“National Music-Drama” is plainly shown by the arrangement of his
dramatic material. Before the “plot” is entered upon there are two
scenes constituting a prologue. By this means the ostensible as well
as the real position as between monarch and people is revealed.
Boris, invited to place himself on the throne, guilefully dissembles
and demurs. His subjects, coerced at the instigation of Boris’s own
minions, simulate an anxiety lest the chosen Tsar’s reluctance be
maintained. A significant episode is the entrance of the mendicant
pilgrims (_Kalieki perekhojie_), whose sacred hymn is received with
an enthusiasm that is real. The people have been allowed to express
themselves. In the second scene news of Boris’s acquiescence arrives.
It is followed at a short interval by the Tsar himself, who, passing
across the Red Square to the Kremlin, is greeted by the crowd
assembled for his coronation. So far the text is of Moussorgsky’s
making. When proceeding to the discussion of the main plot, he is
able to draw upon Pushkin’s original literary substance.
The first scene of Act I is laid in the cell of the monk Pimen, who
is engaged upon the concluding pages of a chronicle of Russian
history. From him the young novice Grigory Otrepief learns the
details of Dmitri’s assassination. His discovery that the murdered
Tsarevich would have been his own age makes him at once the victim
and the hero of his imagination. He becomes the self-appointed
avenger of the murdered Dmitri.
Scene II shows him a fugitive defying ecclesiastical authority. He
has renounced the cloister and has taken his first step towards the
throne. He is resting at an inn situated on the Lithuanian frontier.
At the moment of his betrayal by two bibulous monks, he escapes
through the window and continues his journey towards Poland.
The royal palace is the scene of the second act, which is the joint
work of Pushkin and Moussorgsky. The presence of the Tsar’s son
Feodor and his daughter Xenia is made a vehicle for the interpolation
of appropriate material of an episodic kind. The actual drama is
carried a step further by the Tsar’s reference to a map of Russia,
which is being examined by his heir. “All this territory,” explains
Boris to his son, “will one day be yours.” The atmosphere of
domesticity is dispelled by the entrance of the boyard Shouisky,
who brings news of serious trouble on the Polish frontier. It has
been declared that the corpse found at Ouglich was not that of
Dmitri Ivanovich; and that he, on the contrary, is a living and
energetic claimant of the crown. Boris, uneasy, orders an immediate
inquiry into the conduct of the assassination. Shouisky, as though
to reassure him, describes the appearance of the child’s corpse,
which he claims to have seen. On his withdrawal Boris is seized with
terror. The rack upon which his mind has for years been tortured
has been given a sharp turn by Shouisky’s recital, and the strain
produces a nerve-crisis. Boris, through a hallucination, has a vision
of the blood-stained corpse. An awful terror seizes him.
X.
The next act is one which might well have been omitted from the
scheme, and in performance often is. It was inserted, it will be
remembered, to make good the deficiency of feminine interest.
Dramatically it has a sort of relation to the whole, since it is
complementary to the information brought by Shouisky and shows what
is happening in Poland. Musically it is not uninteresting, but,
considered as a part of the whole music-drama, it is as much a
blemish as is Glinka’s Polish Act in “A Life for the Tsar.” Glinka’s
weakness of invention is shared by Moussorgsky. Both of them failed
in the musical portrayal of Poland, because neither was able to
describe the Polish character in musical terms other than those of
the popular national rhythms.
The act has as definite a foundation in history as any other section
of the drama, but it is negligible to the working out of this
particular plot. Otrepief has arrived in Poland and has found a
supporter. He has also found a maiden whose attachment to him is not
altogether dictated by her heart. Her aim is to share the throne
of Russia, and she is striving to strengthen his ambitious hopes,
knowing that upon them depends her chance of realizing her own. Both
Marina Mnichek and her religious director, Rangoni, the Jesuit, are
well known to history. As witnesses of their scheming, we feel that
this act is at least a little helpful to our understanding of the
drama. But the music, in its attempts to procure local colour, is far
from convincing.
The fourth act is in two scenes. In the first the arrival of the
Pretender at the forest of Kromy, _en route_ for Moscow, is the only
feature of dramatic value. But Moussorgsky’s musical treatment of the
behaviour of the utterly irresponsible crowd of peasants, who welcome
the Pretender’s passage rather as a pretext for revolt than as any
real blessing, is a page which in itself creates an epoch in the
history of Opera. The “pure fool” left behind on the stage to wring
his hands in anguish at the darkness that is falling upon Russia is
the creation of Pushkin. It is a national type which lives again in
Dostoievsky’s “Idiot.”
The final scene is apparently a continuation of that in which we left
Boris vainly trying to shut out the awful vision of the murdered
Prince. The Tsar’s Council, confident that the revolt of which
Shouisky has apprised them will be quickly suppressed, are discussing
the form of punishment to be meted out to the Pretender. Suddenly
the terror-stricken figure of the Tsar bursts into the hall. With
difficulty they calm him. Shouisky enters, and announces that he has
found one who can give a faithful account of the Ouglich crime, and
thus dispose of the Pretender’s claim. Pimen is ushered in. He tells
of an old shepherd, blind from birth, who heard in a dream a command
that he should pray at the tomb of Dmitri, now an angel, and whose
faith was duly rewarded with the gift of sight. Boris hearing that
his guilt is established, falls into a worse frenzy. He feels that
his end is near. Young Feodor is sent for, and with his last breath
the Tsar proclaims him his heir and successor.
XI.
The choice of “Boris Godounof” as subject would appear, as has
been observed, to have been directly inspired by Glinka’s use of
historical material in “A Life for the Tsar.” The music, however, is
that of a composer who, after earnestly conferring with Dargomijsky,
found little difficulty in seeing eye to eye with him in regard to
the main principles of the “New Russian School.”
The setting of “Boris Godounof,” considered in comparison with all
other operatic music, stands right apart from it. It is the artistic
product of a great national crisis. One can easily imagine that a man
so passionately in earnest as Moussorgsky would be immensely inspired
by the so-called “nihilist” movement, and that nothing would please
him more than to write an opera that would reflect the spirit of that
movement.
It was the endeavour of the young intellectual of that time to
be natural. There was a crusade against “pose,” and not merely
deliberate but unconscious pose. One could dismiss the score of
“Boris” with a compliment well worth the paying by declaring it an
opera in which every bar of music is natural. Listening to the work,
one could imagine Moussorgsky never to have heard an opera, to be
entirely ignorant of the traditions of this form of art. With the
exception of the Polish Act, in which he seems to betray that for
him, as for Glinka, the vocabulary of musical terms in which the
Polish character could be rendered stopped short at the Polacca and
Mazurka rhythms, the composer has given us music that is appropriate,
sincere, and dignified, never departing from beauty and never
approaching anything in the nature of conventional pattern.
When it has been said that the music is consistently natural,
it seems hardly necessary to mention that there are none of the
traditional operatic subdivisions or self-contained numbers, that
there are no formal overtures or _entr’actes_. The Prelude is of
sufficient length to establish the requisite atmosphere. That done,
the curtain rises. When it falls, the music, being there for a purely
dramatic purpose, ceases. When, as in the case of Grigory’s escape
from the Inn, there is a likelihood that the scene will continue in
the imagination of the spectator for a moment or two after the action
is shut out from view, the music comes to his assistance, but it has
a curtain of its own, and this too is quickly drawn.
