CAMBELL, Stuart - Russians On Russian Music

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CAMPBELL
Russians on Russian music, 1880–1917
This second anthology of Russian writing on Russian music be-

gins in 1880 (where the first volume concluded) and ends in 1917.
It brings for the first time to an English-speaking readership the
thoughts of leading Russian music critics as they react to the Rus-
sian music new to them, during a period when all aspects of musi-
cal life were developing rapidly. Music criticism had become more
sure-footed, if no less opinionated. These reviews demonstrate
greater awareness both of music history and of contemporary
music abroad. The period covers the late careers of Tchaikovsky
and Rimsky-Korsakov as well as late works of Borodin and
Balakirev, and the emergence of Musorgsky’s compositions.
Works by the intervening generation, including Arensky,
Glazunov and Lyadov, are also reviewed and the book concludes
with coverage of works by the Moscow School, including Medt-
ner, Rachmaninoff and Skryabin and the early compositions of
Stravinsky and Prokofiev.
Stuart Campbell is Honorary Senior Research Fellow in the De-

partment of Music and at the Institute for Central and East
European Studies, University of Glasgow. He is author of V. F.
Odoyevsky and the Formation of Russian Musical Taste in the
Nineteenth Century (1989) and editor and translator of Russians
on Russian Music, 1830–1880 (1994).
An antholog y
Edited and translated by
Stuart Campbell
  
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Cambridge University Press

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© Stuart Campbell 2003
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CONTENTS
Preface p age ix
Introduction xi
List of sources xv
Chapter One T chaikovsky 1

(a) Laroche: Liturgy of St John Chrysostom (1880) 1
(b) Cui: P. Tchaikovsky’s Manfred Symphony (1886) 10
(c) Laroche: [Manfred and Hamlet] (1893) 13
(d) Kashkin: P. I. Tchaikovsky’s new symphony [No. 5]
(1889) 16
(e) Laroche: P. T chaikovsky’s Mazep pa(1889) 18
(f) Laroche: P. Tchaikovsky and musical drama
[The Enchantress] (1890) 24
(g) Kashkin: The Queen of Sp ades(1890) 32
(h) Laroche: [Symphony No. 6] (1893) 38
(i) Rozenov: [Symphony No. 6] (1896) 40
Chapter Two Rimsky-Korsakov 42

(a) Laroche: [The Snowmaiden] (1885) 42
(b) Cui: Sadko, op era-bı̈lina (1898) 54
(c) Engel’: Kashchey the Immortal (1902) 60
(d) Petrovsky: The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh
and the Maiden Fevroniya (1907) 64
(e) Engel’: The Golden Cockerel (1909) 84
Chapter Three Other composers of the former

Balakirev circle 92
(a) Cui: [works by Borodin and Musorgsky] (1880) 92
(b) Cui: Borodin’s [First] Quartet (1881) 93
(c) Cui: [works by Musorgsky, Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov] (1887) 95
vii
Contents
(d) Kruglikov: [works by Balakirev, Lyadov, Glazunov,

Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov] (1890) 97
(e) Kruglikov: Prince Igor (1890) 102
(f) Rozenov: Khovanshchina (1897) 124
(g) Engel’: [Balakirev’s Second Symphony] (1909) 129
(h) Kolomiytsev: [Pictures at an Exhibition] (1909) 130
Chapter Four The Belyayev generation 132

(a) Cui: [Fathers and Sons] (1888) 132
(b) Laroche: A. S. Arensky’s String Quartet (1888) 138
(c) Ossovsky: A. S. Arensky (1906) 141
(d) Engel’: Glazunov as a symphonist (1907) 143
(e) Karatı̈gin: In memory of A. K. Lyadov (1914) 159
Chapter Five Moscow and her composers 168

(a) Kashkin: The Moscow School in Music (1910) 168
(b) Engel’: A Cantata by S. I. Taneyev (1915) 170
(c) Ossovsky: S. V. Rachmaninoff (1904) 175
(d) Engel’: [Rachmaninoff operas] (1906) 178
(e) Yakovlev: S. V. Rachmaninoff (1911) 180
(f) Myaskovsky: N. Medtner (1913) 185
(g) Preobrazhensky: [The ‘new direction’ in church music]
(1924) 193
Chapter Six New stylistic directions 198

(a) Engel’: The music of Skryabin (1909) 198
(b) Konyus: Skryabin’s Prometheus (1911) 205
(c) Myaskovsky: [The Firebird] (1911) 207
(d) Myaskovsky: Petrushka (1912) 209
(e) Karatı̈gin: The Rite of Spring(1914) 213
(f) Myaskovsky: Sergey Prokofiev (1913) 219
(g) Engel’: [Sergey Prokofiev] (1917) 221
(h) Karatı̈gin: The most recent trends in Russian music
(1914) 224
Epilogue 234
Asaf’yev: Pathways into the future (1918) 234
Index 259
viii
P R E FA C E
All dates are given in accordance with the Julian calendar, sometimes known
as ‘Old Style’. To convert them to the Gregorian calendar used in the West,
and after 1918 in Russia too, twelve days must be added in the nineteenth
century and thirteen in the twentieth century. In a limited number of cases,
such as the first performance of a Russian composition abroad, dates are
given in both forms. In footnotes, ‘Author’s note’ refers to the original author
of the item, and ‘Editor’s note’ refers to the editor of the publication in which
the article appeared for the first time. Other interventions are the work of
the editor and translator of this volume.
Several colleagues have drawn my attention to worthwhile material, sug-
gested topics to which I had given inadequate notice, or proposed items I
had not discovered for myself. I acknowledge gratefully the advice in these
various ways of Alexander Belonenko and Georgy Abramovsky of the St
Petersburg Conservatoire, and Marina Rakhmanova of the State Central
Museum for Musical Culture named after M. I. Glinka in Moscow. For
making available newspapers and periodicals, republications in book form
and music scores, I gladly thank the librarians of the Russian State Library
in Moscow, the State Institute for the Study of the Arts in Moscow, the Rus-
sian National Library in St Petersburg, the St Petersburg Conservatoire, the
Tchaikovsky House-Museum at Klin, HelsinkiUni versity Library and the
British Library.
For shedding light in specific dark corners of several texts, I thank: Dr
Laura Martin, of the Department of German, and Dr Stephen Rawles, of the
Humanities Advanced Technology and Information Institute, both in the
University of Glasgow; and Fr. Alexander, priest of the Orthodox Commu-
nity of St Nicholas, Dunblane.
For helping a poor foreigner understand especially arcane mysteries in
their native tongue, I thank my wife Svetlana Zvereva, and stepson Georgy;
without the knowledge and resourcefulness of my other stepson Gleb in
the field of computing, this book would have been even longer in the making.
Stuart Campbell
25 August 2002
ix
INTRODUCTION
The aims of this book are, firstly, to give a sample of the first Russian critical
responses to compositions important to us which were composed, or in some
cases first heard, between 1880 and 1917; and, secondly, to represent the
work of critics whose work was influential at the time and retains its interest –
most likely because it shows insight into the composers’ styles or the climate
of thought at the time.
The arts in Russia blossomed luxuriantly in the years between 1880 and
1917. That period contained the Silver Age of Russian poetry, with a current
of Symbolism stimulating other new waves. The ‘great experiment’ in the fine
arts was carried out in those years, with neo-Russian styles existing cheek
by jowl with local manifestations of the international phenomenon of Art
nouveau.
By comparison with the years between 1830 and 1880, covered in the vol-
ume entitled Russians on Russian Music published by Cambridge University
Press in 1994, this later period is richer in composers and compositions which
hold their place in the international repertory. Such standard fare of the con-
cert and recording worlds as substantial parts of the output of Tchaikovsky
and Rimsky-Korsakov, the larger portion of the work of Rachmaninoff, and
the early work of Stravinsky and Prokofiev originated at this time and must
be given their due. All the compositions of Lyadov, Skryabin and Taneyev,
and by far the greatest bulk of Glazunov’s were likewise created during these
years. Prince Igor and Khovanshchina were staged for the first time, after
their composers’ deaths. Many other composers had their say, and if their
voice has not proved so strong as those of the composers mentioned, their
level of technical proficiency bears witness to developments in musical life
between the two periods.
New concert promoters appeared. Besides the Russian Musical Society
and the Free School of Music, series of concerts linked with the names
of entrepreneurial individuals took place: Belyayev (from 1885) and Ziloti
(1903–13) (in St Petersburg) and Koussevitzky (from 1908) (in Moscow).
Evenings of Contemporary Music were held in St Petersburg (1901–12) and
xi
Introduction
in Moscow from 1909. The Kerzins organized a Circle of Lovers of Russian

Music (1896–1912) in Moscow. The Moscow Philharmonic Society had pro-
moted concerts since 1883.
Some of the senior generation of critics continued their work – Cui,
Laroche and Stasov. A new cadre of reliable chroniclers – Kashkin, Kruglikov
and Engel’ – appeared. A lively younger generation with a broad educational
background emerged in the persons of Karatı̈gin and Asaf’yev, whose work
was to continue into the Soviet period. The wealth of material, both musical
and critical, has made decisions about priorities more acute. Thus, Vladimir
Stasov has been progressively excised from the contents; while this is a mat-
ter for regret, the consolation is that his earlier opinions are comparatively
familiar and accessible, and he did not diverge markedly from them later.
In the realm of composition, the most striking phenomenon is its blos-
soming not only in the newer capital, St Petersburg, but also in Moscow,
the historic capital. During the reign of Alexander III (1881–94), confi-
dence in Russian values and traditions increased, and the work of artists
reflected this new-found self-assurance. Wealthy, assertive Muscovite busi-
nessmen (Mamontov, Morozov, Tret’yakov) turned into generous patrons
of the arts, established art collections and inaugurated a private opera com-
pany. The founding of the music publisher M. P. Belaieff (Belyayev) was a
sign of the same thing: a dynamic capitalist, accustomed to having things
his own way, fell in love with the compositions of Glazunov and invested
massively in schemes, including publishing, to support them and, by ex-
tension, the work of other Russian composers. Koussevitzky inaugurated
the high-minded publisher Edition Russe de Musique in Moscow in 1909.
Musical development was facilitated at about the same time by the abroga-
tion of imperial monopolies in the fields of church music and opera theatres.
This administrative change led to radical diversification in these fields, set-
ting them free from detailed control by the Ministry of the Imperial Court
and from the bureaucratic and political intrigue of St Petersburg. The Court
Kapella and the Directorate of the Imperial Theatres remained influential,
powerful and well-resourced institutions, but their stranglehold was broken.
The Moscow Private Opera Company opened in 1885. It redressed an earlier
bias against Russian operas – the company summoned into existence most of
Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas – and initiated the idea of drawing great painters
into designing for the operatic stage, anticipating Diaghilev’s later achieve-
ments. No matter that the standard of execution (both musical and artistic)
was variable – a new era had begun. The Moscow Synodal Choir, along with
the Synodal School of Church Music (as reformed in 1886) with which it was
intimately linked, brought fresh lustre to the ancient chants of the Cathedral
of the Dormition in the Kremlin where they sang, and Kastal’sky forged a
xii
Introduction
new choral style built on those chants and the practices of Russian folksong;
the best-known example from within this ‘New Direction’ is Rachmaninoff’s
All-Night Vigil.
Rachmaninoff represents a further current in Russian music of this time.
If earlier great Russian performers had been celebrated only at home – with
the exception of Anton Rubinstein, at this period they started to become
familiar abroad as well. The singer Chaliapin, the pianists Rachmaninoff,
Safonov and Ziloti, and the conductors Koussevitzky and Safonov can trace
the beginning of their fame abroad to the years before 1917; after that date,
they were followed into the world’s concert halls by an increasing number
of Russian musicians. Besides such international stars, Russia was served
by a further corps of superbly trained performers whose fame was more
local but who nonetheless enhanced the nation’s musical life materially. It
is regrettable that, for reasons of space, I have felt obliged to exclude most
discussions of performers from the texts which follow.
It was in this period that the work of Russian composers began to flood
into the rest of the world. Tchaikovsky’s success in territories where German
and English were spoken was rapid, especially after his death, while Borodin,
Rimsky-Korsakov and Musorgsky fared better in the lands of Francop honie ,
with orchestral music arriving in advance of theatre music. This process was
established before Diaghilev gave it fresh impetus, beginning in 1907. By
that time, Russian art could show her neighbours a wealth of creativity – not
in music alone, but in ballet, opera, stage design, etc. And with Diaghilev,
Russia’s new music leapt across the frontiers of her empire. At first, the
repertory comprised works created in and for Russia, albeit with a new coat
of paint applied for the export market. Later, with the works of Stravinsky,
Russian music began to be brought into being for Europe (with the early
ballets) and even in Europe, before it started to enter the mainstream of music
of the Western tradition. Our present subject is the reception of Russian
music in Russia, and so the reaction to it abroad is not represented here.
At the same time, the ways in which the West encountered it, especially the
idiosyncratic selection and the unchronological sequence, continues to affect
attitudes towards it.
Because there was more music to write about, more music worth writing
about, and the music was better written about, there is a greater emphasis on
composers and compositions than in the earlier volume. Correspondingly,
less attention is paid here than in the previous volume to questions of the
organization and infrastructure of musical life. The arrangement of chapters
in broadly chronological sequence used for the first volume has been aban-
doned, as for this period it would demand too much interweaving of topics.
Instead, the main division is by composer or group of composers. While this
xiii
Introduction
principle gives a tidier result, it means, for example, that Skryabin looms
large in both Chapters 5 and 6, as a representative of Moscow and of mod-
ern tendencies respectively. In some of the earlier texts the old battle between
proponents of Tchaikovsky, on the one hand, and the ‘Mighty Handful’, on
the other, is prolonged. Discussion about the benefits brought by conserva-
toires subsided as they co-opted members of camps formerly opposed (e.g.
Rimsky-Korsakov in 1871) and subsequently won over even Cuito much of
their way of thinking. Controversy about Wagner and his ideals continued,
in a better informed climate after 1889 when The Ring was first produced in
Russia, even if old prejudices did not fall away entirely; indeed the frequency
with which Wagner’s name is cited is striking. Among the older generation of
critics, one reads statements opinionated to the same degree as before – for
example, when Cuiwri tes about the ‘meaningless recitatives in Mozart’s Don
Giovanni’ (Chapter 2 (b)), or Laroche refers to Bayreuthomanes as ‘people
who sit patiently for four hours in the dark listening to recitatives’ (Chapter 4
(b)); such observations amuse us, but it is not clear that that was the authors’
intention. Awareness of the work of Debussy, Reger, Schoenberg and Richard
Strauss informs the discussion of newer Russian compositions, though we
may still find entertainment in Karatı̈gin’s enthusiasm for the compositions
of Roger-Ducasse, or Asaf’yev’s evaluation of a Russian composer who has
vanished beneath the horizon even more completely than Roger-Ducasse –
Miklashevsky. It is, however, for the general angle of vision at which critics
viewed contemporary music, as well as for those many instances when they
enrich our own understanding, that we read their work nowadays, rather
than to calculate the proportion of assessments which coincide (or not) with
our own.
While the search for material has been extensive, there are some topics
which could justifiably have been represented more fully. These topics in-
clude: how Russians regarded Diaghilev’s Parisian ventures; Rachmaninoff’s
All-Night Vigil; the lesser composers whose names do no more than flit
across a page (e.g. Kalinnikov and Stanchinsky). Some important critics are
not represented at all (e.g. Sabaneyev and Findeyzen). However, constraints
of space meant that compromises were inevitable if the volume was to offer
in-depth discussion while simultaneously aiming to cover comprehensively
a territory where music was diversifying and pluralizing rapidly.
xiv
SOURCES
The following abbreviations identify the collections from which texts reis-
sued since their original publication between 1880 and 1917 have been
drawn. In all other cases, texts have been taken from their original place
of publication.
Cui = Ts. A. Kyui: Izbrannı̈ye stat’i (‘Selected Articles’) (Leningrad, 1952)

Engel’ = Yu. D. Engel’: Glazami sovremennika. Izbrannı̈ye stat’i o russkoy
muzı̈ke 1898–1918 (‘Through a Contemporary’s Eyes: Selected Articles
about Russian Music’) (Moscow, 1971)
Karatı̈gin = V. G. Karatı̈gin: Izbrannı̈ye stat’i (‘Selected Articles’) (Moscow
and Leningrad, 1965)
Kashkin/Tchaikovsky = N. D. Kashkin: Izbrannı̈ye stat’i o P. I.
Chaykovskom (‘Selected Articles about P. I. Tchaikovsky’) (Moscow,
1954)
Kolomiytsev = V. Kolomiytsev: Stat’i i p is’ma(‘Articles and Letters’)
(Leningrad, 1971)
Konyus = G. E. Konyus 1862–1933. Materialı̈, vosp ominaniya, p is’ma
(‘Materials, Reminiscences, Letters’) (Moscow, 1988)
Laroche 2 = G. A. Larosh: Izbrannı̈ye stat’i (‘Selected Articles’), vol. 2
[P. I. Tchaikovsky] (Leningrad, 1975)
Laroche 3 = ditto, vol. 3 [Opera and opera theatre] (Leningrad, 1976)
Laroche 4 = ditto, vol. 4 [Symphonic and chamber-instrumental music]
(Leningrad, 1977)
Myaskovsky = N. Ya. Myaskovsky. Sobraniye materialov (‘Collection of
Materials’), vols. 1–2, second edition (Moscow, 1964)
Ossovsky = A. V. Ossovsky: Muzı̈kal’no-kriticheskiye stat’i (1894–1912)
(‘Music-Critical Articles’) (Leningrad, 1971)
Rozenov = E. K. Rozenov: Stat’i o muzı̈ke (‘Articles about Music’)
(Moscow, 1982)
Stasov 4 = V. V. Stasov: Stat’i o muzı̈ke (‘Articles about Music’), vol. 4
(1887–1893) (Moscow, 1978)
xv
CHAPTER ONE
Tchaikovsky
This period witnessed the composition of Tchaikovsky’s last four operas

and two ballets, the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies and Manfred, as well
as many works in other genres. It was marked by increasing celebrity at
home and ever greater international success.
(a) G. A. Laroche: Liturgy of St John Chrysostom for
four-part mixed choir. Composition by Pyotr Tchaikovsky,
op. 41 (Moscow: P. Jurgenson). Russian Herald, January
1880, no. 1. Laroche 2, pp. 109–18
The Imperial Court Kapella held a stranglehold over the music of the
Russian Orthodox Church by virtue of the requirement that any church
music composition be approved by the Kapella’s director for use in
public worship before it could be published. The incident described
here illustrates the growing perception among musicians that Russian
church music had stagnated. The resulting court case broke the strangle-
hold, leading to the efflorescence of sacred composition in Moscow (see
Chapter 5 (g)).
Among the artists in whom present-day Russia can take pride vis-à-vis
Western Europe, a foremost place belongs to the composer whose name
appears in the title of this article. Pyotr Il’ich Tchaikovsky has not yet reached
the age of forty and was a comparatively late starter: fourteen years ago,
at the beginning of 1866, his Concert Overture in F was performed at one
of the Moscow concerts of the Imperial Russian Musical Society, which must
be considered the start of his career. Since then his name has swept through
Germany, Belgium, France, England and the United States. This reputation
seems the more remarkable if one recalls that Mr Tchaikovsky is not himself
a virtuoso performer; he has not been able to promote his compositions’
success through his own performances of them; he has found himself, so
to speak, constantly in the hands of conductors, singers and pianists, and his
success has been entirely dependent on the degree of their attention, talent
and zeal. A composer so placed is rightly thought to be at a disadvantage;
but it is essential to add that by the very kind of composition which has
1
made him famous beyond Russia’s borders, Mr Tchaikovsky has had even
fewer chances of easy victory than many of his colleagues. Tchaikovsky is
the composer of five operas, four of which have been staged. Not one of them
is known abroad; only his instrumental works are known, and, although the
audience for such compositions is more serious and enlightened than that
for opera, it is far smaller in numbers. Just as it is harder for a composer
to reach the majority of the public than a virtuoso performer, similarly, it is
more difficult for an instrumental composer to win fame than for a composer
of operas, and, as far as the West is concerned, Mr Tchaikovsky is for the
moment a purely instrumental composer. If, despite all the disadvantages of
this position, the young artist has nonetheless managed to win conspicuous
and honourable standing, then we are justified in seeing therein evidence
of those intrinsic qualities in his music which have overcome the external
impediments and difficulties.
I shall allow myself to say a few words about these intrinsic qualities.
Tchaikovsky is not a master of form in the highest meaning of the word.
Taken as an entirety, his compositions (with only a few exceptions) make
an impression which is not fully pleasing aesthetically. It is not so much
longueurs as the absence of a sustained mood, the absence of unity and the
juxtaposition of sections not completely suited to one another which disturb
the listener and frequently leave him cold. The demand for unity is perhaps
the most pressing of aesthetic demands, but it is in any case not the only one;
and the works of the composer with whom we are concerned demonstrate
what first-rate jewels there is room for even where that demand is [not] met.
Mr Tchaikovsky is above all a wonderful melodist. The nobility, grace, depth
of feeling and variety in our compatriot’s abundant melodies set him apart,
to extraordinary advantage, from the majority of his coevals (particularly
the Germans), in whom one notices, for all their many admirable qualities,
a complete absence of melodic invention. Mr Tchaikovsky’s melodies are
not only lyrical and easily remembered, but are marked at the same time by
an individual stamp by which one can always recognize their composer even
without his signature. He possesses ideas of his own, atmosphere of his own,
and a world of musical images of his own. Mr Tchaikovsky is, moreover, a
superlative harmonist. Though he seldom resorts to those risky, harsh chord
progressions by which musicians of our day are so easily carried away, he
shows no lack of boldness for all that; the chief merits of his harmony are
refined taste and a transparency of part-writing inherited from the founder
of Russian music, Glinka. He is able to retain these qualities even in the midst
of the most daring chromatic and enharmonic shifts. The third virtue of his
writing is an exceptional talent for instrumentation. Not only his orchestral
pieces but his piano ones too always excel in their full and brilliant sonority;
2
Tchaikovsky
the instrument is used skilfully, in a versatile manner and with many effects
which are new and striking. All these external qualities of his work represent
a casing for its original inner content which has a well-defined and extremely
appealing form. The prevailing mood is an elegiac one, alien to stunning or
heart-rending accents – one of reconciliation and harmony, like the sad,
gentle colours of a fine autumn day. Mr Tchaikovsky also has moments of
triumph and rejoicing; he loves even splendour and brilliance, and there are
many successful pages in his works that are by no means all confined within
the framework just outlined; but he is nevertheless most true to himself where
the graceful melancholy at the root of his nature can pour forth freely. His
lyricism is not a matter of ready-made phraseology taken over from others,
any more than his melodic writing is a collection of commonplaces picked
up in the theatre or the concert hall. One has to approach Mr Tchaikovsky’s
compositions with the respect that any manifestation of original creativity
inspires.
It is understandable that a composer with a talent developing so strongly
and gloriously should have aroused the greatest expectations when he turned,
in the prime of life and at the zenith of his creative powers, from the secular
music which has occupied him exclusively hitherto to sacred music and,
moreover, to music intended for a practical function, that of worship. The
Liturgy of St John Chrysostom which he has set to music was bound to
represent a milestone in his work, a moment of the greatest concentration of
an artist’s strength, when he turned his back on the fair of worldly vanities
and became engrossed in contemplating an eternal ideal. As the work of
a favourite and esteemed artist, the Liturgy would have been met in any
event with the keenest interest, even had no exceptional fate befallen it; but
an incident unique of its kind has occurred which has given this innocent
four-part choral composition an almost political significance.
A few days after publication a police officer entered Jurgenson’s music
shop and confiscated 141 copies of the edition, in spite of the fact that the
Liturgy had been printed with the preliminary censorship’s permission. The
shop, of course, surrendered without question all the copies to hand, but
nevertheless was visited over the next few days by officials from either the
police or the censorship department. Among other things, on one of these
visits the censorship copy was demanded. The police went round all the
music shops in Moscow and seized all the copies sold to them from the pub-
lisher’s warehouse. It soon became known that the Moscow police were
acting on the basis of a memorandum received from the director of the
Court Kapella. The director of the Kapella demanded that a sequestration
order be imposed on the new work based on the legal requirement that
the censorship of all religious music compositions belonged by right to him
3
exclusively, whereas Mr Tchaikovsky’s Liturgy had gone through only the

general censorship.
As everyone knows, this misunderstanding has now been cleared up. The
right of the director of the Kapella relates not to the publishing but to the
performance in public worship of sacred music compositions; even without
being permitted to be used in churches, Mr Tchaikovsky’s composition when
freely circulating for sale is not unemployed capital. It may be of benefit in
domestic worship, to say nothing of concerts of sacred music. The repertory
of Russian music has been enriched by a new religious composition and one
moreover written by the most celebrated representative of contemporary
Russian music.
Russian sacred music has up to now led a lonesome existence. Not a single
composition for the church has been conspicuous at the summit of art; the
leading lights of music have subsisted on activities which were exclusively
secular, held back in this one-sidedness, no doubt, by special conditions of
censorship whose rigour was no secret to anyone even before the incident
involving Mr Tchaikovsky. Sacred music was written by specialists; last cen-
tury they bore famous names and their talents were recognized both in Russia
and abroad; during the current century the level of our sacred music began
to decline in inverse proportion to the growth and strengthening of secular
music. A composer emerged on the musical horizon in the 1830s who, by his
imposing stature, gave Russia for the first time an independent place among
the musical nations of the civilized world. Thanks to the creator of A Life for
the Tsar, Russia became one of the classical countries of musical creativity:
her compositions, though few in number, may stand alongside compositions
from nations which have progressed through a school lasting many cen-
turies. Glinka, like his successors, was exclusively a secular composer. The
aspiration towards religious art which gripped him near the end of his life
was unquestionably genuine and, had it arisen earlier, might have yielded
a valuable harvest; but the inspired composer died before he had time to
bestow a single composition worthy of his great spirit on the church.1 The
composers active at the same time and later did not take even the slightest
step towards writing music for worship: one of them, and moreover one on
whom Glinka had the strongest influence, Serov, composed for the church,
but for the Catholic church: his Stabat Mater will remain an eloquent tes-
timony to the estrangement from his native church in which the creative
mind of the Russian composer lives. Since the day of the first performance
of A Life for the Tsar, a day which may be regarded as marking an epoch
1 Glinka left only three short compositions: First Litany (?1856), Da ispravitsya molitva moya
(?1856) and Resurrection Hymn (1856 or 1857).
4
Tchaikovsky
in Russian music, a half-century has passed, during which Russian musi-

cal composition worthy of the name of art has served the theatre and the
concert hall exclusively; sacred music has been composed detached from art
music, in a realm of hackwork or superficial dilettantism, and its standard
testifies deplorably to the abyss which this censorship has managed to open
up between the ecclesiastical and secular worlds.
This is not what has happened in the West. I shall not dwell on the fact
that all those composers whose talents have held the public’s attention have
worked to a greater or lesser extent for the church as well, or at least have
used religious subjects. With the majority – with Schumann, Meyerbeer,
Richard Wagner and Verdi – religious compositions occupy only a very sub-
ordinate place among their works; in only a few cases, such as Mendelssohn-
Bartholdy, is religious music represented by many outstanding scores. Of far
greater significance than these solitary diversions of gifted musicians from
the concert hall or operatic routes more familiar and precious to them, far
more fruitful and important for the fate of music in the future, is the move-
ment in music criticism and history which has arisen and spread over the
last fifty years. Choral music of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries has
been rediscovered, suddenly becoming visible to researchers in a radiance of
imperishable and irresistible beauty. Just as an excavation by an industrious
archaeologist is rewarded beyond measure and expectation by the resurrec-
tion of an ancient statue, so investigations into musical history, undertaken
exclusively in terms of intellectual curiosity, have led us to an inexhaustible
source of aesthetic delight. The excitement of scholars has communicated
itself to performers: the enthusiasm of performers has begun to infect the
public. The names of Palestrina, Vittoria, Luca Marenzio, Orlando Lasso,
Gombert, Willaert and Josquin have ceased to be empty words; their works,
foreign to our age in technique and evidently even more so in spirit, have
begun appearing in choral concerts and churches and to resound with a
harmony unusual to ears new to it but nonetheless majestic. Groups dedi-
cated exclusively to cultivating and promoting the masters of the sixteenth
century, the era of what is known as strict style, have been formed; expen-
sive multi-volume editions of these masters’ works have begun to appear,
at first only occasionally, but later, when success stimulated emulation, with
increasing frequency. This overwhelming mass of compositions, brought to
light from beneath the dust of three centuries and received with undoubted
pleasure – at times even enthusiasm – was bound to make an impact in the
end both on critics’ verdicts and composers’ methods, in spite of the com-
plete absence of similarity to the music of our times. Composers succumbed
to the influence of sober and austere harmony, restrained in its use of dis-
sonance and not prone to frequent modulation: elements long consigned to
5
oblivion as well as melodic turns of phrase unknown in the Viennese pe-

riod (and little known even in the Neapolitan one) again won the right of
citizenship. Critics in their turn began to find that these treasures, wrested
from the murk of oblivion and winning unanimous appreciation, were not
created to serve as useless ornaments, objects of dilettantish amusement or
museum curiosities: they answer the keen demands of the religious spirit;
the need for vocal music for the Christian church has found complete satis-
faction in them; and a new school of church music must be educated upon
these models for too long forgotten. A movement in many ways reminiscent
of the cult of Pre-Raphaelite painting has now gripped a significant part of
the musical world. A cult of pre-Bach music has arisen and begun to spread.
Dissatisfaction with the mediocrity, coldness and sheer ordinariness of the
most recent church music has engendered in many people a desire to return
to that life-giving source which slaked the thirst of so many and such gifted
generations for strict counterpoint. The movement grows with every year,
and one can predict that in the near future we shall see the living fruits of
a new critical consciousness and hear compositions created under the direct
influence of the masters of the ‘strict style’, written in conformity with its
exacting and onerous requirements.
Something similar to this reaction (meaning by that word a movement to
return to a style given up for a time) could be observed even here in Russia
in the 1860s and 1870s. The harmonizations of G. A. Lomakin and N. M.
Potulov2 and Prince V. F. Odoyevsky’s critical articles3 were expressions of
the dissatisfaction here with church music and the aspiration towards the se-
vere simplicity of a time long past. The reform, had they succeeded in bringing
it about, would have been of an extremely radical character. The reformers
were all plus royalistes que le roi. Prince Odoyevsky’s theories and Potulov’s
practice sought to create a style which was even more strict that the ‘strict
style’, to bind future composers by draconian rules which would have left
no scope for their imagination and reduced musical work to the simple filling-
in of a framework laid down in advance by an inexorable law. One cannot fail
to admit, however, that even this ascetic tendency was received with a certain
amount of sympathy. Lovers of our church chant who adopted a conscious
attitude towards it recognized long before Lomakin and Prince Odoyevsky
the vanity of spirit and insensitivity to form which over the course of time
2 G. A. Lomakin (1812–85) was mentioned in RRM vol. 1 as a choirtrainer and director of

the Free School of Music. Work with choirs drew him into church music. N. M. Potulov
(1810–73) was a pioneer in harmonizing ancient Russian chants using an austere idiom.
3 The articles which Prince V. F. Odoyevsky (1803–69) published in the 1860s articulated his
dissatisfaction with the Kapella style, arguing for a treatment of the chants more in tune with
their historical origins and more appropriate to worship by virtue of restraint and solemnity.
6
Tchaikovsky
had crept into both our arrangements of sacred church melodies and our
sacred music compositions, and naturally longed for a gifted and inspired
hand to erect in place of ephemeral and tawdry constructions a monument
filled alike with religious animation and artistic beauty.
Shortage of space does not allow me to develop here the idea which I
set out just over ten years ago on the pages of the Russian Herald,4 the
idea that the ‘strict style’ of the sixteenth century is the method of writing
which corresponds entirely to the spirit of the Russian church melodies and
the demands of Orthodox worship. I willingly deny myself the pleasure of
backing up my thesis here, since a whole series of facts indicate that the
general movement of the age will sooner or later lead to it being corroborated.
The progress of contrapuntal and historical learning in Germany, Belgium
and France, where the ‘strict style’ gains new experts and disciples every
year, is beginning to exert a slow but irresistible influence on our Russian
musicians as well. One after another, our young composers are turning their
attention to works in contrapuntal style and coming before the public with
work of that kind. The stimulus given to our music by Glinka retains its
momentum to this day and the spirit of the age lends assistance. One may
rest assured that Russia’s future church music (not all of it, of course, but
the most serious and artistic part of it) will be music in the ‘strict’ style, or,
as many people call it, the Palestrina style.
But we should not look for these reformist currents in Mr Tchaikovsky’s
Liturgy. It stands firmly on the basis of established usage; a performance
of it would not startle ears used to our church compositions by anything
especially out of the ordinary. Mr Tchaikovsky’s heart, apparently, is not
in strict counterpoint; just how much he is in love with free, post-Bachian
counterpoint, and how much he is the master of all its resources he proved
recently in his superb D minor Suite, played in December last year at one
of the symphonic assemblies of the Russian Musical Society. But even free
counterpoint finds the smallest, less than modest application in the present
work. The same composer who has lavished the riches of fugal and imitative
style on many of his works with secular content has here seemingly vowed
to forget all his art and be content with the simplest means comprehensi-
ble to everyone. Generally speaking, he has kept to the limits within which
our nineteenth-century church music has been accustomed to revolve. The
voices sing in continuous chords and only very rarely do not all enter si-
multaneously; the four-part structure is not kept to throughout as the voices
divide and form six- and seven-part chords. In choosing chords and chord
4 Mı̈sli o muzı̈kal’nom obrazovanii (‘Thoughts on Music Education’), Russkiy vestnik, 1869,

no. 7.
7
progressions, the composer has not followed in the footsteps of the Weimar
school,5 nor made any attempt to create anything reminiscent of Liszt’s Gran
Mass, but still less has he inhibited himself by using constant triads in the di-
atonic scale after the manner of Mr Lomakin or Mr Potulov: one encounters
chords of the seventh with their inversions as well as rather wide-ranging
modulation; there is no one-sided parti pris in one direction or the other.
The single fugato in the whole composition (to the word ‘Alliluiya’ [no. 14,
bars 31–57]) is written very concisely and simply; in other places, such as
for instance in the Kheruvimskaya (‘Hymn of the Cherubim’ [no. 6]), there
are only gentle, scarcely evident hints of imitation.
It goes without saying that, while remaining within the framework laid
down and established by use and wont, Mr Tchaikovsky has been able to fill
it with such content as nevertheless allows one to sense in many respects that
exceptional power, first being applied here to a task left for so many years to
the untalented and unskilful. It is sufficient to point to the simple, transparent
but deft and graceful construction of the Otche nash (‘Our Father’), with
the splendid curve of melody at ‘yako zhe mı̈ ostavlyayem’ (‘as we forgive’)
[no. 13, bars 18–20], to note the presence in this score of a genuine artist. The
Alliluiya fugato is sketched in a light and carefree way, but even here there
is a feature (the bass pedal on A [no. 14, bars 58–61] which shows the true
master of part-writing. I shall also point out the fresh, bright modulation
after the words ‘Soblyudi nas vo vsey svyatı̈ne, ves’ den’ pouchatisya pravde
tvoyey’ (‘Keep us in Thy holiness, that all the day we may meditate upon Thy
righteousness’) [no. 15, bars 34–41], where, after A minor, A major enters
unexpectedly and to great effect; or to the expressive but perhaps for the
church too coquettish melodic phrase at the end of the Dostoyno est’ (‘It is
meet’) (at the words ‘Tya velichayem’ (‘we magnify thee’)), the melody in the
tenor [no. 11, bars 44–7].
Mr Tchaikovsky’s Liturgy is free of that saccharine, salonish tone which,
unfortunately, has held sway hitherto in our church arrangements and com-
positions. But here and there you are unpleasantly struck by an Italian pla-
gal cadence (a minor triad, a 6–5 chord on the subdominant, followed by
a major triad), a legacy of the operas of Donizetti and Verdi, from which it
would be more appropriate for church music to abstain. We find this turn of
phrase at ‘Gospodi pomiluy’ (‘Lord have mercy’) [no. 1, bars 9–10], at ‘Spasi
blagochestivı̈ya i uslı̈shi nı̈’ (‘O Lord, save the pious and hear us’) [no. 3, bars
15–20], at ‘I dukhovi tvoyemu’ (‘and to Thy spirit’) [no. 4, bars 9–11] and
at ‘Slava Tebe, Gospodi, Slava Tebe’ (‘Glory to Thee, Lord, glory to Thee’)
5 The ‘Weimar school’, so called because Liszt was based there from 1848 to 1861, denotes all
the innovations and new approaches associated with Liszt and Wagner.
8
Tchaikovsky
[no. 4, bars 12–15]. I would also list among remnants of the manner which
prevailed in Russia previously the so-called natural harmony (in the manner
of the old horns) which has crept into the work of our composer at the words
‘yedin sı̈y svyatı̈ya troytsı̈’ [no. 2, bars 44–5]. This turn of phrase occurs hun-
dreds of times in Bortnyansky and is explained by the eighteenth century’s
passion for horns and huntsmen’s fanfares. Small blots like these on the pic-
ture do not, however, upset the general impression. Mr Tchaikovsky’s style
is in general a serious and noble one, which is more necessary in Russia than
anywhere because our church permits only a cappella singing, but where
we have not up to now heard such a style. The preparation of suspensions
and the frequently used sevenths on all degrees of the diatonic scale impart
to the harmony a fresh, steadfast character which has a pleasing effect after
the flaccid mellifluousness with which the composers licensed by the Kapella
charmed our ears for so many years. As far as one can judge from reading
the score without hearing a performance, choral sonority is exploited with
skill and effectiveness; unfortunately, the high register predominates, espe-
cially in the sopranos and tenors. These constant Fs, Gs and even As give
an impression of festive brilliance and magnificence at first, but then lose
their fascination as a result of too frequent repetition. What at first seemed
a truthful expression of rapture and exultation turns gradually into a purely
external embellishment, like gilding on the expressionless face of an icon.
The singers tire, while the character of reverent concentration on humility
and spiritual peace gains nothing from this loud splendour. I do not consider
it superfluous to add that these very high notes often occur on the vowels u,
ı̈ and i, and thus can be pitched properly only with the greatest difficulty.
To sum up, we have here the work of a conscientious artist whose sub-
lime gift has called him – judging by the sum total of his compositions – to
a new sphere of activity and who as a result has brought to his Liturgy an
experienced, practised hand and a sense of decorum, rather than powerful in-
spiration. Mr Tchaikovsky’s composition, wholly satisfactory and estimable
though it be in itself, holds only a secondary place among his other works.
It does not enhance his profile by a single characteristic trait; it does not
introduce any schism, nor any attempt at reform, still less any revolution
into our church music.
And that is precisely what one should have expected from the uncom-
mon severity with which the privileged censorship office treated the com-
poser. One should have been expecting extraordinary deviations from the
accepted norm, audacious endeavours to do something completely new,
unprecedented and unheard of. Nothing of the sort has happened, and
Mr Tchaikovsky’s Liturgy, with its conciliatory, almost conservative charac-
ter, ought to have disarmed the censorship rather than caused it to sharpen
9
and hone its weapon. But the privileged censorship is implacable. The char-
acter of a work has little influence on its verdicts: with rare impartiality it
punishes the innocent as well as the guilty, and raises impediments alike to
the man who takes the smooth path as to the man who makes efforts to
leave it. It acts ‘knowing neither compassion nor wrath’ and, we might add,
without doing any particular harm, because it has turned out in the end
that in its own eyes it had exaggerated its competence. Whether a religious
composition is printed or not does not depend on it, and one may hope that
this circumstance now clarified will rouse young Russian talents to follow
Mr Tchaikovsky’s example and try their strength in a field which they have
until now despised but which offers an inexhaustible wealth of challenge to
a musician’s creative imagination.
(b) Ts. A. Cui: P. Tchaikovsky’s Manfred Symphony.6
Music Review, 31 December 1886, no. 15, pp. 116–17.
Cui, pp. 361–4
Composed in 1886, Manfred was first performed on 11 March 1887 at
the Russian Musical Society in Moscow.
The appearance of a large-scale symphonic work by a Russian composer, par-

ticularly Tchaikovsky, is a major event; his importance as one of the most
highly talented and versatile of present-day symphonists has been firmly es-
tablished by a whole series of works of that kind. He has written four sym-
phonies, three suites (the second of which has not yet been performed here),
two symphonic poems: The Tempest (after Shakespeare) and Francesca da
Rimini, and the overture to the play Romeo and Juliet. In these last three
compositions he is in successful competition with Franz Liszt (Divina co-
media) [i.e. Dante Symphony] and Berlioz (with his symphonies Roméo et
Juliette and Lélio); in Manfred, his new symphony in four scenes after Byron,
Tchaikovsky has found himself in competition with Robert Schumann – in
idea, of course, though not in form – because the latter composed music for
the play which, apart from the overture, contains no symphonically elabo-
rated movements. Tchaikovsky has cleverly chosen the moments which most
lend themselves to musical illustration from Byron’s dramatic poem without
regard to their importance in the poem itself. Berlioz made use of similar
devices in his Harold symphony; it seems to me that in general that work by
Berlioz served our composer as a model in the composition of his Manfred;
firstly, in respect of outward form, it is a work with a programme which
6 Editor’s note: We have been supplied with this note concerning the first performance here in
Russia of this new symphony by the Russian composer; we willingly publish it in full because
in general we entirely share the opinions of its esteemed author which do not differ essentially
from the analysis of Manfred in no. 29 of Music Review (first year).
10
Tchaikovsky
nevertheless retains the usual symphonic structure of four movements; sec-

ondly, in its inner contents, the third movement portrays the free life of shep-
herds who live in the mountains, while the fourth movement represents an
orgy. There is no orgy in Byron’s poem, so obviously the composer thought
it up to obtain a more animated finale for his symphony.
Of all the four movements of Manfred, the first is the most significant; this
movement of the symphony, it seems to me, belongs in profundity of con-
ception and unity of development amongst Mr Tchaikovsky’s finest pages,
alongside Francesca. The first, main theme provides a masterly description
of Manfred’s gloomy, noble image as conceived by Byron:
Manfred: ‘But was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter’ [Act III scene 4, lines 139–407 ]
The orchestral timbre in which the first theme appears is extremely suc-
cessful; the dull sound of three bassoons and bass clarinet in unison is inter-
rupted by dry, fitful chords in the violas and the cellos with basses in their
lowest registers. Lacking the opportunity of following all the beauties of
the main theme’s development in the orchestral score, we confine ourselves
to pointing out the second, delightful theme of Astarte (Andante, 34 ), the
magnificent pedal-point on C, and the majestic final occurrence of the main
theme (Andante con duolo) in the strings in unison, rhythmically accompa-
nied by clarinets, bassoons and horns – a device of instrumentation often
employed by Franz Liszt. We must also note here the original and beautiful
effect of three flutes in their lowest register combined with strings in uni-
son. It is no more possible to describe the enchanting instrumentation of the
second scene (Scherzo) than it would be to paint a picture ‘of the rainbow
of spray from a waterfall from which an Alpine fairy appears to Manfred’
[quotation from score].
We shall restrict ourselves to pointing out to the reader the second scene
of Act II of Byron’s drama where Manfred describes the Alpine fairy. The
Witch of the Alps asks: ‘What wouldst thou with me?’ Manfred replies: ‘To
look upon thy beauty – nothing further’ [Act II scene 2, lines 37–8]. As with
this reply of Manfred’s, the critic is obliged, referring to this movement of the
symphony, to answer the question ‘What wouldst thou with me?’ ‘only by
listening’. The trio of this movement, which is well contrasted with the main
section (by means of a clearly defined tonality), is nonetheless somewhat
insipid in its ideas; on its repetition Manfred’s theme appears. The ending of
the Scherzo, that is the fairy’s disappearance, is of ravishing refinement.
7 Quotations from Byron’s Manfred have been checked against Byron: Poetical Works edited
by Frederick Page in the new edition corrected by John Jump (London: Oxford University
Press, 1970).
11
The third movement is a pastorale, elaborated in various ways using fa-

miliar techniques: the sustaining of the tonic and the fifth in the basses. It
is very difficult to be original here because the character of the pastorale
depends on the use of shepherds’ instruments – bagpipes and shepherd’s
horn. We shall allow ourselves at this point to draw the reader’s attention to
one place which is particularly interesting as regards harmony. The second
section ends in B major [III, bars 35–6]; immediately after that comes an
A minor triad [bar 36], forming parallel fifths; and then, in the eleventh bar
of the same page [bar 46] the harmony returns afresh to the triad of B minor
(again with parallel fifths), which then moves to a dominant seventh in the
key of G [bar 47] to serve as transition to the first variation. Manfred’s en-
trance makes a strong impact; is it not depicting his rescue at the moment
when he intends to throw himself into the abyss? The decline of his strength
is graphically portrayed by the gradually clearing harmonic progressions –
up to the sustained C, in the woodwind [bars 178–91].
In the final movement, the first theme is made out of the second motive of
the principal theme of the first movement. This borrowing seems extremely
characteristic of subterranean spirits if one recalls that Manfred fell under
their influence by his own fault. It also makes a significant impression in
combination with the second theme of the infernal orgy (in the form of an
oriental dance) and in the fugato (four spirits attacking Manfred – fourth
scene of Act II in the play). The sudden breaking-off of the wild dance makes
a huge effect. The episode corresponding to that, Lento [IV, bar 161ff.] is
very fine; it is based on the main motive of the whole work. Similarly fine is
the appearance of Astarte’s shade and the repetition of the excerpt from the
first movement Andante con duolo [bar 394ff.]. In Tchaikovsky, Manfred
dies unbending, at his full strength, just as in Byron. At the conclusion of
this movement, with the organ, the finale’s first motive appears again, but in
D major [bar 464] [actually on an E major triad, preceding the final key of
B major], as if lightened, that is, depicting his redemption.
It is very remarkable that, in portraying the hero’s death, both composers,
Tchaikovsky and Schumann, present a scene of his salvation and pardon in
addition, which is entirely contrary to Byron’s intentions. The final words of
the poem are:
Abbot: ‘He’s gone – his soul hath taken its earthless flight;
Whither? I dread to think – but he is gone’.
[Act II scene 4, lines 152–3]
We can see, therefore, how powerfully an all-forgiving conclusion is

demanded by music, the resolution of every discord, even the most
inexplicable – the dissonance of life itself. It is superfluous to mention that
12
Tchaikovsky
Tchaikovsky’s texture and instrumentation are masterly; we can only thank

him for his new contribution to the treasure-store of our nation’s symphonic
music.
(c) G. A. Laroche: The concert on 11 August at Pavlovsk,
Tchaikovsky’s Manfred and Hamlet. Theatre Gazette, 15
August 1893, no. 7, p. 6. Laroche 2, pp. 155–9
The fantasy overture Hamlet was composed in 1888. This concert was
given in pleasure gardens at a distance from the capital.
P. I. Tchaikovsky is at the forefront of contemporary Russian music. But

being in the forefront of it now, when musical technique and musical learning
have spilled over to an extensive constituency of specialists and a great many
talented composers have emerged, is by no means the same thing as it was
in the 1860s when Russian composers were very thin on the ground. Along
with five or six others, mostly older than him, he is also at the forefront of
the music of the whole civilized world – and there too his kingdom, though
shared with others, is as little open to question and as gladly acknowledged
as it is in Russia.
He has attained this eminent position by the intensity and magnetic power
of his talent, and not at all by its universality. He has tackled the most
varied kinds of music and displayed a colossal gift in every one, but he
displays himself completely in only a few. If ever beneficent nature contrived
to produce a musical genius as an illustration or practical corroboration of
the theory of ‘absolute music’, Hanslick’s theory,8 then that musical genius
is Tchaikovsky – so greatly is he filled with music on the one hand, so little
on the other hand is he drawn towards musical illustration of poetic content,
towards programme music or music drama.
To opera, as to programme music, he has devoted a huge share of his time
and energy, and as regards opera one may say that, after a whole series of
more or less unsuccessful experiments, he at length found a form in com-
plete affinity with his gift, that is one where the present-day demands for
musical drama are reduced to a minimum. Maybe some day he will reach
the equivalent position in the orchestral fantasy on a poetic subject, that is,
in the ‘symphonic poem’. That will be when he finally discards the recently
introduced but already long outmoded seasonings which for some reason are
considered essential once a title has been taken from some famous poet: long
sequences in an uncertain key, pauses, instrumental recitatives, a colossal din
8 The Viennese critic Eduard Hanslick (1825–1904) set out these ideas in Vom musikalisch-
schönen (‘On the Musically-Beautiful’), first published in Leipzig in 1854; they offered a
viewpoint contrary to that of the ‘Weimar school’. Laroche was a rare Russian subscriber to
Hanslick’s ideas.
13
on the diminished seventh, unfinished short phrases transposed from key to

key and the obligatory tam-tam [Laroche has a play on words: ‘iz tona v
ton i . . . tam-tam’]. In rejecting all this and being satisfied with writing music
which is melodious and rounded in form, we are reverting to the standpoint
of Raff, who calmly composed one symphony after another and gave them
such titles as The Fatherland, The Forest, Leonore, Spring and so on. In the
eyes of M. A. Balakirev, to whom Manfred is dedicated, that will be the
ultimate degradation, the rejection in music of everything poetic, everything
ideal. I, on the other hand, do not give a brass farthing for that idealism which
comprises instrumental recitative, the diminished seventh and the tam-tam.
But Mr Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poems are not all recitative and tam-
tam. Alongside the direct imitation of Liszt which holds sway in the weakest
sections of these compositions, each of them contains a greater or smaller
number of pages where the composer apparently forgets altogether the
Weimar wisdom, with which he has so little kinship and which he has
adopted so superficially. A beautiful melody will be flowing along (gener-
ally speaking, the more beautiful it is the less it shares the character of the
poem or situation), the orchestration will set itself free from the thunder of
the percussion – that invariable sign of the most profound thoughts – and
unfold all its magic from pianissimo to fortissimo; you don’t even have time
to look round before the real symphonist has awakened and an animated
development section begins, with that pungent dissonant counterpoint of
which our composer has such an inimitable command. Dante, Byron and
Shakespeare are all forgotten. Alas! their turn will come again: like the ghost
of Hamlet’s father, they will stand before the composer again and start to
eat away at him: ‘What are we doing here? When are you going to get down
to poetry? When are scrappy phrases, transpositions, pauses, general pauses
and the tam-tam going to come along?’ And, torn forcibly from the world
of inspiration and beauty, the composer will again stick to the beaten track,
and the protracted ‘programmatic’ proceedings will stretch out before us
once more.
This inorganic mixture of two mutually alien and irreconcilable elements
does not occur in the same way in all Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poems. In this
respect Manfred numbers among the most raw and unfinished of his compo-
sitions. Harmonic sequences extend over whole pages, going somewhere –
but not getting anywhere, leaving an impression of mystery and uncertainty
cribbed from Liszt, though cribbed not in a mechanical fashion but with the
addition of some of the technical sequins which cost our deft and resourceful
composer so little effort. There are particularly many such ultrapoetic pages
in the symphony’s first movement which, contrary to convention, is not an
Allegro but a huge Adagio with various more or less faster episodes. And,
14
Tchaikovsky
while we are on the subject of poetry, why is this first movement scored
so loudly? Has Manfred really endured a shipwreck or bombarded Paris? I
can understand the percussion instruments being used in the central section
of Romeo and Juliet, because the composer was imagining a street fight in
the savage Italy of the fourteenth century; I can doubly understand them in
Hamlet, for in Shakespearian tragedy material catastrophes, violence and
murders take a large place, although we have become used to looking only
for philosophical and psychological subtleties; I am ready, finally, to accept
the bass drum and cymbals in the finale of Manfred, as it is there that the
court of the subterranean king Arimanes is displayed in all its glory. But the
first movement, which according to the programme represents something
like the quintessence of Manfred’s monologues, not only does not need such
cheap seasonings in my opinion, but because of their use distorts the spirit of
Byron’s poem and takes on the character of some battle or natural calamity,
which is not even so much as mentioned in the English poet. In Byron the
drama springs from within, and Manfred’s torments are essentially those of a
solitary melancholic and monomaniac haunted by a kind of idée fixe; for all
his criminality, the hero is a member of the aristocracy of the spirit, and the
hellish apparitions with which he habitually holds conversations understand
the most subtle speeches and are able in their replies to wound him without
resorting to noisy yelling.
But along with the ‘programmatic’ side of Manfred, which seems to me
false and even prosaic, there is a purely musical side which is barely linked
to the other – and here Tchaikovsky may be seen at his full stature, though I
cannot say at one of his loftiest moments, not the Tchaikovsky of the Third
Suite or the Fourth Symphony, but nonetheless full of melodic warmth and
sincerity, rich in graceful harmonic turns, in unforced and euphonious coun-
terpoint, rhythmically interesting and original, inexhaustibly diverse and
captivating in instrumentation. To all this part of Manfred (much greater
in bulk than the poetic or Lisztian part), one listens with the greatest inter-
est, it is splendid in thematic development even more than in its melodies,
has nothing in common with Liszt and, to my way of thinking, nothing in
common with Manfred.9 To that category first and foremost belongs all of
the third movement – the ‘pastorale’, although the only thing pastoral about
it is that there is an episode representing bagpipes, but where the elegance
of form and musical development are sublime beyond description. Also to
it belongs the so-called trio in the scherzo which has the character of a free
9 Author’s note: To clarify this attitude for the listener by means of a concrete example, I shall
point to Schumann’s Manfred. There one finds music which, in my opinion, contains both a
Byronic atmosphere in general as well as various episodes in the drama, each one individually
conveyed with astonishing vitality and truth.
15
expanse of steppe and idle languor, evocative of Gogol, Turgenev or Fet

rather than Manfred, but in any case enchanting; to it belongs, lastly (apart
from a few short episodes in the first movement, which it would take me too
long to enumerate), the superb polyphonic development in the finale, full of
movement, fire and compelling interest.
Hamlet (which in general terms I place immeasurably higher than
Manfred) – is a completely different matter. It was saved, apparently, by
the circumstance that it was initially envisaged not as a symphonic poem at
all but as the overture to the tragedy which it was intended to perform in
Russia in a French adaptation. When performed together with the literary
work by which it was inspired, music does not need to cast about for the
intelligibility of the spoken word, for the spoken word will itself show in
due course wherein the subject lies and what the poet’s individual ideas are.
However that may be, Tchaikovsky’s Hamlet is to a significant extent more
free than his Manfred from the ballast of the commonplaces of ‘programme
music’: it is simply an overture, though not, of course, one composed to a
template, though again with an episode in the national Russian style, very
well done and completely out of place, but coherent and robust in form with
the most superb principal theme,10 slightly Beethovenian in character and
with a development section which one can call straightforwardly a work of
genius (the harmonic progression before the return of the principal section
[from 8 bars before ‘Non si cambia il Tempo’]). The only thing which pains
me in this work, which is as inspired as it is masterly, is the loud baying of
the orchestra on the diminished seventh, masked not without skill by passing
notes, but nevertheless representing a trite illustration of every sort of storm –
at sea, on dry land and in the soul.
[The rest of the programme and the standard of performance are
discussed.]
(d) N. D. Kashkin: P. I. Tchaikovsky’s new symphony.

Russian Thought, January 1889. Kashkin/Tchaikovsky,
pp. 199–202
The Fifth Symphony was composed in the summer of 1888 and first
performed in St Petersburg on 5 November of that year.
[Tchaikovsky’s career goes from strength to strength, despite the hostility of

a section of the St Petersburg press.]
P. I. Tchaikovsky’s new Fifth Symphony in E minor is made up of the usual
four movements, but with the scherzo replaced by a waltz. The symphony’s
10 Author’s note: I regard as the principal theme not that which opens the introduction (Lento
lugubre, A minor), but what is known as the principal section (Allegro vivace, F minor).
16
Tchaikovsky
first movement is preceded by an introduction where the main theme which

occurs in every movement is stated, with a change from the minor mode to the
major where the symphony ends. The first Allegro opens with a beautiful
theme of powerful character which is distantly related melodically to the
first theme but completely different in rhythm. The course of the first theme
takes it in the normal way to the second theme in the key of the dominant
minor. This theme is elegiac in mood and extremely graceful and beautiful,
and a third so-called closing section follows it in the key of D major. After
the development, the first section of the Allegro returns, but the second
theme occurs in C-sharp minor instead of B minor and the closing section in
E major. A very significant addition returns to the initial E minor where the
first movement ends.
The symphony’s second movement is an Andante cantabile, the unusual
beauty of whose melody can stand alongside the best works of Tchaikovsky,
who is so rich altogether in melodic inventiveness. The whole dreamily pas-
sionate colouring of this movement is superbly maintained, with the move-
ment rising in places to moments of the most powerful excitement, shifting
with an uncommonly beautiful and powerful modulation based on 64 triads
to a calmer, fading mood. The theme of the introduction appears in the sec-
ond half of the Andante, here with a menacing character, and leads to a
repetition of the Andante’s main theme which occurs here in its most pow-
erful statement; the theme of the introduction appears again before the end
in a compressed version, then everything dies away and finishes in a scarcely
audible pianissimo. This entire movement is so beautiful, so permeated by
genuine, deep feeling, that it constitutes a masterpiece in itself.
The third movement, a waltz, is kindred to those delightful waltzes found
previously in Mr Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings and Suite; it repre-
sents a moment of tranquillity after the passionate spiritedness of the pre-
ceding movement. The waltz contains an abundance of superb harmonic
details of refinement and elegance, such as the violins’ rising scale against
the theme in progress in the wind instruments. The Trio of the waltz is
built on a rapid figure in which the two-beat pattern sometimes gives way
to a three-beat one, thus imparting an especial rhythmic savour. The theme
from the introduction enters again at the end, but now in a mood of calm
reconciliation.
The final movement opens with the theme of the introduction, but now
no longer in the minor, as on its first appearance, but in the major. From
this theme the Allegro of the finale develops, again in E minor. This whole
movement is the work of a master of the first order, and although its themes
are inferior to those of the previous movements, it nonetheless offers such a
17
wealth of development, such artistic finish as a whole, that one may call it
the best of all the movements in the symphony.
The new symphony as a whole is the work of a talent which is fully mature
and in free and easy command of all the resources of the art of music. With
regard to artistic balance, clarity and perfection of form, it occupies, if not
the first place, then one of the very first places among Tchaikovsky’s works.
(e) G. A. Laroche: P. Tchaikovsky’s Mazeppa. Moscow

Bulletin, 2 January 1889, no. 22, pp. 3–4. Laroche 2,
pp. 129–35
This opera, composed in 1881–3, was staged in the Bol’shoy Theatre in
Moscow on 3 February 1884.
Perhaps the reader will resent me telling too hackneyed an anecdote, but I
cannot resist quoting an apocryphal dictum of the dying Hegel, so apt to the
occasion does it seem. The philosopher – as the legend affirms – said first:
‘Of all my pupils there was only one who understood me’. Then, after a
short silence, he added: ‘And even he misinterpreted me’. The original form
in which the great writer wrapped his idea is eminently suitable to describe
the state of musical drama in present-day Russia. Imitating him, we shall say
that, of all present-day Russian composers, Tchaikovsky alone is capable of
writing operas, and Tchaikovsky’s operas are in essence not operas at all.
When we say that the creator of Cherevichki (‘The Slippers’) is one of
those first-class musicians who lack a genuinely dramatic temperament, or
that Mr Tchaikovsky’s operas when compared with his other compositions,
especially his symphonies, occupy a secondary place, we are placing him
in an extremely honourable company. The same may be said of Beethoven
and Schumann, who wrote one opera apiece, and of Berlioz, who wrote as
many as four. It is true that, in the number of his attempts in this genre
and by the strength of will with which he tries again and again to solve
the riddle of the sphinx called Russian musical drama, Tchaikovsky differs
sharply from the Western masters I have named, whose operas, even those
of Berlioz, are merely episodes in an extended field of activity devoted to
entirely different ends. Counting Undina, which was never staged anywhere
and which, if I am not mistaken, the composer destroyed, Tchaikovsky, who
has by no manner of means reached old age yet, has already written eight
large-scale operas. It is not open to doubt that he is indebted precisely to
them, or to some of them, for a significant part of his fame, or that there is a
whole division of his admirers who know him only as the creator of Eugene
Onegin. But the very predilection of the public for this opera above all the
others by the same composer already provides a partial description of his
18
Tchaikovsky
attitude to musical drama. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s other operas shows so

few pretensions to drama; in no other does the inspiration flow in such an
even, uninterrupted stream. One may say without being paradoxical that,
for this intelligent, sensitive and educated artist, so-called dramatic truth in
music always comes in inverse proportion to the efforts made to achieve it.
I have just spoken about the large number of our composer’s operas, but his
taste for drama is demonstrated not by quantitative definitions alone.
It is most interesting to cast a glance over his choice of subjects. Leav-
ing his first two operas to one side as youthful works, Eugene Onegin as a
score intended initially for production in a conservatoire and consequently
written for a particular ensemble with the limitations which such a situation
inevitably entails, and The Slippers which was composed for a competition
on a prescribed libretto, we are left with four operas written when his talent
was more or less at a mature stage in its development and using subjects,
obviously, chosen by him in complete freedom. What is immediately striking
is the sombre, harrowing character of the plots, the abundance of horrors
and blood, the note of melodrama. Born in 1840 and growing up, appar-
ently, like all Russians of our generation, on the peaceful literature of Gogol,
Turgenev and Ostrovsky, our composer – as one could reason a priori –
ought to have been bound to share the distaste common to people of our
time for daggers, scaffolds, scoundrels and red cloaks. But in fact it turns out
that, except for the red cloaks, all these ingredients play a significant role in
his works: from the horrors of the oprichnina11 to the evil deeds within a
family in The Enchantress, a broad river of blood runs through his operas,
and the brutality of the dramatist, who in private is of astounding gentle-
ness and placidity, goes so far that even Schiller’s Joan of Arc, whose fate
the German poet softened, is again condemned to a terrifying death in the
flames. It goes without saying that subjects of this cast (and Mazeppa too be-
longs among them, with its executions and torturing) require the strongest,
harshest, and most staggering means of expression in the music as well. I
invariably have the impression of a highly gifted composer doing violence to
his talent. I certainly do not wish to say that Tchaikovsky is capable of setting
only tender and sentimental scenes. No, he does have energy and breadth of
scale, but his energy and broad scale are, if one may put it this way, exclu-
sively major-key. Rejoicing, celebrating, a splendid festive tone – these are
what he succeeds magnificently with time and again, and an unconscious
sense of his innate power, as it seems to me, tempts him to employ it in ex-
actly the opposite direction, where it almost invariably refuses to serve him.
The weakest places in his operas are those where he has to depict dramatic
11 This term refers to a special bodyguard created by Tsar Ivan IV.
19
confrontations; among such places in Mazeppa is the scene of the quarrel

[no. 6], where constant divergence can be sensed between the situation and
the music, where, for example, the big ensemble in C minor, even by the
choice of metre ( 98 ) and rhythm, cannot have the dramatic energy for which
the composer was evidently striving. Equally alien to Mr Tchaikovsky’s na-
ture, and just as unsympathetic to me in its treatment, is the challenge posed
by the prison scene.
For all his love of strongly dramatic subjects, our composer takes little
interest, apparently, in one of musical drama’s most vital resources. I mean
recitative. One can point to many phrases in Mazeppa whose declamation
[word-setting] is hard to accept: read the text without the music, adopting the
expression suggested naturally by the situation of the characters involved,
and very often your declamation will be different from Mr Tchaikovsky’s.
If that phenomenon can be observed in recitative, where no demands of
cantilena constrained him, then it occurs even more frequently in lyrical
and rounded phrases; moreover, there are instances where the initial motive
of the cantilena, which is normally composed directly under the influence
of declamation, reveals no such influence in Tchaikovsky’s case. The gifted
master’s operas, exactly like his symphonic poems, remind us often and
eloquently of the too easily forgotten axiom of right-minded aesthetics that
music is not an art of expression, that, by forcing her to speak and depict,
we are doing violence to her nature, that she finds her true power and beauty
where she is completely free of poetic pretensions. The greatest models of
musical drama are no more than compromises between the nature of art
and our age’s striving to illustrate stage action musically, compromises in
which the composer is obliged at every turn to hold the balance between
opposing demands, to walk a tightrope. This tightrope-walking calls for a
special talent which has become particularly rare in our day and age, and
Mr Tchaikovsky is a true child of his time in this, as in many other respects,
in possessing this special talent only in the smallest degree.
And why should he grieve for it when he has all the others? While, for
the most part, displaying major deficiencies in construction and scenario
and not exploiting musically even those advantages which are preserved in
their libretti, his operas, nonetheless, afford aesthetic enjoyment year in year
out to the most musical, most enlightened part of our public. Together with
Mr Tchaikovsky’s symphonic scores, albeit to a lesser extent, they are num-
bered with the noblest creations of Russian art, and the musical beauties so
generously strewn through them more than compensate for the absence of
that dramatic nerve which present-day criticism pursues so exclusively. An
incomparable melodist, who as the years go by acquires even more richness,
versatility, succulence and grace in his melody, our composer has displayed
20
Tchaikovsky
all the charm, all the poetry of his song even in Mazeppa. It is very charac-
teristic that as soon as Mazeppa himself stops being a bloodthirsty tyrant
and becomes simply a baritone in love, the music too at this point becomes
superlative, and melodies, each more beautiful than the last, flow from his
lips (‘Mgnovenno serdtse molodoye’ (‘A young heart instantaneously’) in
Act I [no. 5, Andante], ‘Moy drug, nespravedliva tı̈’ (‘My friend, you are
unjust’) in Act II [no. 11, Moderato assai, quasi andantino], and most of all
the arioso which the composer added after the printing of the vocal score
[no. 10a]). There are equal melodic pearls in the parts of Mariya, Andrey
and even Kochubey, the least richly endowed (‘Tak, ne oshiblis’ vı̈’ (‘Thus
you were not mistaken’) [Act II no. 9]); but the first place among all these
inspired pages belongs to the phrase sung by the dying Andrey (‘V glazakh
temneyet, budto noch’ kholodnaya lozhitsya nado mnoyu’ (‘My eyes grow
darker, as if cold night was falling upon me’) [no. 19]), whose tender and rec-
onciled character forms an amazing contrast with the bitterness and tragedy
of the situation, as if before his dying eyes the dawn of a new day, one not
of this earth, was already breaking. Unfortunately, this melody, like several
others in the opera, is not developed into a coherent number, but breaks off
abruptly to satisfy the need for ‘dramatic truth’. What a Moloch is this ‘dra-
matic truth’, and how much musical beauty, how many composers’ talents it
has devoured in our day in its insatiability! With Tchaikovsky, fortunately,
his talent is so lively and healthy that no theory can cause it any general
organic harm at all; but he makes frequent concessions to this tendency, and
one cannot but deplore profoundly even those frequent concessions.
Since our composer is principally a symphonist, it would be right to expect
the culminating points in his operas to be those numbers which are purely
instrumental (the overture, the dances and the Battle of Poltava entr’acte);
but in practice it does not work out quite like that and the statement finds
least justification as regards the overture. It is strange that the composer of
such instrumental masterpieces as the first Allegro of the Third Symphony
and the finale of the Second Symphony could fall for the type which the
modern French overture represents, that formless and perplexing rhapsody
with incessant pause-signs and changes of tempo; but the fact is that even
Tchaikovsky cultivates precisely this genre and the overture to Mazeppa,
whose opening gives promise of a mighty symphonic work, vanishes there-
after in a mosaic of successive fragments, like a river in sand. The dances in
Act I (gopak) [no. 4] display, of course, a more cohesive organization. To tell
the truth, I am not a particular admirer of Mr Tchaikovsky’s operatic dances
(Swan Lake is a different matter altogether!); it always seems to me that in
them he is following in the footsteps not so much of Glinka as of Serov, that
in his striving for sharp characterization and strong colours he sacrifices
21
that harmonic and contrapuntal side, of which Glinka provided such ele-
gant models in both his operas. Thus even the gopak in Mazeppa opens with
a flurry of semiquavers of a burlesque character with (for me) a note which
is unpleasantly Serovian; but who will not forgive this opening and a dozen
other mistakes (if this is indeed a mistake) when he hears the magical E-flat
major melody, captivating in its idle monotony, which suddenly, like a smile
on a beautiful face, lights up the whole piece?
It remains for me to give an opinion about the ‘Battle of Poltava’ (the
entr’acte to the last act [no. 15]), a number which is very extended and com-
posed with evident love. As is well known, ‘battles’ in the repertory for piano
and especially for orchestra (above all at the beginning of this century) repre-
sent a very widespread phenomenon but, despite the undoubted musicality
of the task, there are no examples of it being realized especially success-
fully, least of all classical examples. The first Allegro of Beethoven’s Eroica
Symphony could only be classified as a depiction of a battle by stretching
the meaning of the term, and his programmatic ‘Wellington’s Victory’ (The
Battle of Vittoria) belongs among his weakest compositions. From the whole
literature known to me, I can bring to mind only one page which is truly
grandiose: it is the battle episode in Paradies und die Peri; but Schumann
was not composing a separate symphonic number: his battle amounts to no
more than an orchestral ritornello to the chorus which follows. In the end,
one can say that in the ‘Battle of Poltava’ we are seeing for almost the first
time a serious composer setting seriously about a task which until then had
been in the hands of simple artisans writing to amuse the pleasure-garden
public. The experiment succeeded brilliantly: from the very first chords one
has a sense of formidable, shattering power; the alternating chords in bars
9 to 12 (subsequently repeated a second higher) and the motive in sevenths
(F–G–B–C) a few bars later are especially good. The actual plan of the
work is very poetic: the composer begins fortissimo, introduces us to the
strongest heat of the battle and then in a long, gradual diminuendo depicts
the rumble as the hostilities gradually recede. But the execution of the task
strikes me as not being on the same level as the conception everywhere: the
first pages (in 32 metre) are marvellous; compared to their iron strength, the
last section ( 44 ), although called Allegro marziale, suffers from being precisely
of too peaceful a character: that is in spite of whistling scales here and there,
which suggest peacetime policemen’s training exercises rather than a fight
to the death. There is not enough turmoil, chaos, fumes – which are just as
capable of being portrayed in a pianissimo as in the most deafening forte.
The reader will not ask me to draw a general conclusion from my discon-
nected remarks because I began by placing it at the start of this column. But
justice demands that I give him an opposite proposition. Mr Tchaikovsky’s
22
Tchaikovsky
opera is not an opera at all, but nevertheless he is our only composer of

operas in Russia. A critic’s task would be very easy if he could approach a
living phenomenon with a ready-made yardstick and his only concern were
to see whether the work fitted his measurements or not. For such criticism
it would be sufficient for each species and genus of artistic work to establish
terms, as is done for goods ordered for delivery to the state: so much of such-
and-such, the length such-and-such, the width such-and-such, the weight
such-and-such. I have colleagues in the musical press who have adopted this
very approach to Mr Tchaikovsky: the reviewer will take as the norm some
single opera, sometimes of his own manufacture,12 sometimes written by a
friend, will look for similarities and differences in Tchaikovsky, where it’s
longer and where shorter, where it’s louder and where softer, and will then
draw up a balance sheet. To be sure, the creator of Mazeppa presents many
difficulties to the conscientious critic who has no wish to get away with
just the conventional wisdom. A self-sufficient, independent nature, perhaps
sometimes capricious, he submits to classification only with extreme diffi-
culty and not one of the pre-existing frames fits him exactly. Eugene Onegin,
as everyone knows, is entitled not ‘opera’ but ‘lyrical scenes’. Should we not
extend that title to everything Tchaikovsky has written in the genre of opera?
Should we not admit that Mazeppa too, while not forming a coherent opera,
is wonderful as a series of lyrical moments, that precisely the lyrical element
in it is full of truth and beauty, whereas its dramatic side affords us the
spectacle of a powerful talent embarking on a path alien and antipathetic
to him? And should we not at the same time abandon once and for all the
unjust and tactless complaints that Tchaikovsky’s operas are not written in
the manner of Gluck, or Meyerbeer, or Wagner, or Serov, and state that our
composer is first and foremost faithful to his personal ‘I’ and with perfect
sincerity gives us this ‘I’ in every one of his works? These ‘lyrical scenes’ – not
subordinated to modern templates, full of distinctive content and individual
life – these lyrical scenes are uneven works far from being beyond reproach:
very often the form does not match the idea, even more frequently you wish
that the composer would break decisively with modern usage and return
to the classical path which suits the cast of his talent far better, but for all
the objections which one could level against him, there remains the general
impression of a rich nature and a virtuoso master, an inspired poet and a
brilliant technician, a musician whose magnificent native powers have not
been suppressed and distorted by training but have attained the most for-
tunate and healthy development. The exemplary type of Russian opera will
12 The most likely target of this barb was probably Cui, though M. M. Ivanov (1849–1927) is
another candidate.
23
probably be created unbeknownst to the composer of Mazeppa, just as the

development of German opera left the creator of Genoveva [Schumann] to
one side: but while they do not stand on the main highway of progress
ahead, the operas of Tchaikovsky, like Genoveva, will always give the
impression of fresh and alluring oases, and their very remoteness from fa-
miliar paths will lend them ever greater fascination.
(f) G. A. Laroche: P. Tchaikovsky and musical drama (about
The Enchantress). Moscow Bulletin, 8 February 1890, no.
39, pp. 3–4. Laroche 2, pp. 145–55
Composed between 1885 and 1887 to a libretto by I. Shpazhinsky,
this opera was staged for the first time at the Mariinsky Theatre on
20 October 1887 and at the Bol’shoy Theatre on 2 February 1890.
The Russian Middle Ages and the Russian Renaissance have only recently,
if one leaves [Pushkin’s] Boris Godunov out of account, become the object
of truthful artistic representation in verse drama entirely faithful to the na-
tional spirit and language and also to history – if not in factual matters,
then certainly in matters of everyday life. As has been observed repeatedly,
the trends and currents which emerge in poetry are reflected in music as
well, but that reflection is always chronologically delayed. Similar or corre-
sponding phenomena in poetry and music are separated from one another
sometimes by a quarter of a century (the operas of Glinka constitute an in-
teresting exception, in that they appeared only a few years later than the
most mature works of Pushkin, to which they correspond fully). Serov’s
[opera] Rogneda, contemporary with Ostrovsky’s first dramatic chronicles,
or Aleksey Tolstoy’s Ivan the Terrible, seemed at first sight something similar
to them or to the dramas of Mey, which it antedates by a few years; but by
our time it has become clear that with its sickly sweetness, abundance of
poorly concealed Italianisms and falsely patriotic tone, for all its outward
impact and entertaining quality, it corresponds more to Kukol’nik13 than to
the poets of the 1850s. What occurred in our spoken drama about 1860 is
now taking place or ‘ought to be taking place’ in musical drama. That ‘ought
to be taking place’ is a small attempt at constructing history a priori, but I
shall now immediately wash myself clean of that sin by appealing to facts.
I am intentionally leaving to one side the operas of Rubinstein, which are
original, written in masterly fashion, strict in style and truthful in expres-
sion. They stand apart by virtue of the cosmopolitanism which saturates all
the compositions of the present-day head of Russian musicians, the sharply
oppositionist attitude which he adopted towards his age, and, lastly, the
13 N. V. Kukol’nik (1809–68) is best known in literature as a writer of patriotic plays on
historical themes and in music as a collaborator with Glinka.
24
Tchaikovsky
conspicuously energetic individuality which makes itself felt equally in his

dramatic and lyrical music as in his vocal and instrumental music. There
remain Borodin’s Prince Igor and Tchaikovsky’s The Enchantress14 – two
‘signs of the times’ in the sense that both these operas now await their turn,
that The Enchantress was produced in St Petersburg in the autumn of 1887
and is at the present moment being staged in Moscow, and Prince Igor is
a posthumous work of Borodin who died in February in the same year of
1887. Although part of the music of Igor is older than The Enchantress, as
it was transferred from Mlada written in the 1870s, Igor on the other hand
was completed by Borodin’s friends after his death; its orchestration is also
for the most part posthumous, and it has not yet been produced and will not
be during the current season. In general terms, both The Enchantress and
Igor are works of the present moment, and, coming approximately a quar-
ter of a century after Ostrovsky’s dramatic chronicles and Tolstoy’s Ivan the
Terrible, may be called phenomena corresponding to those literary works.
For a broad drama taken from everyday life in the Russian Middle Ages,
Tchaikovsky, of all the musicians of our generation, that is who were born
between 1840 and 1855, ought to be the most richly endowed. The Mighty
Handful (moguchaya kuchka), comparison with whom suggests itself above
all, does not include an outstanding melodist, and outside the Handful – I am
still speaking about this specific generation – there are no talents, or almost
none. Tchaikovsky’s work shows both Russian subject-matter and cultivated
form; in his work melodies and harmonies, orchestration and rhythm are in
perfect balance; prolific and indefatigably active in all sorts of music,15 he
evidently gravitates towards the dramatic, towards musical tragedy, and in
tragedy shows a no less evident preference for Russian subjects. Of his six
operas staged before The Enchantress, only one had an overwhelming suc-
cess; but not a single one passed unnoticed, and, if Tchaikovsky’s reputation
is based mainly on Eugene Onegin, then one cannot deny that his other
operas have contributed to it too, not excluding that youthful venture The
Voyevoda, or that Tchaikovsky’s operas, taken together, have made the com-
poser loved and prized in spheres which neither a suite nor a quartet, neither
14 Author’s note: One may place Mr Rimsky-Korsakov’s Maid of Pskov in the same category,
although she is already seventeen years of age, if one regards that opera as a pendant not
to Mey’s drama of the same name but to his The Tsar’s Bride. In that case, too, one finds
a distance of approximately a quarter of a century between the poetic prototype and its
musical reflection.
15 Author’s note: Comic opera, operetta, dance music and military music constitute exceptions
so far. Like all the musicians of his circle, he will be too fastidious to write operetta and he is
not really suited to it by nature. As regards the other three kinds of music mentioned, in my
opinion he has an undoubted aptitude for them and could stimulate a fruitful and beneficent
advance in any one of them.
25
a sonata nor a symphony, can reach. Tested by experience, fostered equally

