Southern

Russia, as accompanist and soloist. As, since his youth, he had

neglected the pianist’s repertoire, the choice of programme was not

by any means a simple matter. To cope with the situation he played

selections from operas with which he happened to be familiar, among

them the introduction to Glinka’s “Russlan and Ludmilla,” and the

bell music from the Coronation scene of “Boris.”

In a letter dated January 16th, 1880, he communicates to the faithful

Stassof the glad tidings that at Nikolayef and Kherson the “Nursery”

songs have been performed with the most gratifying results before

an audience of children. During this tour, inspired by the Crimean

scenery, Moussorgsky composed three descriptive piano pieces; one of

them, described by Rimsky-Korsakof as a somewhat lengthy and quite

ridiculous Storm-fantasia--a reminiscence of the Black Sea--was not

committed to paper.

It has been related that Moussorgsky’s work on “Khovanshchina”

was not continuous, and that other absorbing tasks occupied his

mind during its composition. Following Rimsky-Korsakof’s marriage,

Moussorgsky took up his abode in rooms which he shared with the poet

Count Golenishchef-Kutuzof. Two groups of poems by the latter were

set to music by Moussorgsky in 1874 and 1875.

The first, “Without Sunlight,” contains six exquisite numbers. In

these the composer has ceased to be objective, and has for once

become introspective. It is perhaps in these songs that Moussorgsky

approaches most closely to the ideal of melo-declamation set up by

his precursor Dargomijsky. The vocal line is to some extent melodic

in character, but is rarely cast in continuous melody. On the other

hand they preserve a musical quality which is absent from the

quasi-conversational manner of “The Nursery.”

The second cycle, “Songs and Dances of Death,” was composed at

different periods, the first three in 1875 and the last number

two years later. Their textual idea originated with Stassof, who

suggested to Count Golenishchef-Kutuzof the creation of poems dealing

with Holbein’s well-known work.[7] The “Trepak,” “Cradle Song,” and

“Serenade,” present the dread figure in rather more convincing a

manner than the fourth, “The Commander-in-Chief”--a picture of Death

surveying a battlefield. The somewhat inferior conception of the

music of the last has been attributed, no doubt correctly, to the

state of the composer’s health at the time at which it was written.

Moussorgsky’s last years were spent in poverty and physical decay.

Already in 1876 his financial resources were reduced to the bare

pittance he received from the State department in which he was

employed. Writing to Stassof at this time, he spoke of supplementing

this beggarly income by taking engagements as a pianist. This led to

the arrangement with Mlle Leonof, and the Crimean tour.

In 1878 he lost a dear friend through the death of Petrof, for whom

he had intended to write an important part in “Sorochinsk Fair.”

This event so affected him that he was unable to do work of any

description for a considerable time. Following the tour, he began

to model an orchestral suite with a Crimean programme, but got no

further than the preliminary sketch.

The summer of 1880 was spent in the country, but his health showed

no signs of improvement. In the following February he journeyed to

Petrograd to attend a Free School concert, at which Rimsky-Korsakof

conducted “The Destruction of Sennacherib.” His work was acclaimed,

and he made his last public appearance in acknowledging the tributes

of this audience. A month later he became seriously ill as the result

of an attack of delirium tremens. His friends Balakiref, Borodin,

Stassof, and Rimsky-Korsakof were summoned, and they visited him

in turn at the Military Hospital up to the moment of death. This

occurred on his birthday, March 16th, 1881.

Arrangements had already been made with a view to preserving as many

of his works as could be found for publication. Balakiref’s friend,

T. I. Filippof, was appointed executor, and he speedily found a

publisher willing to undertake their issue. The responsibility of

revising them was assumed by Rimsky-Korsakof, who devoted many years

to this labour.

Moussorgsky was buried in the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, and a

monument--the work of Bogomolof and Gunsburg--was erected to his

memory.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The associated reformers, Balakiref, Cui, Borodin,

Moussorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakof, have been collectively

designated in a variety of appellations, some of them

disrespectful. They are referred to elsewhere in this

volume as “The Circle,” the “Five,” and “The Invincible

Band.”

[3] “Moussorgski.” Paris, 1896.

[4] M. Montagu-Nathan, “A History of Russian Music.” (W. Reeves.)

