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William Rich

Narrative and Dramatic Analysis

Dr. Markham

12/9/20

Pictures at an Exhibition: How Orchestration Adds New Narrative Meaning

For many casual listeners, it is quite likely that their introduction to Pictures at an

Exhibition is through the orchestration by Ravel, and not the original version for solo piano by

Mussorgsky himself. From the soaring brass of The Great Gate of Kiev to the exotic solo

saxophone of Il Vecchio castillo, there is an unmistakably fitting quality to it that almost gives

the original piano version a certain degree of inadequacy. That is not to say the piano version

doesn’t include its own share of unique moments more appropriate to that instrument, but

rather that Pictures has likely been picked apart by orchestration more so than almost any

other piece in the repertoire, yet Ravel’s remains the most frequently heard interpretation.

Ravel’s orchestration stands as a supreme expression of how transcribing a solo piano work for

orchestra not only lends it a new sound but demonstrates Ravel’s own ability to reinvigorate

the piece with new energy, creativity, and additional layers of narrative meaning. In a sense, his

orchestration represents a shift from the realist and nationalistic qualities of late nineteenth

century Russian music (which Mussorgsky incorporated into the work) toward the more early

twentieth century sensibilities of color and tone painting that Ravel himself was a stark

proponent of.

In the preface to his meticulous analysis of Pictures, Michael Russ states, “No other work

has attracted so many orchestrators of such high calibre and yet left us with the feeling that the
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‘perfect’ orchestration is beyond the grasp of any of them; no other nineteenth-century work

raises so acutely the issue of authenticity and the question of what is morally acceptable to do

to another man’s composition.”1 One may argue that Ravel’s orchestration comes closer to

achieving this any other, and given its general acceptability as the orchestral version, this seems

to be the case. That being said, we often don’t consider why Ravel’s orchestration is so

unequaled compared to the numerous others out there. In order to delve into this question

further, we will return to the original version of the piece for piano by Mussorgsky and compare

it to Ravel’s orchestration, observing specifically what choices Ravel makes and how closely

aligned they are (or aren’t) with Mussorgsky’s.

It is also important to establish some ideas about narrative within Pictures, as it helps

make some of the structural and organizational aspects of the piece between the two

composer’s versions a bit easier to digest. Although a programmatic work, Pictures is not so

much a narrative whole as it is a series of self-contained depictions with Mussorgsky himself as

the central figure, meandering from one painting to the next. In many ways Pictures reflects

Mussorgsky’s own personal struggles as a composer, as well as representing a direct response

to the death of his friend Victor Hartmann, whom the paintings and sketches are credited to. It

is also a representation of the influence of realism on Russian music of the late 1800s, itself a

sort of backlash to the overtly Romantic tendencies of Western European music in the mid to

late nineteenth century. There is quite a bit of disagreement concerning how to assign a genre

for Pictures. It was written during a period where in many other parts of Europe, composers

1
Russ, Michael. “Preface.” Musorgsky: Pictures at an Exhibition, Cambridge University
Press, 1999, p. ix. 
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such as Chopin, Schumann, and Grieg were writing Romantic miniatures for piano. Sonata form

was beginning to show its age, and there was a move toward intense personal expression in

smaller forms such as the prelude or nocturne (4). Schumann and Liszt both incorporated a

variety of poetry and imagery into their pieces, Liszt especially with longer programmatic works

containing ongoing thematic transformation. Russian composers were privy to this, yet

Mussorgsky was of the belief that “structure is subordinate to content and Russianness” (4).

However, he did delineate Pictures as an “album series” in the vein of those Romantic piano

miniatures, but that is about as far as the similarities go. The predominance of realism in

Pictures is evidenced by an adherence to the depiction of real life over anything frivolous,

spiritual, romantic, or otherwise (7).

In terms of establishing a narrative for Pictures as a whole, Russ puts it succinctly: “A

composer like Mussorgsky needs narrative; his creativity may be stimulated by a moment

encapsulated in a picture, but he then needs to wrap the picture in a sequence of events. For

each little Hartman illustration, Mussorgsky the opera and song composer creates a little story”

(30-31). Mussorgsky imagines himself as the one wandering around the exhibition, rather than

the listener—doing so “creates a minimal narrative structure for the whole work; but the blend

of moods and episodes in Pictures has the external qualities of a narrative without actually

being one. In some ways it represents a trip through life without an overall story or plot” (31).