by continual good fortune as a whole and failures in particulars, his talent
entered on its most flourishing period at the end of the 1870s and is now –
or, what amounts to the same thing, was on the eve of The Enchantress – in
the most advantageous circumstances: maturity has been attained, but youth
has not yet departed.
Mr Shpazhinsky, the author of the libretto, possesses a talent rare here in
Russia (and at the present time even rarer in the West) as a master of matters
dramatic, a skilful craftsman and purveyor of what is fashionable; he is no
less capable than a Frenchman of tying and untying a dramatic knot; it is no
wonder that a composer of operas should turn more willingly to him than
to the luminaries of contemporary Russian poetry. Poetry’s luminaries have
always too much of lyricism or philosophy and rhetoric; in either case, there
are too many verses: whole pages of text which captivate one by their beauty
when read, coarsen and turn into tedious verbosity under the magnifying
glass of music. For a composer of operas, it is not monologues, not dialogues
and not the living flesh and blood of a poem in general which are important
but its skeleton, that is the plot and its development into a scenario. This
skeleton has been solidly and handsomely put together in The Enchantress;
the dramatic conflict is striking, the characters are simple and outlined in bold
strokes, and the situations are set out naturally. Only Act III offends by an
attempt at subtle psychology in the manner of Shakespeare: the scenes of the
Prince and Kuma, with the Prince’s rapid transition from hatred to passionate
love, recalling the famous scene of Gloucester and Anne in Richard III, is full
of interest in a spoken drama but becomes enigmatic and therefore false in a
musical drama. In an opera, just as with pantomime in a ballet, the subject
must be comprehensible to the eye in its entirety by means of stage action
alone, without the aid of a text or at least only with a little occasional help
from it. Like ballet, opera is also analogous to the tragedy of the ancients
(and therefore also to the ‘pseudoclassical’ tragedy of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries) and gains from observing all the conditions of that kind
of drama strictly, although they are outmoded for our spoken drama based
on Shakespeare. The emergence of a new character (the sorcerer Kud’ma) in
the final act, contrary to the rules of classical poetics, violates the integrity
of the plot’s development and gives the impression of being a mechanical
impulse from outside. Despite these two defects, of which the first (i.e. the
lack of clarity in the contents of Act III) is the more important, as a whole,
however, The Enchantress represents a task of rare nobility for an opera
which inspires a composer by its subject and does not hold things up with
dialectical longueurs. I repeat: such a subject in such a composer’s hands
could not fail to arouse intense curiosity and high expectations.
26
Tchaikovsky
Expectations of that kind are only half-lived up to by the opera’s rich and
original music.
When you listen at a concert, or play through at home, an individual page
or a long individual excerpt from Mazeppa, The Slippers or The Oprich-
nik, you surrender involuntarily to the fascination of the music’s power and
good health combined with such delicate nerves, such thoughtful melancholy,
such wealth of colour, such responsiveness to the demands of the age. When,
seated in the theatre, you take in for yourself the totality of these pages,
these excerpts, in their dramatic sequence, then little by little you begin to
feel a certain mysterious awkwardness. Explaining to myself the reason for
this contradiction would probably be more difficult for me, with my con-
servative view of musical drama, than if I were to be simply bored during
Tchaikovsky’s operas, finding them insufficiently similar to Musorgsky or
Serov. The reflective mood induced in me by Tchaikovsky’s method of com-
position has nothing in common with complaints founded on the cult of
[Serov’s] The Power of the Fiend or with Boris Godunov as set to music.
[Laroche reiterates views of Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poems found
in (c).]
I did not set myself the task here[, however,] of analyzing Tchaikovsky’s
symphonic poems, where the absence of artistic truth may be demonstrated
only by a slow roundabout route; but I have before me the pearls in The
Enchantress, which make an irresistible effect at a concert or when read but
whose ardour is invariably cooled in a staged performance. Despite its great
strength of talent, despite the advantages of education and technique, of
graceful and subtle nature and the present-day striving for musical drama,
The Enchantress suffers from one affliction – only one, but that affliction is
fundamental, organic: the opera lacks ‘truth in sound’. Two years ago the
Petersburg Serovians discovered a great resemblance to Serov’s operas in it,
and even a direct imitation of them. I do not know what a critical paradox
of that kind rests on. Tchaikovsky is free of the majority of Serov’s faults: his
formless composition, his weakness in figuration and his mannerism, linked
to that weakness, of writing continuous chords or tremolo, his harmonic one-
sidedness, and, finally, from old-fashioned ‘reminiscences’ of Spontini and
Auber, Verstovsky and Gurilyov. [The comparison with Serov is explored
further.]
In comparison with our master’s preceding operas, The Enchantress is no-
table for its correct declamation. Declamation is a real hobby-horse of our
Russian reviewers and I have confessed more than once that with respect to
this hobby-horse I keep to the most ‘open tendency’. Had Tchaikovsky taken
a step backwards rather than forwards in his latest opera; had his declama-
tion been as boundlessly wrong and capricious as in Russian folksong or
27
in Glinka’s songs and A Life for the Tsar, then I would have had nothing
against that so long as the general meaning, the general spirit of the words,
had been accurately caught in the music. As I have already said, this hap-
pens sometimes, but just as often or more often we see the opposite. With
Tchaikovsky there is never that abstract, indifferent music exemplified by
many superb contrapuntal workings. There is no impersonal, mercilessly
logical architecture of sound combinations in which the subject vanishes.
On the contrary everything is warmed by feeling, the pulse of lyrical life
beats everywhere; but between the feeling in the musician’s soul and the idea
expressed in the poet’s verses, no connection is achieved. In a newspaper
column I do not wish to cite a long series of individual examples, so I shall
restrict myself to two. Let us take Kuma’s arioso in Act IV [no. 20]. After a
whole series of stupendous scenes, on the verge of death, the young woman
awaits her beloved (the son of the voyevoda who is in love with her), with
whom she intends to flee from his father’s pursuit. The mood in which the
audience watches her is well known to anyone who has read the sensational-
ist (though historical) novels or seen the dramas of Victor Hugo, Dumas-père
and their imitators in the theatre. Do not be deceived by the Russian décor
and the folksy manner of Mr Shpazhinsky’s language: we are here exactly in
the realm of French drama with its finely interwoven horrors. Not mental
conflict but crude physical danger oppresses the spectator’s imagination: he
is waiting for blood, he is all athirst for the loving couple’s successful flight;
he wavers between fear and hope. The music of this whole scene (however
it may be split up into separate moments) must be imbued with this alarm,
this haste and feverish impatience. The librettist writes thus:
Gde tı̈, moy zhelannı̈y? Ya zdes’! Poskorey
Prikhodi, svet dushi moyey, krasa radost’ ochey!
Neterpen’yem goryu ya tebya uvidat’
I k goryachemu serdtsu prizhat’.
Bez tebya istomilo mne dushu toskoy,
Prikhodi poskorey i umchimsya s toboy
Mı̈ podal’she otsyuda, ot zol i ot bed.
Prikhodi zhe skoreye, moy svet.
[Where are you, you that I long for? I am here! come
At once, light of my soul, joy of my eyes!
I burn with impatience to see you
And press you to my burning heart.
Without you my soul is weary with anguish,
Come at once and let me fly away with you
Far from here, from evils and troubles.
Come at once, my light.]
28
Tchaikovsky
The charming music of this number, an Andante in the minor in 98 , is filled

with reverie and pensive sadness, but at the same time with such idle languor
and northern frost that it loses all verisimilitude on the lips of someone whose
life is hanging by a thread. Kuma may say that she is afire with impatience,
but she cannot listlessly, in long drawn-out fashion and with repetitions sing
at length about this fire which is consuming her as if she were warming her-
self at a fireside while swaying evenly in a rocking-chair. I shall say, be it to
the point or otherwise, that these minor Andantes in Tchaikovsky’s operas
(often ensembles), usually occurring at moments when the dramatic situa-
tion is very tense, represent one of the greatest sins of his musical expression
not only because they are Andantes but still more because they are often in
triple metre and this calm rocking metre reduces the spectator’s participa-
tion if it is appealing to the listener, and on the contrary forms a hindrance
if the spectator continues to gain the upper hand over the listener. Num-
bers of this kind have a separate Italian origin: although there are many
intermediate stages, they stem from the quartet in [Bellini’s] I Puritani or
the quintet in [his] Sonnambula which, as we know, made a great impact
precisely as lyrico-dramatic moments. I explain the apparent contradiction
for myself not by the fact that Bellini’s music has a stronger character than
that of Tchaikovsky, but by the difference in ‘form’ (i.e. composition): all
this precedes the Italian master’s Andante finale so much as an adjunct, so
insignificantly, of such little interest, that it is scarcely listened to. Before the
big ensemble marking the culmination of the whole act, the public signifi-
cantly coughs only intermittently, the conversations in the boxes come to an
end, and artists and listeners alike feel that only now has the ‘psychological
moment’ arrived. Is that the attitude we are to adopt to our Russian master’s
operas where there are interesting details at every turn, where the most pre-
cious features (including those for showing character) have already preceded
the Andante finale? That is not in fact how we Russians listen to operas: we
follow the events on the stage as well as the singing, and the orchestra too,
from the first bar to the last. But in Italy, so it is said, the people in the boxes
play cards (or did so until very recently) during the performance and forsake
the card-table at once for a ‘favourite’ number. What in Bellini is not only
pardonable but gives an impression of being perfectly legitimate and reason-
able, in a Russian composer of our day, though it be altered in form, though
passed through the crucible of Meyerbeer and Schumann, Glinka and Dar-
gomı̈zhsky, is startling in its lack of inner truth. There is nothing more feeble
or absurd than the attempts to explain the significance of Tchaikovsky’s op-
eratic style in which St Petersburg newspaper critics entangled themselves
both over The Enchantress and earlier over other operas – Onegin, for
29
instance. The late Galler16 (in Talk) went so far as to bewail the composer’s
harmonic and contrapuntal talent, assuring him bitterly that ‘even at the
conservatoire he wrote his set exercises with the greatest of ease’. Would
Onegin have gained greatly, would The Enchantress have gained greatly,
if Mr Tchaikovsky’s exercises had been written equally well, but with the
greatest of effort or if, in spite of despairing pangs of diligence, they had been
as bad as the exercises of Galler himself? But despite the ridiculous form of
logic, the newspaper pseudocritics’ complaints contain a grain of truth, al-
beit a tiny one. Out of those Serovians, in the name of whom they reject The
Enchantress or rejected Tchaikovsky’s previous operas, there is not one who
could compete with him even in the matter of expression, to say nothing
of the absolute side of music. But, regarded as works of our day and age,
offered to a listener reared on Verdi, Gounod, Meyerbeer and Rubinstein,
and principally on Glinka, Dargomı̈zhsky and Serov, these operas as a whole
make an impression, as I have already said, of cooling ardour. The exception
is Onegin, because it has no pretensions to well-articulated drama but is wo-
ven from a series of scenes forming something like an unfinished novel (as
one might have expected from Pushkin’s original). The impression of ardour
cooling is made most strongly of all by The Enchantress, where the music
is no worse and the declamation is in fact better than in its predecessors,
but which with its melodramatic, externally arresting subject, passionate in
the French manner, confronted the dreamy elegist wrapped up in his own
reveries with a task inherently alien to his own spirit.
But this mutual estrangement between the temperament of the librettist
and the composer’s favourite realm is only relative. Even in The Enchantress,
such an abundant nature as Tchaikovsky can discover itself, catch fire, bur-
geon and compensate you a hundredfold for all his sins against musical
drama. Even out of The Enchantress, he has managed to weave enchanting
‘lyrical scenes’ strung together somehow. If looked at from this point of view,
then even Act III, where the excessive subtlety of the psychological analysis
is so disadvantageous for the composer (and by the way obliges him to write
a whole sequence of numbers in slow tempos), is full of charming details.
In matters of detail not only the ideal but also the characterful come easily
to Tchaikovsky: in what a masterly fashion can he shade in the feminine
irony in Kuma’s speeches; what a gloomy and original figure is Kud’ma, a
sorcerer in Act IV, the very same Kud’ma about whose late introduction
into the cast we levelled a complaint against the librettist. I shall say nothing
about Tchaikovsky’s more special sphere, the pathos of unsatisfied passion,
16 Konstantin Petrovich Galler (1845–88) was a critic of military background who had under-
taken some study at the new Conservatoire in St Petersburg.
30
Tchaikovsky
the sad but not despairing and rather submissive mood, in conveying which
Tchaikovsky has the same importance for the Russian public as Gounod
has for the French one (or should one say the Italian one?), except that his
resources are much more extensive. I shall cite as examples of this unpro-
found, reconciled but still sorrowful mood ‘Kogda tı̈ gnev v dushe moyey’
(‘When will you [still] the anger in my soul?’) in the duet of Yury and Kuma
[no. 17], and Kuma’s arioso already mentioned in another context ‘Gde zhe
tı̈, moy zhelannı̈y’ (‘Where are you, you that I long for?’), and finally the
duet of mother and son ‘Day nam bog v schast’i zhit’’ (‘May God allow us
to live happily’ [no. 9]), one of the most successful numbers in the entire
score.
But that’s enough of details. Behind that Enchantress which I have been
analyzing here in my captious manner – I shall not say with implacable
impartiality, for I cannot disguise myself in that mantle, but with a profound
attachment to a conservative aesthetic – thus, behind this Enchantress which
tantalizes and ensnares me with its magic but which I have not come to believe
in, there lies another Enchantress which I acknowledge in its entirety – the
Enchantress of Act I.
In the exposition, where the dramatic conflict has not yet become clear,
where his characteristic major-key-Russian, cheerful and bold tone which
forms the other side of his being could display itself with its full brilliance,
where the task presented no contradictions with the artist’s character and
gave magnificent scope for his imagination, we have found Tchaikovsky –
if not Tchaikovsky the symphonist, the composer of instrumental works
without programmes or poetic titles, then at any rate the one who endeared
himself to us forever with his Onegin. But the public is created in such a way
that in serious music it prefers what is touching and sad to what is joyful or
triumphant, so that for instance Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is more popular
than his Seventh or Eighth. Be that as it may, Act I of The Enchantress belongs
among the composer’s masterpieces and gladdens one’s heart not only by
the unflagging interest of its details but also by the consistency of its general
atmosphere, its ‘long breaths’, and by the ability to compose keeping the
whole in view without being deflected, not heightening the tone prematurely
or slackening it before the end. May I confess to a slight Schadenfreude? I
am enormously pleased that the finale of this miraculous first act opens with
a dectet. I do not seem to remember such a thing as a dectet in the operatic
repertory. The word is derived from decem, ten, just as duet, trio, quartet
and so on stem from the corresponding numerals. Duets, trios, quartets and
so on are most strictly prohibited by the Wagnerian (and therefore also by the
Serovian) catechism. In the same way they are proscribed too by the Mighty
Handful, seemingly so disdainful of Wagner while in reality so dependent on
31
him. And here in the opera of a composer whom some accuse of ‘Wagnerism’
while others give condescending encouragement to his incipient ‘Serovism’,
is a finale that is the very number in an act which even last century was
reckoned the most dramatic and the most free of conventional form, which
had to be steeped in the pure spirit of ‘dramatic truth’, which opens not with
the tedium of recitative, not with orchestral clamour but with an ensemble
with three voices’ worth more of ‘falsehood’ than the septet in Les Huguenots
of the impious Meyerbeer.
In celebration, I am prepared to offer a small concession. In the comic
details of the folk scene in this Act I, in the speeches of Lukash, Potap,
Kichiga and the others, one notices a compromise between Russian song
style and musical declamation, the avoidance of recitative is noticeable, and
if you definitely wish it, then the Russian operas of Serov contain something
similar. But, after all, even in your idol Richard Wagner there is much that
comes from Weber and much that is Donizettian. Ought we not to embark
on a prosecution of Tristan und Isolde for misappropriating motives from
Lucia? What in a well-intentioned dilettante such as Serov was coarse and
clumsy becomes refined and virtuosic in a genuine artist like Tchaikovsky –
that’s the first point; the second is that what in Serov, Dargomı̈zhsky and the
Mighty Handful is the sole or the predominant component, will enter our
‘future’ opera like a moment, like material that will drown in the general
element. I wish from the bottom of my heart that Act I of The Enchantress
vindicates itself as a promise of this opera of the future, as a specimen of its
aims and resources.
(g) N. D. Kashkin: The Queen of Spades. Opera in three

acts and seven scenes. Subject taken from the story by
Pushkin. Libretto by Modest Tchaikovsky, music by Pyotr
Tchaikovsky. Russian Review, December 1890, no. 12,
pp. 780–93. Kashkin/Tchaikovsky, pp. 129–47
At first sight Pushkin’s The Queen of Spades does not by any means offer
particularly suitable material for an opera libretto; it may perhaps be termed
a psychological study, the main figure in which, Herman, is incapable of
rousing any special feelings of sympathy. For Pushkin, the story was prob-
ably shot through by the passion for card-playing which reigned at that
time among the upper and middle classes; he knew and saw celebrated gam-
blers who won colossal sums as well as the victims of a ruinous passion for
cards. Pushkin himself gave way to this passion at times, though in a weak
form. In those days cards often led to grave situations which ended tragi-
cally. In our time card-playing has lost that significance [though some peo-
ple continue to waste time and energy on gambling of various disreputable
32
Tchaikovsky
kinds]. There was something heroic about the gambler of former times, in his
duel, sometimes really a matter of life or death, and this heroism, though in
reality false, was able, from a certain point of view, to clothe such a figure in
poetic garb. In Pushkin Herman has these features; his passion is a base one,
but his enthusiasm for it, although abnormal, is sincere, and one can sense
that it contains the unconquerable energy of nature. Herman’s very failure,
destroying all his plans and ruining him irrevocably, reconciles one to him
at the same time, for had he not made his fateful mistake and won his three
cards, he would have fallen to the level of a card-sharp who spies on others’
cards or shuffles them unfairly and wins for certain; his downfall preserves
for Herman’s character the mark of an energetic nature come to grief in an
impassioned struggle. That is not much, however, for the principal figure
in an opera, and Pushkin’s subject in untouched form cannot provide the
substance for a large-scale opera. [. . .] Significant deviations from Pushkin
have been made in Modest Tchaikovsky’s libretto The Queen of Spades,
but entirely in the opposite direction: here the tragic intensity of the char-
acters’ situations is taken to an extreme degree and the music, as we shall
see, heightens this tension further, lending it a certain palpability or real-
ity. Mr Tchaikovsky’s deviations from Pushkin are important not so much
quantitatively as qualitatively [. . .].
[The action of Act I of the opera is recounted.]
I shall dwell on this act for the moment in order to try to describe Mr
Tchaikovsky’s new work. In the first place, the libretto contains major di-
vergences from Pushkin, as a result of which the main characters Herman
and Liza are shown in a completely different light, and in addition the time
of the action is transferred from the era of Alexander I to that of Catherine.
I must confess that I do not fully understand why it was necessary to ef-
fect this transposition in the period of the action; if it was for the sake of
the costumes, then the reason is much too feeble: we have already seen that
costumes from the 1820s did no harm to the success of Eugene Onegin; if
it was necessary for the sake of the intermedia in Act II, then that would
have been much less of an anachronism in the time of Alexander than a
great deal of what we find in the text of the libretto in Catherine’s time. The
libretto of The Queen of Spades has the merit that on account, firstly, of
its origin in a story by Pushkin and, secondly, of the undoubted skill and
intelligence of the librettist, the characters in it are completely unlike the
stereotyped, impersonal figures of opera – on the contrary, they are all living
people with definite personalities and positions. This also applies to all the
secondary characters; as far as the main characters are concerned, then Liza
has without any doubt read Karamzin and even Zhukovsky, and Herman
has perhaps heard something of Byron. An era never fails to put its mark on
33
living characters, and they will remain closely linked with it, in spite of any
costumes. The spectator cannot be deceived for a moment in this respect, and
no stage props or assurances from the author can make him believe that the
time designated for the action is right. What is more, it is sufficient to change
a mere few lines of text to put everything in order and into its proper place.
While retaining all the paramount features of his prototype, Herman adds
one new and important one to them: he is madly, passionately, in love with
Liza, and making her his own is the chief aim and objective of his aspirations;
his attraction to gambling seems to stem from this predominant passion but,
thanks to the ardour and single-mindedness of Herman’s nature, the attrac-
tion turns into an obsession which drives him mad. He regards a win at cards
not as an end in itself but as a means of becoming wealthy and running away
with Liza from other people, as he says at one point in the opera. If this love
brings Herman nearer to the usual type of operatic tenor, to a certain extent
erasing the distinctive outlines of the character in Pushkin’s story, then at
the same time it gives him a more sympathetic human character, and the
happy inspiration of the composer who has delineated this love with un-
common power supplements the truthfulness of the figure of Herman and
rewards him with a surplus for the loss of some of his originality. As far as
Liza is concerned, she is put in an entirely different position from the one
in Pushkin. In the opera she is not a poor lady’s companion but the grand-
daughter and heiress of the rich and exalted Countess***, and at the same
time Liza is the fiancée of Prince Yeletsky, one of the most brilliant represen-
tatives of the St Petersburg aristocracy. Liza in the opera has thus extremely
little in common with Liza in the story. Liza’s character suffers from a cer-
tain vagueness, but this very vagueness of itself gives greater scope to the
composer who has clothed her image in flesh and blood, giving Liza through
music that independent life of her own which she lacks to some extent in
the libretto. The remaining characters in the opera, apart from the Countess
who stays just the same as in Pushkin, do not play an especially prominent
part and there is therefore no need to dwell on them particularly. We shall
move on to a survey of the general course of the action in Act I and of how
it is illustrated musically.
The music of the first scene of The Queen of Spades forms a single entity
which falls into separate episodes closely linked to one another. After a short
introduction the curtain rises and the opera opens with a very lively scene
with choruses of children playing catch, playing at soldiers, of nannies, etc.
The miniature children’s march included here is very fine and is brought to a
striking conclusion with a basso ostinato figure. This number moves imme-
diately to Herman’s scene and arioso. The arioso, with its elegiac melody, is
34
Tchaikovsky
very beautiful. This scene again moves on to a chorus of promenaders whose

bright cheerfulness is excellently set off by the previous mood; the following
scene contains a brief duet between Herman and Prince Yeletsky who are
animated by opposing moods. The Countess and Liza enter. A mood of ag-
onized alarm overcomes all the principal characters at this encounter like
a premonition of impending misfortunes. This gives rise to a short quintet,
which is constructed perfectly. After the Countess, Liza and the Prince have
left, Tomsky recounts in a ballad the adventure the Countess had in Paris
where she learned the secret of the three cards. The ballad is composed in
the form of free variations for orchestra, and within it there appear for the
first time the motives which are later encountered frequently in the opera:
one of them describes the Countess, and another is associated with the three
cards. The first of these motives is a highly original harmonic sequence of
enigmatic character. The whole ballad is composed superbly and constitutes
one of the most effective numbers in the opera. The concluding scene is de-
voted musically to the depiction of the storm, the background against which
Herman utters his impassioned phrases. All the music of this scene is written
in a very concise and lively fashion.
The second scene opens with a duet-romance sung by Liza and her friend
Polina. This number and Polina’s song which follows are imitations of the
romances current in the first quarter of the present century. These numbers
have the same significance and character as the Larin sisters’ duet which
opens Eugene Onegin. In spite of its imitative style, the music of these num-
bers is delightful, and they will probably both enjoy as much success with
the public as they do with Liza’s young lady-friends in The Queen of Spades;
[. . .]. To dispel the gloomy mood left by Polina’s song, the young ladies sing
a cheerful Russian song and dance. After the comic-serious arioso of the
governess reproving the young ladies for their levity, they leave. The con-
cluding scene of Act I is one of the most precious jewels in The Queen of
Spades. Liza’s state of unaccountable alarm expresses itself in an extremely
beautiful arioso in C minor which portrays that state of mind uncommonly
well and reaches a climax in her rapturous and fervent appeal to the night;
this moment is outstandingly good [. . .]. Herman’s entry is thereby prepared
in masterly fashion. This preparation wholly replaces the missing story of
the development of Liza’s passion for him, and the mutual situation of these
characters becomes perfectly clear without the slightest straining of inter-
pretation. Also perfectly understandable is why Liza was more startled than
frightened by Herman’s appearance – she more or less had a presentiment
of it, his appearance had become almost a logical necessity. After a brief
recitative a duet begins. The captivatingly passionate first theme constructed
35
on a short rhythmical phrase opens with a three-beat rhythm, which lends

the theme a particularly restless and passionate quality of movement; after
the first six bars a broad lyrical counter-theme appears, to which the first
motive becomes a counterpoint. This entire first part of the duet is permeated
by an unusual degree of passion which, so to speak, dies away agonizingly
at the words ‘then let it be death and with it peace’ (‘potom pust’ smert’
i s ney pokoy!’). Liza is by now almost vanquished and can only utter in
a weakening voice ‘leave me’ (‘Uydite!’). Key, time signature and rhythm
change. Herman movingly implores Liza to take pity on him, takes her hand
and kisses it. The Countess enters, and her appearance is characterized by a
motive from Tomsky’s ballad. On the Countess’ departure Herman distract-
edly repeats the entire section of the ballad relating to the secret of the three
cards but drives that recollection out of his mind and turns again to Liza;
the first theme of the duet appears once more, only instead of F major it is at
first in E major, and then again in F major. Then begins a modulating stretta
based on the first motive of the duet which ends in E major. This duet can
stand alongside the very strongest works of this kind; it is absolutely bound
to captivate the listener by its passionate quality [. . .]. The first section of the
drama comes to an end with the duet. The fates of the dramatis personae
are irrevocably determined, and all the rest is the logical, inevitable outcome
of what has so far occurred. Liza, having given herself wholeheartedly to
Herman, becomes his obedient slave, and the pressing idea which will drive
him mad and bring about the ruin of him, Liza and the Countess, has im-
printed itself on his soul. This act, which represents the crux of the drama,
forms a finished whole, and for that reason I have divided it from the re-
mainder. Here we meet all Mr Tchaikovsky’s finest qualities as an artist, his
wealth of melody, his immense mastery of technique and, finally, that healthy
realism which constitutes one of the most typical features of his talent and
bears far clearer and stronger witness to his kinship with Russian artists,
poets and novelists than any use of folksongs could do.
[The action of Acts II and III is recounted.]
The main function of an opera libretto is to furnish the composer with an
advantageous canvas of situations and scenes without those trivial details
which place heavy fetters on a composer. Beautiful verse and the presence
of strict metre are in general secondary matters. Poetic metre is not needed
and can be sensed in an opera only when there is symmetrical repetition of
musical phrases corresponding to the metre of the verse; in all other cases
there is no need for it because for the most part the breaking-down of the
phrases in rhythm and music demands a division of the text by logic rather
than rhythm. Modest Tchaikovsky has exploited this very successfully – an
36
Tchaikovsky
example is the superlative scene in the Countess’ bedroom, where Pushkin’s

text is preserved almost inviolate; not even the very best verses could have
replaced this speech unconstrained by metre. In fact, in Modest Tchaikovsky
we have almost the first Russian librettist who fully understands his job and
possesses sufficient talent to do it. He deserves a large measure of the credit
for the successful creation of such a work as Mr Tchaikovsky’s new opera.
The scene of the Countess’ death marks the opera’s climax as far as mu-
sic is concerned. The very beginning of the orchestral introduction gives a
complete picture of the scene’s atmosphere. Something threatening and irre-
sistible is heard; it is as if a heavy cloud has gathered over all the characters’
heads, a cloud bringing inevitable death, as if a terrible fate has already taken
charge of their lives. The whole of the music for the fourth scene forms an
entity which does not lend itself to description; it is a combination of beauty,
truth and expressiveness such as one rarely finds even in the works of mas-
ters of the very front rank. Even the secondary sections, such as the chorus
of hangers-on or the Countess’ little song borrowed from Grétry, are essen-
tial to the general colouring, and Herman’s impassioned entreaties, where
beauty contends with profundity, sincerity and truthfulness, are of striking
power.
The next scene, the fifth one, is also uncommonly powerful. In the music
of the entr’acte, that is the orchestral introduction, one can already hear
the sounds of a funeral chant interrupted in an unusually poetic manner by
a trumpet fanfare sounding the retreat. It is like a confrontation between
sepulchral gloom and a peaceful, clear reflection of life; its impact grips the
heart. It is heightened as the curtain rises when the chant from the funeral ser-
vice (a distant off-stage choir) becomes audible to Herman; Herman grows
faint under the heavy burden of reminiscences. The wind starts to howl, one
detects in the music the approach of something terrible, from beyond the
grave, the Countess’ motive is heard, and finally the ghost appears; over a
deathly stationary note accompanied by alternating mysterious harmonies,
the ghost utters its secret; Herman loses his senses from terror and involun-
tarily repeats the ghost’s words. The impression made by this scene was such
that not every listener could endure it while retaining his composure, a thrill
of horror seized many of them if not all.
After two such scenes the remaining two are not so powerfully disturbing.
The sixth scene, the one on the Winter Canal, is musically weaker than the
others. The final scene, set in the gaming-house, is very concise. The carefree
mood which reigns at the beginning changes at once on Herman’s arrival,
and one senses a dreadful dénouement approaching; Herman’s superb song
is like a final cry of desperation, and the heavy atmosphere is dissolved by
37
his suicide, like a terrifying thunder-clap, after which comes the tranquillity
of all-forgiving, all-reconciling death.
It is still too early to deliver a general judgement on the music of The
Queen of Spades. One should allow the initial impression to subside, and
then one could analyze the work more accurately; one thing is certain – that
we are dealing here with a work of art which will come to occupy one of
the first places in the repertory of Russian music. Later, too, one will be able
to speak about details which will emerge more distinctly; for the moment,
everything is swallowed up in the general, uncommonly powerful impact.
[Performance and production were of the highest quality.]
For the time being Mr Tchaikovsky’s opera overshadows all other events
in musical life [. . .].
(h) G. A. Laroche: The First Symphony Concert of the

Musical Society on 16 October. Musical Chronicle in
Theatre Gazette, 22 October 1893, no. 18. Laroche 2,
pp. 159–61
The major item in the first concert of the Russian Musical Society, given [. . .]
to a full hall with Mr Tchaikovsky conducting, was the conductor’s new sym-
phony (no. 6, B minor, manuscript). [. . .] I approached the new symphony
with a sympathy formed in advance purely from the fact that it is simply no. 6,
and not The Giaour, not Cymbeline, and not Purgatory. Has this sympa-
thy remained with me after hearing the piece three times (at two rehearsals
and the concert)? It has in part increased, and in part decreased. In the new
work one must first of all draw a distinction between the material and the
form. The ‘material’, that is the melody and its contrapuntal development,
is magnificent everywhere. As regards melody, in the last few years a special
richness has opened up in Tchaikovsky, an inexhaustible abundance and a
passionate charm in his themes, and the new symphony is in this respect a
worthy adjunct to the entire period. From all points of view the contrapuntal
working glows with compressed energy and constant beauty; just as with the
fates of the characters in a skilfully constructed novel, so in the contrapuntal
sections of the B minor Symphony the fate of the themes constantly ‘intrigues’
you, and interest never flags. The form is somewhat enigmatic. The ‘second
subject’, i.e. the second theme of the first Allegro, takes the form of a short
independent Andante enclosed within but detached from the continuation
with uncommon firmness, with the aid of an often repeated cadence; after it,
comes a sort of dramatic seething, resembling those rhythmic and orchestral
devices used in operas to depict popular agitation, a crowd rushing in, etc.
Then begins what is known as the ‘development’, that is the contrapuntally
developed central section of the Allegro. The secondary section itself is more
38
Tchaikovsky
in the operatic than the symphonic style. I consider it my duty to add that
in my own observation in the Allegro third movement mutually alien ele-
ments converge and blend comparatively better perhaps [than in the opening
movement] simply because we have had time to hear both the first and sec-
ond themes. There remains nevertheless the idea of something alluring and of
rare beauty, but going beyond the framework of a symphony. In precisely the
same way, the concluding (fourth) movement of the symphony, an Adagio
instead of the customary Allegro or Presto, opens with a smooth melody in
the major and ends in the minor with a muffled morendo in the orchestra’s
lowest register, and seems to be accompanying something taking place on
the stage – the slow snuffing-out of the hero’s life, for example; likewise, here
too, for all the melody’s uncommon beauty, one detects a character which
is not symphonic but operatic. The same thing cannot be said of the two
central movements of the symphony, which in my opinion (in spite of all
the fine things in the first and last movements) constitute the pearls of the
score. In them music lives on her own resources alone and makes an en-
tirely aesthetic impression, not confusing and troubling the listener with the
notion of a [different] sphere combined with music or bordering on it. The
second movement is a species of Intermezzo in 54 , keeping to a middle way
between a fast and a slow tempo, based on a graceful, charming theme
(constructed on a rising major scale) and once again captivating us by
the inexhaustible pliancy and variety of its contrapuntal accompaniment.
The third movement belongs to that type of fast scherzo so popular in our
day and age where the main theme rushes along and is glimpsed only fleet-
ingly pianissimo and spiccato in the string section; the first example, if I am
not mistaken, was furnished by Beethoven in his Eroica Symphony. But here
we are dealing with a wholly new species or, to put it better, with a wholly new
and distinctive species indivisible from this widespread genus. The fast, light
theme of the Scherzo is combined with the theme of a carefree and dandified
march, whose 44 time makes up four bars of the first theme; in the subse-
quent development, which is lively, animated and bold, the march becomes
increasingly solid and powerful, attains increasing predominance and in the
end, after decisively overwhelming the flimsy opening theme, rings forth in a
magnificent fortissimo. The purely elemental process of gradual thickening
(like all the processes of mobile elements in the highest degree akin to music)
is presented here in a matching musical picture which is not only technically
brilliant but also full of genuine poetry. I cannot call to mind a single one of
Tchaikovsky’s compositions from among those I like best, which to a greater
extent combines originality of concept with artistry of execution, the dexter-
ity of the craftsman with the inspiration of the creator, and I suppose that the
time is not far off when the audience too, which reacted with respect but
39
restraint to the new score in general, the Scherzo included, will understand
the beauty of it and place it alongside the composer’s most precious
pages . . .
[The audience is praised – for being silent during the performance.]
(i) E. K. Rozenov: Concert in aid of the Fund for Artists’
Widows and Orphans. News of the Day, 14 February 1896,
no. 4536. Rozenov, pp. 182–4
Emily Karlovich Rozenov (1861–1935), a musicologist, pianist and com-
poser, studied with Safonov, Laroche and Arensky and taught piano at
the Moscow Conservatoire between 1906 and 1916.
The concert in aid of the Fund for Artists’ Widows and Orphans which took
place on 11 February with Vasily Safonov conducting was attended by un-
common success. The programme was of great interest, and the performance
of all the pieces without exception was astonishingly good; seldom has one
left the hall of the Assembly [of the Nobility] with such a complete and vivid
impression as after that concert. [. . .] Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony made a
gripping, deeply tragic impression, startling in its crystal-clear, graphic qual-
ity and the true-to-life development of the idea embedded in it. There could
scarcely have been among those present an ignoramus or a musical sceptic
from among the devotees of Hanslick’s theories who did not understand that
music of that kind is written not for the sake of elegant forms and combina-
tions alone but for a definite idea fully acknowledged by its composer. Music
acts upon us by hints, by analogies drawn from her resources, of the phe-
nomena of life. Such an inspired selection of hints and analogies as is found
in the Sixth Symphony speaks to us with sufficient clarity. The mastery which
Tchaikovsky possessed in the final period of his work is staggering. He had
every resource at his service in perfect freedom, without the slightest tension,
as if no difficulty existed for him in making his choice. Thanks to this ease,
the technical side of composition, in itself astoundingly beautiful, rich and
varied, remains in the background when the impression is being perceived.
One even has no wish to divide up the whole in the normal aural fashion,
analyzing the make-up of the orchestral sonorities and musical forms, so
tightly are form and content united here in a single whole. Let us take just
the inspired development section of the first movement; it contains fugato
as well as orchestral imitation and progressions constructed on the main
theme; everything there is the purest thematic work, there is not a single
fortuitous note – everything follows from the data set forth in the exposi-
tion (the opening section in which a composition’s themes are expounded
in lucid succession). With a less experienced composer all these devices in-
hibit creativity and restrict the imagination. Here, the contrary is true: the
40
Tchaikovsky
development is one of the most irresistibly logical and stupendous moments

in the musical drama which unfolds in this movement, and all the forms
of technique mentioned above are obedient means of expressiveness in the
hands of the inspired composer. This very combination of perfection of form
with profundity and consistency of content is indeed the true task of musical
creativity; it is only when that condition is met that music attains the level
of true art rather than mere entertainment for the senses. Paltry is the work
lacking content which strives only for grace and symmetry in its sounding
forms. Based on physiological sensations of order, similarity, contrast and
harmonic combinations agreeable to the ear, its effect is a purely external one
which calls forth no vital ideas, even in arbitrary fantastic combinations, and
is therefore alien to our spiritual process of perception and leaves no trace in
our consciousness. On the other hand, a programmatic or conceptual work
is inartistic and ephemeral whose form is arbitrary, its images unexpected
and unmotivated, where everything is accidental, and therefore in the event
that it is without verbal explanations, it allows wholly arbitrary interpre-
tations. Such compositions arouse merely curiosity, and that a chance one,
or an ephemeral one. If those of us who defend this point of view began to
analyze attentively some musical work or other, then we would be able at
any rate to determine their aesthetic significance more accurately than can be
done under the influence of a simple impression. Unfortunately, the dimen-
sions of a newspaper article do not allow us to go into those details which
the assessment of compositions in terms of concepts and forms demands,
which in essence is the only thing which could provide any real possibility
of reliably understanding and writing a critique of compositions and perfor-
mances of them. Meanwhile, a work such as Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony
fully deserves the publication of individual critical studies of a scholarly or
aesthetic character, since it represents a splendid specimen of conceptual mu-
sical work – a specimen worthy of examination and capable of exerting no
little influence on the direction of a future Russian school of musical compo-
sition. We must hope that with the present-day blossoming of Russian music
a genuine critical assessment of it, which we lack at present, will not be long
in appearing. [The other items in the concert are mentioned briefly.]
41
CHAPTER TWO
Rimsky-Korsakov
The years from 1881 until his death in 1908 saw the creation of thir-
teen out of Rimsky-Korsakov’s fifteen operas and the majority of his
orchestral works. After Tchaikovsky’s death in 1893, Rimsky-Korsakov
took on the mantle of Russia’s leading composer. Further works by this
composer are considered in Chapter 3.
(a) G. A. Laroche: A new opera from the Young Russian

School. Snegurochka (‘The Snowmaiden’) by A. Ostrovsky
and N. Rimsky-Korsakov, staged by the Private Opera
Theatre. Russian Herald, October 1885, vol. 179, pp. 872–
90. Laroche 3, pp. 279–94
This springtime folk-tale (vesennyaya skazka) was composed in 1880–81
and first staged in St Petersburg on 29 January 1882. Laroche uses the
term ‘Young Russian School’ to refer to the composers in the Balakirev
circle, though by this date the circle was more a matter of history than
a present reality.
Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov is widely and deservedly respected as composer,

professor and public figure. As his compositions and the tenor of the pro-
grammes performed at the Free School of Music when he was conductor there
seem to prove, Rimsky-Korsakov’s sympathies lie with the ‘Young Russian
School’, in other words, with the extreme left. Yet when still a young man he
received and accepted an invitation to the St Petersburg Conservatoire, an in-
stitution which was in fact multi-faceted and eclectic, but which was regarded
as a hotbed of aesthetic conservatism. At the time, such a choice might have
seemed unexpected and paradoxical, but if an action can be vindicated by
subsequent events, then Korsakov’s invitation to the Chair of Instrumenta-
tion and Practical Composition was completely justified. In this environment,
new and apparently foreign to him, the young professor displayed qualities
that no one had any right to expect, qualities without which it was perfectly
possible to be an interesting, talented and appealing composer. The academic
42
Rimsky-Korsakov
side of the theory of music, and teaching in the most varied fields and appli-
cations were attractive to an artist (at that time many still spoke of him as
an amateur), all of whose previous work, though of short duration, led us to
expect from him wilful rhapsodies, outpourings and casual caprices, rather
than the prosaic, strictly measured work of a scholar or teacher. At the same
time this work was not confined to the Conservatoire. Rimsky-Korsakov was
entrusted with the task of forming and training a large military band (from
the Department of the Navy), and this gave him the opportunity to make
a serious study of military instruments and military music. A few years ago
he was appointed to teach music theory at the Court Kapella’s school. As at
the Conservatoire, he acquired authority and, what was still more valuable,
won it without having to compromise any of his ideas. There was a period
in his life when it seemed to many that he had betrayed his idols, cast aside
his radical chains and sham-Russian exclusiveness, and made up his mind
to set off along the broad European highway. That is what was said of him
in 1875 and 1876 when he gave excerpts from Bach and Handel at the Free
School of Music, when his own compositions displayed a temporary long-
ing to play tricks with the intricacies of counterpoint, and, in short, when
elements by no means typical of an ordinary representative of the ‘Young
Russian School’ started to appear. As I write these lines, I recall, not without
bitterness, the gullible way in which a certain section of the press welcomed
Rimsky-Korsakov’s imaginary conversion to the conservative camp, consid-
ering it permanent. At that time it was necessary to be or, at least, to pass
for a pessimist in order not to have any illusions about this matter. Bach and
Handel, counterpoint and contrapuntal compositions proved to be no more
than a transitional stage for Rimsky-Korsakov. The personal development
of the gifted composer, scarcely confused by his temporary deviation into
an alien environment, has continued unabated in that world of ideas and
moods in which the founder of the school, Balakirev, lived and continues
to live. I am speaking here about ideas and moods, not about erudition and
technique, which in Korsakov are apparently far more broad, diversified,
and solidly based than in his teacher. In general, technique (for many, an
insignificant and secondary question) is, I am utterly convinced, not only
important for the overall education of every musician, but constitutes a sep-
arate realm, which can have its own high points and low points, its various
levels and summits, and in which a composer’s talent can live, have its being
and be blissfully happy, without needing anything from other spheres, and
without having to search for anything in them. It could never be said of
Rimsky-Korsakov that he needs nothing other than technique; he scarcely
resembles a recluse, immersed in canon and fugue, like Goethe’s silversmith
43
making a belt for Artemis.1 On the contrary, life in the widest and fullest
sense of the word beckons to him constantly: the life of lyrical moods in
a song or a symphonic poem, the life of dramatic peripeteias in opera, or,
as it is now customary to call it, music drama. Rimsky-Korsakov did not
specialize in technique, much less in technique exclusively. Yet, one way or
another, he displayed a very considerable gift for technique, something not
manifested by his peers in the ‘Young Russian School’.
But while being a very good and even interesting technician, Rimsky-
Korsakov is at the same time entirely devoted to the teachings of the ‘Young
Russian School’. He is no recluse, enthusiastically and patiently working on
some Mass for twelve voices, but it is even less acceptable to consider him a
‘journeyman’ in the negative sense of the word – a representative of dull, in-
different and worthless prose. No one doubts his intellect or talent, but here,
in addition, I want to touch on his warm attitude to musical questions. He
has a quite definite character; he is a lively person – so lively that he joined
the most enterprising, animated and, in recent times, the most militant of
our musical sects. We shall give credit here to that sense of proportion and
of what is right which have allowed him to be a member of one party while
still enjoying the respect of everyone. But at the same time we must allow
ourselves to point out that the school chosen by him, or which absorbed
him, offered almost no basis for the development of technique on broad,
objective grounds. By rejecting strict counterpoint in the teaching of music,
and rejecting, or reducing to their most insignificant and incidental meaning,
the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries in musical history, this
school was not ignoring technique, but understanding it in terms of a tour de
force or a humorous trick. Discord soon arose between Rimsky-Korsakov
as scholar of counterpoint and Rimsky-Korsakov as Russian musical rad-
ical, with the radical eventually coming out on top. Counterpoint has not
disappeared once and for all, yet nor has it become the composer’s main, all-
pervading element. Instead, it has taken up the same secondary role that it
occupies with Franz Liszt and other progressive composers in contemporary
Europe.
Should the conservative party (if we assume that he did at some point
belong to it) be distressed at the loss of such a precious ally, with his sensible
and educated mind, his steady and irreproachable character, his engaging
and, in the opinion of many, fascinating talent? The short-sighted, who in
1 The reference is to Goethe’s poem of 1812 ‘Gross ist die Diana der Epheser’, which in turn is
related to the Acts of the Apostles, chapter 19; the former mentions a goldsmith, whereas in
the latter it is a silversmith.
44
Rimsky-Korsakov
the old days proclaimed Korsakov’s move into the conservative camp and
have now elevated a mere name or badge far higher than anything else, will
probably answer: yes, it should; we very nearly believed that our numbers
had increased and the disillusionment which has overtaken us is bitter and
shameful. In writing these lines I shall not deny myself the satisfaction of
preserving perfect moral balance. When in 1876 the false news of the unex-
pected increase in our party’s numbers spread, I did not start sounding the
trumpet or beating the drum; now, nine years on, I am just as loath to give
myself up to despair when the production of a new opera in Moscow has
given us the opportunity of defining anew and more seriously the direction
which the creator of Pskovityanka (‘The Maid of Pskov’) is taking, and con-
vincing ourselves again how dangerous it is to be carried away by rose-tinted
hopes. The Snowmaiden, which has already been performed a few times in
the Private Opera Theatre, represents a huge step forward from The Maid
of Pskov which I saw in 1872.2 This new opera has melody which is bolder
and better formed, and it is more measured in its harmonic caprices and
piquancies, but this is a subtle distinction – a merely quantitative difference.
The music of The Snowmaiden is less exclusive, less one-sided, less morbid
than the music of The Maid of Pskov. For all that, as a matter of fact they
resemble each other a great deal. I am not grieved by this, firstly because
Rimsky-Korsakov’s conservative deviations were ephemeral, and secondly
and mainly, because fanaticism is alien to me. In the aesthetic sphere doc-
trines and views, schools and sects can scarcely be piled one on top of another,
can scarcely be arranged in a neat vertical formation. That state of affairs is
good for the repenting sinners of Dante’s Purgatorio, who drag themselves
up into a hill and at the same time free themselves from their heavy load of
sin. For art, this state of affairs is not suitable, for the moral criterion here
is either too great or else insufficient. The parties here are arranged horizon-
tally, like countries and seas on a map. It is possible in criticism to be a very
shallow Hanslickian and a very honourable follower of Bernhard Marx.3 In
composition it is possible to be a very splendid Wagnerian and a very dull
classicist. In performance it is possible to play the piano exquisitely in Field’s
manner and vilely in Rubinstein’s. If I am going to be completely truthful,
I must admit that I did not want, and still do not want Rimsky-Korsakov
to turn to the true path. It seems to me that he is ill-suited to being among
us conservatives. He has all the qualities essential for an excellent heretic,
2 For Laroche’s review from 1873, see RRM, vol. 1, pp. 217–24.
3 For Hanslick, see Chapter 1, n. 8; Adolf Bernhard Marx (1795–1866), author of Die Lehre
von der musikalischen Komposition, first published between 1837 and 1847, was one of the
nineteenth century’s most influential theorists and critics.
45
and very few for a true believer.4 I am not acquainted with Mayskaya noch’
(‘May Night’)5 in which, so they say, he provided another example of a devi-
ation towards our side. I wish from the bottom of my heart that our official
opera, prompted by noble competition, would stage May Night now that the
Private Opera has staged The Snowmaiden. Savouring in advance the enjoy-
ment which this unknown opera will bring (any work by Rimsky-Korsakov
is both agreeable and interesting), I maintain in advance that even this score
will not sway the opinion which I have already formed of the composer.
The years of one’s youth to a large extent decide irrevocably the path which
a developing talent will take. The creator of The Snowmaiden spent those
years under the direct influence of Balakirev, feeling the inspiration, like his
teacher, of music by Schumann and Glinka. Subsequently, when Balakirev
began to take a great interest in Liszt, Rimsky-Korsakov also shared this
enthusiasm entirely, as did the younger members of the group after him.
Through Liszt, full of Wagnerian influences, our composer entered into con-
tact with Wagner too, an element of whom can be heard as clearly now
in The Snowmaiden as formerly in the fantasia Sadko.6 Schumann, Glinka,
Balakirev, Liszt and Wagner – this is our composer’s real home ground, this is
where he feels warmth, light and freedom. Those of his compositions which
are most heartfelt and vital revolve in this sphere, and when he abandons it
the musical impetus begins to diminish and waste away.
It may be that I am mistaken. Rimsky-Korsakov is still a young man. There
have been artists, such as Gluck for example, who have expressed themselves
with their full force and profundity only when they reached their sixth or
seventh decade. No one can predict for how many years to come the line of
development will continue upwards, or when exactly it will reach its apex,
and at what angle and rate it will subsequently decline. If Rimsky-Korsakov
is fated to continue gaining strength and maturity for a long time into the
future, then unforeseen and unexpected sides to him might easily come to
light. For the time being, I can only say that the spectacle of a Wagnerian
or a Balakirevite at ease with himself working with a steady hand is more
agreeable than that of a follower of Bach and Haydn, groping his way along
for the sake of some academic experiment. It is from this point of view that I
enjoyed The Snowmaiden through and through. As I listened to it, I felt that
I was floating on a tide of Russian musical radicalism. That tide is still little
4 Author’s note: Do we need to repeat that both the descriptions ‘heretic’ and ‘true believer’
are used in a purely relative sense? An English bishop once said: ‘Orthodoxy is my doxy and
heterodoxy is every other man’s doxy’. It is precisely in this almost ironic sense that I can
speak about rights and wrongs in the free and unstable sphere of art, which is forever playing
with subtle inflections, mirages and will-o’-the-wisps.
5 Opera composed in 1878–9 and first staged on 9 January 1880.
6 Composed in 1867; the opera of the same title is considered in the next review.
46
Rimsky-Korsakov
known in Moscow; the majority of operas which form it are still waiting to
be staged here, and a single work, like someone from a wonderful far-off
land, rouses curiosity and inquisitiveness, and will have a refreshing and
invigorating effect in the midst of our stagnation and provincial sleepiness.
It will be another matter when here in Moscow, as formerly in St Petersburg,
the Mighty Handful’s operas appear in quick succession, and the number
of new works representing this trend reaches five or six. ‘In great quantity’
our musical radicalism will perhaps, like the rod, prove to be ‘an unbearable
thing’.
[All credit to the Private Opera for taking up this meritorious work which
the Theatre Directorate did not.]
I do not intend to analyze the new opera number by number; instead, I
shall confine myself to pointing out a few traits which particularly struck
me. In its choice of subject, the opera corresponds closely to Wagnerian
requirements. The subject is mythological: the myth which is at its root
has meaning as a symbol, and may be understood as the embodiment of
a philosophical view. It is hardly worth mentioning that Rimsky-Korsakov
took on a ready-made dramatic work, whereas Wagner wrote his libretti
himself. The most confirmed Wagnerian will probably not insist on imitation
to the letter. Turning then to the method of composition, I find that the
resemblance between the German and the Russian composers is continued
here too. Both are concerned with the idea that ‘music be the means and
drama the end’. As a result, both avoid closed musical numbers as well as
periods and sections with perfect cadences; for both, the interrupted cadence
becomes not the exception but the rule; both have a very severe attitude
towards musical declamation; for both, orchestral accompaniment is not an
accompaniment in the usual sense of the word but a symphonic development
of a consistent motive or figure. Moving from the general to the particular, I
cannot fail to note that here too, in Rimsky-Korsakov’s melody, harmony and
orchestration, you can often hear echoes of Wagner, and, in the orchestration
even early Wagner – to be precise, in the misuse of orchestral tremolo in the
style of Der fliegende Holländer, a method later abandoned by the German
master. Despite this, of course, one can sense a huge difference. The diatonic
character of the melody, for example, is much more Russian than Wagnerian.
Incidentally, I would say that in The Snowmaiden very often the melodic
turns of phrase are full of nobility, simplicity and a Russian quality. We see
a musician who really loves Ruslan and Lyudmila, and who is thoroughly
imbued with the spirit of our folksong. But what is imprinted with this
character is only the turn of phrase, only a bar or two, not the whole period
or even the whole phrase. The step-by-step form of the whole piece (in the
shape of the sequence) prevents the melody expanding and settling into a
47
course; this form skips along in symmetrical cascades. I shall not dwell on the
misuse of pedal, since this is the vice of a whole era, and Rimsky-Korsakov
is susceptible to it to a large extent, although no more than anyone else.
This vice offers great temptation: each bar with a pedal sounds matchless,
but the continual use of this device is a mannerism, and mannerism kills
art. I shall point to another sign of mannerism. Unless I am mistaken, this
one originates with Liszt. The so-called ‘harmonic motives’, for the most
part consisting of two bars transposed in sequences, are a favourite device
in The Snowmaiden, just as they were in The Maid of Pskov. Of exceptional
interest and disturbingly enticing to begin with, these sequences soon produce
a nervous irritation, almost annoyance, and then deaden feeling, and, finally,
have no effect at all. This does not happen merely because there are sequences
at every turn, but also because the harmonic motive for the most part is very
recherché. The augmented triad plays an important role here. There are
also successions of several augmented triads occurring in parallel just as in
The Maid of Pskov. Unnatural and unprecedented when we heard it for the
first time from Liszt (in the introductory bars of the Faust Symphony), this
harmony produced a staggering and deliberately loathsome effect, like the
sudden glimpse of a dead head grinning. It was possible to censure Liszt
because, as a result of a striving for a precise formula as regards expression
and of a heartbreaking cry as regards mood, in the style of Victor Hugo (Liszt
has much more in common with Hugo than with Goethe), he overstepped
the limits of musical beauty. On the other hand, it was possible to applaud his
audacity and reckon that with a brilliant stroke he had shattered the technical
framework and discovered a new way of dealing with the augmented triad,
one of the most unmanageable and thankless of chords. In any case, this was
Faust, this was a universal idea, a fateful question for the thinking mind and
the believing soul.
Liszt prepared himself for his symphonic poems – as if to perform a reli-
gious rite – with several years of seclusion and reflection after an exhilarating
and glorious youth. Along with his small invention he possessed an ardent
faith in an ideal, and if his path (of programme music) was false in its very
essence, then in his choice and application of musical and especially harmonic
means to illustrate his thoughts, feelings or attitudes, he displayed a most
subtle fastidiousness. The succession of augmented triads in the opening bars
of the Faust Symphony was intended to express something fantastic, and thus
a hyperbolical, unprecedented means was chosen. But as soon as this previ-
ously unheard harmony appeared in print, it became common property and
began to occur together with the commonplaces of present-day progress in
Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, in the works of minor Weimar Germans
and, after [the decisive defeat of the French army in September 1870 at]
48
Rimsky-Korsakov
Sedan, of similar French composers. Moreover, our young people who were
still laughing right up to this time (in the St Petersburg Bulletin of the 1860s)
at the ‘hysterical’ morbidness of Liszt, and being amazed at his insufficient
inventiveness, fell in love with the new harmony and, as if it were a gas-
tronomic seasoning, began sprinkling it everywhere, ending up using it to
depict practically everything short of lovers’ trysts.
It is well known that the ‘Young Russian School’ is interested in declama-
tion [i.e. word-setting]. Some of its members are very gifted in the realm of
recitative; they all try to keep the grammatical, logical and rhetorical accent,
and even, on a higher plane, the psychological accent. In conformity with
this principle, the school’s critical organs take an extraordinarily severe view
of declamation in the work of others, mercilessly noting blunders and in-
congruities. The declamation in The Snowmaiden produces a very agreeable
impression. After the undifferentiated melody of [Serov’s] The Power of Evil,
it was refreshing to hear real recitative clearly distinguished from cantilena.
The reader knows that I am a stranger to any pedantry in this delicate and
dangerous area. We conservatives acknowledge good declamation not only
in Meyerbeer and Halévy but even in Bellini. We have no hand in complaints
about a lack of dramatic truth in contemporary opera; for us, the ingenious
comment of the author of Oper und Drama does not have any point – at
times it seems that the complete opposite is true: that there could be rather
less dramatic truth. If dramatic truth is represented by Musorgsky’s Boris
Godunov, then that truth will be completely wasted. If dramatic truth is
represented by The Power of Evil, then, despite its relative skilfulness and
clarity, we would willingly consign it too to where the power of evil belongs –
the underworld kingdom. Impervious to the troubles and vexations of a sub-
ject which is only of secondary importance in music, and dissatisfied by the
modern impoverishment of melody and the collapse of form, which are the
consequences of these troubles, it is none the less with pleasure that we
greet and welcome any manifestation of genuine poetry in art. And although
there has been much less of such poetry among our innovators than with
Scarlatti and Handel, Bach and Mozart, Grétry and Cherubini, Auber and
Meyerbeer, we know its value, even in a particular one-sided and imma-
ture manifestation. Incidentally, declamation too belongs among the poetic
beauties of music, if a conscious and sensitive attitude to verse, thoughts and
ideas is visible in it. It is not at all necessary that this poetry be included
within the framework of recitative. On the contrary, the whole error of the
original Italian and French opera to which Wagnerians now want to return
us, and to which, with a slightly different emphasis, the Stone Guest school
also wants to take us back, consists in the fact that at that time they were not
able to write anything other than recitative. Russian folksong or medieval
49
Latin chant are not, of course, recitative: but what deep, powerful, heartfelt
and original declamation they contain! In The Snowmaiden I like the fact
that the composer, although a radical, has not been completely inflexible.
Rimsky-Korsakov does not have a narrow doctrinaire attitude; his nature is,
rather, gentle and aspires to be versatile. He makes a clear distinction in his
opera between recitative and cantilena. In cantilena, although influenced by
a method with which I do not sympathize in any way (the continual repeti-
tion of two-bar sections), he is obviously striving towards a broad singing
style, wanting to allow the voice to ring out naturally. At the end of a num-
ber he even has no objection to making a fermata on a high note, combining
vocal effect very nicely with maintaining correct prosody. From my point of
view, of course, I should have wished the form of the melody to be different;
but the very material of the melody, the individual figure, the individual bar,
the individual two-bar section, as I have already said, is beautiful and noble
material. Had it not been for the tendency [of the ‘Young Russian School’],
it would have been possible to make out of this material an opera meeting
the most stringent requirements of art, answering to the necessary degree the
demands of our day and age, and, most precious of all, imbued with a pure
Russian spirit. This Russian spirit is the aspect of the party formed under
Balakirev’s influence which is the most gratifying and offers the richest hopes.
Not endowed with brilliant, all-embracing natures like Glinka nor possess-
ing his cosmopolitan responsiveness (that sign of a truly national artist), our
radicals, extreme in all things, treat Russian song in a tendentious and one-
sided way; but their understanding of song is all the same much purer and
stricter than that of Serov and his followers, or of the Russian Wagnerians.
The cult of Ruslan and Lyudmila, so sincere and enthusiastic, saves and will
in the future save the ‘Young Russian School’ from falling into much of what
the Serovians and Wagnerians have sunk into and will continue sinking into.
Like all the members of the group to which he belongs, the composer of The
Snowmaiden willingly takes folk motives and uses them to build harmonic
structures. This method is a particular favourite of Russian composers; the
dazzling example provided by Glinka could not fail to captivate others – a
whole generation, or maybe even two. But this method was not devised by
us; Weber and Beethoven, to name but two, used folk motives when they
wanted to give their music an exotic character. In our Russian composers’
work too, foreign folk motives are quite often to be found, but their own
native Russian motives are used even more often, and it is in this respect
that Russian music, perhaps, represents an original phenomenon. Russian
folksong plays a much greater role in the work of our contemporary mas-
ters than it does for French, Italian or German composers. It is used with
love and enthusiasm. They build on it and use it episodically to embellish
50
Rimsky-Korsakov
symphonies, and operatic numbers, and quartets and songs. It seems to me

that they love Russian folksong above all for its distinctiveness. They are en-
amoured primarily by the fact that it contains something special, something
which stands out sharply, and there is a great deal of this character in it.
Sometimes people see in it only what is quaint and curious. The fact is that
our own folksong has, to a large extent, become exotic even to ourselves. It
would be a supremely one-sided view to assert that there is only one cause
at work here and that merely a subjective one – to say, for example, that the
reforms of Peter [the Great, ruled 1689–1725] distanced us too much from
the common people, and as a result we, the cultured class, are not at heart
Russian. To a relative degree, this too is possible, but there is an objective
reason which is much clearer and much more important. Our nation [narod]
itself, on account of climatic and social conditions, has been preserved in the
form of such a whole and scarcely touched mass, that sometimes traits of
the epic times are still visible in it. The quantity and quality, the rich content
and charming form, the manly strength and feminine grace of our melodies
must not evoke any historical delusions in us about ourselves, whatever the
intoxicating effect of all this beauty. It is perfectly true that there are no such
songs in the West, but this is only relevant to contemporary Western Europe.
What is now called Volkslied, air national or ballad represents nothing more,
in fact, than an artificial substitute for folksong, of recent origin and crudely
manufactured. But all that this means is that in the West, because of the com-
paratively short distances and the dense population, the printing of books,
means of communication and other factors wiped out the features of folk life
and art earlier than was the case in Russia. Folksong that was not inferior
to ours in depth, strength, transparency or beauty existed in France as well
as Germany, England and Italy. Now it is no more, borne away by the mer-
ciless flow of historical movement. The difference between what is sung by
the common man in Russia and his counterpart in the West is more histori-
cal than geographical and represents a product of the difference in cultural
phase, not a tribal peculiarity. The circumstances of our musical development
over the last thirty years willed that an awakening of interest in Russian folk
melodies should coincide with the founding of a school of composers who
inscribed on their banner ‘mannerisms and freakishness’. Russian folksong
acquired by an external route this character of mannerisms and freakishness,
which is peculiar to the piquant harmonies and multi-coloured instrumen-
tation of our musical radicals, but which, in essence, is not at all akin to
the epic simplicity and objectivity of folk art. Having discarded this element,
we find that the Young Russian School continually use folksongs, that the
songs they choose make excellent themes both for their melodic qualities
and suitability for development, and, finally, that these themes, being of folk
51
provenance, are familiar to a considerable part of the public, are recognized

by the public in a new work, and pleasantly surprise people in their new and
unaccustomed setting and colouring. The Young Russian School use ready-
made melodic material to a considerable extent, write using ‘other people’s
motives’ or, to speak in terms of counterpoint, use ‘given parts’. Many people
make a reproach out of this. Many say that the composer must be guided
by ‘inspiration’, that this ‘inspiration’ will whisper into his ear both melody
and accompaniment, both the original seed and the final organism, and that
a composition must fly forth from his head fully formed, like Pallas Athene
emerging from the head of Zeus. But is a composition an organism in the
fullest sense of the word? Is the composer fully the creator? Is he not too
proud and arrogant, from our perspective, in taking upon himself a spir-
itual function which is only partly proportionate to our human powers?
Compositio means placing together, confronting, building. The work of the
composer, as Hanslick said so beautifully, is the work of an artist who puts
things together and adds them up; the work develops in his imagination not
with a continuous current but in successive stages. Works of art, to some not
fully defined extent, are artificial works precisely because they are the work
of human hands; they strive to be organisms – that is their ideal, but because
of their lowly birth they are merely mechanisms. They consist of elements
which are detachable though joined together according to the demands of
reason and feeling; they may have parts which originate in different places,
and may be an amalgamation of features from different times which are even,
apparently, alien to each other. One could have a symphony based themat-
ically on a Gregorian chant combined (simultaneously or otherwise) with a
theme from an opera by Donizetti or Richard Wagner. This same symphony
could contain a third, fourth or tenth theme by the composer himself, and
they could all be brought into a more or less close relationship. But let us
look further. Let us assume that the basic idea of the composition, its con-
crete realization and its final touching-up must all without fail be the work
of one and the same person. What then is the basic idea? What is the original
motive? Is it always a snatch of melody? Is the material always formed from
C–D–E–F–G–A–B? The composer’s concept, intention, plan or, lastly, caprice
can also be called an idea or motive. ‘Ne tomi, rodimı̈y’ (‘Do not weary, my
dear’ [the trio from Act I of Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar]) is an idea; but
the intention of taking it, using it in fourfold augmentation, entrusting it in
that form to the viola, and then building an adagio or a scherzo for string
quintet on that viola melody is also an idea, and anyone can make use of
this new motive according to his abilities: a brilliant musician – brilliantly,
an ordinary, honest craftsman – ordinarily and honestly, and a fool foolishly.
An arrangement of a folksong for orchestra, chorus and solo instrument or
52
Rimsky-Korsakov
voice has ‘as an idea’ the folksong; but take four different arrangements of
the same song for the same performing medium, all with the folksong as the
idea: then, each one of the four at the same time presents its own idea, in the
sense of a different attitude to his task on the part of the artist, a different
method of working out the material, and finally a different internal mood
and spirit. If we compare them among themselves, we will find that the first
is too timid and indecisive in its idea, the second is fanciful and morbid, the
third is majestic and the fourth is trite. One may assume that there are still
a great number of such predicates, but I shall content myself with these as
examples. I wanted to make clear that one can be very rich in ideas of one’s
own yet at the same time compose exclusively with other people’s themes;
that the working-out of ‘other people’s ideas’ alone by no means implies
‘poverty of thought’; that the composer who spends a lifetime taking first
Italian, then French, and then Russian themes, may be very original, fresh
and new; that, lastly, genuine talent and genuine greatness are displayed in
the creation of a whole, in the ability to develop it from an original embryo,
and not in the ability to find a few notes or bars of melody in succession.
Regardless of his love for working out ready-made themes, Rimsky-
Korsakov has very little originality. This shortcoming, although to differ-
ent degrees, is a trademark of the whole school. The whole school is made
up of imitators of Glinka and Liszt, or Glinka, Schumann and Liszt, with
some external similarity to Berlioz and a strong hint of Wagner. Imitation
within precisely these limits is a peculiarity of the ‘Young Russian School’;
it forms Balakirevism, a purely Russian phenomenon which for many years
was confined just to St Petersburg. It is only in the last few years that Bal-
akirevism has started to move out to Moscow and the provinces. But with
different models and different aspirations – those of national character, or
a particular school or an individual talent,7 imitation exists everywhere, in
Germany, Italy and France. The absence of originality is a disease of our age.
In the West, too, one sees people paraphrasing in a more or less intelligent
7 Author’s note: It is necessary to make a distinction between imitation in general and individual
cases of ‘reminiscence’, as it is called by musicians – in other words, a coincidence or similarity
in some detail of melody, rhythm and so on with some well-known excerpt from the work of
a famous composer. Such instances occur more often, perhaps, in Rimsky-Korsakov’s work
than in the work of others; but they can occur in anyone’s work. Chasing ‘reminiscences’
with the aim of putting them on show, exposing and punishing the composer, is an easy
pursuit which has its supporters; sometimes it gives rise to highly ingenious, unexpected
convergences. It is of no importance for serious criticism. At a peak of artistic flowering
one comes across a multitude of motives and melodies amounting, so to speak, to common
property which are repeated in a uniform manner or with very insignificant changes by a
whole series of contemporaries. A few such motives (‘travelling melodies’ as Tappert called
them) even pass through several generations. The more fruitful a composer, the more often
he has ‘reminiscences’. Incidentally, the music of Handel and Mozart has them in abundance.
[Wilhelm Tappert was the author of Wandernde Melodien, first published in Leipzig in 1868.]
53
and refined way what was said before their time and, what is more, in a far
stronger way. In the West too, this is an age of epigones. [Laroche sets out
his idea of the present as a period of decline in music.]
(b) Ts. A. Cui: Sadko, opera/heroic ballad (opera-bı̈lina) by

Mr Rimsky-Korsakov. News and Stock Exchange Gazette,
6 March 1898, first edition, no. 64, p. 2
This work, composed in 1895–6, was first performed in Moscow on 26
December 1897.
The plot of Sadko could be recounted as follows. Once upon a time there
lived in Novgorod Sadko, a talented gusli-player8 and singer. He was of an
expansive nature, and life in his own land was too cramped. He gathered a
bodyguard, abandoned his young wife and set off on a journey. He wandered
the whole world for twelve years; in the course of his voyage he called in
to the bottom of the sea, attracted a sea princess with his songs, married
her, and then returned to dry land again, where despite his bigamy – which
evidently went unpunished if it was contracted not on dry land but in the
depths of the sea – he resumed living happily with his previous wife, enjoying
the esteem of his fellow-citizens.
It is obvious that such a plot would be quite unsatisfactory for a normal
opera, but Sadko is an opera/heroic ballad. It consists of seven scenes which
reveal the most important stages of the subject just outlined, scenes, each of
them amounting to a separate whole, for the most part either from the worlds
of reality or magic and, in any case, very tempting for musical illustration.
[Cui recounts the plot again, this time in greater detail.]
All these scenes are interesting and beautiful, compiled with skill from
elements of various heroic ballads and could not be better suited to Mr
Korsakov’s kind of talent, he being a great master of the art of depicting the
magical as well as the down-to-earth. One should note also that the libretto
is written in antique language, which imparts a special colouring to it.
Mr Korsakov’s originality as a composer comes out with special power
in Sadko. If you open Sadko at random at any page, a few bars are enough
to convince you that the music is by Mr Korsakov and Mr Korsakov alone.
One can find in Sadko, to be sure, quite a few phrases, harmonies and mod-
ulations reminiscent of Glinka, Dargomı̈zhsky and Wagner, but all of them
have passed through Mr Korsakov’s imagination and technique and have be-
come inalienably his property. They are the same words, but used to express
different thoughts and feelings.
8 The gusli is a psaltery.
54
Rimsky-Korsakov
Let me remind the reader briefly of the distinguishing features of Mr

Korsakov’s work, especially as they reveal themselves in Sadko.
His melodic inventiveness manifests itself in short phrases which are highly
suitable for harmonic and contrapuntal treatment. Not all of them are orig-
inal in themselves, but in the treatment indicated they acquire an entirely
distinctive aspect. As a harmonist he is inventive, and moreover always ob-
serves a sense of proportion in his innovations, governed by irreproachable
taste. He has an excellent command of polyphony, whether it be simply
counterpoint or combinations of independent melodies and themes. It goes
without saying that his orchestration is transparent, beautiful and varied:
in this matter he is quite without rivals at the present time. He does not
get carried away when required to portray powerfully dramatic, staggering
scenes, or profound passion or moral torments. He is a lyricist, and a master
in particular of depicting magical and everyday scenes, often animated on
the surface but at the same time bearing the stamp of epic inner tranquillity.
In depicting these scenes, his striving for architectural regularity and symme-
try is always visible, which shows through inter alia in his almost constant
paired musical phrases.
The operatic forms in Sadko are unquestionably of the present day and
rational. They are dependent on the structure of the libretto, whose epic char-
acter has allowed Mr Rimsky-Korsakov to satisfy his aspiration towards ar-
chitectural regularity and accommodate a great many rounded songs within
the general striving for an uninterrupted flow of music. And as these songs
are in couplet mould, then variation form, of which the composer has such
a virtuoso command, is prevalent in Sadko. Themes conferred on particular
characters also play a significant role in Sadko. But these are not Wagnerian
labels, they are not leitmotives. In the first place, with Mr Rimsky-Korsakov
every character has several of them (except for the Sea King, who is con-
tent with his five notes ascending and descending, but his role is a quite
secondary one); secondly, with Mr Rimsky-Korsakov these themes are not
merely repeated but in addition are developed and change character along
with a change in metre, tempo or rhythm. To this must also be added that
the music of Sadko is indisputably national [narodnaya], matching as much
as it possibly could those heroic ballads which sparked it off.
For his opera/heroic ballad Sadko, Mr Korsakov made use of all the music
of his symphonic picture Sadko. He dismembered it, scattered it everywhere,
especially in the sea kingdom, and gave its individual sections extended and
varied development. We hear it, too, right at the beginning of the opera, in
the tiny introduction depicting the ‘ocean – the blue sea’ in its calm state,
with the beautiful, calm rolling of the waves.
55
The first scene presents all the stages of merry-making at the banquet,
beginning in stately fashion and concluding with the skomorokhs’9 wild
revelry with singing and dancing. From the very first notes, original fanfares
and bold triplets rivet the listeners’ attention, which is maintained right
through thanks to the way ideas are developed, the accumulation of sound
and many attractive episodes. From among them, I shall mention the poetic
songs of Nezhata (a young gusli-player from Kiev) with their particularly fine
orchestral ritornelli: her basic phrase of five notes descending diatonically
sounds lyrical amongst the sparkling Rimskian variations; the chorus in 11 4
,
divided into 44 + 44 + 34 : this rhythm is both original and natural, thanks to the
pattern of the text; Sadko’s song with its charming accompaniment which in
places has its own independent significance; the very energetic phrase of the
senior priest ‘uzh ne v pervı̈y raz govorit Sadko’ (‘Sadko speaks by no means
for the first time’) with its sequential development; the skomorokhs’ wild
song, with its witty, humorous harmonizations reminiscent of Dargomı̈zhsky
and [Glinka’s] Kamarinskaya, while preserving its folk character in full.
This successful, broadly developed scene serves as an excellent opening to
the opera.
Sadko’s song, referred to above, is hampered by the recitatives, of which
there are very many in the opera (particularly for Sadko himself), and about
which a few words must be said. They represent something halfway between
the meaningless recitatives of, for example, Mozart’s Don Giovanni and
the melodic recitatives of, for example, Dargomı̈zhsky. They are measured,
though they may be sung with freedom; they are accompanied modestly,
which facilitates clear diction; they are not without musical content, but
Mr Korsakov shows little care for their novelty and meaning, and in this
case he is right, because these recitatives are epic ones, not dramatic ones,
demanding special expressiveness and inspiration; moreover, Mr Korsakov
resorts to them only where the text functions merely as a link between musical
episodes, but does not itself evoke musical images. Introducing such moments
of tranquillity in the middle of the listeners’ intense concentration is perhaps
even practical, if it is resorted to only where appropriate, when the situation
on the stage allows it.
In the second scene, after some strange enigmatic chords based on the notes
of the diminished seventh, and after Sadko’s song, which I would call the nor-
mal type of Russian folksong, the fantastic element comes into its own. For
its representation Mr Korsakov gives much space to the whole-tone scale
and especially to the augmented fifth. One may say that he extracts from
9 Skomorokhi were professional travelling minstrels whose characteristic instrument was the
gusli.
56
Rimsky-Korsakov
this chord everything that can possibly be extracted, and this chord, in its
indeterminate tonality with convenient, direct transitions to six other tonal-
ities, is unquestionably appropriate for depicting the supernatural. From her
very first appearance, the Sea Princess is outlined poetically in lovely, light,
ethereal phrases, constructed on a chord of the ninth and the chord of the
augmented fifth, and thereafter everything that she sings up to the end of the
opera is utterly beautiful. Sadko’s song ‘Zaigrayte moi gusel’ki’ (‘Play, my
little gusli’) is fresh and graceful. It is set forth, like all the other songs,
in variation form, consisting of variants of the accompaniment: chords,
arpeggios, tremolo above, and ever more complex counterpoints. Sadko’s
song changes undetectably into a duet of astounding beauty, in which at the
Princess’s phrase ‘molodets moy, staten’ (‘my brave young man, my hand-
some one’), Mr Korsakov rises to surpassing lyricism. One must also note
the Princess’s heartfelt phrase ‘na veki vechnı̈ye serdtse moyo’ (‘for ever and
ever my heart’). It plays an important role in the Princess’s vocal line, return-
ing frequently and every time making a fascinating impression. Also very
successful is the Princess’s narration of her origins, which is constructed out
of new and original harmonic shifts. The episode of the golden fish in the
middle of the narration is especially nice. The appearance of the King at the
end, with unintentional comic effect, showing through his severity, diversi-
fies this scene, whose charm is heightened further by the frequent entries of
the women’s chorus.
The third scene is significantly weaker. There is no reason to doubt either
the sincerity of [Sadko’s wife] Lyubava Buslayevna’s feelings or her Rus-
sian origins, but she gives expression to them with very commonplace and
whining melancholy. But even this scene contains features worthy of atten-
tion: Sadko’s powerful chords, his recollections which are nicely done, the
bell marked unobtrusively and successfully in the orchestra, and Lyubava’s
powerful phrase at the very end of the scene.
The fourth scene represents the last word in technical mastery and the
utmost complexity of texture. In it appear visiting merchants with cheerful
melodies, wandering minstrels with sombre phrases importunately repeated,
skomorokhi with humorous affectation and the sweet-voiced Nezhata. At
first their themes follow on one after the other, then combine and blend,
twice forming a foundation in the bass for varied harmonic combinations,
resulting in a whole which is complicated in the highest degree yet at the
same time clear and transparent, giving an imposing and truthful impression
of a motley, animated crowd. The periodic return of the same episodes lends
this scene an architectural form of solid construction. Sadko appears. He
makes his announcement about the golden fish, to an accompaniment of
magical chords floating upwards; to the same chords, but now descending,
57
his announcement is challenged. A harsh sixth ratifies the disputants’ wager.

