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.

That this was intended to be the main business of Moussorgsky’s “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.