XII.
By Moussorgsky the leading-motive device is very happily used. His
leading-motives are flashes of thought, mere reminiscences. There
are the usual labels for characters and sentiments, but they are
used in moderation. There is nothing resembling the Wagnerian
philosophical disquisitions upon the attributes of a character on
its every appearance, or upon the ethics of an emotion whenever
suggested. Moussorgsky’s themes are used chiefly as links connecting
the series of tableaux of which the drama is made up, and not as
labels inseparable from the persons to whom they have been attached.
The most prominent motive--that associated with the idea of the
royal succession, heard in the dialogue between Pimen and Grigory
when the latter asks what age the murdered Prince would have been;
in the Introduction to the Inn scene heralding the presence of the
novice-Pretender; in Shouisky’s account of the Ouglich crime and
other places--does not at all times accompany reference to the
subject it represents. Although it appears occasionally in the Polish
scenes, there are places in which it might have been used quite
effectively but in which it is neglected. Other themes recurring with
more or less frequency and subtlety are the People’s motive, which
is heard in an altered shape in the Forest scene when the crowd is
baiting a captured noble; the short phrase which seems to refer to
Russia’s past and which appears at intervals during the scene in the
old monk’s cell, returning with Pimen’s narrative in the last act;
and those which apparently represent the sentiments and attributes of
the Tsar, his paternal solicitude and his insatiable ambition. That
the full power of the leading-motive device was recognized by the
composer is plain from the use of one of the Polish themes, when in
the Forest scene the Pretender speaks of his destination. Here the
main motive occurring under the words: “To our holy land of Russia
... let us seek the Kremlin” is heard in conjunction with a fragment
of the Polacca. These two are heard together also in the Polish act.
The avoidance of formalism that characterizes the use of the
leading-motive is in accord with the note of the whole work,
simplicity. The moments of mental stress, the dramatic crises, are
not with Moussorgsky the signal for a marshalling of “every modern
luxury,” as Glinka styled the instrumental array. In this respect
we find economy where extravagance usually prevails. Even in the
scene of the hallucination, the composer depends mainly upon his
“strings” for the description of Boris’s anguish. With him the
repeated reference to an emotion does not involve an ever-increasing
volume of tone for the description of the growing complexity in
the psychological situation. Thus Boris’s final fit of terror is
accompanied by music infinitely simpler than that heard when first
allusion is made to the murdered heir.
The vocal line of the opera partakes for the most part of the nature
of melodic recitative, but its purely lyrical moments are by no means
sparse. As they occur in places where reference to folk-lore and song
is made, they constitute no exception to the general appropriateness.
There are times when Moussorgsky feels called upon to bring the
sound into very close accord with the general sense; it is then that
the composer resorts, as in the story of the parakeet, told by the
excited young Tsarevich Feodor, to a method used in some of his
songs. This consists of a faithful yet musical reflection of the rise
and fall of the speaking voice. Set up as an ideal by Dargomijsky, it
was attained by his disciple.
Moussorgsky was not deliberately unconventional as an operatic
composer. National music-drama, if it is to exert the powerful
influence without which it is not national, must be natural.
Moussorgsky adopted the means best suited for the maintenance of
that naturalness which alone could achieve what he has achieved.
The music follows the drift of the text, serving it faithfully and
never seeking to assert its claim to beauty as music. The sound,
as M. Marnold so happily expresses it, is never allowed to become
egotistical.[11] But, in accordance with the canons of the “New
Russian School” it never ceases to be music.
“KHOVANSHCHINA”
XIII.
It was a Russian who said that religion was given by Providence as
a stick which, in default of intellectual qualities, might be used
as a moral support, and that with this stick Russians had chosen
to belabour each other. The human interference which brought about
the misuse of the stick was that of Nikon the Patriarch, who in
1655 undertook a revision of the Bible. Some of the corrections
gave offence to the people, who preferred to adhere to traditional
methods of worship. In consequence of this the nation was split
into two main religious bodies: the Old Believers and the Orthodox,
or followers of the authoritative dispensation. The dissenting body
subsequently became subdivided into a great number of “jarring sects.”
It is with this schism that Moussorgsky’s second historical opera
concerns itself. The figure-heads of the opposing factions, for the
purposes of the opera, are Prince Ivan Khovansky, an adherent of
the old régime, and Prince Galitsin, whose sympathies and interests
are served by the introduction of Western enlightenment. It is
understood that Dositheus, who in the opera is the spiritual leader
of the Old Believers, is a portrait of another Prince. Stassof, who
was responsible for the suggestion that this “antagonism between
old and young Russia” would be good material for an opera, may well
have feared, as in a letter to Moussorgsky he confesses he did, that
instead of being a “People’s Music-Drama” it would be a Princes’.
The love-interest in “Khovanshchina” was not, as it had been in
“Boris Godounof,” an afterthought. There are three prominent feminine
characters: the Old Believer, Martha, described by Stassof as in some
ways resembling Potiphar’s wife; Susan, a rigid fanatic, priding
herself overmuch on her virtue; and Emma, a young Lutheran by whom
Khovansky’s son Andrew has been attracted. In the original plan there
were to have been included the figure of the Empress-Regent Sophia,
of whom Galitsin is supposed to have been the lover, together with
her young charge, afterwards to become Peter the Great. Owing to
Moussorgsky’s decline in health, and the consequent fear that his
opera might never be finished, he was obliged to reduce its scheme,
and the royal personages disappeared.
The historical events underlying the dramatic material of
“Khovanshchina” are as follows: Feodor Alexeyevich, eldest grandson
of the first Romanof, had died without issue and was succeeded by
Peter, the third brother, Ivan, being of weak intellect. As Peter was
only ten years old Sophia, their half-sister, was appointed Regent.
Anticipating the unwelcome reforms for which Peter afterwards became
famous, Sophia did her best to place Ivan on the throne, and to this
end instigated a revolt of the Streltsy--a regiment of Guards most
of whom were Old Believers. Their leader, Prince Khovansky, and his
son Andrew were the moving spirits in the rebellion, and Peter, who
subsequently succeeded in quelling it, gave to the series of risings
the appellation of “Khovanshchina.” The culminating event was the
collective suicide of a large body of Old Believers who refused to
submit to the heretical innovations of one whom they believed to be
anti-Christ.
XIV.
Moussorgsky’s libretto is a fairly faithful rendering of the
historical records, but its hurried abridgement naturally caused a
sacrifice of many interesting details. The opera, in its published
form, begins with a scene in the Red Square at Moscow. It is early
morning. A public letter-writer enters the Square and sets up his
booth, and a number of Streltsy who have been bivouacking in the
Square after a riot on the previous evening betake themselves to
their duties. Presently the boyard Shaklovity enters, and calls upon
the scrivener to write down an impeachment of the Khovanskys, father
and son. Immediately on his departure the pompous Prince Khovansky
arrives with his following of Streltsy and Old Believers. Making
the most of his position as head of the Streltsy, he encourages the
people to rise against the authority of Peter. The crowd, impressed
by his arrogance, sing a hymn in his honour. As the procession is
moving off a young woman rushes upon the scene, closely followed by
Khovansky’s son. It is Emma the Lutheran, who is being importuned,
to her evident distress, by Prince Andrew. The altercation is
interrupted by the arrival of Martha, whom Andrew has discarded.