The episode of catching the fish with its radiant chorus in praise of Sadko is
one of the most brilliant. There follows next Sadko’s appeal to his bodyguard
with its ingenious counterpoints, with the appeal turning them into a chorus,
an effect which heightens its sonority; Nezhata’s folk-tale, to which is added
the skomorokh Duda with a very amusing phrase, and finally the three songs
of the merchants from overseas. The Viking merchant’s song is powerful
in a heroic way; the orchestral opening, with the strings rolling up and
down on the chords of D minor and G major, is especially powerful and
severe. The Hindu (Indian) song is extremely rich in colour thanks to its
chromaticism and the ingenious alternation of major and minor; it is richly
imbued with oriental languor. The Italian song of the Venetian merchant is
utterly feeble. For some reason it comprises three sections. The first section
is more like a Russian song, the rhythm of the second resembles a Spanish
song, and only the third section bears a certain resemblance to an Italian
barcarolle. Further, all three sections are devoid of any musical interest.
These are the only unquestionably weak pages in the whole opera. Finally,
after the short but tiresome episode with Sadko’s wife, the scene comes to an
end magnificently with Sadko’s song of farewell, first as a solo without the
orchestra, then with chorus a cappella, and lastly with the complete arsenal
of Rimskian instrumentation.
The fifth scene is, like the third, weaker than the others; these are, and
not by accident, the briefest. It is not without an austere colouring, but its
music, for all that it is perfectly respectable and euphonious, contains nothing
outstanding.
The music of the sixth scene, on the other hand, is truly magical from
beginning to end. The material used in it is to a significant extent the themes
of Mr Korsakov’s earlier orchestral fantasy. After an orchestral introduction
and a short women’s chorus based on the Princess’s very first ethereal phrase,
Sadko enters. The five-note theme of the King is heard menacingly. But Sadko
begins to sing (the theme is from the orchestral fantasy), the Princess joins
in his singing and then even the King himself who has calmed down; fur-
thermore, the 64 rhythm is combined with that of 22 . All the subsequent
episodes – the King’s call, the procession of sea wonders, the King’s daugh-
ters (the rivers), his grandchildren (streams), the wedding song, dances –
all are full of character, typical, rich in inventive fantasy and beautiful. It
is curious that the King’s daughters (the rivers) are characterized by the
same harmonic shape, i.e. the augmented fifth, as Wotan’s daughters, the
Valkyries, only softly. The wedding song has a Russian folk quality and is
maybe too realistic for an underwater kingdom. The dance of the rivers
and streams is written in 58 , and moreover the uninterrupted quintuplets
58
Rimsky-Korsakov
are combined with triplets and duplets. The fisherman’s dance is a brilliant
scherzo based on one of the themes of the fantasy, like the final general dance
with chorus. Its fresh basic phrase, the broad development of this phrase,
its combination with other thematic phrases and contours in the orches-
tra, the gradual increase in the sound, brought up to a full climax – all of
this forms a single subtle whole of rare fervour and passion. The dances
break off to give an exceptional effect immediately the wise old man ap-
pears, and he leads Sadko out of the depth of the sea to the gentle, calm and
beautiful theme of Lyubava Buslayevna’s prayer from the end of the third
scene.
The introduction to the seventh scene represents the sea and love; amidst
the rocking of the waves the captivating phrases of the love duet reach across,
with the curtain lowered. And when the stage is revealed Sadko is already
asleep, with the Princess lulling him, bidding farewell and turning into the
river Volkhova. Her lullaby is written in a mild affectionate manner, with a
very original concluding ‘bayu, bay’ (‘lullaby, lulla’). It goes without saying
that the lines of the lullaby are accompanied by magical orchestral varia-
tions. The entire scene is most poetic. Lyubava enters with her importuning
lamentations and endless repetitions of the same melancholy phrase. Her
duet with Sadko, after twelve years of separation, is sufficiently cool: it is a
depiction of epic, meditative, rational love. Thereafter everything else, up to
the very end of the opera, is filled with interest and beautiful music. The ap-
pearance of the river Volkhova is constructed on the typical five notes which
serve as theme for both the King and his daughters, naturally with changes
in its character. Then the same phrase changes into the accompaniment of
the song with which Sadko’s bodyguard head off to sea in the fourth scene,
and are now returning. A crowd gathers, and the opera closes with a big
chorus which leads to the prayerful theme of the ‘wise old man’, treated in a
broad and grand manner, and to the concluding theme, which is wonderfully
bright, fresh and beautiful.
One must add to this that Sadko has everything: exploitation of themes,
combinations of them, harmonization, contrapuntal adornments – all are
notable for rare mastery and intellect, as one can satisfy oneself from some
of the details cited above. (In that respect Sadko deserves the most serious
study.) One should note that all of its finish is marked by elegance and a pure
precision which is tempered and intricate; and that the characterization of the
opera’s dramatis personae is of the most successful. The merry skomorokhi,
and the daring Sadko, and his wailing wife Lyubava, and the sweet Nezhata,
and the semi-comic King, and the Viking and the Hindu/Indian – all these are
portrayed in a manner which is true to their type. But I consider the portrait
of the Sea Princess to be particularly successfully delineated. The mixture of
59
poetry, grace and sincerity with a trace of sorrow render her image infinitely
attractive.
In conclusion, all one can do is congratulate both Mr Rimsky-Korsakov
and the Russian school on a new, major, masterly work and the Moscow
Private Opera for acquainting us with it. [. . .]
(c) Yu. D. Engel’: Kashchey the Immortal, N. A. Rimsky-

Korsakov’s new opera. Russian Bulletin, 23 December
1902, no. 354. Engel’, pp. 105–11
Yuly Engel’, later known as Joel Engel (1868–1927), was active as a critic
in Moscow. In addition, he was a lexicographer and composer and had a
scholarly and practical interest in Jewish music. He left Russia in 1922,
dying in Palestine.
This autumn parable (osennyaya skazochka) was composed in 1901–2
and first performed in Moscow on 12 December 1902. Its immediate
source was a text Ivan-korolevich (‘Ivan the King’s Son’) written by
Ye. M. Petrovsky, whom we shall meet at (d) as the reviewer of the
composer’s next-but-one opera.
Until recently, Tchaikovsky could be considered the most prolific Russian

composer of operas; but over the last few years pre-eminence in this line has
shifted to Rimsky-Korsakov, who presents the public with one new opera
each year, and sometimes even two. Such facility was a matter of course in
the days long past when writing an opera meant composing a number of
arias and choruses and then attaching a modest orchestral accompaniment
to them. But nowadays, when operatic forms and the entire apparatus of
operas as a whole have become incomparably more elaborate, such fecundity
is something amazing, especially if you take into account the carefulness with
which Rimsky-Korsakov’s scores are worked out. Kashchey the Immortal is
his twelfth opera. The subject of this ‘autumn parable’ (in three scenes) is
taken from the Russian folk epos, though it has been supplemented in many
significant features by the composer himself, who is also the librettist, making
use of Ye. M. Petrovsky’s ideas. Ivan the King’s Son roams the world in search
of the princess to whom he is betrothed, who has been taken prisoner by
Kashchey. But it is hard to overcome the old sorcerer: Kashchey’s death has
been bewitched into a tear of his daughter, the pitiless Kashcheyevna, who
lives at the other end of the world, ensnaring and destroying knights. Ivan
the King’s Son is the only one for whom Kashcheyevna has felt pity and love.
But he yields to her charms only for a moment and hates her all the more
afterwards. The rejected love of Kashchey’s daughter rouses the Princess’s
compassion; she gives Kashcheyevna a kiss and she, touched, for the first
time in her life weeps. These tears mean that Kashchey must die; he perishes,
60
Rimsky-Korsakov
and Kashcheyevna is transformed into a beautiful weeping willow. A reign

of sunlight and joy begins where Kashchey’s evil kingdom was before, and
the ‘autumn tale’ ends with a picture of a lovely, radiant spring.
As can be seen from this brief synopsis, there is no denying the originality
of the plot of Kashchey. It is developed concisely and coherently; the final
scene (the Princess’s kiss), which lends deeper meaning and significance to
an artless tale, even rises to genuine dramatic power. The language of the
libretto is also good. But of greatest interest in Kashchey is the music. It
is absolutely special, Kashchey music: new contours, new colours, new con-
structions, a real ‘new style’ which could have been called both impressionist
and decadent,10 did not the first word imply only part of what is so typical of
Kashchey, and if the second term were not linked etymologically to the idea
of degenerating into or leading to decline. There is nothing of ‘decline’, any
more than there is anything recherché or affected, in Kashchey. The lightness
and naturalness of the writing are staggering. Everything has the appearance
of being improvised. But look more closely into this ‘improvisation’ and you
will see how much intellect, knowledge and ‘pre-conceived purpose’ has been
invested in it. The entire edifice of Kashchey is built out of a handful of basic
musical elements (melodic and harmonic ideas), which contrast with one
another and at the same time are capable of all sorts of combinations and
confrontations. Describing these elements in words is difficult: it could be
done only with the aid of music examples. Each element more or less typifies
a basic feature of one or another of the characters, whose whole musical life
evolves precisely on account of the development of these elements. ‘Excuse
me’, I hear a reader objecting, ‘but these are Wagner’s leitmotives! What’s
new about that?’ Yes, of course, this is fundamentally the same Wagnerian
system, but with this opera it has entered a new and interesting phase of
development. And the peculiarities of this phase are as follows. Wagner’s
leitmotives follow one another continuously, like waves on the surf, form-
ing, in a familiar phrase, ‘endless melody’. But this endlessly mobile, endlessly
flowing music very rarely crystallizes into the plastic fixedness of rounded
operatic forms – aria, duet and so on. By applying his own leitmotives with
strict consistency, Wagner achieves a connection in musical logic between the
diverse moments strewn here, there and everywhere in the opera, but that
makes it more difficult for him to preserve this connection between any two
adjacent moments, since each is constructed out of the leitmotive proper to
itself. It is true that Wagner’s genius made itself felt with particular brilliance
in his ability to weave the most varied rhythms, harmonies and melodies
together in a single musical fabric, but not even the most masterly weaving
10 In Russian usage, ‘decadent’ meant something very close to ‘Symbolist’.
61
can give an ideal integrity to musical form – whether rounded or otherwise

makes no difference – if this form lacks thematic unity. And it is precisely
the latter quality that distinguishes the majority of Wagner’s operatic scenes,
if you take each one individually in its own right. This shortcoming is espe-
cially noticeable with respect to scenes where the centre of gravity is not the
development of the action or characterization, but concentration on a certain
mood. How can you preserve the innumerable advantages of the Wagnerian
system of leitmotives and at the same time avoid the inadequacies I have
just indicated – the absence of rounded operatic forms and weakness in the-
matic unity within the limits of each separate scene and the mosaic-like style
which results from it? This is, of course, a difficult task, and composers have
often sought to solve it by compromises of all kinds – by restricting the ac-
tual number of leitmotives, or by alternating the use of them with rounded
forms based on completely independent musical material. In Kashchey the
composer takes the latter approach in part, but at the same time sets out
on a new path: he constructs rounded episodes and entire scenes out of
one or two leitmotives, expanding them by means of thematic development
into more substantial independent formations. In this way ‘not only are the
sheep safe but the wolves are replete as well’: the opera is unified thanks to
the system of leitmotives, but at the same time the integrity and complete-
ness of individual lyrical episodes are not sacrificed to this latest operatic
Moloch. The following may be pointed out in Kashchey as specimens of
such structure: the brief ariosos of Burya-Bogatı̈r’ (Kashchey’s servant) ‘Silı̈
ne zhal’’ (‘The valiant knight does not save his strength’), the same charac-
ter’s trio with Kashchey and the Princess in the first scene, Kashchey’s arioso
‘Prirodı̈ postignuta tayna’ (‘I have penetrated the mystery of nature’) [all
in scene 1], Kashcheyevna’s arioso ‘Tsvetı̈, tsvetı̈, daruyte charı̈ mne svoi’
(‘Flowers, flowers, give me your charms’) and Ivan the King’s Son’s arioso
‘O, slushay, noch’’ (‘Oh hear me, night’) [both in scene 2]. One long and
many times repeated melody is simply put into the mouth of the Princess.
Here we touch on another feature characteristic of Kashchey – the extensive
use of leitmotives in the vocal parts (and not just in the orchestra, as is almost
always the case with Wagner). Another distinguishing feature of Kashchey,
and one of the most striking, is the novelty and originality of the harmony.
It is this unusual harmony which sets the tone for the general impression,
and it is the harmony in particular which is first and foremost likely (on
first acquaintance with the opera) to provoke the exclamation ‘Decadence!’
In conjunction with this decadent harmony, decadent melodies built upon
it, with their strange and out-of-the-ordinary contours, rise naturally to the
surface from time to time. But on closer acquaintance with these fantastical
combinations, full of the most unexpected chromatic and enharmonic turns
62
Rimsky-Korsakov
of phrase – unexpected even after Wagner – you become convinced that, in

this apparently chaotic arbitrariness, the same iron logic rules here as in all
the rest of the architecture of Kashchey. The composer’s power of portrayal
in this direction is applied mainly to the musical depiction of the world
of magic (Kashchey, Burya-Bogatı̈r’ and especially Kashcheyevna); Ivan the
King’s Son himself and the Princess are given more ordinary combinations
closer to diatonicism. Despite that, Rimsky-Korsakov’s harmony merits the
name ‘extra-tonal’ far more rarely than Wagner’s; for all its capriciousness,
you sense in it an undoubted striving towards a single principal tonality. The
latter, by the way, distinguishes even the ariosos indicated above. Thus, we
can see in Kashchey, here from the harmonic angle, just as we did earlier from
the thematic one, the ambition to introduce greater unity in the matter of
modern operatic construction, without depriving it, however, of the broadest
freedom and individualization. About the orchestration of Kashchey there
is nothing to be said; in this respect each new opera by Rimsky-Korsakov
bestows upon the world many fresh and vivid pages. I therefore consider
the score of Kashchey to be one of the most remarkable written recently. To
a musician it is a complete revelation, a mine of information, a book from
which one can and must learn. But will Kashchey appeal also to the humble
mortal who wants from an opera immediate aesthetic enjoyment above all? I
think so, but to a much lesser degree. The point is that the original technique
of developing a leitmotive to the extent of broader rounded forms is not
carried out consistently, but only episodically in Kashchey, as if it were an
experiment, and not with perfect resolve. Hence these forms are in the end
too small, they are not in sufficient relief and not always perceptible to the
ordinary listener. The Princess’s delightful melody which is repeated many
times even completely escapes being developed to the extent of a wholly iso-
lated lyrical moment, although the character of the entire role is as conducive
as it could possibly be to singling out such a moment.
Kashchey has a further shortcoming, which though relative is nevertheless
noticeable: it contains less inspiration than craftsmanship. Its melodies seem
insipid in places, at any rate when compared with the dazzlingly brilliant
colours in the harmony and the orchestra. The part of Ivan the King’s Son
and to some degree those of the Princess and Kashchey (‘I have penetrated
the mystery of nature’) suffer especially in that respect. On the other hand, al-
most nothing which Kashcheyevna sings transgresses in that way. The latter’s
song ‘Mech moy zavetnı̈y’ (‘My cherished sword’) is splendid. The unusual
chords in the orchestra, at first sight completely alien, but in fact akin to each
other, the yelping of the strings and the clang of the percussion instruments
(during her song Kashcheyevna is sharpening her sword) bestow unusual
force and relief on this energetic melody. Both of Ivan the King’s Son’s duets
63
(with Kashcheyevna and the Princess respectively [in scenes 2 and 3]) are
also beautiful. The second is nothing less than a masterly thematic devel-
opment of the three-note melody of the familiar folk cradle-song (‘Idyot
koza rogataya’, ‘The goat with its horns goes by’); it is, though, less original
than the first one. We cannot fail to mention another wonderful episode in
Kashchey – the entr’acte between the first and second scenes. As is also the
case in the second entr’acte, the music does not break off and it depicts a
snowstorm blown up by Kashchey to punish the recalcitrant Princess. In the
piano reduction this episode is frankly astonishing; all of it (some 250 bars)
is maintained on one and the same chord,11 monotonously terrifying and
simultaneously changing its form every minute like a chameleon. The rhyth-
mic figure, anxiously twisting and constantly crossing from one voice to
another, gives movement to the whole scene, while the characterful, basic
little theme in the Russian spirit colours in the picture of the snowstorm
with a special native tint. Unfortunately, in the theatre this scene conveys
much less than the vocal score promises; for some reason it is scored too
feebly. [Engel’ writes about difficulties in performing the work.]
(d) Ye. M. Petrovsky: The Legend of the Invisible City

of Kitezh and the Maiden Fevroniya. Russian Musical
Gazette, 18 February 1907, no. 7, cols. 193–200; no. 8,
4 March 1907, cols. 240–6; no. 11, 18 March 1907, cols.
297–308
Rimsky-Korsakov’s penultimate opera was composed in 1903–4 and first
performed on 7 February 1907. The ‘legend’ (skazaniye) in the title is a
genre in Old Russian and folk literature recounting actual or mythical
events of the past.
I
In St Petersburg the evening of 7 February contrasted sharply with the af-
ternoon of the same date. Until 8 p.m., St Petersburg displayed its European
face, with people carrying voting papers up to tall sombre boxes, out of
which is bound to flow, as from a horn of plenty, every form of blessing
and happiness for Russia’s future history; at 8p.m. Art drew the city aside
from the black [ballot] boxes of hope for the future to ‘the year 6751 since
the creation of the world’, to the forests of Kerzhenets, Lake Svetloyar, and
still further and higher – to the celestial city, towards the outermost edge of
earthly Epicureanism. If I say that the characters and figures who appear in an
11 The diminished seventh is indeed the basis of this scene, though the composer departs from
it at times.
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Rimsky-Korsakov
atmosphere of hoary antiquity in N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov’s new work, with a

single exception (I mean the drunken scoundrel magnificently personified by
Mr Yershov), are wholly remote from the contemporary breed of his compat-
riots, then that is not an indication of the new opera’s irrelevance to the
present day. On the contrary, the opera is all too contemporary, for it amply
corresponds in conception (and this is where its novelty resides) to the tastes,
objects of curiosity, and entertainments which – as usual, not without West-
ern influence – are seeping through Russian society under the fine-sounding
and bold name, even if it does not always match the reality, of ‘mystical ten-
dencies’, a name which covers equally a serious worldview and a great spiri-
tual labour as well as light, coquettish fashions and a snobbish churchiness.
The novelty and contemporaneity of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera lie, how-
ever, in neither the poetic material of its subject nor the music in themselves,
but precisely in the fact that all this is shown to people of the city, to the
set known as the intelligentsia, and in the refined forms of a theatre pro-
duction. If we detach the opera from the interior of a theatre in the capital,
from the usual audience of city-dwellers having a good time or putting in
their evening, and look for a moment at the opera as a national (narodnoye)
possession, as an offering of Art to the nation, then the apparent novelty
will disappear in a flash, the concept of contemporaneity will be replaced by
a sense of timelessness and the offering will seem ‘Thine of thine own’. We
have now left ‘tendencies’, fashion, and snobbery behind. All these images
were created by the nation long since, are still alive within it and are being
re-created constantly; within them, within these images of a great increase
upon earth, lies the heart of the nation’s true life, the clear stream of its true
culture, the tender delight of what gives it repose and what it admires. Once
they are created, they do not die, and so long as they are being created, no
motley brutalization can ultimately threaten the nation that creates them.
That these images, emanating from the most noble recesses of the nation’s
soul, are not a fiction, or the idle amusement of a roving imagination, is
shown by the fact that, completely in accord with them, the same nation
has in reality created, and is still creating, in its flesh and bones, characters
and figures of such great lucidity, refined beauty and elevated style as the
whole long line of Tikhon Zadonskys, Serafims of Sarov, Parfenys of Kiev,
Amvrosys of Optina12 and many, many more. After all this, the impression
taken away from the opera will not seem too much of an exaggeration:
namely, that the Legend of the City of Kitezh seems the most national of
all Korsakov’s operas (in this sense only Sadko comes anywhere near being
12 Tikhon Zadonsky (1724–83), Serafim of Sarov (1759–1833), Parfeny of Kiev (1790–1855)

and Amvrosy of Optina (1812–91) were Russian monastics, famous for wise spiritual counsel.
65
a companion piece to it) and, perhaps, the most national work in the entire
repertory of Russian opera. Herein lies its principal character, its main dis-
tinction. It goes without saying that the words ‘most national’ are not equiv-
alent to ‘the best’ in the composer’s catalogue of operas.
In examining the opera, about which even a first impression prompts one
to say a great deal, we shall not go into all the details: the composer’s style
is sufficiently familiar, and his music’s artistic merits are sufficiently univer-
sally recognized for there to be any need to discuss all the beauties and all
the weaknesses in the new opera in detail. Let me say at an early stage that
among the texts of Russian operas, which in the majority are feeble, Mr
Bel’sky’s libretto represents something quite outstanding in many respects.
Its language is stylish, rich in imagery and full of character. The material is
planned in a clear and balanced fashion, and has evidently been polished with
great love and care. The Kitezh legend has been fused extremely smoothly
with the figure of the heroine, in whose personality and history it is easy to
recognize many features from the Life of St Yefrosinya, Princess of Murom.
As with Yefrosinya, Fevroniya is a simple peasant-woman, the daughter
of a beekeeper; like her she cures a prince, and like her she marries him,
notwithstanding the indignation of the nobility. She is the principal charac-
ter, and in the Russian operatic repertory she is a character who is completely
new, with the others merely surrounding her like the bystanders on icons.
And Fevroniya remains not a dramatic heroine but an image, an icon. Her
dove-like gentleness, tenderness and calm lucidity are not subjected to any
dramatic troubles, and no psychological reactions affect her. As she is at the
beginning, so she remains at the end, and in the middle too – her features
do not change. This psychological immobility, this single tone – wholly ex-
plicable here, does not represent an exception in Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas:
let us remember Volkhova, whose whole substance is exhausted by the sin-
gle phrase ‘Akh, polonili menya pesni tvoi’ (‘Oh, your songs have captivated
me’). From the standpoint of a theatre piece this, naturally, would be too ele-
mentary, especially for an opera in four or five acts, but this standpoint is not
appropriate in discussing either Mr Bel’sky’s libretto or Rimsky-Korsakov’s
opera. They are writing a legend rather than a musical drama, and just how
the tasks set by the former differ from the style and requirements of the latter
will be seen clearly when we consider Act III.
Act I, the simplest in content, shows Fevroniya against the setting of her
peculiar girlhood. She is a quiet observer, alone in the forest among the birds
and forest animals who show her affection (a feature drawn from the lives
of hermits who are saints), her soul vibrating in consonance with nature’s
collective harmony. In these surroundings a young man who has lost his
way while out hunting finds her. Fevroniya heals his arm which had been
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Rimsky-Korsakov
scratched by a bear, and charms him by her looks, her speech and her piety.
They exchange rings, and Fevroniya learns at the end from huntsmen who
arrive just in time that the unknown man to whom she is betrothed is Prince
Vsevolod, the son of Prince Yury of Kitezh.
The details of this act’s subject-matter provided the composer with rich
material for pictorial music, for painting in sound, and the descriptive mo-
ments make a stronger impression than the heartfelt poetry of the dialogue.
While all of a piece as a whole, this act seems the most monotone and insipid
in the entire opera. You immediately grasp that special song (pesennı̈y) style
maintained throughout the vocal part of the opera, even down to insignifi-
cant recitatives, but it is not enough. Siegmund and Sieglinde or Tristan and
Isolde can sing on stage for hours on end without the attention slackening,
because it is seized by vigorous gradation in the psychological content of
their scenes, a gradation accompanied by correspondingly intense musical
development. For all its song style, the scene between the Young Prince and
Fevroniya remains only an ‘agreeable conversation’ on various subjects, at
the end of which listeners sense that the conversation was very prolix. Sev-
eral episodes in this conversation are beautiful and compel attentive listening.
The descriptive part is more vivid and lively than the lyrical one. One has,
however, to enter the caveat that in the highly colourful reconstruction of
the forest’s poetic atmosphere, the composer has too obviously given him-
self up to reminiscences of the sounds and the pre-dawn rustling of foliage
which held the young Siegfried spellbound by the cave of the sleeping Fafner.
But then, as regards direct and oblique recollections of Glinka, Wagner and
himself, in Kitezh the composer provides extremely rich material for those
who like analyzing a score in search of primary sources. We merely note the
fact that often some theatrical or poetic image or other which interests the
composer has been reflected musically by other composers, and is noticeably
associated in his mind involuntarily with those reflections which already ex-
ist. As a result, if a winter storm blows up, you discern that it has blown in
from the Kostroma forests; if a forest starts to murmur, you recall Siegfried;
if a bear runs up to Fevroniya, the description with double basses growling
chromatically bespeaks its close relationship to the bear with which Siegfried
frightened Mime; later on, we shall encounter a literal quotation from Parsi-
fal and in exactly the place where Kitezh loses its earthly reality and begins
to look like the ideal Montsalvat; and in the symphonic ‘procession into
the invisible city of Kitezh’ it is hard not to recognize the correspondence
between certain rhythmic and melodic contours and those elements from
which the ‘procession into the hall of the Holy Grail’ was created. It was
essential to point this out, not only because in spite of all these reminis-
cences and in spite of his undeviating application of the thematic principle
67
(leitmotives), N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov’s operatic style remains the complete

opposite, one can say the diametrical opposite, of Wagner’s style of music
and drama; but also because alongside such moments of non-independence,
which disappear without trace in the self-sufficiency of the general concep-
tion, those successful places and episodes where the composer emerges as
unadulteratedly himself stand out the more vividly.
In Act II Fevroniya has forsaken her beautiful ‘mother-wilderness’, and
all ‘the vexations of this world’ rain down upon her. The action opens with
what are, in my view (mistaken, perhaps), the inessentials with which Rus-
sian composers are in the habit of filling up their operas as proprietary scenes
of everyday life. The focus of attention is the crowd and the crowd alone.
This is really of no interest, the more so in that it is repeated with the per-
sistence of tradition and these repetitions lack any novelty. After the folk
scenes in [Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera of 1889–90] Mlada and Sadko, what
can the less vivid, less lively copies of similar scenes which open Act II of
Kitezh add to the new opera’s merits? Musically, this is Serov ennobled; on
the stage, all these bears, gusli-players and drunkards make the embarrass-
ing impression of a played-out old anecdote: the spectators and listeners on
the stage grow faint with laughter or exclaim with curiosity, while the lis-
teners and spectators in the stalls who nevertheless, even while involved in
the twentieth century, must patiently await the end of these diversions of the
on-stage crowd. What explains a tradition like this taking root? Surely not
Stasov’s delight at the folk scenes in [Meyerbeer’s] Les Huguenots and even
Le Prophète? But do such ‘traditional’ scenes have that inner artistic necessity
to justify them, that correlation with the principal idea of the piece, which
we find in the folk scenes of Pushkin’s Boris or Coriolanus, Julius Caesar
or Shakespeare’s dramatic chronicles, or, to return to opera, Wagner’s Die
Meistersinger?! Having noted that the didactic chorus of beggars ‘S kem ne
veleno vstrechat’sya’ (‘Who is it that we are forbidden to meet?’) stands out
as the most distinctive feature in this divertissement and corresponds most
closely to the main tone of the production, let us move on to the contents
of Act II. In the course of it there enters a significant, new and vital figure
opposed to the general staid character of the main persons in the opera: the
drunkard Grishka Kuter’ma, a descendant of the smith Yeryomka [in Serov’s
The Power of the Fiend], the smart adjutant to ‘the prince of this world’.
As they await Fevroniya’s wedding procession, two of the ‘best’ people (that
is worthy or invested with trust?) bribe Grishka to laugh at the bride. This
episode is redundant in that, for a drunken scoundrel, it is entirely natural to
insult a woman and on his own initiative; and it is redundant, furthermore,
in that the pair of these ‘best’ people are too reminiscent of the pair of senior
priests from Sadko, and they also to an extent recall by their manner of
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behaving and looking around them that classically inseparable pair of con-
spirators in black raincoats who so amuse the present-day spectator in the
dramatic sensation that is [Verdi’s] Un ballo in maschera. The appearance
of this pair can surely only be explained by the detail referred to above from
the biography of Yefrosinya of Murom, whose marriage to the prince morti-
fied the nobility. It is legitimate to detect the spirit of those same primordial
traditions with which the ‘New Russian School’ embarked on the reform of
Russian opera in the form in which this detail has been expressed: this pair
is a survival (possibly an instinctive one) from those satirical and publicistic
intentions approved by Stasov and realized by Musorgsky under the name
‘the living word’ in art. Thereafter Fevroniya appears, and, to the listeners’
great joy, brings with her Rimsky-Korsakov’s creativity and artistry in their
full brilliance. The wedding procession is a very vivid, colourful and lively
page in the score. Grishka’s gibes begin, which Fevroniya answers with an-
gelic gentleness as she defends her abuser from the crowd’s victimization.
Grishka will not calm down, his speech becomes more cynical and coarse
and the crowd drives him out of the way all the same. In this episode the
figure of Fyodor Poyarok, the Prince’s huntsman and master of ceremonies
for the wedding, is illuminated by a bright ray of comedy. When Grishka
appears Poyarok warns the bride in a carefree, cheerful tone: ‘Gospozha, ne
slushay brazhnika, s nim besedovat’ ne veleno’ (‘Madam, do not listen to
the drunkard, you must not speak to him’), giving the impression that this
portly figure’s [. . .] invisible button has been pressed, and he has made the
only movement available to him. At the same time this episode incorporates
a significant share of that staid equability which forms the special charac-
ter of the group acting lambs in the opera, as distinct from those acting
goats. What is more, the repetition of Poyarok’s phrase instantly informs the
listener’s consciousness that all this is ‘not meant seriously’, that it is all a
‘legend’, is measured out, according to a ceremony laid down by an expert
narrator, and then just as instantly, with a feeling of cheerful pleasure, the
listener feels himself led into the realm of complete artistic stylization. He
realizes clearly and distinctly that it is not idealized people who are acting
and expressing themselves before him (such as the resources of music drama
make them) but stylized people, who are related to real live persons in the
same way as a fantastical carved wooden horse or a little cockerel adorning
some structure are related to a real live horse or cockerel. There are some
reminders of previous impressions when reason was somewhat at a loss: ‘this
is too ridiculous to be beautiful and too beautiful to be ridiculous’, is the
formula it suggests. The musical stylization of Russian persons – that is the
main distinctive feature of the tales, heroic ballads and legends clad in the
forms of opera by N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.
69
II
Grishka has been sent away, order has been restored to the procession,
a bright wedding song flows along and unfolds for a while without hin-
drance until a new hostile motive in the orchestra’s lower reaches disrupts
its concord. The song breaks off. The terrifying motive grows, gets faster,
crawls along like a dragon rolling itself up. Hoarse trumpets (off stage)
rasp out their menacing octave. Complete confusion. In crowd after crowd,
the panic-stricken inhabitants of Kitezh announce the appearance of unseen
enemies. The triple-chorus episode makes an impact and successfully pre-
pares the spectator for the appearance of the Tatars, upon whose arrival
the slaughter begins. The melodic theme describing the Tatars (which devel-
ops its full power and completeness in the choral song in Act III) lacks the
hackneyed oriental quality (although the interval of the augmented second
duly has its place in it), but its characteristic rhythmic form suggests plun-
dering, predatory boldness, a wildness of spirit and daredevil impetuosity.
Threatened by the Tatars (Bedyay and Burunday), Grishka Kuter’ma agrees
to lead the horde to Great Kitezh, the route to which through the dense
forests the despoilers cannot find without someone’s help. The act concludes
with Fevroniya’s prayer (she too has been captured by the foe) ‘Bozhe sotvori
nevidim Kitezh grad, a i radi pravednı̈kh zhivushchikh v grade tom’ (‘God,
make the city of Kitezh invisible, for the sake of the just who dwell in that
city’), a prayer which closely associates the heroine’s personality with the
fate of the legendary city. If I say that the first part of the new opera ends
here, and the second and more important part begins with Act III, it is not
because the basis of this division is provided by the contents of the play itself.
I am marking thereby only the break in impression (perhaps a subjective one)
which was perceived at the first performance: at the end of the first two acts
the composer of The Snowmaiden and Sadko came forward to the noisy, uni-
versal applause of the public, whereas after Acts III and IV the applause and
salutations were without doubt addressed solely to the composer of Kitezh.
Act III. Instead of the bride, for whom the groom, the Prince and the peo-
ple are waiting by the cathedral porch, a blinded, blood-stained Poyarok
appears in Kitezh led in by a boy. After the Tatars’ way of behaving as
shown before, Poyarok’s appearance in Kitezh may appear strange, but we
learn subsequently that he has been sent deliberately by the polite enemy to
warn the Prince of the impending attack – a mission which says little for the
Tatars’ quick-wittedness, since they have struggled with great difficulties to
find the route to the city. Poyarok passes on what has taken place while the
boy, with his good eyesight, standing at the top of the look-out tower, reports
on what lies ahead. The Young Prince Vsevolod and the soldiers leave the city
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to fight the enemy, ‘to assume the martyrs’ crown’. The inhabitants of Kitezh
grieve, and pray to the Intercessor [the Virgin Mary]; and their prayers, like
Fevroniya’s, are answered: Kitezh is made invisible. The music for this scene,
which blends harmoniously with the spectacle and the characters’ beautiful,
consistent language, makes a deep and stirring impression. The epic tone,
that of a legend, is maintained even here, and maintained wonderfully: de-
spite the painfulness of the moment being endured, you sense all the while
that the artist is conveying it to you in the pluperfect tense. The narrative of
the person who has just witnessed all the horrors with his own eyes, who
has just endured the agony of trials and tortures – that is, Poyarok – the
people’s replies as they listen to him while awaiting the onset of catastrophe,
the terrible scenes of calamity opening before the boy’s oracular vision, the
speeches of the Prince and his son – everything is here set forth with the
wonderful smoothness, majestic calmness and stateliness of a heroic ballad,
telling evenly, seriously and loftily of times and deeds past. The hurricane
spirit of music drama with its musical speech developing freely and breaking
off freely outside the framework of deliberate symmetry, would have run
riot at this point as it conveyed the horror, the confusion, and the fast un-
even alternation of ebbs and flows in the psychological waves of the crowd
condemned to perish. For Kitezh is living through the hours of its ‘local’
doomsday, so to speak, and these hours are of course filled with terror. The
style of the legend, the style of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera, makes this point
into something different, and the impression achieved by these means con-
tains nothing realistic, but in spite of that, perhaps, it is in the present case
more sublime. The rounded formal symmetry, the regularity in the succession
of individual characters’ speeches, the speeches of the chorus and orchestra –
all of which are perceived clearly by the listeners’ consciousness – are taken
so far as to acquire the character of a strict ritual, in conformity with the
subject. Operatic spectacle and operatic action, as a result of this clear per-
ception of ‘deliberateness’ of artistic form, become a highly significant rite,
a serious and skilful ‘game’. The idea of an ancient symbolic choral round-
dance (khorovod) has been revived here. The spectres of chaos stirring in
the plot have been vanquished by harmony and rhythm, and in their vic-
tory, in their imperiousness, a theatrical spectacle reveals itself in the guise
of a kind of ‘secular’ liturgy for the listener’s contemplation. The steadfast
measuredness and concord of the sounds – that is, the sounds which create
the impression – here acquire the mysterious power of symbols. It is not
simply beauty, it is wise beauty, the beauty of wisdom. And, of course, when
such beauty sanctifies a present-day stage spectacle, it brings it that much
nearer to the unattainable heights of Greek tragedy, and takes it that much
further away from the overwrought hysteria and realistic amusements of the
71
contemporary stage, and above all from that shallow, smug ugliness going
by the name of opera written by the Italian composers of verismo.
Such beauty is characteristic of the portrayal of gods and heroes, person-
alities enjoying a preferential right to speak in a manner that is dulcet like
music. And from the depiction of individual persons and the whole people
in the third scene of Kitezh [Act III scene 1] there is a whiff of precisely the
epic spirit of heroism – we mean not the trumpeted heroism of conventional
fanfares, but that conveyed by the formal roundedness, clarity and orderly
logic of the music, an impression of the firmness, uncomplaining courage
and self-control with which all these people prepare to enter ‘the valley of
the shadow of death’. Rhythm, harmony and clear coherence achieve this
impression, even in spite of the doleful character of the melodic speech at the
opening of the act. The attempt to dramatize one of the principal motives
(which plays the role of a recurring pattern in the general fabric of voices
and orchestra) of the scene at the moment when the Young Prince learns that
Fevroniya is showing the Tatars the way (a slander put about by Grishka),
yields no significant results. On the contrary, this motive concerning the sit-
uation on the stage becomes here so insignificant and inexpressive that it
even acquires the same bustling character as the well-known theme which
accompanied sire Raoul de Nanjy [the central Huguenot in Meyerbeer’s Les
Huguenots] on his famous walk round the suburbs[?] of Amboise. The im-
pression made by this scene is so much of a whole that one does not wish to
dwell on details; nevertheless, one cannot fail to mention the original beauty
and character of the Prince’s aria (and likewise its first-rate text), the boy’s
rich and highly coloured narratives, the strict, serious expressiveness of the
choral prayers, and lastly the magical charm of the concluding ‘miracle’. This
entire scene, with its noble and stately hues, is not a depiction of Kitezh’s
ruin, but the funeral service for Kitezh, a solemnly sad Requiem (panikhida)
for the peaceable and fortunate ‘city’. And therefore from that scene, from
Kitezh veiled in sorrow, one would like to go straight to Kitezh lit up with
joy, to the Easter Kitezh of the final scene. But the spectator cannot be al-
lowed to reach it before Fevroniya, and the fourth and fifth scenes of the
Legend [Act III scene 2 and Act IV scene 1] recount her subsequent fate.
The Tatars have taken Fevroniya to Lake Svetloyar on whose opposite
shore is Kitezh, concealed by the darkness of night. They tie Grishka to a
tree, divide up the booty and give themselves up to indispensable drunken-
ness (indispensable, that is, for the subsequent fate of the dramatis personae)
and moreover, just like Fasolt and Fafner on account of the gold, Bedyay
and Burunday fall out over Fevroniya, and Burunday kills Bedyay. When the
heathens have fallen asleep, Fevroniya frees Grishka from his bonds at his
request. The latter, tormented by remorse, tries to drown himself in the lake,
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but, catching sight in the dawn’s rays of the reflection in the water of the city
which has disappeared from its own shore, he loses his reason and runs off,
taking Fevroniya with him. The Tatars wake up, and seeing the miraculous
reflection of an invisible city, flee headlong in terror. This scene is linked
to the preceding beautiful symphonic interlude ‘The Battle at Kerzhenets’,
whose battle ideas are achieved with no detriment to its musicality. This in-
terlude possesses the bright, cheerful spirit of, let’s say, youthful joie de vivre
typical of many works of Rimsky-Korsakov. It is animated and graphic in
both sonority and musical ideas: no new themes are introduced. In the music
for the stage picture the magnificent Tatar song (mentioned earlier) stands
out, so intricately decorated with contrapuntal arabesques that it even makes
one recollect those splendid contrapuntal brocades which Handel unfolds in
his oratorios. Unfortunately, later in the scene the composer uses the song’s
bold, easily memorable melody so insistently that it acquires something like
the qualities of a motive which keeps going round obsessively in your head.
The scene of Fevroniya and Grishka contains many fine details. His sprightly
theme is so much varied in the vocal part that here and there it takes on an
air of heart-rending suffering, and creates intonations of aching anguish.
Grishka’s hallucinations are also powerfully represented. The sound of the
bells ringing haunts him, and the accentuation – skilful in the highest de-
gree – of their harsh dissonances lends this ringing a nightmarish quality.
The appearance of Kitezh in the water is beautifully depicted, though the
composer is always successful with such scenes: the tone of the folk-tale is
his element, the tone which comes naturally to him. I doubt whether anyone
[but Rimsky-Korsakov] could have written The Folk-Tale of Tsar Saltan in
such a way that the impression of complete artistic truthfulness heightened
the charm of its marvellous improbabilities.
The fourth act takes place in a forest thicket, to which Grigory [Grishka],
who is not in his right mind, has dragged Fevroniya fainting from exhaus-
tion. This long scene, where the madman’s wild, convulsive succession of
moods and ideas does not disturb Fevroniya’s invariably equable gentleness,
is new and original in subject to opera. At the end of it Grishka runs away –
no one knows where – and thus allows Fevroniya to ‘pass away’ calmly.
This demise is attended by several joyous wonders (candles light up on trees,
flowers never before seen spring up – in their stage manifestation they are
truly prodigious, birds of paradise sing) and it creates the score’s most rav-
ishing pages. The orchestra, in the captivating magic of all its colours, sings
florid acathists13 to the righteous woman and encircles her figure with an un-
earthly radiance. The ghost of Young Prince Vsevolod appears; in the piano
13 An acathistus is a doxological prayer.
73
reduction of the opera this is a moment of inspired illumination, because

the sonorous keyboard chords solemnly pouring forth the opera’s princi-
pal church melody, the melody of Resurrection, achieve Beethovenian depth
and conviction, they really do become that ray, that impetuous, expanding
stream of light, which seems to carry something unutterable with it, and,
as you wait for it, you catch your breath and your heart misses a beat. To
my surprise, in the orchestra this moment – apparently the only one in the
opera to which the word ‘mystical’ is truly applicable – passes by insipidly
and feebly, with the stream of light weakening into a soft, spectral glim-
mering. The transfigured Young Prince, after a fairly lengthy conversation,
escorts Fevroniya into the invisible city. This conversation contains several
moments of tender and thrilling beauty, as also of stirring sublimity, but they
are interleaved with those moments which in experimental mysticism are
known by the term ‘the condition of aridity’. In these moments the vocal pat-
terns bear witness to how cold the souls of the Young Prince and Fevroniya
have become and how inadequately the celestial light protects them from the
views of that earthly monster known as Tedium. To demand, however, that
music be able to portray in an integral way a state of very prolonged ecstasy
would be too much. I think that it is even almost impossible – the single
unflaggingly prolonged ecstasy known as Isolda’s Liebestod is an exception
in that respect. All these wonders and beauties indicated are concealed from
the public’s eyes by a dusty curtain of the kind known as ‘cloudy’, and the
orchestra starts to play the brilliant symphonic picture ‘entry to the invisible
city of Kitezh’. The mere presence of this scene, this march with its celestial
bells, to say nothing of its musical content and form, is sufficient to indicate
how far the composer was from any intentional ‘mystical’ notions or per-
ceptions in writing this opera. But I shall discuss this aspect of the opera,
its general character as a ‘legend’ rather than some kind of ‘mystery-play’,
in the conclusion which follows. The Young Prince and Fevroniya enter the
‘new’ Kitezh which is brilliantly illuminated. There too are the Prince, and
Poyarok, and the boy, all in radiant clothes, and the birds of paradise Sirin
and Alkonost with their pensive tunes, and angels with reed-pipes, and uni-
corns with silver wool and other folk-tale wonders. This whole scene forms a
fine epilogue to the legend and leaves a far from ordinary impression which
you retain carefully even as you go out on to the dark square, into the
bustle and noise of people leaving the theatre. The invariably strict and se-
rious tone of a ‘legend’ is combined with the touching and naive purity of
children’s dreams. The wedding song, so sadly left incomplete on earth, is
resumed; in answer to the dumbfounded Fevroniya’s questions, the inhabi-
tants of Kitezh recount the miracles of their abode in measured antiphons,
then the doors of the cathedral swing open as if summoning bride and groom
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to be married. In the midst of all this, the wonders and surroundings of the
heavenly city have not impressed Fevroniya to such an extent that mem-
ory of earth’s wretched and stinking creatures (an essential condition, you
would think, for happiness in paradise!) has disappeared completely. She
recalls Grishka. I confess that had I not known in advance both the sub-
ject and the music of the new opera, I should have felt terrible about this
recollection at this moment, since I know from N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov’s
previous operas how the composer likes to bring all the characters together
in front of the footlights in conclusion, so as to be able to weave all their
characteristic themes together in counterpoint in the final ensemble. But this
recollection of course leads to different consequences. Neither Grishka, nor
the best people, nor the bear-trainer, adorn the heavenly finale with their
presence, and the matter is limited to the letter which Fevroniya addresses
to Grishka and which when it reached earth probably served as the primary
source from which the people derived their legend of the disappearance of
Kitezh.
III
In coming to terms with the confusion of varied impressions borne away
from the new opera’s first performance, I am not going to dwell again on
the beauty and artistic effect of the descriptive moments in the music. Who,
knowing the exquisite sonorous beauty of those enchantments in which sim-
ilar moments in The Snowmaiden, May Night, Christmas Eve, Sadko and
Mlada envelop the listener, can be surprised that in Kitezh too all this is also
beautiful, excites the imagination in a bewitching manner and is enlivened
with the breath of poetry? One would be surprised if it were otherwise, and
even those who do not know how to listen will hear and appreciate all this.
From the many colours of natural phenomena, from the strange marvels of
folk-tale existence, some individual human being-like characters stand out
in the memory. Their features are uncomplicated, they lack the polymorphic
elasticity which can change a face into a riddle, and their spiritual life is
so simple and straightforward that it expresses itself in the recurring tune
of a song as if that were its natural form of speech. I have used the word
‘recurring’. One of the peculiarities of Korsakov’s thematic working lies in
the fact that he constructs even the vocal part in his operas using that el-
ement. The speech of each of the singing characters has its own melodic
formula, its melodic catch-phrase. As in the real world, every person has
a special melodic speech intonation (not to say motive) typical of him and
more or less constant, from which attention is distracted only by words
and their meaning. In a lyrical opera attention is very often not distracted
75
by words (however fine they may be), since at certain times the words are
drowned in the melody, which nearly always they do not control (unlike
the style of music drama). And then the immutability of the melodic phrase
peculiar to each singing character as it pounds away in one’s conscious-
ness, converts them through the simplicity of their psychological movements
into something like half-birds, and creates an impression of the enigmatic
happiness in which these special creatures who are beyond reality, this mot-
ley flock of wingless sirins and alkonosts, breathe and move. Why is the
impression one of happiness when many of them seem to be grieving and
weeping? It is hard to say. ‘We shall sing like birds’, says the happy Lear
as he takes Cordelia with him into prison, in Act V. And after the preced-
ing four acts, he may rightly be recognized as an authority on riddles about
happiness.
The most perfect demonstration of the lyrical style in which several of
Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian operas are written – so much the antithesis of
Wagner’s style of music drama (the style of free, dramatic melody) and Dar-
gomı̈zhsky’s declamatory style, as well as the arioso style of the operas of
Tchaikovsky and some French composers – has so far been Sadko. Now
The Legend of the City of Kitezh has been added to the latter in just as full
measure. It would not be a substantial exaggeration to say that the whole of
the score’s vocal line has been stretched out into one almost uninterrupted
song and that, just as in folksong the expression of particular details is neu-
tralized by the mood of the general melody (used for different lines of the
text), so in this opera, too, a great many dramatic details are washed over
in an even wave of lyrical melody. The whole opera thus becomes a song
of itself in its own right, and whether the stream passes through the voice
of the Young Prince, Fevroniya or Grishka, one too often senses that even
the Young Prince, even Fevroniya, even Grishka, are merely splinters and
twigs borne along on this even wave of song. That this is not a listener’s
arbitrary imagination setting down his own impressions may be fully con-
firmed by what amounts almost to contempt for declamation, for so-called
truthful word-setting, which the composer has reached in a few places in his
opera. For anyone wishing to analyze the score from this point of view the
presence of many such places (I mention the following examples as the first
that came to mind – the episode of the first meeting of the Young Prince and
Fevroniya: ‘Sgin’ tı̈, navozhdeniye’ (‘Begone, sick fancy’) and ‘Zdravstvuy
molodets’ (‘Greetings, young man’), Poyarok’s attempts at persuasion men-
tioned above, Fevroniya’s appeal ‘Ne greshite, slovo dobroye . . .’ (‘Do not
sin, [God gives us] a good word [about everyone]’) – a real curiosity from
the standpoint of truthful declamation, the Tatars’ conversations, even some
places in the dialogues of Fevroniya and Grishka) – cannot be explained
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satisfactorily by any aesthetic consideration, but only by the autocratic role

of song, on whose principles the whole opera is constructed. A composer
who has explicitly and exactingly relegated the importance of the actor and
acting on the stage to a place below music (as is stated in the prefaces to sev-
eral of Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas) must naturally arrive with perfect logic at
another more extreme conclusion: that the importance of the word in a mu-
sic theatre production should be played down. From Wagner’s point of view,
from the point of view of music drama, an opera of this kind may seem like a
figure turned upside down, but – I say again – to analyze Rimsky-Korsakov’s
opera from that point of view would be wrong in the highest degree and an
outright critical error. To judge in that way would be to judge a work in
accordance with aims completely contrary to those which the composer set
himself; in accordance with a completely opposite type of creative nature
from that revealed in his work. An opera by Wagner is a drama which has
become song; an opera by Korsakov is song freely taking on the appearance
of stage spectacle. This opposition also matches the opposition in the style
of musical speech, and the opposition in artistic devices used in composi-
tion, which express the difference in artistic natures in an almost elementary
way. The main resource of musical drama is the device of developing mu-
sical ideas, a development which is always moving forward, organizing a
series of moments intensively into a single whole; the main device of song-
opera is repeating musical ideas, a repetition subordinated to the laws of
a formal symmetry which is extremely uncomplicated and independent of
dramatic movement. Folksong is based on repetition of this kind (in an el-
ementary form), and Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera too is based on repetition
of this kind. The development of musical ideas is not a strong facet of his
work, and if one were to approach symmetrical constructions made out of
repetitions of themes and other places in his opera (even the dramatic dia-
logues of Grishka and Fevroniya) with the criterion of musical drama, one
would have to admit that the latest Russian opera has transformed one of
the shortcomings of ancient opera: ancient opera (let us think of Handel)
lacked sufficient text for the music, and a single verbal phrase was sung over
and over again to different tunes, whereas in the most modern opera there
is not enough music for the text, and successive lines of speech are sung to
one and the same tune. But when we look attentively into the essence of
the opera’s musical style we shall fully understand the naturalness of what,
from another wrongly applied point of view, might have seemed an aesthetic
absurdity.
After emphasizing this peculiarity of the opera as an opera predominantly
in song style, a style which suits the character of a ‘legend’ astonishingly
well, let us bring to mind the characters, the individual cells or short melodic
77
turns of phrase in the lengthy theatrical song which had most firmly im-
printed themselves in the memory by the time the curtain fell for the last time.
The Old Prince comes first to mind, a character who is wholly special in the
gallery of Russian operatic types. There have been many princes, but this one
is new and has not been displayed before. Both the harmonic and melodic
colours chosen for the representation of his personality are distinctive and
characteristic. Eyes looking beyond this world, and sorrow turned into pro-
found seriousness, in his hand a cross and on his head a crown – the latter are
not present, though, but may be found in similar figures standing motionless
on the second tier of a gilded iconostasis.14 The complete antithesis of this
seriousness, inner radiance and brave firmness of spirit is the hysterical al-
coholic Grishka, an insolent carousing fellow, whose thoughts and feelings
are as remote from equilibrium as his unsteady legs. His melody and manner
of expression contain genuinely something impudent and impetuous, while
his tearfulness and melancholy sincerity is mingled with unctuousness. The
figure is a repulsive one but it is vivid. And then there is Fevroniya, a pure
soul, whose virtues exposed the librettist and composer to the great danger
of falling into complacent benevolence and, instead of portraying one pure
in heart to whom it has been promised that they shall see God, portraying
rather something resembling an affectionate calf who is ready not just to take
suck from two females but from the whole world; for it is altogether difficult
to portray a female saint, still more one all of whose reason and feeling are
tenderness alone. And if one says that this difficult heroine hardly ever slips
into the spurious tone of model figures from a children’s reader, or does not
leave any impression of sickly sweetness at the very end but on the contrary –
to say nothing of the captivating poetic quality of her ‘demise’ – disposes
people in her favour by her simple-heartedness, and sometimes also by the
warm sincerity of her tone, then this alone can show what invigorating cre-
ative powers the composer of fourteen operas still retains. One cannot fail to
note that in this opera the invariable cock-and-bull story about the mutual
love of operatic tenors and prima donnas is relegated to the background,
made almost unnoticeable, in an extremely successful manner. A character
who on the strength of her moral qualities and some of the circumstances of
her life may be regarded as a saint is indeed something new on the Russian15
14 Feasts associated with the life of Christ and the Mother of God provide subjects for the icons
on the second tier of an iconostasis.
15 Author’s note: It is not new on the Western stage, where even better-known saints find
occasion to sing an aria or some duets. John the Baptist sings in Strauss’ Salome, just as he
sang before in Massenet’s Hérodiade. Saint Godeliva is the heroine of an opera [Godelieve]
by [Edgar] Tinel and St Cecilia provided the title of [Joseph] Ryelandt’s music drama [Sainte
Cécile].
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operatic stage (let us forget about the altogether episodic appearance of the
Old Apparition16 in Sadko).
Her presence at the heart of the opera, the fact that it is a big role to
which musical motives of a church character are assigned in the score, the
abundance of peals of bells, the luminescent appearance of the ‘celestial city’
in the finale, and the incense with which the auditorium is fumigated when it
appears – all this taken together probably gave cause for Rimsky-Korsakov’s
new opera to be considered a ‘mystical’ work. If by mysticism is meant an
external concern with ecclesiasticism, then this name perhaps encompasses
nothing erroneous. But if one treats this word seriously and with due cau-
tion, if one admits that even the term ‘mystery-play’ (misteriya) still does not
predetermine the indispensable presence of anything truly mystical (as was
the case with the medieval mystery-plays), then we shall see that Rimsky-
Korsakov’s opera as a complete work of art is extremely remote in character
from ‘mysticism’ – perhaps even more remote from it than the parody icons
of Viktor Vasnetsov, which are themselves not very close to it. Let us enter a
reservation. Given a broad interpretation of this word, it is possible, maybe,
to discern in every genuine work of art, a work ignited from the unquench-
able fire of Beauty, some fact of a mystical order. But broad views provide
a very uncomfortable basis for analysis. Taking such a view, for anyone go-
ing beyond the usual mechanical classification of impressions, it would be
difficult to define why The Legend of Kitezh should be considered more
mystical than, say, The Snowmaiden, Onegin or Carmen; almost as diffi-
cult as explaining why clowns’ caps of white lilies are recognized as being
more mystical than the tousled chignons of coloured chrysanthemums . . .
It remains to measure the legend against the more fixed understanding of
mysticism revealed by Devotees to the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
Like two pathways leading to one destination, there are two kinds, or rather
two types, of mysticism (the need for brevity forces me to submit to the
fatal scourge of sharp distinctions and broad generalizations): Eastern mys-
ticism – principally Vedic and Buddhist; and Western mysticism – principally
Christian. Both equally invite the human spirit which has risen above the con-
ventions of inert materiality and inert psychology to embark on the path of
superhuman experience. The instrument of the first is Reason, and the mode
of experiment is Contemplation; the instrument of the second is the Heart,
and the mode of experiment Inflamement. There is but one object of experi-
ment, for Truth is God, and Love is God. The point of the experiment is the
God-transformation of the spirit, for the human spirit is in this case like God
16 This character (Starchishche) is what remained of St Nicholas after censorship: his interven-
tion compels Sadko to return to dry land.
79
in potential, like God in-becoming. The destination of both pathways is the

destruction of the fetters of individuation, victory over the universal evil of
the separated ‘I’, the fusion of this split thing with the whole, with Every-
thing and with the One – regardless of whether we call this All-in-One the
Father of Jesus, the Nirvana17 of the Buddhists, the multifaceted diamond
of Teresa of Avila18 or the Dark Abyss of the Wondrous Ruysbroeck.19
‘Taste and ye shall be like gods’ (like individual gods) was the corrupting
error heard at the beginning of history. ‘I and the Father are one . . . the Father
is in Me and I in Him’ was the correction made in the middle of it.
This is all very well, the reader will be thinking, but how are these beau-
tiful and abstruse things related to the opera The Legend of Kitezh? If you
suppose, reader, that they have none at all, then why should we call this
opera mystical? Why should we do this, nevertheless, if this epithet in no
way enhances the excellent merits in which the new opera so abounds, but
on the contrary conjures up an incorrect idea about its purport and char-
acter? And indeed what relationship to what is outlined above, the ‘reader’
must be thinking, can any musical works ever have which are not intended
for the kliros [the place(s) where the choir sings in an Orthodox church] or
the arches of churches, but for the so-called secular theatre or the concert
platform? To avoid long discussions, let us take some concrete examples. We
may apply the epithet ‘mystical’, in my opinion, to the greatest extent (and
perhaps even in full) to two musical and music-theatre works known to us.
These works are (1) Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, its finale in particular, and
(2) Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. The works of the latter in general, beginning
with Tannhäuser, contain many mystical moments, but the most unalloyed
in the meaning and expression of these moments is his drama about Tris-
tan. All the evil and grief of universal individuation find expression there
in frenzied cries of the heart. The whole torment, the whole torture of the
characters represented, lies in the fact that ‘I’ am not ‘You’, and ‘You are
not Me’, and that apart from ‘You and Me’ there stands another great ‘It’
hostile to us; whether it is called the World, Day, Melot or Mark, its whole
evil as far as we are concerned is that it is ‘not us’. These two souls are
aflame with such a great indomitable fire, athirst for such full, perfect union
in one, that any earthly combination in conditions of individuality remains
for them a poor and weak parody of genuine conjoining. On uniting, they
wish to prolong the instant into Eternity, and for nothing Else to enter their
17 Author’s note: As the word is commonly used, the idea of Nirvana is often mixed up with
the concept of non-existence. But this is mistaken. Nirvana is a positive concept, and at any
rate no less positive than the enigmatic En-Sof of the Kabbalists.
18 Teresa of Avila (1515–82), a mystic ascetic nun.
19 Jan van Ruysbroeck (1293–1381), a Flemish mystic.
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consciousness other than themselves, to prevent them being one – i.e. in

the opposite sense, their striving is to become All. The dramatic portrayal
of two souls inflamed by Eros resonates with such a sharp curse on this
‘most beautiful of worlds’ that even the familiar cruel condemnations of
‘this world’ written down by ascetics leading a monastic life pale, seem cold
and meaningless. And the passion in which the music of Tristan is drenched
to such an extent that it really becomes terrifying – like a reddish simoom
blinding the eyes and constricting one’s breathing? Passion, which is terri-
fying in the secrets of its outcome and in the secrets of its conclusion? Are
not these melodies – gasping, groaning, exploding with rapture, helplessly
fainting and then taking wing again, are not these chords – muffled, mysteri-
ous, wearily extended, full of aspirations, insinuating and tender, audacious
and rapacious, are they not somehow familiar to the person who consults
history with its astounding excess of passion, who examines the staggering
writings and confessions of Angela da Foligno, Catherine of Siena, Camilla
Varano, Princess of Camerino,20 and other saints betrothed to the Heav-
enly Bridegroom, fearless zealots of mystical experience? . . . So is Tristan a
mystical work? Even without bells and incense? . . . There is a qualification:
if one can consider mystical works Rostand’s La Samaritaine, Massenet’s
Marie-Madeleine, Parland’s Church of the Resurrection,21 the booklets and
sermons of the Russian Lacordaires and Bossuets,22 then Tristan of course
does not belong in this category.
The contents of the Ninth Symphony are well known to everyone. Whether
it is the history of a soul satiated with this world and rejecting it, just as the
shepherd in the talkative Zarathustra’s vision spat out the snake’s head he
had eaten and began to dance with joy, or whether something else is por-
trayed here – one thing is certain: this is the history of a soul outgrowing its
torments, its despairs, its joys and its meditations, a soul becoming some-
thing more than it is, attaining the blessed state of Joy, uniting it completely
with the Whole and with All. The musical motive of this finale, written by
an old man who was deaf and tragically unhappy, is almost dance-like, is
so free, light, winged, cheerful and uninhibited, as many of the melodies of
our Easter morning service are cheerful and uninhibited – cheerful and unin-
hibited to such a degree, so transforming all the preceding impressions and
sensations, that the name ‘mystic’ must seem illicitly attached to this finale,
20 Angela da Foligno (c. 1248–1309), Catherine of Siena (probably 1347–80) and Camilla
Varano, Princess of Camerino (1458–1524) were mystics.
21 Also known as the Church of the Saviour ‘On the Spilled Blood’, this neo-Russian building
stands in the capital on the site of Alexander II’s assassination.
22 Lacordaire (1802–61) and Bossuet (1627–1704) were priests who asserted the power of
French Catholicism.
81
if one acknowledges this epithet as the inalienable and exclusive property of

the organ’s unhurried chords, or of the emaciated maidens with lilies in their
hands, dilated pupils and faces stretched by hypochondria in Art nouveau
icon-painting.
If, after examining the essence of the two works named, we consider the
character of the creative work realizing this essence, do we not notice first
and foremost that the common division of artists in accordance with the type
of their work (which is not unfounded) into subjective and objective is com-
pletely inapplicable here? For the concepts of subjective and objective fuse
inseparably in the impression experienced here into a single whole. And the
performance ideal of these works is that each listener should simultaneously
sense these sounds in the sounds of his own soul. It is beyond question that
Beethoven is here expressing not only his own torments and joys, but, as
the fruit of his meditations and sympathies – at the same time also the tor-
ments and joys of all humanity, of the Great Man, of Adam languishing and
liberated. At the same time he is himself undoubtedly dancing in the choral
round-dance of Joy, and his breath can be heard in the ‘kiss of the whole
earth’, and his heart is imbued with a palpitating sense of the presence of
the ‘loving Father’. Likewise, in Tristan too the creator is inseparably fused
with his creation. With Isolde he catches the fading glance of the expiring
Tristan, with Kurwenal he seeks an outlet for his boredom in the ardour of
a last battle, with Tristan he exposes his soul to the scorching torture of the
deserted and mute horizon. All these heroes are themselves, and all these
sounds are theirs, yet at the same time they are all the peculiar excruciating
nightmares of their authors, their long history becomes like a personal con-
fession, and the craving for the concluding, unclouded and tranquil B major
chord catches fire so invincibly in the acute dissonances of this confession
that the sacred chord attained as the curtain falls sounds like a personal oc-
currence in the human life of the composer. Separate the subjective from the
objective. It is impossible. Such is the unfailing character of the realization
of works of a mystical cast.
Rimsky-Korsakov in his work shows himself to be predominantly an ob-
jective artist. All are in agreement about this – he himself, probably, too.
His talent is stunningly well matched to the style of ‘tales’, ‘heroic ballads’
and ‘legends’, and he has created his own type of opera where the artistic
portrayal, precisely because it is released from feeling, gives wonderful sup-
port to the style and character of ‘heroic ballads’, ‘tales’ and ‘legends’. What
‘once upon a time there was’ is laid out before the listener and spectator,
using magnificent and ingenious language, and since that no longer exists
today, here is how it used to be. Even in Kitezh, he has remained just as
objective a storyteller. It would be futile to search his music for any mystical
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inflamements, and that would indeed distort the calm, majestic style of epic
narrative. The actual contents of this capital opera did not prompt any need
for such bursts of flame, for that mystical element, we can agree, which
is contained within it is the element of secret sight which consists in the
portrayal of the future ‘resurrection from the dead’ and the ‘heavenly city’
which are connected with the contents only in an outward manner. There is
no psychological growth here, no progression from being one person into
being a different person and beyond, no striving and no rapture; for the
heroes of Kitezh, the heavenly city is not a fact of regeneration, but simply a
change in their place of residence and a change of costume, with everything
else remaining exactly as before, because right from the start they are shown
as having achieved the ideal of peaceful lambs and meek little doves, per-
fectly worthy of the eternal pleasure of listening to the pealing of bells and
smelling the aroma of incense. This is not said as a reproach to the author,
whose libretto matches the style and content of spiritual verses23 excellently;
it is said only because if the depiction of ‘heavenly Kitezh’ corresponding to
their character rose only a little above the ennobled dreams of some land of
milk and honey, then there would be no pretext for a mystical work to exist.
How has the composer reproduced all these, possibly ‘spiritual’ and cer-
tainly unusual places in the opera? Just as one should have expected of an
objective artist. Starting out from what is familiar, he achieves influence by
means of reproducing impressions from the church service artistically; the
impressions are those of an artist-spectator, sometimes of one who has not
even himself been thrilled either by its contents or its mood. The duet be-
tween the resurrected Young Prince and Fevroniya who is departing (or also
being resurrected) is vividly reminiscent of the singing of a choir in church
with its patterns and traceries which at times, completely independent of the
text, interpret, stretch out and split up the words. Unfortunately, like even
church music too often, it at times lacks animation, although it maintains
solemnity of tone. The ‘Entry to Kitezh’ is treated not as a lifting of the
soul upwards, to flaming light, to waves of ever greater radiance, but as a
measured procession with the cross around and near a church.
Finally, in the charming scene of the ‘heavenly city’ some of the speeches of
Fevroniya and the inhabitants of Kitezh, as well as the orchestra’s responses,
are imbued with such quiet sadness, such calm, submissive melancholy, that
instead of thoughts of dwellers in ‘eternal light and joy’, the evening Office
in a monastery arises in the memory with its peaceful, quite special sorrow,
when, if the expression does not seem strange, the heart itself stands on tiptoe
23 Such verses were based on scripture, church legends and saints’ lives, and were usually
performed by itinerant blind singers.
83
to catch a glimpse through walls freezing in the twilight to the darkening

green of the trees, and into the depths of the evening sky. All of this is
conveyed in masterly fashion, with great artistry, and what colours are found
for all of this! Let me repeat that the opera is first-rate, and its last two acts
will probably remain one of the best and most important of the artist’s works.
It will remain that even without the epithet ‘mystical’, and even without any
comparisons with Parsifal, that strange flower which elusively changes its
coloration imperceptibly, a pure lily with the asphyxiatingly sweet aroma of
a poisonous nature, a strange flower offered up on the altar of Catholicism.
It is even difficult to say whether we need a Russian Parsifal and whether it
will appear some day. But Kitezh was needed, and duly appeared. Russian
legends about ‘the divine’ and severe prayer melodies called out long ago to
be admired in artistic attire of this kind. And if we diverged for a minute
from its beauties in order to detach from the opera an epithet superficially
applied to it by many, it was only because even in criticism of a work of art,
even in the understandable rapture induced by this work, in rendering unto
Caesar what is Caesar’s, one should not confuse it with what is God’s.
(e) Yu. D. Engel’: The Golden Cockerel (Zimin’s Opera
House). Russian Bulletin, 27 September 1909, no. 221.
Engel’, pp. 265–74
The composer’s final opera is ‘something that never happened personi-
fied’ (nebı̈litsa v litsakh), which was composed in 1906–7 and first staged
posthumously on 24 September 1909 in Moscow.
The Golden Cockerel is the final link in the golden chain of fifteen operas,
unexpectedly broken, left by Rimsky-Korsakov. Fifteen operas! Such pro-
ductivity is simply without parallel in our day and is particularly astounding
if one takes into account all the profound complexity of Rimsky-Korsakov’s
operatic writing. Such productivity is possible only for a great master who
can set the great artist within himself free – a master for whom ‘to want
to’ has finally become the equivalent of ‘to be able to’, something which,
alas, cannot be said of Rimsky-Korsakov’s quondam colleagues in the ‘New
Russian School’.
Naturally enough, not all the links in this golden chain are of equal value,
but not one of them is a copy of another; each one, even in periods when
the composer was showing creative hesitation, testifies to tireless artistic
quests, to a new stage in the evolution of a creative spirit, bold alike in
striving ‘towards new shores’ as in reviving half-forgotten operatic ideals.
Rimsky-Korsakov’s swansong confirms this. The Golden Cockerel occupies
a place amongst his operas which is wholly special, independent and, besides,
outstanding.
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Rimsky-Korsakov
As is the case with the majority of Rimsky-Korsakov’s best works, the plot
of The Golden Cockerel comes from a folk-tale. ‘A fable in characters’ –
such is the subtitle of this opera, whose libretto was based on Pushkin’s The
Golden Cockerel and written by Mr Bel’sky. Mr Bel’sky is a long-standing
collaborator of Rimsky-Korsakov, and a collaborator who is irreplaceable
in combining affectionate knowledge of Russian antiquities and folk poetry
with verse which is sonorous and to the point, a feeling for the stage with
training in music. But for him, Mr Rimsky-Korsakov’s operatic activities
in recent years could scarcely have developed so extensively. Bel’sky will
undoubtedly take his place in this regard in the history of Russian music.
He has been successful with The Golden Cockerel too. ‘The artistic model
of a Russian popular print illustration (lubok)24 tale’ is how the librettist
in his preface perfectly correctly defines Pushkin’s original of the Cockerel.
And later on: ‘Despite the eastern origin of many of the motives and the
Italian names (Dodone, Guidone), in all the everyday details of these tales
(the Cockerel and Saltan) the stern temper and awkward circumstances of
the ancient Russian way of life appear’.
Mr Bel’sky has been able to retain and increase all these typically Pushkin-
esque traits in his reworking of the Cockerel for the stage, as he was earlier
able to do for Saltan.
The opera is in three acts. The first takes place chez Tsar Dodon, who is
not defined any more precisely in the Russian text, but who in the French
one is called maı̂tre de steppes méridionales. He confers with the nobles, his
two sons and the military commander Polkan, to find out how he can ‘rest
from martial business and gain peace for himself’. One tsarevich suggests
‘removing the army from the frontier and placing it round the capital’, while
the other advises as follows: ‘Disband our valiant host in full meantime, and
a month before our neighbours attack us send them to fight them’. The tsar
is saved by an Astrologer who appears out of the blue; he gives Dodon a
wise golden cockerel who will call out from the tower lookout when war is to
be expected (‘beregis’, bud’ nacheku!’; ‘look out, be on guard!’) and when
it is not (‘tsarstvuy, lyozha na boku!’; ‘reign, lying on your side’). Dodon
goes into raptures and promises the Astrologer: ‘I shall grant your first wish,
as if it were my own’. Dismissing the nobles, he lies down to sleep. The
cockerel suddenly raises the alarm. Dodon sends his sons to war. Amelfa the
housekeeper again fluffs up his bedclothes. Sweet dreams once more, and
once more the alarm. The tsar himself with Polkan and the old men have to
set off to rescue the children.
24 Lubok denotes a popular print illustration, in earlier times a woodcut, sharing features with
the chapbook and the broadside. Outlines were bold, with large areas of colour used.
85
Act II: in front of the tent of the Tsaritsa of Shemakha. Night. Dodon and
his army stumble in horror upon the corpses of the tsareviches. Where can
the enemy be? Surely they cannot be in the tent? In the breaking morning
light Polkan gives the order for cannons to fire into the tent. But the Tsaritsa
of Shemakha emerges from the tent. The beautiful lady sings a hymn to the
rising sun; she captivates Dodon with every word, forcing him to sing and
dance, and when he, finally, petitions her to accept his kingdom she accepts
his proposal.
Act III is set in front of Dodon’s palace. The people await the tsar and
the new tsaritsa. Triumphal entry of Dodon, the Tsaritsa of Shemakha and
their wedding train with warriors, negroes, slave-girls, giants, ‘young deer’
(pygmies), people with horns, others with one eye, with dogs’ heads, etc. The
Astrologer appears and demands the promised payment from Dodon: ‘Give
me the girl, the Tsaritsa of Shemakha’. The tsar goes into a fury and finishes
off the Astrologer with a blow from his staff. The Tsaritsa approves: ‘That’s
why we have serfs: if you don’t like them, bang!’ But when Dodon prepares to
kiss her the Cockerel flies down from the tower, pecks the top of the Tsar’s
head and he falls down dead. The Tsaritsa and the Astrologer disappear. The
people mourn the Tsar. The curtain descends, but the Astrologer suddenly
comes out from behind it. He reassures the spectators: ‘That’s how the tale
finished; but the bloody dénouement must not worry you. For only I and the
Tsaritsa were real people here, all the others were delirium, a day-dream.’
This original Epilogue is an elegant counterweight to the similar Prologue
to the Cockerel. In the Prologue, before the action begins, the Astrologer
just as unexpectedly appears from behind the curtain to introduce the tale
for listeners. Pushkin’s words summing up the tale are put into his mouth:
‘The tale is a falsehood, but it contains a hint, a lesson for brave souls’.
‘Hint’, of course, has to be understood here in the most general mean-
ing, corresponding to the beautifully expressed formula of Potebnya,25 the
specialist in folk poetry: ‘the role of a poetic image is to be the constant
predicate to the transferred epithet’. But the theatre censorship, as is well
known, saw the matter differently. From Rimsky-Korsakov’s first appear-
ance in the world of opera (The Maid of Pskov), it turned its graciously
deadening attention to him and did not deny it to his last opera. What ‘hint’
it saw in The Golden Cockerel, what ‘transferred subject’ it contrived to ap-
ply to the ‘constant predicate’ is not known; but it laid its heavy hand on the
Cockerel.
The librettist was compelled to omit entirely the two lines of Pushkin cited
above (written seventy-five years ago) concerning the significance of the tale
25 A. A. Potebnya (1835–91) was a philologist, philosopher of language and poetic theorist.
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Rimsky-Korsakov
and to replace them with the following: ‘To show the kind of power passion
has over people’. The censorship reduced the heroes of the Cockerel in rank:
they made Tsar Dodon into an army commander (voyevoda), and the army
commander Polkan into a colonel. But in its anxiety about the lesson for
brave souls it did not stop there.
In answer to the Astrologer’s request: ‘Give me a written note, as the
laws require, so that what the tsar promised me can stand firmer than a
rock’, Tsar Dodon (according to the printed vocal score) replies: ‘As the
laws require? What kind of talk is that? I’ve never heard such a thing. My
whim, my command – that is the law for every occasion’. Instead of that,
Dodon the army commander (on the stage) replies: ‘What’s this? This is
new! Have you thought about that word?’ In imposing an increased tax on
his subjects in the event of war, Tsar Dodon says: ‘But listen, peoples! If
the army commanders themselves or someone subordinate to them wants to
take something extra, don’t contradict them: it’s their business!’ That comes
out somewhat differently on the lips of Dodon the army commander: ‘If one
of you wants to give something extra, let him give it: it’s his business’. The
people sing over Tsar Dodon’s body: ‘He was most sagacious: with his arms
folded, he governed the people lying on his back’; but over Dodon the army
commander they sing: ‘He was most sagacious and gloriously dealt out fair
judgement over us’.
But you can’t mention everything. However adroitly all these erasures and
effacings have been carried out by the ill-starred librettist, they cannot fail to
rouse fundamental indignation and, of course, will some day enter the pages
of the history of Russian culture as a specimen of dark, obtuse, bad times.
The most curious thing of all is that for even the least observant listener such
tactics merely underline the abominations from which they were wanting to
protect him.
Indirectly these changes may perhaps have some influence even on the
impact of the music, by making it not correspond fully here and there with
the new stage perspective, but the censorship has not touched the music
itself, thank God! It remains just as powerful and splendid as it flowed from
Rimsky-Korsakov’s indefatigable pen.
An original, magical circle of melodies, harmonies, sonorities and devices
for musical description has been outlined here by the accustomed hand of the
all-powerful wizard. And this new magical circle is extremely distinct from
the circles outlined in Rimsky-Korsakov’s other operas. It sometimes inter-
sects with them (Saltan, Sadko) and thereby forms what seem to be common
segments, but never coincides with them concentrically. The most important
thing is that all the unprecedented novelty of The Golden Cockerel is per-
meated by a kind of immediate spontaneity, by healthy, fresh inspiration.
87
Frankly, you do not believe that all this was written by an old man. But
that’s not the end of the story. ‘A song is beautiful by its mode, and a tale
by its style’, says the old proverb. The Golden Cockerel’s mode corresponds
astoundingly with its style.
The magnificent and well-proportioned musical building which The
Golden Cockerel is has been created by the infinitely varied development
of a finite group of characteristic themes. But while this leitmotive principle
stems from Wagner, it is here, however, remote from Wagnerian exclusive-
ness, it avoids Wagner’s overloading and, unlike Wagner, it is used in the
voices with the same consistency as in the orchestra.
Alongside strictly leitmotivic constructions, the Cockerel contains in addi-
tion, subject to the intensification of the lyricism, broad melodic formations
entirely free or half-free of connections with the leitmotive group. An exam-
ple of the first is the beautiful chorus of the people in Act III ‘Vernı̈ye tvoi
kholopı̈’ (‘Your loyal serfs’), which uses pure folk part-writing; what is more,
even here the orchestra has a figure which links the chorus with the rest of
the opera’s melodic material. An example of the second is the miraculous
aria of the Tsaritsa of Shemakha ‘Otvet’ mne, zorkoye svetilo’ (‘Answer me,
luminary of dawn’) written in couplet form with an ever-enriched orchestral
accompaniment. New independent phrases are spliced organically together
with the winding chromatic coils of the Tsaritsa of Shemakha’s principal
theme, and as a result produce an unusually original melody; this marvel-
lous melody is no doubt destined over the course of time to become a classic,
like Glinka’s best arias, to which it is a worthy companion in its plastic
beauty and brilliance of contour.
Once they have revealed themselves, the leitmotives of The Golden Cock-
erel generally strive to take shape as the clear-cut contours of a rounded
phrase or at least of a simple repetition and they thereby correspond to the
greatest possible extent to the distinctly garish outline of Pushkin’s tale and
even to its sharply minted paired verses, excellently assimilated by Mr Bel’sky.
All are boldly distinctive, each is characteristic in its own way, and they im-
print themselves easily in the listener’s memory, like symbols in sound. Often
they are associated with harmonies of startling novelty and power, which
sometimes even attain independent significance as ‘leit-harmonies’. There
are also, finally, in the Cockerel, ‘leit-timbres’ (for example, the combination
of harp, glockenspiel and celesta for the Astrologer).
Diatonicism of the folksong kind predominates in the themes of Dodon,
his sons and Amelfa; in the themes of the Astrologer and the Tsaritsa of
Shemakha, chromaticism predominates. In a few places one can detect a
certain kinship in the melodic turns of phrase of the Astrologer and the
Tsaritsa, indicating, perhaps some internal connection between these two
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fantastic heroes of The Golden Cockerel, a connection which is undoubtedly

already present in Pushkin’s tale, although enigmatic and concealed. Polkan’s
barking chromaticism – he always ‘speaks as if he were cursing’ – is very
characterful. The nobles are given nothing independent; they have to be
humbly content with snatches of Dodon’s themes.
Even more wittily treated is the leitmotive of the Golden Cockerel. It is
double-headed – it exists in two forms. No. 1 is ‘Reign, lying on your side’
(the introduction to the opera opens with it); no. 2 is ‘Look out, be on guard’
(with which the opera ends). Both forms are made up of melodic steps that
are absolutely identical in interval, but each descending melodic step in no. 1
corresponds with an ascending step in no. 2 and vice versa. For instance, both
the dream scenes in Act I26 with their enchanting timbre are saturated with
no. 1 (on your side). No. 2 (be on guard) pervades the broadly developed
scenes of military alarm in Act I and popular anxiety in Act III.
No less startling are the transformations of the war theme. What lubok-
like dance brilliance fills this major-key half-folk, half-soldier tune, when
the people accompany Dodon as he sets off to war and greet him on his
return! How it huddles up in the cowardly minor key when Dodon’s host
comes upon the fallen tsareviches! How plaintive it sounds in the chorus
sung over the Tsar’s corpse, while the wailing lamentations of the people
form an original kind of counterpoint against it!
But Rimsky-Korsakov gave most attention and his greatest inspiration to
the Tsaritsa of Shemakha. Whereas her character is only weakly outlined
in Pushkin, in the opera it has been extensively rounded out. And it is,
in fact, everything connected with the Tsaritsa of Shemakha, as well as to
an extent with the Astrologer that differentiates The Golden Cockerel most
clearly from Saltan. In the straightforward, naive, spice-cake tinsel of Saltan,
everything is clearly visible; it exemplifies the pure kind of stylized lubok
folk-tale opera. The same thing is in The Golden Cockerel; but it contains
something else as well, something far more powerful, profound and, in spite
of its understatement – or perhaps because of it – full of a special inexpressible
charm.
The principal vehicle of this mysterious charm in The Golden Cockerel is
the image of the Tsaritsa of Shemakha which Rimsky-Korsakov has created.
This image is new and without precedent in our musical literature. It contains
the venom of sarcasm, and the primeval seductive grace of the fabled Orient,
and the tragedy, acute almost to the point of reality, of the solitary female
26 Author’s note: How accurately the difference between Dodon’s first dream and his second
dream (where he can already see the Tsaritsa of Shemakha distinctly) is realized by means
of chromatic harmonies and fragments of the Queen’s theme.
89
in search of a worthy conqueror, and a kind of predatory demonism, now

showing its claws, now concealing them. All this, which seems uncoordinated
and apparently contradictory when one reads the libretto, is welded together
into something whole, living, vivid and enigmatically beautiful by the charms
of the music. The melodies, each more beautiful than the one before, and
almost always fanned by Eastern chromaticism, follow one another endlessly
on the Tsaritsa’s lips, and there is no end to this ocean of songs iridescent
with thousands of shades of passion, dream, play and mockery.
These songs acquire special vividness thanks to the contrast with every-
thing sung by Dodon, starting with the scene of his night-time fears (also
remarkable musically!) and ending with the long scene where he falls un-
der the Tsaritsa’s thumb.27 The intelligent beauty could of course have seen
through and captivated the simple Dodon far more quickly, but . . . then she
would not have given us so many wonderful songs.
It is these songs, together with the other superlative music and the lively
originality of the stage concept, which make the second act (‘Shemakha’)
the centre of the entire opera. In a distinctive way, it is the centre from the
architectonic point of view as well: on either side are the two ‘Dodon’ acts,
and further away still, at the outer edges, are the Astrologer’s Prologue and
Epilogue. And this purely architectural symmetry is, of course, not fortuitous.
It is merely the foremost embodiment of that principle of balance, proportion
and co-ordination which pervades all the music of the Cockerel, from large-
scale structures to the very smallest.
Of Mozartian elegance and euphony, this music is at the same time the
last word in harmonic and orchestral refinement! What new possibilities are
opened up for the artistic exploitation of the diminished seventh (particularly
in the development of the Tsaritsa’s main theme), the minor third with major
seventh and augmented chords (among other places, in the Cockerel’s ki-ri-
ku-ku in which fanfares of three different major triads are built one after
another on one augmented triad). Korsakov is evidently ready to treat the
dissonance of the augmented triad as a consonance; he even ends the opera on
it – and, one must admit, he gives the impression of a real end by that means.
The Golden Cockerel’s orchestra hits the target just as boldly and unerringly:
it is fresh, magnificent, endlessly rich and at the same time transparent, witty
and subtle in detail.
27 Author’s note: The musically comic effect, among other things, is magnificent when Dodon
replies to the Tsaritsa’s grippingly ardent question: Chto tı̈ pel, kogda lyubil? (‘What did
you sing when you were in love?’). Loudly and coarsely, with the dullest of harmonies and
orchestral sonorities, he sings to the familiar motive Chizhik-pı̈zhik, gde tı̈ bı̈l? (‘Linnet,
where have you been?’) the chastushka Budu vek tebya lyubit’, postarayus’ ne zabı̈t’ (‘I shall
love you forever, I’ll try not to forget’).
90
Rimsky-Korsakov
Rimsky-Korsakov has indeed bequeathed to the world much that is good,

but even among his gems The Golden Cockerel is one of the finest. Like all
successfully balanced works of genius, it possesses in addition the same ca-
pacity to enrapture musicians and amateurs, specialists as well as the broad
public alike. And I believe that the same general and deserved success awaits
Rimsky-Korsakov’s final opera as fell to the lot of its predecessors The Snow-
maiden and Sadko. [Engel’ assesses the production and performance.]
91
CHAPTER THREE
Other composers of the former