[5] M. Montagu-Nathan, _op. cit._

[6] M. Montagu-Nathan, _op. cit._

[7] “Death’s Doings,” by Richard Dagley, London, 1827, is a

work of a similar kind.

PART II

MOUSSORGSKY AS OPERATIC COMPOSER

I.

There is no ground for supposing that Moussorgsky’s lively

humanitarian instincts had been completely quiescent before they were

aroused by the spread of socialistic propaganda, consequent on the

great reformative act of Alexander (the emancipation of serfs) and

the appearance of Chernishevsky’s thought-provoking “What is to be

done?”

In his biography, Stassof is able to dispel such an illusion. Therein

he quotes a letter, written him by Moussorgsky’s brother Filaret,

to the effect that the composer, long before reaching manhood, had

manifested feelings of complete sympathy with the humble serf,

considering the Russian peasant as the “real man” (_nastoyarshchy

chelovek_).

When the moment came for Russian society as a whole so to regard the

peasantry, Moussorgsky did not hold himself aloof, but joined in the

movement of “simplification,” so enthusiastically set on foot by

young Russia. Thus in 1863 we find him associated with the “Commune,”

of which he remained for three years a member.

Moussorgsky plainly belonged, then, to the “progressives” of his own

generation, in so far as concerns ethics. His music proclaims that as

a creative artist he was far in advance of that generation.

II.

The choice of literary material as subject-matter for music-drama was

for such a man no vexed problem. He wished to glorify the Russian

people.

Glinka had already made a beginning in this respect with his national

opera “A Life for the Tsar,” in which his hero was not the monarch,

but the loyal peasant who died for him. Before Wagner had made

his suggestion that the operatic art should have no dealings with

history, because history concerned itself mainly with the movements

of monarchs and rulers, Glinka had already given an effective reply.

What Moussorgsky did was not merely to adopt the Glinkist tradition,

but to improve on it.

Already in his early operatic essay, based on Flaubert’s “Salammbô,”

he had given the chorus precedence of the _prima donna_.

In “Boris Godounof” and in “Khovanshchina” he boldly confers upon the

chorus a protagonistic responsibility. At one stroke he dismisses

the Wagnerian objection to historical material, and repudiates the

proposed alternative, the legendary subject. He has no use for

symbolism, and declines to resort to the allegorical puppet as a

mouthpiece. He was a realist who knew that the People had something

to say, and he let them speak for themselves. While as a man he had

strong sympathies with the nationalistic ideal of Glinka, he had as

a composer very little, if anything, in common with the “father of

Russian Opera;” it is from Dargomijsky that Moussorgsky the artist

has derived. The “New Russian School,” inaugurated towards the end

of the fifties by Balakiref and Cui, had all but pledged itself to

an observance of the principles of operatic and vocal art drawn up

under Dargomijsky’s guidance, and afterwards had every reason to be

thankful that the pledge had never been signed and sealed. Among them

Moussorgsky alone was a life-long apostle of the composer of “The

Stone Guest.” Borodin, Cui, and Rimsky-Korsakof felt that they could

do no less than make experimental essays in Dargomijskian opera, and

if they were not all three obliged, as was Borodin, to confess that

the rigid abstention from all the old operatic practices was foreign

to their nature, they did not at any rate adhere very faithfully to

the Dargomijskian decree.

With Moussorgsky it was quite otherwise. His attitude towards music

as an art was one of an almost transcendent seriousness. Art was to

be the means of throwing a high light upon the dignity of Life; Art

itself must therefore be dignified. “Life in all its aspects, ... the

truth whether palatable or no,” is the burden of his refrain in a

passionate letter to Stassof, written in August, 1875.

With such a man concessions to a prevailing taste were not to be

thought of. Inspired by the precept of Dargomijsky, with whom he had

been on intimate terms, he set himself to build up a musico-dramatic

structure that could never become old-fashioned. Opera was no longer

to be an entertainment devised for the public of one particular

generation; it was to be an art, to have a purpose.

“SALAMMBÔ”

III.

Moussorgsky’s first serious attempt at Opera was the setting of

Flaubert’s “Salammbô,” already referred to. This was begun in 1863.