Russ isn’t exactly stating the obvious here—we can see semblances of a story within the

illustrations, but there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of connecting those stories

together, beyond their representation of aspects of real life. This is where the Promenade

comes into play—as the only primary repeating thematic material throughout Pictures, it serves
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the important function of being that connecting thread. Mussorgsky employs the Promenades

in a cyclic fashion—many of the subsequent ones are quasi-variations that adapt and change

throughout Pictures, eventually becoming part of the portraits themselves (34).

The famous opening Promenade serves as in introduction to Pictures and conjures up

the initial image of the composer walking through the gallery2. There is a rhythmic and

harmonic certainty to it and a sense of increasing momentum. Already we hear hints of how an

orchestration might work, just from the first four measures with its single motif transforming

into a chordal theme3 (p. 2, sys 1). Ravel in his orchestration does what may be seen as plainly

appropriate yet effective4—he has the trumpets play the initial fanfare followed by the rest of

the brass5. The strings come in a bit later followed by the reeds—the reeds and brass then trade

motives with the strings, and the orchestration becomes fairly full by the end (p. 3, reh 4).

Gnomus begins with a figure already the total opposite of the Promenade theme, more

rhythmic than melodic, perhaps representing the gnome’s jerks and struts. These become fiery

presto outbursts and staccato chords in the right hand, juxtaposed with the meandering legato

octaves of the following meno mosso section (p. 5, sys 2-4), now seeming to be the gnome’s

calmer, more idle moment of respite, before the low bass trills of the final section turn it on its

2
Evgeny Kissin: Pictures at an Exhibition, BMG Entertainment, 2002. 

3
Mussorgsky, Modest. Pictures at an Exhibition: Transcribed for Piano by Harold Bauer.
1874. New York: G Schirmer Inc, 1922, copyright renewed 1950. Print.

4
Claudio Abbado & London Symphony Orchestra. Mussorgsky: Pictures at an Exhibition,
Deutsche Grammophon, Berlin, 1995. 

5
Mussorgsky, Modest. Arr Ravel, Maurice. Tableux d’une Exposition. 1874. New York:
Boosey & Hawkes, Inc, 1929, copyright by Edition Russe de Musique. Print.
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head (p. 6). In the orchestration, we have our first true look at how Ravel uses the elements of

the full orchestra at his disposal. The beginning motif is played by strings and lower reeds, with

the first full theme in the upper reeds, and soon adding the xylophone and celesta for

counterbalance (p. 7, reh 8). In the meno mosso, he gives the strings the descending chromatic

line (p. 13, reh 14) marked portamento—this is one of many future examples of Ravel taking

advantage of a particular instrumental technique to achieve a certain color or effect. The

furious buildup of the final section includes nearly every instrument san horns, brass and harp

(p. 18), except on the final chord.

The second Promenade isn’t too different from the opening, but we see some subtle

hints at change—it seems to serve a more transitional function than standing on its own like

the opening. The theme is in a new key and isn’t exactly the same as the opening, with the

chords seemingly inverted and containing more ascending figures. The only significant change

Ravel makes is having a solo F horn play the opening motif, backed up by bassoons, clarinets,

and oboes—the violins enter on the final two measures with an ascending motif leading into Il

Vecchio castello (p. 19, sys 2).

Il Vecchio castello features a Siciliano rhythm that functions primarily as an ostinato

throughout, with a folk-like melody said to evoke a troubadour singing in front of a castle—Russ

sums it up as “a song with an introduction, six strophes of irregular length with freely varied

materials and a coda which typically ends the piece with fragments of the previous heard ideas

which gradually fade away” (37-38). It begins with the ostinato, but the actual A theme occurs

in the right hand shortly after (p. 8, sys 2). The B theme (p. 9, sys 2, m. 4) is more chordal, less

melodic, really a series of repeating motives. When the A theme returns (p. 9, bottom sys) it
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starts as before, but the second half adds ascending chromatic figures and hints of the chords

from the B section. Ravel gives the ostinato to the bassoons at the beginning—yet toward the

end the bassoons switch to the G-sharp drone that the cellos had at the beginning (p. 27, reh

30). This is another way he adjusts the color of certain sections by switching the

instrumentation. The A theme he assigns to the alto saxophone, an instrument he was

especially fond of which was only just beginning to show up in larger orchestral works at the

time. The exotic tinge of the saxophone with the strings and reeds supporting is a brilliant

orchestral stroke that seems to fit like a glove compared to the solo piano.