Balakirev circle
(a) Ts. A. Cui: The Second Concert of the Russian Musical

Society. Excerpt from ‘Music Notes’ in The Voice, 22
October 1880, no. 292, p. 2
[The orchestra of the Mariinsky Theatre was conducted by Eduard
Napravnik.]
The Second Concert of the Russian Musical Society was full of interest.
From the symphonic repertory, the following works were performed: Schu-
mann’s ‘First’ Symphony, Glinka’s Jota aragonesa, Borodin’s [In the Steppes
of ] Central Asia, and a March by Mr Musorgsky.
The last two works named belong in the category of so-called pièces
d’occasion. Both form part of a whole series of pieces of music conceived
last year, in the composition of which all our composers, of all hues, were
meant to take part. The programme of Mr Borodin’s musical picture is as
follows:
In the desert of central Asia the melody of a peaceful Russian song is

heard at first. The approaching tramp of horses and camels is heard,
together with the doleful sounds of an oriental melody. A native caravan
guarded by Russian soldiers crosses the boundless steppe. It completes
its long journey trustingly and without fear under the protection of the
victors’ awesome military strength. The caravan moves further and fur-
ther away. The peaceful melodies of both vanquished and vanquisher
merge into a single common harmony, whose echoes long resound in the
steppe before eventually dying away in the distance.
This programme has been implemented by Mr Borodin with exceptional

talent. The two brief themes, Russian and oriental, are very beautiful and
fresh; and the way they are combined is the most successful and harmo-
nious of any I know. The caravan’s approach and retreat are executed in
masterly fashion. The measured pizzicato which continues throughout, and
also the violins’ extremely high pianissimo at the beginning and end, lend the
whole short piece a great deal of picturesqueness. In addition, the entire little
92
Other composers of the former Balakirev circle
musical picture is written so lightly, clearly and with such taste that even
apart from the programme it represents a charming short concert piece – a
trifle, to be sure, but one worthy of Mr Borodin’s versatile, varied and pow-
erful talent, which in his latest works has reached its full development. It is
desirable that besides this trifle the Russian Musical Society should include
Mr Borodin’s symphonies in its repertory – major, capital works, one of
which was performed this year in Germany with great success.1
Mr Musorgsky’s task was much more difficult: he had to illustrate the
capture of [the Turkish fortress of] Kars [by Russian troops in 1877]. To
do this, he composed a march. For the first theme, he took a wonderful
Russian folksong, which sounds excellent in the brass to begin with, and
then especially in the divided strings. To depict our foes, he has made the trio
of the march ‘alla turca’, with all the harsh strangeness of their melodies and
all the wildness of their barbarous instrumentation (piccolo and percussion
instruments). This trio, and also the fanfares which often cut through the
music of the march, would be entirely appropriate on the stage during a
corresponding tableau vivant, but in the concert hall sounded harsh and
fierce, and to me personally unpleasant; but the majority of the public were
evidently of a different opinion, and the composer was therefore called for
and greeted with applause. [. . .]
(b) Ts. A. Cui: Borodin’s Quartet. Excerpt from ‘Music

Notes’ in The Voice, 14 January 1881, no. 14. Cui,
pp. 281–3
The première of the A major quartet was given in St Petersburg by the
Russian Quartet on 30 December 1880.
(1) Borodin’s Quartet (manuscript). Borodin is one of our most talented

composers. He writes easily and freely. If, in spite of that, he writes little,
that is because he has serious work commitments which leave him only rare
hours of leisure. He has a great wealth of themes which are often broad
and singing, and are always fresh and beautiful. Many are imprinted with
a Russian folk character. He also readily lends them an Eastern colouring.
He is a most subtle and inventive harmonist. His harmonies contain much
that is new, original and entirely his own. He particularly likes to base the
movement of the harmony on brief chromatic phrases. He also has a great
liking for contrapuntal elaboration, for combining themes, rearranging them
and so on. But one must observe that this interest, these cunning tricks with
textures, are almost never achieved at the expense of the work’s musical con-
tent. Among the shortcomings of his music can be counted the too frequent
1 Borodin’s First Symphony was performed on 8/20 May 1880 in Baden-Baden.
93
changes of rhythm and the at times excessive refinement of the harmony and
counterpoint.
Borodin is the composer of seven charming songs, two symphonies (the
first was performed in Germany this spring with great success [see n. 1 above]
and the second a few days ago in Moscow, not without success2 ) and many
numbers from the opera [Prince] Igor (from the ‘Lay of the Host of Igor’),
which, however, is far from being complete. If to this total one adds the
little musical picture Srednyaya Aziya (‘In the Steppes of Central Asia’) and
Borodin’s participation in Paraphrases, then that seems to be everything that
this most talented of composers has written so far.
Given his compositions’ major virtues and small number, the interest
aroused by every new composition of his is understandable, the string quartet
in question included.
The Quartet’s introduction is simple and peaceful, offering a beautiful ac-
cumulation of sound leading to the first Allegro. The Allegro is sweet and
attractive. Its first theme is of an exclusively gentle character; the second is
more impassioned and absorbing. A tiny chromatic phrase serves as a link
between them, giving an opportunity for spicy and original harmonizations.
The central section is vast but interesting. In it one should note the broadly
developed fugato based on the second theme, the repeated introduction ac-
companied most beautifully by the chromatic phrase mentioned earlier, and
the sumptuously accompanied first theme (cello pizzicato, arpeggios in the
first violin). After the usual repetition of the ‘exposition’, the Allegro ends
with a further new short theme, flowing out of the first, which has a refresh-
ing effect. The defect in this Allegro is that there are several longueurs – most
perceptibly in the central section and unavoidably connected with a certain
uniformity of tone.
In the second movement, Andante, the middle part is not entirely success-
ful. It is once again a fugato (the second), based on a chromatic phrase and
as a consequence insufficiently clear and transparent. But the beginning and
end of the Andante are delightful. Their musical character is old – its spirit
reminiscent of the introduction to Berlioz’s L’Enfance du Christ, and this
old style imbues it with special freshness and novelty. If to this one adds the
simple but at the same time profound expressiveness, and in the midst of it
all, one fiery passionate phrase which bursts through (descending triplets in
the first violin), then the need for the beginning and end of this Andante to
be attractive becomes understandable.
The lively and boisterous Scherzo is musically weaker than the remaining
movements of the Quartet, though it too contains many fine episodes. One of
2 His Second Symphony was performed in Moscow on 20 December 1880.
94
them deserves special attention for its unprecedented originality – the trio.
In it one instrument plays an accompanying figure and all three others play
in harmonics. The most subtle sound of these extremely high notes makes a
strange but at the same time pleasant effect, diversifies the monotonous sound
of string instruments, gives the music being performed a light character and
makes you think you are listening to imaginary instruments of some sort. As
far as I know, this kind of successful effect has not been used before in any
other quartet.
The finale is prefaced again by an Andante, based on a single phrase from
the first Andante. Although this phrase serves as the bass foundation for the
opening theme of the impending finale, I consider that it would have been
better to do away with this Andante altogether, or curtail it, or else vary it,
because its similarity to the previous one only delays the end of the Quartet.
As far as the finale itself is concerned, it is the best movement. It is concise,
compact, has great strength, its second theme is fetching, and the ending is
striking and energetic.
To this one must add that the style of this quartet is entirely ‘quartet-
like’, something which is often not the case even with more experienced
masters than Borodin; every instrument plays a conspicuous and independent
role; the work is very difficult to play, but sounds well. Borodin displays an
amazing command of composing technique in it (elaborating and developing
phrases, transferring them from one part to another, etc.).
[The quality of the performance was poor.]
(c) Ts. A. Cui: Excerpt from the Second Russian Symphony

Concert, Excerpt from ‘Notes about Music’. The Citizen,
11 November 1887, no. 42. Cui, pp. 376–8
This series of orchestral concerts was initiated by M. P. Belyayev at
his own expense; his other ventures included the Leipzig-based music
publisher bearing his name; cf. Chapter 4.
[. . .] In this concert the following symphonic works were performed

[. . .].
(2) ‘Intermezzo’ (in reality, a slow scherzo) in B minor by Musorgsky. This
Intermezzo is very multi-coloured in its music. The first section is serious
and austere. Ponderous but powerful unison phrases emerge with a classical
sense of their importance, only rarely to be interrupted by harsh chords.
In the second figure all classicism disappears and harshness and strength
are replaced by caressing prettiness and mildness. But in spite of that, the
second figure too retains the character of West European music. The trio, on
the other hand, is wholly Russian, full of graceful animation, cheerfulness
95
and elegance. This mixture could be disagreeable if one based one’s appraisal
of this Intermezzo only on rationality. But its music is so attractive and full
of talent that during a performance there is no need even to think about this
diversity of colours. It is beyond reproach both in content and form, and
contains not a single feeble bar.
(3) Rus’ – the symphonic poem by Balakirev – was written at the beginning
of the 1860s and at that time bore the title ‘Musical Picture: 1,000 years’. It
appears now in a revised version, but it has been revised only slightly and
primarily in instrumentation. The form of this symphonic poem most closely
resembles that of an overture. Three Russian folksongs serve as themes (one
for the slow introduction and two for the Allegro of the overture). The
first of them is gentle, appealing, based on just a few notes, constructed
on an original rhythmical outline, and filled with reflective and intimate
poetry. The second theme is tranquil but not without dash, expressed among
other ways in the original flourishes often encountered in Russian folksongs.
The third song is powerful, energetic and full of indomitable, somewhat
wild bravado. At the outset these themes occur in fragments, in different
orchestral instruments, and later on they grow and develop. Particularly
from the beginning of the second theme of the Allegro, this development
attains remarkable breadth and variety. The themes clash with one another,
expand and engender new ones, and the interest in Rus’ intensifies right to
the very end. If one were forced to point to the most outstanding episodes
in this composition, one would have to cite the whole work: that shows
how strongly inspiration goes hand in hand with deeply considered mastery
of texture. One ought to add also that Rus’, like Balakirev’s First Russian
Overture, is the prototype of the overtures on folk themes subsequently
written in significant numbers in Russia. They have all copied the new form
which Balakirev created, a somewhat mosaic, variation-like one, but one full
of brilliance and interest.
(4) Spanish Capriccio. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio comprises several
separate movements. It opens with a brilliant introduction (Alborada); then
come variations on a tiny Andante theme, after which the Alborada is re-
peated, thus playing something like the role of a ritornello. Then comes a
gypsy scene with a song (Scena e canto gitano) and finally an Asturian Fan-
dango. The entire Capriccio is based on Spanish folk themes. All the themes
are tiny – more like phrases than themes. Some of them are insignificant,
such as the theme for the variations, some are animated to the extent of
frenzy though fairly banal (Alborada, which amounts to the rotation of two
chords); some are fervent and spicy (the gypsy song). These little phrases are
elaborated with rare mastery, although Korsakov does not develop them,
being content to vary the harmony, modulations and counterpoint while
96
preserving the music’s bright Spanish colouring throughout. But the main
strength, the distinctive character of the Capriccio, lies not there, but rather
in its instrumentation which is carried to the highest degree of perfection.
This is the most virtuoso of pieces for orchestra – what the Rhapsodies of
Liszt are for the piano.
At the present time Korsakov is the premier orchestrator in Europe; but
he has never before brought his instrumentation to the stunning virtuosity
of this Capriccio. To be sure, he set out primarily to create instrumental
effects. It is impossible to enumerate all these effects. A considerable place
is given to solo instruments – violin, clarinet, flute, harp, even side-drum;
we find the most unusual and always beautiful combinations of different
instruments; the percussion instruments play a prominent role, though al-
ways a noble one, and so on. This is one of the most dazzling, most brilliant
orchestral compositions of all that are in existence; it rivals the most wonder-
ful works of its kind, such as Tchaikovsky’s Italian Capriccio, Saint-Saëns’
Danse macabre, Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, Berlioz’s Queen Mab, and in its
endless variety of effects perhaps surpasses them. It is impossible not to sur-
render to the fascination of these charming, magical sounds. It is therefore
not surprising that this Capriccio [. . .] provoked a noisy ovation in favour
of the composer and was repeated, its significant length notwithstanding.
The Capriccio overshadowed all the other items in the programme with its
sonorous splendour [. . .].
[The compilers of programmes for these concerts ought to cast their net
more widely among Russian composers.]
(d) S. N. Kruglikov: The first two Symphonic Assemblies of

the Russian Musical Society. Artist, November 1889, Book
3, second edition (Moscow 1890), pp. 131–7
Semyon Nikolayevich Kruglikov (1851–1910) studied with Rimsky-
Korsakov and Lyadov and was active in Moscow as a critic from the
1880s.
[. . .]
The first Symphonic Assembly, conducted by Mr Rimsky-Korsakov, was of

enormous interest. The programme was exclusively Russian, and moreover
consisted of works either completely new to Moscow or little known here.
Mr Balakirev’s Tamara is a superlative work of great talent – one of the
most clearly outstanding phenomena in the whole of present-day musical
literature. Personal acquaintance with nature’s gaunt allure in the Caucasus
and with Caucasian melodies, the typically Caucasian tradition poeticized
with such captivating charm by Lermontov – that is where Balakirev found
97
inspiration, that is what prompted in him the idea of representing Lermon-

tov’s Tamara in the music of his ‘symphonic poem’. It opens with a musical
landscape. The wild, bleak Dar’yal ravine. On the cliff the old tower, abode
of the enchantress Tamara, stands out blackly. She is ‘beautiful’ ‘like a heav-
enly angel, like a demon crafty and evil’. It is calm; only the lapping of the
river Terek is heard: it ‘burrows in the mist’ and destroys the silence of the
gruesome gorge. That is what is portrayed to the listener’s imagination by
this scarcely audible rumble of timpani, the creeping triplets in the strings so
colourfully shaded in, and, somewhere deep down, the severe, restrained evil
of the buzzing brass; these sometimes contain fleeting excerpts of a beckoning
feminine theme. But listen closely! An instrumental dance tune can be heard
from the tower, a tune with originality, in typically oriental style, with ori-
ental wilfulness in its angular rhythm. The tune grows, flares up, dies away,
rises up again, changes colour, character and rhythm over and over again –
it intoxicates and stupefies. A whole orgy of sounds, now untameably, furi-
ously joyous, now amorous, now enigmatically ominous, frightening. And
these sounds are also terrible, but at the same time they caress, they attract ir-
resistibly, they hold out promises. And then once more something else comes
along: again everything has begun to whirl round, to dance, to roar with a
terrible, violent laughter. You remember Lermontov:
I strannı̈ye dikiye zvuki

Vsyu noch’ razdavalisya tam,
Kak budto v tu bashnyu pustuyu
Sto yunoshey pı̈lkikh i zhon
Soshlisya na svad’bu nochnuyu,
Na triznu bol’shikh pokhoron.
[And strange wild sounds
Rang out all night there,
As if in that empty tower
A hundred ardent youths and women
Had gathered for a night-time wedding,
A feast for a great funeral.]
Yes – all these things can be heard in Mr Balakirev’s work: the ‘wedding’
as well as the ‘feast for a great funeral’, the enchanting oriental languor as
well as the burning, insane bursts of passion. But the mad orgy has abated,
the life of the traveller who fell for Tamara’s charms has been cut short. As
at the beginning, the river with its waves rolls along; these waves seethe and
‘hastened, lamenting, to bear the mute body away’. The best moment of the
‘poem’ gets under way:
98
V okne togda chto-to belelo,

Zvuchalo ottuda: ‘prosti!’
I bı̈lo tak nezhno proshchan’ye,
Tak sladko tot golos zvuchal,
Kak budto vostorgi svidan’ya
I laski lyubvi obeshchal.
[In the window something showed white,
And from there rang out: ‘Forgive me!’
And so tender was the farewell,
So sweetly rang that voice,
It was like a promise of the raptures of meeting
And the caresses of love.]
Mr Balakirev has indeed been most successful of all with this ‘Forgive
me!’; it is poetry itself, it is true inspiration. Tamara’s theme (her summons)
overflows into something broad, thrilling and infinitely charming; the beauty
of the harmonies and orchestral colours resists description of any kind. Had
all of Tamara been bad, it would have had to be considered an excellent
work on account of this ‘Forgive me!’ alone. But there is nothing bad about
it, although there are nevertheless some shortcomings. There is something of
the sort in the ‘orgy’, whose ardour slackens here and there; to my mind, the
fault lies in repeating one powerful device more frequently than is desirable:
the increase in sound and speed of movement suddenly dies out in order to
return again later to a similar gradual heightening of the atmosphere. The
listener follows this growth in the music, his heart stopping as he thinks
that this time it will reach a climax, and all of a sudden he is deceived –
the growth breaks off, and the sound begins to increase all over again. This
stuns and excites the listener; he follows the new growth with redoubled
attention and, still full of strength, takes its highest point as the longed-for
climax. But Mr Balakirev ‘deceives’ us in this way more than once, and
more than twice; and the listener, who to begin with was stirred and fired up
by the ‘deceits’, has by the end cooled and grown somewhat tired. Tamara
is, besides, excessively difficult in performance. The well-known oriental
fantasia Islamey for piano by the same Mr Balakirev is more difficult than
any rhapsody by Liszt; and Tamara is just about the most difficult orchestral
piece ever written by anyone. That’s everything; no further reproaches can
be levelled against Tamara. Woven together from the most original, most
talented manifestations of creative power, it is Mr Balakirev’s finest work, a
composition which is truly first class, truly ideal.
The Assembly opened with Tamara. From this point on I abandon the
order of performance and review first the orchestral pieces.
99
Mr Lyadov’s Scherzo3 is a delightful, graceful thing, where the good

Schumann has offered a hand of friendship with the skilful devices which
characterize the congenial features of the talented composer of Biryul’ki
(‘Spillikins’), Intermezzi and many other piano compositions (Mr Lyadov
has until now written almost exclusively for the piano). The character of the
Scherzo is cheerful, lively and elegantly joking; it is a genuine ‘joke’ – sweet,
witty and beautiful; particularly captivating is the figure in B-flat major (the
Scherzo itself is in D major) and the modulations which immediately follow
it. The middle section (Trio) is lyrical and gentle. Towards the end the 38
Scherzo theme is combined in masterly fashion with the 34 theme of the Trio:
two bars of the former are set against one bar of the latter – a rhythmic effect
of subtle grace. This was the first performance of Mr Lyadov’s Scherzo in
Moscow.
Mr Glazunov’s Poème lyrique4 (likewise a complete novelty in Moscow)
maintains a warm melodic style throughout, and is thus free to subdue every
listener by the feeling of sincerity which it pours into the soul. I had occasion
to hear this opinion of the ‘Poem’ expressed by a member of the public:
‘What a heartfelt piece, and yet how much simplicity it has!’ This opinion
is typical, and says a lot: Mr Glazunov’s ‘Poem’ is simple – in other words
understandable, clear and accessible. And that’s absolutely right: the feeling
which lives within it, the atmosphere of love and dreaminess cannot fail to be
communicated to the crowd or to strike them as clear, understandable and
simple. But on the other hand, Mr Glazunov does not pander to the crowd
or merely purvey agreeable commonplaces to them, the music in his ‘Poem’
is far from the kind you meet everywhere; on the contrary, it is all entirely his
own, full of far from simple details and wholly distinctive harmonic features;
and some chord combinations are straightforwardly so new as never to have
been encountered before in anyone else’s music. And how fascinatingly beau-
tiful all this is – take for instance the twice repeated harmonic shifts with
the expressive A at the top (the second time, right at the end, they are
still more original, more unusual and at the same time even more beautiful
than the first time), or take those orchestral outbursts which probably stare
everyone in the face – the profound sighs with the note emerging upwards in
the woodwind instruments. This is a superb composition, the fruit of truly
happy inspiration.
[The writer’s opinion of an excerpt from Borodin’s opera Prince Igor is
given at (e).] [. . .]
3 Lyadov is considered further in Chapter 4.

4 Glazunov is considered further in Chapter 4.
100
Hearing the Spanish Capriccio under [Rimsky-Korsakov’s] direction was

naturally extremely captivating. And indeed only now was it possible to ap-
preciate fully all the brilliant features of Mr Korsakov’s virtuoso instrumen-
tation distributed in generous handfuls through the whole work. As music,
to be honest, the Capriccio is inferior to much else from this composer’s pen;
it is essentially still more of a rhapsody than Glinka’s Night in Madrid, and as
regards thematic development cannot stand comparison with [Glinka’s] Jota
aragonesa; it is a pot-pourri – a masterly one, of course, tasty, fascinating,
spicy and fervent even when played by piano four hands; it is the escapade
of a great artist who has had the idea of constructing a gigantic kaleidoscope
of sound made up of the most ingenious, new orchestral combinations and
colours capable of entering his head alone. And now these colours sparkle,
merge into all possible subtle shades, gambol, tease, twinkle and laugh; and
as you follow them, against your will you too laugh the cheerful, carefree
laughter of heartfelt merriment. I wanted to call the Capriccio the last word
in orchestration; but Mr Korsakov will accumulate many more such ‘last
words’. [. . .]
The main item performed by Mr Blumenfeld5 was Mr Rimsky-Korsakov’s
Piano Concerto (played once before in Moscow by Mr Lavrov). There is a
great deal of music and a great deal of skill in the Concerto. It is somewhat
Lisztian as regards form; in only one movement, it is compressed and laconic
in setting out its ideas, yet at the same time rich in content. It all derives from
a single wonderful folksong, a recruiting one: Sobiraytes’-ka, brattsı̈ rebya-
tushki (‘Get yourselves ready, brothers, lads’). It also yielded a theme for the
Adagio – a broad lyrical one, the playful theme of the Allegro, accompani-
ment figures and cadenza patterns – in a word, everything is obtained from
the same material and has been worked up into a single well-proportioned,
attractive whole, akin in style and devices to the best places in Korsakov’s
The Snowmaiden. [. . .]
In a word, the experiment – of putting on in Moscow a programme of
exclusively Russian music compiled from works almost or wholly unknown
in Moscow – has been carried out. It has proved that Russian music offers
many compositions of diverse character and great talent, and that an evening
devoted solely to them is not only possible but even in the highest degree
interesting and desirable. Naturally, several estimable citizens of the musi-
cally Germanized heart of Russia [i.e. Moscow] are puzzled and confused,
afraid to express their opinion, and turn to the experts for information; the
latter explain things as best they can, but in general apparently are starting to
5 Blumenfeld is mentioned again in Chapter 4.
101
succumb to the normal inclination in favour of all that is good, talented and
original in Russian music, with those new tendencies with which the music
sections of the best Moscow newspapers are beginning to be imbued. [. . .]
(e) S. N. Kruglikov: Prince Igor. Opera in four acts with a

prologue. Words and Music by A. P. Borodin. Artist, 1890,
no. 11, pp. 165–81
The source of this opera is the twelfth-century literary monument Slovo
o polku Igoreve (‘The Lay of the Host of Igor’), from which the com-
poser derived a libretto. Borodin worked on this opera in 1869–70 and
from 1874, leaving it incomplete on his death. Rimsky-Korsakov and
Glazunov prepared the version reviewed here, first staged in the Mari-
insky Theatre on 23 October 1890.
Borodin dedicated his Igor to the memory of Glinka. That is significant,

and this opera contains several homages to the greatness of the genius who
gave Russian music life, and there is something else besides. Glinka’s greatest
creation is Ruslan. There Glinka is the bard, the singer of ancient Rus’, of her
bogatı̈ri6 and their great feats. Borodin was drawn to the very same themes
and the very same songs; the old Russian epic plays a most important role in
his finest creations – the ‘Second’ Symphony, and the opera with which we are
concerned here. In undertaking Igor, Borodin entered the same field where
the ‘golden strings’ which hymned Lyudmila once rang out. Both chose the
grey-haired antiquity of the legend (skazaniye) and the heroic ballad (bı̈lina).
And the younger brother could not but recollect the older one, and to him
he dedicated his labour.
The subject of Borodin’s opera is The Lay of the Host of Igor. It is hard
to find a more Russian or more national subject. It pays honour truthfully,
without embellishment, entirely in the sense of a chronicle without wise phi-
losophizing, to the fearlessness, frankness and openness of the hero-prince,
fighting for his country’s faith and rights against a cruel and terrible foe; tells
of the touching fidelity of his beloved, of their great sorrow on being parted
and their happy joy on being reunited, of the devotion of army and people
to their prince and princess. And the narrative does not shout or underline
anything. There are no pictures of the horrors of Igor’s captivity, because in
fact there was none, since according also to history Igor led a very tolera-
ble existence with Konchak: the bloodthirsty savage treasured his prisoner’s
valour, and respected him highly. The Khan is a hero too in his own way; he
is simply not so developed morally as Igor, and for him much in the Russian
6 Bogatı̈r’: a strong, well-built hero in Russian folklore.
102
prince is incomprehensible and almost funny; were he in Igor’s position, the

Khan would not have declined the beautiful slave-girls or found it shameful
to enter into alliance with his gracious conqueror in order to wage war
against his own people. All Konchak needs is bravery, martial amusement,
victory and booty; he is not choosy about anything else. He esteems Igor for
his bravery, but does not go into details: to him they are hardly accessible.
Likewise accurate, according to the chronicle, is the romance between the
Khan’s daughter and the captive son of the captive Russian prince. Nor does
the figure of Galitsky contradict history either. That prince was exactly like
this: he loved carousing, and lived a jolly life in all respects, without reflecting
on anything.
The plot of Igor gives the composer great scope. How much variety
and contrast, what simplicity and well-defined clarity are in the outlines of
the characters’ portrayals. Russians and Polovtsians; a Russian hero and
a Polovtsian one; the morally strict, valorous Prince Igor and his wife’s
brother – who is brazen, debauched and a drunkard; the steadfast, faith-
ful and loving Princess Yaroslavna and Konchakovna who is all afire with
a passion for love. And all this is a property of long, long ago – of the year
1185; all this is covered in the haze of the long-gone past and therefore has
no flavour in prose and realism of the phenomena of life which surround us,
but cries out for the broad lyricism and simplicity of the heroic ballads, for
music which is always accessible and characteristic.
[Kruglikov recounts the action act by act.]
But what is the libretto like as a whole?
It contains some defects.
A certain monotony can be sensed in the devices: there are many occasions
on which someone’s praises are ceremonially sung (slavyat). Even supposing
that all these ‘praisings’, both Russian and Polovtsian, are adequately moti-
vated, monotony does not thereby cease to be any less monotonous (we are
not dealing here with the music at all – that comes later).
Much in the libretto is episodic – necessary for the picture to be complete
or for contrasts, but not directly connected with the course of the action.
Such is the Polovtsian couvre feu – the patrol – it is a mere detail of Act II,
though outstanding and full of character; thus Galitsky is merely there as a
contrast with Igor, and so on. And the whole character of Konchak is brought
out to demonstrate the absence of physical suffering during Igor’s Polovt-
sian captivity, and to arrange a felicitous dénouement for Konchakovna’s
romance. And surely this romance itself is an episode? It is included in the
libretto as nothing more than a convenient pretext for amorous lyricism and
to provide a complicating factor in Igor’s flight.
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The central figures in the drama are Igor and Yaroslavna, and the author
of the libretto has treated them with equal care; all the rest concerns them
only to a certain extent, and some of it not at all. But even these most
important characters are placed in an original position by the plot: it is in
their very separation that the drama consists; in the Prologue they bid each
other farewell almost silently; the next thing is that at the end of the final act
they sing a duet; during the first, second and third acts they languish apart.
The separate elements do not collide; drama, however, arises precisely from
the collision of feelings and passions. Here is the conclusion: the libretto of
Igor is not a drama; it is merely a device for adapting The Lay of the Host
of Igor to the stage, a chronicled fact, in characters and pictures, narrated
from the stage of a theatre.
Such a conclusion would, however, be too short-sighted and superficial.
Very well, maybe drama as it is usually understood is not so evident in the
libretto of Igor, maybe one really can see the collision of characters necessary
for drama hardly at all – it is nevertheless full of drama, not of the personal
kind which we were seeking and finding hardly at all, but of the kind in which
the Lay of the Host of Igor itself is undoubtedly steeped, a drama of ideas
and a profoundly national one. Igor is a warrior for everything that is near
and dear to his nation (narod), a warrior for this nation. Nothing frightens
Igor when he takes to the field for the rights of his country; you cannot
frighten this honest servant of an idea, of duty and honour with an eclipse.
But he is vanquished, he is in captivity, an easy captivity, we presume, but
that is immaterial – the important thing is that he is in captivity, deprived of
his liberty, deprived of the means of pursuing his sacred aim. That is drama.
Igor leaves captivity, reaches his own people again, and obtains once more
the chance of serving the cause to which duty calls him; and here is the
happy dénouement of the drama. Wife, family and personal interests are to
one side, while the idea is in the foreground. Borodin was right to call his
opera Prince Igor, and he would have been wrong had he called it Igor and
Yaroslavna. For he is alone as the representative of the nation. Prince Igor
is a national drama.
Let us move on to the music.
The Borodin of symphony and quartet and the Borodin of the opera are
not exactly the same. In the opera he is not so ingenious, does not make so
much play with the unexpectedness of his devices or luxuriate so much in
the originality of his ingenious tricks. In the opera he is entirely justifiably
afraid of drowning the singer by complexity of [orchestral] writing, and pays
greatest attention to the singer. Nor shall we get a precise understanding of
the manner of Igor from Borodin’s songs either: a song is a miniature; an
opera is a picture spread out over a canvas of impressive dimensions; this
104
requires a different calculation of effect and a different kind of writing. In

short, in the opera Borodin is simpler.
But everything we have just said concerns the external, or, more accu-
rately, the quantitative aspect of the matter: in one place there are more of
such-and-such devices and they are more subtle, in another there are fewer
of them and they are more substantial in scale. Essentially, in its basic fea-
tures the profile of Borodin’s talent is similar in all places. Whatever Borodin
wrote, his colossal gift impresses us everywhere by its versatility, originality
and profound content in ideas. And how varied are his musical ideas, how
marvellous his thematic creativity! Borodin is equally attracted to laughter
and jokes and to manly grief (he is never tearful); equally at his command are
the light, the graceful, the weighty and the cruel. He is also capable of being
tender, songful or loving as well as severe and powerful; he can be absorbed
in calmly contemplating nature or a historic event, he can be a calm and po-
etic narrator about either the one or the other, sometimes passion flares up
in him, but passion too in its multifaceted manifestations: here a warm kiss
or an embrace can be heard in his music, here an impulse of a different sort,
something spontaneous, everyday, the pulse of a popular movement, the cry
of a crowd aroused, the raising of the spirit of a mass of humanity. And
what is most precious of all – this powerful gift is entirely and completely a
Russian one. Borodin is a national composer; for this alone he is the direct
and unquestionable heir of Glinka.
Borodin is not only a person with a natural talent, he is a fine, educated
musician, a technician who is excellent, unconstrained and resourceful. His
counterpoints can be very crafty and complex, but are always lucid and nat-
ural; he can combine with the skill of a real master themes which sometimes
seem completely opposed in character. Borodin the harmonist yields nothing
to Borodin the melodist: just as the latter is broad, beautiful and graceful, so
the former, besides sharing those qualities, is often innovative and definitely
brings to art something of his own, without precedent before him.
Borodin’s music contains much that is individual and peculiar to him alone;
Borodin can easily be recognized from just a few bars.
Among his particularly favoured devices are: distinctive use of the interval
of the second; short little chromatic figures; organ points (changing chords
while the bass voice sustains the same note); sustained notes (the very same
manoeuvre, except that the note held on is in a middle or upper voice); basses
which move by leap.
Borodin’s seconds and the device just mentioned of leaps in the bass are
the most important of the new aspects which our excellent musician has
introduced in the realm of harmony. In Igor leaping bass-lines are used con-
spicuously; we shall therefore try to explain their essence as far as possible.
105
Imagine a series of chords so constructed that the bass moves smoothly, mov-
ing downwards all the time. Borodin disturbs this smoothness; he forces the
bass to move down in wide, unexpected intervals on notes of a single chord,
then on notes of the next one and so on. The result is not the usual kind of
bass-line but a kind of new voice wholly made up of seemingly fortuitous in-
tervals and strange in its huge compass. When we examine the music of Igor
in detail, we shall point out examples of this device in appropriate places.
Sometimes, on the other hand, a bass of this kind is achieved in a different
way; it also moves in broad and strange spans, but from every chord takes
only one note. Examples of this kind are also to be found in Igor. In instances
of both kinds of bass, not only is an effect of unexpectedness and originality
often achieved, but also an impression of something distinctively powerful
and untameable.
Borodin composed only the one opera. Consequently, one can only judge
him as an opera composer on the basis of Igor. What sort of composer is he
in the field of opera, a representative of new forms or of the old ones? That
is what has to be decided.
As we examine Igor, we see that Borodin was more attracted to rounded
numbers and scenes, and to planning them on a large scale. Should we con-
clude from this that Borodin disowns the contemporary operatic ideal and
is returning to the old one? We suppose not. Borodin is lyrical, in the nature
of his talent Borodin feels most free in cantilena, among rounded musical
outlines and in the midst of symphonic development of ideas; he has there-
fore prepared an operatic soil, a libretto, for himself with a subject such
that all these broader forms could find a rational, truthful application. It
is only as exceptions that Igor supplies examples where dramatic truth is
infringed; in the majority of cases everything is rational, all is accurately
thought out and in strict accordance with the course of the dramatic action.
A character sings something of rounded musical character when, according
to the action, he really ought to be ‘singing a [sustained] song’, or when he
is given a situation which gives the chance of remaining longer in a lyrical
mood (e.g. Konchakovna, etc.). The chorus sings something [musically] de-
veloped when according to the action it really ought to ‘sing a song’, during
a ceremonial ‘praising’, or at moments of uniform general animation (e.g.
the rejoicing at Igor’s return). Borodin has recourse even to sonata form (for
the Overture) and variation form (in the final dances of Act II); but all this
is appropriate and in no way contradicts the demands of modern opera,
where all sorts of forms are good, if only they are rational and match the
course of the drama. Besides, in Borodin we also find outstanding speci-
mens of the latest melodic recitative, in places where one could not manage
without it because of the precipitate movement of the action (in the comic
106
scenes of the gudok-players,7 or Yaroslavna’s speeches before she meets her

husband).
The musical characterizations in Igor are very powerful. In spite of that,
they are expressed not by external devices but by means of the actual con-
tent of the music; one has to regard the use throughout the opera of several
thematic excerpts and chord progressions as very desirable ‘appropriate rec-
ollections’ of characters and moments in the opera, and not as Wagnerian
leitmotives, pinned once and for all to animate and even inanimate actors in
the musical drama, and pursuing them everywhere, all the time throughout
its duration. And in fact Borodin’s characterizations are successful: all the
characters in his opera emerge precisely as one imagines them from the Lay
of the Host of Igor and from the libretto of the opera. Igor is nobility itself,
bravery, strength, honesty and courage. Galitsky exudes effrontery, dissipa-
tion and nasty rakishness; he is a pretty low-grade carouser, but nevertheless
a prince in conduct and manners. Yeroshka and Skula are soul-mates in their
tastes, but they are of course people of a different kind: it is not they who
make drunkards of other people, they are entertained to drink for their jest-
ing and buffoonery; nonetheless the difference between them is immediately
obvious: Skula is the instigator; Yeroshka is more stupid and can act only
according to his comrade’s stratagems. Ovlur, whose entire role amounts to
persuading Igor to flee from captivity, persuades him in such a way that only
perhaps the adamantine Prince Igor would not be convinced by his argu-
ments right from the start. The character of Yaroslavna is maintained in full:
the image of the faithful, loving sweetheart is presented and is completely
clear and understandable to us. The young Prince Vladimir, as befits someone
in love, does not think of much other than Konchakovna, and is therefore
characterless. Konchakovna, on the other hand, is far from characterless in
her impetuous, fiery passion for Vladimir which causes her to forget every-
thing in the world, for which she is prepared to make any decision, to give
up everything. Konchak is superlative; that is exactly how you imagine him:
imperious, powerful, fervent, bloodthirsty, clever, noble in his own way, an
interesting amalgam of positive and negative qualities.
But if Borodin was successful with individual characters, the masses turned
out even better, emerged even more sharply; the Russians and the Polovtsians
are like sky and earth, so great is the difference in colour! After the staid
severity of the Slavonic sounds, the composer almost sets us on fire when
he introduces us to the Polovtsian camp. And what subtlety of differences,
moreover: the Russians praise in one way, the Polovtsians in another; a
carousing with Galitsky, an orgy at Konchak’s; there is nothing in common,
7 Gudok: a three- or four-stringed bowed instrument.
107
each time it is different, there is none of the monotony which one detected
in this respect when reading the libretto.
Let us now go through the opera step by step. We shall omit the Overture
for the time being; it will be discussed at the end.
The Prologue
The introductory orchestral bars are fine in the full sense of that word;
Russian in their strictly diatonic style, they are permeated by a ceremonial
importance and recognition of the seriousness of the moment. The digression
towards the flat side is one of the happiest details at this point. The chorus
of praise (slava) is worthy of the introduction. Although it is not based on
any well-known folksong but on a theme belonging to the composer, the
folk spirit is maintained irreproachably. To begin with, the chorus is set out
in an extremely simple manner: unisons, octaves and, in the inner voices,
thirds; there is something of antiquity in this naive coarseness and deliberate
poverty of harmony. Later on, on the other hand, the harmony is more
complicated, but the character of the opening is not disturbed; the word
slava itself is repeated here, harmonized in the most beautiful and original
fashion (the supertonic seventh in last inversion alternates with the 64 chord
of the tonic, with the bass of the latter entering slightly earlier); the Phrygian
cadence, in which the last chord with its ingeniously omitted third sounds
so full of character, leads to the four-sharp key which is the basis for the
girls’ enchanting singing. This is something different, like a kind of variation
on the theme of the beginning of the chorus. The alternation later on of
the women’s voices’ Slava! Slava! (‘Glory! Glory!’) with the men’s ‘Slavnı̈m
knyaz’yam nashim’ (‘To our splendid princes’) and so on is charming. The
chorus comes to an end after two dominant organ points; the first of them
is filled with gentle prettiness and the second with simplicity and power.
Now we have reached pure Borodinesque combinations, snatched, to be
exact, from his ‘Second’ Symphony; in these outbursts of the people shouting,
one detects the power of the crowd and its thirst for the enemy’s blood.
From a theoretical point of view, this is a paraphrase of the theme from the
orchestral introduction, occurring with the most original use of the harmonic
interval of the second. To the very same theme, but more gradually and not
so ferociously, the boyars8 sing, and this leads into a very gentle harmony
for eight-part chorus, where the theme from the beginning of the number
is developed imitatively. Then again comes the harsh unison of the people
on seconds in the orchestra and again the gentle imitations just described.
8 Boyar: a nobleman.
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This scene ends with smooth choral chords, while the lower registers of the
orchestra reproduce, as they die away, the theme of the people’s shouts, in
the guise of a decorated pedal.
However good the number just described may be, though, the ‘eclipse’
is still better as regards music. It becomes terrible from these dominant-
seventh chords in E-flat, A, G and C, taken one immediately after the other;
the panic-stricken trembling, the bewilderment, the crest-fallen state of the
people who just before this were bold and filled with vengeance, can be heard
in the orchestra’s semitones creeping down and in the original alternations
of minor modes built upon them. These pages are truly inspired.
Igor’s speech cannot stand comparison with them at all: it is decent and
that is all; and his phrase, placed between two fine excerpts from the music
of the first chorus – ‘druz’ya, syadem na borzı̈kh koney’ (‘Friends, let us be
seated on fast horses’) is even worse than that: it is perfectly ordinary.
The little scene of Skula and Yeroshka, on the other hand, is excellent;
it is full of humour, gifted jokes and incomparable declamation, worthy of
Musorgsky and his Inn Scene in Boris.
The sweethearts’ farewell is rather ordinary. The mood here is correct and
the ensemble is motivated in a justifiable way, but the crotchets in Igor’s
part are tedious and suggest something cold; Yaroslavna’s sobbing part is
monotonous, of little interest and surely only slightly better than what Igor
sings; the short four-part ensemble (Yaroslavna, Igor, Vladimir and Galitsky)
is euphonious, but nothing more; Igor’s words of farewell are insignificant;
Yaroslavna’s ‘Proshchay!’ (‘Farewell!’), where she has to diminuendo slowly
on a high C is both impractical and unbeautiful. What Igor says to Galitsky
is somewhat better; the essentially ordinary part for the singer also rests on
ordinary harmony, but it is ennobled by different melodic turns; also pleasant
here is the use in the final cadence of a first-inversion chord of the mediant,
instead of the dominant triad. Galitsky is more successful, and his music
for the words ‘Tı̈ vo mne uchast’ye prinyal’ (‘You showed some concern for
me’) goes to the heart of the matter. Throughout this scene one must pay
attention to the fine chords as the sweethearts enter and leave; the former
are in a descending pattern, the latter ascending.
The Prologue is rounded off, ending superbly with a chorus using the
music from the beginning, altered only slightly. The episode with the theme
in the basses is powerful, leading to the marvellous concluding bars in 32
time: cries of ‘Zdravi knyazi’ (‘Greetings, princes’) and so on; and then a
decorated pedal, as before, only more majestic.
In the Prologue the soloists are markedly inferior to the choruses. But
since the choruses in this Prologue are far more to the point than the soloists,
since the choruses sing superlative music imprinted with powerful inspiration
109
excellently sustained in the old-Russian style, since the brief comic scene
of the gudok-players is very successful, and the ‘eclipse’ is a thing of ge-
nius, then as a result the Prologue to Igor is a marvellous threshold to the
opera.
Act I scene 1
The music here also has a good deal in common with the composer’s ‘Second’
Symphony, and particularly with the playful sounds of its finale. Echoes of
it may be heard as early as the orchestra’s opening festive bars with their
lively, fervent little theme whistled somewhere at scarcely attainable heights.
To these sounds the drunkards, interrupting one another, shout out their
Slava to Galitsky. But the tempo accelerates; on top only the second half
of the lively little theme is given and Skula sings his song; the amicable
choir answers him; Skula is replaced by Yeroshka; later both gudok-players
sing together and again the chorus takes it up. In subject all this is full of
reckless merry-making and unrestrained revelry, and in the music too there
is revelry, merry-making also – purely Russian in nature, with its rampaging
and going out on the spree on a grand scale. That at least is the impression.
But what ingenuity there is in this music and its construction! Skula in fact
sings the theme which was whistled in the orchestra at the start. Yeroshka
has it too; except that it is now in a different hue, one of comic compassion.
It is in the chorus too, in whose hands, with the words ‘Goy, goy! Zagulyali!’
(‘Hey, hey! They’re starting to have fun!’), it undergoes some changes. Let
us note in passing the curious modulation at the ‘Mnogoletiye’ (‘Long life’)
(an unexpected F), and in Yeroshka and Skula, the compassion pervaded by
malicious humour – ‘Oy, khochu k batyushke’ (‘Ah, I want to go back to my
father’), etc.
Galitsky’s recitative is good, while his song (less well motivated, by the
way, than the singing of the gudok-players) is full of the right character – of
sweep and daring; in the song’s middle section the modulations from G-flat
to A and back again are interesting.
Galitsky’s subsequent recitative is possibly even better and more expres-
sive than his first one. His phrase ‘Poydyom-ka luchshe v terem’ (‘Let’s go
to the palace’) is given character by its breadth and brazenly commanding
character; it was used in the preceding recitative to the words ‘Ya zazhil
bı̈ na slavu’ (‘What a glorious life I’d lead’); we shall encounter it again in
Galitsky’s part in the scene with the Princess. The recitative is framed at
the beginning and the end by the strong exclamation ‘Knyazyu Galitskomu
slava!’ (‘Glory to Prince Galitsky!’); the theme of this exclamation will have
a role to play later on.
110
The scene with the girls is graceful, folklike and attractive when it concerns
them; it is somewhat weaker musically where the Prince’s replies are con-
cerned. The gudok-players’ mocking refrain at the end of the scene ‘Vot-te i
k batyushke’ (‘Back to their fathers’) is superlative – a most gifted prank.
The scene of the gudok-players with the chorus, ‘Stoy, rebyata, slukhay!’
(‘Stop, lads, listen’) is based in a lively and witty way on the interesting
orchestra, making skilful use of a motive taken from a theme at the beginning
of the scene.
The song in honour of the prince is a fine, fervent number in couplet
form. The ritornello with its trill and its beautiful spread chords on the top
sparkles and laughs. Skula starts his important-sounding song to a comic
text to the accompaniment of a kind of killingly funny sighs in the orchestra.
The chorus sings on to the end of the couplet with him. The same ritornello
comes back again, and Yeroshka sings the theme while Skula feels his way
along a chromatic scale; it all turns out most amusing. The chorus arranges
its short refrain in canon. The middle section of the number is entrusted to
Yeroshka; in his every phrase Skula enters rigorously with his three assenting
notes. This passage is repeated after Skula’s weighty couplet to the first theme,
anticipated by the previous ritornello in which a curious C in the bass is now
mixed in. At the end a canonic exchange from the chorus is added to the
gudok-players, and the ‘Song in honour of the prince’, which is profoundly
Russian, brilliantly talented and rib-ticklingly humorous, rounds things off
with its loudly laughing ritornello. A shortcoming of the song is perhaps its
too low choral parts.
The chorus ‘Da, vot komu bı̈ knyazhit’ na Putivle!’ (‘Yes, that’s who should
rule in Putivl!’) found its theme in the development of the choral exclamation
mentioned above, ‘Glory to Prince Galitsky!’ It contains the strength and
blunt obstinacy of a coarse gang dispersing. A little later the music of the
opening is reproduced successfully, and moreover at one point the opening
choral theme is superbly united with the theme ‘Yes, that’s who should rule
in Putivl!’
The scene dies away with ‘Ah, I want to go back to my father!’ On this
occasion Yeroshka brings out his drunken, piteous semitones. This realistic,
highly talented, lively, integral and at the same time musical and masterly
scene has given a vivid characterization of both Galitsky’s surroundings and
the prince himself.
Scene 2
Yaroslavna’s arioso is sincere, gentle and makes an impact; its calm, profound
sorrow has found expression in music of lofty qualities. The recitative section
111
is delightful – a genuine model of inspired melodic recitative. The faster

section is not quite so good musically, but full of the right mood and feeling;
the ‘dream’ is poetic.
The girls’ chorus is entrancing. Preceded by the warm short scene with
the nanny, it rings out in such touching, simple and charming sounds, and
several times comes to a close not on a chord but on a unison, so much in the
folk style that you are full of admiration both for the chorus itself, and for
the talent of a composer who is able to compose such truthful, artistically
realistic pictures of Russian life. The girls’ embarrassment is a little episode
of indescribable freshness; the Glinka-like little descending figure is heard
twice and occurs extremely aptly there. But the 54 ending of this number is
the best thing of all here; it is a masterpiece musically; it is one of the most
successful and natural applications of that metre in the entire literature of
music; a model of ‘Borodin’s’ seconds; and, lastly, it is truth itself as music
for the stage. And how good it is after this captivating patter song to return
to the calmer opening: all the offended girls have had their say and a weight
has fallen from their shoulders. Superb!
The scene with Yaroslavna and Galitsky is thinner. Notice, however, that
it is a scene and not a duet; a dialogue, not simultaneous singing; and that
is because there is no place here for lyricism and similarity of feeling be-
tween the two of them. We see the new aspirations of opera being served
here. During this scene Yaroslavna bases what she says on arioso elements,
whereas Galitsky in his replies in part recalls what he sang in the Prologue
and in part gives us something new, and the new material ends the musical
characterization of Galitsky; it is immensely to the point, although goodness
only knows what it is purely as regards music. Let us note one episode which
is harmonically very beautiful and sensuously passionate; it is the moment
when Galitsky, debauched to the marrow of his bones, admires his sister
with an angry expression in a not entirely brotherly fashion (‘brovi sdvinulis”
(‘his eyebrows moved’)). As Galitsky comes on, reminiscences of the music
of Yaroslavna’s arioso are very cleverly quoted; to the accompaniment of
those reminiscences, tired by the scene with her brother, she again dreams
sadly of her husband.
Yaroslavna’s recitative as she meets the boyars is insignificant. But the bo-
yars’ narrative is of amazing depth and power; its gloomy, joyless harmonies
are full of overwhelming tragedy, and the listener’s involuntary agitation
is only intensified by the Princess’ despairing hopeless wails which in places
interrupt the narrative. The melodic phrase of these replies of Yaroslavna is
repeated when she recovers consciousness after fainting; in the concluding
scene with the alarm bell it plays an important role in Yaroslavna’s music,
the chorus and the orchestra. The boyars calm the Princess down with music
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of a staid character which inspires confidence. Her reply to them gives noth-
ing away. The alarm-bell itself and the whole commotion in general which
ends Act I is a passage written both by an inspired musician and a man who
has a subtle understanding of what true stage effect is in the best sense of
that word. What a peak of musical ideas there is here, what deep feeling
for the dramatic situation, what brilliance in the scene, how cleverly the
orchestra at the very end reproduces the chords of the ‘eclipse’, indicating
thereby what the heavenly eclipse meant, but it was not obeyed. We point
out here only one impracticality which, as it seems to us, prevents the finale
we have described making an even stronger impression: the women weep-
ing and lamenting off stage have to do all that to start with on notes of an
insufficiently high register; for that reason they cannot be heard well.
Thus, the two scenes in Act I are full of outstanding qualities, both as pure
music and as music for the stage.
Act II
As has been said already, the beginning is lyrical, and for that reason all
that corresponds to it in music is a series of rounded numbers, which in this
instance by no means contradicts the rationale of modern operatic demands.
The song of the Polovtsian woman with chorus is a graceful, beauti-
ful number, with very well-sustained, warm oriental colouring. Of interest
here is a theme which occurs each time with a different harmonization; its
augmented-second ornaments are distinctive.
The maidens’ dance is piquant, elegant and delicate; but this lively, sympa-
thetic little piece with its unmistakable tarantella rhythm lacks a sufficiently
clear oriental character.
On the other hand, Konchakovna’s cavatina contains as much of the ‘East’
as anyone could wish. It is not the fierce, cruel ‘East’ or even Ratmir’s gentle
laziness; it is desire itself, intense heat, the languor of love. The composer
did not spare the paint here to create these colours; in gentle, smoothly rising
waves, bewitching harmonies flutter and captivating combinations resound
in the orchestra; and in the midst of them, in the midst of this magical and
well-proportioned mass of sounds, Eastern curls of melody intoxicated with
passion float and luxuriate – they are alive, they are loving, they entice you
to themselves . . .
The episode with the ‘captives’ is a page of music containing a graceful,
gentle chorus, its mood the perfect counterweight to the cavatina just sung.
The next episode – the ‘Polovtsian patrol’ – is superb; once more the music
is unquestionably oriental, but this time it is of a completely different cast
by comparison with the first songs of this Act and the cavatina of the Khan’s
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daughter – without a single augmented second; on the contrary, the diatonic

quality is observed nearly all the time, disturbed only very slightly by four
very brief little chromatic figures. The whole secret of the ‘oriental quality’
here lies in particular features of the rhythm (syncopes, triplet flourishes),
and indeed in these same four little chromatic figures.
A peculiarity of this number is that throughout its duration, except for brief
diversions to the minor keys of E and A, it is in the ancient Phrygian mode
(the scale from E to E without any sharps) with the unchanging bass note
(E). In a word the colourful, poetic little chorus of the ‘patrol’ is nothing else
than an example of an excellent, original pedal-point. And another detail –
when the patrol passes by, its singing is heard from the distance and dies
away earlier than the orchestral bars come to an end – and not on the tonic
but on the seventh (D). This last aspect is very bold and clever.
Vladimir Igorevich’s cavatina is sweet, tender, lyrical and expressive; the
moment ‘Chto-zh tı̈ medlish’, drug moy?’ (‘Why do you delay, my friend?’)
and its later analogue ‘Pridi pod krovom tyomnoy nochi’ (‘Come under the
cloak of dark night’) are full of taste and poetry; the bars where the word
‘spit’ (‘sleeps’) occurs are strongly reminiscent of the harmony of Borodin’s
wonderful song Spyashchaya knyazhna (‘The Sleeping Princess’). But the
absence of national colouring from the cavatina is a hindrance in our esti-
mation; a Russian prince is singing, but there is nothing Russian about his
singing – rather, European prettiness on its own. Vladimir’s recitative which
precedes the cavatina is incomparably better: it has breadth, the rapture of
a warm night and fine construction.
The love duet is impassioned, melodious, lies beautifully in the voices
and is impetuous. The negotiations ‘Lyubish’-li?’ (‘Do you love me?’) are
very fine with their very appropriate chromatic quality, which makes them
particularly ardent. Here once more the music is general in character – not
Russian and not Eastern; but in this instance this is to the point: lyricism
from one person on their own is of course expressed by everyone in the
character of their own land; a fervent lovers’ meeting is not subject to the
conditions of nationality [narodnost’]; it is international.
Then comes Igor’s aria, or, more accurately, arioso, or, still more accurately,
monologue. A gloomy mood throughout, with a certain ray of light only in
the middle section as he thinks of his wife. And this middle section is uniform
over its whole length but is flooded with a caressing diatonic lyricism some-
thing in the manner of ‘O, Lyudmila, Lel’ sulit mne radost’’ (‘O, Lyudmila,
Lel’ promises me joy’) from Ruslan’s aria [in Act II of Glinka’s opera, Allegro
con spirito section] (we underline not the similarity of the two melodies’ ex-
ternal features but only the general similarity in their character). Let us note
an important circumstance in passing: in Act IV Yaroslavna grieves and
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weeps for her husband to the same theme. A very subtle idea. Thus does
the composer express the spouses’ secure, deep, powerful love for one an-
other: they both even think about one another in the same terms. We shall
return again to this melody later; one would be most justified in referring
to it as the ‘theme of marital fidelity’. But if the middle section of Igor’s
monologue is unquestionably uniform, that cannot be said of the music at
the beginning which, to a significant extent, is repeated at the end. There
the fragments are excellently adapted to each other and painted in one com-
mon colour of sorrowful despair, illustrating the most important moments in
the prince’s recollections. And here Igor recalls ‘Bozhiya znameniya ugrozu’
(‘the threat of God’s omen’) and there appears a fragment from the ‘eclipse’
music; ‘brannoy slavı̈ pir vesyolı̈y’ (‘a merry feast of martial glory’) flies into
Igor’s thoughts, and we get a new, energetic thematic contour, which is heard
again a little later at the text ‘O, dayte, dayte mne svobodu’ (‘Oh, give me
freedom’) which plays an important role both in the opera and in the over-
ture. It is these fragments which give us the right to insist that this is not an
aria but a monologue, the product not of the old operatic forms but of the
new ones. The music is expressive everywhere and very deeply felt, and the
chords with which it begins are profound and steadfastly sorrowful.
The scene of Igor with Ovlur is brilliant proof that Borodin had a perfect
command of melodic recitative and such control over characterization as
only rare figures among the best masters enjoyed. This scene alone is suffi-
cient to show us that the figure of Igor has grown to his full height, to the full
stature of his moral strength and nobility. What does the composer give him
here? Just a few scrappy notes, mainly on the modest triad of the subdomi-
nant, and only twice does he give him something more complex: a powerful
progression of seconds for the series of rising questions – ‘Mne knyazyu?
Bezhat’ iz plena? Potayno?’ (‘Me, a prince? Run away from captivity? In
secret?’) – and a certain hint at a melodic quality when Igor hesitates and
thinks about saving his motherland, and in the orchestra at that moment
the first bars of the Prologue are recalled. Such is the power of talent. Ovlur
himself is incomparable, and his ingratiating speeches – for Ovlur they are
perhaps even too beautiful – have a charming effect. In all respects – both in
the abstract and as applied music – this is music of first-rate qualities.
In the context of the stage, Konchak’s aria is a definite blunder. It is em-
phatically an aria and moreover a very long one; the actor playing Igor has a
harder time here than Ruslan does during Finn’s Ballad [in Act II of Ruslan
and Lyudmila]; there it is merely a matter of listening to the story and silently
showing surprise from time to time; here, on the other hand, the Khan is ut-
tering compliments, offering all sorts of pleasures, and the Russian prince
utters his thanks after a mass of bars from the Khan, of which, without
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counting those devoted to recitative, thirty-eight are Allegro, eighty-two are

Andante, and sixty are Allegro moderato. But if we ignore this awkward-
ness and regard Konchak’s aria simply as a musical number, then we find a
good deal that is remarkably good. The Allegro is superb in its powerful,
luxuriant character and harmonic innovation (the leaping basses, of which
we spoke earlier); the lyrical Andante is saturated through and through with
Eastern colouring, and again in a different style compared with the speci-
mens which we have analyzed already; this is neither Konchakovna nor the
‘patrol’; proof that even oriental music need not be all the same; but the best
thing of all in the aria is the final Allegro moderato where Konchak speaks
of the ‘slave-girl’ (chaga9 ) ‘from beyond the Caspian’ while Borodin for the
purpose captivates us with chromatic harmonies of rare beauty, elegance,
taste, unquenchable passion and intoxication.
The conversation between Konchak and Igor which follows is made up
of excerpts from music belonging to them. In Konchak’s part we encounter
both the chromaticism of the ‘slave-girls’ and Borodin’s leaping basses; and
in Igor’s part, chords and phrases from his monologue.
The Polovtsian Dance with chorus which ends Act II is a most capital
number in the opera, where Borodin has put himself entirely in the power of
his fantastic imagination and inflamed by the images suggested by that imag-
ination, lends the picture of the East such dazzling brilliance, such faithful
and bright colouring that we are entitled to call it one of the most national
scenes ever to have occurred in music.
First a few bars from the orchestra. Tender sounds, not too rapid move-
ment; but the rhythm already contains distinctive life and fervour arising
from the constant syncopations; over the typical chromaticism of the har-
mony lie no less typical flourishes of Eastern melody. A pause. The female
dancers have begun their smooth dance, and to illustrate them, a marvellous
melody flows above that same syncopated harmonic background: the girls,
the ‘slave-girls from beyond the Caspian’, have started singing of their dis-
tant homeland ‘where beneath a burning sky the air is filled with languor’.
Higher voices give way to altos; both soon combine to sing that bewitching
melody. The song falls silent; but the orchestra is playing, and the rhythm
is still the previous one, only the syncopes are beaten out in a livelier and
louder way – the men’s dance. The sounds flare up and grow; the insistence
on the characteristic parallel fifths in the accompaniment is ferocious; the
accents on it of the little theme which winds itself around it and runs about
are incendiary; and all of a sudden, in counterpoint to it, a new theme breaks
in which is hard, angular, sweeping; the tempo speeds up, the energy of the
9 Author’s note: Chaga means slave-girl. It is an ancient word used in the libretto of Prince Igor.
116
male dancers is doubled, and everything has stopped. But just for a second:
once again sounds pour forth and the general dance starts to spin and whirl
round. During this time the chorus is singing the praises of the Khan, and
in the cast and rhythm of this music we recognize the original from which
it flowed. Then come the ‘slave-girls’ from Konchak’s aria; but there is not
even a hint now about their being tender; languor has been replaced by fu-
rious boldness; an astounding variation. In the middle of it, as if it were for
comparison with the original, the ‘slave-girls’ are heard almost in the same
way as we heard them during the aria.
Several calm orchestral bars based on the same elements are suddenly re-
placed by the thunder and din of the Polovtsian ‘hymn of praise’. Bustling,
agile rhythm, short figures leaping upwards and a mere second later run-
ning back down again, unquestionably diatonic but nonetheless surprisingly
Eastern harmony – provide us with the orchestra for the boys’ dance; the
same theme, the same rhythm – but everything painted more thickly and in
a more weighty character – accompany the singing and dancing of the men:
they all praise the Khan, and from time to time the orchestra seems to flare
up on chromatically descending harmonies. Once again the girls, and once
again their first poetic melody; gradually the men’s voices join the women’s;
the sound of the chorus has become fuller; and now comes the first broad
melody in the chorus, and simultaneously, forming an amazing comparison
with it, the familiar little theme of the young Polovtsians leaps about in the
orchestra. And once more they are dancing by themselves, to the same mu-
sic as before; only a few small additions have been made: a curious entry,
full of character, in the bass. Adults, children, the adults again and finally a
general Infernalia towards the end, the most unexpected syncopated varia-
tion of Konchak’s ‘slave-girls’ borne along in a mad galop like a hurricane;
thematic excerpts from the first men’s dance emerge; a chromatic movement
obtained again from the ‘slave-girls’ taking off in a whirlwind; a furious trill –
and the curtain falls.
Nothing can be compared with the impact of the ending of this scene; how
many superb things have we encountered in this act.
Act III
The Polovtsian march serves as entr’acte to it; with the addition of the cho-
rus, it continues even after the curtain rises, throughout the procession of
Gzak’s troops. After Konchakovna, after the ‘patrol’, after Konchak, and
after the concluding dances of the previous act, you would think that every-
thing possible had been done to characterize the Polovtsians. But Borodin
is inexhaustible and indefatigable. The Polovtsian woman’s ardour in love,
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the Khan’s splendidly dignified speeches, the peaceful Polovtsian curfew, the
Polovtsian orgy – all of these themes have found magnificent applications in
the music of Igor. Only one thing has been missing – the Polovtsian thirsting
for blood, the Polovtsian in all his primordial savagery. And Borodin gives
us a savage of this kind. The ‘March’ represents a whole gallery of uncouth,
terrifying monsters who are at the same time absurd and rather amusing,
half-human and half-animal. This is a powerful sound picture entirely out
of the ordinary. It required sharp, harsh chords, harmonic turns bold to the
point of daring, screaming colours thrown on to the canvas by the creative
artist’s assured unreflective, highly talented brush. But everything is derived
from something [else], even such original creations as the ‘Polovtsian march’.
As we listen to it, something from Beethoven’s Ruins of Athens along with
something from Chernomor’s march flashes into the memory. We are by no
means pointing out borrowings: there is no direct similarity between the
‘Polovtsians’ and either composition. This is merely proof that sometimes
a hardly noticeable particle of a great element can give birth to a major
phenomenon full to overflowing with original beauties and qualities.
Because of the ‘March’, Act III particularly underlines the Polovtsians’
cruelty and bloodthirstiness.
Konchak too appears in this new light. His song opens excellently –
solemnly, broadly, imposingly, and one detects an enjoyment of power and
conquest. But after the words ‘Posle bitvı̈ pri Kayale’ (‘After the battle at
Kayala’) the song becomes weaker: its constant quavers become wearisome,
its haste does not match the exalted status of an Eastern potentate. The chro-
matic progression in minims ‘Na svete nam podvlastno vsyo’ (‘Everything
in the world is subject to our power’) which was the basis of the harmony
of Konchak’s aria, is very good. The chorus’s exclamations ‘Slava Gzaku i
Konchaku!’ (‘Praise be to Gzak and Konchak!’) are original (the resolution
of the 65 chord not to a major but to a minor triad, and not by a semitone up
but by a major seventh down is piquant). The middle section of the Khan’s
song is insufficiently vivid, with the piling-up of harmonic intricacies over-
done. The same is true to a certain extent of Konchak’s subsequent recitative:
the chromaticism in both the harmony and the singer’s part go on forever.
The chorus of khans (it is later repeated in its entirety with a different text
and a different ending) is based on the theme from the middle section of the
Khan’s song. Here too there is a great deal of chromaticism, but this time
it represents not mere intricacy; the chorus contains fine music, power and
energy. The Polovtsian fanfares are very successful and full of character.
Beautiful music is entrusted to the Russian captives, and it has an inter-
esting contrapuntal development, though there is nothing Russian about it.
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At the appearance of the string of vehicles with the booty won in the war,
there are again fanfares, and then the Polovtsians combine the theme of their
chorus with the theme of the Russians from their previous number. The same
device is used at the entry of the part for the new captives.
The guards’ chorus and dance are interesting, entertaining and fully in the
spirit of the ‘Polovtsian march’. The compositional working here is masterly;
everything has grown out of the ‘patrol’ and the dances from Act II, and there
is even a mention of Ovlur. And all this thematic material undergoes talented
confrontations and development which is extremely witty and inventive. In
sum, the impression is just what is required, and the music is excellent.
Gzak’s menacing hordes have already been presented to us to the sounds
of the march in a collection of curious musical figures; now these newly
cheered-up bears bring out an involuntary smile.
Ovlur’s scene is a copy of his scene in the preceding act. But his role
has become somewhat different: before, he persuaded and convinced; now
he whispers a prosaic plan of escape; before, therefore, he sang, whereas
now he gives nearly all the melodic interest of his part to the accompa-
niment; and it has become luxuriant in its enchanting content and poetic
colouring.
Terzet. Stormy orchestral chords at the outset; Konchakovna’s love theme,
beseeching and impetuous, is charming even when sung by a tenor, and in
graceful performance by two voices there is continuous harmonic interest
allowing the mood sometimes to reach the outer limits of passion (‘Raboy
tvoyey gotova bı̈t’!’ (‘I’m ready to be your slave!’)); the bars of conclusion
which rush quickly by, where the basses at first have Konchakovna’s phrase
and then a figure derived from the same phrase, – the conclusion, where over
these gradually rising basses turbulent harmonies grow up, and along with
them the characters’ alarm grows as they hear Ovlur’s whistled signal. In
short, the terzet contains much good music, animation and dramatic power.
Further on, there is little that needs to be dwelt upon. The moment when
the Polovtsians want to shoot Vladimir is very successful in all respects. Kon-
chakovna begs them in despair to the theme of the terzet, and the Polovtsians
break into her impassioned melody with brief, ominous exclamations, ‘stre-
lami . . . ostrı̈mi’ (‘with arrows . . . with sharp arrows’).
In Konchak’s music melodic hints of his Andante from Act II are not
without interest. The Khan’s final resolution is set to the Allegro from his
aria with the leaping basses; the orchestral accompaniment is here adorned
with festive figurative additions.
Assembling for the new campaign is accompanied by Polovtsian fanfares
powerfully harmonized with descending whole tones and later chromatically.
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In summing up Act III, we find a new very remarkable perspective on the

Polovtsians, interesting and talented development of old material and the
attractive music of the terzet. But we also encounter in places a piling-up of
harmonic oddities, which is rather dry and therefore tedious.
Act IV
Yaroslavna’s ‘lament’ shows good taste, simplicity, beautiful lyricism and
gentle feminine feeling, and is undoubtedly Slavonic in character. The pow-
erful, profound, graphic lyricism of this magical page from the Lay of the
Host of Igor, the charm of its unfeigned sincerity, lend the music a moving
poetic quality. This number is rich in themes. Over its whole course we note
several fragments varied in theme, tempo and sometimes even by time sig-
nature. The first section (Moderato assai, 34 ) is constructed entirely out of
phrases of the most beautiful melodic contour; each of them appears first
in the singer’s part and then in the orchestra, and everything sobs, with-
out the participation of chords, over a single constant note (the dominant
of the key); it proves extremely musical, warm, folk-like and expressive.
The second section (at twice the speed, 44 ) is the broad, heartfelt ‘theme of
marital fidelity’ which we know from Igor’s monologue. The third section
(Allegro moderato, 44 ) also rests on an unchanging bass note, like the first
section, but in theme it resembles neither the first section nor the second;
during it an energy which had become inactive as a result of grief is restored
to life. The fourth section (Allegro animato, 44 ) is somewhat similar to the
previous one, but still more lively and not in tempo only. The fifth section
(Allegro moderato, 44 ) does not want for breadth, or lyrical, cantabile sweep.
The sixth section (the same tempo, 22 ) consists of thematic movement in the
exquisite accompaniment with long-held notes in the voice of no melodic
significance. Six sections! All are skilfully attached to one another, some are
repeated without modification and others with changes of key, accompani-
ment in whole or in part, in the vocal line or the orchestra. And this thematic
‘multicolouredness’ detracts from the ‘lament’; its beautiful and warm mu-
sic is more of a mechanical mixture than an organic whole; it contains little
growth. It provides many opportunities for admiration, but the impression
is made in pieces without giving complete satisfaction.
The chorus ‘Okh, ne buynı̈y veter’ (‘Ah, it was not the violent wind’) is
almost unaccompanied; it amounts to only a few notes to support accurate
intonation for the chorus and on one occasion a figure is heard independently
in the low orchestral registers which imitates one melodic turn in the theme.
One has to be profoundly Russian in order to write music like this. Here
Borodin is not only Russian as a successor to Glinka but Russian in his own
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right. We are not going to assert whether a genuine folksong has been taken
by the composer or whether the chorus’ theme is a wonderful imitation; this
is not a question of any substantial importance. It is important to investigate
how the chorus is written. As regards its general conception, as regards part-
writing, it is a real phenomenon in the best sense of the word: the voices
sound, enter, drop out, join in the harmony of the whole again – all perfectly
in the folk style, exactly as they sing in the countryside. Of course, the most
characteristic feature of artless Russian folk singing is to bring all the voices
to a unison or an octave at the end of periods – and that is observed here, as
in the girls’ chorus from Act I, which is also profoundly Russian. But that
was an inspired insight into the folksong style; this is an artistic reproduction
of it. The chorus makes an irresistible impression.
What happens next is incomparable. Yaroslavna has fallen to reflecting
under the impact of the song sung by people impoverished in the attack; this
impact is also to be heard in the orchestral part as well as in every phrase the
princess sings. Riders have appeared in the distance; the orchestra provides
the rhythm of a galloping horse. Yaroslavna’s attention is increasingly riveted
to the horsemen; and now, while the orchestra gallops nearer and nearer, she
forms some suppositions. ‘Was this not how the Polovtsians came to us!’
escapes from her lips, and in the melodic outline we recognize the groans as
Gzak attacked Putivl’. The horsemen draw closer and closer, and the suppo-
sitions become ever more probable. There is a fleeting thought of a Russian
prince paying a visit – a superb episode. She begins to guess, but is still afraid
to admit it to herself; and in the meantime the orchestra lets the cat out of the
bag, so to speak: it reports that it is Igor by using the same progression in ris-
ing seconds to which the prince at first categorically rejected Ovlur’s proposal
to flee; the progression is made somewhat more complicated harmonically
and is given the character of alarm. She is convinced: a happy cry bursts forth
from her heart. Brief final doubts – and then endless joy, endless happiness.
‘Those are Igor’s familiar features, Igor’s features are precious to me! My
prince has returned!’ He rides in, dismounts and rushes to his beloved; the
orchestra makes a crescendo, harmonizing a series of impatient descending
chromatic figures. A loud outburst of rapture; their voices unite ‘On, moy
sokol yasnı̈y!’ (‘He, my bright falcon!’) ‘Zdravstvuy, radost’ lada!’ (‘Hail,
my joy, my sweetheart!’). The first caresses: marvellous harmonies ascend in
semitones impetuously, impassionedly; as they die away intoxicatedly, the
impatient little figures we know already run down, and the ‘duet’ starts. We
have to convey the spirit, to analyze what we have heard. A passionate scene,
of uncommon truth and subtlety. It is a whole psychological study in sounds,
one of the most perfectly dramatic scenes in the whole repertory. Borodin
is here almost even more inspired than he was in the scene of the eclipse in
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the Prologue. Only someone convinced of its potency could write melodic
recitative so strikingly.
The duet itself is somewhat in Glinka’s style; it is full of lyrical elevation,
cantabile, sincere, very musical, beautiful in the voices and effective. Its main
theme is Yaroslavna’s ‘dream’ from Act I. This is clever: now the dream has
been realized. In the middle [section] the duet is interrupted by Yaroslavna’s
excellent questions as to how Igor saved himself; Igor recounts his captivity
to a theme sung in Act III by himself, Vladimir and the other Russians when
they saw new Polovtsian booty; at the same time the princess declaims her
several phrases wonderfully. Immediately before this point and at the very
end of the duet, there are bars from the orchestra where, beneath a series
of caressing chords, the opening excerpt of the theme from their first joint
greeting – ‘He, my bright falcon’ flits through.
The substantial comic scene of the gudok-players is lively and vivid. It
opens with a comic song for two voices which is very smart, very fervent, and
done in a very Russian way. In it, and particularly later on in the recitatives of
Skula and Yeroshka, one can sometimes hear Musorgsky. The terror which
paralyzes them both at the sight of Igor is very amusing. Certain details
of what they think up to extricate themselves from their predicament are
killingly funny: they sit facing one another and think; ‘I – nu?’ (‘Yes, well?’)
asks one; ‘Yes, well?’, replies the other with a question – a second higher. The
sounding of the alarm which the gudok-players think up is very successful
in all respects; their conversations with the people and their answers to the
nobles sparkle with inexhaustible humour.
The concluding chorus is rather unfinished, sketch-like. One would have
liked more development and more grandeur. The middle section is especially
unfinished – the singing in turn of the old men, women and the general
chorus (the theme of these negotiations is reminiscent of one of the themes
in the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – ‘Tı̈ odna soyedinyayesh’’
(‘You alone unite’)).10 But whatever the case, even as it stands there is much
that is good in this chorus. The basic theme has breadth, national character
and sweep; the old men’s advice has devoutness and ritual propriety; there
is strength and beauty in the pedal which leads to the final 32 section, where,
as at the end of the Slava (‘Hail’) in the Prologue, chords in chorus and
orchestra triumphantly and smoothly move over a constant bass made up
of figures (the gudok-players’ theme ‘Gulyay vo zdrav’ye knyazya!’ (‘Have a
good time for the prince’s health!’) which they sang with curious zeal before
the start of the chorus and which transfers in the central section into the
unison I have mentioned). At any rate, the desired rejoicing at the end of
10 Perhaps bars 249ff. in Beethoven and bars 55ff. in Borodin?
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Borodin’s opera is fully achieved by this chorus, and therefore its main aim –
to sing the praises of Igor as his country’s courageous defender – is carried
out wonderfully well.
It remains for us to analyze the Overture. It is written using motives from
the opera exclusively. The slow introduction consists of the initial superb
harmonies of Igor’s monologue; they are interrupted by chords in the Pro-
logue foreshadowing the arrival of the sweethearts. The Allegro does not
at first give out the first theme; before that there is a further sequence of
other excerpts: Polovtsian fanfares, fragments from the scene of Igor and his
wife in the final act, i.e. ‘He, my bright falcon’ and both chromatic moves,
the magical rising one as well as the descending one; the latter leads to the
statement of the first theme. Its role includes the opening of the terzet, i.e.
almost everything as it is there, up to and including the phrase ‘I’m ready to
be your slave’. The statement of the second theme of the Allegro does not
start straightaway either. In shifting from the principal key (D major) into
that of the second theme (B-flat major), we at first find ourselves with Igor’s
phrase (from his monologue) – ‘A merry feast of martial glory’ – and after
that we have, as second theme, the ‘theme of marital fidelity’. Before the
beginning of the middle section this theme is developed canonically for sev-
eral bars; then again the chords for the ‘arrival of the sweethearts’ are heard
and the middle section begins. This is something different to begin with, as
a passage from the terzet, where Ovlur gives the signal, while in the bass the
main theme of the terzet sounds first, and then a figure obtained from the
same theme, which rises together with the harmony. Later on, the Polovtsian
fanfares are heard, mingled several times with a fragment of the theme ‘He,
my bright falcon’, and thus we progress to Konchak, to the leaping basses
from the Allegro of his aria and the later bars of this Allegro. Then comes
the principal key of the fanfare and so on – in a word, the statement of both
themes; at this point the second is stated not in D, but in A (a relationship of
keys the same as that in the Overture to Ruslan). On the return to D, a mas-
terly combination of the two themes occurs – the theme from the terzet with
the theme of ‘marital fidelity’. Subsequently again those bars of the terzet
where Ovlur whistles, and the whole-tone passage which ends Act III (again,
as in the Overture to Ruslan) and the chromatic passages. This is where
it ends.
The Overture is brilliant, skilful, full of interest, animation and content.
The material I have listed demonstrates how complex and fine is this con-
tent. The composer’s mastery lies in the fact that, despite the abundance of
motives from the opera, the Overture is by no means a motley or some-
thing stitched together from bits and pieces. On the contrary, it is unusually
integral and well proportioned, and the inspired growth of its ideas, their
123
unbroken, headlong forward movement, do not allow the listener to recollect

himself and notice how long it is. In dimensions, it is closer to a symphonic
overture than to an operatic one; in quality, it is one of those which are
repeated.
Igor is orchestrated incomparably. And there is nothing astonishing about
that: Borodin himself was an excellent orchestrator; after his death the
orchestration of Igor was completed by Messrs Rimsky-Korsakov and
Glazunov.
And so to conclusions. Igor is an opera with shortcomings: now and again
there is something weak about the music (the soloists in the Prologue), now
and again something is exaggerated (in Konchak’s part in Act III); Kon-
chak’s aria is too long, and Igor is in an unenviable position listening to
it in silence; the young Russian Prince sings in an unRussian manner; the
Russian captives have also forgotten their native language; several choruses
are written lower than they ought to be, and therefore are not sufficiently
sonorous. All these are shortcomings, and shortcomings of some signifi-
cance. But they become almost unnoticeable when compared with the opera’s
positive aspects, with its powerful characterizations, national character
(narodnost’), its broad captivating lyricism, an opera which has given us
such amazing pictures of ancient Russia and the East, such vital specimens
of dramatic and comic scenes, which has given us, finally and most of all, such
highly talented, original music, music sometimes straightforwardly of genius.
Borodin is the younger brother of Glinka; Igor is the younger brother of
Ruslan!
(f) E. K. Rozenov: Khovanshchina. News of the Day, 17
November 1897, no. 5194. Rozenov, pp. 198–202
This opera, worked on from 1872 to 1880 but left incomplete by Mu-
sorgsky, was adapted for performance by Rimsky-Korsakov and first
performed by an amateur company in St Petersburg on 9 February 1886.
Rozenov reviews a production by the Moscow Private Russian Opera.
A surprising impression, or at any rate an unusual one, is made by the opera