As has been said, the work appears to have been designed to give to

the collective human interest that prominence usually accorded the

individual. But this was not the only feature of the work testifying

to Moussorgsky’s respect for the operatic form. From Stassof we learn

that the composer paid very close attention to the question of scenic

detail, and that he made a diligent study of Flaubert’s novel with a

view to reproducing in his libretto everything likely to contribute

to a faithful dramatic rendering of the original. The design and

colour of costumes, lighting effects, and even the gestures and

demeanour of the characters were carefully studied by the composer.

“Salammbô” was abandoned when still quite incomplete. Its music

has not, however, been lost to the world. Most of the fragments

composed were afterwards embodied with necessary modifications

in later works; the rest has been revised and edited by V. G.

Karatigin. “For the most part,” says Stassof, “this material has

gained by its translation,” and only once, according to this critic,

has the adaptation been disadvantageous. The theme of the arioso

in the third act of “Boris Godounof” is less appropriate in its

ultimate environment than in the original conception. The libretto

of “Salammbô” was written by Moussorgsky, but he interpolated some

verses borrowed from the unfortunate poet Polejaef, and from Heine.

“THE MATCHMAKER”

IV.

By the time that Moussorgsky entered upon his second dramatic essay

he had fallen completely under the influence of Dargomijsky, hence

his resolve to take a bold step towards a legitimate union of text

and music.

“The Matchmaker” is directly inspired by Dargomijsky’s “The Stone

Guest.” The composer of the last-named work had achieved what had

never hitherto been attempted. He had taken the text of Pushkin’s

dramatic version of “Don Juan,” and had set it from beginning to

end without making a single alteration, ignoring, at the same time,

every operatic convention. There are no separate vocal numbers beyond

Laura’s Song, an interpolation sanctioned, or rather invited, by the

poet’s stage-direction: “She sings.” There is no chorus, for the

equally good reason that Pushkin’s work contains no “crowd.” With the

exception of this one lapse into pure melody, the score of “The Stone

Guest” is written in the recitative, which Dargomijsky considered to

be the only legitimate musical accompaniment of a dramatic text.

In his setting of Gogol’s “The Matchmaker,” Moussorgsky takes a still

more daring step, for this comedy of middle-class Russian society is

written in colloquial prose. Far from being daunted, the composer has

actually reflected the intonation, demeanour, and the gestures of

each character in his music with a thoroughness that, while complete,

has no appearance of meticulousness.

The scheme of Gogol’s work has been outlined by a writer who was

both a brilliant musical critic, and an authority on Russian matters

when authorities were few. In “The Russians at Home,” the late Mr.

Sutherland Edwards gave the following synopsis of “The Matchmaker”:

“In Gogol’s ‘Matchmaker’ we have a fine study of the bachelor as

character.... The main idea of the plot--and a highly philosophical

one it is--is this: that a bachelor of a certain age must necessarily

dread to alter his mode of life to suit that of another person. The

chief character of the comedy, who is considered a good match, after

considering the qualifications of a number of marriageable young

ladies who are all anxious to secure him, selects one; but no sooner

has he given his word than he repents. He is afraid of the total

change that must take place in his habits after he is married. It is

not a love match, for he is a middle-aged man and something more. He

reflects, but the bride is coming downstairs in her wedding costume

and there is no time for consideration. The handle of the door moves,

and it appears impossible to escape; but the window is open. He

leaps into the street and is saved. You hear him calling out to a

droshky driver, ‘Isvostchik! Isvostchik!’ He has disappeared for

ever, and the curtain falls.”

This is a somewhat over-brief summary of the action, since it makes

no reference to the exceedingly funny scene in which the bachelor

finds himself in competition with three other characters who, as

typical suitors of the class and period under caricature, are the

victims of Gogol’s satire. But as Moussorgsky’s work goes no further

than the first scene, the rest may well on the present occasion be

neglected. In this one scene there appear but four of the eleven

characters: Podkolyossin, the bachelor; Kochkaryof, his friend;

Stepan, his servant; and Thyokla, the marriage-broker.

V.

The score of “The Matchmaker” reveals that Moussorgsky was fully

qualified to accomplish with success the extraordinary task he had

set himself. “What is not the notation of the spoken word,” says Mr.