The third Promenade is the shortest and closer to the opening than the second. It is

primarily transitional, with the final melodic figure leading into Tuileries—here Ravel brings the

trumpet back, while having the strings and reeds interchange the subsequent melodic figures

(pp. 29-30).

Tuileries is based on a portrait of children with young nurses playing in the Tuileries

Garden in Paris and is perhaps a representation of Mussorgsky’s own child-like qualities (39). It

is also symbolic of his tendency to imitate speech patterns and vocal shape in his works. The

chord-like melody of the A section has a playful, teasing quality and a semi-annoyance in its

repetitiveness. The B section melody (p. 12, bottom sys) is almost the opposite, more lyrical and

graceful, perhaps the young nurses intervening on the children’s behalf, with the A theme

returning for a final repetition after. Ravel mainly divvies up the orchestration between reeds

and strings—the A theme features clarinets and bassoons on the chordal parts alternating with

flutes and oboes on the more melodic and scalar sections, and the strings joining in with pizz

chords on the strong beats. The B section starts in the upper strings (p. 32, reh 35), alternating
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with descending arpeggios in the flute, clarinet, and harp. The buildup towards the end is

marked by a fuller orchestration, before the reeds and pizz strings finish it off.

With Bydlo, there actually isn’t a Hartmann picture of a cattle or wagon, but rather it

seems like Mussorgsky is referring to the Polish people themselves as cattle (40), a dichotomy

which is further explored in Samuel Goldberg and Schmuyle. The A section is marked by the

lumbering, melancholic quality of the bass, and its repetitiveness both in the left hand figure

and the single voice melody of the right hand. In the B section (p. 14, sys 4, m. 3), the bass

chords are closer together, not quite the back and forth of the beginning, and ascending

upward—the right hand shifts to chords, still repetitive but less melodic—it appears the hands

switch roles here compared to the A section, so perhaps the ox-cart is switching hands as well.

Ravel notably has the A theme played by the tuba, and the ostinato by the lower strings,

bassoons and harps—again, he is using a specific instrument both as a color choice and as a

representation of the imagery of the painting or sketch (or in this case, what he’d imagine it to

be). The B section features a fuller orchestration, followed by a dramatic buildup to reh 42,

where the A theme returns at triple fortissimo, nearly every instrument contributing. The tuba

reenters during the coda as the orchestra gradually diminishes, with just the basses remaining.

The fourth Promenade is the most starkly different one we’ve heard at this point—it

begins almost in the middle of the theme we’re accustomed to hearing, and now in a minor

mode with diminished harmonies. Unlike the previous iterations, it ends with a foreshadowing

of Ballet of Unhatched Chicks, almost as if a chick escaped from the painting and is trying to get

Mussorgsky’s attention. Ravel hints at this with the upper reeds and harp interrupting the

strings at the end (p. 43).

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In Ballet of Unhatched Chicks, Mussorgsky opts for a prototypical scherzo-trio form,

albeit miniaturized. The A section is characterized by virtuosic leaps and an excessive reliance

on repeating grace notes. The B section is a sort of mock trio—the first half contains trills in

thirds in the right hand, and the left hand repeating an alternating chromatic figure. The

presence of the dissonant D-flat in the coda makes it stick out like a sore thumb—it simply

refuses to resolve to F major until the very last second. Ravel again showcases the strings and

reeds much like in Tuileries—he splits the A section between upper reeds and harp, with

bassoons and violas on the ascending scalar line, and the pizz violins on the repeating chords.

The trio is similar, but he adds trills in the violins, and gives the reeds the dissonant fortissimo

interruptions in the coda (p. 51, sys 2, m. 3).

Mussorgsky had a deep interest in Jewish culture, and composed vocal works based on

Jewish texts (43)—Samuel Goldberg and Schmuyle is a prime example of the influence of

realism, specifically in his portrayal of speech rhythm between the rich Russian Jew and the

poor Polish Jew. Russ describes this as “not simply a musical portrait of the two characters,

but…concerned with their psychology and relationship” (44). The AB + coda form seems to be

determined more by the dual narrative of the two Jews than anything else. The A section

represents the rich Goldberg, characterized by its stately unison melody and pompous Yiddish

folk rhythms. The B section is the poor Schmuyle, represented by the whining triplet sixteenths

in the right hand, along with the lamenting chromatic thirds in the middle voice. The following

section (p. 22) has both themes clashing together simultaneously, followed by a coda with a

gentler version of the chromatic descending line of Schmuyle, then interrupted by the F

sforzandos of Goldberg, who seems to triumph in the end with his theme getting the last word.
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Ravel employs the full strings and a selection of reeds in Goldberg’s theme, whereas in

Schmuyle’s the trumpet plays the grace note motive, and upper reeds and bassoons play the

descending chromatic line. The coda serves as a brief reprieve, with the strings given the

chromatic line for the first time (p. 57, reh 62), before the full orchestra emphasizes Goldberg’s

final victory.