Khovanshchina, or as its composer called it, ‘a national (narodnaya) musi-
cal drama’ – surprising to such an extent that to begin with, before it has
gripped you by its deeply truthful, lifelike moods, you do not know how to
relate to it. Judged by the criterion we are used to applying to opera, here
we have completely lost any ground under our feet. There are almost no in-
dependent musical forms or rounded musical moods at all, and not because
the composer was unable to create them but because you can sense that that
was not his aim. Even at those points where you can obtain a more or less
powerful impression from the music, you feel that it is the accidental result
124
of circumstances, exactly as when you pick up a mood from a picture of

nature or even in life, you recognize that neither nature, in taking on some
particular tinge or other, nor the persons taking part in the event, experienced
your mood in the slightest and were not counting on it in the least. It is the
same here: in certain places you find marvellous music and at the same time
you feel that not one single note was written for the sake of mere ‘musical
enjoyment’, that is in order to smooth over, reinforce, vary the musical form,
to produce a sound effect enchanting the ear, to arouse interest through
originality, novelty, or at least to form a so-called ‘musical number’. Whether
this is good or bad, these were not the aims which the composer set himself;
his music stands higher than the conventions of form and the traditions of
opera, it becomes inartificial, an organic part of the characters in the mass of
the people, their soul, their inner image, their speech. Where these spiritual
sides and features of their character manifest themselves fleetingly, as if they
had been dropped accidentally, as happens in life, there the music also acts by
hinting, giving compressed, unfinished snatches of moods; where passions or
spiritual states are concentrated and develop freely thanks to a coincidence of
circumstances, there the music too grows stronger and expands to really large
forms. In a word, the music here is life itself and it makes no concessions to
prejudices of any sort, to ‘ideas’ about opera found in the Wagnerian theatre,
to any preconceived views about the role of voices and orchestra or anything
similar. The music here is sincerity and simplicity itself, and takes not a single
step for the sake of convention or appearance. One might then ask what is
music for? Are not words alone sufficient? Is not this lowering music, to offer
it such a subsidiary role? Perhaps this is simply drama, and music is wholly
superfluous? But at this point something completely unexpected arises. As a
drama, Khovanshchina amounts to nothing in itself, it comes to life solely
thanks to that deep characterization of Russian types and the historical
era which the composer has succeeded in reproducing by means of this
music.
The plot in itself is so episodic and ramshackle that not only does it not
amount to drama, but in general does not present anything organically whole
and unified by some sort of idea. For a drama, the most important thing is
missing here – conflict. Here we see a collision of two elements, but not a
conflict. And even collision in the strict sense is missing, since in the single
scene of the quarrel between Prince Khovansky, the head of the strel’tsı̈11
and representative of boyar despotism, the old order, convictions and be-
liefs, with the semi-European Prince Golitsı̈n, the actual motives for the
quarrel are of an accidental personal character and are not explained in the
11 Strel’tsı̈: military corps in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Muscovy.
125
preceding acts. And finally, the power of dramatic interest is lacking in this
quarrel, since both these quarrelling persons, like the third participant in
the quarrel as well, Dosifey, the head of the schismatics, perish in the same
way without struggle or oppositions under the blows of a mysterious unseen
power, despotic and all-destroying and remaining wholly incomprehensi-
ble and dark to the spectator. There lies the weakest part of the drama. In
this matter the principal dramatis personae remain off stage. These char-
acters are the young Peter and the regent Sofiya, between whom genuine
conflict takes place, a conflict which interests one vaguely the whole time.
The young Peter, with bright ideas for renewal and progress being born
in his inspired head, with his unconquerable will, which halts before no
obstacles – that is the main hero of Khovanshchina, there is the man who is
‘cutting down the forest’, from which only the splinters fly across the stage.
But without seeing this hero before your very own eyes, not recognizing
clearly the motives for this general dreadful destruction and the powerful,
far-seeing ideas, which might even to some extent reconcile you with the
death of characters who have done nothing wrong in your eyes but live
and act only according to their convictions (Dosifey and Marfa), or accord-
ing to the obligations and habit of their times (the Khovanskys, father and
son), against your will you experience dissatisfaction and a heavy feeling
of frightful, overwhelming injustice, which is entirely on the side of the
offended. This impression is increased by the fact that both representatives
of the new order, Golitsı̈n and Shaklovitı̈y, are the least sympathetic of all.
The first of them, despite the education which he has received abroad and
his advanced ideas, displays a series of contradictions testifying to a lack of
character, turns out to be a believer in prejudices (fortune-telling), despotic in
dealing with people, cruel (in ordering that Marfa be drowned) and devoid
of convictions (in his dispute with Dosifey), while the second, for all his lofty
grief over the fate of Russia, makes a repulsive impression through his low
deeds (denunciation, perfidious murder of Khovansky and mockery over his
corpse).
Thus, we see that there is no drama, and there is not even a connecting
idea to justify the events which take place. And indeed, Musorgsky was
unable to deal with the plot’s dramatic side, and probably was not even
particularly interested in that side. What did interest him, what touched
him deeply, was something else – namely, life itself. He was most likely not
striving for the triumph of one idea or another; he took the crowd, the folk
types and the historical personalities, brought them alive in his imagination,
with all their merits and shortcomings, just as they were, and created several
living pictures of the past, deeply faithful in spirit, colour, place, time and
126
action. These pictures are sketched in some cases carelessly, in others with
powerful, broad strokes, in yet others with loving, painstaking polish, but all
are indisputably sincere, inspired, and profoundly talented to such an extent
that, for vividness and vitality, the images and scenes he has created have
almost no equals in the art of music and drama.
Thus the entire interest of this work resides in bringing to life one of the
interesting and characterful pages in our nation’s history and re-creating
several deeply truthful folk types. Musorgsky has achieved all this mainly
through his music, because the libretto, in spite of its typical old-Russian lan-
guage and small features captured with talent in the depiction of characters
and situations, is too incoherent, scrappy and insubstantial to be at all satis-
factory by itself. The whole vitality, the whole psychology, the whole drama
are reproduced through the music alone; to it too all the crowds and the in-
dividual characters are indebted for their profoundly typical character. The
artists have to obtain information about the creation of their roles from the
music alone. And in truth, the turns of Musorgsky’s declamatory vocal lines
conceal such profoundly intimate intonations, noted and captured in the
speech of Russian people that the whole appearance, all the movements of
his heroes in their most characteristic features, are clarified by themselves for
the actors, and it remains only for them to create integral characters from
these clarified features, a task made still easier by the fact that Musorgsky,
as if he saw his heroes and folk crowds in the flesh in front of him, created
them integral and without the slightest contradictions, though surely with
the one exception of Shaklovitı̈y. In its depth and nobility of feeling, his aria
is difficult to reconcile with Shaklovitı̈y (in the scene of denunciation and
murder).
Khovanshchina demands nothing special from performers in the way of
vocal resources, but it demands a great deal of artistic understanding. Prob-
ably that is why it has not so far been staged by the official theatres. The
routine manners of the semi-Italian school, a concern with pauses on high
notes and showy arias sung beside the footlights, lose all meaning here and
can only distort the very essence of the opera to the extent of unrecogniz-
ability. Musorgsky’s opera presupposes in the performers entirely new and
unprecedented demands of mental and spiritual development, and therefore
it can only be produced by a theatre which has renounced the age-old routine
of our operatic stages and musical institutions. In this respect a huge amount
has been done by the company of the Private Opera. One detects a rational,
lively and in many respects truly artistic attitude to their task. One detects,
moreover, that the mounting of this opera was prepared with special care and
without the customary haste. Careful consideration is evident everywhere:
127
in the very successful distribution of the most responsible roles, in the zeal
of the orchestra [. . .]; in the strict selection and ordering of the designs, sets
and costumes from the well-known artist and expert in the Russian style
A. Vasnetsov, which, with the artistic execution of the sets by Messrs
Korovin and Malyutin, the historically accurate costuming and excellent
make-up, created for this opera an external aspect of a rare integrity and,
lastly, in the skill of the stage action, free of any kind of routine. On the other
hand, the action and the production did not pass without a few blunders.
Thus, for instance, the opera opens with a dawn, and moreover the music
charmingly portrays a picture of old Moscow as it awakens; meantime the
curtain which rises in the middle of this musical picture reveals the stage as
dawn is far advanced, and the illusion is thus lost: it is already fully light, and
the strelets Kuz’ka is asleep on guard duty and, what is more, he is raving
too loudly not to waken himself up; two other strel’tsı̈ approach him, and,
wakening up, Kuz’ka attacks them, not having recognized them; however
deeply Kuz’ka might have slept, in the full daylight he could not have failed to
recognize the strel’tsı̈ in their bright blue costumes immediately. Obviously,
it should still have been dark at the raising of the curtain.
Later on, at the appearance of Andrey Khovansky with Emma, Khovansky
ought not to drag her straight to the front of the stage, but all the time, right
up until Marfa’s appearance, ought to draw the young German girl trying to
defend herself forward. What point would there have been in stopping with
her in the centre of the square? And by the way, Emma’s costume is far too
artisan, reminiscent of a baker. Prince Andrey is unlikely to have been attracted
so tenaciously to such a prosaic figure. In the second act in Golitsı̈n’s office,
the electric light, depicting moonlight falling through the window, is unnatu-
rally bright and lends the scene a féerie quality inappropriate to the context.
All these shortcomings can easily be put right. Much harder to change is the
unsuccessful production of the immolation scene, which is limited for some
reason to only three people – Dosifey, Marfa and Andrey – when the whole
tragic character of this scene lies in the death of the entire sect. It would
have been possible to arrange the fire so that the entire crowd placed them-
selves behind a flaming foreground. The result would have been more tri-
umphant, and more terrible than in its present form, where the appearance
of several of Peter’s men by the dying fire merely gives an effect of utter
perplexity.
However, despite these slight defects, the opera makes a deep, genuine
and tremendous impression, especially the scenes of fortune-telling, the mur-
der of Khovansky, the exiling of Golitsı̈n and the preparation for the fire.
[. . .]
128
(g) Yu. D. Engel’: [Balakirev’s Second Symphony]. Russian

Bulletin, 21 March 1909, no. 66. Engel’, pp. 257–9
Balakirev composed this work between 1900 and 1908, incorporating
a Scherzo sketched in about 1864.
The final concert of the Circle of Lovers of Russian Music took place on
17 March. [. . .] The evening’s programme comprised exclusively symphonic
compositions, headed by the Second Symphony of Balakirev, which was
being performed for the first time.
This symphony is dedicated ‘to the precious memory of A. D. Ulı̈bı̈shev’,
the author of a well-known book about Mozart in French, which came out
sixty-six years ago.12 And it is somehow touchingly strange to recall that
this very artist, now sending his new symphony into the world, was on close
personal terms with figures active in an era separated from us by a good two
generations. The same kind of relationship also existed between Balakirev
and Glinka, who valued highly the talent of the then young composer and
even called him his successor.
And it is true that Balakirev’s compositions have much in common with
those of Glinka. The same striving for purity of style, where everything
is painstakingly polished down to the tiniest of details; the same absence of
anything exaggerated or chaotic; the same link between composition and folk
melodies – whether Russian, Czech, Spanish or oriental; the same detailed
style of orchestration. The only thing missing is Glinka’s spontaneity, his
power and wholeness. On the other hand, the influences of Berlioz, and of
Schumann and the symphonic Liszt, whom Glinka did not know at all, have
had their effect on the more complicated and especially the ‘programmatic’
elements of Balakirev’s music. But Balakirev did not write operas, like Glinka,
and instead put all his strength into writing for the orchestra and the piano
as well as into song.
The new symphony is very typical of the seventy-three-year-old composer,
who carries his works for a long time before giving them birth. As always
with Balakirev, the symphony’s themes are for the most part brief, but bold
and significant. These themes are developed with variety and freshness, and
moreover as regards form, the composer’s strong powers make themselves
felt not so much in the grand integrity of large-scale constructions as in the
details of variation style. His harmonic, rhythmic and orchestral devices are
well aimed and effective. Each of them on its own rarely represents anything
12 A. D. Ulı̈bı̈shev (1794–1858) was a wealthy music-loving landowner and patron of the young
Balakirev. He is the author of a Nouvelle biographie de Mozart, 3 vols. (Moscow 1843) and
of Beethoven, ses critiques et ses glossateurs (Leipzig 1857).
129
out of the ordinary, yet in living organic conjunction they achieve an entirely
new combined strength, very characteristic of the distinctive individuality
of the composer, who is a stranger to fiery impulses and inclined to good
grooming perfected at the desk.
The first movement of the symphony, with its original scheme of mod-
ulations, has a slightly oriental character, bringing to mind, willy-nilly,
Balakirev’s own Tamara, with which there are many points of similarity
both in the themes and their working-out. The second movement is an in-
teresting, lively ‘Scherzo alla cosacca’, which however contains very little of
anything specifically ‘Cossack’, or even scherzo-like in general. The Trio of
the Scherzo – the kingdom of the wind instruments – is built on a Russian
theme. The third movement is a Romance [song] where the strings reign; the
melody is lyrical, graceful, beautiful, but with Balakirev’s typical coolness.
In the brilliant finale, with its clearly expressed polonaise character, the best
things are the episodes based on the development of a folk melody, a device
often used before in Russian music. More insipid are those episodes in the
finale which are linked with the theme borrowed from the Romance. As a
whole, the symphony is a very fine work, not always powerful maybe, but
interesting throughout. Well performed under the direction of Mr Kuper, it
apparently appealed to the public.
[Other items on the programme and the performances are reviewed.]
(h) V. P. Kolomiytsev: Mr Romanovsky’s Piano Evening

(1909). Small Hall of the Conservatoire [in St Petersburg],
3 April. New Rus’, 5/18 April 1909. V. Kolomiytsev,
pp. 66–8
Kolomiytsev (1868–1936) was prolific and well regarded as a translator
into Russian of song-texts and opera libretti for performance use. He
was also a busy music critic and organizer of musical life. This notice
records a rare public performance of Pictures at an Exhibition.
The most important and most interesting item in Mr Romanovsky’s pro-

gramme this time was the cycle of piano pieces by Musorgsky entitled
Kartinki s vı̈stavki (‘Little Pictures from an Exhibition’). A posthumous ex-
hibition of drawings by the artist and architect Viktor Gartman, a friend of
Musorgsky’s, was arranged in St Petersburg in 1874. The composer found
inspiration in these quaint drawings of extremely diverse content and repro-
duced ten of them in sound. The result was a kaleidoscope, partly real and
partly fantastic, of musical sketches, to some extent reminiscent in concept
of Schumann’s Carnaval. Musorgsky’s work opens with an introduction –
‘Promenade’; this beautiful but deliberately tranquil, impassively idling
‘walk’ is repeated from time to time over the course of the piece, acting
130
as a connecting link between certain of the ‘little pictures’ and emphasiz-

ing as well as could possibly be achieved their vivid, vital expressiveness.
And the expressiveness and distinctive truthfulness of these sketches, these
brush-strokes in sound, outlines, and chiaroscuros – often extremely strange,
capricious and almost accidental from a purely musical point of view – are
simply astounding! Indeed, in them music is in close contact with painting,
and almost crosses over into it: you not only hear, you can positively see
the freakish gnome with his amusing leaps and grimaces, and the noisy gang
of children with their nannies in the Tuileries Gardens, and the conceited
Samuil, and the fawning Shmul’, and the luminous skull in the catacombs of
Paris, and Baba-Yaga, and the design for the ‘Bogatı̈r’ gate in Kiev’, and so
on. For all its rather wild primitiveness, this sound-picture is uncommonly
fresh, clear and original. But the capriciousness of its architectonics and the
absence from it of a strict musical logicality make Musorgsky’s Pictures most
difficult for the performer and are even able to drive the pianist to despair:
this piece is, above all, very difficult to remember by heart. That is probably
why it has so far almost never featured in programmes of piano evenings.
The more honour to Mr Romanovsky, then, that he did not take fright at
these difficulties but overcame them, and played Musorgsky’s Pictures for us
yesterday superbly and artistically. Our talented and sensitive pianist man-
aged to find for each of them the appropriate mood and colours. Only in a
few places – for example, in the picture portraying French women quarrelling
furiously at the market – could one have wished for rather more rhythmic
sharpness and rather less delicacy; it is essential to take account of the fact
that Musorgsky was, or at least tried to be, an enemy of beauty ‘sufficient
unto itself’. [Other works in the programme are discussed.]
131
CHAPTER FOUR
The Belyayev generation
Inspired by his love of Glazunov’s music, the wealthy timber merchant

Mitrofan Petrovich Belyayev (1836–1903/4) initiated a series of ventures
to support Russian composers – among them a publishing house, concert
series including the Russian Symphony Concerts, and prizes. Rimsky-
Korsakov was a principal adviser for these schemes, later joined by
Lyadov and Glazunov.
(a) Ts. A. Cui: The results of the Russian Symphony Con-
certs. Fathers and Sons. Musical Review, 21 January 1888,
no. 3. Cui, pp. 381–6
Cui was among the first to draw attention to the epigonal character
of the generation which succeeded Balakirev, Borodin, Musorgsky and
Rimsky-Korsakov (but see Chapter 2 (b)). The sub-title of his article
echoes the title of Turgenev’s novel. Cui’s apostasy, of which this article
was one manifestation, prompted Stasov to publish an article citing mu-
tually contradictory viewpoints, all expressed by Cui, and charging him
with giving solace to the conservative foes of the New Russian School
to which both Cui and Stasov had given their allegiance.1
Works by eighteen composers have been performed at the five Russian Sym-
phony Concerts. From a numerical point of view, this is extremely comfort-
ing. Thirty more or less large-scale orchestral works and fourteen small-scale
works were performed. But of this enormous number only a few are of artis-
tic significance and can reckon on a long life. This is extremely discomforting.
Out of the eighteen composers, some had already made a name for them-
selves – they are the fathers; the others were beginners in the composing
game – they are the sons. Among the composers three were represented
extensively and the others very meagrely.
Seven large-scale orchestral pieces by Borodin were performed, five by
Rimsky-Korsakov (one of which was played at two concerts), and five by
1 See V. V. Stasov: ‘A Sad Catastrophe’, Day, 6 January 1888, no. 3, p. 2. Stasov 4, pp. 49–52.
132
Glazunov. The remaining composers, including even the genuine ones, were
represented by only one piece each, and that generally of the most modest
proportions, such as, for instance, overtures by Glinka, Balakirev and
Tchaikovsky (and even then by the over-played Romeo and Juliet), scher-
zos by Arensky and Lyadov, and an Intermezzo by Musorgsky. With certain
composers it was impossible to proceed otherwise because of the small num-
ber of their orchestral works (e.g. Lyadov) but others presented an embarras
de choix (e.g. Tchaikovsky). In this uneven distribution of works by Russian
composers and even more in the omission of others such as Davı̈dov,2
Napravnik3 and Rubinstein,4 one detects a biased exclusivity, an unappeal-
ing aspect of these concerts which are in many respects excellent. One might
think that the concerts were given for the benefit of the three composers,
with the others included purely for the sake of propriety.
Some composers were not represented as they should have been: instead
of performances of complete works, only excerpts were played – and as
first performances (the Allegro from Antipov’s Symphony,5 the Andante
from Blaramberg’s Symphony,6 or the Scherzo from Arensky’s Suite). Ex-
cerpts should be performed only if they are from well-known works or by
composers with established and time-honoured reputations. But new works,
especially by composers at the start of their careers, should be performed
complete or not at all, for an excerpt can give a false and misleading idea
of a composer’s creative abilities. Possibly Arensky’s Suite or Blaramberg’s
Symphony, performed complete, would have made a dispiriting impression,
but at least such an impression would be the result of the complete work, of
the composer’s thoughts and intentions expressed in all their fullness, and
not in a fragmentary or episodic fashion.
The same thing was noticeable to an even greater extent in the compila-
tion of the programme of piano pieces. Two short pieces by Shcherbachov7
were played along with one each by Antipov, Balakirev, Lyadov and Felix
Blumenfeld.8 What can be learned from one short piece? What opinion
2 Karl Yul’yevich Davı̈dov (1838–89): outstanding cellist; composer, conductor and teacher.
Professor, director of the St Petersburg Conservatoire.
3 Eduard Frantsevich Napravnik (1839–1916): the chief conductor of Mariinsky Theatre from
1869 to 1916.
4 Anton Grigor’yevich Rubinstein (1829–94): outstanding pianist; composer. Founder of the
St Petersburg Conservatoire, its director 1862–7, 1887–91.
5 Konstantin Afanas’yevich Antipov (1858–?): composition student of Rimsky-Korsakov, who
graduated in 1886.
6 Pavel Ivanovich Blaramberg (1841–1907): composer, journalist, piano pupil of Balakirev.
7 Nikolay Vladimirovich Shcherbachov (1853–?): composer and pianist, briefly a pupil of Liszt.
8 Feliks Mikhaylovich Blumenfeld (1863–1931): pianist, conductor and composer; pupil of
Rimsky-Korsakov.
133
can be formed of its composer? It would have been better to be content

with one composer and present his piano works with a degree of com-
pleteness, as was done in these concerts with Borodin’s songs, of which five
were performed. But that was Borodin, who was one of the three favoured
composers.
A substantial lack of discrimination and almost striving for quantity over
quality were discernible in the programmes of the Russian Symphony Con-
certs. There must be limits to the desire to serve Russian music by open-
ing the field to beginning composers and performing their works. It is not
enough for a composition to be the work of a Russian composer; it is essen-
tial that it should have something to offer here and now, or at least show
promise for the future; that could not be said of everything performed at
these concerts. If the aim was merely to perform music by Russian com-
posers, then there were too few of them; if the aim was to perform music
by gifted Russian composers, then there were too many of them. Concerts
where Davı̈dov, Napravnik and Rubinstein were rejected and many empty
and hopeless works by a variety of novices were performed, can be justi-
fied how you will but not by musical aims. In music there is room for only
two groups, two camps: the camp for good music whoever might have writ-
ten it, and the camp for bad music – again, whoever might have written
it. The spirit of party, understood in a different sense, brings art no bene-
fit but does it considerable harm; one must seek to be above this spirit of
party and to place the interests of art higher than personal sympathies and
interests.
Some programmes were compiled clumsily: at one of the concerts, two
Spanish pieces were performed, while at another, three oriental pieces were
played.9 The concerts were rather monotonous because vocal music was
excluded, except for the concert dedicated to Borodin. I am not speaking
about choral pieces; choruses would have increased the already huge cost of
organizing these concerts, but it would have been possible to perform some
songs at each concert and the more desirable, as Russian composers have
substantial strengths as composers of songs.
The standard of orchestral performance at these concerts left much to be
desired, not because the orchestra was bad (our opera orchestra is one of the
best in Europe), or because Rimsky-Korsakov was an unsatisfactory con-
ductor, but because the conductor set both himself and the orchestra tasks
9 At the concert on 5 December 1887, Glinka’s Jota aragonesa and Rimsky-Korsakov’s Spanish
Capriccio were performed. On 21 November Glazunov’s Rêverie orientale and First Overture
on Greek Themes, and The Dance of the Polovtsian Maidens from Borodin’s Prince Igor were
performed.
134
beyond their strength by compiling programmes made up almost entirely

of works receiving their first performances. Performance is the intermediary
between listener and composer, an intermediary which must on no account
be neglected. It would have been better to reduce the number of newly per-
formed works but perform them as perfectly as possible.
If I have dwelt on all the smallest shortcomings of the Russian Symphony
Concerts at such length, it is only because the concerts’ noble goal of serving
the cause of Russian music is attractive in the highest degree; we do not wish
to see the slightest imperfection in what we hold dear. These shortcomings
can easily be got rid of, and then the concerts would deservedly be even more
appealing, would occupy a still more honoured place and acquire still more
capital importance.
It is entirely natural that the significant number of works performed at
these concerts should provoke a comparison between the works of our ma-
ture composers who are already dying out – the fathers’ group, and our
younger composers, the beginners – the sons’ group.
The first thing that stares one in the face is that the sons are the direct suc-
cessors and heirs of the fathers and lack the slightest admixture of outside
blood; it is equally obvious that they have inherited from the fathers mainly
their shortcomings, not their strengths. Glazunov stands head and shoul-
ders above the other sons in strength of talent and technical perfection, and
therefore I shall have Glazunov’s works primarily in mind in what follows.
In the sons’ compositions one most often encounters these three funda-
mental shortcomings: an absence of musically significant themes, a passion
for curiosities of harmony, and an enthusiasm for programmes which are
quite unsuitable for music.
In any work, the main thing is the idea. Hence, in music the most im-
portant thing is the theme. Many of the fathers were distinguished by rich
thematic inventiveness – Borodin, Tchaikovsky and Musorgsky. Korsakov
is considerably poorer in themes, but you often find in his music beautiful
short phrases which he seeks out and frequently finds. But among the sons
there apparently exists a degree of disdain for themes; they apparently sup-
pose that any theme at all, even the poorest, the dullest, will do for music.
It is true that in Coriolan and the first Allegro of his C minor Symphony
Beethoven worked wonders with themes comprising only a few notes, but
that was Beethoven and these were merely exceptions for a composer of
genius whose principal strength lay precisely in his inexhaustible thematic
wealth. A theme cannot be thought up or thought out; a theme is the product
of inspiration; inspiration does not always obediently appear at a composer’s
summons – he must be able to wait for it. But our sons, apparently, will
135
have none of this – they take the first phrase that comes into their heads
and build their harmonic curiosities upon it. I mention Glazunov’s Second
String Quartet as a prime example of disdain for themes, if not of thematic
poverty.
One of the New Russian School’s most attractive features is fear of the
banal. This fear finds expression, among other things, in sumptuous and
original harmonization. The fathers strove for harmonization of this kind,
but they almost always subordinated it to the basic ideas. And if there are
some exceptions, if sometimes genuine originality changes into a straining
after originality, then that happens only rarely. (These harmonic exaggera-
tions carried to the extent of ugliness occur most often in Musorgsky, the
least musical, though one of the most talented of the fathers.) With the sons,
this seeking after new, unprecedented, original harmonization has engulfed
everything else – musical ideas, feeling, expressiveness; they have carried
their harmonic investigations to the length of oddity, ugliness and forced-
ness; they apparently confuse simplicity with banality and have decided not
to say a single thing in the same way as their predecessors. They take the
technique of harmonization to a level of virtuosity where it becomes an end
in itself and is just as damaging to art as exclusive dedication to virtuosity
in performance, as the acrobatics of performers. Let me express myself yet
more clearly: just as a piece which consists exclusively of technical difficulties
for the performer cannot be of serious musical significance, no more can a
piece consisting entirely of harmonic curiosities be a work of art. Such pieces
may astound the listener, but that is not the aim of music. This is a slippery
slope, and since, surprisingly, feelings are quickly blunted, it can easily take
us much too far out of our way. Only the effect of what speaks to the feel-
ings is irresistible, while striving exclusively after harmonic curiosities is in
its very essence heartless and cold.
The wider the bounds of art the better; this is also an attractive principle
of the New Russian School. Music is above all capable of expressing and
communicating moods of the soul; but in addition it is capable of conjuring
up in the listener’s imagination certain images prompted by a programme.
Hence the legitimacy of programme music. But one must not forget that
if music is capable of expressing only a general mood, still more is it in a
position to reproduce only general images. The fathers understood this per-
fectly; their programmes were general in character (vengeance, power, love
in Korsakov’s Antar; the caravan’s approach and moving-away in Borodin’s
Central Asia) and their programme music never ceased being music. Only
once, in his Skazka (‘Folk-Tale’) did Korsakov move outside this general
framework, and the result was a work significantly inferior to the remainder
of his programme music.
136
One can find some exaggerations in Musorgsky – as well in Boris Godunov

(the chimes) as in [Pictures from] Gartman’s Exhibition; in Boris they had
to be cut; and Gartman’s Exhibition is one of Musorgsky’s less successful
works. The sons take details of the programme to absurd lengths by por-
traying giants stepping through a forest breaking up trees, or wood-demons
growing to fabulous dimensions. All these are tasks beyond and in part
unworthy of music, and since the listener is not in a position to guess where
and when the composer moves from depicting one detail to depicting an-
other, the musical work becomes formless, incomprehensible and loses all
meaning.
I shall point out one other feature which sets the sons apart from the
fathers. Despite the frequent contact the fathers had with one another, each
preserved his own individuality in all its inviolability. It is enough to glance
at one page of the fathers’ music to be able to say unmistakably whose it is –
Borodin’s, Balakirev’s, Musorgsky’s, Tchaikovsky’s or Korsakov’s.10 The
sons’ music is the music of twins. That is not a reproach inasmuch as it
depends on the sons’ less brilliant gifts; but it is a reproach inasmuch as it
derives from the wrong direction taken by them all in common.
Let no one think that in saying all these things I wish to belittle the im-
portance of the Russian Symphony Concerts or the talent of our young
composers. On the contrary, I wish to raise yet higher the moral role of these
concerts, to indicate the false path which our sons are taking, to demonstrate
the danger of it, and to bring them to a halt along this path. But unfortu-
nately, judging by Glazunov, this path attracts them more and more, just like
a quicksand or an abyss in the ocean. I would cite in evidence the fact that
his Second String Quartet is poorer in ideas than his First, his Second Greek
Overture is more over-refined than his First, Sten’ka Razin is less fancifully
programmatic than The Forest, his Characteristic Suite is weaker than his
First Symphony, and so on.
Only by abandoning this false path, only by absorbing the idea that the
purpose of music is not to astound but to attract and captivate, that every-
thing great is usually simple, that one cannot make oneself original by one’s
own wish – only then will our young composers be in a position to count
on not passing through this life without trace and on their works being pre-
served for a long time alongside the compositions of the fathers. But should
this not happen, should the striving after impossible fantasies finally stifle
their gifts, there would still be no reason for despair. Nature endowed the
fathers so generously that she is perhaps saving up her next gifts for the
grandsons.
10 Editor’s note: The compositions of Ts. A. Cui are also distinguished by a similar individuality.
137
I should mention in conclusion that these concerts have given us a series of

superb posthumous works by Borodin and one brilliant work by Korsakov,
and among the sons (saying nothing about Glazunov) have demonstrated
the undoubted gifts of Vitol’,11 Antipov and Felix Blumenfeld.
(b) G. A. Laroche: A. S. Arensky’s String Quartet. Moscow

Bulletin, 1888, no. 359. Laroche 4, pp. 240–3
Following study with Rimsky-Korsakov, Anton Arensky (1861–1906)
made his career in Moscow, as a professor at the Conservatoire, and
latterly again in St Petersburg at the Court Kapella. Though not a
‘Belyayevite’, Arensky may justifiably be included here by education
and generation. This quartet op. 11 was composed in 1888 and is
dedicated to Laroche; for a further discussion of this composer, see
(c) below.
The composer whose name appears in my heading represents a vein of some-

thing new and interesting in our musical world. A pupil of N. A. Rimsky-
Korsakov and by no means alien to the currents from the ‘young Russian
school’, at the same time he belongs fully to the group of composers of the
solid orientation who combine national (natsional’noye) content with Eu-
ropean technique, a group which is only starting to be formed in Russia,
even though the immortal model of such a combination, Glinka, entered
eternity long ago. An entirely harmonious fusion of these two elements with
a temporary predominance of now one, now the other, is to be found in
P. I. Tchaikovsky, but in that respect Tchaikovsky has been completely on
his own. The new feature of the hue represented by Arensky consists in his
greater closeness to the ‘young Russian school’: the Russian element in his
work has been filtered through the crucible of that school’s methods to a
significant extent; at times a page of pure Balakirev style (such as the elegant
Andante of his Symphony) turns up in his music, but at the same time he
shows real virtuosity in counterpoint, while his form is distinguished by a
fluency and coherence unusual in Russia; for all his youth, he is a complete
master, and he acquired his mastery some time ago. I regard Arensky as the
prototype of a new kind of Russian musician and think that the future, or at
least a significant share of it, belongs to just this kind of musician. The na-
tional direction and distinctive imprint, for which Russian music is indebted
to its constant intercourse with folksong, will be preserved, but the place of
present-day dilettantism and slovenliness will be taken by a perfect command
11 Jazeps Vitols/Iosif Ivanovich Vitol’ (1863–1948): composer, student at the St Petersburg

Conservatoire; he worked in his native Latvia, 1918–44.
138
of all the resources developed over the age-long process of European

music. The harshness of present-day radicalism will be softened and its cor-
ners smoothed down; it is a radicalism which so little represents a rational
link with the national direction and is tacked on to it in such a superficial
manner; the childish contempt for the age-old luminaries of the art – for
Bach and Handel, Haydn and Mozart – will vanish; the present-day provin-
cial exclusiveness and weakness of a small circle who consider themselves
our national school will disappear; Russian music will finally and deservedly
achieve a general recognition in Europe, such as Russian poetry already
enjoys.
If such thoughts are prompted by the whole of Arensky’s work as a com-
poser, they strike me as particularly relevant to his G major Quartet for two
violins, viola and cello (his only one so far), which was played with great suc-
cess on 18 December at the Musical Society and was lately published by Mr
Jurgenson [. . .]. First and foremost, the Quartet is agreeably striking for the
fact that it is written in an entirely chamber-music style. Double-stopping –
that first sign of corruption in quartet style – is used extremely moderately;
the four instruments almost always represent four independent voices, with
the first violin not unduly predominant over the other parts. But while the
new Quartet reveals a learned musician and experienced contrapuntist, it
is by no means a product of abstract erudition; like everything else from
Arensky’s pen (except for [the orchestral fantasy] Marguerite Gauthier which
I detest), the Quartet bears the stamp of grace, ease and naturalness. The first
Allegro, with its sweet and playful agility, suits the character of string instru-
ments in the best possible way and, it seems, was directly inspired by their
sonority and technique; the poetic Andante sostenuto (which particularly
appealed to the public at the performance, as should have been expected) is
distinguished by the extraordinary fascination of its melody and its beautiful
harmonization, without apparently ever going beyond the limits long known
and used by all, but at the same time gives a captivating impression of some-
thing new, fresh and charming. Both these first two movements as well as
the Minuet which follows them – especially the Minuet – come significantly
close to German music in style; in the first two movements it is the German
style of the nineteenth century, approximately of Schumann’s time but with-
out any direct influence from Schumann, whereas in the Minuet a rare and
precious guest pays a call on us – the eighteenth century, more in the subtle,
worldly elegance of Mozart than the unceremonious cheerfulness of Haydn.
Moreover, the character of irony or parody is easily recognizable here, and
beneath the mask of a marquis you can nonetheless divine the familiar and
endearing features of the young Russian master. The Trio displays a major
139
shortcoming: it forms little contrast with the Minuet in general spirit and
in rhythm especially – like the main section it is written in legato quavers.
Unlike the other three movements, the Finale (variations on a theme of the
Russian common people) once more reminds us of Arensky’s close kinship to
the young Russian school, who, it seems, neither acknowledge him as one of
their own nor even like him very much, whereas they should be exceptionally
proud of him. Like many fast Russian dance songs, the theme of the Finale,
although appearing to be eight bars long, actually consists of only two: bars
3 and 4, 5 and 6, and 7 and 8 are nothing more than a slight modification of
the first two. This circumstance must have made the task of varying it excep-
tionally difficult, for variation is in itself repetition, but Arensky has emerged
triumphantly from a difficult situation: his variations can be listened to with
unbroken interest; the harmonies are full of life and variety, but it is the in-
strumentation which is especially striking, achieving astounding clarity and
abounding in nuances and contrasts. It is true that in this movement (and
only here) the composer deviates in places from strict quartet texture and
moves into an orchestral one, but one cannot reproach him for that: his little
orchestra of four instruments sounds so full, so clear, so varied and beautiful
that one wants to forget about the strictness of a principle for which at an-
other time one would have stood up energetically. If there is a shortcoming
for which one might reproach these variations, it lies in the too frequent
pauses. I think that the pause is a rhythmic effect that must be used with
the greatest moderation, since it disturbs the symmetry of construction and
thereby gives the listener a strong jolt. The composer probably resorted to
it in consequence of the harsh monotony of the theme’s metre and rhythm,
but there is no need to be too afraid of such monotony: it is in the spirit
of the dance themes of our simple people, and its invariable consistency in
our people’s singing, along with the endless couplet repetitions, have a grace
and passion of their own; it is sometimes amusing, sometimes intoxicating,
but rarely boring. At any rate, the variations are delightful and introduce
the contemporary spirit’s salt and savour into the Quartet when they are
absent from the other three movements, although they are maybe aimed at
the more sophisticated connoisseur. I cannot fail, in conclusion, to point out
another merit of the new work: it is exceptionally concise and short. I am
inclined to think this quality more important in the eyes of the specialist than
the ordinary music-lover. The public is not averse to longueurs: if they were
afraid of them, the breed of Bayreuthomanes – people who sit patiently for
four hours in the dark listening to recitatives – would not exist. But those of
us who are critics by profession are surfeited with music and for the most
part as soon as we hear the first two bars we know what will come in bars
140
3 and 4, and are most aggrieved when a composer lapses into talkative-
ness. We, like Gogol’s bride, like a ‘good person’ mainly for not ‘talking
idly’.
(c) A. V. Ossovsky: A. S. Arensky. The Word, 1906, no. 384.

Ossovsky, pp. 145–8
This critic (1871–1957) was an eminent St Petersburg /Leningrad musi-
cologist.
Russian art has once again sustained a heavy loss. On the night of 13 Febru-
ary the composer A. S. Arensky died. [His health had been deteriorating for
the last three years.]
[Arensky’s biography is outlined: after studying at the St Petersburg Con-
servatoire, he taught at the one in Moscow from 1882 to 1894 before re-
turning to the capital as director of the Court Kapella (1895–1901).]
Arensky’s activities as a composer brought him the highest earthly reward
an artist can obtain – general recognition and popularity. His muse’s outward
appearance of affability filled with gracefulness and external charm, disposed
everyone in his favour. The unfeigned sincerity of his work, the accessibil-
ity of its contents and his lively feeling for beauty made his compositions
intelligible to the broad public. Arensky’s art was not notable for its profun-
dity, overwhelming power or grand scale. It lacks even striking originality,
which might have set up his activity as a landmark in the historical course
of music’s development. But, nevertheless, he was a thoroughbred artist in
the whole cast of his nature, and for that alone he has to be beloved and pre-
cious to us. Not by reason and schooling, but by spontaneous feeling for
his artistic nature, he took possession of the mystery of life and beauty
in art.
Of the two types of creative artist embodied in the form of supreme ge-
nius by Mozart and Beethoven (these two names have become powerful
symbols for musicians), Arensky, of course, belonged to the former one – to
the Mozartian type. Passionate and carried away in life, never falling prey
to the mysteries of the universe, he wrote music at the very first summons
of his inspiration. Without lengthy reflection, he committed to paper noth-
ing but that which was prompted by his heart. Labour-pains in producing
compositions and painstaking self-criticism were incomprehensible to him.
Serving art did not strike him as a feat of sacred heroism, and he did not
feel himself preordained to open up any great universal enigma to mankind.
He sang because he wanted to, and composing was for him a natural form
of existence, which it was therefore not worth prizing particularly or taking
141
pride in. In Pushkin’s pithy saying, in this case too the ‘sacred gift’ illumined
the ‘head of a madman, an empty idler’. But that madman was Mozart, a
genius, whereas here we are confronting merely talent. In this combination
of a Mozartian nature with the powers of mere talent, not genius, a certain
artistic peril lay concealed for Arensky too. It was precisely from this source
that his characteristic preference for small forms of art arose. For the same
reason, the inner beauty with which his finest works glow declined on oc-
casion to mere conventional external prettiness while the contents became
superficial and of little value. There now came into the world compositions
bearing all the disagreeable marks of the salon. It is no use, however, dwelling
on them. For when one is speaking about a real artist, and assessing his im-
portance, one must weigh up, of course, that which is truly fine which is to
be found in the midst of what he created and what the world needs from
him. For supreme justice rigorously gives everyone in history his due, ruth-
lessly erasing from human memory works of art undeserving of that sacred
name.
Arensky’s first compositions (up to roughly op. 15, including his first opera
A Dream on the Volga) bear traces, along with the composer’s individual
traits, of the influence of the St Petersburg national school of music. Over
the course of time, Arensky’s talent evened out, the nationalist and realist
aspirations fell away, and his artistic personality, reflecting in some respects
Tchaikovsky, took shape along the lines described in general terms above.
The typically Russian is not to be found in Arensky, but he is nevertheless
an artist of a perfectly clear Slavonic mould in psychology of feeling and
manner of expression.
Arensky’s prolific activity as a composer touched the spheres of opera
and ballet, sacred, symphonic, chamber and salon music, the cantata, vocal
ensemble, song and melodeclamation. In each of these spheres he left talented
specimens of his art. There is neither time nor space here to embark on a more
detailed examination and characterization of Arensky’s work now. From
among them, his piano pieces, songs and chamber works have achieved the
widest diffusion, and of these the First Piano Trio has become really popular
not only in Russia but in Germany as well.
The radiant image of a pure-hearted, benign, captivating and open man,
marked by talent and intelligence, will never leave the memory of his
friends after Arensky’s death. As far as Russia is concerned, Arensky will
not die altogether either. His soul ‘in its intimate lyre will escape de-
cay’, and in his best works the image of a sincere and ingenious artist in
love with the supreme delight of our life – undying beauty – will remain
alive.
142
(d) Yu. D. Engel’: Glazunov as a symphonist. Published for

the twenty-fifth anniversary of A. K. Glazunov’s career in
music (1882–1907). Russian Musical Gazette, 1907, no. 1,
cols. 1–8; no. 2, cols. 60–5; no. 3, cols. 89–95; no. 4, cols.
130–8; nos. 5–6, cols. 171–5
Engel’ writes a substantial but not uncritical account of the work of the
most productive Russian symphonist to date. By 1907 Glazunov was
also well established as a major figure in the musical and educational
landscape, with a considerable foreign reputation as well.
I
‘To me you are an enigma’
(from a letter of Tchaikovsky to Glazunov).12
Speaking about Glazunov as a symphonist means speaking about the whole
of Glazunov. By this I do not mean that his quartets, piano pieces and other
works do not deserve attention, but the element which Glazunov loves best
and where he is most at home is, of course, the orchestra. It is in exactly this
field that he has created the work which is his most significant and powerful;
his vigorous talent, with all its merits and shortcomings, has made itself felt
here most impressively of all; it is here that one must seek the key to inter-
preting the basic features of his work. One must seek, but how is one to find?!
How is one to get one’s bearings in the boundless ocean of scores and four-
hand arrangements summoned into existence by Glazunov?13 How is one to
revive in one’s memory the vivid colours of works of his heard in days gone
by? How is one to imagine even a simulacrum of those colours in the many
compositions one has never heard at all? What are all the complex works like,
not only in the manner of writing but also in breadth of form and conception?
The matter is made more difficult by the fact that there are extremely
few substantial articles about Glazunov in our music criticism. One has to
undertake for oneself a mass of laborious preparatory work and one nearly
always ends up with a question mark all the same. And how, in fact, is one
to come to terms as a whole with a composer whom the very idea of a jubilee
does not fit, though he has been writing, to be sure, for twenty-five years –
so young is he in truth, so natural is it to expect from him in the future
even more than he has done in the past? Yes – comprehending the whole
12 Tchaikovsky’s letter was written from Florence on 30 January/11 February 1890, and may
be found in his Collected Correspondence, vol. 15b (Moscow 1977), pp. 30–2.
13 Engel’ refers to the Belyayev practice of publishing works in several formats – for instance,
orchestral works in arrangements for one piano and piano duet.
143
of Glazunov is indeed a difficult task – and perhaps, for the time being, an
impossible one. But in the last resort one ought to make an attempt to do
something of that kind in general terms at least now, on the occasion of his
twenty-fifth anniversary!
The repertory of Russian symphonic music, as everyone knows, is one of
Europe’s youngest. Its inception can be dated from Glinka’s overtures and
Kamarinskaya; the first actual Russian symphonies were composed only in
1854 (by Rubinstein) and 1864 (by Rimsky-Korsakov).14 Nonetheless, in
quantity of orchestral works Russia occupies third position in the universal
repertory; in intensity of creativity, that is in quantity of works associated
with each symphonist, she stands ahead of all other countries.15 But even
among these so very productive Russian symphonists, the first place for
quantity created is held by Glazunov.
Of the eighty-two opus numbers which he has written, more than half
are allotted to orchestral works. There are eight complete symphonies (the
eighth has not yet been published)16 and four suites (the ‘Characteristic’,
Chopiniana, the Ballet Suite, ‘From the Middle Ages’), not counting suites
assembled from ballets; four overtures (two on Greek themes, Carnaval, the
Solemn); and a long line of symphonic poems, pictures, fantasias and other
compositions of every kind: Sten’ka Razin, The Forest, The Sea, The Kremlin,
the Fantasia op. 53, Spring, the Poème lyrique, Rapsodie orientale, Triumphal
Procession, Scène de Ballet, Rêverie orientale, Ballade, serenades, marches,
waltzes, etc. To the same category must be assigned the ballets Raymonda,
Barı̈shnya-krest’yanka (Les ruses d’amour) and The Seasons, since the centre
of gravity of these ballets lies in the orchestra – the dances are only an
addition, an illustration of the music, in contrast to the old ballets, where
the complete opposite could be observed. To Glazunov alone, therefore,
14 Works by Count Viyel’gorsky (1825) and Alyab’yev (1850) challenge this claim.
15 Author’s note: Catalogue of Orchestral Music of All Countries, compiled by Rosenkranz
and published by Novello (London 1902), gives the following figures. Over the 250 years
from 1650 to 1900, 2,324 orchestral works by 649 composers were published in Germany;
1,242 pieces by 256 composers in France; 322 pieces by 53 composers in Russia; 251 pieces
by 89 composers in England, etc. Thus, every Russian composer who wrote for orchestra
composed an average of 6 pieces; every Frenchman 4.8; every German 3.5; every Englishman
2.8. This rapid and energetic growth (mainly over the last twenty-five to thirty years) in the
Russian symphonic repertory was helped in part by the committed publishing activities of
Belyayev, which had an indirect influence in this direction on other publishers as well. It is
relevant to recall here that Belyayev’s publishing activities in fact began with the compositions
of Glazunov, whose talent first disposed Belyayev to the good cause of supporting Russian
symphonists by publishing their compositions and establishing an appropriate composer’s
fee for those works.
16 Author’s note: In number of symphonies Glazunov has thus even now overtaken
Tchaikovsky, who earlier held first place in this respect among Russian composers; the
same must be said about programmatic orchestral music.
144
belongs about one-seventh of all Russian symphonic music. But of course

the question of a composer’s significance is decided not by the quantity of
his works but by their quality, their power, beauty, expressiveness, by what
they have introduced to contemporary art and what may be left to posterity.
What does Glazunov represent from this point of view and – dependent on
that factor – what is his significance in Russian music and in present-day
music in general?
As early as the First Symphony (E major), composed at the age of fifteen,
several features of his talent were outlined which were subsequently to be
defined and confirmed more strongly. The symphony is somewhat cold even
where it is beautiful, it is melodically pale (the weakest movement is the wa-
tery Andante), but it is hale and hearty, it sounds well, and most important
of all – it is all distinguished by a flair for form and in general by a firm-
ness of compositional tread surprising in a beginning composer. Take for
comparison, for instance, Tchaikovsky’s First Symphony or Kalinnikov’s
First Symphony. Both of them as music stand incomparably higher than
Glazunov’s First Symphony, but how many times does one detect in both hes-
itations in developing a musical idea, how many times do the white threads
used to stitch one episode to another stare one in the face! With Glazunov
there is almost none of that. However narrow his musical horizon in the
First Symphony, even there, whether by instinct or consciously, he knows
where he wants to go and how to get there.
In comparison with the First, the Second Symphony [. . .] represents a
huge step forward as regards the composer’s musical development – some-
thing akin to the leap which Beethoven made between his First and Third
Symphonies.17 The F-sharp minor Symphony is dedicated to the memory of
Liszt, whose favourite device is here used by Glazunov when he runs a single
theme through all the movements.
In this symphony the twenty-year-old composer comes before us as a real
master already, with broad and free musical horizons. Flair has turned into
confidence, while firmness of step has become boldness and the ability to
take the bull by the horns. Here Glazunov is a true young Samson sensing
17 Author’s note: One notices, by the way, a complete correspondence (I don’t know whether
coincidental or deliberate) between the keys of the symphonies of Glazunov, beginning with
the Third, and Beethoven, beginning with the Second:
D major E-flat major B-flat major C minor F major
Beethoven no. 2 no. 3 no. 4 no. 5 no. 6

Glazunov no. 3 no. 4 no. 5 no. 6 no. 7
145
his strength for the first time. It even seems as if this Samson, like his bibli-
cal prototype, possesses a heart capable of beating with passion, something
which would not enter one’s head about the First Symphony.
The Poème lyrique, written in the gap between the First and Second Sym-
phonies, inclines one even more to that idea. How much warmth (not fire!)
and good, sincere, gentle lyricism this charming music contains! Along with
this Poème lyrique, the Second Symphony gives us an outline of the young
composer’s instincts: they show a whole, balanced artistic nature, sensitive
to pure beauty, but also capable of responding to everything human, com-
bining gentleness with strength and breadth. The harmonious evolution of
a nature like this promised to lead to the creation of a complete musical
microcosm of its own – just as broad, just as deep, and just as pervaded by
the quickening of the senses as the cult of beauty.
Did the reality live up to these promises? Not altogether. ‘The sleepy giant
(bogatı̈r’)’, as someone called Glazunov, accomplished many glorious deeds,
deployed his mighty strength and put on a powerful display, but somehow
not to the full. Part of his powers remained half asleep, only rarely blazing up
with the spirit of life, only to be plunged once more into the usual drowsiness.
This drowsiness contains something fatal. Tchaikovsky divined it sixteen
years ago, although, of course, it is far easier to determine its extent and
significance now than it was then. ‘To me you are in many respects an
enigma’, he wrote to Glazunov in 1890. ‘You have the quality of genius,
but something prevents you developing broadly and deeply. One always ex-
pects something out of the ordinary from you, but such expectations are
always justified only to a limited degree.’
One fisherman can tell another from afar off. Tchaikovsky recognized the
quality of genius in Glazunov; but from our present-day viewpoint the lat-
ter part of his diagnosis needs to be amended and supplemented. It is true
that not all the ‘expectations of something out of the ordinary’ placed on
Glazunov have proved justified; but it is untrue that they have all been ‘justi-
fied only to a limited degree’. Some of them have been justified entirely, and
several even more than entirely: reality has outstripped these expectations
and each new score by the composer of Raymonda threatens to surpass the
previous one in this respect. Don’t we have in the person of Glazunov the
all-powerful sovereign of sound – first and foremost the sovereign of orches-
tral colours and nuances, the great wizard of instrumentation, worthy to
stand alongside Rimsky-Korsakov himself? Isn’t Glazunov up to handling
the heavy armour of the most complicated forms of contemporary sym-
phonic music? Are we not astounded by his vigorous, truly gigantic sweep,
and at the same time the lightness and elegance of the butterfly as it flits
from flower to flower? To someone who knows the present-day Glazunov,
146
there can be only one answer to all these rhetorical questions, and it is in the
affirmative. Once more, therefore, we must amend Tchaikovsky’s diagnosis
in the part where he speaks of the want of breadth in Glazunov.
Tchaikovsky is far closer to the truth, as we can see now, when he makes
an oblique reference to the want of depth in Glazunov. But even here he is
only half-right, and for this reason.
Music represents impressions of life conveyed in sound by an artist. In
this definition one must understand by ‘life’ not only the indispensable life
of every day with its round of social and other events, though there are no
grounds for excluding the topics of the day from the range of influences
upon an artist, as some try to do. ‘Life’ must be understood here in its real,
unembraceably wide and infinitely varied meaning, as every artist perceives
and experiences it. It contains both art in all its branches and ramifica-
tions as well as nature; both things which raise the spirit and the humdrum;
both personal and social experiences; both dream and reality – in short, all
that the artist’s ‘five senses’, imagination, sensibility, mind and heart can
comprehend.
But it is possible to ‘convey the impressions of life’ in art in two ways.
The centre of gravity here may be either the artist as he reacts to life, or that
which he narrates. Creative work of the first kind is more subjective, bears
more strongly the imprint of passion, has more of an edge; creative work of
the second kind is more objective, colder, broader. An inclination towards
specifically national elements in art is obviously more typical of artists of the
second type than the first. It goes without saying that both subjective and
objective creativity absolutely presuppose individuality of creative powers in
the artist; but in the first case this individuality displays itself more deeply,
in the second more broadly.18 Combining both in a well-balanced synthesis
is within the power only of a talent which is versatile, complete and har-
monious, although in individual instances it can be achieved even by talents
which are clearly ‘of the same type’ in the sense indicated above.
The two composers with the greatest influence on contemporary Russian
music, Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, can serve as representatives of
precisely this same-type creativity, the first subjective, the second objective.19
18 Author’s note: Of course, apart from the what (in subjective or objective incarnations), a large
part in a work of art – especially in music – is played by the how. This is indicated, among
other things, even by the definition which we accepted above: ‘music represents impressions
of life conveyed in sound by an artist’. The italics presuppose in the artist authority over
both the material of his art (in this case, over sound), and also over its means of expression
and artistic devices. But we shall not deal here with this more specialized aspect of creativity.
19 Author’s note: I have already had occasion to make a more detailed juxtaposition of these
two composers in the press, and there the contrast between them was emphasized by pointing
to the fact that Tchaikovsky is first and foremost both the ruler and the slave of the minor, the
147
One must not understand the feature differentiating them only in a strict and
exclusive sense. It indicates only the prevailing character of the creative work
of each of these two composers. And one has only to take a closer look at
contemporary Russian music to see that the meaning of this feature is greater
than it might seem at first glance; it not only distinguishes Tchaikovsky from
Rimsky-Korsakov; it differentiates two currents in modern Russian music,
and divides present-day Russian composers into two groups, independently
of their degree of talent.
On the one side, along with Rimsky-Korsakov, we see Glazunov, Lyadov,
Lyapunov20 and to an extent Cherepnin;21 on the other, with Tchaikovsky,
we see Rachmaninoff, Skryabin and to an extent Arensky. Grechaninov22
and Kalinnikov23 occupy a position in the middle; the former is closer to
the first group, the latter to the second. Taneyev stands on his own. The
first group could be called the ‘Korsakovites’, after its most eminent and
influential member, while the second could be called the ‘Tchaikovskyites’ –
which by no means indicates, of course, that, for instance, Glazunov is merely
a continuer of Rimsky-Korsakov, or Skryabin of Tchaikovsky. One could
also, guided by the surprising geographical coincidence, call the first group
the St Petersburg one and the second the Moscow one.24
II
It is natural that the features of each group should be felt and noted with
special acuteness by artists of the opposing type. That is why Tchaikovsky
was bound to find Glazunov insufficiently profound, just as Tchaikovsky
probably impresses Glazunov and people of his kind by a certain narrowness
or one-sidedness.
One must also say that Glazunov is one of the most typical representatives
of ‘objective’ creativity not only in Russian musical literature but also in that
of the whole world. And that in spite of the fact that he has devoted himself
almost exclusively to instrumental music, i.e. to precisely that field of the art
of sound which, at least when facing the challenges of programme music,
offers the greatest scope for displaying the composer’s personality as such.
singer of sorrow and dissatisfaction, whereas Rimsky-Korsakov is the herald of the major,
the singer of joy and an optimist. And this, I believe, is not entirely accidental: by their very
nature grief and the minor are more personal and subjective than joy and the major.
20 Sergey Mikhaylovich Lyapunov (1859–1924): composer, pianist and conductor. Close asso-
ciate of Balakirev.
21 Nikolay Nikolayevich Cherepnin (1873–1945): composer and conductor.
22 Aleksandr Tikhonovich Grechaninov (1864–1956): composer, pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov.
23 Vasily Sergeyevich Kalinnikov (1866–1900/01): composer.
24 Author’s note: Or is Moscow in actual fact more ‘subjective’ than St Petersburg?
148
In this respect Glazunov shows a partial similarity to Brahms, of whom

he reminds one also by the ‘artistic seriousness of his intentions’25 and his
cult of form. I do not in the least mean to suggest that Glazunov’s actual
music is similar to Brahms’. Its sources are different, and almost all of them
are closer to us; and the influences from these sources have been so greatly
transformed in the composer, so much transfigured and absorbed by the
power of his own talent, that we are fully entitled to speak of him as a great
figure who is entirely independent.
Even today, there are many who number Glazunov among the ‘New Rus-
sian School’. But the element of truth which this traditional formula contains
is far less than the element of delusion. For a start, as a real school, i.e. as
a group of composers united by shared artistic ideals and devices, the ‘New
Russian School’ disintegrated even before Glazunov appeared in the musical
arena. Moreover, Glazunov’s creative work is in many respects alien to the
‘New Russian School’ in its very essence. The ‘New Russian School’ per-
ceived the elements of realism and populism (narodnichestvo)26 advanced
during the era of the 1860s and 1870s and developed them within the realm
of music; Glazunov is far removed from these elements, at least in the form
in which they were understood at that time. The ‘New Russian School’ dis-
paraged the importance of the formal and architectonic aspects of musical
creativity in favour of the idea inserted into the composition; we see rather
the opposite in Glazunov.
But one cannot, of course, deny the link between Glazunov and the ‘New
Russian School’. Superficially, this link finds some corroboration in the fact
that Balakirev discovered Glazunov’s talent and Rimsky-Korsakov fostered
it. But one must not forget that the Rimsky-Korsakov of the time when he
was teaching Glazunov was not the same one who had written The Maid
of Pskov; in the interval he had subjected himself to a strict and prolonged
novitiate of self-taught technical work and had even turned in the direction of
an enthusiasm for pure form in music, which among other things led him to
the conviction that he needed to correct nearly all his previous compositions.
This new Rimsky-Korsakov moved away from the former militant slogans of
the ‘New Russian School’, but how much more decisive must his influence
have been on Glazunov’s talent, who by his own nature was inclined to
the abstractness of musical logic. The gravitation of both towards bright
colours, contrary to the prevailing gloomy tones of contemporary serious art,
strengthened their connection even more. The influence of other members
of the ‘Mighty Handful’ made itself felt on Glazunov no more strongly than
25 Author’s note: Tchaikovsky’s expression. [In the letter cited above, Tchaikovsky in fact uses
the phrase ‘the seriousness of your aspirations’.]
26 Narodnichestvo: radical agrarian political ideas first formulated in the 1860s.
149
on many other composers of the same or similar type. Only to Borodin

is Glazunov indebted comparatively more. His kinship with the composer
of Prince Igor can be noticed in Glazunov in the heavy sweep of Russian
themes, and in certain harmonic turns of phrase, and in the treatment of
oriental subjects, favourites of them both.
Glazunov’s relationship to Wagner is similar. Our composer, like nearly all
his European colleagues, is substantially indebted to Wagner – perhaps even
more than many others – but he has not been swallowed up by him, has not
lost his own physiognomy. The wide range of Glazunov’s sympathies, which
extend far beyond the factional limits of the ‘New Russian School’ circle, is
indicated indirectly by the names of the people to whom his major symphonic
compositions are dedicated. Alongside members of the circle, their fervent
propagandist Vladimir Stasov and the composer’s young colleagues, we find
here in addition dedications ‘To the memory of Richard Wagner’ (The Sea),
to Anton Rubinstein (the Fourth Symphony), to Tchaikovsky (the Third
Symphony), to Laroche (Carnaval), to Sergey Taneyev (the Fifth Symphony),
etc.
But what are dedications! In judging a person, seeing his face means lit-
tle, of course – you must look into his soul; so turn over the title-pages
of Glazunov’s scores and look into their souls, and you will become still
more convinced of the breadth of the composer’s musical horizons, the free
independence of his creative work, uninhibited in its flight by any kind of
preconceived artistic views.
Wagner asserted that music as an independent art had become obsolete
with Beethoven and that if it wished to grow and develop thereafter, it in-
evitably had to be combined with drama. In his book The Symphony after
Beethoven [Leipzig 1898], Weingartner became the spokesman of a more
widespread opinion, having rather softened and modified Wagner’s verdict
of doom. Beethoven, he declared, had exhausted the symphony’s form and
there was no point in moving further in that direction; the future belonged
therefore to programme music, to the broad perspectives opened up by its
free, new forms.
That Wagner was wrong is now clear to everyone. It is obvious that even
for genius it is difficult in certain cases to renounce a narrow Philistine point
of view: ‘the only real light is the one that shines from my window’. No
more was Weingartner correct, it would seem, in condemning the symphony
to death. Remember what Pushkin says: ‘There’s no movement, said the
bearded sage’. By the same means as the sage’s interlocutor demonstrated
that there was movement (he got up and left), it is easy to refute Weingartner.
At any rate, so many fresh, vivid and powerful symphonies have been written
since Beethoven that it can hardly be said that the form is obsolete. And we
150
may say with pride that among these symphonies, Russian ones – especially
those by Glazunov – occupy a place of prominence and honour. There are
sufficient of them alone to demonstrate that the surprisingly flexible form
of the symphony is even now perfectly viable and can accommodate all
the wealth of contemporary resources of musical expression, embodying to
perfection at the same time the old (but perpetually young!) aesthetic law of
‘unity in diversity’.
In this regard, the symphonies of Glazunov are instructive – no less, per-
haps than those of Tchaikovsky. A cursory survey is sufficient to see how
much variety they offer in both form and character, despite their common
family features!
In the Second Symphony, in F-sharp minor op. 16 [composed in 1886
and dedicated to the memory of Liszt], Glazunov, as has been said already,
takes a single theme through all the movements. But how he differs here
from Tchaikovsky, who applies the same device, for example, in his Fourth
Symphony. In Tchaikovsky the basic theme forces its way like a wedge into
each of the symphony’s movements – like something opposed or alien to it;
and why this should be so is understandable: it is fate, laying its heavy hand
on a person in all his actions and aspirations. Glazunov solved his problem
starting out from a different, specifically musical point of view. For him, a
theme is above all a compound of primary musical elements (motives), from
a new combination and distribution of which one can obtain a series of new
and in part entirely independent musical bodies, just as out of water, by
means of a new combination of its constituent elements, one can obtain air,
salt, lime, etc., to say nothing of ice and steam, to obtain which less complex
processes suffice. And one must say that Glazunov succeeds in masterly fash-
ion with these demonstrations of musical chemistry. The principal theme of
the Second Symphony harmonized in the Mixolydian mode gives an impres-
sion of something religious and pompous when it occurs in the introduction
to the first Allegro. But its Gregorian nuance disappears completely in the
Allegro, where, thanks to new rhythm, metre, harmony and instrumenta-
tion, it takes on a character of somewhat uncontrolled savagery. A signifi-
cant place in the Allegro is assigned to an interesting and rich development,
with sudden enharmonic leaps into remote keys, reminiscent of Liszt. The
new movement of the symphony (Andante) brings a new transformation of
the theme – a magical broad melody with Borodinesque oriental colouring
over lush, languorous harmonies. In the Scherzo, which is interesting for its
alternation of seven- and eight-bar statements, the Trio expounds the basic
theme in sweet, smooth thirds in the woodwind instruments. The Finale of
the symphony is rather in the Russian spirit; here again we encounter the
same theme in a new independent form; even the contrapuntal formations of
151
the Finale (which also acquire independent status in it) turn out on closer in-
spection to be related to the same basic theme. In a final analysis, the Second
Symphony could be called something like grandiose, original variations in
sonata form.
The Fourth Symphony, in E-flat major [op. 48, written in 1894 and ded-
icated to Anton Rubinstein] represents something similar, in that a single
theme is threaded throughout all its movements too, but now in a new
manner. If in the Allegro of the Second Symphony a large place is given
to the development, in the Allegro of the Fourth Symphony its dimensions
are quite tiny. In this respect Glazunov almost approaches here the type of
Rossini overture where after the exposition of the principal themes, almost
without any development section, they are immediately repeated with the
corresponding change of keys. This is to be explained, one must suppose,
by the broadly extended statement of both the themes of the Symphony’s
first movement, and also by the comparatively substantial dimensions of the
Andante which serves as an introduction to it. The Scherzo, complete with its
waltz-like Trio, sounds stirringly spry. There is no formal, complete Andante
in the Symphony; it is replaced by a quite short, slow introduction to the
Finale, because of which the Symphony is in either three or five movements, if
one includes in the number of movements the slow introductions to the Finale
and the first Allegro. In the Finale the Symphony’s basic theme (the first theme
of the Allegro) appears both in its first form and in a new transformation
with the rhythm [music example 1] (one of Glazunov’s favourite rhythms). It
Example 1.
is moreover combined here with the second theme of the Allegro. This Finale
is characteristic of the composer. As in the majority of Glazunov’s finales,
a special kind of Russian stamp is perceptible in it which is not doleful but
cheerful, lively, somewhat akin in spirit to Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov;
in spite of a certain piling-up of material, it is developed freely and naturally.
III
Glazunov’s Third Symphony, in D major [op. 33, composed in 1890] is ded-
icated to Tchaikovsky. The first movement is of the utmost originality in
the modulatory layout of its sonata form. The two themes of the exposition
are in the keys of D major and B-flat minor; the development, leading to
their repetition, seems also to be heading towards D major, instead of which
E-flat major appears suddenly and with superb effect. It is in this E-flat
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major that the repetition of the exposition opens, with the same relationship
between the two themes, but now a semitone higher: the first theme is in
E-flat major, and the second is in B minor. After this traditional B minor,
but obtained in a wholly untraditional way, the D major ending of the first
movement of the Symphony appears, of course, entirely natural. But apart
from the odd scheme of modulation, this movement is also of interest for the
music itself. The impetuous onslaught of the Symphony’s very first bars (a 34
Allegro, nearly Presto), the restless tenderness of the first, stepwise theme
and the gently aching sadness of the second – all these lend the music a
distinctive hue not at all usual for Glazunov. An even more ‘unusual’ im-
pression is made by the Andante of the same Symphony – one of Glazunov’s
not very frequent specimens of genuine appassionato. A profound and pow-
erful chromatic melody works up by expanding and developing a vigorous
passion, which in its heartfelt quality is not inferior to the finest inspirations
of Tchaikovsky; in this passionate quality one can even detect something
unhealthily corrosive, reminiscent of Skryabin. It is not without reason that
this Symphony is dedicated to Tchaikovsky. The lengthy Scherzo abounding
in chromaticism is a magnificent piece with lots of witty details.
The Fifth Symphony (in B-flat major) [op. 55, written in 1896] is dedicated
to S. I. Taneyev, with whose name the calm, mature simplicity of its general
plan and the mastery of its execution could not be more in harmony. The
main theme of the first movement is of a fanfare character – clear and bright;
it is as if a single chord was spread out over many bars. When Cui was trying
to wound Wagner, who had a penchant for themes of this kind, he somewhere
went so far as to assert that fanfare-like themes bear witness to a composer’s
lack of genuine melodic inventiveness. A very strange opinion, to put it no
more strongly! As if a chord is not just as much a basic, normal type of
melodic construction as a scale! At any rate, in making such extensive use of
fanfare-like themes and even placing them in the symphony’s place of honour,
Glazunov can find consolation in the fact that he is in good company – not
only that of Wagner, but of all the greatest symphonists.27 If this theme of
Glazunov’s may be reproached for anything, it is not of course for its fanfare
quality but surely for the fact that this fanfare is strongly reminiscent of a
leitmotive from Wagner’s [Der Ring des] Nibelungen. The second theme of
the Allegro is somewhat akin to the first, as if it had been derived from it. This
weakness in thematic contrast (even at the moment when the two themes
are combined simultaneously) reinforces the distinctive calm character of
the first movement. In the delightful, rather Mendelssohnian Scherzo, the
27 Author’s note: A propos – the main theme of Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony [. . .] is also of
a pure fanfare type.
153
changes of harmony which flare up in an instant on weak beats of the bar

and then immediately die out are especially effective. The beautiful but not
particularly broad Andante also sounds well, with its harmonic and rhythmic
contrasts and its canons of masterly simplicity. The energetic Finale of the
symphony can serve, among other things, as an example of one of Glazunov’s
favourite rhythmic devices for forming themes. The opening two bars of the
Finale’s first theme (in 22 ) produce the rhythm [music example 2]. Thereafter
Example 2.
the same melody is repeated identically, except that instead of the two fast
minims it goes in crotchets: [music example 3]; as a result the strong and
Example 3.
weak beats change places, the rhythm loses its schematicism and a kind of
unbroken forward momentum is achieved – real ‘progress’.
The Sixth Symphony, in C minor [op. 58 composed in 1897, dedicated
to Felix Blumenfeld] begins with a mysterious Adagio, in which both the
themes of the following Allegro passionato take shape. The first theme of
this Allegro comprises, in essence, only two bars; there is something akin
to Tchaikovsky in its passionate unease. The second theme – lyrical and
broad, a complete contrast to the first – is dealt with in an original fashion
in its repetitions after the development. After the C minor of the first theme
(trombones, etc.), it appears in A-flat major (woodwind), then in C major
(trumpets, horns) and finally, reaching E-flat major (brass and woodwind),
leads to the conclusion in C minor, constructed using the first theme. This
whole movement is astonishingly clear and concise in form. It is based mainly
on the development of the first theme and in that connection is imprinted
with the character of a kind of conflict, of some sort of stubborn impas-
sioned strivings. Nonetheless, there is no impression that the basic theme
has been exhausted and developed to the utmost in a single integral passion-
ato, enveloping and unifying the whole movement. Here the composer has
made less out of the theme than it promised. The second movement of the
symphony is a theme with fine, luxuriant variations. Two or three melodic
turns of phrase give the theme a Russian colouring, very full of character,
but without containing anything too specific. Melodies of this kind are very
frequent in Glazunov, who can achieve a superb combination of refined
Europeanism with a no less subtle though restrained use of devices of Russian
character in his music. In this regard he occupies something like a middle
154
position between Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov. The third movement

of the Symphony is also partly of the same type, a graceful Intermezzo – one
of those lovely Allegrettos with which our composer is so successful.
The Finale (Andante maestoso) – an unusual thing in its way – is the dia-
metrical opposite of this Intermezzo. Glazunov generally fulfils the promise
of a maestoso more completely than he does with a passionato, but the Finale
of the Sixth Symphony testifies to this even more than some of his other
finales, cortèges, processions and so on. The energetic initial unison theme
of this Finale (in 42 ) contains something suggestive of the church service-
book. Its subsequent harmonization (in triads) strengthens this impression
still more, but then its dazzling, endlessly varied development draws the lis-
tener out of this tight framework of churchiness. This theme (partly with the
help of the device indicated already – the displacement of strong and weak
beats) changes its metre and rhythm like a chameleon; the same thing happens
also with the second theme of the Finale (scherzando) which is related
melodically to the variation theme in the second movement of the symphony.
The result is a kind of cabinet of curiosities of metre ( 42 , 32 , 21 , 64 , 22 , 98 ) and
a kaleidoscope of rhythms. The structures of the bars and their rhythmic
content change constantly, now being gently and smoothly transformed,
now suddenly dislocating all relationships of times and accents. On first
acquaintance, in places one may even get an impression of chaos from this
orgy of rhythms and metres, but listen attentively, think it over, and the
inner connection and consistency between the separate episodes will start
to emerge clearly before you. You will be convinced, in the end, that this
apparent chaos is no less than a picture mapped out with masterly refinement,
where the composer relies on rhythm with the same virtuoso calculation as
a pianist does on his octaves or a violinist on harmonics. And the sonorities,
each more vivid than the last, each more brilliant than the last, lend still
greater interest to this astounding picture, and its majestic character remains
predominant right up to the end.
The Seventh Symphony [op. 77, 1902, dedicated to Belyayev] corresponds
to Beethoven’s Sixth (F major) not only in key but in the prevailing ‘pastoral’
character of the music. The two ‘shepherd’s pipe’ themes in the first Allegro
are not only related to each other (the second could even be straightfor-
wardly ‘derived’ from the first), but even the instrument which first sets
them forth is the same – the oboe. From the second theme in turn emerges
the subsidiary theme, which the composer then uses in notes of double and
quadruple length, both turn-about and simultaneously. All these contrapun-
tal manipulations, together with a mass of other imitations, canons, etc., do
not detract, however, from the Allegro’s lightness of form and clear, simple
construction, in which one senses something bright and close to nature.
155
Incomparably more complex is the contrapuntal working in the second

movement of the Symphony, an Andante (in 34 ). If we called the Finale of the
Sixth Symphony a rhythmic cabinet of curiosities, then this Andante can be
called a cabinet of curiosities of counterpoint. To the first festive, important
theme (it appears first in the trombones and is chordal and diatonic in char-
acter) is opposed the second theme – a chromatic one which first enters in
the strings. Besides, after the first theme, a further one developed from it –
a subsidiary theme – appears. Right from the start the latter forms a little
fugato and moreover each of the newly entering voices begins the theme
now with the first crotchet, now the second, now the third, while at the
same time the other voices continue with the same theme, bringing it to an
end and taking the music further. As becomes clear later, the second (chro-
matic) theme also holds the secret of constructing such a fugato (‘horizontally
mobile counterpoint’), and forms startling harmonies in addition. For after
this second fugato a broad, endlessly flowing beautiful canon and a repeti-
tion of the first theme lead us to yet greater contrapuntal rarities. It turns
out that the second theme (the chromatic one) and the subsidiary theme not
only combine excellently with each other simultaneously, regardless of which
forms the upper or the lower voice (‘vertically invertible counterpoint’), but
in addition possess the same capacity for horizontal transfer in relation to
each other, which each of them conceals from itself. In other words, here
is what happens:28 the chromatic theme begins first, the subsidiary theme
enters in the following bar, and both are again taken to the end; then the
subsidiary theme begins, the chromatic theme enters in the following bar,
and both are again taken to the end. The two following pages of the score
(pp. 51–2) convince us that the chromatic theme possesses an even more
cunning mechanism: it can (in a slightly modified form) make a counter-
point with itself, each time entering not only on a new crotchet – as we saw
before – but even on a new quaver. The masters of such tricks of virtuosity in
horizontally mobile counterpoint were the medieval contrapuntists, whereas
the most modern composers seldom break out of the framework of vertically
mobile counterpoint; that is the opinion expressed by S. I. Taneyev about
this Andante, and he should know. To be sure, this startling Augenmusik
(‘Music for the eye’) gives less to the ear and the heart than to the eye and
the mind – but it must, all the same, be acknowledged as remarkable and
unique of its kind.
In its pastoral, spring-like character (and partly in the elements of its main
theme) the Symphony’s Scherzo may be linked to the first movement. The
Scherzo’s two other brief themes, which are related to each other (especially
28 Author’s note: See p. 50 of the score.
156
the second, più lento), introduce to this celebration of spring, with its chirp-
ings, new moments which complement it by their light contrast. In the Finale
we find reminiscences from the whole symphony. But Glazunov does not con-
fine himself here to individual themes from separate movements, as usually
happens in such cases. Carrying out a ‘review of all the movements’ means
just that – and past the listener file – some one after the other, others in
contrapuntal combinations – all the themes of every movement in the sym-
phony: Allegro, Andante and Scherzo. There are nine of them – or even more
than nine, because here we find also some secondary thematic borrowings
from the first movements of the symphony, to say nothing of the indepen-
dent thematic material of the Finale. Something extremely variegated results
(a rondo with ten themes, a form never envisaged in theory), but interesting;
to someone who has listened attentively to the preceding movements of the
symphony, even rather integral to it.
With Glazunov, we thus encounter symphonies both close in general plan
to the classical scheme and diverging strongly from it; symphonies with
wholly independent thematic material in each movement, as well as sym-
phonies composed with a single theme, and also such where the independent
thematic material of the first movements is brought together in the finale;
symphonies with more or less the usual modulatory layout of sonata form
as well as with completely unexpected surprises in that area; in short, the
symphonies are most diverse as regards the general plan or construction
of individual movements29 and the relationships between these movements,
their individual episodes and themes. It goes without saying that all this rep-
resents not new types of form, but merely all possible variants (sometimes
new and very substantial ones) of the old basic sonata type. But if the sonata
type outlines a wide, trustworthy channel for the flow of a composer’s cre-
ative imagination, then such variants flowing out of it, variants closely linked
to the composer’s individuality, give the opportunity to direct the bends in
their channel according to the artistic demands of the moment, and therein
lie exactly the age-old strength and magnetic power of sonata form.
IV
[Other orchestral works, including programme music and ballet scores, are
surveyed.]
29 Author’s note: In our survey we have dealt mainly in this respect with the opening sonata
allegros of all the symphonies, though the symphonies’ other movements would confirm this
conclusion.
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V
‘Music represents impressions of life conveyed in sound by an artist.’ In
the first article an attempt was made to classify Glazunov’s talent from that
point of view. But before answering the question of what is expressed in
sound and how, it is essential to presuppose that we are really dealing with
an artist who has power over the means of expression of his art, over its
material – sound. Just how brilliantly this presumption has been confirmed
in the case of Glazunov is obvious after all that has been said. Whichever of
his works we have scrutinized, the constant refrain has been: how skilfully
this has been done! As regards power over the secrets of the technique of his
art, Glazunov is even more than a master – he is a virtuoso! A virtuoso –
with all the virtues of this artistic type necessary to move art forward, but
also with all the ‘shortcomings of his virtues’, as the French say. And this
mastery (of course, in a less perfect form than today) was characteristic of
Glazunov, as we have seen, almost from his first compositions. In his ma-
ture years Rimsky-Korsakov revised almost everything he had written as
a young man. Tchaikovsky had a craving to do the same, but managed
to correct only a certain amount. Glazunov had no reason to fear such
a ‘craving’; the standard of ‘work’ even in his earliest compositions was
higher than that of which a mature artist might repent, saying: why are
they like that? And this applies equally to the whole complex of knowledge
and abilities which comprise the field of technique in composition. [Engel’
praises Glazunov’s inventiveness in exploiting the orchestra and resource-
fulness in finding harmonic and contrapuntal ideas; his melodies are less
original.]
We can see how original and immense is the sound world opened up by
[Glazunov’s musical panorama], how much beauty and strength it contains.
It is true that this beauty is not always illuminated by spirituality of the
highest order, resembling rather the ancient ‘harmony of the spheres’ which
enticed the ear through a magical correlation of numbers using a celestial
laboratory for some kind of logic drawing on the laws of physics and the
Kabbala. It is also true that limits are set to this power – those limits which
Tchaikovsky at one stage foresaw when he said that something prevented
Glazunov’s genius from expanding fully. It is not enough to define these
limits, to say that Glazunov’s immense talent and powerful flight are more
broad than deep, captivate more by the charm of their colours and perfec-
tion of form than by the heartfelt conviction of their contents; one must also
add that the further this talent moves away from those summits of grief,
despair, passionate yearning for an ideal and, in general terms, from pas-
sionate enthusiasm for anything at all which is hardly accessible to it, the
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more it becomes more powerful and more individual. On the other hand,
the summit of joyous self-denial is also inaccessible to it, it would seem.
But even with these limitations, there remains a still more infinitely varied
field for ‘life’s impressions’ which have found vivid expression in Glazunov’s
music. Its prevailing mood is a gentle, lulling one, remote from the sharp
pain of earthly passions, but also remote from mystical contempt for life
and fanatical unconsciousness of it; a strange mixture of high spirits and
melancholy – the high spirits carried to their maximum in energetic, bold
finales and magnificent, vigorous maestosos, and the melancholy confined
for the most part to a minimum and never turning into moaning. It is often,
moreover, difficult even to speak of the ‘mood’ of Glazunov’s music – to such
a degree do the emotional contents recede into the background in the face of
the sheer play of arabesques in sound, or the treatment of sound as an end
in itself and not as a means.
But even when he sets himself the specific plastic task of expressing ‘life’s
impressions’, the artist himself with his inner world and his attitude to the
external world remains for the most part somewhere in the distance, outside
the field of vision of the perceiver. Think of the man in [Glazunov’s] The
Sea, who communicated to people only ‘all that he saw’, although he was
supposed to communicate also ‘all that he felt’. Such is Glazunov, if only one
can divine the meaning of this complex, enigmatic nature.
With the prophetic spiritual gaze of an anointed sovereign, he sees the fab-
ulous worlds of pure, virginal beauty and opens them up to a dumbfounded
world; but it is less given to him to speak from heart to heart than to create
images; less to move than to charm.
The greatest of artists in sound declared: ‘Music must carve fire out of
man’s breast’. Glazunov often fails to live up to this cherished Beethovenian
touchstone. But do many of the most celebrated present-day composers live
up to it?
(e) V. G. Karatı̈gin: In memory of A. K. Lyadov. Apollo,
1914, nos. 6–7. Karatı̈gin, pp. 130–41
From 1906, the critic and composer Vyacheslav Gavrilovich Karatı̈gin
(1875–1925) wrote about all that was new in music as well as cham-
pioning the compositions of Musorgsky. His scientific education shows
through in his style.
A. K. Lyadov died on 15 August. His death passed little remarked. August