Calvocoressi in his monograph, “is the notation of pantomime.”[8]

There are, besides, examples of descriptive music in other directions

than these; such, for instance, as the quick sweep which describes

the silk dress of the chosen lady as “rustling as though a Princess

were passing”; and when the friend Kochkaryof, in reciting to the

reluctant Podkolyossin the advantages of married life, predicts

a family of “not merely two or three, but six at least,” there

is a group of two semiquavers, followed by another of three, and,

immediately after, a group of six for the definite number, and a

scale of 6|4 chords for the problematic brood. It should be borne in

mind that there is nothing in the least gauche about such apparently

ingenuous specimens of descriptive music. They may not be quite in

tune with our notion of humour to-day, but until some living master

can be persuaded to try his hand at the continuously descriptive,

we may congratulate ourselves on the preservation of Moussorgsky’s

example.

Not less remarkable are the places in which changes of emotion and

mood are noted. After the breaking of a mirror, when Kochkaryof,

the cause of the mishap, consoles Podkolyossin with the promise of

a new one, the accompanying music is so perfectly appropriate to

the emotional situation that the bar prior to the spoken sentence

veritably anticipates for the listener its sense. Again, when at

the moment already described, in which occurs the friend’s detailed

picture of what married life may bring, Moussorgsky resolves a

high-pitched dissonance by dropping suddenly into a low, common

chord, minus its third, he shows us Podkolyossin’s general state of

collapse and his frozen stare as plainly as if we were watching the

action instead of merely listening to the music.

The score, in fact, reveals how determined Moussorgsky was to observe

the letter as well as the spirit of the Dargomijskian method, a

method he made his very own.

What the composer thought of this work may be gathered from the

letter he wrote to his friend Stassof, in 1873, after the completion

of “Boris.” “How can I best thank you?” he asks. “I have found an

answer at once. By making a gift of my very self.... Pray accept

my recent work on Gogol’s ‘Matchmaker’; examine these attempts at

musical discourse, compare them with ‘Boris.’... You will see that

what I now give you is without question myself.... You know how dear

to me is my ‘Matchmaker.’ And to tell the truth it was suggested to

me (in fun) by Dargomijsky, and (in earnest) by Cui.” In the printed

score is the formal dedication, which included the gift of all rights

in the work to Stassof. This was written, says Moussorgsky, “with a

quill pen in Stassof’s flat ... in the presence of a considerable

gathering.”[9]

In Stassof’s own opinion there was a future for this type of opera.

It is many years since that view was expressed. It almost seems now

as though there were no future for any other kind.

“SOROCHINSK FAIR”

VI.

It is impossible to treat Moussorgsky’s other unfinished opera,

“Sorochinsk Fair,” as a serious dramatic work, since he himself did

not. There is not surviving a sufficiency of connected material for

it ever to assume companionship with Rimsky-Korsakof’s “A Night

in May,” in company with which story the original appears in

Gogol’s collection of “Tales of a Farm Near Dikanka.” The preserved

fragments, one of them being the justly popular “Gopak,” have been

edited by Lyadof and Karatigin. In the performance of these given

at the Moscow Free Art Theatre in the winter of 1913, they were

strung together by a spoken dialogue. The vocal music, which is only

in part declamatory, can hardly be considered as representing the

composer’s musico-dramatic manner, but it includes some very charming

melody, some of it being quite in the folk-style. A certain part of

the original music has had a curious history. Written in the first

instance for “Salammbô,” it served temporarily as a section of the

work now familiar as “A Night on the Bare Mountain,” was also used

in the composer’s contribution to the joint “Mlada” (Gedeonof’s

project), and was again made use of as an Intermezzo in this

unfinished opera.

Musically considered, “Sorochinsk Fair,” while far from fully

representing its composer, bears undoubted evidences of his advanced

thought. Certain rhythmic and harmonic touches, plainly intended to

reflect a nice shade of meaning in the text, recall Dargomijsky’s

maxim, “The sound must represent the word,” and are an assurance that

Moussorgsky always had this in mind.

“BORIS GODOUNOF”

VII.