Andrew, furious at her intervention, attempts to stab her, but the
Old Believer, gaining possession of his knife, delivers a mystical
oration in which she foretells the young Prince’s approaching doom.
The elder Khovansky now returns and, perceiving that the object of
his son’s attentions is a young woman whom he himself admires, gives
orders for her arrest. Andrew vows that she shall not be taken alive.
She is saved by the timely entrance of the venerable Dositheus. He
upbraids Andrew, orders Martha to protect Emma under her own roof,
and kneels in prayer. The crowd proceeds to the Kremlin for worship,
and the curtain falls on the solitary figure of Dositheus.
The second act takes place in the palace of the Galitsins. The rising
curtain discloses the Prince disdainfully perusing a love-letter
from the Empress-Regent. To him enters Martha, whom he has summoned,
believing in her powers of clairvoyance, to read his future. She
calls for a basin of water, cloaks herself in a long black garment,
and proceeds to divine his early ruin. Beside himself with rage,
Galitsin calls for his servants and orders them to waylay the woman
on her way home, and to drown her in the marshes.
Galitsin, pondering over Martha’s terrifying prediction, is now
visited by his enemy Khovansky. Between them there are personal
and political recriminations, which terminate on the entrance of
Dositheus, who pacifies them. The calm is but temporary. Martha
returns to announce that an attempt has been made on her life, and
is followed by Shaklovity, who presents himself as the envoy of the
Regent and warns Khovansky that the Tsar has discovered his plot.
The Streltsian quarter of Moscow is the scene of the third act.
Martha, withdrawing herself from a procession of Old Believers, seats
herself on a mound near the Khovansky palace, and sings reminiscently
of the days when young Andrew’s heart was hers. She refers once more
to the mysterious fate awaiting him.
Susan now discloses herself. She is scandalized by the passionate
references to Andrew she has overheard, and reviles Martha for her
shamelessness. Dositheus enters and brings peace once more on the
scene. He rebukes the old fanatic for her harshness, and comforts
Martha. Night falls, and Shaklovity arrives and puts up a prayer for
his harassed country.
There follows a sudden rush of Streltsy, followed by their plainly
discontented wives. During the turmoil the letter-writer enters
breathless, bringing news of the defeat of a Streltsian force at the
hands of Peter’s men. A call is made for their leader, and Prince
Khovansky counsels them from the steps of his palace to submit for
the nonce to Peter’s rule.
The fourth act has two scenes. The first shows the interior of
Khovansky’s country mansion. The old Prince is seeking distraction
in the songs of his attendant maidens. A messenger from Galitsin,
conveying news of a plot against Khovansky’s life, is scornfully
dismissed, and the master of the house calls for his Persian dancers.
At the conclusion of the entertainment Shaklovity brings a command
that Khovansky shall appear at the Regent’s council. Imagining
this to be a sign of returning favour, the Prince makes ready for
the journey, but as he approaches the door he is stabbed. His
terrified servants flee from the sight of their prostrate master, and
Shaklovity, surveying the corpse, breaks out into derisive laughter.
Scene II represents a public square in Moscow. Through the crowd is
seen the figure of Galitsin, who is being hurried under close escort
into exile. Dositheus joins the throng, and hears from Martha that
Peter has ordered the wholesale execution of the Old Believers. Their
leader resolves that death shall be self-inflicted. Andrew Khovansky,
ignorant of his father’s assassination and of the general turn of
events, now appears on the scene, and entreats Martha to deliver up
the young Lutheran. He is told that Emma is honourably united to the
man she loves, and in his consternation Andrew threatens Martha with
death at the hands of his Streltsy. She bids him proceed with his
threat. His repeated horn-blasts are answered in unexpected fashion
by a body of his men, who, guarded by Peter’s soldiers, are bringing
axes and faggots to the place chosen for their execution. It does not
take place. Peter’s merciful decree of pardon is delivered to them by
a herald.
The Old Believers’ hermitage in a wood near Moscow is the scene of
the fifth and final act. There, under the leadership of Dositheus,
preparations are being made for a self-administered martyrdom.
Andrew, still hoping to find Emma, is prevailed upon by Martha
to mount the pyre, to which she then applies the brand. The Old
Believers sing their hymn until the flames overpower them. The
trumpets of Peter’s soldiery are heard, and the curtain falls to the
music which symbolizes the rising of the new Russia from the ashes of
the old.
XV.
As drama, “Khovanshchina” is better planned than “Boris Godounof,”
despite the summary curtailment to which Moussorgsky was obliged
to subject the work. On the dramatic side it possesses perhaps in
a greater degree the quality of nationalism; the consequences of
the Nikonian revision have a greater significance for the larger
public than the misdemeanours of Boris and Otrepief. In the matter of
construction, the difference between the two works is principally in
respect of detail. Moussorgsky has abandoned, in “Khovanshchina,” his
rigid adherence to the method of “throughout-composition”; there are
repetitions which reveal an intention of seeking a compromise between
an allegiance to the principles of his School and the desire to use
a beautiful melody more than once. “Khovanshchina” is, in a word,
slightly more “operatic” than “Boris Godounof.”
The principal characters are again represented by themes, and here
one observes that in their repetition there is just a shade more
deliberateness. The motive most frequently used is that of the
massive figure of Khovansky, than which it would have been impossible
to conceive anything more appropriate.
A remarkable feature of the score is the wealth of music of an
ecclesiastical kind. Already in “Boris” Moussorgsky had shown
a complete mastery of the ancient modal method of writing. In
“Khovanshchina” he achieves some of his most successful pages when
composing chants for the Old Believer chorus.
A cardinal point of difference between the music of “Boris Godounof”
and that of the later work is that, whereas in the former the lyrical
pages are, as it were, mostly ornamental, in “Khovanshchina” they are
part and parcel of the vocal line. The inclusion in “Boris” of the
Clapping Game, the Nurse’s Song of the Gnat, and the Inn-keeper’s
Song, is perfectly legitimate, as they are relevant to the dramatic
action. But they are decorative; they are part of the folk-colour.
In “Khovanshchina” there are a few identifiable specimens of
folk-song, such as Martha’s song in Act III, the hymn to Khovansky in
the country-house scene, and a fragment sung by the sleepy strelets
immediately following the curtain’s first rise; but their folk-origin
is not betrayed, as are those of the earlier work, by their text.
They are used where original music would have served as well, and the
allegory of the folk-text fits into the dramatic situation.
XVI.