is the deadest month in our capital’s musical life. Summer concerts have
come to an end, and there is still a long time to go before the winter season.
Moreover, the threat of war breaking out all over Europe pushed all artistic
interests, all personal misfortunes and the deaths of individuals, at least to
159
start with, to one side. So it came about that the departure from this world
of a wonderful Russian master of the art of music was recorded in a mere
few dozen lines tossed off for the newspapers.
One must be honest: you probably can’t write a book – a monograph –
about Lyadov.30 He himself, after all, wrote very little and very seldom re-
minded the public of his existence by producing a new composition; all his
creations are very slight in scale, and all his work is very intimate, domes-
tic and absolutely alien to great ambitions of any kind or to any sort of
revolutionism.
But if it is neither possible nor necessary to write extensive research projects
concerned with the indoor comforts of Lyadov’s art, it is the more neces-
sary and important to outline the general features of his creative profile
in a small memoir. Apart from out-and-out experts and specialists, Russian
music-lovers took little interest in the musical jewellery of Lyadov’s art while
he was alive – the more so, as he himself did nothing in the least, either by
the quantity or character of his works, to promote the spread of his fame
among the broad mass of the public. At least, after the death of this highly
gifted Russian musician, let our pianists scrutinize Lyadov’s delicate Preludes,
Etudes and Mazurkas more attentively. With the irreproachable good taste
with which every piece from Lyadov’s pen is finished, the refined poetry
which aerates his musical speech and the perfect plasticity of his musical
ideas, the late composer’s artistic legacy may be placed alongside the highest
achievements of Russian creativity in music.
Inspiration is not subject to precise critical stocktaking. But the formal
and technical aspect of Lyadov’s work on its own is on such a high level that
the study of his compositions can bring every musician great artistic benefit.
Artistic instinct and flair for musical artistry are sharpened and refined on
the whetstone of Lyadov’s art hardly less than by the work of Glinka or
Rimsky-Korsakov.
Anatoly Konstantinovich Lyadov’s biography is on the surface very sim-
ple. [His father and several other relatives were musicians in St Petersburg
theatres.] [. . .] In 1878 he graduated from the Conservatoire [there] with
the silver medal. His exam composition was music for the concluding scene
of Schiller’s The Bride of Messina. In Rimsky-Korsakov’s words, this scene
performed at the graduation ceremony in May 1878 ‘sent everyone into
raptures’.
This was not the first of Lyadov’s compositions where his talent made itself
felt very early on [. . .]. The cantata The Bride of Messina appears as op. 28
in his catalogue of compositions. Before this cantata Lyadov had composed
30 Lyadov monograph. Several authors have since disproved this assertion.
160
four songs, four Arabesques, ten Mazurkas, several Preludes and Waltzes
as well as some orchestral pieces, including a Scherzo, Village Scene at the
Tavern (a mazurka), the Ballade in the Olden Time, the charming piano suite
Biryul’ki (‘Spillikins’) made up of fourteen short pieces of varied character
and the highest degree of elegance in a Schumannesque style, 18 Children’s
Songs (three sets of six apiece), offering a collection of true, flawless gems of
Russian vocal music, etc. But the initial establishment of Lyadov’s fame as
a composer in musical circles was aided more than anything by the cantata
mentioned above, which earned the strong approval of V. V. Stasov, the
Balakirev circle’s literary apologist.
Soon thereafter Lyadov’s Muzı̈kal’naya tabakerka (‘A Musical Snuffbox’)
appeared as well, which seems to be his only composition to have earned wide
popularity rapidly, whereas artistic admiration for the delightful children’s
songs, as for the majority of Lyadov’s marvellous piano trifles, Spillikins
included, is even today confined to educated musicians who follow what is
being composed. A Musical Snuffbox, that idealized imitation of the playing
of small clockwork organs and musical boxes, exists in two forms. It sounds
amazingly original in the upper register of the piano, but it gains even more
in the composer’s own instrumental arrangement of it for two flutes, piccolo,
three clarinets and metallophone (campanelli).
Two pieces of work which ought to be mentioned particularly belong to
the first years of his career. The first project is his work in the mid-1870s on
the full scores of Glinka’s operas, whose publication was planned by L. I.
Shestakova under the editorship of Balakirev, who invited Rimsky-Korsakov
to help him and then Lyadov, as one of the most talented of his pupils. As
Rimsky-Korsakov admitted, the editor and his collaborators adopted too
‘light-hearted and self-reliant’ an attitude towards their job. The edition was
published with many misprints and misunderstandings about the orchestra-
tion. But working on Glinka’s compositions proved to be doubtless just as
useful for Lyadov as it was for Rimsky-Korsakov. From studying Glinka’s
scores, with their ideal part-writing, irreproachable formal logic and freedom
and naturalness of harmonic style, Lyadov, like Rimsky-Korsakov himself,
extracted much information useful to him and at the same time substantially
refined his artistic taste on compositions by the father of Russian music.
The other project of the 1870s was Lyadov’s participation in the humorous
collective composition Paraphrases, on the theme of the children’s polka-like
melody usually known for some reason as ‘The Dog’s Waltz’ [and elsewhere
as ‘Chopsticks’]. In this curious composition several variations and four
movements of extreme ingenuity from a technical point of view (Waltz,
Galop, Gigue and Procession) are by Lyadov. In all his early compositional
labours, Lyadov showed himself to be such a strong technician and master
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of the art of music that scarcely had he completed the Conservatoire course
than the same Conservatoire invited him to join the ranks of its teachers [in
1878]. In addition, in 1885 he began teaching at the Court Kapella and then
added to that his extremely fruitful work for the Song Commission of the
Imperial Geographical Society.
[. . .] A degree of mystery attended the remainder of Lyadov’s life. He
evidently drew a strict demarcation between his private life [including his
marriage] and his public musical activities. [. . .]
While being on the whole conservative in his musical tastes, Lyadov
nonetheless accepted Debussy and Skryabin. In Debussy’s art he prized the
exquisite grace of his ideas, and he really adored Skryabin, though not every-
thing. The first and second periods of Skryabin’s work gave him unalloyed
delight, but, starting with Prometheus, Skryabin’s inspirations aroused be-
wilderment in Lyadov, and even doubt as to the health of the innovator’s
musical mind. The German innovators [i.e. Richard Strauss and Reger] and
our own Stravinsky inspired no sympathy in Lyadov. In their work he could
in all sincerity discern only the flouting of all laws human and divine, and
was even inclined to deny them the most elementary musical ear. A great
admirer of form, Lyadov spoke out against the formal stereotypes in gen-
eral use – the newer they were, the more definitely he objected. Sonata form
struck him as almost completely obsolete, needing to be replaced by the
more free and flexible forms found in lively and immediate association with
the conditions of the way we perceive sound, which are quite unlike those
of former times. In spite of providing many superlative models of the Rus-
sian style in music, Lyadov, however strange it might seem, held extremely
‘liberal’ views on the question of musical nationalism. National tenden-
cies in music, too, evidently seemed to him close to the point when they
could be regarded as obsolete. Enraptured by Skryabin who unquestion-
ably brought to our [Russian] art a certain movement in the direction of
‘denationalization’, Lyadov at the same time considered the nationalism
of many epigones of the New Russian School to be artificially inflamed,
stilted and false. To Musorgsky, Lyadov took the same attitude as Rimsky-
Korsakov, simultaneously adoring and detesting him – adoring him for his
wealth of inspiration, his incomparable strength and the clarity of his dis-
tinctive musical language, and detesting him for his scorn for technique, a
stalwart admirer of which Lyadov remained until the end of his days. [. . .]
[The composer’s last ten years were accompanied by declining health], and
he died on 15 August [. . .].
The first period of Lyadov’s career as a composer coincided with the hey-
day of the Balakirev circle. All the most powerful and fresh talents united
around Balakirev at that time. It is not surprising that Lyadov too, a pupil
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of Rimsky-Korsakov, one of the circle’s most gifted representatives, was at-

tached to the New Russian School at first. But like his teacher he did not
remain long in the bosom of the Balakirev circle which, moreover, by the
1880s was beginning to disintegrate. At the same time another circle tak-
ing shape around M. P. Belyayev started to gain importance and influence.
Rejecting the extremes of the ‘Balakirevites’’ artistic ideology, with their ad-
vocacy of musical realism and their sceptical opinions about the role and
purpose of technique in music, the ‘Belyayevites’ showed themselves a ‘mu-
sical party’ which was more tolerant and, truth to tell, more civilized. The
Balakirev ‘handful’ comprised Cui, Borodin, Musorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov
and Balakirev himself. Lyadov, to a degree Lodı̈zhensky31 and a few other
composers joined them, as well as the literary defender of the circle’s ideas,
Stasov. The Belyayev circle was made up of Rimsky-Korsakov, Lyadov, the
new luminary Glazunov, Dyutsh,32 the Blumenfeld brothers,33 Sokolov,34
Vitol’ and others. If one adds to them Borodin, who in the last years of his
life also moved over to the ‘Belyayevite’ camp, then the basic core of both
circles was broadly similar. This similarity will seem even greater if we re-
call that, on the one hand, almost none of the ‘Balakirevites’ – apart from
Musorgsky of course – applied the circle’s ideology in practice in all its par-
ticulars and fullness, that the head of the circle, Balakirev, took enormous
care to achieve technical perfection, despite the contempt for questions of
technique preached by the circle, and that on the other hand the pillars of the
Belyayev group, Rimsky-Korsakov and Lyadov, retained in their work until
the end of their days features which in many respects revealed their descent
from the Balakirev school. And yet, however obvious the continuity, the
difference between the Balakirevites and the Belyayevites is very significant.
The latter have a different attitude to music and a different opinion about its
challenges; they understand the great value of technical, formal and plastic
elements in music and do not join in naively elevating to the headstone of
the corner the idea of expressiveness and pictorialism as the true contents of
music.
At the time the kuchkistı̈ [the Balakirev circle] were active, during the
1860s and 1870s, the realistic and narodnik ideology of art was a historical
imperative: it matched the social and political ideas of that time to the nth
degree. A certain element of dilettantism was also necessary in carrying out
31 Nikolay Nikolayevich Lodı̈zhensky (1842–1916): amateur composer, professional diplomat.
On the fringes of the kuchka in the 1860s.
32 G. O. Dyutsh (1857–91): conductor, composer and collector of Russian folksongs; pupil of
Rimsky-Korsakov.
33 To Feliks, mentioned in n. 8 above, must be added Sigismund (1852–1920), a pianist and
composer.
34 N. A. Sokolov (1859–1922): composer, theorist, teacher and pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov.
163
the tasks founded on that ideology. The boundless self-confidence inherent

in dilettantism (and so rarely combined with a high level of culture) was
necessary to overwhelm all the strongly defended positions of old-fashioned
artistic tastes and convictions, and give a further turn to the wheel of Rus-
sian musical history, first budged from standstill by Glinka. But when this
had been done, when the New Russian School’s historical mission had been
accomplished, it was necessary to take a backward glance, to bring order to
the areas devastated by the musical battles which had just raged over them.
This task of bringing order to the kuchkist legacy fell to the Belyayevites,
and particularly to those who formed the connecting links between the Bal-
akirevites and the Belyayevites – Rimsky-Korsakov, Lyadov and to some
extent Glazunov. Thus, in the historical scheme Lyadov is an ‘intermediate’
composer. The Schumannism and Chopinism of Lyadov’s early and middle
compositions have their origins, of course, in the Balakirev circle; from it too
come the marvellous feeling for Russian style, the beauty and logic of modal
harmonies and the characterful melodic shapes in the spirit of the refrains
typical of Russian folksong. But the cult of technique, the perfection of a
composition’s technical finish, ‘neatness’ of part-writing – these come from
a later period and stem from the cultural and musical ideals of the Belyayev
circle.
As we examine Lyadov’s sixty-six opus numbers, we can say time and
again: the syncopated rhythms here are from Schumann, the extremely
graceful ornamental figuration here is from Chopin, and these fantasti-
cal harmonies in Baba-Yaga, The Enchanted Lake and Kikimora are from
Wagner and Rimsky-Korsakov. So what remains that is Lyadov’s own? Can
we catch a glimpse of his own face behind the amalgam of very definite influ-
ences from Schumann and Chopin, Musorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, and
Lisztian–Wagnerian and even Skryabinesque harmonic devices? Those who
ask this question expose merely by raising it their complete inability to be
caught up in the distinctively intimate moods of Lyadov’s music. And, on the
other hand, the musician who has perceived – even only once – what comes
from Lyadov himself in his music, will never again place the many influences
to which this art is subject in the foreground. In Lyadov’s art one senses so
sharply and clearly that it is a living thing, that every note was written down
with love, that every harmony, every ‘Chopinesque’ pattern, every ‘Schu-
mannesque’ rhythmic combination that causes a stumble, was worked out
by Lyadov with a special kind of heartfelt tenderness and an infatuation with
the game of matching sounds to one another. The influences of Chopin and
Schumann in Lyadov’s tiny Preludes, Etudes and Mazurkas are so obvious,
so incapable of being concealed by the composer, that they disarm the critic
who wishes to reprove Lyadov for a lack of independence. One can only
164
write so openly in imitation of Chopin, Schumann or Rimsky-Korsakov if

one is profoundly convinced that power does not lie there, in a Schuman-
nesque or any other exterior in itself, but when one believes instead that a
composer’s individuality – even while relying on someone else’s exterior –
makes itself known by itself in spite of everything, and cannot pass unob-
served. And Lyadov is correct in this conviction. His music is convincing.
You cannot confuse the other person’s musical clothes that he wears with his
own musical soul. The soul is an unsteady and elusive thing not available for
precise analysis – particularly Lyadov’s soul. His creative soul is just as de-
tached from the world, as concentrated upon himself as his empirical human
personality. This spiritual seclusion has not entailed any special deepening of
his work and has certainly not been complicated by any mark of pessimism
or misanthropy derived from it. The shell of self-absorption and seclusion
in both his life and work are rather the result of the composer’s over-acute
spiritual sensitivity, his inability and lack of desire to accommodate himself
to anyone or anything else, of the presence in his nature of several lordly
traits, and lastly of his tendency to far niente.
The gloomy is just as alien to Lyadov as the profound. Here lies one
of the most substantial differences between Lyadov, on the one hand, and
Chopin and Skryabin on the other; his love of Chopin was in all probabil-
ity conditioned by the Chopinism of Skryabin himself in his first period of
composition. A large part of Lyadov’s compositions are in the major and
permeated by a bright, idealistic worldview. There is no concentratedness of
creative thought, in the sense of the word in which we apply it to the works
of Beethoven, Bach, Wagner and Musorgsky, in Lyadov – with small excep-
tions (From the Book of Revelation), which even then hardly seem to be such.
Pathos is decidedly not typical of him. What remains? The play of sounds? A
kaleidoscope of sounds? A game for the sake of a game, pleasing the ear (in
Serov’s expression) – these are not in fact alien to Lyadov. In certain of his
pieces, even A Musical Snuffbox, it is difficult to track down any other sort
of sense than the play of sound, the highest grade of artistic amusement, au-
ral delight in the play of sounds. In the majority of his compositions Lyadov
stands on different ground, inscrutably able to endow what seem to be the
most ‘superficial’ ideas with inner significance. How he achieves this is his
secret, but almost every piano, orchestral and vocal miniature (including the
children’s songs) by Lyadov breathes unfeigned poetry. Moreover, the sim-
plest analogies suggest themselves in explaining Lyadov’s ‘superficial depth’.
Is the surface of the sea, furrowed with foaming waves by the will of the
most skilful artist of nature, sparkling under the hot rays of the sun in mil-
lions of varied colours, really less full of content and ‘depths’, in a spectator’s
perception, than its true many-fathomed deeps giving refuge to multifarious
165
representatives of ocean fauna? Are the splash of sea breakers, the play of
patches of light, the starfish and shells thrown up on the seashore really less
of an enigma, less beautiful, less poetic than what takes place in the depths
of the ocean? Wilde found, not without reason, that sometimes the greatest
depth is discovered in what appeared wholly external and superficial. All we
need is to be able to find this special profundity. And still more do we need
an artist who has set this special profundity into his superficial creations.
Nature almost always resolves this problem with astounding ‘mastery’.
A few original artists are also capable of resolving it. In Russia Lyadov is
one of them, as, to some degree, are the Impressionists in France. I say
‘to some degree’ because the homophonic art of Debussy and Ravel long
needed to be extended, which was done by Roger-Ducasse when he combined
Impressionist harmonies with a polyphonic texture. Lyadov does not need
this ‘textural’ extension: he gives polyphony its due willingly and frequently.
He nearly always develops even ornaments of the Chopin type in such a way
that they can be condensed to a certain polyphonic scheme, his figuration can
be called ‘single-part counterpoint’, so that it can easily be reduced to real
contrapuntal voices, which, by the way, is rarely to be observed in Chopin.
Lyadov’s exceptional predilection for the miniature helps to resolve the
paradoxical question of finding depth in the surface. His pieces are minia-
ture not only in form, scale, and number of printed pages. They are miniature
also in respect of psychology. If it is true that on some occasion Skryabin
himself called his music ‘exaggerated’ (an expression not without psycholog-
ical accuracy, whoever uttered it), then, staying on the same terminological
plane, we are justified in calling Chopin’s art, so to speak, an art of human
artistic emotions ‘of natural size’. Then we must accept Lyadov’s music as
music ‘greatly reduced in size’. Everything about it is small. All the reflec-
tions of aesthetic emotions, all the movements of the soul, the entire realm
of pathos, are presented in Lyadov’s art on an exceedingly reduced scale by
comparison with their ‘natural size’. And because everything is small and
toy-like, everything becomes special, unusual, different from the ordinary –
for instance, just as a tumbler of water is different from the tiniest drop of
water which, because it is impossible to examine it with the normal eye, we
examine through a microscope, and the microscope opens up for us unex-
pectedly a whole world of life in an insignificant splash of water.
Skryabin’s art is often so much ‘magnified’, so much reflects the cosmos
on a large scale, that in order to grasp the contours of this art one has to
apprehend it as if it were at a certain (psychological) distance. One may
admire Chopin at the distance of normal ‘clear sight’. In order to bring
one’s soul into contact with Lyadov’s inspirations, one has to adjust it to
‘microscopic’, one has to approach Lyadov in real earnest and, armed with
166
special psychological prisms and lenses, scrutinize attentively the worlds of

the inner life of sound opening up before one’s eyes. This is not difficult
and is instructive to the utmost degree. And immediately, on adopting this
intimate approach to this intimate art, the depth and slender, detailed beauty
of construction in Lyadov’s musical images and their originality are revealed.
Lyadov was not productive, but, to repeat what I said at the beginning,
every work of his shows the highest school of taste and excellent mastery.
Lyadov is simple and clear even when he is solving the most complicated
technical problems, to which he resorts, moreover, far more rarely than, for
instance, the other composer who holds a boundary position between the
Balakirevites and the Belyayevites – Glazunov.
A large majority of Lyadov’s compositions are written in the form of small
pieces for piano. Apart from the works mentioned above, Lyadov has com-
posed for orchestra two Polonaises (in memory of Pushkin and Rubinstein
respectively), arrangements of Russian songs, as well as several numbers
in collective compositions (Variations on a Russian Theme in F, Cantata
in memory of Antokol’sky, etc.). For chamber ensemble Lyadov has not
written at all, except, again, individual movements in collective composi-
tions (Scherzo in the Quartet on B–la–f, a movement for the quartet Imeninı̈
(‘Name-day’), Polka, Mazurka, Sarabande, and Fugue in the quartet Suite
Les Vendredis, and so on).
In the field of vocal music Lyadov left a whole series of masterpieces, but
in the genre of Russian song, not art song. Apart from the four Romances
which came out as op. 1 and are not particularly successful, Lyadov did not
write art songs. On the other hand, he gladly made arrangements of Russian
songs in all styles, always with superb results. His versions of Russian songs
for voice with orchestra (and for orchestra alone), for voice and piano, for
male, female and mixed quartets and choirs and his eighteen children’s songs
are close in style to folksongs – all these works were carried out wonderfully
by Lyadov. The Russian songs in Lyadov’s harmonizations with his three
orchestral pictures – Baba-Yaga, The Enchanted Lake and Kikimora, which
are permeated with splendid freshness of imagination and warmth of artistic
feeling – would on their own be sufficient to earn Lyadov a place of honour in
Russian musical history. And he has in addition presented our art with a rich
collection of piano Spillikins, Bagatelles, Mazurkas, Preludes, Variations –
an entire world of captivating arabesques in sound which have presumably
not pleased our pianists because they are too ephemeral, fleshless, elegant
and because you won’t find the slightest trace of banality in them.35
35 These works originated in Belyayev’s domestic music-making on Friday evenings; hence the
musical motive B–la–f (=B –A–F), derived from the patron’s surname.
167
CHAPTER FIVE
Moscow and her composers
(a) N. D. Kashkin: The Moscow School in Music. An Essay

by Prof. N. D. Kashkin. New Word, June 1910, no. 6,
pp. 53–8
This greatly curtailed essay outlines a general picture, some aspects of
which are examined in later articles.
In the luxuriant flowering which Russian music has achieved at present,

seniority and initiative belong to St Petersburg. It was in St Petersburg that
Glinka and his immediate successors lived and worked, and it was there too
that the first Russian Conservatoire was opened just when some of the St
Petersburg intelligentsia were begetting the group of musicians who called
themselves the ‘young Russian school’ but who had the comic nickname
the ‘Mighty Handful’ as well. In regard to music, Moscow emerged inde-
pendently much later, and the origins of the Moscow school may be dated
to the opening of the Moscow Conservatoire, whose first teachers of music
theory were P. I. Tchaikovsky and G. A. Laroche – who had both previously
completed the course at the St Petersburg Conservatoire.
The group of Moscow composers is very large and active at present, but we
do not count all its members among the Moscow school; thus, for instance,
A. T. Grechaninov1 and M. M. Ippolitov-Ivanov2 live and continue their
activities in Moscow, but both are alumni of the St Petersburg Conservatoire,
although the former is indebted for a significant part of his musical education
to Moscow and its Conservatoire.
We intend, first of all, to define what, in our view, should be called the
Moscow school.
Tchaikovsky began his career both as composer and teacher in Moscow
in 1866. To his teaching he brought the same clear-headedness of view
which guided his compositional work too. Without being a theorist in either
1 Grechaninov: see Chapter 4, article (d), n. 22.

2 M. M. Ippolitov-Ivanov (1859–1935): composer and conductor; pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov.
In Georgia, 1882–93, director of Moscow Conservatoire, 1905–22.
168
sympathies or vocation, over the twelve years of his professorship at the Con-
servatoire he nonetheless achieved a great deal, guided mainly by his immense
artistic talent and broad intellectual development. At any rate, Tchaikovsky
laid firm foundations for the teaching of the theory of music in Moscow.
Laroche, who became a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire one year
later than Tchaikovsky, was by then a genuine theorist, although he worked
in the field of practical teaching only with long gaps, sometimes moving
his activities from Moscow to St Petersburg or in the opposite direction, at
other times breaking them off altogether for a more or less prolonged period.
His principal service in this respect lies in the articles through which he laid
down the basic principles of the theoretical teaching of music. Since Laroche
wrote only in various periodical publications in Moscow and St Petersburg,
hardly anyone knows his articles nowadays, but they were anyway of great
historical significance, as we consider it essential to recall.3
‘The last word’ was always the war-cry of the champions of superficial
Russian education, whether in science or art. This war-cry resounded in St
Petersburg’s leading musical circles as well. Laroche took up arms chiefly
against the poor grounding of the leading tendencies, and tried to demon-
strate that in order to understand the last word in art it was necessary to
be more or less basically familiar with earlier words as well; among other
things, he pointed to the polyphonic school as the sole reliable foundation for
a truly serious musical education. In his enthusiasm for this idea and partic-
ularly in his polemic with its opponents, he went to extremes, which caused
him to be regarded not just as a conservative but even as a retrograde; this
opinion likewise marks an extreme, which does not fully correspond with
the truth. Lacking time to dwell on this subject here, let me remind you only
that the retrograde Laroche acknowledged Wagner’s genius as a composer
at a time when St Petersburg’s heralds of the ‘last word’ were calling him
a complete musical nonentity, although they acknowledged the truth of his
reformist ideas.
Laroche’s outlook exerted a significant influence on Tchaikovsky, even
though he did not fully share it; it influenced chiefly their joint pupil S. I.
Taneyev, who was able to appreciate Laroche’s ideas about musical education
and adopted them himself to a significant degree.
Becoming a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire in 1878, Taneyev
came to specialize in teaching counterpoint after a few years. He was him-
self a gifted composer whose chamber works are counted among the best
models in the most recent literature of that kind; at the same time, with
the persistence of the most serious scholar, he was engaged in the study
3 Chapter 1 (a) contains a summary of some of these ideas.
169
of his main subject and the result of this study was the monumental work
which came out a year ago entitled Invertible Counterpoint in the Strict Style
(‘Podvizhnoy kontrapunkt strogago pis’ma’), where he put the subject on a
proper scientific footing and definitively set the seal on all the relevant the-
ories and rules in scholarly generalizations.
Taneyev was professor of counterpoint at the Moscow Conservatoire for
no less than twenty-eight years and during that period developed such a well-
constructed, consummate system of teaching as barely existed anywhere else
before then.
Although the study of complicated contrapuntal forms has no direct bear-
ing on present-day composition, as a training discipline it represents a means
(such as nothing can replace) of developing a technique for the writing of
music, as regards freedom and beauty of part-writing. We cannot dwell on
this, because there is no opportunity of expounding in full the features and
advantages of such a training, without resorting to a multitude of technical
terms utterly incomprehensible to non-specialists. For the whole period of
its existence, Taneyev’s class in counterpoint was the finest adornment of the
Moscow Conservatoire and its most precious feature; although Taneyev left
the Conservatoire four years ago, the seeds which he planted will not die,
and among his direct pupils can be found many who will be in a position to
continue their teacher’s cause in the field of pedagogy.
In our opinion, Mr Taneyev’s teaching left a profound reflection on all his
pupils, although probably not all of them are aware of it; their activities as
composers vary greatly according to the individual peculiarities of the direc-
tion taken by each of them, but all are united by the freedom of their writing
and the absence of any particular cultivated manner, something which re-
sulted from the structured system in which they were schooled. They are all,
to a greater or lesser extent, masters of part-writing, that is, of the main es-
sential of the technique of writing music – and they have become accustomed
to so concentrating their attention on this essential that their music’s external
decoration, even when of the most sumptuous, is a secondary matter. In our
opinion this is the principal sign which distinguishes the group of composers
whom we unite under the name of ‘the Moscow musical school’.
[Kashkin summarizes the careers to date of Rachmaninoff and Skryabin.]
(b) Yu. D. Engel’: A Cantata by S. I. Taneyev. Russian

Bulletin, 3 April 1915, no. 75. Engel’, pp. 408–13
The current season has turned out to be most productive in precisely the
field that is normally least cultivated by our composers – the cantata.
170
Rachmaninoff has given us his All-Night Vigil, Grechaninov his Khvalite

Boga (‘Praise the Lord’), and Taneyev his On Reading a Psalm.
These are all works of a religious character, though they differ profoundly
one from another in the essence of their basic artistic tasks and the devices
of each composer, to say nothing of his creative originality. Rachmaninoff
has created a canticle (pesnopeniye) where all the traditions of the Russian
Orthodox Church are observed (singing without instrumental accompa-
niment, text in the Slavonic language used for worship, ancient church
melodies, etc.) and which is thus entirely suitable for performance in church.
Grechaninov has carried out a kind of experiment (the first of its sort!) in
extending the limits of Orthodox Church music and, while observing other
traditional requirements of the church, has, however, introduced into his can-
tata orchestra and organ, hitherto employed only in Western church music;
this has closed off the cantata’s access to the [Orthodox] Church. Lastly, in his
cantata Taneyev has given us a work which is not linked in any way with the
traditions of the Orthodox Church: the text is in Russian (by Khomyakov4 ),
and the melodies are free, not traditional church ones; the orchestra does not
merely support the singing but is often of major independent significance in
its own right; the forms are the contrapuntal ones created long since and
raised to a peak of perfection by the great masters of the West.
Since the time of these great masters, the evolution of music has passed
through several august phases: the supremacy of counterpoint has been su-
perseded by that of melody, then of harmony, and now in the mists of the
future a new phase can be discerned somehow taking shape: the reign of tim-
bre, of sound colours. None of these elements of the art of sounds excludes
the indispensable importance of any other, but it goes without saying that in
every age what has come to light for the first time during that age is at the
forefront of attention and is in greatest demand. It is therefore not surprising
that the venerable old contrapuntal forms are today considered by many to
be rather exhausted (‘Why build the pyramids of Cheops again?’), lifeless,
in the best case – only ‘a useful school for learning the technique of com-
position’. But, after all, the reproach of lifelessness and lack of originality
can be levelled at any modernist composer if his ‘researches’ in harmony and
colour are only a willing or unwilling copying of what belongs to someone
else, and not the ‘categorical imperative’ of his own creative individuality.
The whole point here lies, as it generally does in art, in the strength of the
inner ‘categorical imperative’ which nudges the creative artist irresistibly to
4 A. S. Khomyakov (1804–60): poet, playwright, philosopher of history and theologian.
171
one side or the other, and also, naturally, in a correspondingly profound

command of the means of expression of his art.
With regard to the contrapuntal forms, Taneyev possesses both the one and
the other in the highest degree. From the time of his very first emergence as a
composer (with Ioann Damaskin),5 counterpoint has been his constant and
unchanging love. Taneyev has propagated the contrapuntal style in word
and deed with an energy, love and talent, such as no one else among his
contemporaries has done – and not only in Russia but anywhere in the world.
His treatise Invertible Counterpoint is the most significant work written
on counterpoint in recent times;6 his new cantata is the most significant
contrapuntal composition of recent times.
Khomyakov’s poem which Taneyev set to music is lucidly religious and
beautiful in its ideas and language, and more redolent of the prophet Isaiah
than the psalms of David. In storm and thunder God’s voice pronounces:
‘Israel! You build temples to me, and the temples glitter with gold, and
incense is burned in them, and lights burn day and night.’ What are all these
things to the Lord? For he has created gold, and incense, and the lights, and
the whole world! ‘I require a heart purer than gold, and a will sturdy in toil;
I require brother to love brother, I require justice on earth!’
Khomyakov’s forty verses have been turned by Taneyev into an imposing
work occupying a whole evening. This could have happened only by means of
the most extensive use of word-repetition. Such repetition, inappropriate in
dramatic music, is acceptable where there is a moment of heightened lyricism
or a completed complex of images from the external world which have sunk
into the soul, or an imperious affirmation of some clearly defined poetic
idea, especially if all this is entrusted to a contrapuntally polyphonic chorus
in which the repetition of words may be endlessly diversified by transferring
them to various independent voices or groups of voices within the choir. And
that is exactly the character of Khomyakov’s poem. The ritual stability and
plasticity of the old contrapuntal forms match Khomyakov’s whole style, its
precise language and its unshakably firm idea as much as they possibly could.
In a word, the composer’s good seed has here fallen on extremely good soil.
One must not think, however, that the old contrapuntal forms also deter-
mine the old contents of the music itself. Here is what Taneyev himself has
to say on the subject in the preface to his Invertible Counterpoint:
In polyphonic music melodic and harmonic elements are subordinated
to the influence of the composer’s time, nationality and individuality. But
imitative and canonic forms, and the forms of complex counterpoint –
5 Taneyev’s Ioann Damaskin was first performed in 1884, and published as his op. 1.
6 Invertible Counterpoint: see (a) above.
172
both those which have been applied before and those which are still
possible – are eternal, do not depend on any particular conditions, and
may enter the framework of any harmonic system, or take hold of any
melodic content.
We see this confirmed in Taneyev’s cantata. His Bachian fugues, canons,

imitations and invertible counterpoints operate with harmonic and melodic
material which includes not only the classics but also modern music, from
Wagner to Tchaikovsky inclusive. The same has to be said about the orches-
tration of the cantata. The result is thus a quite special ‘neocontrapuntal’
music, contemporary in spirit (even with strictly applied leitmotivic work-
ing), but with such a grandiose classically contrapuntal formal scheme as
Russian art has not known at all hitherto, and which indeed Western art has
not known for a long time.
A brief example will give the reader who is not a specialist a clearer under-
standing of what I am speaking about. In the third movement of the cantata
there is a solo aria (the only one in the work) where the words cited above
(‘Mne nuzhno serdtse chishche zlata’ (‘I require a heart purer than gold’,
etc.)) are heard for the first time. Each of these four lines (heart, toil, brother,
earth) gives a new turn to a simple but beautiful melody without repeating a
previous one. After the aria comes a double chorus to the very same words.
And what happens? The four voices of the choir sing simultaneously the
same four lines to the same four melodies which, it turns out, fit contrapun-
tally one against another. And this counterpoint is complex – that is, it is of
the kind where any one of the four voices may sound lower or higher than
any of the others.
And now begins ‘a series of magical transformations of a beloved face’,
or, to be more accurate, of four faces. The four themes now combine in new
combinations, now develop in parallel in all kinds of ways, now emerge in
the foreground in turn – and, by the way, by means of doubling the theme
in the corresponding voices of the other choir (a device which, it appears, is
purely colouristic and was not used by the old contrapuntists). Towards the
end, all the voices in both choirs repeat the same words to the same melodies
in a mighty unison (doubling and quadrupling the note-values), as if for the
greater affirmation of the will of God, and then again one after the other
(as in the aria), while the same themes sound in shorter note-values in the
orchestra, in the form of all possible counterpoints, imitations, canons and
even double canons!
One could quote any number of examples like this. The entire score of
the cantata is astounding in the maturity and unity of its creative concep-
tion, which was able even before the start of composition to comprehend the
173
entire work as a whole and in the actual process of composition to subor-

dinate every new detail to this concept of the whole. This is the origin, by
the way, of the cantata’s elegant architectonics, so simple and natural, with
its division into movements, movements into ‘numbers’ (choruses, quartets,
solos), ‘numbers’ into sections.
But, the reader will say, are all these architectonics, complex counterpoints,
canons, and so on, so very important? All of this, after all, is the kitchen of
art, which is of greater interest to chefs. The only thing that matters to us
simple hungry and thirsty souls is to know whether we can fulfil the psalmist’s
testament here: ‘And ye shall be satisfied and praise the Almighty’?!
All that is true. But Taneyev’s cantata is a unicum of contrapuntal skill in
modern musical literature; with this cantata Russia has at last repaid the
West with interest for her training in counterpoint. And when you are handed
a rare, special dish, surely the natural first question is ‘what is it made of,
how is it made?’ And if the rank and file listener is not always capable of per-
ceiving consciously all the subtlety of the real complex contrapuntal mean-
ing, then sooner or later he cannot avoid sensing, albeit perhaps only dimly,
the vivid artistic power of this distinctive unity in variety and variety in unity.
And how the soul is nourished by this ambrosia, for which ‘you praise the
Almighty’! Up to now Taneyev has been considered a strong composer, but
one whose strength lay in his head rather than his heart. In his new cantata
mind and heart have been woven together into something unified, gripping
and strong in that supreme Secret, without which in the final analysis there
is no real art!
Not everything here, obviously, is uniformly strong. The triple fugue, for
choir (‘Ya sozdal zemlyu’ (‘I created the earth’)), for instance, is magnificent
in its contrapuntal mastery, but somehow too formal; the same could be said
of the orchestral introduction to the third movement (where all the previous
themes are reviewed).
But how ‘thunderous and grand’ is the introductory Allegro of the orches-
tra and choir (‘Zemlya trepeshchet’ (‘The earth trembles’))! How captivat-
ingly euphonious is the double choir which ensues (‘Izrail’, tı̈ mne stroish’
khramı̈’ (‘Israel! You build temples to me’); particularly in the episode
of burning the incense!) What a combination of gloom and movement is
achieved in the chromatic fugue in the second movement (metal melted in
the bowels of the earth)! What expressiveness there is in the melodies of the
quartet [of soloists] and the solos! What power and elevating beauty is to
be found in the concluding double-choir finale described above ‘I require a
heart purer than gold’ which worthily crowns this marvellous building so
grandiose in conception and realization!
[The quality of the performance and the fate of the work are assessed.]
174
(c) A. V. Ossovsky: S. V. Rachmaninoff. 1. Songs, op. 21

(nos. 25–36); 2. Variations pour le piano sur un thème
de F. Chopin, op. 22; 3. 10 Préludes pour le piano, op. 23
(publications of A. Gutheil in Moscow, 1903–4). The Word,
1904, no. 10. Ossovsky, pp. 62–5
Against the lacklustre background of the young Russian musical school

which embarked on artistic activity in the first half of the 1890s, S. V. Rach-
maninoff stands out as a major and attractive figure endowed with many
original traits. Today, now that this composer’s talent has been formed and
defined fully, he must be acknowledged as a powerful and mature artist, with
a broad and independent perspective on his art. Together with a genuine artis-
tic temperament, he is notable for great self-possession. The steadfast and
serious structure of his lyre is successfully combined with a subtle quality of
poetry and profound, heartfelt conviction of moods, but the power of his mu-
sical expression is not impeded by brilliance of utterance, done always with
noble taste, alien to everything banal and at times reaching in this respect
even undue refinement. Setting himself often bold and large-scale projects,
Rachmaninoff never forgets in carrying them out to remain a musician and
never introduces into his music elements foreign to the art of music.
When surveying a series of compositions by Rachmaninoff, you feel that
the artist creates them only when he hears a compelling inner summons to
compose, when a rich stock of ideas, images and moods has accumulated in
his soul, straining irrepressibly to flow forth in sounding form. That is why
his art is notable for its persuasiveness and inner compulsion and is always
afire with living and warm blood.
Uneven, self-willed and somehow disarranged at the beginning of his ca-
reer, he was even then attractive for his impulsiveness, animation and youth-
fully untiring gifts, which forced their way through the frequent angularity
and lack of balance in the form and concealed by them.
Over the years maturity made itself felt, and after the Cello Sonata, the
Second Suite for two pianos and the Second Piano Concerto, Rachmaninoff
had already become a master, an artist in whom form is in equilibrium with
content, while the former is marked by completeness and the latter by inward
value.
Starting out on his artistic career at a time when art was growing small
of form, Rachmaninoff had no fear of large-scale forms: expansiveness and
power of ideas are not betrayed in his works by the rich musical means
used here to realize them. In his youthful period, Rachmaninoff at times
came to grief over technical problems, sometimes even ones which were
not really difficult, and even more frequently he would be careless about
175
technique, adopting in places where there were technical defects a defiant

air of ‘je m’en fiche’. Later, he caught up in this regard and now, prizing and
understanding the importance of form in the broad sense, Rachmaninoff
does not retreat before extremely complex problems, having worked out
already his technical methods and the characteristics of his style. Of these,
the greatest power in his creative hands and his favourite is harmony – which
is full of colour, lush, often bold and sometimes even rather tough. An artist
of powerful temperament, Rachmaninoff is typical also in his energetic and
highly developed rhythmic system, the representative of the volitional aspect
in music. It imparts to the other elements of his art a vital energy and serves
as a reliable framework, endowing it with definition and distinctness.
As a melodist, Rachmaninoff is not notable for the plasticity of his themes
or the beauty of their outline; but, on the other hand, his short phrases
frequently stand out for their sharp strength of character. They are all re-
lated in their style to the instrumental type of melody. There are, after all,
composers who in the features of their melodic gift remain vocal even in in-
strumental compositions, for example, Schubert, and, among the Russians,
Glinka. With other composers, on the other hand, the style of melody is
always essentially instrumental, even in compositions written for the voice,
for example Beethoven, or in Russia Glazunov. It is to this second type that
Rachmaninoff too belongs. These features of melodic style cannot be put
down as either virtues or failings of a composer, but represent simply char-
acteristics of his nature, which exert no influence on the qualitative merits
of his compositions.
But that is enough about technique. You forget about such a thing as you
listen to Rachmaninoff – it is covered over and illuminated in his music by
one supreme element – poetry. One would have to be devoid of hearing,
heart and imagination not to yield to the enchantment of the fragrant waves
of profound poetry in Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto, not to be
borne away headlong into the free, radiant and exultant distant prospect
in ‘Vesenniye vodı̈’ (‘Spring Waters’), seething with the fermentation of life
regenerating itself, not to fathom the aromatic freshness and chaste purity of
feeling in ‘Siren’’ (‘Lilacs’). And how many such poetic and rich pages there
are in the works of this composer!
This brief description of Rachmaninoff’s musical gifts, to which I should
have liked to add a good deal, frees me from the need to give a detailed
analysis of each one of the new compositions listed individually in the head-
ing of this notice. They all belong to the mature period of his work and are
therefore imprinted with the general, typical features of his artistic gift.
One further general observation in passing. Without pursuing the matter
of the number of new opuses which Rachmaninoff publishes – in comparison
176
with our greatest composers not very often – over the course of time, with the
growth of his artistic maturity, Rachmaninoff takes ever-increasing trouble
over their qualitative significance and artistic logic.
Among the new songs, three stand out as wonderful jewels: ‘Lilacs’,
‘Zdes’ khorosho’ (‘How Fair This Spot’), and ‘Melodiya’ (‘Melody’), which
give off the fragrance of pure poetry. ‘Sumerki’ (‘Twilight’), ‘Oni otvechali’
(‘They Answered’), and ‘Kak mne bol’no’ (‘How Painful for Me’) must
be classed among the songs with agreeable music which do not, however,
stand out either for any special originality or depth of content. The songs
‘Nad svezhey mogiloy’ (‘By the Fresh Grave’) and ‘Otrı̈vok iz A. Myusse’
(‘Fragment from de Musset’) are full of a severely sombre mood, portrayed
successfully and powerfully. The first of them, moreover, is of a declama-
tory character, not without a certain rationality and intensity. The song ‘Na
smert’ chizhika’ (‘On the Death of a Linnet’) stands on its own in being
marked by originality of conception. Its sentimental naivety of feeling and
a certain curious touch of olden times in the general mood are sweet and
amusing, although the music does not counterfeit the olden style in even
one iota.
It is hard to say under precisely what influence Rachmaninoff’s piano style
took shape. Himself an excellent pianist, Rachmaninoff has undoubtedly
assimilated, perhaps entirely involuntarily, all the peculiarities of present-
day piano writing in the second half of the nineteenth century, shaped by
intersecting influences, principally those of Chopin, Liszt and Schumann.
Having a virtuoso command of this style, Rachmaninoff extracts from the
piano not only in a general sense a lush, rounded and beautiful sonority, but is
able to impart to it diverse, expressive and poetic colours, as he understands
and has a feeling for piano instrumentation.
In his last two piano opus numbers a gravitation towards a Chopinesque
manner is very clearly noticeable, a manner which is reflected not only in the
treatment of the piano but also in the artistic style itself, in the spirit of the
composition.
The Variations are written on the theme of Chopin’s well-known tiny
Prelude in C minor. A work on a colossal scale (twenty-two variations cov-
ering thirty-five pages), it presents the performer with difficult demands. It
is not possible to dwell on the details of the variations, some of which have
expanded to the dimensions of independent pieces. They are all rich in con-
tent, highly varied technically, many of them poetic, and the only reproach
which can be levelled at them is the coincidence or close similarity of mood
of certain variations, which somehow needlessly encumber the work, and a
shortage in some of freshness of inspiration, something which is absorbed
on this occasion by the interest of the technical problem.
177
The ten Preludes, written in a masterly way as regards pianism, in general

and as a whole, must be counted among Rachmaninoff’s most successful
compositions. Among them, the first and fourth Preludes leave an ineradi-
cable impression by their heartfelt conviction and poetic quality; the second
and fifth have been composed with great sweep, of which the latter, except
for its central section, suffers from a certain coarseness of concept, and is
therefore particularly suited to the taste of the ‘mass of the public’. The third
Prelude is charmingly sweet with its curious sense of stylization, making this
piece the twin of ‘On the Death of a Linnet’.
The composer’s artistic activities show no sign of flagging. At the present
time he has completed two short operas: The Miserly Knight to Pushkin’s
text, and Francesca da Rimini to Modest Tchaikovsky’s libretto.
We look forward impatiently to the appearance of these compositions in
print.
(d) Yu. D. Engel’: Two novelties at the Bol’shoy Theatre.
Russian Bulletin, 14 January 1906, no. 13. Engel’, pp.
158–61
Rachmaninoff is one of the most prominent of our young composers. He has
hitherto written mainly instrumental music. His single short opera Aleko is
nothing less than a piece of student work written to graduate from the Con-
servatoire (1892). All the greater, then, was the interest aroused in musicians
by Rachmaninoff’s two new operas produced for the first time on 11 January:
The Miserly Knight and Francesca da Rimini.
The first of them was written as usual to the inevitable text by Pushkin.
Almost all Pushkin’s other dramatic works have already been used by com-
posers who preceded Rachmaninoff, and the fact that it was The Miserly
Knight in particular which has remained until now without musical illus-
tration is, of course, no accident. It has been avoided, I think, because it is
comparatively unsuitable for conversion into an opera. The abundance of
discourse and, in general, the unavoidably rational character of the basic
passion portrayed in the play – meanness, the weak development of the
action – all these factors complicated Rachmaninoff’s task in advance and
at the same time indicated in advance the type of operatic writing most suit-
able in this case. This type is the recitative-declamatory one, which strives to
stylize every logical accent of speech musically, heightening it to maximum
expressiveness and clarity. When using such stylization, the operatic com-
poser has the chance of manoeuvring between two basic paths. He can either
concentrate the centre of gravity on the singing, assigning only a secondary
role to the orchestra (Dargomı̈zhsky provided an extreme specimen of this
approach in The Stone Guest), or, on the other hand, he can concentrate the
178
power of musical expression in the orchestra, leaving for the most part to
the singers the roles of motive force of the action and commentator on it
(Wagner). Between these two paths, Rachmaninoff seemingly tries to keep
to the centre, though with a slight inclination towards Wagner’s side, except
that Rachmaninoff applies the system of leitmotives, which predominates in
Wagner and to which Wagner attaches colossal importance, only in its most
general features. Thus, the basic element in characterizing the son of the
miserly Baron, Albert, is an energetic, lively, scherzo-like rhythmic motive;
the theme which introduces the listener to the Baron’s cellar receives repeated
though less systematic development, and so on; the most interesting scene in
the opera, as in the drama, is the second (the Baron’s monologue); there are
individual moments of great power there. Moreover, the composer’s pensive
talent makes itself felt throughout The Miserly Knight, both in its harmonic
richness and the colourfulness of the orchestra as well as the flexible precision
of the musical declamation which fuses with the text. Yet this is not an opera
for the broad public: it is rather a piece written in the study (Kabinettstück)
for music lovers capable of appreciating the composer’s delicate filigree work.
As I recall, the same impression was made by Rimsky-Korsakov’s Mozart
and Salieri on its first appearance, an opera rather similar in style (with an
inclination in the direction of The Stone Guest), which has since, however,
obtained wide fame. But the important point is that Chaliapin appeared in
the principal role there [. . . and such an exceptional performer is needed to
bring off this role too].
Rachmaninoff’s other opera, Francesca, can count far more on the atten-
tion of the broad mass of the public. About twenty operas have been written
on the same celebrated subject before him, including one Russian one, that
by Napravnik, performed for the first time three years ago in St Petersburg.
Rachmaninoff’s Francesca (libretto by Modest Tchaikovsky) is different,
however, from all the others in that it is conceived, not as an independent
drama, but as an episode in Dante’s hell: the story of the love of Francesca
and Paolo, compressed into two scenes, is framed by scenes of hell
(prologue and epilogue). Tchaikovsky’s symphonic fantasy Francesca da
Rimini is constructed in just this way, as everyone knows. And, of course,
it is not everyone who would decide to undertake to depict hell after
Tchaikovsky’s Francesca. But Rachmaninoff has managed to carry out
successfully this difficult task afresh, in part thanks to resources which
Tchaikovsky did not have to hand. These resources are the stage and the
massed chorus. The orchestral introduction, where the composer does not
use them, is relatively insipid. As a consequence of the long absence of rhyth-
mic movement, the aching chromaticism becomes rather monotonous here.
In any case, in Rachmaninoff there is no impression of lasciate ogni speranza.
179
(In Tchaikovsky there is.) But now the curtain rises. Gloomy, hellish ravines.
The voices of the invisible chorus, intensifying and growing all the time,
gradually begin to weave themselves into the sombre, chromatically creep-
ing harmonies. The composer uses these voices in a masterly and entirely
original manner. The choir sings the whole time with lips closed; it is a
muffled groan, not singing. In the following scene of the prologue, which is
vividly staged as regards décor as well, the ghosts of sinners scud by in front
of Dante and Virgil; the choir sings here now with lips open (on the letter a);
the groans turn into wails, the peals in the orchestra reach a climax; ev-
erything altogether makes a powerful and distinctive impression. Also very
beautiful, though of course in a different way, are the two scenes devoted
to Francesca herself. Both are powerful, inspired and rich in melody, and at
the same time they form a contrast with one another. The hero of the first is
the ill-starred Lanciotto, who imprints on the music of this scene the stead-
fastness of its rhythm, the severity of its harmony and the accents of a tragic
quality profoundly endured. The second scene, on the contrary, is entirely in
bright colours; the love duet of Francesca and Paolo is full of expressiveness,
tenderness and passion. In our opinion, the first scene is nevertheless supe-
rior; it is more of an entity – all hewn from the same rock; the superb love
duet seems to lack a point of climax worthy of it. In respect of its music, the
epilogue repeats the principal moments of the prologue and thereby imparts
to the whole opera a rare balance from the formal point of view. To sum
up, Francesca is just as ‘serious’ in style as The Miserly Knight, but more
vivid and heartfelt; the composer’s talent does not merely prompt respect
but attracts and captivates. And for the performers too Francesca is not only
easier but also more rewarding than The Miserly Knight. [Engel’ comments
on the performers, giving particular credit to Rachmaninoff as conductor.]
(e) V. Yakovlev: S. V. Rachmaninoff. Russian Olden Times,

1911, book 12 (December), pp. 515–20
This author (1880–1957) was an eminent musicologist who worked par-
ticularly in source studies and bibliography.
The heart has long since been engaged in struggle with life . . .
Count Al. K. Tolstoy
Our Russian music has a short history. We have no old style, because our
entire secular music can count a history of only slightly over seventy years.
Russian folk art and sacred chants were, of course, born in the depths of
the centuries, but the fruitful moment when secular music emerged from
religious music, as happened in the West, was missing in Russia, just as we
failed to acknowledge that folksong was an art expressing the temper of
180
the whole of society. The causes are sufficiently familiar, the most important
of them being the estrangement of the so-called intelligentsia from the peo-
ple, the original sin of our existence. The art of Glinka, who joined forms
elaborated over centuries by Western composers to devices from Russian
folksong and deeply national content, is one of the few bridges which cross
the gulf between highest and lowest. But Glinka came along only recently,
and all the experiences of our Classicists, Romantics and Byronists of the
eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century failed to find an
exponent in music, unlike the cases of literature, painting and even architec-
ture. The necessary technique was not there, and nor were there any serious
aesthetic aspirations. In the meantime, certain currents in European think-
ing about art have taken root so deeply in the Russian’s soul that he has not
found the strength to free himself from them even today. Thus, a revival of
Romanticism and of classical strivings is occurring before our very eyes –
with the greater animation, because our grandfathers’ tastes did not have
time to be fully dislodged and, in many respects, that generation was not
able to say all it wanted in its own time, since an urgent need to engage with
social questions arose and the latter were in the forefront of creative people’s
minds. Among the currents undergoing revival we include Byronism too. We
think that in our time it is to be found in the works of the artist Vrubel’7
and the composer Rachmaninoff. We regard this Byronism, naturally, not
as a social phenomenon, although its revival is undoubtedly not accidental,
but as a mood – that is precisely the kind of thing one ought mainly to be
speaking about when dealing with art. One may object that the Weltschmerz
of the nineteenth century made itself felt earlier in the power of genius in
Tchaikovsky’s symphonies – and conclusively. But this essence of the late
composer’s finest pages does not represent what we call Byronism. For the
latter there is too little resistance or conflict in Tchaikovsky, and too much
mundane lyricism. Gloomy protest, indistinct prolonged struggle between
the heart and life provide the subject-matter for many inspired works by a
present-day composer – Sergey Vasil’yevich Rachmaninoff.
[Information about the composer’s background and education as a pianist
is given; on transferring from the St Petersburg to the Moscow Conservatoire,
he studied with N. S. Zverev and A. I. Ziloti], and took the theory course
taught by Arensky and Taneyev. The teaching of S. I. Taneyev (who derived
his ideas from the theorist G. A. Laroche) is of historic significance for the
cause of music in Russia; the painstaking study of counterpoint, on which
his teaching was based, resulted in his pupils being able to compose beautiful
part-writing freely without putting the young composers’ abilities to write
7 M. A. Vrubel’ (1856–1910): Russian painter, creator of frescoes and stage designer.
181
melodies under any strain – indeed, his system allowed their individuality to
manifest itself the more successfully. We are indebted to this peculiarity of
Moscow teaching for the emergence of Rachmaninoff, Skryabin, Medtner,
etc. in the form that we now know them. Finally, the last and strongest in-
fluence on Rachmaninoff was exerted by P. I. Tchaikovsky – although it was
not felt in person, it is always perceptible; Tchaikovsky’s works filled the
air of the whole of musical Moscow in those years. Veneration of his mem-
ory has not left Rachmaninoff even now. We shall see later how at various
times Chopin, Schumann and Wagner, and in his songs Musorgsky furthered
the development of Rachmaninoff’s rich talent. In 1892 Rachmaninoff com-
pleted the course at the Conservatoire, presenting as his graduation work
the one-act opera Aleko, for which he received the gold medal. In the same
year he made his début as a pianist in Moscow, at the Electrical Exhibition,
with outstanding success. In the spring of the following year his opera was
produced at the Bol’shoy Theatre in Moscow, and then it did the rounds of
almost all the Russian opera houses, encountering a sympathetic response
everywhere thanks to the freshness and ardour of its inspiration. [. . .] One
detects some impetuosity in the composer’s work; at certain times, perhaps
when he has been encouraged by success, he shows an intensification of ac-
tivity, whereas in other years his energy appears to have slackened. Thus, in
a single year after his graduation from the Conservatoire, the Piano Con-
certo (op. 1, written moreover while he was a student), five piano pieces, the
Fantasy for two pianos, two cello pieces and two for violin, six songs, the
orchestral fantasy The Rock and an Elegiac Trio dedicated to Tchaikovsky’s
memory all appeared. All these works immediately placed the beginning
composer in the front rank of Russian composers, and certain piano pieces,
for instance the Prelude in C-sharp minor op. 3 or the Barcarolle op. 5, won
exceptional popularity.
In the subsequent two years, seven piano pieces for two hands, six songs,
six piano pieces for four hands and the Capriccio bohémien for orchestra
appeared, and the First Symphony, which has so far remained in manuscript,
was written. It is said that the failure of this symphony (performed in 1896
in St Petersburg at a Russian Symphonic Assembly conducted by Glazunov)
and certain personal circumstances caused an interruption in Rachmaninoff’s
activities as a composer; he was conductor of S. I. Mamontov’s Moscow
Private Opera for two seasons.
In 1899 a new and most important time in his career as a composer be-
gan. The twelve songs, six choruses, six Moments musicaux, the Suite for
two pianos, for all their attractive qualities, do not yet give any idea of
the true dimensions of the composer’s talent, and are preparatory steps to-
wards the better things which were composed immediately after them. The
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Second Piano Concerto, the Sonata for cello and piano and the Cantata
Spring demonstrated what the enchanting poetry-filled musical essence of
Rachmaninoff was capable of. The first of these works has won worldwide
fame; the Concerto is one of the most capital phenomena in the contempo-
rary piano repertory in the power and beauty of its sincere, dreamy content
and completeness of form. The same lofty virtues distinguish the Cello Sonata
with its varied, rich material, noble ideas and elegant exposition of them,
while the Cantata is marked by its light, spacious character, its genuinely
spring-like freshness and high spirits (as is one of his early songs, ‘Spring
Waters’). As if finding himself, taking command of something he did not
have the means to express before, Rachmaninoff gives us three major works
of complete maturity and mastery. After them appeared a set of songs (twelve
in number, op. 21) some of which, we think, are of outstanding importance
in the history of Russian music; we shall say more about them later; then
there appeared the technical but essentially in many respects interesting Vari-
ations on a Theme of Chopin (on the C minor Prelude), ten Preludes which
rapidly won fame and are sonorous, beautiful and meaty, two one-act operas
The Miserly Knight on an [almost] unaltered text by Pushkin, and Francesca
da Rimini – a dramatic episode from the fifth canto of Dante’s Inferno, and
more songs, even more delicate and intimate than those in the previous set.
The Second Symphony was completed in 1907 (the score was published
very recently) which was performed in the next season in Moscow and
St Petersburg. The critics adopted a very severe attitude towards this compo-
sition at the same time as it has always enjoyed great success with the public,
particularly as conducted with the irreproachable artistry of the composer
himself. Over these last three years it has already been performed repeatedly
at symphonic assemblies in Moscow and St Petersburg. A sometimes som-
bre lyricism suggesting a spiritual kinship with Tchaikovsky’s The Queen
of Spades, without being imitative, since Rachmaninoff had already become
sufficiently strong, the noble Glinka-like manner of writing though using
the full modern orchestra – that describes the general impression made by
this symphony. It seems to us that the dissatisfaction with this composition
typical of Rachmaninoff, of which one hears in musicians’ conversations
and opinions, stems from the haste and impatience with which new and ever
newer statements are expected from contemporary composers. Rachmani-
noff is still young for the fame which follows him, he is still developing his
‘I’ and it is natural that, in saying what he has to say almost for the first
time in such broad forms, he can at times remind one somewhat of his ear-
lier inspirations created in different frameworks, in the setting of chamber
music. He is not stopping, although he does not astound one with his radical-
ism in the most recent works. The Sonata, a work of Beethovenian tragedy,
183
which follows the Symphony, the delicate music, gained through suffering,
of The Island of the Dead, which is marvellously orchestrated, and finally the
Third Piano Concerto, form the chronological conclusion of the composer’s
work so far. In the summer of 1910 he wrote a Liturgy, which must be of
exceptional interest, the more so since, if we are not mistaken, Rachmaninoff
is under the influence of the theories of S. V. Smolensky.8 Rachmaninoff’s
appearances as conductor and pianist are of considerable significance among
his activities; apart from his two-year period at the Moscow Private Opera
which has been mentioned, he was invited a few years later to the Imperial
Bol’shoy Theatre in Moscow, where he also conducted for two years. He
has, besides, appeared repeatedly at symphonic assemblies, always attract-
ing attention by his thoughtful attitude, temperament and artistic refinement
in performing compositions, whether his own or others’. His piano-playing
shows traces of the felicitous influence of the era of the Rubinsteins and
Tchaikovsky, with vitality, spontaneity and aristocratic subtlety of commu-
nication its distinguishing features. Technique is for him only a means; the
power of feelings is the point of his performance. In recent years Rachmani-
noff has not performed works by other composers, playing only his own.
Let us add, to complete the biographical information, that at present he lives
in Dresden for a large part of the year, extending his foreign activities; long
acknowledged in England and Germany, he has now started giving concerts
with great success in America.
Moving on now to an overall evaluation of Rachmaninoff’s career, one
must in the first place single out his songs; we consider it a great misun-
derstanding to deny his ability to write recitative – on the contrary we
see in his vocal music the ultimate completion of the path traversed from
Glinka, the creator of melodic recitative, by way of Balakirev, Musorgsky
and Tchaikovsky. Rachmaninoff’s declamation is amazing in its naturalness;
his lyricism is always intimate and original; the simplest perceptions of life
as he freshly communicates them are enclosed in profound poetry; his songs
are rather difficult to perform, which perhaps explains why many of them
are unpopular, while five or six have become exceedingly well known and
well loved – even extremely so. From a technical point of view, Rachmani-
noff’s compositions are noteworthy for their great melodic and rhythmic
inventiveness, while the colours of his orchestra are rich and varied; all the
same, as with Tchaikovsky, instrumentation is only one of the means he uses
to embody his intentions, and not the principal aim. Harmony and counter-
point merge in one beautiful whole, neither developing to the disadvantage
of the other.
8 S. V. Smolensky (1848–1909) was a scholar of ancient Russian church music who sought its
reintroduction in liturgical practice. See also Chapter 5 (g).
184
Rachmaninoff’s brilliant talent of itself has not been carried away by any
one thing among the many (outside music as well) he has experienced, and
therefore turned into the limited, Byronic tendency mentioned earlier; but it
is so characteristic of him, just as bold Romanticism is for Schumann, heroic
pathos for Wagner, folklike spontaneity for Musorgsky or the epic past for
Borodin; with these words we are not giving a definition but merely marking
the most stirring motives in the work of this composer or that. And if you can
call to mind his songs, piano pieces, symphony (no. 2) and operas, you will
often find in their delicate and even rather elegant writing echoes of the acute
poetic malady which enveloped the talented Russian youth of the first quarter
of the nineteenth century, and of those ‘songs full of sadness which our grand-
mothers used to sing’, which could not find contemporary expression in the
art of music. Given an inclination of this kind, a lesser talent would have
composed no more than a series of pieces designed for inclusion in albums;
Rachmaninoff goes deeper, and, being moreover alien to aesthetic sectarian-
ism, is more many-sided. From his own sorrow, which is serious and con-
cealed, albeit it stylish, from gloomy cellars with the miserly knight’s gold
he moves over to an enchanting sound landscape, from extreme subjectivism
to composure, and from the dynamic to the static. And this side of his work
is not only attractive but contains tokens of a bright future. We think that if
the composer paid greater attention to this aspect of his talent, then besides
The Rock, Spring, The Island of the Dead, the Moment musical in D-flat
major, the preludes in D major, E-flat major and G-flat major and the songs
‘Twilight’, ‘How fair This Spot’ and ‘Fontan’ (‘The Fountains’), he could give
us completely original models of Impressionist music, independent of those
contemporaries who enrapture us – the Frenchman Debussy and the Russian
Lyadov. But some kind of austere, ancient vision incomprehensible to the mind
burdens his individuality, and, not being a Nietzschean (like Skryabin) but a
Byronist, i.e. profoundly human, he, like his spiritual ancestors, is neverthe-
less going off to some place ‘where there are no people, where there is silence’.
(f) N. Ya. Myaskovsky: N. Medtner. Impressions of his

creative personality. Music, 2 March 1913, no. 119, pp.
148–57. Myaskovsky 2, pp. 507–9
Nikolay Myaskovsky (1881–1950) studied with Lyadov, Rimsky-
Korsakov and Vitol’, graduating from the St Petersburg Conservatoire
in 1911. His twenty-seven symphonies were composed between 1908
and 1949. At this time he was a voluminous writer of reviews; see also
Chapter 6 (c) and (d).
Only very few people really like Medtner’s music; I am one of them, and in
this essay I should like merely to give an indication of what it is about his
185
art that attracts me, without engaging in polemics with anyone. If I succeed
in doing that with sufficient clarity, then perhaps there will be a few extra
people who, once they have understood it, will also come to like it.
In general terms, my attraction to Medtner stems from the following qual-
ities of his music: its richness of texture, which is unusual even in our time;
its surface restraint, and the self-engrossedness of its expression, as a result
of which his compositions cannot bore one; and finally, its lack of colour.
The latter is, of course, in the opinion of the majority a huge fault, possibly
even a sin, overshadowing almost all Medtner’s merits. This quality has
not hitherto been called by its true name, or, if so, then only in passing.
The unacceptability of Medtner’s art was explained either by its ‘absence
of soul’, or ‘insufficiency of lyrical feeling and sonorous charm’, or else
‘retrospectivism’, or ‘mechanical creativity’, etc.
In my opinion all these insistent and various quests for a precise expression
to describe people’s dissatisfaction with Medtner’s music could be combined
in one definition – its lack of colour, its lack of pictorialism.
And I believe this circumstance hides the reason why Medtner is rejected
so passionately by the majority of both critics and musicians of the present
day, who are mostly of the progressive camp – we live in a time when purely
pictorial tendencies are flourishing; almost all our powers of enquiry and
perception are directed towards colour, external beauty and brilliance of
sound; we rush from the heady aromas of Skryabin’s harmonies to Ravel’s
glittering orchestra, from the stunning shouting of Richard Strauss to
Debussy’s infinitely subtle nuances. Generally speaking, one observes among
us a manifest tendency towards a minimal burdening of the receiving reason
and spiritual resources, providing sustenance only to the feelings and the ear;
when we are offered something for the soul which is not set in something
sweet enough for the ear, we refuse what is offered, having lost the ability
to perceive and finding an insufficiency of soul in it. On the other hand, by
sheer force of habit and upbringing, we still allow ourselves the enjoyment
of Beethoven and Bach, but are we not doing that, too, just in the meantime?
As far as Medtner is concerned, while reluctantly giving him every sort of
due, in the last resort we turn away from him, and I discern the main reason
for that in his lack of pictorialism.
It is that characteristic, which I consider neither a shortcoming nor a virtue,
but simply a characteristic, that in all sincerity attracts me to Medtner’s
music, as I said above.
It also attracts me as a contrast to the extravagance of the rest of present-
day music, which I love probably no less than others, but which is also very
tiring, heard in large quantity; but the main factor directing my attention
to the uncolourful Medtner lies in the fact that the absence of colourfulness
186
from his music finds compensation in its great compression, in the profundity
and kinetic tension of his thinking, and the corresponding complication and
refinement of the general fabric of his works, thereby intensifying the process
of intellectual perception, which is not dispersed by a surfeit of extravagant
colour and does not dull spiritual impressionability.
It is understandable that everything I have mentioned makes Medtner’s
work almost inaccessible to the mass public, but I can explain the fact that
it proves largely unattractive – even to those who truly value culture – only
by reference to the spirit of the age, because for all attempts to believe that
Medtner is dry, cold, shallow – that is, without content – I invariably come
up against the fact that I personally am agitated, often even shaken, when
listening to his works.
If it were a question of something base or banal, then, of course, such
agitation would testify solely to defects in my musical organization, but,
since Medtner’s music unquestionably lies in completely the opposite area,
then its having such an effect on me can only be ascribed to the strength of
its inner intensity and warmth. And I shall try to explain that this is indeed
the case, and not otherwise.
The first thing that I demand of music in general is spontaneity, power
and nobility of expression; apart from this trinity, music does not exist for
me, or, if it does exist, then in a purely utilitarian application.
When these qualities are united with refinement or novelty, the strength
of the effect is naturally increased, and in the opposite case decreased; but
the impression changes only, so to speak, in the quantitative sense, and not
in the slightest in the qualitative one.
For that reason, while I love Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff, and at
the same time am inspired by Skryabin, while I am tenderly enraptured
by Rimsky-Korsakov and intoxicated by Medtner, I remain completely cold
towards, for instance, Glazunov and Balakirev.
Here I have come up against a problem which may seem too much of
a digression from the subject, but which as a result will give me a further
strong argument in favour of Medtner.
In adding to the previous formula – spontaneity, power and nobility – also
perfection of expression, I shall obtain in extreme degrees what is meant by
balance of form and content.
This problem hangs permanently in the air and I, of course, not having
the necessary data, cannot undertake to solve it. I should like only to express
a few thoughts about it, which will perhaps prove not entirely beside the
point.
There is no doubt that, as the words are normally used, content is quan-
titatively linked indissolubly with its form; any other notion is as good as
187
unthinkable. But the qualitative balance of these two values is something

forever being sought – a universal ideal (although to define the level of con-
tent, quantitative adjectives are always used) – greater, lesser, but the sense of
this is nonetheless qualitative, since the level of content, essentially, is always
reduced to the value or significance of the elements in a work and the depth
of the feeling harnessed in them.
Only three kinds of relationship of quality and type between form and
content are thinkable: balance between them, a predominance of content
over form, and the other way round. The ideal relationship is the first; the
second can work perfectly well, though not in an extreme form; the third
is always bad and can be valuable almost solely from a utilitarian point of
view. But it is nonetheless clear that both content and form are indissolubly
linked one to the other; they seem to me, in fact, to be two sides of the
same phenomenon which only, as it were, changes its colouring, and this
phenomenon is in essence only form, but corresponding to the previous
division – outer and inner form.
By outer form I mean a certain constructive scheme in a work, and by
inner form – also a scheme, but one of a different order – a scheme for the
development of feelings or moods which, according to my convictions, ought
to contain the same kind of logic as the outer structure of a composition.
The concept of content I deliberately narrow down to the basic elements of
a composition – its thematic, rhythmic and harmonic material.
Thus, by means of exaggerated schematization and subdivision, I always
approach a composition from three angles: its content, its inner form and
its outer form. I would not begin to argue if it were said that this is very
strained and even naive, but, on the other hand, it allows me to evaluate
very fully and carefully the phenomenon in the art of music which is the
most confused and unclear at first sight (strictly speaking, inner form is the
obverse of outer form to the same extent as it is also of the broadening
of the concept of content, since the commonality of the primary source –
inspiration or intuition – links it with the latter, and with the former the
constructiveness characteristic of both varieties).
Of the three data listed, I recognize the absolute value and necessity
only of the first two; good outer form sends me into raptures, but I rec-
ognize its incompleteness. For that reason I accept Musorgsky equally with
Tchaikovsky and Skryabin and reject Glazunov and his entire school, al-
though I myself unfortunately am still in its snare. In actual fact, it is the
school of Rimsky-Korsakov, though, as always happens, he himself did
not have this fundamental shortcoming and, although his compositions are
sometimes somewhat cold, the succession of moods in them is invariably
natural.
188
Glazunov is extraordinarily typical of this school, and I shall dwell on

him a little. He always has superb content – themes of rare beauty and
vividness with original harmonies; he has magnificent, virtuoso outer form,
but the inner structure of his compositions can rarely withstand criticism,
particularly in large-scale works; small and uncomplicated pieces, and pieces
with a single mood or the usual sorts of contrast turn out well for him – take
his scherzos, variations, and so on; but something more extended – where the
scheme of feelings or moods cannot be limited to contrasts alone but binds
him to some sort of higher systematic planning, unification, synthesis – there
he is unable to create anything other than externally connected sequences
of beautiful moments. Let us take as an example the outer movements of
the Fourth Symphony (E-flat major, op. 48): in themes and technique these
seem to be perhaps Glazunov’s most characterful and remarkable creations,
but, as one listens to them, in places they do not just leave one cold but even
induce sadness, as a result of the manifest randomness, with the succession
of thematic elements not compelled by inner logic; when I had occasion to
analyze these movements of the symphony in detail from the point of view
of their construction, I was at times overwhelmed by despair on seeing how
everything in them is well linked, but also how little one thing is knitted to
another.
But let me return to Medtner.
If we bring together all that has been said, I think that it will not enter
anyone’s head to conclude that my attraction to Medtner is merely a trans-
formation of the intellectual satisfaction obtained from the perfection of
outer form in Medtner’s works; if that were the case, I should certainly be
in the front rank of admirers of Glazunov. But it is not, whereas Medtner
excites me, and there can be only one explanation – his music is sponta-
neous, warm and vital; these qualities are inevitably reflected in the inner
form; in other words, I affirm, this inner form in Medtner is good. And in-
deed he has what may be called the logic of feeling, however strange that
expression might sound. All his compositions – songs, folk-tales (skazki),
novellas, dithyrambs and especially his many sonatas – are distinguished not
only by the wholeness of their general conception – even such a ‘green’ work
(in my opinion) as the First Sonata (F minor, op. 5), but also by an amaz-
ing naturalness and necessity in the way all their constituent movements are
combined. I have had occasion to notice a fault in this respect in only one
sonata, unfortunately a very fine one – the G minor (op. 22); always when
playing it through or listening to it – once in a very fine performance and
once in an incomparable one given by the composer himself – always I have
been troubled by the unexpected bustle in the bridge passage between the
first and second subjects; this struck me as a kind of disruption or something
189
far-fetched. On the other hand, no composition has given me greater sat-

isfaction than the remarkable, I would even say inspired, E minor Sonata
(op. 25 no. 2).
Inner form, or the logic of feeling, is so powerful in Medtner that he
probably had no need to wrestle with the iron principles of outer form; at
least, the disruption which I noticed occurred only once, as I indicated, and
once again perhaps one detects in the First Sonata (in the first movement)
a degree of uncertainty. The outer form of Medtner’s works is generally
superb – it is always highly developed, not too canonic, preferably tonally
strict, and, most importantly, rich and logical.
The technical finish of a composition has also, of course, to be regarded
as among the qualities of outer form. In this respect, we encounter a vivid
feature in Medtner’s work which may also be the key to the attitude we
have observed towards him and which lies in the link with the characteristic
indicated previously – the lack of colour.
This feature is his outstanding but distinctive contrapuntalism. It is not
the beautiful, euphonious and to a significant extent harmonic counterpoint
which we observe in Glazunov, but a completely different kind. Medtner’s
works often give the appearance that everything in them has been sacrificed
to line. Thus, melody, or rather theme, emerges in the foreground, moreover
melody or theme of the clearest, simplest contours and almost always full of
character, and also in the majority of cases diatonic.
People say that Medtner’s themes lack character or brilliance, but I sup-
pose that this stems from a merely superficial attitude towards him; whereas
those who examine the question more closely are struck by the features
in his themes I have mentioned: each of them proves to contain a turn
of phrase by which these themes clutch at the soul and the memory; as
one musician I know accurately expressed it, the majority of Medtner’s
themes possess a ‘tentacle’ of just this kind. This quality is characteristic,
by the way, of the themes only of outstanding composers and is encoun-
tered but seldom; the themes of Wagner, Beethoven, Skryabin and just a
few others are like this; epigones cannot manage themes of this kind. It is
easy to be convinced that Medtner’s themes possess this hooking device:
you need only look at his Folk-Tales/Skazki, Sonatas (the E-flat major
Andante from the Sonata-Folk-Tale op. 25 no. 1, all of the leit-theme from the
E minor Sonata, the themes from the Skazka in E minor op. 14, in B-flat mi-
nor op. 20 and many others – I chose at random the first examples which
came to mind); besides, Medtner’s themes, I would say, are distinctive in
their rectilinear quality; hence the general prevalence of linearity in his
compositions, or to put it another way, of draughtsmanship, or, combining it
190
with the lack of colour and putting it even more generally – the graphic
quality.
I have now at last said the most important thing I wanted to say about
Medtner.
In my idea of him, Medtner is a graphic artist, and if one accepts this
proposition (and I think many will agree with it), then even the conciliatory
point of view about his work becomes clear.
In actual fact, at the present time it has become a perfect truism to say that
graphic art in all its many manifestations is an art enjoying entirely equal
rights with painting; and it is almost as much of a truism that, to appreciate
it and find pleasure in it, one has to possess something more than just a pair
of eyes; it requires education, culture and refinement of taste in addition;
in principle it is an aristocratic art, not one for the crowd. But for all these
reasons, it is obvious that neither is Medtner a composer for the crowd, and
it is plain to see, even if one has only a superficial acquaintance with his
compositions, that his art is analogous to graphic art. The outlines of his
melodies are always clear and definite; the contours of figurations and sub-
sidiary parts have been painstakingly honed and subordinated to a scheme
persistently carried through; the duration of the harmonic beat is abbrevi-
ated to the minimum, almost to the limit of what is permissible artistically
(hence the lack of colour, the insufficiency of colouring); the harmonic dispo-
sitions are marked by a high degree of closeness and by distinctive doublings,
and in consequence the harmony too acquires a character of thickness – of
darkness (which is explained by a certain dullness and toughness in it); the
rhythms are universally acknowledged to be rich, but are also very reduced
in scale; lastly, the contrapuntal fabric is very saturated; in this way, Medtner
avoids broad strokes and patches, fresh air and boundlessness – in a word,
painting – as it were, with all his might. I intentionally said ‘avoids’, because
undoubtedly he is able (not only ‘was able’) to be pictorial as well: take, for
instance, the Stimmungsbilder op. 1, the Novella in E-flat major, op. 17, the
Folk-Tale in B minor op. 20, or many of the songs, if only ‘Meeresstille’,
‘Winter Path’ or such a remarkable but unfortunately little known one such
as ‘On the Lake’, op. 3 no. 3, and how many more there are; we find purely
pictorial ideas scattered everywhere in abundance, moreover realized in an
interesting and unusual manner.
But this is not where Medtner’s strength lies: he is a master of drawing,
and in this field he need fear no rival. He reaches rare heights here and
particularly because he is guided not just by cold reason alone but by a
genuine creative fire, which unites all the diminutive elements of Medtner’s
style in compositions which are integral, firmly welded together and full of
191
powerful though concealed (potential) energy, which I long to link genetically

with the names of Albrecht Dürer and Rembrandt.
At this point, just when I am finding a point of view which gives me the
right not only to express but also to substantiate my passion for Medtner,
I think I may allow myself to assert that his compositions are full of a pro-
found, but, to be sure, also a very reserved feeling. The absence of this feeling
could be proved to me only if there was not a single one among a whole
crowd of listeners who was moved; but that is completely wrong, because
I myself can cite many people, even among those who are not professional
musicians, on whom Medtner’s music makes a strong and deep impression,
and, since this is so, then any assertion about the soullessness of his music is
completely unfounded and lacks even a shadow of conviction. The fact that
this music does not make an impact on many people may be explained by its
reserved character, its severe restraint of expression and the distinctiveness
of its technical cast described above; as a result of this, naturally, those who
approach it with the usual criterion of pictorialism and a requirement for
easy absorption will inevitably find that they have stumbled into a prickly
hedge and are therefore of course unsusceptible.
But in the last resort, just as graphic art has won its position with slow
gradualness, so Medtner’s art, also so near to a graphic quality, faces the
prospect of a long wait before it achieves the appreciation and recognition it
deserves, though I have no doubt that it will come: Medtner’s music contains
too many vital juices; too much spiritual strength has been invested in it,
perceived as yet by only the few who have fallen in love with it (though do
they not love it because it offers so much spiritual strength as to provide an
impulse to overcome the external difficulties of perception?); and it contains
too much sacred fire for it not, at the end of the day, to melt the ice of
hostility.
Since I have been avoiding as far as possible any polemic over the course of
this whole essay, I do not wish to raise objections to the attempt which I came
across recently to endow the art of Medtner, alongside that of Rachmaninoff,
with a kind of providential significance, as elements capable of holding back
the now extremely intensive evolution of attitudes to sound (see Marietta
Shaginyan’s ‘S. V. Rachmaninoff’ in the bimonthly Works and Days (Trudı̈
i dni) published by Musaget, nos. 4/5).
It seems to me that Medtner is too remote from the tendency which for
the time being concentrates exclusively on the sphere of colourfulness and
developing new means of expression, and, for that reason, can scarcely exert
an influence of any kind on him; but as a composer of front-rank talent
and a powerful distinctive individuality, moreover speaking in a strong and
ardent language, even if he is not understood by everyone, he really is called
192
to enrich and deepen our spiritual life, and I believe that his importance in
that respect is higher and more valuable than as some sort of barrier in the
path of culture.
At this point I can, strictly speaking, boldly write a full stop, since I have
expressed the main thing in my essay – I have explained why I like Medtner,
for which qualities, and by what route one may come to like him; as far as
the review of his compositions for which I was asked is concerned, in my
opinion, it too much deserves careful and many-sided investigation for it to
be possible to find space for it at the end of an already extensive note in
a journal. Hoping, therefore, that circumstances will enable me to return
sometime to that useful and, still more, pleasant work, I finally place here
the long-awaited full stop.
(g) A. V. Preobrazhensky: A description of the most recent
attempts to restore the ancient chants, from A. V.
Preobrazhensky: Music for Worship in Russia (Kul’tovaya
muzı̈ka v Rossii) (Leningrad 1924), pp. 111–17
While more historical than the other items, this passage succinctly out-
lines a very important development in Russian music in the years up to
1917.
Over the closing years of the nineteenth century and the most recent years of
the twentieth century, there is only one [. . .] profound movement in church
music to mention, one which showed itself in the work of a whole series of
modern composers, sometimes associated in the literature on religious music
with the concept of the ‘New Direction’ and linked in their ideas, or even
primarily in reality itself, with the direction taken by the Synodal Choir, its
School of Church Music and their activities. Following its reform in 1886,
this School took upon itself, to quote the terms of the official document, ‘to
aim to succeed in the spirit of ancient Orthodox church song (peniye)’; it
mustered a number of people to join in this work who had firmly established
the idea of reviving Russian church music by means of a convergence with
the style of the Russian musical school.
Without dwelling on the details of the far from completed process of
forming this new direction, which has continued to develop the most valuable
type of ‘restoration of the ancient melodies’, one can provide only a brief
description of the main foundations upon which this direction rests, having
undertaken to realize the behests of the past history of Russian church music.
The negative results of earlier attempts at harmonization, beginning with
Bortnyansky, became gradually clear in the consciousness of the principal
figures [in the ‘New Direction’], influenced by the growing interest in the
ancient melodies. The perception of a need to create, on the basis of those
193
melodies, ‘a proper musical world’ proved so strong that satisfaction could

be achieved only by attempts which departed as far as possible from the gen-
erally accepted foreign style towards a Russian national musical character.
Since the time when the powerful development of Russian music entrenched
the national principle itself, our church music has been avidly fixed upon
attaining the same ideal. The originality of style in Russian church music in
its ancient chants is deemed sufficient for Russian (now in a special meaning
of that word) church music to exist alongside Russian secular music. Having
recognized the preceding attempts as one-sided and inadequate, church mu-
sic during the nineteenth century transferred the movement’s centre of gravity
towards the national question, striving to draw the ancient church melodies
into the same kind of participation in creating a national church music as
Russian folksong occupied in the field of the secular music running paral-
lel to it. In developing Russian church music, the same historical method
was applied as led Russian secular music to entirely propitious results, since
on the basis of European music it had evolved into a fully defined national
type.
By applying the experience of secular music, Russian church music too had
to secure for itself the possibility of a similar development. Therefore one of
the most important elements in the new Russian church music became the
widespread use of the melodies of ancient chants not just as cantus firmi for
harmonization, but as the supreme criterion of style, a criterion determining
authoritatively both the melodic material and the forms in which it was set
out polyphonically. If one acknowledges that Rimsky-Korsakov had already
come close in his experiments with arranging to an attempt at such a distinc-
tive understanding of the ancient chants’ melodies, and given an elementary
way of treating them in accordance with the sense of an idealization of the
devices of Russian choral performance, then the New Direction subsequently
carried that treatment significantly further and achieved positive results.
What was essentially new to church music here was precisely this turning
to the melodic material of the ancient melodies; the material ceased to be
attractive purely as a pretext for harmonic tricks, as it had been hitherto,
for which reason it had remained dry and lifeless in such compositions,
revealing its melodic richness only extremely sparingly (even in Rimsky-
Korsakov). In the new experiments it became more lively and flexible, and
displayed an unusual power of expressiveness and beauty, because it had been
set free from the obligatory ‘application’ to it of harmony, and had begun
to be drawn into more active participation in the formation of the whole
composition in aggregate. It was allowed to develop freely in forms better
matched to its melodic style, and ancient chant was raised to the significance
of a musical theme, subject precisely to thematic development, which created
194
a wholly different style for arrangements, and, taking them as a model, also
for independent compositions on the themes of ancient melodies, such as
are the best and greatest works of the most prominent composers of this
direction (chiefly – the works of A. D. Kastal’sky, the All-Night Vigil of
S. V. Rachmaninoff and others). An opportunity arose for stylish treatment
of genuine melodies, and at the same time an opportunity of creating new
melodies in the same style. Russian church music had gained the opportunity,
while remaining within the limits of a historically formed type, of emerging
on to the broad highway of free creativity, and, without breaking sharply
away on this occasion from its own past, it is already drawing its historic
inheritance into the conditions within which present-day musical life and
composition exist.
Church composers’ enthusiasm for making church music national is en-
tirely understandable. Russian music offers a multitude of outstanding mod-
els of arrangements of folk melodies, which have become popular and are
familiar to everyone; and thus when the devices employed there are applied
to arrangements of church melodies, they, more than anything, incline the
thoughts of church listeners to acknowledge such arrangements as typically
Russian – that is, they bring about what is to all intents and purposes a
Russian church style. Ancient church melodies are subjected to arrangement,
just like folksongs or folk choruses, in accordance with the type established
in art music (Borodin, Musorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and others), and by
this means alone preserve, in the opinion of many, the mark of Russian
‘nationality’ (narodnost’). There can be no other outcome for them at the
moment than this. That is because we can only consider as ‘Russian’ those
signs which have crystallized as such in Russian folk music. Only by them
and by comparison with them can we assess any music as to whether it is
Russian (narodna) or not; our history has not drawn up any other criterion,
and our church music in itself contains no Russian national or folk signs.
The point of any reconciliation of church melodies with folksong must be
as follows: church melodies have only become Russian and national, have
been Russified, exclusively in the same sense in which, for instance, an
Orthodox church building, an icon, a chasuble, a stole and the whole church
service have become ‘Russian’ and ‘national’ in Russia. In other words, they
have become Russian by dint of prolonged use and traditional assimilation,
though their essence has remained as before borrowed and unchanged.
In this brief description of the principal bases of the new direction in
church music, one cannot pass over in silence another of the elements of
Russian church style which has been borrowed, on the one hand, from di-
rect indications about music in church statutes, and on the other, from the
traditional forms of music for church worship as found on the kliros [choir
195
area] of the church. These are: singing with the kanonarkh,9 recitatives with
melodically developed endings, solo introductions (zapevı̈), refrains (pripevı̈)
and suchlike, or the singing on the kliros of songs of glorification, troparia10
and other chants of Russian folk character, sometimes even exaggeratedly.
The Moscow Synodal Choir, successor of the Choir of the Patriarchs’ Singing
Clerks, was created with the intention that it should sing in the Great Cathe-
dral of the Dormition [in the Kremlin]. Since ancient times this cathedral
had retained in daily use its own special ancient chant (rospev) which was
very closely related to znamennı̈y11 chant and, as a result, the choir which
sang in the cathedral was to a certain extent linked with a historic tradition
of church singing. The force of this tradition, of course, was not always
sufficiently robust to withstand various currents in church music, but it was
quite strong enough for the most sensitive people who came in contact with
the singing in that cathedral to be guided by that tradition and strive to make
it more prominent by some means or other. This solicitude stemmed both
from respect for a church of the greatest antiquity – a holy place of Muscovite
Rus’, a witness of her church history – and on aesthetic grounds to give rise
to a demand for some harmony between the character of song within the
cathedral and the character of its ecclesiological appearance. The cathedral
followed a special liturgical statute, from which there could be no deviations,
for which reason the singing of the choir proceeded in perfect obedience to
the instructions, for example, as regards singing using tones, the number of
stichera,12 singing using particular melodic patterns (na podoben), etc.
A significant majority of Russian churches long ago lost any link with the
discipline of the statutes and have legitimized complete arbitrariness in this
respect; meanwhile, singing deprived of this foundation, severed from the
fundamental type of Russian worship, condemns itself naturally to a com-
plete lack of principle as regards statutory discipline, which cannot help but
reflect negatively on its purely musical side as well. Inadequate co-ordination
of the mood of a piece of music with the character and meaning of a par-
ticular liturgical action is quite especially conspicuous in arrangements of
ancient melodies, which, even if with only a few exceptions, are always full
of typical moods of worship and link with the character of the contents and
meaning of the text. Therefore, a careful attitude to this side of church mu-
sic can uncommonly reinforce the significance of the melodies themselves:
9 Kanonarkh refers to a singer or reader who announces in chant the tone and opening text
of a hymn before it is taken up by the choir.
10 Troparia are single-stanza hymns belonging to a genre of Byzantine and Russian hymn-
writing.
11 Znamennı̈y rospev is a basic stylistic form of Russian medieval monody.
12 Stichera are hymns of several lines belonging to one of the basic genres of Byzantine and
Russian hymn-writing.
196
they acquire a special meaning which heightens the worshipful significance

of their musical setting. It is not without interest to record that the neces-
sity for a close connection with worship was clearly recognized by the best
figures active in church music in recent times and that, for instance, P. I.
Tchaikovsky, with good reason, declared that he sensed acutely the need for
a serious turning-away from that ‘false’ direction, which had led to
Russian music losing ‘its initial character and its organic link with the whole
environment and general structure of worship’.
Thus, the style of Russian church music in its most recent form is realized
by the ‘new direction’ by means of a whole series of elements gleaned from,
firstly, the characteristic melodic and rhythmic profile of our ancient melodies
as well as the turns of phrase and forms which typify them; secondly, from
the general style of Russian folksong, as it exists in itself, and as it has been
treated by Russian composers; thirdly, from the reconciliation of the devices
of sacred music composition with the same devices of music in general as
established in the Russian musical school; and fourthly, from the indications
and traditions of normal liturgical musical practice.
197
CHAPTER SIX
New stylistic directions
As the twentieth century advanced, new conceptions of music evolved

from older ones, emerged from the rejection of them or appeared from a
combination of both. Important figures include Skryabin, already men-
tioned as a Moscow composer, Stravinsky and Prokofiev.
(a) Yu. D. Engel’: The music of Skryabin. Russian Bulletin,
nos. 44 and 45, 24 and 25 February 1909. Engel’, pp.
244–52, with cut restored
I
Everywhere that Skryabin’s latest works are performed, whether in Russia or
abroad, they provoke profound unease in the world of music. Some people
go into raptures over them, others are indignant, while yet others are per-
plexed – but no one remains unmoved. This fact in itself is enough to show
that these compositions are out of the ordinary. And, indeed, in Skryabin
we are confronted by one of the most remarkable talents in the art of the
present time. A talent which may be morbid, as befits our age, but which is
also powerful, a single unity within itself, and original. And, what is more,
original completely regardless of his works’ link with philosophy. This link
cannot actually have the same fundamental significance in music that it has
in other arts. It is true that both philosophy and music are essentially gener-
alizations, but they operate on different planes: one provides a generalized
thought, while the other gives a generalized feeling. Music can thus embody
only basic types of mood, and not logical deductions, even though those may
lead to a certain mood, as if reaching a conclusion.
It is important to be aware of this subterranean working of the composer’s
thought as well, as it bursts through the world of sounds in a rush of emo-
tional experiences and feelings, for it may shed light on a great deal in his
work; but it is not capable either of enhancing or weakening the purely artis-
tic significance of the musical embodiment of these experiences and feelings.
Fine philosophy may beget the foulest music, and vice versa. For that reason,
198
in speaking about the music of Skryabin, I shall proceed first and foremost
on the basis of his compositions, and not of his philosophy, set forth, by the
way, in Mr Schloezer’s interesting article (in no. 42 of the Russian Bulletin),
even though I regard that article as an authentic self-declaration from the
composer.1 Skryabin has so far composed either for orchestra (Rêverie, three
symphonies, the Poem of Ecstasy), or for piano (more than fifty opus num-
bers: études, preludes, waltzes, mazurkas, poems, sonatas, etc.). These works
do not show his work progressing along a straight line, such as can be
observed, for instance, in Chopin or Schumann, who defined themselves
musically almost from their very first compositions. They betoken, on the
contrary, an evolution which is continually unfolding and, of course, has
not yet reached its final stage even now. The Skryabin of the present day
(the Poem of Ecstasy, Fifth Piano Sonata, the latest preludes, etc.) is differ-
ent from the previous one. But one cannot understand this new Skryabin
without knowing the old one, since the first is profoundly connected to the
second – in fact, sprang from it. I shall therefore allow myself to repeat a
little of what I wrote about Skryabin about seven or eight years ago.
Skryabin’s music is a product of the most recent times, when we have been
living a life of heightened intensity, anxiety and nerviness; art has lost touch
with the healthy and fixed moods of the multitude, with the broad fragrant
expanse of fields, woods and meadows. The city, four walls, the refined and
complicated moods of the ‘uppermost ten thousand’ – that is the sphere of
this art. In this respect Skryabin is closely attached to Chopin, who is for
him not only his spiritual forefather but also his prototype in the matter of
form and style (especially in the piano compositions). Still closer is Skryabin
(to be precise, in his orchestral works) to Wagner, whom he recalls in the
interweaving polyphony of his scores; the chromatically sliding extra-tonal
harmonizations; the unbroken leisureliness of movement depending on the
fact that a great number of varied rhythms are combined simultaneously and
thus grind down each other’s sharp edges – and, moreover, with the musical
punctuation marks (cadences) avoided or disguised; the lushness and density
of the orchestral colours – in a word, using all those methods which the cre-
ator of Parsifal employed in an inspired way to carry the listener into a special
world unknown before him ‘outside of time and space’. This proximity is
the result, however, not of direct imitation but of an inner artistic kinship be-
tween two creative natures. And in that last respect Skryabin may be called
the first Russian Wagnerite truly in the bloodline. His music contains not
1 Author’s note: The analysis of the works performed in the concert of Skryabin’s compositions
is written in exactly the same spirit. [See B. F. Shletser (Boris de Schloezer): A. N. Skryabin i
yego muzı̈ka (‘Skryabin and his Music’), Russian Bulletin, 21 February 1909, no. 42.]
199
even a vestige of so-called ‘Russian style’. By its whole being, a symphony by