By means of his music-drama “Boris Godounof,” Moussorgsky first

became known to the world as a creative artist who, though hitherto

neglected, would have to be reckoned among the great innovators. For

the student of Russian music the work possesses several independent

points of interest. In the first place, it is clearly the offspring

of Glinka’s initial dramatic venture, “A Life for the Tsar.” It is

at the same time far in advance of its forerunner in its dramatic

as well as in its musical conception. It referred, as did Glinka’s

opera, to one of the most remarkable epochs in the history of

Russia. But while Glinka puts before his spectators a plot with a

heroic action as its salient, Moussorgsky occupies himself with

the revelation of the consequences of a dastardly act. Yet the

latter, despite his preoccupation with mental movement and

his neglect of physical, does not adopt the procedure of the

psychologist-musician. We do not find him indulging in a lengthy

exegesis of his own soul-states in presence of the stage tragedy he

depicts. He tells a simple though rather horrible tale. His narrative

does not bear the impress of the narrator’s temperament. “Boris

Godounof” is neither the cold compilation of the detached historian,

nor the revelation of the mental agony of a greatly interested and

concerned onlooker. A spectator of Moussorgsky’s version of the

tragedy is not first concerned with what he himself is thinking about

the dramatic occurrences, nor does he speculate upon the attitude

of the composer towards all this murder, strife, and intrigue. His

mind is chiefly occupied in observing their effect upon the people

participating in the drama. He finds himself glancing at the crowd,

and wondering what will be their demeanour in the face of the next

development. And Moussorgsky’s crowd never fails to respond.

Operatic nationalism had begun with a Russian text; Glinka had

endowed it with a native musical manner. Moussorgsky made it an

absolute expression of nationalism.

VIII.

The chapter of Russian history chosen by Moussorgsky as the material

of his drama is one which is to be considered as a turning-point in

the history of the Russian Empire. It refers to the interim between

two great dynasties.

Looking into the future, Ivan the Terrible had perceived that his

weak-minded son Feodor, whom he regarded as “more like a sacristan

than the son of a Tsar,” was quite unfit to control the destinies

of a nation. Not long after his father’s death Feodor himself

became conscious of his incapacity. Accordingly he appointed Boris

Godounof, whose marriage into the royal family had been a step

prompted by ambition, as Regent. Godounof was not slow to discern

the potentialities of his new position. He saw that Feodor’s younger

brother Dmitri might one day stand between himself and the throne.

This youth lived on a property at Ouglich, willed to him by his

father. Godounof saw to it that his interests were not neglected in

this quarter, and among Dmitri’s entourage there were several tools

of the Regent. Their observations led Boris to assume that if this

boy lived there would be an end to all his ambitions. Godounof laid

his plans accordingly. On a May afternoon in 1591 young Dmitri was

playing in the courtyard of his palace. He was suddenly missed. The

stories of his assassination vary, but the one usually accepted

relates that Dmitri’s corpse was discovered in the church. Seven

years later Feodor breathed his last, supported in the arms of his

wife and his Regent, Boris, who had long since attained to something

like absolute power, now saw that the throne could easily be his.

“The Russian annalists,” says Prosper Mérimée,[10] “who were no doubt

ignorant of the Scottish legends, represent Boris as a new Macbeth

driven to the crime by the prophecies of his soothsayers.” Having

told him that he would one day reign, they paused in terror at what

they read in his future. He would reign, they added timorously, but

only for seven years. “What matter if it be but seven days,” cried

Boris, “so long as I reign.”

As occupant of the throne, the consequences of his crime never

ceased to pursue him. A Pretender arose who claimed to be Ivan’s son

Dmitri. He had a large following, and was seized upon by the Poles

as a convenient instrument in the promotion of their revolt against

Muscovy. With the trouble at its height, Boris found himself on the

horns of a ghastly dilemma. He wished his son to reign after him.

If Dmitri was really alive his own son would never be Tsar. If his

terrible design of years ago had been properly carried out, as he had

always supposed, he must himself be a murderer, and with a conscience

grown livelier that thought was unbearable.

IX.

Moussorgsky’s music-drama does not show us the assassination. We do

not see Dmitri’s bloodstained corpse. But we get more than a glimpse

of Boris’s remorse-stricken soul, and we are allowed to obtain a

fairly broad survey of the national mind.