There are several numbers of great beauty in “Khovanshchina” which
might easily be given a separate performance. First among these
should be mentioned the Persian Dances. Among some of the composer’s
friends they were looked upon as an unwarrantable interpolation. The
assumption that old Prince Khovansky had among his household some
Persian captives was too slender an excuse for this music. Hearing
it, one is quite prepared to give Moussorgsky the benefit of the
doubt. The dances are introduced by a few anticipatory phrases; by
this means the composer avoids the break which would have given them
more the appearance of a ballet included as a sop to the orthodox
opera-goer. The Song of the Haiduk (Hungarian mercenary), sung by
Khovansky’s serving-maids immediately before the Persian Dances,
is also exceedingly charming; it is obviously traditional. The
choral song in honour of Khovansky, in the first act, is highly
appropriate music, and could hardly have been improved upon as a
means of suggesting the attitude of his followers towards the Prince.
In singling out one from the many fine specimens of music of a
devotional kind, it is upon the chorus of Old Believers in the last
act, written in the Phrygian mode, that the choice must fall. The
wonderful Song of Divination ought not to need mention as one of the
numbers detachable from the score, since that is often given on the
concert-platform.
“Khovanshchina” seems to merit a place apart in the field of Russian
Opera. It is a fusion of the Glinkist and Dargomijskian traditions
in that it deals with national subjects, incorporates the folk-idea,
both literary and musical, and is designed and constructed on lines
which are favourable to the development of a rational type of opera;
in such an opera the severity of declamation is relieved on suitable
occasions by melody, and a compromise is thus reached, admitting
of the treatment of any literary subject at all suitable for the
purposes of opera.
“Khovanshchina” is a work in which such a compromise becomes
imperative. But for its acceptance the store of Russian national
music-drama would have been robbed of an example that makes a direct
appeal to the religious as well as to the patriotic sensibilities of
the Russian nation.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] “Moussorgsky,” Félix Alcan, Paris, 1911.
[9] A Russian musical essayist, wrongly supposing this to have
referred to the whole operatic fragment, has cited these
words as evidence of the composer’s power of detachment.
[10] “Les Faux Démétrius,” Paris, 1853.
[11] “Musique d’autrefois et d’aujourd’hui,” Dorbon-Ainé, Paris.
PART III
CHORAL AND INSTRUMENTAL WORKS
I.
A survey of Moussorgsky’s dramatic work reveals so many evidences
of genius in writing for chorus that one might have expected to
find among his compositions a greater number of independent choral
examples. Of the four surviving specimens, only one was designed as
a separate work--“The Destruction of Sennacherib,” after Byron’s
short poem, for the usual vocal quartet. This was written in the
winter of 1866-67, and first performed at a Free School Concert under
Balakiref’s direction. One cannot say more than that its music, while
making no strong effort at description, is entirely suitable to the
text. Of the others, the chorus for mixed voices and orchestra (the
sole remaining number of the setting of Sophocles’ “Œdipus”), and
a women’s chorus from the unfinished “Salammbô,” are not of great
importance. “Joshua,” also originally from that source is, on the
other hand, a work of particular interest. It is founded on themes
that the composer heard sung by some Jews, for some time neighbours
of his, during the Feast of Tabernacles. In this Moussorgsky
has imitated a style altogether new to him, showing a wonderful
sensibility to new impressions. The melodic line is remarkably
characteristic; its only blemish is an instrumental reproduction of
an ornamental flourish, introducing an effect of clearness foreign
to the traditional Hebraic vocal style. A comparison of some of the
melodic figures with those employed in the sketch of the two Jews in
“The Picture-Show,” suggests that Moussorgsky based his character
drawing therein upon the material from which the “Joshua” music had
been derived.
“THE PICTURE-SHOW”
II.
With one exception Moussorgsky’s compositions for the piano can have
little interest other than that arising for the historian. With
this very notable exception none of them would for a moment arrest
the attention of a musician if published under an unknown name.[12]
The extraordinary novelty and originality of the famous series of
sketches called “The Picture-Show” is attributable to its having been
created under the influence of a deep inspiration.
Unfortunately it is impossible at this date to obtain any notion as
to the degree of success attained by the composer in reproducing in
music what he saw in Hartmann’s sketches. While it has been possible,
with a little contriving, to see the original pictures of Goya, and
to hear their musical reflection according to Granados, or to witness
the ridiculous miming of “General Lavine,” and to listen to Debussy’s
account of his mannerisms on one and the same day, the chance of
comparing Moussorgsky’s pieces with the water-colours and sketches
that inspired them is apparently lost for ever. But the listener
whose imagination enables him to connect the music with Hartmann’s
titles is not likely to care whether or no a sight of the originals
would diminish his pleasure.
Hartmann, an architect, was a great friend both of Stassof and
Moussorgsky. The son of a doctor, he was born in 1834, and despite
his short life managed to visit practically all the art centres
of Europe in search of ideas. On his death in the summer of 1873,
Stassof wrote an extremely eulogistic notice, following this up with
a sketch of his acquaintanceship and transactions with the lamented
artist. In the spring of 1874, an exhibition of water-colours and
designs was arranged, and it was Moussorgsky’s visit to the gallery
that led him to attempt what must have been then regarded as a
particularly daring experiment.
Writing to Stassof in June, 1874, Moussorgsky states that “Hartmann”
is progressing at the same furious rate as did “Boris” a year or so
before. The first four numbers of the suite had then already taken
shape.
The following is a slightly abbreviated translation of Moussorgsky’s
description of the pictures, printed in the original edition of his
suite. Only a few of them are mentioned in Stassof’s notice of the
exhibition:
1. “Gnomus.” Picture representing a little goblin, hobbling
clumsily along on his misshapen legs.
2. “Il Vecchio Castello.” A medieval castle, before which sings a
troubadour.
3. “Tuileries.” Children wrangling over their games in the
Tuileries Gardens.
4. “Bydlo.” A Polish cart on huge wheels, drawn by oxen.
5. “Ballet of Chickens in their Shells.” A sketch for the staging
of the ballet “Trilby.”
6. “Samuel Goldenburg and Schmuyle.” Two Polish Jews, the one
prosperous, the other needy.
7. “Limoges.” Bickering market-women.
8. “The Catacombs.” Hartmann is seen visiting the Paris Catacombs
by lantern-light.
9. “The Hut on Fowls’ Legs.” A design for a clock in the shape of
Baba-Yaga’s hut. Moussorgsky added the trail of the witch,
journeying to and fro in her traditional mortar.
10. “The Bogatyr’s Gate at Kief.” Hartmann’s plan for the proposed
Gate in the ancient massive Russian style, with a cupola in the
form of a Slavonic helmet.
There is a Prelude under the title “Promenade,” the theme of which is
used to suggest from time to time the gait of the visitor, and also
the impression made upon him by the pictures.
The most graphic numbers in the series are undoubtedly “Gnomus,” in
which the grotesque little goblin’s awkward movements are wonderfully
suggested, “Bydlo,” a scene in the street of Sandomir (recalling that
it was Hartmann who advised including the Polish Act in “Boris,” of
which the castle at Sandomir is the scene), the “Trilby” movement,
daintiness itself, the Polish Jews, whose contrasted condition is
marvellously depicted, the Baba-Yaga scene, and the splendidly heroic
final number--a little masterpiece that is in itself an excellent
memorial of the co-designer of the Russian Millennary monument at
Nijni Novgorod.