Kalinnikov gives away the country where it saw the light of day all by itself.
A symphony by Skryabin, on the other hand, tells you absolutely nothing
on that subject. When listening to it, one is just as entitled to suspect that it
carries the stamp ‘Made in Germany’ as ‘Made in Russia’, or for that matter
any other stamp. It goes without saying that this is in no wise a reproach to
Skryabin; it is not a failing and not a virtue but simply an organic property
of his gift.2
That was the earlier Skryabin. Would you like to understand how the new
one is derived from the old? Thicken the network of interlacing voices so
that every liana winds around another until the impenetrability of a virgin
forest is achieved; banish consonance and allow dissonance to reign supreme
in myriads of old and new combinations; take the chromatic orgy of spicy
harmonies to nightmarish limits of elusiveness unknown even to Wagner;
compel the orchestral sea to overflow into sonorities of ever new hues, from
passionate, tender sighs to a stupendous, simply deafening collective roar;
eliminate cadences; mingle a thousand rhythms and allow a choking syaz-
matic syncope to soar above them.
But that is not enough. Subordinate all this chaos to some iron law which
is difficult to formulate but can be sensed and undoubtedly exists; wrap
this creation full of semi-delirious dreams in real artistic forms; refine and
complicate the primordial laceration of Skryabin’s ecstatic moods; draw the
four walls closer together; raise yourself from the ‘upper ten thousand’ to
the very topmost ten dozen or ten hundreds – and at that point the creative
physiognomy of the present-day Skryabin, someone new and unlike anyone
else before, will begin to appear in outline before you a little at a time.
As you listen to the Fifth Piano Sonata by this new Skryabin, which as a
pendant to the Poem of Ecstasy might have been called ‘Sonata of Ecstasy’,
you cannot say, as Cui said of his first, early work: ‘Fine! But surely this is
a trunkful of stolen Chopin (or Wagner) manuscripts!’ Firstly, because no
such trunk exists anywhere in the world, and there is no place to steal it
but from Skryabin, and secondly, because it is not fine at all. Unprecedent-
edly bold, original, powerful perhaps – yes indeed, but not fine. And art
cannot be fine when the balance between content and form is so recklessly
destroyed in the ecstasy of an outburst of raw emotion. The content (the
emotions) has here overwhelmed the form, and the Sonata, in spite of all its
complexity, is grasped more as a convulsive succession of elementary rhyth-
mic and dynamic surges and subsidences than as an artistic combination
2 Engel’ incorporated the paragraph above from his article in the Russian Bulletin of 7 March
1902, no. 7.
200
of the highest musical elements – melody and harmony. This is a strange

outcome, calling involuntarily to mind something kindred in contemporary
drama, poetry and painting (the effects of stylization simplified to the level
of something elementary). Perhaps in the last analysis this impression de-
pended partly on the incongruity between the huge hall of the Conservatoire
and the profoundly chamber-like, extremely intimate spirit of the Sonata. I
have to confess, however, that both in the Small Hall of the Conservatoire,
where I had occasion to hear this unusual Sonata performed by Meychik,3
and in the private house where Skryabin himself played it, the essence of the
impression was just the same.
An entirely different impression is made by the orchestral Poem of Ecstasy,
which is related to the Fifth Sonata as a bough is related to the tree or a
harmonic to the basic pitch. The Sonata was even written to an excerpt from
the ‘Poem of Ecstasy’ in verse by Skryabin himself, which was composed at
the same time as the Poem of Ecstasy in music. [. . .]
II
This poem in verse [where, by his own admission, Skryabin the poet was
striving to give adequate expression in words to what Skryabin the composer
was creating in sounds at the same time] is a little on the long side for ecstasy
(fifteen pages), something of which its score-twin is also guilty. Skryabin’s
blank verse, at times powerful and rich in imagery, at other times high-
flown and wishy-washy, gives a poetic exposition of the philosophy of the
Spirit ‘at play’ which the reader knows from Schloezer’s article. In contrast
to Wagner, who in the end ‘began to crawl towards Christ’, this Fichtean,
Nietzschean Spirit of Skryabin is self-sufficient. ‘In the amazing grandeur of
pure aimlessness and in the combination of opposed aspirations, the Spirit
comes to know the nature of its divine essence.’ And later: ‘Having raised
you up, legions of feelings, I make you into a complex and unified feeling
of bliss which seizes you all. I am the instant which radiates eternity, I am
affirmation, I am ecstasy!’
The score of the Poem of Ecstasy is built out of a dozen themes correspond-
ing to the basic moments in the poem. There is, for example, the theme of
‘flight’ (‘to the heights of denial’!), the themes of ‘languor’, ‘will’, ‘delight’,
‘the rhythms of alarm’, ‘self-affirmation’ (‘I am’) and so on.
The composer handles these themes in the same way that Wagner handles
leitmotives in his operas. But with the difference, however, that in Wagner
the words and the stage come to the composer’s aid, and in only a few
3 M. N. Meychik (1880–1950): pianist who was a pupil of V. I. Safonov.
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cases can one speak about a tacit agreement between composer and listener
about the meaning of this or that theme. In Skryabin everything is based on
such an agreement. You hear, let’s say, a combination of three themes, and
you interpret this combination as something ecstatic, extremely complicated
and beautiful. But the composer, evidently, wants to give the psychology
of creation here: he has united the themes of ‘the created’, ‘delight’, and,
predominating over everything, the ‘will’. And to whatever lengths you go in
order to be able to imagine these themes as the individual bearers of abstract
ideas, which, I am prepared to believe, live in the composer’s consciousness,
you will never be able to say that you have grasped the philosophical secret
of Skryabin’s music. Is it in fact possible to do that at all?!
The themes of the Poem of Ecstasy are all short. Taken together, they are
all marked with their own distinctive Skryabinesque features, but they have
a good deal in common with one another, and are insufficiently individual.
All contain, for instance, a greater or lesser degree of chromaticism. But the
power of Skryabin’s themes lies not so much in each one taken separately but
rather in its development, in combination with others, which often attains
extraordinary complexity.
This perpetual ‘combination of opposed aspirations’, sometimes at dif-
ferent times, sometimes simultaneously, is one of the most characteristic
features of Skryabin’s music. In the first movement of the Third Symphony,
even the exceptional number of markings (over forty) testifies to the inclina-
tion towards this: mystérieux, tragique, triomphant, joyeux essor, opressé,
écroulement formidable, sérieux, orageux, grandiose, etc. In the Poem of
Ecstasy the assortment of markings is smaller (though it contains such an
extraordinary one as très parfumé), but the point is the same. One mood
rapidly succeeds another which has not yet been outlined definitively in full,
so as to give place to a similar third one, or to blend in with it and a fourth
one; everything is ‘im Werden’; everything is achieving, not achievement, cre-
ating, not creation – the naked chaos of the process of creating, expressing
itself, however, in some kind of special forms inviolably fixed for it.
No – I sense that I am adrift in definitions, I cannot find the right words
or expressions. And that is not surprising. It is always thus when you do
not fully understand the very essence of a subject. And grasping the essence
of the Poem of Ecstasy is not so very easy. For it is the quintessence of a
new Skryabin either in the process of being born or else actually born; along
with the Fifth Sonata, it is the most original, the most ‘Skryabinesque’ of
everything so far written by him.
You will ask, then, why the Poem of Ecstasy makes an impression of a
quite different sort from the Fifth Sonata, one which is incomparably more
forceful, powerful, tremendous. Mainly because one is for piano and the
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other is for orchestra. Imagine the Poem of Ecstasy for flute. That would
be completely ridiculous, first and foremost because the flute is incapable of
either harmony or combining diverse rhythms, melodies and timbres. If you
want all these things, write for piano, because they are available to it – within
certain limits, to be sure. And so now you write the Poem of Ecstasy for piano;
write, and as you go further along the new road you quickly reach those
limits. For your complicated combinations of harmonies, melodies, rhythms,
timbres and counterpoints lose their definition and strength on the piano;
they all mingle together, get tangled up, become grey and undifferentiated.
The result is the effect I spoke about in connection with the Fifth Sonata. You
have therefore hit your head against a brick wall; there is nowhere further
to go. But you want to go further. Then turn to the orchestra. It will unravel,
bind, pick out and express everything.
That is how Skryabin acted. But the usual orchestra, even a large one, is
not enough for him. In the Poem of Ecstasy he needed – not so much to give
a massive sound as for the sake of richness in combining timbres – a colossal
orchestra, with four instruments in each wind group, organ, two harps, an
enlarged army of percussion and brass (eight horns) and so on. Can one go
any further? And if one does, where does one get to in the end? Is the result
not the same as that to which the Fifth Sonata led: to the transformation of
the most complex orchestral polyphony, polyrhythms and polytimbres into
a single muddy, grey, undifferentiated mass?
Shadows of this prospect occasionally hover over the Poem of Ecstasy as
well. It grips you, this Poem of Ecstasy, and bears you away – especially if
you can forget its philosophy – but the enjoyment it gives is a special, toxic
one, at times simply an oppressive one. And when at the end of the ‘poem’
this unprecedented Bacchanalia of sounds meant to embody the climax of
ecstasy is heard no more, this roar of brass with bells upturned, amidst
the thunder of the rest of the orchestra, sounding like the trumpet of the
archangel Michael at the Last Judgement, this rumble of the organ, cementing
the whole orchestral mass and creating the illusion of human voices – when
all this falls silent you feel dispirited, jaded. This is immense, new, stupendous
music, but it is also accursed. Yes, accursed, because upon its sufferings and
joys as well as upon its super-Dionysian ecstasy there lies the horrifying
diseased seal of an end of some kind. We advance towards this end and we
shall inevitably reach it because every fissure in art, in order to cease being
a fissure, must turn itself into an abyss. But, as we come up to the end, we
shall be broken against it. And, after we have been broken, seeing no escape,
exhausted by the burden of this superhuman stilted art, we shall cry out:
‘Away from here! Give us something different, new, more straightforward
and healthy!’ (from the ‘Poem of Ecstasy’).
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If the Poem of Ecstasy is the most original of everything that Skryabin

has written to date, then the Third Symphony (the Divine Poem) is the most
beautiful, the most attractive. As regards form, it represents a free variant of
the classical type of symphony, just as the Poem of Ecstasy provides a vari-
ant of the most recent type of symphonic poem. Except that in Skryabin’s
Symphony each of the individual movements of the symphony flows into
the next, that is, they are performed without a break. These movements are:
Introduction (‘I am’), Struggle (Allegro), Pleasures (Lento) and Divine Play
(Allegro). From this mere enumeration it is not hard to trace the same phi-
losophy of the evolution of the Spirit which, after doing battle with survivals
of the past and passing through the ordeal of the present, sees the meaning
of existence in ‘divine play’, in the ‘amazing grandeur of pure aimlessness’.
But once again the power of the Third Symphony lies not in this philosophy.
Its power resides above all in the significance and boldness of its melodies,
the clear roundedness of its development and combination, the freshness of
its harmonies, in the colours of the orchestra – in a word, in all that artis-
tic allure of purely musical beauty, which is far more illusory in the Poem
of Ecstasy and without which any additional aspirations in philosophy or
ideas, whatever they might be, are doomed to perish in the art of sounds.
Precisely thanks to this beauty in the Third Symphony, its content in ideas
acquires special depth and power; each and every listener can draw from this
source what is closest to him, which may often be wholly dissimilar from
what is embedded there according to the ‘official guidebook’ written by the
composer himself.4
The Third Symphony too is of Skryabinesque complexity, but this com-
plexity cannot even be compared with the Poem of Ecstasy. It is less, possibly,
even than in the Second Symphony, from which the Third differs advan-
tageously also by the absence – or, to be more precise, the least presence
for Skryabin – of elation and bombast. At any rate, nowhere in the Third
Symphony does this complexity obscure the basic moments of development
in the musical thinking. Only in the first movement are the threads of this
development lost for a spell, not so much as a result of the simultaneous
‘combination of opposed aspirations’ so much as in consequence of their
rapid, impetuous replacement to which I referred earlier. And yet how much
fresh charm, how irreproachably well balanced and rounded, there is in the
second movement, Lento. This Lento, now issuing in profound impassioned
melodies, now twittering with all the voices of spring, is Skryabin’s finest
4 Author’s note: Surely, for instance, no one will interpret the superlative principal theme of
the first Allegro as the theme of ‘mysticism’, yet the ‘official’ guide calls it exactly that.
204
inspiration. This is real music, as powerful as it is beautiful, not crushing

and not oppressing, but providing pure, unclouded delight. [. . .]
(b) G. E. Konyus: Skryabin’s Prometheus (Serge Kous-

sevitzky’s Eighth Symphony Concert, 2 March 1911).
Russia’s Morning, 4 March 1911. Konyus, pp. 160–3
Georgy Eduardovich Konyus (1862–1933) is now best known as the
inventor of an approach to musical rhythm and syntax called metro-
tectonicism. He was active as a composer and influential as a teacher,
chiefly in Moscow, at the Conservatoire where he had himself studied
with Arensky and Taneyev.
This concert [in Moscow], the last of the current season, offered listeners
Skryabin’s Second Symphony and Prometheus, the latter performed for the
first time.
Our judgements – whatever they might concern – are in many respects
preordained. Freedom of judgement is a fiction. Without us noticing it, our
judgement is bound to the past and the present by invisible routes and chains.
And we are the unconscious slaves of this past and present in not less than
nine-tenths of our thinking.
As I prepare to express an opinion about the new composition
(Prometheus), I wish above all to establish firmly the absolute necessity
of renouncing that little-recognized enslavement in which the very act of
judgement usually takes place, before making judgement in this instance.
Had I approached Prometheus without freeing myself in advance from
the principles I had absorbed, which were bequeathed by the past and today
hold almost complete sway in the sphere of music – the rules formed by
history and inherited habits of listening – then my judgement of the new
work would inevitably have been harshly negative.
In Prometheus Skryabin has turned his back on those giants – the major
and minor modes – on which music has rested since the time of Bach. He
has gradually replaced the basic supports of music, which formed themselves
over centuries of cultural work by a number of musical generations, with a
scale of his own comparatively recent artificial creation, at first intuitive and
later conscious.
Determinedly disavowing the stereotyped melodic turns of phrase to which
European ears have grown accustomed, Skryabin has fabricated instead
themes of his own, choosing sounds for them from his newly created scale,
without being in the least embarrassed that the melodic shapes produced by
this recipe turn out messy at times. And to match these dramatis personae
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from his poem, Skryabin has clothed them in harmonies drawn from his
new-born scale obedient to him alone.
Of the legacy of his fathers, then, the composer has preserved very little:
contrapuntal combining of themes, regular progressions, the return of themes
in a manner more magnificent compared to the way they were before, using
them in abridged and extended forms and similar constructional devices.
It is clear that by acting in this fashion the composer has not only cut the
ground from under the feet of judgement, but has unavoidably separated
the listener from what he is listening to. In this separation Prometheus, it
seems, has broken all records. And the more orthodox the musician, the
more erudite, the more experienced in the subtleties of his own art, the less
prepared, I think, will he be to give Prometheus a favourable reception.
Having entered this caveat and thereby explained the genuine and en-
tirely understandable indignation and exasperation of many, many listeners,
I now go on to set out the impressions which I myself took away from
Prometheus.
On the first hearing I understood absolutely nothing. At the second, only
slightly more. Then, after looking through the score twice and listening to
the poem again in a performance on the piano, I set off for the concert and
did not so much listen as surrender to the impressions of listening. And,
I confess openly, in its main features I liked Prometheus as performed on
2 March.
In this luxuriantly exotic composition, with its particularly heady har-
monies and its strange, mystical sonorities alien to musical culture, one hears
at some times a captivating power, at others a sinister power from the other
world.
One divines, rather than consciously senses, the peculiar enigmatic beauty
of these new worlds. Especially bewitching are the gentle caressing tones
of the poem, rousing a dim notion of some sort of sorcery in sound. But
the gloomy colours are also good. They induce shuddering. Feelings of evil
mystery are aroused. ‘Unheimliches’, Germans would say. And taken in this
way, preconceivedly renouncing the ordinances bequeathed by the whole
past of musical culture, I repeat, you can like Prometheus.
In spite of some other shortcomings. Such as invention which is exces-
sively the product of brainwork. Such as the screeching sonority of some
overloaded chords (the final one, for example), as if the composer did not
want to take the limits of human endurance into account. In spite of the de-
fective instrumentation of the whole climactic episode (pages 67–72 of the
score [issued by Koussevitzky’s firm in 1911]), where the theme in the three
trumpets is drowned in the unquestionably indecipherable chaos of gurgling
sounds.
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Whether Prometheus proves to be une révolution manquée or une remeute

réussie as regards the reigning order in music, is a matter which naturally
only the future can determine. I personally doubt whether Skryabin’s new
scale conceals in its depths a great variety of resources.
At any rate this Poem of Fire based on it is something in the highest degree
remarkable. It is a mighty Kunststück. A specimen of the immense mastery
of one of the most talented and conscientious among present-day masters of
sound [– and a worthy end to Koussevitzky’s concert season].
(c) N. Ya. Myaskovsky: Ig. Stravinsky. Zhar-ptitsa, skazka-

balet (‘The Firebird, folk-tale ballet’) for piano four hands.
Published by P. Jurgenson. Price 4 roubles 50 kopecks.
Music, 8 October 1911, no. 45, pp. 970–2. Myaskovsky
2 (1964), pp. 24–7
For Myaskovsky, see Chapter 5 (f).
You have only to start speaking about Igor Stravinsky to someone, above
all a professional musician, to be sure to hear: ‘Uncommon talent for or-
chestration, astounding technique, the richest inventiveness, but there’s no
music’. What sort of nonsense is that? Talent, yes, talent, an uncommon one,
an astounding one, and yet that which constitutes the element in which that
talent exists is missing; what is this – a misunderstanding, or carelessness?
Let’s discard the second, however, because one has had occasion to hear this
opinion from both impartial and uninterested people and even from people
who are close to Stravinsky. The matter is simply explained: we don’t know
how to speak; we are not alert to the words we utter.
To say of a musician with irreproachable technique, refined taste and a
wonderful gift for orchestration, and who is master of the latest secrets of
harmony, that his compositions contain no music is, of course, nonsense.
If we say: ‘He is not an extravagant melodist, and his themes are not al-
ways arresting’ – then we are coming nearer the truth. But that is all. Of
course what is striking in the young composer, who ought to be having to
reckon with an excess of material, is economy of this kind: five numbers
out of nineteen (although this division is artificial, since the greater part of
them follow immediately one after another without any opportunity for a
break) in the ballet before us are constructed out of a tiny motive made up
of a succession of major and minor thirds separated from each other by a
distance of one and a half tones. But what pictures are conjured out of this
insignificant material! The introduction – the mysterious twilight of its first
sounds, the disturbed calls to one another of monsters roused from sleep
in the central section, the plaintively sweet sighs at the end; out of nothing
207
at all, how much has been made. Other numbers based on the same ma-
terial (no. 2 ‘Kashchey’s Enchanted Garden’ with its small but distinctive
new motive and its depiction of the whistling of birds with an accuracy com-
pletely out of the ordinary; no. 13 ‘Kashchey’s Dialogue with Ivan-Tsarevich’;
no. 15 ‘Dance of Kashchey’s Servants’; no. 18 the achingly gloomy ‘Death
of Kashchey’) are not so striking, but even among them one comes across
the wittiest transformations of the same motive. But there remain another
fourteen numbers using entirely new material, where the motive I indicated
appears, if at all, only episodically, called forth by the situation on stage.
And just look at how much of the most excellent music they contain: ‘The
Entrance of the Firebird’ (no. 3) – no stage is required, so graphic is it in
the orchestra’s glittering whirlwind, and surely the mournfully melodic little
phrase at the end is a pearl. The languidly fluttering ‘Firebird’s Dance’
(no. 4) is an elegant scherzo, in harmony almost approaching Skryabin’s
most recent achievements.
The interesting bustle of the scene where the Firebird is captured by Ivan-
Tsarevich (no. 5) leads to her voluptuous supplications. In this number, the
following one ‘The Entrance of the Thirteen Princesses’, in their Khorovod
(‘Round Dance’) and lastly in the apotheosis, one can sense most distinctly
the handing-on of Stravinsky’s gift from Rimsky-Korsakov. Without men-
tioning purely external signs (such as the first chord of the ‘supplication’,
or the use of the same folk melodies in the Round Dance), one senses the
influence of the way of thinking of the inspired creator of The Snowmaiden,
Kashchey and Kitezh in the actual character of the pieces, the clarity of their
contours, their coils of melody (the Allegretto in no. 6, the little two-bar
theme adroitly imitated in the ‘Entrance of the Thirteen Princesses’), and
finally the invigorating freshness of the harmonies in other places. No. 8,
‘The Game of the Princesses with the Golden Apples’, is the most miracu-
lous scherzo, now jingling cheerfully, now gently caressing (that delightful
little theme again); the chatter unexpectedly breaking off signifies the ap-
pearance of Ivan-Tsarevich; this episode is rather dry among the others, but
with a splendid warm melody. After the ‘Princesses’ Round Dance’ with
the subtle harmonies of its ending, there follows a series of scenes, some of
which have been enumerated above, including: ‘Kashchey’s Dialogue with
Ivan-Tsarevich’, ‘Dance of Kashchey’s Servants’, some of them insignificant
(‘The Approach of Morning’ – no. 11; ‘The Firebird’s Second Entrance’ – no.
14); no. 12 stands out from among them – ‘Magical Peals, the Entrance of
Kashchey’s Servants and the Capture of Ivan-Tsarevich’; this episode reveals
in all its brilliance Stravinsky’s inexhaustible inventiveness in bringing his or-
chestral and technical ideas into being from the most insignificant material;
here for the first time appears the superb theme which is the basis for the
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mighty ‘Infernal Dance of Kashchey’s Kingdom’ which rounds off this whole
series of scenes. This scene is a gripping one. Vivid, distinct themes, welded
together by the impetuosity of a fiery temperament; a dull tread alternating
now with wild screams, now with unchecked languid sighs; it is a whirl-
wind of unlimited revelry. Another moment and, it seems, the final borders
will be destroyed, but unexpectedly everything collapses and the marvellous
Firebird’s Lullaby, full of profound sorrow, is heard. The death of Kashchey,
profound darkness, the disappearance of Kashchey’s kingdom, the coming
to life of warriors who have been turned to stone and, finally, oh horror, gen-
eral rejoicing, that is to say the apotheosis. But even here Stravinsky remains
true to himself, in spite of the banal situation; there is not a hint of triviality
in the music (just recall even the best ballets of Tchaikovsky or Glazunov);
the theme is beautiful and bright, and it develops into a broad picture of
infectious merry-making.
What is there to say after one has looked through the entire ballet scene
by scene? – What a wealth of inventiveness, how much intelligence, temper-
ament, talent, what a remarkable, what a rare composition!
But one still cannot agree with Alexander Benois’5 assertion that this is
music of genius, despite a fervent desire to do so: there is something missing;
and the answer suggests itself: there is insufficient originality. The prickliness,
the good spirits, the cheerfulness rare in a present-day composer, which single
Stravinsky out from his extremely talented contemporaries, entitle him to be
considered the direct heir of N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov and, together with his
other qualities, provide a guarantee of the still greater flowering of his major
talent; but the actual essence of his musical material does not yet bear the
stamp of a clearly expressed individuality.
But is being the direct heir of Rimsky-Korsakov and the successor of the
greatest luminary of Russian music a mere trifle?!
Let’s return to the publication. It is outwardly splendid, like all Jurgen-
son’s publications of recent years, but, my goodness, how many misprints it
contains! Given the refinement of certain harmonies, that is very annoying.
(d) N. Ya. Myaskovsky: Petrushka, ballet by Igor Stravinsky.

Music, 14 January 1912, no. 59, pp. 72–5. Myaskovsky 2
(1964), pp. 41–4
Is Stravinsky’s Petrushka a work of art? Even as I pose this question, I can

see irate, reproachful glances directed at me, I can sense cries of indignation
5 The artist and critic Benois (1870–1960) was a key member of Diaghilev’s circle as well as
Stravinsky’s collaborator on the scenario of Petrushka.
209
barely restrained on the tongue, and prepared, in spite of it all, to give an

affirmative answer, I nonetheless stop myself and say: ‘I don’t know’.
That’s right – I don’t know. Can life be called a work of art? I mean this
very life itself which stirs around us, which at different times is embittered or
happy, weeps, rages, or flows in a smooth, broad stream. And Petrushka is
that life itself: all the music in it is full of such ardour, freshness and wit, such
healthy, incorruptible merriment, such unrestrained audacity, that all those
intentional banalities and trivialities, that constant accordion background,
not only do not antagonize you but, on the contrary, are yet more attractive –
as if on a sparkling day of snow and sunshine at Shrovetide you yourself were
brazening your way with all the fire of fresh young blood into a jolly crowd
of revellers roaring with laughter and blending into an indissolubly jubilant
whole.
Yes – it’s life itself, and in so far as it is, all our pitiful, everyday yardsticks
of artistic quality, good taste, etc., seem so unnecessary, so pale and bloodless,
that, just as if you had felt the breath of the plague, you run as far away
as possible from this quagmire for everything that is alive, and, without
thinking, rush into a joyous whirlwind of real life, of this – to speak in
a Wildean paradox – genuine art. The music of this unusual ballet is so
much of a piece, is permeated from the first note to the last by such an all-
consuming ardour and inexhaustible humour, that you positively lose any
desire to undertake a more detailed examination – it seems that you are
getting ready to dissect a living organism.
Scene 1 is Shrovetide. The merrily seething background is established in
the orchestra at once, and the flute’s ringing cries are engraved upon it; the
shouts of the women street-traders and the male salesmen ring out, at times
sustained, at others animated and you are already immersed in waves of
holiday atmosphere. The entire scene moves along in an unbroken current
of unbridled merry-making and revelry; at some points one hears a fast dance
(the accordion effect is obtained by amusing parallel triads in the trombones
on a repeated G minor chord in other instruments), at others it is interrupted
by a disorderly bustle when the most vulgar boulevard tunes rush by, of the
Svetit mesyats . . . (‘The moon is shining . . .’)6 kind, some of the time on
their own, at others woven into a freely flowing counterpoint – and all this
against a background of almost uninterrupted accordion but orchestrated
with such variety and wit that you don’t feel the slightest vexation. The
scene of reckless revelry breaks off for an instant for the entrance of the
Magician – a tiny orchestral joke prepared for by an extremely trivial flute
cadenza. At the conclusion comes the lively ‘Russian Dance’, which is full
6 Svetit mesyats: a banal nineteenth-century urban song.
210
of fire, freshness, ingratiating affection (in the trio) and free of all of the
conventions which have so solidly entwined themselves around exactly this
area of our composers’ work.
Suddenly a hoarse cry rings out and Petrushka appears (Scene 2); his
bowing, the nodding of his long nose and his fussy falsetto chatter find
in the music a precision of expression which becomes palpable. This at-
tractive, animated scene has for its predominant background the chirring
tremolo between chords of F-sharp major and C major, against which fan-
fares from muted trumpets and trombones crackle harshly. The tinkling
Adagietto episode – at times joking, at times sad – is followed again by
the stunning bustle of seconds and the despairing crackling of trumpets and
trombones – muted as before and against the previous background.
Scene 3. Several harsh, angular brush-strokes (with fourths and fifths of
various kinds the predominant intervals in the harmony) outline the entrance
of the Moor; a rather melancholy melody (without any orientalism to set the
teeth on edge), played by clarinets at the octave and a tortuous little phrase
moving from the cor anglais to the whole brass section, aptly embellish this
clumsily monstrous musical figure. The Ballerina appears (cornet against a
background of side-drum), and dances the most commonplace waltz. The
Moor (with his melancholy theme as the bass) tries to join in, but with his
awkward 24 bar he simply cannot adapt to the Ballerina’s lightly fluttering 34
bar. There is a short break filled with the excitement of love; then the waltz
returns, and the Moor tries a different tack (his tortuous little phrase in the
cor anglais), but still with equal lack of success. With stupefying fanfares,
Petrushka bursts in and engages the Moor in a desperate quarrel: the orches-
tra rushes about in stunningly scored seconds and rasps out savage howls in
diminished fifths.
Scene 4. The climax of the Shrovetide celebrations overshadows for a time
the love drama which has just flared up.
Against an almost constant accordion background (scored with inex-
haustible inventiveness), figures of different types flash past one after another
as in a kaleidoscope: here Vdol’ po Piterskoy (Along the St Petersburg street)
the cheery, eager wet-nurses come forward singing Akh vı̈ seni, moi seni in a
bawling and discordant manner (harmony of diminished fifths); here Mishka
the bear, falling over heavily, trails along with a peasant tootling stridently
on a pipe (two clarinets ff ) and loudly goading his charge on (tuba); a rakish
merchant enters with gypsy girls; there’s such a lot of genuine, inimitable
bravado in these sounds, in these haughty glissandi of the violins, in the
strumming of the balalaikas (a very skilful imitation of their sound); the
coachmen enter dashingly in their stead – their boots squeaking, each with
a ring in his ear. The music seethes with good health and humour. In the
211
midst of this fast dance the motive of ‘Along the St Petersburg street’ enters
again, as if the coachmen had been joined by the wet-nurses, although of
the former there remains only the trombones’ little scales comically rushing
around in triads (as if they were running on the spot); then the previous
dance returns in a bold canon with redoubled force and swagger. The ap-
proaching sounds of little bells starting to tinkle are heard (it must sound
amazing) – and mummers burst in in a motley crowd. The orchestra jingles,
sparkles and whirls past them in a violent whirlwind. Petrushka’s nasal cry
rings out again and the quarrel with the Moor, which had been on the verge
of calming down, is renewed. Seconds have strayed in, diminished fifths have
started growling madly, the strings have leapt up in a despairing glissando,
a mournful, hoarse wail has been heard (two clarinets in seconds in their
highest register) – the Moor has finished off the ill-starred Petrushka with
his cudgel. Against a background of subsiding violin tremolos, Petrushka’s
motives take on a mournful character to depict his last breath. The Magician
who is Master of Ceremonies enters and removes the lacerated corpse.
The importunate sounds of the accordion are heard again, but in a few
moments the calm which reigned is violated by a triumphant cry – a living
Petrushka appears in a window on the curtain; there’s one more hoarsely
piercing scream (fanfares of two trumpets in seconds) before perfect peace
sets in.
That’s the scene – isn’t it really life itself, this crowd buzzing and spilling
over with merry-making and daring, and this ephemeral tragedy unfolding
against that background, from which all that remains is a handful of sawdust
from a disembowelled unlucky failure? There is so much nerve and blood in
all this, moreover, that I cannot define this work any other way than by the
word ‘life’ – and, indeed, does one have to?
I think that had Rimsky-Korsakov – that exceptional aristocrat of the
kingdom of sound – been alive, he would have stood up for this work without
a moment’s hesitation; he could not have failed to recognize or at least to
feel that Stravinsky’s exceptional, buoyant talent is flesh of his own flesh,
blood of his own blood.
Should one say something about the orchestration? That seems to me
unnecessary, for it is altogether obvious now that in Russia at the present
time Stravinsky is the only person in that line – he feels the orchestra’s soul.
It would be interesting to know whether we can expect sometime a pro-
duction of this delightful fragment of life in an exemplary theatre. Without
saying anything about what an occasion for celebration it would be for our
native art, for all genuine, lively people, how much more fruitful it would
be than the production of féeries on the stage of the wealthiest Russian
theatre.
212
(e) V. G. Karatı̈gin: The Rite of Spring. Speech, 16 February

1914. Karatı̈gin, pp. 122–9
For Karatı̈gin, see Chapter 4 (e). Stravinsky’s score was heard in St
Petersburg for the first time on 12 February 1914.
Motors, cinematographs, telephones, aeroplanes and radium represent a suc-

cession of discoveries and improvements which are increasingly out of the
ordinary and follow one another increasingly quickly in all spheres of life,
science and culture in general.
I am far from being in sympathy with the ‘futurists’ who think that the
latest achievements of technology are the sole subject worthy of the most
modern art. But can there be any doubt that motors and aeroplanes are
bound to introduce – have actually already introduced – certain modifica-
tions in the whole psyche of modern man, or that the general restlessness
and tension of the entire cultural atmosphere which surrounds us must cor-
relate with the headlong speed of technical progress in our day? Can there
be any surprise that even those strings of our soul most distant from any
technology and least directly affected by motors and aeroplanes – namely,
those which have charge of the secrets of artistic creativity and perception –
are all in the last resort bound to resonate in some way in sympathy with this
cultural atmosphere’s characteristics? This influence, of course, is indirect,
and its effects can be extremely varied. But, by virtue of the mutual intercon-
nection of all the spheres of our psychological organism, such an influence
must exist, and does exist. It lies in a certain speeding-up and sharpening
of all our experiences, in a certain ‘impressionization’ of the whole struc-
ture of our soul. When transformed into creative images this psychological
impressionism puts on different faces and appears in varied metamorphoses
and convolutions; it is sometimes even accompanied by tendencies, however
strange this might seem, which are directly opposed to impressionism – by a
gravitation towards classical clarity and elegance or a striving for cultivated
simplicity. In these cases, obviously, the law of psychological contrasts comes
into effect. The artist reflects in his art his soul crushed and disconnected by
nervy impressionism, yet at the same time feels a tiredness from irritating
tensions; he seeks an antidote to them in a deliberate return to simplicity.
How do these considerations bear on Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, with
which Mr Koussevitzky has just acquainted us? The most immediate one, a
direct one. Of all the arts, music is the one most free of influences from the
external world. Of all the arts, music became associated with impressionism
latest of all. But, once it became associated with it, music had to complete the
full cycle of impressionist development. And this cycle, it would seem, is now
close to being completed. The first to hint at the impressionist possibilities
213
of the art were Musorgsky, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Their hints were
vague and hardly appreciable. But they had inevitably to be developed into a
distinct and definite system of regarding sound at the time when, as the artis-
tic atmosphere of our time developed, suitable resonators became available
to enhance the embryonic impressionist sounds first revealed in the work of
the New Russian School.
Debussy’s talent proved to be in harmony with the impressionist elements
in the musical work of our kuchkistı̈. A pure impressionism arose, ‘a mu-
sical stenography’, striving to capture artistic experiences on the wing, at
the very moment of their conception, without waiting for them to become
fully crystallized. As a consequence of the pursuit of an instantaneous pho-
tographing of artistic experiences in all their vital immediacy, there arose
a special style of impressionist composition using separate, seemingly un-
coordinated, aural brush-strokes, the connection between which had to be
guessed by the listener, and was not provided by the composer. The tradi-
tional ‘resolutions’ of dissonances disappeared. The strangest and oddest
combinations of sounds, previously conceivable only as ‘passing’ notes or
harmonies or as ‘suspensions’ unfailingly demanding to move on to a conso-
nance, began to be used freely as self-sufficient chords. What appeared to be
‘abridgements’ in artistic psychology arose in the logic which underlay the
chord progressions, and filling in those cuts with missing links of musical
logic was left to the listener. How was it to be done? Musical ‘logic’ is a
relative thing. This filling-in is therefore also relative, realizable within the
rather wide limits within which our imaginative capacity for musical logic
fluctuates. Hence, the element of vagueness, or, more accurately, the psycho-
logical dual or even multiple meaning of many combinations and successions
of sounds characteristic of impressionism. In this multiple meaning lies one
of the special fascinations inherent in impressionism. Ravel has developed
further the principles of impressionist texture. Roger-Ducasse7 has rendered
impressionism more complicated by a partial reaction in the direction of
classicism (I spoke earlier about the meaning of such a reaction). An en-
tire galaxy of second-rank French composers have attached themselves to
the impressionist trend, which is the predominant one at present among all
the modernist currents in French music. Could it possibly come about that
Russia, where an embryonic impressionism first revealed itself, remained
indifferent to the enormous harmonic achievements of Debussy, Ravel and
Roger-Ducasse? That would indeed be incredible. Our Russian composers
could not fail to be tempted by the luxuriant flowers breaking into bloom in
7 This French near-contemporary of Ravel, who lived from 1873 to 1954, made more of a mark
in his own day than he has left on musical history.
214
France from buds which first set on a tree of art grown in our Russian soil.
Russian music could not fail to be carried away by an artistic trend which
answered the spirit of the time and had been engendered initially within the
bowels of Russian music itself. Our practitioners of the art of music could
not fail to sense new beauty in impressionist quests and exploits. Russian art
was bound to have its say loudly in the sphere of impressionist music, and it
did. Stravinsky emerged, and (along with the German innovator Schoenberg)
he stole up little by little to the extreme outer limits of refinement of sound
and to a nerviness which was almost convulsive. Will it not be through their
names, the names of Stravinsky and Schoenberg, that the circle of impres-
sionist development will be completed for the whole of European music?
Are not the paths for its further refining reserved for impressionism? I do
not know. But I think that if the final frontiers of what is possible in musical
impressionism have not yet been reached, then their attainment is in any
case not far off. And I know already – not so much know as feel – that The
Rite of Spring, whatever one’s attitude towards it, is an event of exceptional
historical significance in the life of Russian art and that the score Stravin-
sky has created is one of the most distinctive and brilliant results of con-
temporary impressionist attitudes to sound and impressionist psychology of
creation.
The subject of The Rite of Spring may be outlined in a few words. Some-
thing along the lines of a ‘ritual murder’ among the ancient Slavs – that is
the central motive of the plot. A young girl chosen by fate through the draw-
ing of lots must be offered as a sacrifice to Spring. The Spring of doomed
virginal youth must fructify and sanctify with itself the earth as it awak-
ens to spring life. Around this mythological idea of a ‘Great Sacrifice’ are
grouped various kinds of vernal divinations, round dances, ‘The Kiss of the
Earth’ [the four bars preceding figure 72], appeals to forebears, secret girls’
games – a sequence of scenes which transport our imagination into the grey
distance of the ages with their ritual actions of enigmatic erotic/pantheist
meaning, their religious and cosmic symbols, and the archaic ‘syncretism’ of
the legendary Slav Ur-culture. What interesting material for musical illustra-
tion! What scope for the imagination of an impressionist! – for that is how
Stravinsky quite definitely announced himself as early as Petrushka, that su-
perb specimen of an artistic and musical popular print illustration (lubok).8
I spoke above about the possibility of combining within impressionism ex-
treme piquancy and refinement with an inclination to the primitive. This
antinomy in art was also outlined earlier in Petrushka. In The Rite of Spring
there is utterly free scope for the composer’s imagination in this respect. For
8 For lubok, see Chapter 2, n. 24.
215
here, if a composer wishes to create in sound something adequate to the

conception in idea and myth of these musical and choreographic scenes, he
has first and foremost to reflect in his score all the coarseness, inertia, primi-
tiveness and spontaneity of the way of life and spiritual order without which
our fantasy cannot conceive the life of prehistoric Slavdom. How can one
express primitiveness and spontaneity in music otherwise than by combin-
ing harsh, self-sufficient dissonances with primitive constructions formed of
bare unisons, fourths and fifths?
On the other hand, is it possible to display a new musical beauty, aided by
these devices, without dealing with dissonant progressions in a way which
uses that refined elaboration whose principles were shown with the utmost
conviction by pure impressionism?
Extreme refinement combined with deliberate musical simplification, the
influences of Musorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov combined with a noticeable
subordination to the French impressionists – those are the fundamentals
which Stravinsky has transformed, by means of the creative working of his
outstanding and bold individual talent, into one of the most unusual scores in
the universal repertory. The brutal, biting, block-like music of The Rite is
not music only. It strives to enter the spirit of a ‘syncretic’ epoch correspond-
ing to the subject. It wants to merge with nature as it surrounded primitive
man, with the soul of the Slav in the early dawn of his conscious existence.
It wants to cry out through the voices of animals and birds, to quiver in
the faint rustling of age-old forests, and to screech in the awkward reed-
pipe melodies of ancient shepherds. Such are Stravinsky’s tasks, and, for the
sake of executing them successfully, he has been unstinting in inventing the
most fantastic harmonies and the strangest rhythms as well as in detonat-
ing the harshest explosions of artistic temperament. And the melodic side
of Stravinsky’s talent is by no means as insignificant as is usually thought.
Surely the first reed-pipe theme with which The Rite opens is charming.
Surely the theme of the ‘Dance of the Dandies’, or the massive, weighty
theme of the ‘Oldest-and-Wisest’ who kisses mother-earth, or the motive of
the girls’ secret games – surely these are distinctive. True – the majority of
Stravinsky’s themes call to mind Musorgsky or Rimsky-Korsakov, but this
resemblance could scarcely have been avoided. The themes of Musorgsky,
Rimsky-Korsakov and Stravinsky are not so much similar to one another
as much as they resemble melodic phrases in the spirit of Russian song, as
much as they are related to one another through their common kinship with
Russian song.
As a result of the happy combination of bold melodic writing, quaint and
always distinctive harmony and the composer’s volcanic temperament, we
have in The Rite of Spring a series of episodes of unusual originality, vividness
216
and beauty. It is impossible to listen to the procession of the ‘Oldest-and-

Wisest’ with indifference. In the bass are dull blows which seem to be in triple
metre, although the procession’s real metre is that of a march – quadruple
metre. In the middle of the texture chromatically rising diminished sevenths
growl. Still higher, in the very centre of the orchestral sonority, the ponderous
theme of the supreme priest is set forth by the brass. And at the very top is
something akin to the pealing of bells. The ‘Kiss of the Earth’ is marked by
a Skryabinesque chord. There then follows the frenzied ‘Dancing-Out of the
Earth’. This entire Act I finale blends into a polychrome, headlong picture
in sound where your heart is in your mouth as you listen to it. Another
marvellous episode is the introduction to Scene 2, when over a D minor
triad pedal Stravinsky carries on a slow figuration made from chords of
A-flat minor, E-flat minor and other tonalities at the furthest remove from
the principal one (in the pedal).
It is perhaps relevant to say a few words here about those harmonic com-
binations selected from the whole arsenal of impressionist devices of which
Stravinsky makes greatest use. The complexity of Stravinsky’s harmonies is
to a certain extent illusory. Most often he combines a number of simple
chords simultaneously which, however, belong to different keys. Such ‘poly-
tonal’ combinations (they are common in Strauss too) sometimes give an
impression of exceptional skill, but even a not very developed ear can soon
detect their true composition, after which the given harmony is perceived
not so much as an organic one but as a mixed one. So be it. Let a rather
fraudulent character be typical of such harmonies. Do they inspire in con-
sequence any doubt as to their high artistic quality? Not in the slightest.
Does not illusion play an important role in art? Never mind Debussy – does
one not encounter hints of illusionist possibilities in Rimsky-Korsakov – in
the bitonal harmonies of The Golden Cockerel? Do not these psychologi-
cal multiple meanings (I spoke more generally about it above) with which
the musician will accept polytonal chords, experiencing them at one and
the same time as complicatedly recherché and as the sum of simple har-
monic components – do not these contain the new, original aesthetic values
advanced by our time? One must give Stravinsky his due: in the realm of
polytonal chords he displays astounding resourcefulness and logic. It is not
just any keys he mixes, but always such as, for one reason or another, turn
out to be to the listener’s consciousness, as far as possible, most sturdily
mutually coupled. Thus, for example, the pedal background in ‘Spring Div-
inations’ is formed of a combination of triads each a semitone lower than the
next. The result is something strange, but close to an ordinary suspension
of a diminished octave, an old device well known to everyone. In the ‘Game
of the Two Cities’ Stravinsky carries out the following exercise: he takes a
217
splendid Russian theme and presents it in diatonic thirds (with the correct
alternations of major and minor thirds) in a definite key, then the upper voice
of these thirds is found doubled systematically at the major sixth above, and
the lower one at the minor sixth below (the later rearrangement of parts
is not a matter of principle). The result is a most curious alternating out-
of-tuneness. Now the first and third parts slide about at the seventh, at the
same time as the even-numbered parts give a pure octave, then these latter
are out of tune while the odd-numbered ones sound at the octave. There
are in essence three keys here, linked, however, by the abundance of pure
octaves. Or else that is how Stravinsky still connects various keys. Putting it
in terms of the piano, he gives two figurative patterns, one on the white keys
and the other on the black ones in the same register and as far as possible in
a metre incommensurate with the first pattern. It is obvious that as far as the
ear is concerned, given the rapid movement of both patterns, a multitude of
brief chromatic appoggiaturas arise in this instance, and the sum of the two
diatonic figurations seems to acquire a chromatic appearance. One senses
the two patterns separately, and also the ‘pseudochromatic’ whole.
I should like to say a little more about the development of contemporary
chords made up of seconds formed from appoggiaturas, in a way similar
to the emergence of appoggiaturas themselves from suspensions, about the
gradual historical evolution of the unresolved suspensions used by Stravin-
sky from their old, very simple forms – but I am afraid of wearying readers’
attention with details which are too specialist. I shall confine myself to ad-
ducing two principles which lie at the root of present-day impressionism
when examined from the point of view of the purely musical evolution of
attitudes to sound. The first principle is to recognize chords defined by in-
creasingly complicated acoustic treatment as being consonant in character.
This principle of harmonies formed ‘of the higher overtones’ has been imple-
mented partly by the French and partly by Skryabin. The second principle
is giving ever-increasing independence to passing harmonic moments. This
principle is not alien to the French impressionists either. Stravinsky bases
himself predominantly on it. Polytonal and pseudochromatic combinations
may be cited as frequent instances of the second principle without particu-
larly stretching the interpretation of it.
Whatever general conclusions can be drawn from all that has been said?
What is the general artistic value of The Rite of Spring? It seems to me
that its historical, symptomatic significance nonetheless exceeds its artistic
significance. I have already mentioned the best episodes, those which act irre-
sistibly on the listener’s imagination. But even there, certain unpleasant fea-
tures are striking – the uniformity of the devices, the absence of appropriate
development of the ideas, the excessive tendentiousness in devising
218
harmonies each more terrifying and toxic than the one before. The main
thing is the uniformity. A pedal is a good thing, but how vexatious it can be
when pedals stretch out one after another in an endless line. How many uni-
form repeating rhythms there are in The Rite! It seems that however many
tricks of metre Stravinsky can throw up, he does not achieve genuine vari-
ety. The final dance of the doomed victim is frankly some sort of rhythmic
paradox, and for all that, it lacks rhythmic life, and it seems as if it could
successfully have been put into duple or triple metre, with syncopation, of
course.
Worse than that, for all Stravinsky’s harmonic and colouristic inventive-
ness, for all his truly significant achievements in the field of polytonality and
pseudo-chromaticism, for all this music’s energy at full tilt, it is nonethe-
less superficial. Depth, breadth, inner power, epic pathos, mystic colour –
everything one would have wished to see in The Rite in addition to the
great deal which it has to offer – all that is not provided. How did this
happen? How did it come about that the most important and necessary el-
ements of creativity are not to be found in The Rite? Are a certain exterior
quality and superficiality organically inherent in Stravinsky’s talent? One
would like to think that in subsequent works Stravinsky will disprove such
thoughts, prompted, by the way, not by The Rite alone but to a degree by
both Petrushka and The Firebird. But even if Stravinsky offers no refutation
of this idea, his Rite of Spring will remain in our history of the arts as an
exceptionally impressive monument, albeit in many respects imperfect, to
the impressionist phase in Russian music.
(f) N. Myaskovsky: Sergey Prokofiev: Op. 4. Vospom-

inaniya (‘Reminiscences’); Porı̈v (‘Elan’); Otchayaniye
(‘Despair’); Navazhdeniye (‘Suggestion diabolique’). Price:
Nos. 1, 2 and 3 – 50 kopecks each; No. 4 – 65 kopecks.
Op. 11 Toccata. Price 1 rouble; for piano. Published by
P. Jurgenson. Music, 12 October 1913, no. 151, pp. 667–8.
Myaskovsky 2 (1964), pp. 139–43
These early pieces are based on compositions dating from 1908. The
reworking was carried out between 1910 and 1912.
Despite his youth, Sergey Prokofiev is already a composer with a fully formed
and, moreover, highly striking and original identity. This identity is severe
and even somewhat hard, but it is not the cold and unchanging hardness of
stone but rather the constantly vital, scorching, elastically strong power of
a whirlwind. This feature of spontaneous tension is perhaps the most char-
acteristic one, the one which stares you in the face in Prokofiev’s art, and
219
immediately entails certain exceptionally valuable qualities of his composing:

the complete absence of any kind of vagueness in utterance, clear freely
moulded form, a rare, almost aphoristic brevity, clarity and character in
themes, and clear-cut, lively rhythm. But those are only the basic features
of Prokofiev’s music – his talent is so versatile, so varied, that it is capa-
ble of curbing his fits almost to the point of contemplation, and the only
thing that betrays at the same time his fiery nature is the same clarity of
contours, the same definiteness of expression – except that it has become
more concentrated, more deeply immersed in itself. This mood of contem-
plative, profound quiet can be detected in the first piece of the cycle before
us, Reminiscences; but, of the present pieces, this is the only one in this vein,
with all the others being impetuous. Of these, the last one, Suggestion di-
abolique, is permeated by the most striking and frighteningly nightmarish
character, which in its fantastic quality, its insuperable headlong motion and
fiery imagery leaves even Musorgsky’s Noch’ na lı̈soy gore (‘Night on Bare
Mountain’) far behind, so that in comparison with Suggestion diabolique
(a mere piano piece!) it seems almost a stage prop. Despair is in a different
mood – it is a kind of paroxysm of deepened anxious melancholy, swal-
lowing itself up; the constantly repeated agonizing little phrase here, which
often does not accord with the harmonies surrounding it, is like a glance im-
movably pointing in one direction, a glance filled with inexpressible torment.
Elan is more ordinary, though not without power. The whole series altogether
offers the richest material for the performer in originality and strikingness
of content, and in part by its technical qualities; as regards the last piece
indicated in the title, Toccata, it sets a task which is mainly a technical one,
capable of being accomplished only by a pianist with huge technique and
endurance. The Toccata is of colossal difficulty and is, moreover, continuous,
but its thematic material is so engaging, in spite of its exceptional brevity, the
layout is so significant and rich and, what is more, so well finished and, within
the limits of the task set, so varied, that for this alone the Toccata ought to at-
tract attention; but, most important of all, it is also of profound content, and
belongs in character among Prokofiev’s impetuous pieces; restricted by the
technical assignment, the thought within it races along with concentrated,
irrepressible force like a deep-water torrent compressed between granite
banks.
Let us hope that these outstanding compositions will in the end find per-
formers and, having made their way into the concert hall, will, by their
freshness and strength and with their frequent fantastic quality and rare
good health, enliven somewhat the enfeebled and often musty atmosphere
in our concert life.
220
(g) Yu. D. Engel’: [S. Prokofiev] (Second Evening of Con-

temporary Music), Russian Bulletin, 10 February 1917, no.
33. Engel’, pp. 453–6
This notice was prompted by a concert in which the composer as pianist
was joined by the singers Butomo-Nazvanova and Artem’yeva and the
cellist Vol’f-Izrael’.
After Mikhail Gnesin9 comes Sergei Prokofiev. This young composer came
to the fore rapidly in Petrograd (he is only twenty-five years of age) and is not
unknown even in Moscow, but a special Musical Contemporary10 concert
gave us the opportunity to get to know him more closely and across a wider
spectrum. It is only a few years since Prokofiev graduated from the Petrograd
Conservatoire in the piano class (of Yesipova); he worked on composition
with Lyadov but did not complete the course. In all, he has so far written
and published twenty-seven opus numbers; they are mainly compositions
for piano (including two sonatas), also songs, orchestral compositions (a
sinfonietta), the ballet Ala and Lolly, another ballet, an opera The Gambler
(all unpublished), etc.
As I proceed from the composer’s curriculum vitae to his inner features,
I hasten to enter a reservation. Before you can say anything more definite
about such distinctive music as Prokofiev’s, you need not just to listen to it
but to study it for yourself. For the majority of the works performed, I have
not managed to do this (not through any fault of mine!), which of course
cannot help but be reflected in the lines which follow.
But my fundamental judgement of Prokofiev is definite: I welcome his
music. You have to start with that, because there are people who reject
Prokofiev completely. ‘If that is music, then I’m no musician!’, exclaimed
one of our front-rank musicians about Prokofiev, and this thought was by
no means unique among the musical élite in the audience for the concert.
It’s understandable: the more brilliant a creative individual’s personality, the
harder he finds it to comprehend a different, opposite individuality.
But ‘when you can’t find your own brains in your neighbour’s skull, re-
joice when you find his brains there’. And it’s beyond dispute that Prokofiev
has ‘his own brains there’. They may be turbulent, wild, on occasion even
mischievous, but they are his own, and, most important of all, lurking within
them are the embryos of a kind of special set of rules of his own. At least, as
you listen to Prokofiev himself, you want to believe in that set of rules (even
when your ears suffer insult from it!).
9 M. F. Gnesin (1883–1957) became a very significant figure in Soviet music education.
10 A periodical published in Petrograd between 1915 and 1917.
221
The greatest number of these ‘aural assaults’ are administered by

Prokofiev’s harmonies. If the mighty world of Skryabin’s unprecedented har-
monies, for all their novelty, is nevertheless unified by a single basic har-
monic idea, perhaps even one evolved from the entire past of European
music; if Gnesin’s new harmonies are created by the furthest refinements of
old harmonic types (as is the case with many other modernists), then you
can’t sum up Prokofiev’s harmonies either as the unity of the new or the
refinement of the old, or anything else other than ‘that’s the way I want it
to be!’
A simple triad or, for that matter, a chord of the seventh is almost never
found in Skryabin (late period, and middle as well); they are despised also
by nearly all kinds of modernist. Prokofiev, on the contrary, is not by any
means afraid of them; but cheek by jowl with them he can place both a most
complex chord of the utmost refinement and a straightforward smudge of
sound. Nor is Prokofiev afraid of even simple C major with its immediate
plebeian brethren, which since the time of Skryabin it has been usual to
disparage like the mob – but what unprecedented things he attaches to this
‘white mob’ [Engel’ refers to the piano’s white keys]! Nor is Prokofiev afraid
even of the most simple time signatures, in fact he actually prefers them,
whatever rhythm he ignites using them!
This aspect – rhythm – is the strongest and possibly the least debatable
one in Prokofiev’s work; generally speaking, the ‘horizontal line’ with him is
stronger than the ‘vertical’ one. But his rhythm too is special. The rhythm is
clearly strong in Medtner as well, but there it is a complex, carefully cherished
soil for ‘grains’ of melody, harmony and part-writing, whereas in Prokofiev
the force of the rhythm is more exposed, it is self-sufficient and ‘stabs, chops
and slices’ spontaneously. Not only that: I am prepared to say that ‘music’
itself sometimes serves Prokofiev as merely the soil for ‘grains’ of rhythm,
for only through them can the music be artistically justified and accepted
(somewhat as in the Toccata op. 11, and to some degree in the Sarcasms and
the finale of the Sonata op. 14).
After all that has been said, it is hard to expect tenderness, warmth or
heartfelt emotion – in a word, lyrical charm – in Prokofiev’s music. There are
those who say that the composer has none of that at all, but after listening to
the songs to words by Akhmatova (especially ‘Pamyat’ o solntse’ (‘Memory
of the Sun’)) it is difficult to agree. The strength of Prokofiev’s cheerful,
sparkling art lies at any rate not in lyricism or moods of contemplation,
but in impulse and making an impact; not in Adagio but in Allegro; not in
Appassionato but in Scherzando or Strepitoso.
And here’s another important thing: the words so often applied to con-
temporary art – ‘morbid’, ‘fragile’ and so on – are not applicable to
222
Prokofiev. He is a sort of wild, strapping lad, a mustang left to forage for

himself.
And if with Gnesin we could speak about intellect recovering a debt from
spontaneity, then one has to say the exact opposite about Prokofiev: it is
spontaneity that recovers a debt from intellect; a head which if it lacks any-
thing, it is certainly not talent, freshness or temperament but just one thing –
a controlling agent.
In this last respect Prokofiev recalls Igor’ Severyanin,11 with whom he
has a different thing in common: both are violent, trenchant and seethe
noisily; to each of them, everything other than himself is of no conse-
quence; both are ‘excessivists’ when it comes to making mischief or having
comical pretensions to ‘spit in the face of the sun’. Both lump together
uninhibitedly all sorts of archaisms, neologisms and simply ‘nihilisms’ to
form sheer nonsense; even when they both produce something which shows
talent, they by no means always produce something good. But the dif-
ference is that, with Severyanin, there is a clear tendency in favour of
all sorts of quasi-cultured lisping delicacies, on the lines of ‘champagne
in lilies’, whereas Prokofiev is healthier, more thick-set, straightforwardly
‘barbarian’.
And another difference – the most important one. Not only is there no
controlling agent in Igor’ Severyanin’s head, but it is impossible to see when
there will be one. With Prokofiev one can guarantee that there will be one;
as a matter of fact, there is one already, though not yet enthroned, and not
yet properly involved in matters of government.
Sarcasms and much else, to be sure, say little about him – and sometimes
nothing at all. The Ugly Duckling says a little more, although, in general
terms, it is not a particularly successful piece: everything in it is too concise –
from the text, which has trimmed back Andersen’s delightful story with piti-
less dryness, to the music which often forgets the wood for the trees; but
there are individual episodes in the Duckling which are lovely. And most of
all – the Ballade for cello and piano, which, on several planes, is well bal-
anced, fresh and natural in all its ‘effects’. There is weighty significance too
in the ‘Little Grey Dress’ (‘Seroye platishche’) [from the Balmont settings
op. 23]. The Scherzo of the D minor Sonata is fine. The tempestuous
Suggestion diabolique simply carried me away, though it was also played by
the composer with a kind of magic charge. Prokofiev is altogether a superb
pianist, who is especially strong in rhythmic brilliance and energy; he plays
his own compositions magnificently. [. . .]
11 Igor’ Severyanin (1887–1941): poet and translator born in St Petersburg.
223
(h) V. G. Karatı̈gin: The most recent trends in Russian

music. Northern Notes, 1914, nos. 6–7. Karatı̈gin, pp.
141–53
A full century has not yet elapsed since it became possible to speak of
Russian music as a full member of the family of musical arts to which the
other European nations belong. For infants who first came into the world
during the present bloody days, the era of their age of maturity (1936) will
coincide with the joyful date of the hundredth anniversary of A Life for
the Tsar, the first-born of Russian art music. Those of us writing about
music now and studying the conditions of its growth and development, will
by then be grey-haired old men, maybe already pushed aside and tired of
musical life, incapable of feeling sympathy for such new forms of creativity
as will by then have taken shape. But meantime those of us writing about
music now, who are informed about contemporary musical aspirations and
achievements, truly cannot fail to experience a feeling of the greatest aston-
ishment as soon as we try to take in at a glance the whole epoch from Glinka
to our day. The chronological timespan is less than a hundred years, yet the
evolution in artistic methods of composing music and thinking about music,
the development of our attitude towards sound and the refinement of tastes
in colour and harmony, are such that their precipitateness can sometimes
even rouse apprehensions about the durability of the new conquests, as well
as doubts about their organic quality. How, in fact, can one avoid giving way
to a certain apprehension when Russian music, to which Glinka gave birth
only four score years ago, has achieved great-power strength and importance
in the very shortest period of time and proved to be an element in the highest
degree powerful in all respects, in its most advanced trends yielding nothing
to the boldest acts of daring in the art of Western Europe, which, unlike
our music, reached this daring by a process of extremely gradual develop-
ment over many centuries? On the other hand, this very powerfulness, this
conviction and persuasiveness of the new Russian musical creativity, the un-
doubted mastery which accompanies the composing activities of many of the
most ‘extreme’ of our composers – do they not weaken the doubts expressed
above, do they not provide grounds for considering Russia’s evolution in
creating music, however headlong its pace has been, to be an organic phe-
nomenon? Inclined personally more to that conclusion than to doubts about
the seriousness of Russian music’s most recent artistic accomplishments, I
shall try in what follows to substantiate my judgement using the only argu-
ment possible in such cases: by demonstrating as well as I can that, however
rapid the course of our musical history, however stupefying the changes over
the last eighty years in the way we regard sound – we nonetheless have before
224
us a picture of gradual and logical development without any revolutionary

leaps, and thousands of every possible kind of thread of mutual influence
and continuity link up a good deal of what might at first glance seem excesses
of absurdity and extravagance in the life of Russian musical creativity.
By a strange coincidence, the names of three main composers of the greatest
significance have come forward in the most recent music of each of the three
principal continental nations (contemporary English music is still very weak
in talent): in France – Debussy, Ravel and Roger-Ducasse; in Germany –
Reger, Strauss and Schoenberg; and in Russia – Skryabin, Stravinsky and
Prokofiev. The list of interesting and gifted musicians is not, of course, ex-
hausted by the trios of names I have given – not in France, nor in Germany,
or in Russia. But these names are particularly typical and indicative. Cer-
tain currents of musical thought can be aligned with them, particularly bit-
ter quarrels are conducted around them, and they are representative of the
present-day Russian attitude towards sound in its chief shapes and forms.
Which of the Russian composer-innovators mentioned should be assigned
first place? Which of them is the dominant musical influence over the young
generation of Russian composers? Skryabin, of course; his exceptional natu-
ral creative gift borders on genius and he usually comes before us as composer
as an artist of the utmost sincerity, profundity and uncommon originality of
harmonic thought. The originality of his harmonic style took shape in a
very gradual way but also with great precision. The first phase and to some
extent the second phase of Skryabin’s work were passed under the banner
of Chopin. His early piano mazurkas and the series of preludes, études,
etc. which followed them, reveal the strongest influence on Skryabin of the
music of the renowned Polish poet of the piano. It is impossible, however,
to confuse Skryabin’s preludes with the authentic Chopinesque inspiration.
For Skryabin’s own soul – fragile, tender, less strong but more refined than
Chopin’s – shows all too clearly through the wrapping of the Chopinized
sound-world. Now and then a raised or lowered dominant in a chord breaks
through in the work of the young composer newly conscious of his powers,
here a convulsively compressed rhythmic figure, there a nervously, morbidly
soft suspension, now an explosion of pathos from heaven knows where,
which in a flash attains extraordinary intensity before immediately petering
out.
The First Symphony in E major with soloists and chorus in the finale
was published as op. 26. This symphony in six movements (Skryabin made
the formal four-movement construction more complicated with fairly ex-
tended introductory and concluding movements) is very colourfully scored
and abounds in strongly dissonant combinations which never, however, vi-
olate the conditions of absolutely pure and clear part-writing; it made an
225
extremely strong impression in its time12 and roused great indignation among
musicians who value integrity and fidelity to old traditions in art far be-
yond anything else. This indignation was still more justified in that Skryabin
showed himself in his First Symphony to be an unusually deft smuggler. The
whole symphony, I repeat, contains not a single bar, not a single harmony
or counterpoint which could not be explained by this or that paragraph in
school textbooks. Despite all that, it was perfectly obvious that an entirely
new work had been created, one based on original, tortuous melodic lines
(the Andante, the best movement in the symphony), decorated with such
original, sensually spicy harmonies and steeped in altogether special, artistic
experiences unknown to us heretofore. After the First Symphony came the
Second, and after it the Third, the so-called Divine Poem, a mighty creation
of ardent pathos, whose central slow movement belongs amongst Skryabin’s
most perfect, most inspired works. After the Divine Poem, Skryabin pre-
sented Russian art with his Poem of Ecstasy, which is dazzling in the lux-
uriance of its colours and, along with Skryabin’s latest orchestral work to
date, his Prometheus, must be considered the topmost peak of Skryabin’s
creative fantasy. In the middle phase of his work, approximately from the
Third Piano Sonata up to the op. 50s inclusive, Skryabin gradually betrayed
Chopin and surrendered to the influences of Liszt and Wagner. Chords of the
seventh and ninth with raised or lowered dominants and, generally speaking,
every sort of augmented and diminished harmony are encountered increas-
ingly often in Skryabin’s works, whether for piano or orchestra. Melody
becomes increasingly intricate and sinuous. The rhythmic language becomes
increasingly jerky and capricious. The general character of the music acquires
features of states of extreme exaltation; waves of lyrico-dramatic pathos, in
abrupt and frequent ebbs and flows, bear witness to the extreme restlessness,
violence, passion, and lack of balance in the composer’s original musical and
psychological ideas. In embodying his moods in sound – moods which are
contradictory and demonic, with sudden transitions from eroticism to sar-
casm or from tenderness to ferocious spitefulness – Skryabin the composer
in his middle period sometimes bears a close resemblance to Liszt in both
musical conception and harmony (a remarkable analogy may be observed
between Skryabin’s Satanic Poem and Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz) in particular.
The realm of Liszt’s musical images and moods makes itself felt in Skryabin’s
work even today; at the same time, beginning with the same op. 50s, the Fifth
Sonata for piano, the Poem of Ecstasy and other things chronologically close
to them, the listener senses that the composer is increasingly freeing himself
12 The symphony was first performed (without its final sixth movement) soon after composition
on 11 November 1900, Lyadov conducting.
226
from extraneous influences and displaying his own individuality ever more
clearly and fully. Artistic ecstasy, aspirations to affirm his own ‘I’ as the
supreme aesthetic basis for free creativity, the acknowledgement that the art
of music possesses self-sufficient power and value – these are the ideas which,
with the admixture of a certain portion of theosophy and the metaphysics
of art, are becoming the ‘content’ of Skryabin’s most recent compositions.
It is a little strange that the ‘programme’ of all Skryabin’s latest symphonic
pieces amounts to ruminations (set forth, incidentally, in a pretty inconsis-
tent and tasteless way), which in the last resort can be reduced to advocating
aesthetic subjectivism as the basis for creative work and denying to art any
meaning and content other than its self-sufficient significance; in other words,
they amount to a lack of programmaticism in principle in objects of artistic
creation.
But this programme of lack of programmaticism is nevertheless very typical
of Skryabin. Musico-psychological antinomies are a fundamental character-
istic of his talent. Skryabin is capable of being affected and high-flown but
without a trace of insincerity. His highly strung nature verges at times on
hysteria, but his heartfelt emotional outbursts always encompass a kind of
higher naturalness and rightness. He is an extreme, unbridled subjectivist,
but he is also attracted to reflecting in his music, especially in its most recent
period, the element of the universal and the cosmic (the Seventh and Ninth
Piano Sonatas). When I was examining the most recent trends in West Euro-
pean musical thought in these pages last year,13 I tried, parallel to establishing
the two basic groups of composers – the impressionist and the neoclassical
– to outline the two main psycho-musical types. There are some artists who
like to reopen their wounds – even with a certain sensuality, so to speak,
the wounds in general of the contemporary soul, over-refined, over-delicate,
fragmented and slack in the manifestations of its emotional and volitional
life. There are other creative figures, on the other hand, who go in search
of an antidote to this fragmentedness and looseness and try to find it in the
partial retention of some of the classical traditions of musical thinking and
writing; in many cases, moreover, a very close cohabitation proves possible
between ‘modernist’ content and polyphonic and formal methods of com-
position in the spirit of Beethoven and Bach, giving the partnership greater
stability and depth.
In this respect too, Skryabin is antinomian in the extreme. There is
no doubt that his psychological make-up, especially as the composer of
13 Karatı̈gin wrote an article, whose title resonates with that of the present one, which was
published in Northern Notes of December 1913. This earlier article is entitled ‘The Most
Recent Trends in West European Music’, and it was republished in Karatı̈gin, pp. 107–22.
227
Prometheus and the most recent works, displays many features which bring
him close to the pure ‘impressionists’. And along with this, in the midst of
the complete disintegration of his mental experiences, in the midst of his fan-
tasies of every possible kind, in the midst of the utmost chaos of ideas rushing
about convulsively, it would seem, on all sides – in the midst of all that, there
reigns an iron logic, an ideal supreme order. What is more, this order holds
sway not only for the contrapuntal and formal requirements of a work, as
is the case with the neoclassicists, but also for the very essence of Skryabin’s
music, its purely musical content, its delightfully fascinating themes and their
harmonic garb. Between the development of Skryabinesque compositional
forms and Skryabinesque harmonies, however, fairly significant differences
can be noticed. Strictly speaking, in the realm of form Skryabin has created
nothing new. One of his muse’s boldest creations, Prometheus, is close in
form to the sonata (symphonic) Allegro. In the Poem of Ecstasy, the music
of which is based on the development of several dozen small themes, this
development is entirely obvious and intelligible in its formal contours. In
harmony Skryabin is infinitely bolder. Step by step he wins back ‘autonomy’
for those altered chords of the seventh and ninth which he originally used
as subsidiary and passing combinations of sounds. In Prometheus the com-
poser sets his face wholly free from the mask of a ‘smuggler’ and proclaims
the right of the chords named above to independent existence. At the same
time, it proves that the aural instinct which had attracted Skryabin to com-
binations of that kind and led him to attach ever increasing importance to
them, culminating in them being recognized as distinctive consonances, did
not deceive the artist.
The ear’s commands corresponded in full with the laws of acoustics.
[Karatı̈gin relates Skryabin’s harmonic innovations to the harmonic series
and observes that the ear has over the centuries accepted an increasing num-
ber of intervals and chords as consonant.]
The route which lies by way of harmonics is not the only one for com-
posers seeking new harmonic perspectives. The combinations of sounds en-
countered, for instance, in Debussy or Schoenberg must be explicable far
more often on the level of purely musical technique as deriving from various
circumstances of decorativeness than as arising on the basis of upper har-
monics. It is in the same direction that the work of the most talented of the
Russian ‘impressionists’ – Stravinsky – is developing. His very first steps as
a composer furnished the most obvious evidence of Stravinsky’s outstanding
gifts.
His early symphony, even though it is full of echoes of Tchaikovsky,
Rimsky-Korsakov and Musorgsky, is striking and colourful in the high-
est degree. Stravinsky’s early songs to texts by Gorodetsky (‘Spring (The
228
Cloister)’, and ‘A Song of the Dew’ (a song of the Khlı̈st sect)) already re-
veal significantly greater self-reliance. Like the Pastorale of the same period
(a wordless vocal piece), these items are exceptionally attractive both in the
lively poetry pervading them and in the originality and variety of technical
devices in the writing, without, however, violating the old traditions at any
point.
In the beautiful songs to words by Verlaine the composer falls temporarily
under the influence of Debussy; the parallel fifths, the successions of seventh
chords, the harmonies and the part-writing acquire the character of sound-
painting in individual strokes and patches. In his orchestral compositions
(the Fantastic Scherzo and Firework) and in his first ballet The Firebird,
Stravinsky continues to proclaim a refined harmonic taste and the richest
inventiveness in instrumental timbres, as well as his simultaneous attachment
to Rimsky-Korsakov and Musorgsky, on the one hand, and to Debussy and
Ravel, on the other. This combination will not seem so strange if we recall that
many elements in the sonorous decorativeness of the French impressionists
grew out of some of the devices of Musorgsky’s (and Borodin’s) harmony
and Rimsky-Korsakov’s orchestra.
To give some idea of the principles of this musical decorativeness, I shall
dwell in more detail on some highly typical instances of it. What in harmony
is called a ‘suspension’ has to be regarded aesthetically and historically as a
derivative of the use of ‘passing notes’ where these notes fall on relatively
strong beats of the bar. Out of the old suspension, ‘prepared’ in accordance
with all the rules, there arose newer, unprepared suspensions, which were
first introduced into music by the ‘smugglers’ route, by means of so-called
‘long appoggiaturas’ (to the eyes there was a consonance on the strong beat,
but to the ears it proved to be a dissonance which resolved into a consonance
only on the weak beat of the bar). Let us now imagine that the time interval
between the suspended note and the note where it resolves becomes ever
shorter. The result is a chord in which both notes sound simultaneously. The
ear continues to interpret such combinations as something like an appog-
giatura, though with a new subtlety inserted into the old combination.14
To put it more accurately, in our psychological hearing apparatus a cer-
tain conflict arises between the immediate perception of two adjacent notes
sounding simultaneously and the insurmountable aural illusion of an ap-
poggiatura, arising from the unconscious striving to make sense of what is
being heard. In more complicated cases, where a large number of major
or minor seconds are pressed together, a different illusion occurs. Complex
14 Author’s note: It is curious that similar combinations in the context of melismas were occa-
sionally used even in olden times; they were called ‘acciaccatura’.
229
harmony distributed compactly gives an impression not of harmony at all

but of some new timbre. Harmony turns into an element of timbre. Even
more complicated illusions that are difficult to analyze occur when several
keys are combined.
If the first experiments with decorative, illusory appoggiatura-like seconds
were the work of our Borodin, then it is even more pleasant to note that some
of the most interesting instances of ‘polyharmonies’, that is, the simultaneous
combination of several keys, are also encountered in the work of a Russian
composer, in Rimsky-Korsakov – to be precise in his The Golden Cockerel
(A major and B-flat major in the Astrologer’s phrase ‘I poprobovat’
zhenit’sya’ (‘And to try to get married’) in Act III). To be sure, Richard Strauss
sometimes worked with ‘polyharmonic’ combinations before Rimsky-
Korsakov, but with Strauss the results were far less convincing than with
Rimsky-Korsakov; that is because the latter gives the union of different keys
in a form where its origin in a complex suspension becomes obvious, in
other words, what is new is perceived in a clear association with the old,
familiar technical device, representing merely a more refined derivative of
it. Another moment of aural illusion arises with combinations which can be
called ‘pseudochromatic’. The essence of this is that two figures of some sort,
of more or less animated character, are set forth in mutually incompatible
metres (for example, duplets against triplets, quintuplets against sextuplets,
etc.); they share the same register and use keys separated from each other
by an odd number of semitones. In this case the ear will hesitate between,
on the one hand, perceiving them as two simultaneous figures in different
keys and different metres and, on the other, interpreting them as a single
chromatic figure; what is more, the origin of the impression of chromaticism
is the same appoggiatura-like attaching of one melody to the other, which
must unavoidably arise in the tonal, rhythmic and registral circumstances
of these melodies as indicated above. These and similar ornamental devices
may be found in embryo in the music of Russian composers of the Balakirev
school. The French impressionists have taken them to an extraordinary level
of refinement. Stravinsky has gone further along the same path and, in pur-
suing his goal of decorative refinement, has found a multiplicity of the most
varied combinations of sounds, passages and instrumental colours. In his
ballets Petrushka and The Rite of Spring, the connoisseur of harmonic rar-
ities can admire an entire collection of the most fantastic combinations of
a decorative kind to his heart’s content. They reach the greatest intricacy in
the opera The Nightingale (in Acts II and III; Act I was written much earlier
than the others, and is far simpler musically) and in the charming songs to
Japanese ‘tankas’.
230
Unfortunately, a quality apparently fatally linked to the impressionist ten-

dency in art, a significant lightness of weight and superficiality of musical
imagination, makes itself felt very strongly in Stravinsky’s music. By some
miracle he has managed to avoid the other indispensable concomitant of
impressionism – effeteness, which with the French can sometimes reach the
point of complete musico-psychological flaccidity, brittleness and want of
strength. Flaccidity is just as foreign to Stravinsky as Skryabin’s states of
ecstasy. A rare strength of temperament breathes from every page of Stravin-
sky’s scores, but you cannot find any profound ideas in them anywhere at
all. Everything glitters, fizzes and foams and is iridescent in every colour
of the rainbow, but never, anywhere, is there anything capable of touching
the inner strings of the listener’s soul. His art is enchanting, magnificently
attired, incomparably ingenious, dazzlingly brilliant, but very superficial.
Until recently, ‘neoclassicism’ held a more or less subordinate position in
Russia. One must regard the Muscovite Medtner as one of the first Russian
composers to have emerged as a definite exponent of this trend. This com-
poser, who writes almost exclusively for the piano and for voice (though he
has a few chamber works), has a profile of his own. His music has a colour-
ing which is strict, severe and manly. Rhythmic and contrapuntal aspects are
developed much more interestingly and characterfully in his compositions
than melodic ones. The harmonic innovations are not always agreeable and
natural, but they too are full of character. Medtner thinks and writes in
his own way. The influences of Schumann and Brahms do not hinder the
reflection of Medtner’s own very individual ideas in his music.
A significant element of dryness and rhetoric stands in the way, however,
of this music finding a significant response – even among musicians who
give Medtner’s unquestionable gift its due and value the distinctiveness of
his compositional personality and the curiousness of its technical style.15 Far
fresher and livelier is the work of another Russian ‘neoclassicist’ – Prokofiev.
He too is susceptible to influences from the German classics, though not
only from Schumann and Brahms, but also from the ‘neoclassicist’ Reger.
A volcanic temperament, an ability to pour something completely new –
wine of a magnificent harmonic bouquet – into old wine-skins, the art of
combining organically classical strictness and severity of form and texture
with content which matches the present-day attitude towards sound in the
highest degree – these are the traits which distinguish Prokofiev from the
more one-sided, the more pallid Medtner. Prokofiev is still very young, and
it is hard to predict what forms his work will take as his talent develops
15 For a different perspective, see Myaskovsky’s essay in Chapter 5.
231
further. But a good deal of what he has already composed, such as the two
superb piano concertos and the Second Piano Sonata, is a guarantee that
we are dealing here with a talent full of seething creative energy and an
inexhaustible fantasy of a distinctly individual hue.
Without having anything in common with Stravinsky in the general direc-
tion of his creative work, Prokofiev sometimes reveals some external features
of similarity, however, with the composer of The Nightingale. Both these
composers succeed best with moments of a grotesque character. Their great-
est achievements are on the level of the scherzo and humorous moods. But
the marvellous Andante from Prokofiev’s Second Sonata obliges us to sup-
pose that later on he will be able to give the musical art of Russia a series of
works of very profound and heartfelt musical content.
Of all the composers mentioned, not one has so far established a school.
Skryabin represents a relative exception. Over the last few years a fairly
significant number of beginning composers have emerged in Petrograd and
Moscow who try to compose in imitation of Skryabin. Khvoshchinsky16
(Second Symphony), Dobroveyn17 (piano pieces), L. Sabaneyev18 and the
Kreyn brothers19 have to be put in that category. Of these, probably only
the Kreyns can be acknowledged as composers holding out the hope of
developing into more or less definite eminences. The compositions of all
the other Skryabinists make a pretty sad impression, and they do not get
beyond purely superficial imitation of Skryabin’s methods.
It remains to say a few words about ‘unaligned’ Russian composers. If
any proof were necessary for the truth that not belonging to a definite artis-
tic sect is no impediment at all to manifestations of personal talent, then
I would cite first and foremost the names of Gnesin, whose lyrical songs
are imbued at times with great depth of feeling, sometimes rather intense
and morbid; Shteynberg20 (his early symphonic and chamber works bear
witness to the influences of Glazunov and Rimsky-Korsakov, but his new
pieces, such as the ballet Metamorfozı̈ (‘Metamorphoses’) and the music to
the Princesse Maleine, are significantly more independent, very vivid and
fresh besides being superbly orchestrated); Myaskovsky, composer of an in-
teresting symphonic poem Alastor, three symphonies, and a series of songs,
16 Khvoshchinsky. I have been unable to find any information.