Though the portrait hasn’t been found, Russian critic Vladimir Stasov describes Limoges

march as “old women quarreling at the fair” (Russ 44). There is actually a story here based on a

French programme inserted into the autograph score and subsequently crossed out: “The big

news: Monsieur de Puissangeout has just recovered his cow ‘Fugitive’. But the good wives of

Limoges are not interested in this incident because Madame de Remboursac has acquired very

fine porcelain dentures while Monsier de Panta-Pantaléon is still troubled by his obstrusive

nose which remains as red as a peony” (45). Mussorgsky was relatively unphased by this

frivolous story, and more concerned with creating a particular atmosphere, with interrupting

calls and shouts in the score, further evidence of his penchant to musically represent speech

and vocal inflections. One moment is particularly intriguing (p. 25, sys 2)—we get an extremely

brief foreshadowing of the Baba-Yaga theme just before the reprise of the A theme. In the

coda, the A theme explodes into a frenzy of chords and chromaticism (p. 26, sys 3-5), leading

right into the beginning of Catacomb. In the orchestration, Ravel gives the strings the bulk of

the melody, but there is additional interplay between the reeds and brass, along with auxiliary

percussion. The Baba-Yaga moment (p. 66) features almost the full orchestra playing in semi-

unison, and the coda a cacophonous whirlwind of notes.

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Mussorgsky wrote in the margin to Catacomb/Con mortuis: “Latin text would be fine:

the creative genius of the late Hartman leads me to the skulls and invokes them; the skulls

begin to glow” (46). This is one of the few instances of the composer acknowledging his role as

a character within the exhibition. These two movements, often combined together, are the

more introspective of the set, with Catacomb being especially difficult to categorize—highly

unpianistic, it seems to point to a more orchestral conception. There is little sense of what key

we’re in, and no clear time signature or tempo. There are hints of cadences and fragments of

melody—one would expect the final chord to be a half cadence in the key of B major (p. 27,

bottom sys, m. 5), but instead we get heightened dissonance of the previous chord. Though

perhaps the strangest of the set, Ravel’s orchestration helps paint a clearer picture (no pun

intended) of what Mussorgsky describes in the margin. He turns Catacomb into a solemn yet

unnerving brass chorale—he primarily alternates Mussorgsky’s unusual harmonies within the

different brass sections as well as the bassoons and contrabassoon (p. 72-73).

Con mortuis begins with tremolo octaves in chromatic motion in the right hand, and the

left hand on slow-moving chords echoing the Promenade theme in chant-like fashion—this is

the first time we hear strains of the Promenade within one of the other movements. The

resolution to B major at the end (p. 30, bottom sys, last measure) after inordinately hanging on

an F-sharp pedal has a sense of peaceful finality and seems more fitting as an end to both

movements. Ravel takes advantage of the reeds here, giving different sections fragments of the

Promenade along with lower strings, whereas the upper strings play the chromatic descent

muted, a stark contrast of color.

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The Hut on Hen’s Legs is based on Hartmann’s design for a clock in the form of Baba-

Yaga’s hut on hen’s legs, according to Stasov (46). Baba-Yaga was a Russian fairy tale character,

a witch whose hut would rotate to face newcomers and eat them, specifically children lost in

the woods (47). Again, there is little evidence for Mussorgsky being intrigued by the tale itself,

but rather Hartmann’s representation of it. Its metronomic quality and mechanical rhythm

resemble a ticking clock—there are no ornaments or decorations, but the presence of

diminished and augmented harmonies lend it a degree of tonal ambiguity. The initial A section

features a fiery percussive staccato attack in the piano (p. 31), not so much a melody as a strand

of motives. The andante mosso B section (p. 34) attempts to project an air of calmness through

its legato right hand in tremolos, but the dissonant, detached octaves in the left hand suggest

the Baba-Yaga lurking in the distance and gaining momentum. The right hand tremolos take on

an increasing freneticism followed by a chromatic tremolo descent between the hands (p. 36,

sys 3-4) before the A theme returns. The coda’s chromatic octave ascent leads directly into the

glorious E-flat major chord at the beginning of the Great Gate of Kiev. Ravel makes tremendous

use out of the brass and percussion in this movement, but it is the B section that features some

of the most intricate dividing of smaller sections (p. 89, reh 90). Initially the flutes are given the

sixteenth note tremolo ostinatos, and the bassoons and basses share the dissonant melodic

motif—the ostinato then moves to clarinet and bass clarinet, the violin 1’s enter pizz and violin