The Spanish picture, the Tuileries scene, and “Limoges,” are somewhat
too formal for their purpose, and come strangely from the composer of
“The Nursery.” “The Catacombs” is a curiously fantastic number, part
of which is based on the “Promenade” theme.
Now that these pieces have become popular, one regrets all the more
that the pictures of Hartmann were not reproduced in the original
edition--their inclusion could not greatly have lessened the value of
Moussorgsky’s work, and would have provided, in conjunction with the
music, a fitting souvenir of an exceptionally versatile artist.
“NIGHT ON THE BARE MOUNTAIN”
III.
The surviving orchestral version of Moussorgsky’s famous “Night on
the Bare Mountain” is the work of Rimsky-Korsakof, and thus cannot
be considered, apart from its thematic and programmatic interest, as
representative.
Its history is a little complicated. Composed in the rough in 1867,
as a fantasia for piano and orchestra, supposedly under the influence
of Liszt’s “Dance Macabre” and Berlioz’ “Witches’ Sabbath,” and
given the title of “St. John’s Eve,” it was thrown aside until some
three years later, when on Gedeonof’s “Mlada” project being put
before Moussorgsky and his friends Cui, Borodin, and Rimsky-Korsakof,
it was considerably altered and was given a vocal part. It had now
become the music for the revels of Chernobog (the Black god) on Mount
Triglaf. On the abandonment of Gedeonof’s scheme it was once more
laid aside, to serve again for “Sorochinsk Fair” as the “fantastic
dream”--an Intermezzo in which the witches are seen disporting
themselves on the Bare Mountain. The ringing of the bell which
disperses the nocturnal spirits at dawn was inserted at this time.
Finally it was revised and orchestrated by Rimsky-Korsakof, who,
after considerable trouble in arranging the material satisfactorily,
eventually conducted it at the first of Belayef’s Russian Symphony
Concerts, about five years after the composer’s death. Its immediate
popularity is easy to understand, since the fantastic programme is
carried out with a wealth of rhythmic and harmonic suggestion that
compels a mental reconstruction of the supernatural occurrences
described. The verbal description of the scene, attached to the
score, is as follows: “Subterranean sounds of unearthly voices.
Appearance of the spirits of darkness followed by that of the God
Chernobog. Chernobog’s glorification and the Black Mass. The Revels.
At the height of the orgies is heard from afar the bell of a little
church, which causes the spirits to disperse. Dawn.”
The fantasia possesses a special significance for the student of
Russian musical history. It recalls that Glinka had mooted, somewhere
about the time of Moussorgsky’s birth, the notion of composing a
number of orchestral works in which he proposed removing the accepted
formal restrictions in order to offer to the public a kind of music
that could be appreciated by its (musically) uneducated section. The
fantasias in question were to preserve such a level of seriousness
as would render them acceptable to the critical, but by means of
a “programme” were to make a popular appeal. “A Night in Madrid”
may thus be looked upon as a forerunner of “A Night on the Bare
Mountain,” and the latter as the first of a series of symphonic
pictures of which Rimsky-Korsakof’s “Sheherazade” and “Antar,”
Borodin’s “In the Steppes of Central Asia,” Balakiref’s “Tamara,”
and Glazounof’s “Stenka Razin” are the most meritorious examples. “A
Night on the Bare Mountain” must therefore be attributed as much to
Glinkist as to foreign influence.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] A further exception may perhaps be made in favour of the
“Intermezzo,” composed in 1861, and afterwards arranged
for orchestra. It was partly inspired by a rustic scene,
but was written in a classical style not at all suggesting
a “programme.”
PART IV
SONGS
I.
Before proceeding to make detailed reference to Moussorgsky’s
songs, it should be mentioned that the composer did not look upon a
song as a vocal solo with instrumental accompaniment. He was just
as unwilling to do so as he would have been to regard an opera as
a “concert in costume.” For him, the song was a vehicle for the
description of something not to be described by any other means.
His songs are best considered as musical scenes with a vocal part,
the voice naturally becoming prominent where description gives
place to narration or dialogue. In order to facilitate reference
to the style of Moussorgsky’s forty-odd examples, their stylistic
attributes may be roughly specified under the following heads: (1)
National or Popular: Where the text possesses a national character
or appeals to nationalistic sensibilities, or where the music is in
the style of folk-song. (2) Poetical or Idealistic: Where the text is
based upon a poetical idea and the music is “absolute” rather than
suggestive, reflecting the general sentiment of the whole rather
than the particular meaning of a phrase. (3) Realistic: Where the
text possesses the attributes of a _genre_ production and the music
occupies itself for the most part with description. (4) Declamatory:
Where the text is in the nature of a narration and the vocal music
is mostly recitatival. (In this class of song Moussorgsky has not
hesitated to alter the bar-design or measure wherever the syllabic
structure of the text has demanded such variation.) Even this
generous allowance of categories takes no account of the satirical
pieces in which there is the purpose of ridiculing certain persons,
types, or ideas, and which in two cases have been conveniently and
appropriately described as “musical pamphlets.”
II.
In the first, or national, category comes one of Moussorgsky’s
best-known vocal works, the “Gopak.” The stirring words of the
martyr-poet Taras Shevchenko are set melodically, with a fitness that
could not have been surpassed had this sublime Ruthenian patriot
himself, and not a Muscovite, been responsible for the music. The
invocation to the Dnieper, also the work of this poet (he is buried
on its banks), while national in character, is musically of quite
a different order from the first. Beginning with a recitatival
introduction in freely varied rhythms (7/4, 6/4, 3/4), a folk-song
character prevails throughout the sombre Allegro. The final section,
a return to the introductory theme, is a magnificently eloquent
appeal to the Ruthenian river, the two bars in which the name is
pronounced being lengthened to 7/4 to admit of due emphasis.
“To the Mushrooms” is another song which may well be cited in this
category, for the folk-song element is here also very conspicuous.
It is national in text as well as music--mushroom-picking being in
Russia made the occasion of a special ceremonial. The refrain has a
strong melodic resemblance to the song of the Innkeeper in “Boris
Godounof.” The “coda,” which is at greater length than Moussorgsky
usually allows himself, is a masterly piece of harmonic variation.
The “Peasant’s Cradle Song” is in an entirely different mood. The
mother sings in turn of the oppression that will be her child’s lot,
and of the Divine solicitude that may lighten the burden. The music
suits itself wonderfully to the change of sense; only the rocking is
constant.
The most characteristic examples among Moussorgsky’s realistic songs
are “The Orphan” and “Savishna.” Both of them are sheer strokes of
genius, not merely as to their general conception but in respect of
their composer’s happy disregard of tradition at a moment when the
consideration of form would have prevented a fitting illustration of
their textual idea. The first represents a street beggar imploring
charity of a passer by. “Oh, kind gentleman, take pity on a poor,
miserable, homeless orphan....” The child describes the conditions
of his existence; he has no strength left. “... To die of hunger
is terrible ... my blood is frozen ... have pity on a miserable
orphan....” The music has simply spoken and moaned with the child;
the misery described for us by its harmony might have softened the
heart of the passer by; yet it fails.... The child is left standing,
as an incomplete cadence tells us. Charity, like its resolution, is
missing.
The orphan’s appeal, while hardly more than a monologue, has a
suggestion of melody. In “Savishna” Moussorgsky approaches more
closely the declamatory style. It is a monotonous supplication, the
melodic element being restricted to three notes in a rhythm of five.
The composer, occupied in writing the “Labourer’s Cradle Song”
during the period spent on his brother’s estate at Minkino, in 1865,
happened to overhear the addresses of a half-witted suitor paid
to the village beauty. It is the love-declaration of Vanya, the
“yourodivy” or spiritual fool--the prototype of the pathetic creature
who utters the closing words of the Kromy scene in “Boris”--that
Moussorgsky has noted down in “Savishna.” Its harmony strikes but two
notes. The fool asks for love and for pity. The empty fourths and
fifths in the closing three bars proclaim the hopelessness of his
suit.
For the gibes of “The Urchin” Moussorgsky has used the same rhythmic
arrangement, but in this case he varies his rhythm, using as occasion
demands 6/4, 5/4, 3/2 and 3/1 to emphasize the variety of epithets
flung by the ragamuffin at the old woman he is mocking. The 5/4
rhythm is retained for her remonstrance, but the strength of her arm
is made manifest in a couple of strenuous bars--for the chastisement.
“SONGS AND DANCES OF DEATH”
III.
We have passed from the category of realism into that of declamation
without referring to the _genre_ type. To this heading belongs
undoubtedly the song-cycle entitled “Songs and Dances of Death.”
The “Trepak” (“Still is the Forest”) contains the elements of
nationalism, realism, and melody. To the dance rhythm, to which Death
conducts the starved peasant into eternity, is given a considerable
prominence as a suggestion of Death’s mood. Its measure is only
blotted out by the howling of the tempest. Becoming audible once more
at the promise of eternal peace, it mingles with the cradle-song that
lulls the peasant into a last sleep. Death surveys the corpse with a
smile at the recollection of his artifice.
There is little vocal melody in Moussorgsky’s portrayal of the
heart-rending scene that follows. A mother’s tired voice has crooned
through a sorrowful all-night vigil over her sick child. There is
no conventional cradle-song. The movement is suggested by the rise
and fall of a figure which appears to represent the weary woman’s
anxiety. The swaying becomes feebler. The mother turns her head.
Someone is stealthily approaching the hut. There is a knock. Through
the doorway the trembling mother sees, silhouetted by the light of
dawn, the terrible intruder whose presence betokens that she can
hardly dare hope. The gentleness of Death’s accents fails to hide his
intention. He will rock the child and afford the mother a well-earned
respite. His voice will soothe the sufferer. In vain she refuses,
protests, implores. Death gains possession of the little sufferer.
“See! I have sung him to sleep....”
The third picture is that of a frail young woman to whom Death
appears in the guise of a gallant. Its refrain is a serenade. The
sinister cavalier prosecutes a brief and horrible courtship. For
him there can be but one reply. A pedal note proclaims that his
flattering utterances are but a veil that will not long obscure the
end. It comes in the rhythm of the serenade ... with it for a moment
is heard the counsel of submission. A horrible silence follows.
Death casts away his disguise. “Thou’rt Mine!” The means by which
Moussorgsky attains to positive descriptiveness at no sacrifice of
the lyrical quality are so absolutely simple that, were this song
divorced from its text, one might seek in vain for anything in the
nature of poetic suggestion. Yet as a complement of the words of
Kutuzof, the music becomes a masterpiece that is second to none of
its kind.
The method of the last number is somewhat different. The poet has
given a more generous description of the _mise en scène_. Death
has found a worthy vicar and is not yet here. The scene is a
corpse-strewn battlefield. The conflict is recalled by its human
remnants. Presently the rising moon reveals the hideous figure of
a skeleton whose bones reflect its light. He is mounted. It is
Field-Marshal Death. His subtle strategy has brought him an easy
and an overwhelming victory. He sings the restrained song of a
warrior who has never doubted his strength. To the dead he dispenses
sophistries. “In life you were always in conflict. Death will unite
you....” To a military music he bids his victims rise and pass before
him in review. Surveying the ghostly army, he promises that he will
awaken them daily to entertain them at a midnight revel.
“WITHOUT SUNLIGHT”
IV.
“Apart from Pushkin and Lermontof,” wrote Moussorgsky to Stassof, “I
have not discovered elsewhere what I find in Kutuzof.” In the “Songs
and Dances of Death” there is sufficient evidence that the composer
had found someone capable of inspiring the very best he could create.
In the second cycle, which may be classified as Idealistic, there is
so clear a representation of the composer’s own personality that one
could almost credit him with the text.
“Without Sunlight” is a collection of six poems by the poet of the
“Dances of Death”; their musical setting shows that Moussorgsky was
capable, on occasion, of being subjective, that the capacity for
introspection and self-revelation was not altogether foreign to his
nature. In all his other creations he is seen looking around him
and depicting objects worthy of admiration or pity, or deserving
ridicule. In “Without Sunlight” he has given us music that represents
himself as surely as the text represents the psychology of the type
to which he conforms.
In all six numbers the vocal part approaches nearer to definite
melody than to melo-declamation. But in connection with the last one
only can the term lyrical be mentioned.
The first, “Within Four Walls,” is a glimpse through the door of a
hospital. The soliloquy of a patient is overheard. His mental eye
fixes momentarily upon some past happiness. Its gaze shifts to the
present, and the sick one realizes that this is solitude and night.
There is little movement in Moussorgsky’s harmonies; it is as though
all sound were, like the room, in shadow.
“In the crowd thou didst not know me,” is the complaint of the
second song, which is the record of a passion starved by neglect.
The recollection brings a sharp reminder of the first pangs of
disappointment. Here, as in “The Orphan,” the return to the
prevailing tonality is neglected.
“The Festal Days are Over” is also in reminiscent vein. The sufferer
is wakeful, and in the dead of night turns over the pages of a
distant past, rendered more vivid by solitude. The accompaniment is
of a much more pictorial kind than that of the foregoing numbers.
The passage in which the poet speaks of “vernal passions of the past
returning as phantoms in dreams” is accompanied by a figure which has
since served Debussy in depicting his nocturnal “_Nuages_.”[13]
“Tedium” is unrelievedly pessimistic. Cynical self-damnation is its
note. It catalogues all life’s joys and decrees that they are to
befall one insensible: “Tedium until the very tomb, and God be with
you there.” At the opening of the song the harmony seems to fail in
reflecting the full weariness of spirit described by the text, but
once the exordium is done with there is no further doubt as to its
fitness. Poignant bitterness permeates the music until the final
words, which evoke a major chord.
There is a harmonic wealth in the “Elegie” that is not forthcoming
from any of the previous numbers. It is also of much more generous
dimensions, and is at times quite rhapsodical. The text once more
concerns past emotions to which the music seeks to attune itself. At
one moment there is positive description. At “the sound of the bells
of death,” the accompaniment is suspended and the knell introduced.