2’s on muted tremolos, with the harp taking some of the other melodic material. The coda

contains a flurry of eighth notes throughout nearly the entire orchestra leading into the first

chord of the final movement.

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For a competition, Hartmann created a design for a gate to commemorate Tsar

Alexander II’s escape from assassination in 1866—unfortunately, the competition was called off

and no design was built, though the conception of it now lives on in Mussorgsky’s musical

representation, perhaps the most immediately recognizable of the entire set (48). Here

Mussorgsky attempts to rework a Russian hymn into the fabric of the piano part, with the result

representing another example of why many composer and arrangers deemed it necessary to

attempt to orchestrate Pictures. The fanfare quality of the A section suddenly shifts to G-sharp

minor in the B section (p. 40), with slow-moving, hymnlike chords. Then there are the bells (p.

41, bottom sys, m. 6) that recur throughout the remainder of the movement. Fitting awkwardly

into the piano part, they seem to call out for reorchestration. Ravel fittingly makes the opening

fanfare a brass showcase with accompanying percussion. He adjusts the voicing of the initial B

section by adding bassoons and clarinets, and having the strings repeat the brass melody in

scalar fashion—then, of course, actual bells join in (p. 115), along with a gong at the end. Unlike

some of the previous highlights of his orchestration, Ravel seems to be aiming for standard fare

here, but he still manages to find ways to create color by varying the voicing between sections

and using the percussion to his advantage. Between the brass, bells, gong, and other

accoutrements, the orchestra appears to be much more effective at establishing the requisite

imagery for this finale.

David Brown offers a comparable view of the piano versus orchestration: “His piano

writing may often lack polish, but no orchestra can equal (for instance) the piano’s ability to

reproduce the boisterous clatter of ‘Limoges’, match the piano’s percussive shock when

delivering the convulsions of ‘Gnomus’ or the chords in ‘Catacombae’, or convey the myriad of
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tiny inflections within the infant chatter in the ‘Tuileries’. Only ‘The Bogatyr’s Gate’ and,

perhaps, ‘Il Vecchio castello’ can really gain from orchestration.” 6 Although the process of

orchestration was something Ravel was already intimately familiar with, there were a number

of challenges in doing so for Pictures, the primary surfacing from the fact that he was unable to

obtain Mussorgsky’s original edition and had to use Rimsky-Korsakov’s instead. Additionally,

there were the issues of dealing with the amount of dense low register writing juxtaposed with

rapid sections in upper registers, as well as the extensive sections of unison, two-part writing

and virtuosic figuration in the piano part (Russ 76). These are all aspects that Ravel contends

with, often to great effect and sometimes less so. Besides the omission of the fifth Promenade

and adding a few extra bars here and there, he is for the most part fairly faithful to

Mussorgsky’s original conception. Even so, it is hard not to see the distinct advantages of the

orchestration when compared to the original—the incorporation of various instrumental

sections results in an ever-increasing color palette that orchestrators have at their disposal,

Ravel chief among them. Not only that, but it helps put into perspective narrative aspects of the

piece that are harder to decipher. Take Catacomb, for instance, as a movement that takes on a

completely different meaning when one hears the brass, or the instruments that get a solo

moment to shine in, like the alto saxophone in Il Vecchio castello or the tuba in Bydlo. The

opportunities for color and further experimentation in voicing and dividing the instrumental

sections are nearly endless, so much that it is almost unfair what possibilities the orchestration

contains compared to the piano. Perhaps this can help explain why Ravel’s orchestration is

6
“Pictures at an Exhibition and Sunless.” Musorgsky: His Life and Works, by David Brown,
Oxford University Press, 2010, p. 241. 
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what many listeners are most familiar with or the first version of the piece they’re introduced

to. Regardless, everyone who has an affinity for the piece, listener, audience member,

musician, composer or otherwise, should have the chance to hear both versions of Pictures and

decide for themselves.