“On the Stream,” the last of the series, does not merely suggest the
abstract sentiment, but is definitely pictorial, so far, that is,
as concerns the water alone. This is depicted in a constant triplet
figure. The text tells us that death will soon put an end to these
solitary communings, and the voice of the sufferer answering the call
with a cheerfulness that strikes a new note is heard in an ascending
phrase borne on the bosom of the still rustling stream into the
unknown.[14]
A closer relation with the import of these vocal poems would have
been established by the use of such a title as “Songs Before Death.”
“THE NURSERY”
V.
“The Russian child,” says M. d’Alheim, “whether belonging to the
peasant or the middle class, only differs from the child of another
nationality in the matter of racial traits.”[15] This difference,
however, as revealed in the child-scenes of Moussorgsky, assumes a
not inconsiderable importance. The Russian child resembles other
children in that he is father to the man; but both child and man
live in a world singularly different, in one particular, from their
Western prototypes. They spend their lives in a world from which the
supernatural element has not been banished. It is introduced by the
nurse through the medium of the folk-stories in which the Russian,
whether child or man, delights. By their own confession Pushkin,
Moussorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakof have made us aware that their
oft-displayed affection for legendary lore was instilled into them by
the trusted peasant-woman under whose care their childhood was passed.
To this influence the world owes several of the national poet’s
immortal works, and the operas and symphonic pieces founded upon them
by such as Glinka, Dargomijsky, Rimsky-Korsakof, and Moussorgsky. The
child’s request, in the first number of “The Nursery,” for a tale
concerning certain legendary personages whose behaviour is, to say
the least of it, a little uncommon, needs no further explanation.
A Russian, hearing the words, would in imagination be immediately
transported, as though by the good offices of some benevolent
_genie_, to his native heath. This little vocal scene has a special
claim to be quoted as a specimen of art-nationalism, showing as it
does the extent to which a popular affection for folk-lore will
contribute to a form of art which may be wooed but cannot be won by
the less imaginative peoples.
The misdemeanours of Mishenka, left for a moment to himself, are not
perhaps distinctively national. A nursery “strewn with a fearful mess
of cotton, wrecked stitching, and all the contents of the nursery
work-basket, to which a bottle of ink has contributed even greater
devastation,”[16] is a scene which must surely be common to the
nurseries of the civilized world. In contradistinction the third and
sixth numbers reflect the very special interest that the zoological
creation has for the Russian child. The one describes Mishenka in
conflict with a too venturesome cockchafer, and the youngster’s
mystification in the presence of Death; the other relates how the
caged robin escaped, through the timely interference of Mishenka,
from the teeth and claws of Matros the cat.
The fourth, fifth, and seventh concern respectively a doll, the
child’s evening prayer, and a gallop round the nursery astride a
stick. The doll is exhorted to remember the dreams of its slumber
in order that they may beguile the waking hour; the prayer is
rendered characteristic by an episode--the child’s lapse of memory on
approaching the passage in which Divine grace is solicited on its own
behalf; the furious gallop during which the nursery is “transformed
into a veritable battlefield”[17]--the furniture sustaining heavy
casualties--is a marvellous example of “the notation of pantomime.”
In “The Nursery” the declamatory method prevails. In the vocal
part there is even less suggestion of melody than in “The Orphan”
or “Savishna.” Moussorgsky never turns aside from his intention
of giving us the child’s speech. The nearest approach to melody
is in “The Child’s Prayer,” in which there are to be found some
repeated phrases. But these are nothing more than a suggestion of the
mechanical way in which the prayer is uttered. The words come not
from his mind but his lips.
With the accompaniment it is otherwise. In such numbers as “The
Cockchafer,” “The Doll” (a cradle-song), and “The Hobby-Horse,” there
is a clearly defined rhythmic pattern and a sufficiently formal
structure to allow of music that could be divorced from its text. It
must surely have been these numbers that caused Liszt to consider
an arrangement for piano alone. One cannot imagine that any sort of
coherency could have been infused into “Nurse, Tell Me a Tale,” with
its twenty-seven changes of time-signature!
“The Nursery” is a work of art in which the principles formulated by
Dargomijsky have been carried to their logical conclusion. It is the
equivalent in its special sphere of “The Matchmaker.” The setting
of that comedy was held by the composer to represent his “very
self.” But as the text of “The Nursery” is Moussorgsky’s own, we
may consider it for that reason alone as still more representative.
Besides revealing the genius it shows us the man.
As a series of child-pictures it stands alone. It is doubtful whether
in the whole world of art its equal as an exposition of the child
could be found. “Moussorgsky,” says M. Combarieu, “is no onlooker; in
depicting the children he himself returns to childhood; one might say
that he plays with them and sulks with them....”[18]
SATIRICAL SONGS
VI.
The category of “Satirical,” like the classification of “Pamphlet,”
is one which takes no heed of the musical qualities of the example
thus placed. “The Seminarist” is satirical, but in contradistinction
to “The Peepshow” must be called non-political. Musically speaking
it is declamatory, but has a certain rhythmic pattern. So long as
the divinity student attends to his Latin lesson he sings in an
appropriate monotone; when his mind wanders towards the thought of
his instructor’s daughter the vocal contour is softened. As this
happens quite often, “The Seminarist” possesses a musical interest
that would have been absent had the student been of saintly character.
“The Classicist” is both satire and musical politics. Its victim,
Famintsin, a contemporary critic, was a lover of Handel and a stern
opponent of all “modernist tricks.” “The Classicist,” in ridiculing
these prejudices, takes on the appearance of a _pastiche_. In
one line we are listening to innocuous Handelian music; in the
next to the detested “modernist tricks.” After the quotation from
Rimsky-Korsakof’s “Sadko,” which does not strike us as appalling
cacophony, “The Classicist” becomes itself again, establishing an
atmosphere of repose suitable to a _milieu_ in which music reflecting
the contemporary spirit is taboo.
“The Musicians’ Peepshow” belongs obviously to the same category.
Its satire is more biting, its political sphere somewhat wider,
and quotations abound. But neither “The Classicist,” nor “The
Peep-show,” nor the Mephistophelean “Flea-song” is in the least
representative of Moussorgsky’s art, however much they may tell us
about that of other folk. Still, they are documents that help to
increase our knowledge of the man, and they have the one great merit
of being exceedingly entertaining.
The present description of the text, method, and general treatment
of the songs dealt with cannot possibly convey any definite idea of
their musical quality. From the preceding notes it will have been
gathered that the range of material employed by Moussorgsky was
exceedingly wide, and the method of treatment extraordinarily varied.
It will have been realized, moreover, that the composer set before
himself an ideal which made immense demands upon both the imagination
and the inventive faculty.
For many famous composers a song need claim nothing more than to be
a poem set to music. The accompaniment is a complement of the vocal
line and has little bearing on the text. In Moussorgsky’s songs we
have a new type--they constitute a form of art in which all three
constituents, the text, the vocal line, and the piano part, have
a truly vital function, contributing directly and equally to the
artistic whole.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] A similar coincidence of musical invention, relating to
the same composers, may be observed by comparing passages
in “La Chevelure” (Trois Chansons de Bilitis) and the
“Galitsin” Act of “Khovanshchina.”
[14] The text of this song was also set to music by Balakiref.
[15] _Op. cit._
[16] M. Montagu-Nathan, _op. cit._
[17] From a notice by M. Debussy.
[18] _Revue Musicale_, January, 1911.
LIST OF PRINCIPAL PUBLISHED WORKS
MUSIC-DRAMA.
Boris Godounof.
Khovanshchina.
The Matchmaker (First Act).
The Fair at Sorochinsk (fragments).
ORCHESTRA.
A Night on the Bare Mountain.
CHORAL.
The Destruction of Sennacherib.
Joshua.
Œdipus.
Women’s Chorus from abandoned opera Salammbô.
PIANO.
The Picture-Show (Tableaux d’une Exposition).
A number of small pieces.
SONGS.
The Orphan.
Yeremoushka’s Cradle Song.
Labourer’s Lullaby.
Night.
The Classicist.
The Peepshow.
The Dnieper.
The Seminarist.
Savishna.
Gopak.
SONG CYCLES.
Without Sunlight (six numbers).
The Nursery (seven numbers).
Songs and Dances of Death (four numbers).
INDEX
Alexander II., 45
Alheim, d’, 26, 91
_Antar_, 82
Azanchevsky, 16
Balakiref, 18, 19, 20, 21, 26, 28, 37, 44, 47, 76, 82, 91
Beethoven, 15
Belayef, 81
Berlioz, 21, 81
Betz, 32
Bogomolof, 44
_Boris Godounof_, 16, 19, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 41, 42,
46, 49, 53, 54-66, 67, 72, 73, 78, 79, 85, 86
Borodin, 17, 18, 20, 23, 26, 34, 37, 44, 47, 81, 82
Byron, 28, 76
Calvocoressi, 51
_Central Asia, In the Steppes of_, 82
_Chansons de Bilitis_, 90
Chernishevsky, 24
_Children’s Scherzo_, 22
_Classicist, The_, 37, 45, 95, 96
Combarieu, 94
Cui, 18, 19, 20, 22, 26, 27, 34, 37, 38, 47, 53, 81
Dargomijsky, 16, 18, 19, 20, 25, 26, 27, 29, 32, 38, 43, 47, 49,
50, 52, 53, 54, 62, 75, 92, 94
_Death_, 31
Debussy, 77, 90, 93
Demidof, 16
_Dnieper_, 84
_Don Juan_, 49
Dostoievsky, 61
Edwards, Sutherland, 50
_Ensigns’ Polka_, 15, 23
Famintsin, 37, 38, 95
Ferrero, 32
Field, 14
Filippof, 44
Flaubert, 25, 46, 48
_Flea-song_, 6, 96
Free School of Music, 41, 44, 76
Gedeonof, 33, 54, 81
General Lavine, 77
Glinka, 19, 20, 26, 31, 32, 46, 47, 55, 56, 60, 62, 63, 65, 75, 82
Gogol, 26, 27, 28, 29, 40, 50, 51, 53
_Golden Bird_, 26
Golenishchef-Kutuzof, 42, 43, 88, 89
_Gopak_, 6, 54
_Gopak_ (Song), 29, 84
Granados, 77
Gunsburg, 44
_Han d’Islande_, 16
Handel, 95
Hartmann, 33, 39, 77, 78, 79, 80
Heine, 49
Herke, 14, 15
Holbein, 43
Hugo, V., 16
_Impromptu passionné_, 22
Ivanovsky, 23
Ivan the Terrible, 56
_Joshua_, 76
_Kallistrate_, 25
Karamzin, 31
Karatigin, 48, 54
_Khovanshchina_, 16, 34, 35, 40, 41, 42, 46, 66-75, 90
Kondratief, 35
Kroupsky, 16
Leonof, 41, 42, 43
Lermontof, 22, 89
_Life for the Tsar, A_, 19, 46, 55, 60, 62
Liszt, 14, 21, 80
Lyadof, 21, 34, 54
_Maid of Pskof_, 33
Manjean, 32
Marnold, 66
_Matchmaker, The_, 26, 27, 29, 30, 49-53, 94
Mendelssohn, 23
Mérimée, 57
Minkus, 34
_Mlada_, 34, 54, 81
Moussorgsky, Filaret, 13, 24, 45
Mozart, 19
_Mushrooms_, 84
Napravnik, 32
_Night_, 25
_Night in Madrid_, 82
_Night in May, A_, 53
_Night on the Bare Mountain_, 28, 34, 54, 80-82
Nikolsky, 31, 33
_Nursery, The_, 38, 42, 43
Obolensky, 16
_Œdipus_, 21, 76
Opochinin, 31, 33
Orfano, 16
Orlof, 16
_Orphan, The_, 29, 85, 90, 93
Oulibishef, 19
Patti, 38
_Peasant’s Cradle Song_, 85
_Peepshow_, 6, 38, 95, 96
Peter the Great, 68
Petrof, 35
_Picture-Show, The_, 39, 77-80
Polejaef, 49
Popof, 17
Pourgold, Alexandra, 29
Pourgold, Nadejda, 29
_Prince Igor_, 17
Pushkin, 13, 31, 49, 58, 61, 89, 92
Rimsky-Korsakoff, 11, 18, 20, 22, 28, 29, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 41,
42, 44, 47, 53, 80, 81, 82, 92, 95
_Rogneda_, 38
Rubinstein, A, 21
_Russalka_, 18
Russian Musical Society, 21, 37
_Russlan and Ludmilla_, 42
_Sadko_, 37, 95
_Salammbô_, 25, 46, 48, 49, 54, 76
_Savishna_, 85, 86, 93
Schumann, 21, 23
_Seminarist, The_, 29, 95
_Sennacherib, Destruction of_, 28, 44, 76
Serof, 37
_Sheherazade_, 82
Shestakof, 31
Shevchenko, 29, 84
_Songs and Dances of Death_, 43, 86-88, 89
Sophocles, 21, 76
_Sorochinsk Fair_, 40, 44, 53, 54, 81
Stassof, V. V., 12, 21, 22, 30, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41,
42, 43, 44, 45, 47, 48, 53, 67, 78
_Stenka Razin_, 82
_Stone Guest_, 25, 26, 27, 30, 47, 49
_Tableaux d’une Exposition._ See _Picture-Show_
_Tamara_, 82
Tolstoi, 37, 38
_Traviata_, 18
_Trovatore_, 18
_Tsar’s Bride, The_, 26
_Urchin_, 86
Vanliarsky, 18
Velyaminof, 29
Volkonsky, 36
Wagner, 46
_Without Sunlight_, 42, 89-91
Yastrebtsef, 11
_Yeremoushka’s Cradle Song_, 29
Zaremba, 38
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of each chapter. Musical chords and meters are presented
with numbers separated by a slash, e.g. 6/4.
In the index, extraneous commas were deleted from the ends of page
numbers, and page number 38 was corrected under the entry for
Dargomijsky; “an” was changed to “a” before the word “dastardly.”