17 Better known outside Russia as Isay Dobroven (1891–1953). He emigrated in 1923 and
made a name as a conductor.
18 Leonid Sabaneyev (1881–1968) is known abroad, where he lived from 1926, for his mono-
graphs on Skryabin and Taneyev and his essays.
19 The Kreyn brothers were Grigory (1879–1955) and Alexander (1883–1951). In their earlier
years they were identified as composers who drew on their Jewish heritage.
20 Maksimilian Shteynberg (1883–1946) preserved the heritage of his teacher, Rimsky-
Korsakov, at the St Petersburg Conservatoire. He taught Shostakovich.
232
the latest of which are extremely curious in respect of harmony; Senilov,21

the composer of two operas (Yegory Khrabrı̈y (‘Yegory the Bold’) and Vas’ka
Buslayev), of many symphonic poems (The Wild Geese, Mtsı̈ri, The Scyths,
etc.), in which one can detect the influence of Strauss, and of a very signifi-
cant number of vocal items, amongst which one can find many of character
(Kalechina-M’lechina and The Red Horseman); Yuliya Veysberg22 (married
name Rimskaya-Korsakova, the author of a symphony, a scherzo, a fantasia,
the symphonic poem At Night for orchestra, and a series of vocal works many
of which, for instance, the Chinese Songs, are pervaded by great sincerity of
poetic feeling, testifying simultaneously also to the composer’s excellent har-
monic inventiveness); Stanchinsky,23 whose early death, alas, prevented his
exceptional creative gift from developing fully (his piano Eskizı̈ (‘Sketches’)
are remarkably talented and creatively individual).
Not all of these composers are in the vanguard of innovation. There
have been and will be no quarrels about the sonorous languors of the al-
ways Romantically inclined Gnesin, about Myaskovsky’s moderately spicy
harmonies, which owe something to Tchaikovsky, or about the works of
Senilov which are often somewhat cold and not free of artificiality. You sim-
ply get used to the comparative novelty of these composers. And that is to the
good. By getting used to comparative novelty, the broad public’s approach
to the chief representatives of Russian musical innovation (of which I wrote
above) becomes easier. In conclusion it remains only to mention the name of
the Muscovite Roslavets,24 who has only just embarked on the career of a
composer. His published works (a string quartet, a quintet for oboe, two vio-
las, cello and harp, a violin sonata, and songs) testify that this composer lays
claim to the position of the most radical of our innovators. The influences
of Schoenberg and the new Frenchmen are as yet the predominant ones in
Roslavets’ compositions. To all appearances, he is a gifted person, but what
the true dimensions of his talent are and how the process of its shaping and
individualizing will go – these are questions for the future, to which it is
difficult to give any very definite answer now.
21 V. A. Senilov (1875–1918) studied with Riemann and Rimsky-Korsakov. Programme music
and songs take a large share of his compositions.
22 Yu. L. Veysberg (1879/80–1942): pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov, Glazunov and Reger.
23 A. V. Stanchinsky (1888–1914). Most of his output, of piano pieces and songs, was composed
between 1911 and 1914.
24 N. A. Roslavets (1880/81–1944) was a pioneer of atonal composition in Russia. His works
of the 1910s and 1920s have been revived as examples of the Russian ‘avant-garde’ of that
time.
233
EPILOGUE
Igor Glebov: Pathways into the future. Melos, book 2

(Petrograd, 1918), pp. 50–96
The author of this article, whose real name was Boris Vladimirovich
Asaf’yev (1884–1949), studied at the University and the Conservatoire
in St Petersburg. He later became the most influential figure in Soviet
musicology as historian and theorist.
Since Russian music officially joined the musical currents of Western Europe,
it has developed at a slant derived from the constant pressure of (mainly)
German music. It has been fed and watered by it and, what is more, to
such a strong degree that the views, tastes and impulses towards creativity
and, ultimately, the actual methods and structures taking root in Russian
musical consciousness – ones essentially alien to it – have been accepted by
us as something fit and proper beyond dispute or challenge, the one and
only correct and immutable ones. Something introduced through education
turned, by the force of its historical influence, into dogma, into a would-be
logical scheme of compositional technique, that is, inevitably resulting from
a priori laws and from the nature of musical thought. The customary be-
gan to be regarded as organic, and, through preconceived formulas, began
to winnow out everything that was alive, irrepressible, and unwilling to be
subordinated to rational theories. Wagner himself was accepted with cau-
tion, after a delay, with restrictions, and it took propaganda from figures
on the periphery of the musical world for present-day German and French
composers to break through. Everything that helped Glinka to stand on his
own feet and create compositions of astounding skill entered the catechism
of belief of the Russian composers who were his heirs, with the addition
of the achievements (harmonic, colouristic and formal) of Liszt, Schumann,
Chopin and Berlioz. Italian and French influences found reflection most in
the work of Tchaikovsky, but in a strongly reshaped form, and made them-
selves felt hardly at all on other Russian composers. Even Berlioz exerted
an influence exclusively through his instrumentation, while the work of the
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Polish Frenchman Chopin was received nonetheless more on the surface (in
harmonic colour and through the emergence of myriad Chopinized piano
pieces) than in its inner essence, which is not so easily grasped and which
it is unthinkable to systematize. The many-sided legacy of Liszt was also
grasped just as superficially. To be sure, elements of harmonic texture and
the linking-together of the whole by means of harmonic synthesis – such as
can be observed on occasion in Rimsky-Korsakov – were in part inspired
by Liszt’s influence. On occasion only – because most of the time there re-
mains a simple succession of third-relationships, so tedious even in Liszt,
but whose limpness is aggravated by the absence of Liszt’s poetic quality
and the inability to find a contemporary synthesizing outcome. It is per-
tinent to note that with Balakirev, the leader of the old-Russian musical
school, the cult of Chopin, Liszt and to a degree Schumann degenerated
quickly into an imitative, lifeless, rational style, and within the miserable
existence of this epigonal branch using Balakirev’s precepts there has even
arisen a distinctive academicism which steadfastly rejects all contemporary
music, its methods and forms. Lyapunov alone represents this fading cur-
rent, it is true, for the young people (even the puny ones who clung to
Balakirev in the last years of his life) extricated themselves from it and dis-
persed at the right moment. It was the will of fate that only the Muscovite
Skryabin developed on foundations laid by the work of Chopin, Liszt and
partly Wagner, interpreting them in a way completely at odds with the pre-
cepts of the kuchkistı̈ and the ‘Belyayevites’, and on a new level of musical
consciousness alien to the latter which might be called cosmic. But more of
this later. I wish for the moment only to indicate that, whether as a result of
these youthful inspirations (thanks to the fascination with Glinka), or as a
result of a striving to submit to the element that was most organized, Rus-
sian composers are essentially disciples of German classical music, guided
by principles of part-writing which correspond most closely to Mozart’s,
and, as regards structure, exploiting chiefly Beethoven’s architectonics along
with its basic shortcoming – the incessant reduction of any melodic or har-
monic fabric to tonic–dominant foundations. The exceptions are few, and
are evident in only two orientations: the influence of the ‘squareness’ of
Liszt’s compositions, particularly the programmatic ones, and the entirely
opposite influence of the true, lively essence of Mozart and Bach. The latter
made itself felt only in Taneyev, whose chamber compositions (the quar-
tets especially) represent a genuine organically interpreted inheritance, if
not a development, of that almost extinct current in European music which
was suppressed by the genius of Beethoven, whose powerful personality
was able to hypnotize a number of generations in almost all countries of
Europe.
235
[The evolution of music in the work of composers including Bach, Mozart,

Beethoven, Liszt and Wagner is discussed.]
I move on now to analyze those fundamental living currents in Russian
music which may in the future take the form of a broad, deep river – that is,
if Russian music is fated to have a future. I insist on this ‘if’ with sadness,
because however much you love it, prize it or believe in the flowering of
Russian music, historical conditions tell us the opposite. First and foremost,
even now, we cannot say anything about the national essence of our music. I
am not speaking about any nationalistic superiority, or patriotic preference,
but only about its essence or character: art is an organism, among the arts
music is the most lively and real, and every organism has a face, a counte-
nance, an image and character. Where is the face of our music? What does
it consist of? Where are the synthesizing forms we have created? In order
to speak about Russian music’s pathways into the future, it was essential to
say something about the essence of German music. The metropolis is there.
We can examine the history of our music only in conjunction with West
European and primarily with German music. We are provincials. Our great-
est pride – Tchaikovsky – is a full member of the family of great musicians
of mankind, or more accurately of Europe, the only one not to have yielded
to Western symphonism but to have overcome it. Skryabin relied more on
Chopin and Liszt than on Russian composers. Every impulse, every current
in the West is immediately transferred to us, is intertwined mechanically
and finds acceptance. In Russia traditions quickly turn into inert schemes.
But the most important thing, and this is not to conceal anything, is that
Russian music is the music of the intelligentsia, that is, of an insignificant
group of Russian Europeans who dream about a settled spiritual culture in
a land of wandering thoughts and profoundly utilitarian feelings and emo-
tions. Our art music is not national (narodna). Until the most recent times,
we approached the remnants of folksong now with one yardstick, now with
another, but we have no right to say which of them more faithfully conveys
the spirit and features of folksong because until lately we could not sense
or touch its true face. And I do not think that any democratization can aid
this cause, until the nation begins to live and starts creating cultural values
itself. Then, perhaps, it will find something for itself even in Glinka or Mu-
sorgsky, particularly the latter: the tears he sheds are Russian! Thus, when
one has to define the true nature of Russian music, it can be done only with
reservations and, moreover, significant ones: firstly, it can be grasped only
by flair, by instinct, in the midst of all those strata, thickets which flourished
because methods and resources were used which reveal the psychological
conditions of a creative spirit alien to us; secondly, it cannot be described
as belonging to the whole nation because so far we know and love only the
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Epilogue
art of the Russian intelligentsia. Until very recently the Russian intelligentsia
personified Russia spiritually. We all grew accustomed to this and built all
our expectations, even our philosophical, messianic ones, relying on the in-
telligentsia’s future creativity to which we thought the nation would come.
But the nation can come and say something which we do not understand at
all, and everything that seemed Russian can prove no more than a dream, a
reverie, induced by looking at Russia from a distant, rose-tinted perspective.
This means that one can even imagine my reverie coming into being when
two conditions are met: in the staunch sober consciousness that Russian
music is a province in relation to Western metropoles and, perhaps, in the
deceptive notion that the intelligentsia’s Russian musical art is indeed a true
mirror of national creativity where the genuine spirit of the nation, rather
than a stylized folk current, is reflected. Being a Russian intelligent, I want
to delude myself with such a bright hope. Moreover, the nation is as yet still
keeping silent.1 During the brief existence of our music, nevertheless, one can
detect the presence of those same elements which animated West European
music too, that is, strictly speaking, the fundamental element: a sense of a
vital fluctuating impulse, intense and protracted, fixed in time, possibly by
way of the creation of abstractly spatial constructions or poetic ideas defined
by landmarks. It flows in the direction of song, melodic and harmonic cell
(intonatsiya) and instrumental metre, which are woven together. But here
is the basic distinction. Whereas in the West archaic folksong in its pure
form disappeared long ago, and we, apparently, have preserved specimens
of ancient song style almost until the present day, and since there was no
instrumental music at all in Russia and we took it from the West, and conse-
quently along with it took the forms (periodic, dance and metrical) in which
it developed, then a curious planting side by side of different crops resulted:
the yardstick of Western harmony and standard tripartite schemes began
to be applied to Russian song and, on the other hand, our flat, horizontal
melodies have been inserted into typically European ‘vertical’ schemes. The
result was the dilettante Russian style, most beloved of all our composers,
from which we have not escaped entirely even today, which was cultivated
magnificently by both Glinka and Rimsky-Korsakov and is nowadays being
introduced even into church music by Grechaninov. In this style, the sym-
phonism of Russian folksong has worn out and been almost lost, and it is
valuable precisely because it has something won permanently as a result of
its formation through the age-long compression of various creative layers –
that is, uninterrupted melodic fluidity, the element of song (melos in Greek)
which created effective tension and thus observed the continuity of musical
1 Quotation from Pushkin’s Boris Godunov.
237
consciousness; Western song, on the other hand, had long before fallen un-
der the influence of dance metre, tonic–dominant relationships and the pale
succession of major and minor.
Russian symphonies appeared in which ‘stumps’ of Russian songs took
shape mechanically (Balakirev’s First Symphony is especially typical); Rus-
sian operas were created where, in the guise of the popular print illustra-
tion (lubok)2 and stylization, songs of the most varied styles and eras were
mixed together and subjected to Haydnesque and Beethovenian methods of
development and harmonization: but for the ingenuous lyricism of Rimsky-
Korsakov in places and his gift for colour, his ‘folk-tale operas’, completely
lacking folk-tale magic and the element of romantic obsession, would quickly
have faded. But it worked the other way round too: the element of melos
infected the pale schemes with its vital impulse and created seductive mirages
of genuine folk art (Rimsky-Korsakov’s Kitezh, Borodin’s Prince Igor3 and
Lyadov’s Kikimora).
There are only two composers who cannot be reproved for adopting a false
approach to folksong: Tchaikovsky and Musorgsky. The first is steeped in
the element of Ukrainian song and is, therefore, for most of the time right
in his arrangements, for Ukrainian song coupled with Polish elements is
entirely Europeanized and tolerated common European metricization and
harmonization. For the rest, Tchaikovsky is so subjectively specific, and so
subordinates every style to his own emotional intensity, that he becomes,
like Turgenev, a truly national Russian artist simply because of the personal,
profoundly individual temper of the Russian intelligent, irrespective of his
relationship to folk art.
Musorgsky too hardly ever used songs as themes, but by his keen feeling for
psychology grasped as no one else could, the profundity of soul in Russians
of all social strata, and in those places where he did not lapse into folk
tendencies and romantic pathos created astounding models of the folksong
melos. By means of psychological recitative, Musorgsky arrived, in the end, at
the most tense song lyricism, at the lyrical and symphonic ecstasy of Marfa
in Khovanshchina. She is possibly the only genuine non-literary, operatic
type: Marfa is inconceivable apart from music, apart from song she has no
life! One of the reasons for Tchaikovsky’s charm is concealed in his lyrical
(melodic) intensity, but, of course, this is a song quality of deeply subjective
cast, and not an imitation of the folk element. Did Rimsky-Korsakov possess
this gift? No, because he lacked any instinct for continuous development: he
2 For lubok, see Chapter 2, n. 24.

3 Author’s note: The marvellous peasant chorus in the final act of Igor is the finest creative
embodiment of the folksong element in opera.
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Epilogue
framed and juxtaposed his sweetly crystalline instrumental tunes in a sweet

way, but he did not sing them. Therefore, when you wish to dream about the
future direction of singing quality generally, no paths lead on from Rimsky-
Korsakov.
Nor is it obvious that they lead on from Glazunov. It is characteristic that
M. Shteynberg,4 the typical alumnus and most prominent heir of the ‘sym-
phonic’ opinions of Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov, is simply not able to
get out of the rut of rational developments and rearrangements of material,
adroitly welded and jointed together, but not harbouring even a shadow of
symphonic effectiveness and therefore perceived as psychologically indiffer-
ent.
As regards this singing quality, the horizontal aspect of the musical ele-
ment, two paths have opened up: from Tchaikovsky and Musorgsky, with a
predominance of lyricism of varied intensity; there is a lyricism of heightened
feminine sentimentality, that is in essence a lyricism of disturbed will (that
which sounds like a dramatic quality in Tchaikovsky’s work), and there is
a lyricism of austere masculine endurance, imperious, haughty, forcing its
way in but in essence a lyricism of despairing will (that which sounds like a
tragic quality in Musorgsky). But the pathway from Tchaikovsky is a dual
one: a lyrical melos in the vocal sphere (Eugene Onegin is of course a spec-
imen of this so far unsurpassed by anyone in unity of conception, musical
completeness, accuracy and consistency in the characterizations as well as
in the power to transform literary types into operatic ones), and a dramatic
melos (i.e. the highest degree of lyrical intensity) in the instrumental sphere.
Even in the vocal sphere, however, with Tchaikovsky there is an example of
an operatic role which is equally unsurpassed by anyone in all its genuine
tragedy, awful in its common human simplicity. This is, of course, Herman
in The Queen of Spades. In the instrumental sphere, Tchaikovsky moved
up the degrees of excruciating intensity in an uninterrupted ascent (I refer,
of course, to the symphony) from thoughtful, benumbed contemplation in
a kind of rhythmic lulling (in the first movement of the First Symphony),
by way of a tendency to compression, to a kind of dénouement (in the first
movement of the Fourth Symphony), to the ecstatic prefiguring of death (in
the first movement of the Sixth Symphony).
I think there is some truth in the hypothesis that the process of dying
is agonizing in its feeling of prolonged evaporation, draining and exuda-
tion of all the energy from the body, and that it thus has a prototype, but
an infinitely paler one, in the process of artistic creation or the birth of a
child. How terrible if it was given to Tchaikovsky to touch on this moment
4 Shteynberg: see Chapter 6, n. 20.
239
in his work (strong enough in The Queen of Spades, but almost palpa-
ble in the Sixth Symphony, and especially in the most passionately intense
pedal point in the first movement: at Largamente [bar 285ff.], before the
return of the second subject)! All paths end at this point, for Tchaikovsky’s
Sixth Symphony is the sole genuine symphony after Beethoven and the sole
symphony of the Russian intelligentsia. There can be no further psycho-
logical evolution in that direction. Here the historic path may be moved
to a different plane, and with it the path of creative consciousness, but
nothing can be achieved by proceeding along that path: Tchaikovsky had
no choice but to die – if not physically, then creatively – after his contact
with the ultimate boundary (accessible to our intuition) of perception of the
superhuman.
But here is what is amazing: Skryabin, to whom the same experiences were
apparently known as were known to Tchaikovsky (I use the term ‘experi-
ences’ not in the internal, emotional sense but to denote mental processes
deeply sensed by a keenly feeling personality), that is, the same perturbations
of the soul and its screams of pain (it is not without reason that there is a
parallel to the music of Tchaikovsky as regards rhythmic, dynamic and the-
matic linearity in the most symphonic moments of Skryabin’s music) – this
nervous, fragile Skryabin found within himself the strength to move forward
to illumination. It is interesting that his symphonic intensity weakens along
the path towards the spectral, and that the extremity of his creative audaci-
ties – Prometheus – is a static composition without development or fluency.
The new sonority, the heightened harmonic sphere, initially led to error and
created an illusion of movement. But there is almost no movement. Only
the piano part hints at impulses of the will, but everything else round about
resounds in the immobility of a swirling fog. This is harmonic counterpoint
where the shifting voices exchange places peaceably without joining battle
but by interpenetrating each other. There is very much more intensity in
the Poem of Ecstasy, but is that symphonism in evolution, i.e. as continuity
of musical consciousness, or a succession of sounding moments sometimes
more, sometimes less bewitched by a kind of stupefying hypnotic element
contained in the themes themselves? It is more likely the latter, because,
from comparing the succession of themes in the symphonies of Beethoven
and Tchaikovsky with the themes in the Poem of Ecstasy, it emerges that
while in the former they complement one another or form a contrast, nev-
ertheless drawing the whole thing in a single surge towards the concluding
concentration, the themes of the Poem of Ecstasy seem to be added to the
given fabric from outside, produced and assembled somewhere or other and
forming a chaotic matter which obstinately refuses to submit to synthesis, so
that constant new surges of powers of inspiration are necessary to unite the
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Epilogue
series of impulses towards Ecstasy in a brief static moment of contemplation

in the dazzling sonority of an instant of transformation.
I would intensify the comparison thus: symphonism is conceivable as the
carrying-out of a commandment: ‘Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish
the earth, and subdue it’, etc. [Genesis 1:28], but what moves the music of
Ecstasy conceals within itself a reflection of some will from outside man
(not immanent in the composer’s consciousness) unquestionably lying out-
side all corporeality. But it would be pointless to introduce the character of
this will into the framework of ethical norms: music offers no answers to
such questions! Whereas Tchaikovsky could not release himself his whole
life long from the sphere of consciousness inherent in the ordinary human
being, Skryabin apparently surmounted the barriers of human consciousness
and often touched and grasped, now with horror (Ninth Sonata), now with
enthusiasm (Ecstasy), or again in calm veneration (the Adagio of the [Piano]
Concerto, many pieces for piano) the sphere of the superhuman, without
sensing the corporeality and the terror of death associated with it.
With Skryabin an element entirely unknown and appearing nowhere else
entered Russian music. That is possession, but an improbably seductive one,
as if it were a line running from heaven to hell. It is not a line parallel
to earth, not the organic inspiration of genius and talent, but a period of
religious zeal, or giddiness. Without doubt, Musorgsky belongs among the
possessed, but he remained always within life, within the limits of our native
psychological states. The same is true of Tchaikovsky. Skryabin does not
draw us anywhere, does not call us, does not force us either to suffer or
rejoice. He resides and, drawing on incredible power, forces the listener to
transfer into the same kind of trance. And he has achieved these conditions
very easily: he has somehow not noticed concrete life and not sensed that
he is outside it or outside its immanent norms. And, abiding in religious
zeal, he could go down to hell, touch the abominations of depravity and
nevertheless remain in ‘ecstasy’, in a static sojourn, in blindness. Skryabin’s
sphere of sound can most accurately be described as a poem-like quality,
woven from desires to be lost in ecstasy (by means of narcotics – even if only
of a spiritual order, of course) and from a sojourn in it. Skryabin has no will
of his own, and therefore there is no symphonism, no continuity of musical
consciousness, though there is all the same an impersonal, insane dissolution
in the sphere which to him is concrete and ideal.
The phenomenon of Skryabin is a historic wonder: can it really be possi-
ble to understand his whole biography in the midst of grey, tedious Russian
ordinariness? Or is it only in conditions of such reality that aspirations to
such themes as Skryabin raised up can be born? But what path leads on
from them? A psychologically equivalent one is unthinkable: that is precisely
241
wherein the power of such natures as Tchaikovsky and Skryabin lies, that
they are enclosed, unrepeatable and undevelopable, that their individuality
does not even allow a school. No imitation can maintain the brilliance of
the original. Rimsky-Korsakov can be imitated in his objective worldview,
for personality is hardly entangled there, and its turbulence and wilfulness
are not perceptible – but with Tchaikovsky this is unthinkable. It is the
same with Skryabin, because his few followers who attempt to compose,
taking his ideas as a basis, display only erudition and receptiveness. There
is, however, one possibility: by experiencing, that is, perceiving psycholog-
ically, absorbing Skryabin’s sound world, in order to foster within oneself
creative strength in symphonic effectiveness – in other words, to learn, tak-
ing Skryabin as a model, to surpass him as one develops within oneself, as a
counterpoise to the instability of Skryabin’s forms a firm resilience, striving
to move Skryabin’s harmonic timbres from indifference to the laws of formal
construction – in a word, to put the whole system into a condition of im-
movable volitional striving, fixed in clear-cut plastic images. As regards the
attempts at composition in the style of Skryabin just mentioned, that is, at
imitating Skryabin – useful in taking further the technical development of the
material he left – another way of mastering this material that is conceivable
in principle would lead to a significant enrichment of both the psychologi-
cal and acoustic sides of music. This tendency could be called the ‘making
concrete’ of Skryabin’s ideas. [Miklashevsky’s symphonic poem Sisyphus is
mentioned.5 ] I must dwell somewhat on the features of the concept ‘subjec-
tivity of musical consciousness’, for rather unclear ideas are always linked
with it and its opposite, ‘objectivity’. The music of Tchaikovsky, for instance,
appears more subjective than that of Musorgsky, and the music of the lat-
ter more subjective than that of Rimsky-Korsakov, and Rimsky-Korsakov
moreover is described as a cold observer to whom any kind of emotion is
alien and who merely records sonorities or paints the phenomena of nature
in music. Glazunov too is considered an objective composer on account of
his supposedly amazing architectural musical constructions. Objectivity, it
would seem, is where pure beauty reigns. One cannot fail to observe that
underlying this definition of objectivity, with the corresponding classification
of composers, is concealed essentially a conception of a kind of detachment,
of pure power of observation, without the participation of any impulses em-
anating from the life of the soul (as if artistic creativity is conceivable as
something purely mechanical). Is Glazunov, in actual fact, entirely lacking
5 Miklashevsky: there are two less than wholly convincing candidates: the St Petersburg
pianist Aleksandr Mikhaylovich (1870–c. 1935), and the critic and musicologist with strong
Ukrainian connections Iosif Mikhaylovich (1882–1959).
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Epilogue
in creative gift, is he a musician who merely piles up kaleidoscopes in sound,

or does his objectivity signify a non-abstract attitude towards composition?
I think that so-called subjectivity and objectivity are only different degrees of
psychologism and, with regard to the content of musical consciousness, take
shape as the course of a single creative process, but one where at times the
personal state of soul (when the creative impulses are rooted in the egoism
of the composer, in his mental states) is predominant, and at other times they
are the reflection of perceptions introduced from outside, from the sphere of
the super-human world. For the extreme degree of subjectivity, the striving
to accept any creative impulse as a given of one’s own, that is, a personal
mental state, is typical, and therefore the music of a person of such an inten-
sity of personal life of the soul as Tchaikovsky, for example, carries a sharp
imprint of his specific egoism absolutely everywhere his creative conscious-
ness reached. And it is worthy of note that where the composer has realized
his personifications within the framework of a programme introduced from
outside, everything is powerful that is akin to his personality, and in the
symphonies this is especially prominent: his symphony of greatest genius is
the one where the element inserting a tragic discord was not adopted from
outside (Fatum, fate, destiny, as in the Fourth and Fifth Symphonies) but was
provided in the depths of the composer’s own soul, unbalanced, unquenched
in its quests and aspirations. And where Tchaikovsky dealt with states of
soul alien to him without changing them fully into ones of his own, possibly
even trying to contrast them with himself (for example, in the finale of the
Fourth Symphony, the role of Onegin, a great deal in the songs), he, if his
skill did not rescue him (the finale of the Second Symphony), did appreciable
violence to himself and was not in a state to achieve a powerful exertion of
his creative will in such cases.
The success of the finale of the Second Symphony can also be explained
by the fact that the distinctive, intimate, gentle, feminine and romanti-
cally sensual character of Polish–Ukrainian lyricism was profoundly akin to
Tchaikovsky’s soul and therefore, when he cloaked his music in its colouring,
he sensed a firm external buttress (not of course in an ethnographical sense)
and was able to create wonderful episodes and descriptions essentially for-
eign to his nature. The Slippers is full of this tendency and all its freshness is
due precisely to this distinctive kinship of spirit, even though nothing could
have been more alien to Tchaikovsky than this subject or indeed Gogol’
in general. But meantime how typically national (naroden) are the chorus
‘K nam milosti prosim’ (‘We bid you welcome’), the duet of Oksana and
Solokha, the beginning of the opera, Oksana’s monologue, etc.
To complete my thoughts about Tchaikovsky, I wish to point out that the
pathway leading from him into the future must be seen not in his epigones,
243
of whom Arensky is the most prominent, but in places where there is not
a single particle of external imitation or even similarity of creative natures.
Generally speaking, one can only wish whole-heartedly that Russian music
would inscribe in its chronicle several more names similar to Tchaikovsky
in the degree of their exertion of the creative impulse both in profundity
and continuity of immersion in the genuine element of music. But one does
not wish to await the rebirth of that emotional quality which is valuable
in him, but pitiful among his followers. For that reason the pathway from
Tchaikovsky lies in surmounting the infectious element – a personal peculiar-
ity of his own – and deepening and strengthening the element of subjectivity
as a whole.
In this respect I must point out the sole contemporary composer who does
not run the risk of becoming popular precisely because of his sinewy, prickly,
acute subjectivity. The essence of his work (I refer to Myaskovsky) lies in
revealing himself alone, his personal mental processes alone, his own states
alone. The old injunction to ‘know thyself’, interpreted not with regard to
rational analysis but as a synthesis of creative thought, has never yet been
able to be experienced in music with such intensity, such excruciating ruth-
lessness as in the symphonic tension of Myaskovsky. One cannot even detect
any will in it. On the contrary, it seems to me that will is almost absent from
the conceptions of this composer who perceives his inner world by divining
his own riddle contained within himself. The will is possibly even opposed
to the desire to create. At any rate, the power of thought in the symphonies
and sonatas of Myaskovsky is astounding, as it concentrates all these tough,
unpolished, sharp, explosive but not complaisant elements in continuous
movement towards completing the cycle. This movement is not fleeting: it
resembles neither a stream rushing down from high mountain peaks, fed by
the sun and nursed by ice and snow, a stream which turns into a stormy river
carried nervily into the valleys which it refreshes (an image of this kind brings
to mind the powerful work of Sergey Prokofiev), nor an unrestricted ocean,
nor yet a broad-streamed Russian river of the plains calmly contemplating
itself in its slow current and reflecting the world around (Rachmaninoff and
Kastal’sky). The music of Myaskovsky evokes an image of a traveller. His
creative thought draws his musical consciousness tensely through profound
tortuous ravines, staring keenly and trying to get a grip, now lapsing into
tired, gloomy contemplation, now into nervous impetuosity. In his extreme
detached subjectivity, Myaskovsky does not wish to know the world but at
times yearns painfully for it. If at some time he enters it, he is happy only
briefly and tries as quickly as possible to don the mask of an indifferent
sceptic, so that no one will notice his twisted smile. On analysis, the mu-
sical world of this major composer discloses a great deal that is out of the
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ordinary. As an undisputed symphonist who nourishes a belief in the stabil-

ity and versatility of those forms in which symphonies are usually written,
he puts this belief to the test stubbornly and insistently, for he is constantly
striving not to distribute his constructions within defined schemes but to
comprehend form as a synthesis, as something intended to hold in check
within its limits the pressure of an irrepressible element which sometimes
bends and twists these limits, and sometimes submissively gives in to them.
These attempts are sometimes futile, for sonata form is not flexible and
will not withstand individual violations: it spreads itself, dissipates itself,
or tempts by the possibilities of rational constructions, and then longueurs,
hollow expanses and so on occur. Dogged in its naive symmetricality, it
allows no place for synthetic deductions, replacing them with repetition
and return to the basic key, whereas true symphonism demands continu-
ity, each given moment of which, being derived from the preceding one, can
never be only a copy of the foregoing one, just as it cannot be uncoupled
from it.
Sonata form stifles free musical speech. Therefore the psychological, ex-
tremely subjective foundation of Myaskovsky’s art, embodied in concrete
forms, implements symphonism, that is, continuity of musical conscious-
ness, not in the completeness of the whole but in the constant coupling of
elements on the basis of the always purely musical nature of the thinking,
though not as in the great, shrewd psychologist Musorgsky where the link is
brought about externally by given impulses and is therefore often interrupted
musically. Is it not this which provided the grounds for vandalistic attempts
to ‘purge’ his inspired intuitive achievements for the sake of academically
irreproachable part-writing? As regards integrity, Myaskovsky at times be-
comes rational and, instead of demonstrating the versatility of sonata form,
himself submits to its schemes and reduces development to mere working-
out (devices of the official classical exposition, the sustained repetition of
the basic key not balanced by corresponding centrifugal flows into other
tonal spheres, and intentional schematicism in the actual permutation of
the succession of themes). Myaskovsky’s rhythm is tortuous and cunning,
but complicated by uncommon richness and viscosity of harmonic content,
which strongly slows down and dulls the character of movement. But move-
ment is always present, and Myaskovsky’s harmonic interwoven ornament
and melodic linearity become known (are perceived) only in conditions of
music of long duration, and are almost impossible to break down into static
individual elements. That is how I see the work of the most prominent rep-
resentative of the element of extreme subjectivity in contemporary Russian
music, and only in this way can one develop Tchaikovsky’s precepts without
running the risk of becoming a slave of one’s emotions.
245
Rimsky-Korsakov is the opposite pole to Tchaikovsky. He is the inculcator

and educator of the cult of static sonority where formulas take the place of
living fabric and where music is thought of exclusively as if confined to two
dimensions. As a result, a false horizontal quality comes into being: deperson-
alized, stiff part-writing considered not in living motion but from blueprints
fixed once for all; harmonic counterpoint where the parts are not so much in
motion as swap places with one another; the periodization of form; the me-
chanical permutation of tonal constructions; independent existence of metre,
when it turns from being a factor determining rhythmic tension into an aim
of construction and so on and so forth. In short – everything which repre-
sentatives of the ‘Belyayevite’ persuasion elevated so helplessly into dogmas,
and from which they make so much effort to escape, but into which its most
talented champions at times only sink deeper. The outermost limit of this
school of ‘objectivists’ is reached in the compositions of Glazunov which are
so perfectly orthodox that one may even question whether the source of this
outlook on the world of sound is indeed creativity. Objectivism of this kind
almost borders on psychological indifference: how can one fail to understand
how equable, flaccid and lacking in impulse are the personal soul-states of
the composer that, becoming immanent in his musical consciousness, they
are not made concrete in the living tension of mastering the sound material;
or the attitude of the composer to the superhuman world is so impassive
and phlegmatically calm (harmoniously) that, in being realized in a creative
synthesis, the reflection of this world is not disturbed by any agitation of the
soul apprehending it? Extremes come together: the steep slope of subjectivity
gives rise to the same insensitivity to interpreting other people’s life of the
soul and the extra-personal life in general, as to exaggerations of objectivity.
But in the first case this arises from the tendency to subordinate everything
to one’s personal life of the soul, to regard everything as proceeding from
egoism, from one’s own feelings and to liken everything to one’s own mental
states (this psychological ‘colour-blindness’ is inherent in Tchaikovsky and
manifested itself particularly unpleasantly in his operas). In the second case
the insensitivity is provoked by the habit of not noticing the tension in an-
other person’s life of the soul, and not perceiving the quality of being alive
which is in the world as a whole. From there arises a perception of the cos-
mos as static, which schematizes everything on one plane and accepts even
the spiritual quality itself (the upsurge of life) at the stage of motionless con-
centration. Composers with this cast of creative thought are usually inclined
to make music geometrical. With them, form appears not in the shape of a
tightly stretched bow where simultaneously, in a single essence, in a percep-
tible living synthesis, our mind observes the primary strivings of the material
being overcome by the personalized organizing force of energy, apparently
246
Epilogue
only potentially expended, though in actual fact uninterruptedly expended –

though in the shape of a stiff, architecture-like edifice. From this, too, stems
the substitution of working-out for living development, and the single organ-
ism is understood as a composed plurality of elements. If there were nothing
of Glazunov but his symphonies, his sound-world would be absolutely alien
to Russian (or, to be more accurate, to the common Slavonic) musical nature,
so little fluidity is poured into their musical element. But there is one impor-
tant composition of his – the Second Sonata for piano – where Glazunov’s
music unexpectedly, while continuing to exist beyond all the temptations
of emotionality, compels one to be convinced of the presence of creative,
psychological underlying causes in his composition, though smothered by
limpness of will, apathy and indifference of thought, preferring rather to
construct and combine on the basis of habitual academic schemes, that is,
to betray their own rational nature, rather than live in an intense organic
coming into being, in a perpetual effort to give birth. The redeeming beauty
of Glazunov’s music lies in the noble ‘portly’ balance of his lyricism, which
is sincere and of crystalline transparency.6 What is more, this integrity, this
chastity, is natural, and has not been won by spiritual struggle, and there-
fore contains no tension. It is not a deep lake, and it does not offer those
astounding insights into an ideal world, that depth and innocence, that is,
such spheres as Musorgsky touched on occasion, at the expense of incredible
spiritual torment and struggles of the will but, alas, only for brief moments.
But who knows? Perhaps in his coldness Glazunov holds the potential for a
future genuine Russian symphonism? To that strong will, which will some
day be capable of setting in motion, igniting and stirring up the legacy which
as Borodin’s heir Glazunov bequeaths, and interpret the material developed
by them as an environment of sound, as a buttress for development – to
that will, maybe, will be revealed the path to inexhaustible possibilities. But
it is hard to believe in this just now: the cold water of Glazunov’s lake is
probably cold not with the coldness of spring water, for there is no one
who could profitably drink from it round about. Malı̈shevsky,7 Shteynberg,
Khvoshchinsky8 and the other symphonists of Glazunov’s type, hardly a sin-
gle one of whose symphonies has been accepted in the real world with several
even rejected forever, give no grounds for rosy hopes for the subsequent cul-
tivation of Glazunov’s dogmas. And that will continue to be the case until
6 Author’s note: I remind you that I conceive the element of music as lyrical in nature, and think
that such concepts as lyrical music, dramatic music and tragic music are only degrees of inten-
sity within a single element. For Glazunov, therefore, the lyrical quality as the fundamental,
natural condition is extremely indicative.
7 Malı̈shevsky/Witold Maliszewski (1873–1939): Polish composer who studied at the St Peters-
burg Conservatoire.
8 Khvoshchinsky. See Chapter 6, n. 16.
247
a second reaction occurs, since Glazunov relates to the revolutionary quests

of the ‘Belyayevites and the Balakirevites’ as the crowning, delaying stage.
Then ‘Glazunovism’ may be revived, but only in another guise. It is typical
that Stravinsky, sprinkled with living dew, touched upon ‘Glazunovism’ only
very slightly in the finale of his only symphony and recoiled from that current
forever, instinctively sensing there inertness, stagnation and impermeability
to warmth and light.
My opinions about the degrees of musical psychologism gave me the
chance to elucidate the character of the work of our distinguished contem-
porary Myaskovsky, but diverted me from my primary task of projecting
the pathway leading on from Skryabin without considering his religious and
philosophical ideology (the Skryabin Societies take sufficient trouble over
it), but rather in the sphere of his musical nature. [Miklashevsky’s Sisyphus
is discussed again.]
Naivety (‘squareness’) of construction is what everyone succeeding
Skryabin has to overcome: one can expect that the inner tension will de-
mand for its vivid concrete realization a more flexible and at the same time
resilient sound environment than that of Skryabin, and one not so easily
subjected to the effect of creative energy. Then the need for more complex
and sinuous forms will be created. I shall explain my idea by an example. In
Skryabin one may observe a falling-off in the degree of tension in the sym-
phonism from the First and Second Symphonies to Prometheus and, on the
contrary, in Tchaikovsky that tension rises and is concentrated in the Sixth
Symphony with tremendous power. What is more, with Skryabin form does
not become more complicated and intensified, whereas with Tchaikovsky it
develops from looseness to compression and impetuosity; all of Skryabin’s
dynamism can be reduced in the last resort to a period spent in a particu-
lar element, whereas with Tchaikovsky it is supremacy over it. This takes
place because of the growth in psychological influence in both the former
and the latter composer, that is, as a result of what might be called the con-
striction of the life flow, but the results obtained are opposite because of the
dissimilarity in volitional elements. Tchaikovsky, as I have already said, is
inclined to assimilate any phenomenon as if he had experienced it himself,
while Skryabin wanted to be and indeed became only a priest or a medium,
adapting music as a means through which a magic element acting invisibly is
embodied. Skryabin’s priesthood led him to passivity of will and instability
of symphonism: continuity of musical consciousness is unthinkable where
there is no tireless aspiration towards self-will (awareness of oneself as a cen-
tre) and where creativity is reduced to a ritual. Limiting himself by means
of a closed circle of specific harmony, Skryabin concentrated on meditating
on the incantatory element which had taken root in it and worried only
248
Epilogue
about maintaining the strict sequence of the liturgical enactment, so that no

inaccuracy creeping into the incantatory formulas should impede the mani-
festation of the mysterious power. The evident simplicity of Skryabin’s forms
which synthesize his work proves a wise principle of artistic economy: not to
break by rational constructions the power of direct, unrestricted influence
of the magic of sound (usually in a series of jolts or by means of hypno-
tizing moments of stiffness, as something like numbness). What I called the
poetic quality of Skryabin’s work is indeed contained within this distinc-
tive objectivity of acceptance of a supra-personal inspiration: to become an
individualist in order to become permeable to suggestion: so to refine the
means of expression (that is, the sound matter itself, since the ultimate form
is not yet the means) that there should be no obstacles (streams of inertia) to
displaying the energy of extra-personal spirituality. And Skryabin has solved
the problem brilliantly. At some particular point in his creative coming into
being (for me it is the Third Symphony, the Divine Poem), he stops his per-
sonal subjective quests and passively gives himself up to the power of the
magic influence, creating a material environment sufficiently versatile, as he
is convinced, to be constantly firming-up into magic formulas. Skryabin’s
creative path seems to me to resemble Lermontov’s long poem The Demon.
I do not sense a sacred element in the power which courses through his work.
But that is already a question of personal subjective interpretation.
In any case, Skryabin’s flight towards the unknown and his distinctive ob-
jectivism undoubtedly seems more valuable for Russian music and more life-
creating than the cold, passionless objectivism sundered from life of Rimsky-
Korsakov and Glazunov, reflecting the visible world and impermeable to the
influence of either good or evil. That is why these composers so lovingly cher-
ish formulas and think up forms that are congealed, and that equally alien to
them is the flow of life interpreted as a personal element both as continuity
of personal musical consciousness (Tchaikovsky) and as an element which
is extra-personal, cosmic and hypnotizes personal consciousness (Skryabin).
The concretization of Skryabin’s musical inheritance can even lead in the
direction of turning poetic quality into symphonism, that is to the return to
the dominance of the personal element asserting one’s own will far above
anything else.
The meaning of the flourishing creativity of the great composer Sergey
Prokofiev is also contained in this assertion. Of course, he has no connec-
tion with Skryabin and is not derived from Skryabin. His youthful creative
rapture is simply in full swing, and it is so distinctive that we cannot dis-
cern any direct predecessor. But that precious effective element undoubtedly
reigns within him which palpitates in Russian music as early as A Life for
the Tsar (and before then is predominant in Russian songs), was transmitted
249
through Tchaikovsky to Skryabin, Rachmaninoff, turned Stravinsky’s head,

touched Borodin, intrigued Glazunov with reservations, was cautiously ac-
cepted by Rimsky-Korsakov (The Tsar’s Bride and The Golden Cockerel),
and is perceptible even in Taneyev, who is universally acknowledged as an
incorrigible academic. After all the explanations and definitions I have given
(psychologism, creative intensity, symphonism, poetic quality), I shall allow
myself to generalize all this in one concept: sound animated by an upsurge
of life. And now, I consider that in the works of Prokofiev, as never before
in Russian music, that living source common to many composers has found
a channel where it can flow in a crystal-clear stream. One can say that in the
creative work of this composer we find the ideal expression – a manifestation
of present-day life. Remaining subjective, that is passing through personal
consciousness but without turning every fact of life into a mood of his own,
Prokofiev embraces in his synthesis both his thirst for healthy primordial
savagery and the grimaces of horrible spectres – creations of an imagina-
tion inflamed to monstrousness, and the naivety of his grasp of nature and
life, and the cruelty of mockery. Over everything hovers the heartless ego-
istic will, now slowing its impulse down in implacable contemplation, in
remorseless peering into the depths, now striving rapidly towards the sun,
freedom, warmth and joy. Without becoming like either the psychologist-
realist Tchaikovsky (I understand musical realism as the projection outwards
of subjectiveness, of egoism), or the psychologist-Romantic Musorgsky (I in-
terpret musical Romanticism as a heightened subjective feeling, and not as
reflecting consciousness of the phenomena of life) – Prokofiev builds his ideal
world on the foundations given by the musical element, taking into consid-
eration only the intuitive preconditions derived from personal inner motives
and not from traditional schemes. For that reason form is always constructed
by live experiment, somewhat in an improvisatory manner. In its motion it
is strongly welded together, and false reproaches and accusations of illogi-
cality in Prokofiev’s part-writing are provoked only by the taste of people
uttering them for rational formulas bringing about common static norms
for all vital individual conceptions. Amusing unruliness is not at all typical
of Prokofiev’s music but rather creative tension of irrepressible power. In
him alone we have the single true representative of the present day in whom
we can sense life as creativity, and creativity as life: he knows that his mis-
sion is to reveal himself in a vital, creative impulse. He is spontaneous and
brutal where he comes in contact with the animal element of human nature
forcing its way through directly, with its blatant sensuality and unconscious
surges towards the reviving and all-organizing element of the sun. He is
concentrated in a heartfelt way where he strives to realize his impressions
from current phenomena of the world, be they personal or extra-personal,
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Epilogue
which have affected his imagination; meek and mild when bowing before
something dear to him, but naive when he experiments with imprinting the
conflict of passions; he is touchingly romantic if telling of the severe element
of nature or the charm of ancient legends; and irresistibly attractive in his
appealing diary-like moods. He knows laughter – young and mischievous as
well as spiteful and cold. He also knows the temptation of spells: then before
us move in horrible half-darkness werewolves and masks – reflections of life
in the mirror of a devil from Andersen’s The Snow Queen! But Prokofiev is
a thoughtful musician at all times, and his musical conceptions are nowhere
conditioned by the bidding of a programmatic or formal scheme. He remains
true to himself both in opera and programmatic suite and songs: he gives
freedom to a purely musical conception not adapted from outside in accor-
dance with a rational plan but achieved from within, that is psychologically
conditioned.
Of the two directions which the element of music can take, diatonicism
and chromaticism, the latter is alien to Prokofiev. That is indeed under-
standable. By way of diatonicism he is linked with the deep roots of Russian
musical art – with folksong and its essence: firstly, with the effectiveness (the
dramatic quality) of its lyricism based on the thorough-going impregnation
of sound by psychologism and, secondly, by the ideal quality of its living
contents, brought about by changes in the consciousness of the mass of the
people over the course of centuries. Of course, this link is not intention-
ally of an ethnographical order. Besides, diatonicism profoundly matches
Prokofiev’s very nature which is not inclined, on the one hand, to mystical
contact with spheres inaccessible to the perception of a healthy balanced
human personality, and on the other hand is always attracted to the bold,
definite, clear expression of its own thoughts. This can be obtained only in
the conditions of the diatonic realm, offering far greater scope for the em-
bodiment of life’s concreteness than the specific framework of chromaticism,
locking the composer, for all its illusions of freedom, in the vice-like grip of
a harmonic prospect chosen once for all, or else confronting his imagination
with faceless, colourless and characterless tonal indifference, with an amor-
phous, ‘invertebrate’, amodal haze. The boundlessness of chromaticism in
conditions of tempered tuning is deceptive, illusory and futile!
Prokofiev uses diatonicism in an original and broad way. Unlike the two
masters of Russian diatonicism, Kastal’sky and Rachmaninoff, he, in accor-
dance with the furious pace of his whole creative nature, moves the frame-
work of scale, structure and mode apart, introducing a multiplicity of mo-
mentary chordal and tonal confrontations, astounding in their freshness,
resourcefulness and logic. About Prokofiev’s creative power, one may say
that it has no fear of used commonplaces: the most ordinary chords appear
251
miraculously in his music in an unexpected new light, in an unaccustomed

connection. Dividing sounds into banal, trivial and tame, or original, tasty
and uncommon – without considering their interrelations, in impotent immo-
bility, in weak-willed ‘vertical’ petrification – must strike him as ridiculous.
Taken in motion, given some scope, in flux, they are all alive, outstripping,
catching up, clashing and ultimately confronting one another, being filled
up with freely passing parts or by central non-harmony notes. This occurs
when every voice or any single voice is regarded in its horizontal plane (in-
dependently of its coupling with other main voices) as a local tonal centre,
alongside which are grouped some added notes or others related only to it.
In the presence of such a complex modal scheme it is impossible to speak as
yet about the poverty of means or the inexpressiveness of diatonicism. The
deceptive impression obtained from purely rational scrutiny (the optical, vi-
sual perception of musical structure) – as if it were from outside the sound
or discord – is not vindicated on hearing or by carrying out an attentive but
unprejudiced analysis of the construction as a whole. In the last resort, the
basic hints at rich possibilities included in this principle – that is that every
voice conceals within itself a separate mode and therefore one must introduce
added notes reckoning not with the chord in its immobile, separate, egoistic
solitariness but with some movement of the part or other – are provided
in Bach’s part-writing. That is precisely what happens in his very common
and frequently encountered device of non-coincidence (non-simultaneity) of
modulations in different voices when an impression of unity is nonetheless
not disturbed, in spite of the acuteness of the instability.
The pathway opening up before Prokofiev and leading on from him strikes
me as uncommonly fruitful both as regards psychology, since it obviously
introduces fresh nuances for expressing the life of the soul into the sphere of
creative musical syntheses, and as regards purely sound constructions, since it
immeasurably enriches the sphere of sound perceptions. I should particularly
like to see the composer’s creative path develop in the direction of theatre
(dramatic) music, since Russian opera is undoubtedly suffering harm as a
result of the predominance in it of music which is static, descriptive and
coldly objective.
Even examining the character of Russian operatic style independently of
libretti and plots, whose untheatrical, undramatic nature greatly facilitated
the unsuccessful application of good music, one must confess that, apart
from Musorgsky’s two operas, two operas by Tchaikovsky, Eugene Onegin
and The Queen of Spades (a crippled libretto), A Life for the Tsar and per-
haps Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride, the Russian stage does not know
truly musical drama. Wagnerism in Russia is cultivated superficially, after
the manner of a placard. Italian and French melodramatic tendencies with
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Epilogue
their running description of the dramatis personae stemming from outside

the adventures in the plot (I know only one exception – Bizet’s Carmen,
which palpitates with life rather than the author’s inflamed imagination) are
foreign to us. And of course Tchaikovsky, having given models of astound-
ingly integral descriptions based on the unity of free-flowing musical speech
typical of a given character, and understanding the mystery of developing a
musical fabric without Rimsky-Korsakov’s leitmotivic labels, deserves close
study and listening. Overcoming the acute subjectivity inherent in him, but
applying the basic element of his operatic music (the continuous inner effec-
tiveness) in the contemporary consciousness, would be a major and fruitful
achievement. In order to be able to characterize, there is absolutely no need
to reduce objectivity to indifference: dramatic integrity cannot be created
from a variety of moments fitted into one another. It was Musorgsky who
was able to comprehend so sensitively in his own way the world of someone
else’s soul, in spite of the proverb, and moreover not to liken other peo-
ple’s experiences of the soul to one’s own whilst retaining the subjectivity
of one’s own perceptions. Evidently in this sensitivity lies the whole essence,
and therefore Musorgsky’s operas, for all the lack of development of their
strictly musical awareness, are wonderful, are models of the quality of drama
in opera, even though they are vulgarized by an admixture of the stagey Ro-
manticism of so-called grands opéras, i.e. the inheritance of bombastic French
Romanticism, in turn a faithful disciple of Romantic Classicism.
Having once touched upon theatricality, I dare not pass Russian ballet by,
which is unquestionably destined to develop from two examples which are
intense and full of life in an effective way: Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker
(its first half) and Stravinsky’s Petrushka. The first is unsurpassed in its awe-
inspiringly transparent realism and the second in its concrete, lifelike ideal-
ism. The stylizers’ colouring which they wanted to fasten on to that sparkling
composition and the attempts made on behalf of the adherents of the styl-
izers’ schemes of Rimsky-Korsakov and Bel’sky prove to be an unconvinc-
ing invention, if you listen to this cheerful music without being ensnared
in tendentiousness. When Russian folk-tale opera takes the route of these
two wonderful ballets and sweeps aside what has been foisted on it by the
popular print illustration (lubok), which conceals the absence of the imagi-
nation, magic and naive Romanticism that are in the folk-tale; when Russian
musicians understand and mature, having made a more thorough acquain-
tance with Russian folk-tales (skazki) and heroic ballads (bı̈linı̈), that the
Tale of Tsar Saltan, Kashchey, Sadko, The Snowmaiden, etc. – irrespective
of the good music heard in them – are not essentially folk-tales but sober-
minded narratives, since a folk-tale is alive, is psychological from top to
bottom, whereas the popular print illustration is a wicked invention of the
253
intelligentsia, a calumny on the ‘dramatic quality’ of the folk-tale – at that

point one may be able to speak about the imaginative quality of the Russian
folk-tale in opera as a trustworthy fact. Even in The Golden Cockerel, ev-
erything folk-tale-like is put in brackets and not uttered in full, and everyday
life titters impertinently.
As regards the non-folk-tale operas of Rimsky-Korsakov and Borodin’s
pseudo-epic opera, their lyric static quality and the elevation of the element
of everyday life into a target to be hit must also be completely overcome and
rejected as indisputably anti-theatrical, non-operatic forms devoid of a true
scheme of musical drama. I have in mind the works as wholes, of course,
not individual first-rate moments (for example, the finale of Act II of Prince
Igor, the invasion of the Tatars in Kitezh, Marfa’s delirium in The Tsar’s
Bride, or the popular assembly scene in The Maid of Pskov).
When speaking about the forms in which the musical element is embodied,
it is unthinkable not to dwell on Russian art-song. In this area much loved by
Russian composers, one important tendency which gives its basic content to
the whole of the Russian song style can be identified clearly. That is lyricism
(napevnost’), a song-like character (pesennost’), a distinctive emanation of
lyrical intensity of an idealistic character present in folksong converted dur-
ing the era of Russian dilettantism and subsequently separated into several
significant currents and innumerable streams. This lyricism and intensity,
combined with the sharply subjective lyricism of Tchaikovsky, showed a
distinctive song realism in which was revealed an inexhaustible wealth of
intonations from the life of the soul. The heir of Tchaikovsky in this unlim-
ited sphere of possibilities is Rachmaninoff, a subjectivist and contemplative
by nature and an idealist in the essence of his music. The symphonism of
Rachmaninoff’s music indeed consists in its lyricism, its song-like charac-
ter, its smoothness and rather in its quietness than in emotional ‘sensual’
or volitional outbursts reflected in the emotion of rhythm. Developed on
the basis of an outlook on sound akin to Tchaikovsky’s and drawing in the
sound material cultivated by him, Rachmaninoff nonetheless took a path
which was profoundly different from Tchaikovsky’s psychological realism.
The emotional quality of Rachmaninoff is pompous in a Romantic way and
therefore not always natural, because it does not match the anxiety and
tension of the life of the soul as it was present in Tchaikovsky. It is evoked
by the forcibly bridled striving to end existence in a constant accustomed
contemplative balance.
But how people regard music is not something static, for it is not indiffer-
ence but a quiet flame, a persistent peering at and listening into the world
of the soul, which gives in a creative synthesis a continuous ideal coming
into being, a reflection of images of the world in a lake which on the surface
254
Epilogue
is calm. At times, though rarely, the composer expands his conceptions in

a powerful surge and throws them into a seething maelstrom of opposing
currents of sound, though in order to immerse himself anew in a state of
very intensive listening. It is understood that Rachmaninoff will not create
embodiments of any new, major forms, but on the other hand the majority
of his songs are models of absolutely individual conceptions. The fascination
of Rachmaninoff’s work lies in how he puts the diatonic perception of the
musical element into practice in a special, distinctive way. Only Prokofiev,
Kastal’sky and Musorgsky can be placed beside him in this respect. Rach-
maninoff’s All-Night Vigil is something like a spectrum combining in strict,
austere grandeur and naive simplicity of religious feeling, rays of light ra-
diating from all directions of his musical thought. But even outside that
remarkable composition, one finds at every step – in harmonic structure, in
melodic writing, in the contrapuntal podgoloski,9 in the typical winding of
parts, in their melodic mutual influence – one discovers everywhere that the
source of Rachmaninoff’s creative work lies in the world of Russian folk-
song. It is not for nothing that his creative work manifests itself in profound
prayer: in contemplative idealistic sound, in continuous lyricism. If diatoni-
cism rings incisively in Prokofiev, then in Rachmaninoff it sings and resonates
at bell-like length at moments when spiritual forces unite with powerful joy
in a religious upsurge.
This may also be observed in Musorgsky, but with a different slant: in
illuminating self-will, in the egoism of the personal or supra-personal element
– that is, in revolt. Musorgsky is a sensitive psychologist, but not a ‘realist’.
He is not satisfied with the reflection given in the continuity of musical
consciousness of his own feelings. He experiences everything intensely –
whether it be his own or someone else’s state of soul, he endures it within his
own feeling (without making every phenomenon into a mental state of his
own, like Tchaikovsky), he amplifies, joins and then expels it from himself
in an agonizing exertion, deferring, though, not to the conception of the
musical idea but to the bidding of musical speech. But then, like no one
else, he fills words with his inner, effective musical content. In the Romantic
tableaux of his songs, which reflect the variety of life in their vividly dramatic
vocal concepts, the link between word and music is given for the first time,
in an unprecedented synthesis as yet unsurpassed by anyone.
These three substantial currents in the Russian art-song impregnated
with a song-like character and psychologism (the conceptions are realis-
tic, Romantic and idealistic) branch out into diverse streams containing a
sustained series of degrees from extremes of emotionalism or naturalism
9 podgoloski: melodic variants used in the accompaniment of Russian folksong in folk practice.
255
(the gypsy element) to the boundary of idealism: art-song abstractions, that

is vocal pieces formal in concept and execution, where imaginative creation
ends.10 That is how I classify many art-songs by Medtner, Taneyev and
Rimsky-Korsakov and such characterless objectivizations as the songs of
Glazunov, Lyapunov, Vasilenko,11 etc., etc.
The ways of converting and implementing the musical element in the cre-
ative consciousness of Russian composers cover a broad and deep expanse
of free creativity, that is, they are based on belief in the organic distinctive-
ness of art outside the pressures of tendencies from otherwordly art. At least
that is what the very recent past testifies. Whether this direction will hold
its ground, or Russian musical consciousness will become deeper, or turn
towards subservience to religious feebleness (theosophy) and social and ma-
terialist prejudices, adapting to life and desiring to adjust to their own aims
something that was created by an impulse of life, the future will tell us, for
the present ‘here and now’ does not allow us to make any assumptions. It
is unthinkable to try to guess which element will triumph in a chaos where
all roads are mixed up. Material life, in its striving to heal its wounds, will
demand unprecedented sacrifices, especially in the sphere of art.
In expectation of a better future, I shall conclude my essay with the names
of two composers who are profoundly different in the nature of their work
but united in a single aspiration to attain the summits of concrete idealism,
based on living perception of the musical element. The essential dependence
of Russian music on classical German music, whose disciple and foster-child
she is, consists in cultivating obsolete formal schemes. Form has been imag-
ined in a living continual synthesis only by a few Russian composers. Taneyev
was one of them. He bequeathed to Russian music a wonderful realization
of Western symmetrical schemes, reviving there the current of symphonism
whose supreme representatives were Bach and Mozart. Taneyev’s symphon-
ism was revealed in his single published symphony,12 but with particular
clarity in his chamber music, and there with greatest tension and intensity
in the quartets. It seems to me that, after Mozart, there is no composer who
has so vitally, that is in continuous sounding, in the intensity of the thought
being created, who has achieved all the depths of expressiveness, power and
psychological flexibility in the quartet style, as if missing out Beethoven, i.e.
the whole orchestral and piano character of his quartet compositions where
10 Author’s note: I.e. the creation of musical ideas and the combining of musical concepts
begins, i.e. of pure sounds entirely without the life-giving effect of the flow of life.
11 Sergey Nikiforovich Vasilenko (1872–1956): composer with a lifelong link to the Moscow
Conservatoire.
12 Taneyev’s Symphony in C minor, op. 12; originally published in Leipzig in 1901 as no. 1, it
is the fourth symphony actually written by the composer.
256
Epilogue
Beethoven’s emotionalism overcomes entirely unsuitable material so awk-

wardly. After Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, it is only in the quartets of
Taneyev that sonata-symphonic form is created in that way, in such a living
synthesis. The whole ensemble is alive, nervous, aquiver; the wave of irre-
sistible tension now rises, now subsides, and moreover all the achievements
are given with an uncommon purity of style without any harmonic figura-
tions, keyboard passages or the like. At every instant either a sound is given or
else the one succeeding the previous aspiration, or one drawing it forward
in an unstable surge towards completion or exhaustion. Only very rarely
does the rationalist-theorist make himself felt in sounds objectively strung
together. Everything coheres, everything grows, everything moves, and only
the conventions of sonata form where they cannot be avoided compel one
to be annoyed that in Taneyev the symphonist his mind was ashamed to
submit itself to bold will and noble emotions. This can be felt particularly
in Taneyev’s religious cantatas which captivate by their fiery idealism and
intelligent grasp of the mysteries of the cosmos, but are smothered in their
religious feeling by the deist temptation, which disappointingly neutralized
all the powerful striving which arose from symphonism.
I conclude my thoughts with an indication of the presence of a religious
pathway in Russian music. We are at present experiencing a revival in com-
position for the church. The impetus for this was provided by Kastal’sky.
He is our contemporary, though he is as yet unappreciated and, apart from
the Cathedral of the Dormition in Moscow in performance by the Synodal
Choir, no cult of his music has so far been created anywhere. But it un-
questionably deserves that, for it is unique, original and unrepeatably out of
the ordinary. In the essence of his music Kastal’sky is an idealist, realizing
the living material of the sound of the folksong element in fluid forms. He
thereby comes into contact with the best representatives of secular music,
since, based on diatonicism, he shows in his compositions a perfectly un-
usual original approximation to Russian song. To be more exact, it is not an
approximation, not an approach to it, but rather a community, a permeation
by it, like a symphonic sound element continuously flowing through it. This
is the first outcome, the primary intuitive insight into the recesses of folk
creativity, rather than a stylizer’s artificial adaptations of it or (which is even
worse) measuring it by an alien standard. In Kastal’sky we have, besides, the
first undoubtedly national religious composer because he is the first to com-
bine in an original individual interpretation the precepts of ancient Russian
church chant with the element of folksong. He makes use of the melodies
of the znamennı̈y chant, our national treasure, which acquired through be-
ing sung down the ages, one must suppose, a different, a Russian colouring
(even if one supposes that the melodies themselves are unquestionably an
257
integral Greek original, which has not been subjected to the influences of
Russian podgoloski practices), but develops them in an untried, unexplored
direction, harmonizing them on the basis of innate features of the Russian
choral song style. And Kastal’sky has a perfect command, entirely unknown
among Russian composers before him, of choral ‘instrumentation’ (I use that
concept which is very imprecise, but describes in part the diversity of possi-
bilities opening up within the limits of the four basic divisions of the human
voice). With this brief description, which by no means exhausts the nature of
Kastal’sky’s music or its importance, I should like to give a mere indication
of the great path of eternal value which opens up thanks to this composer’s
work before Russian musical creativity – the path of religious art. And is not
Russian music destined, on the foundations of a religious revival, to reveal a
new blossoming of the element of melodic and harmonic cells derived from
song? . . .
258
INDEX
Absolute music 13 Coriolan 135

Acts of the Apostles 44 Quartets 256
Alexander I, Russian emperor 33 Ruins of Athens 118
Alexander II, Russian emperor 81 Symphony no. 1 145
Alexander III, Russian emperor xii Symphony no. 2 145
Alyab’yev, A. A. 144 Symphony no. 3 (Eroica) 22, 39, 145
Amvrosy of Optina 65 Symphony no. 4 153
Andersen, H. C. 223, 251 Symphony no. 5 31, 135
The Snow Queen 251 Symphony no. 6 155, 239
Angela da Foligno 81 Symphony no. 7 31
Antipov, K. A. 133, 138–41 Symphony no. 8 31
Symphony 133 Symphony no. 9 80, 81, 82, 122
Arensky, A. S. 40, 138–42, 148, 181, 205 ‘Wellington’s Victory’ 22
A Dream on the Volga 142 Belaieff, M. P., music publisher 95, 132, 143,
Marguerite Gauthier 139 144 (see also Belyayev)
String Quartet op. 11 138–41 Bellini, V. 29, 49
Suite 133 I Puritani 29
Symphony no. 1 138 La sonnambula 29
Artem’yeva-Leont’yevskaya, Z. N. 221 Bel’sky, V. I. 66, 85, 88, 253
Asaf’yev, B. V. xii, xiv, 234 Belyayev (Belaieff), M. P. xi, xii, 95, 132, 155,
Auber, D.-F.-E. 27, 49 162–3
Belyayev circle/Belyayevites 163–4, 235, 246,
Bacchanalia 203 248
Bach, J. S. 43, 46, 49, 139, 165, 173, 186, Benois, A. N. 209
205, 227, 235–6, 252, 256 Berlioz, H. 10, 18, 53, 129, 234
Balakirev, M. A. 14, 42, 43, 46, 50, 53, 129, L’Enfance du Christ 94
132, 133, 137, 138, 148, 161, 163, Harold en Italie 10
184, 187, 235 Lélio 10
Islamey 99 Roméo et Juliette 10, 97
Musical picture: 1,000 years 96 Bı̈linı̈ 253
First Russian Overture 96 Bizet, G. 253
Symphonic poem: Rus’ 96 Carmen 79, 253
Symphony no. 1 238 Blaramberg, P. I. 133
Symphony no. 2 129–30 Symphony 133
Tamara 97, 130 Blumenfeld brothers 163
Balakirev circle 162–3, 248 Blumenfeld, Felix 101, 133, 138, 154,
Balakirev school 230, 248 163
Bayreuth xiv Blumenfeld, Sigismund 163
Bayreuthomanes 140 Bol’shoy Theatre 18, 24, 178, 182, 184
Beethoven, L. van 16, 18, 22, 31, 39, 50, 74, Borodin, A. P. xiii, 25, 93, 95, 132, 134, 135,
135, 141, 150, 159, 165, 176, 183, 137, 138, 150, 151, 152, 163, 185,
186, 190, 227, 235–6, 238, 240, 256 195, 214, 229, 230, 247, 250
259
Index
Borodin, A. P. (cont.) Dürer, Albrecht 192

Contribution to the collective Paraphrases Dyutsh, G. O. 163
94
In the Steppes of Central Asia 92–3, 94, Edition Russe de Musique xii, 206
136 Eighteenth century, music of the 44
Mlada 25 Engel’, Yu. D. xii, 129, 170, 178, 200, 221,
Prince Igor xi, 25, 94, 100, 116, 122, 150, 222
238, 254 Evenings of Contemporary Music xi, 221
Peasant chorus 238
Polovtsian Dances 134 Féeries 212
The Sleeping Princess 114 Fet, A. A. 16
Songs 94, 104, 134 Fichte, J. G. 201
String quartet in A major 93–5 Field, J. 45
String quartets 104 Findeyzen, N. F. xiv
Symphonies 93, 94, 104 Free School of Music xi, 6, 42, 43
First Symphony 93
Second Symphony 94, 102, 108, 110 Galler, K. P. 30
Bortnyansky, D. S. 9, 193 Gartman, Viktor 130
Bossuet, J.-B. 81 Genesis, book of 241
Brahms, J. 149, 231 Glazunov, A. K. xi, xii, 7, 100, 102, 124,
Butomo-Nazvanova, O. N. 221 132, 133, 135–8, 142, 144, 163, 164,
Byron, Lord 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 33 167, 176, 182, 187, 188, 189, 190,
Manfred 10, 11, 15 209, 232, 233, 239, 242–3, 246–8,
Byronism/Byronists 181, 185 249, 250
Ballade 144
Camilla Varano, Princess of Camerino 81 Ballets
Catherine, Russian empress 33 Barı̈shnya-krest’yanka (Les ruses
Catherine of Siena 81 d’amour) 144
Catholic Church/Catholicism 4, 81, 84 Raymonda 144, 146
Chaliapin, F. I. xiii, 179 The Seasons 144
Cherepnin, N. N. 148 Ballet Suite 144
Cherubini, L. 49 Suites from the ballets 144
Chopin, F. 164–6, 177, 182, 199, 200, 225, Carnaval Overture 144, 150
226, 234–5, 236 Characteristic Suite 137, 144
Prelude in C minor 177 Chopiniana 144
Church of the Saviour ‘On the Spilled Fantasia op. 53 144
Blood’: see Parland, A. A. The Forest 137, 144
Circle of Lovers of Russian Music xii, 129 First Greek Overture 134, 137, 144
Classicist(s)/classicism 45, 181, 214, 253 Second Greek Overture 137, 144
Compositio 52 The Kremlin 144
Cui, Ts. A. xii, xiv, 23, 132–8, 153, 163–4, Marches 144
200 ‘From the Middle Ages’ 144
Piano pieces 143
Dante Alighieri 14, 179, 180, 183 Piano Sonata no. 2 247
Purgatorio 45 Poème lyrique 100, 144, 146
Dargomı̈zhsky, A. S. 29, 30, 32, 54, 56, 76 Quartets 143
The Stone Guest 49, 178, 179 Rapsodie orientale 144
Davı̈dov, K. Yu. 133, 134 Rêverie orientale 134, 144
Debussy, C. xiv, 162, 166, 185, 186, 214, Scène de Ballet 144
217, 225, 228, 229 The Sea 144, 150, 159
Diaghilev, S. P. xii, xiii, xiv, 209 Serenades 144
Directorate of the Imperial Theatres xii, 47 Solemn Overture 144
Dobroveyn, I. A. 232 Songs 256
Donizetti, G. 8, 32, 52 Spring 144
Lucia di Lammermoor 32 Sten’ka Razin 137, 144
Dumas-père, A. 28 First String Quartet 137
260
Index
Second String Quartet 136, 137 Ippolitov-Ivanov, M. M. 168

Symphonies 144, 247 Isaiah, the prophet 172
Symphony no. 1 145–6 Ivan the Terrible, tsar 19
Symphony no. 2 137, 145, 151–2 Ivanov, M. M. 23
Symphony no. 3 145, 150, 152–3
Symphony no. 4 150, 152, 189 Jesus Christ 78, 80, 201
Symphony no. 5 150, 153–4 Josquin des Prez 5
Symphony no. 6 154–5, 156 Jurgenson, P. 3, 139, 207, 209, 219
Symphony no. 7 155–7
Triumphal Procession 144 Kalinnikov, V. S. xiv, 148, 200
Waltzes 144 Symphony no. 1 145
‘Glazunovism’ 248 Kanonarkh 196
Glebov: see Asaf’yev, B. V. Kapella xii, 1, 6, 9, 43, 138, 141, 162
Glinka, M. I. 2, 4, 21, 22, 24, 29, 30, 46, 50, Karamzin, N. M. 33
53, 54, 67, 102, 105, 112, 120, 124, Karatı̈gin, V. G. xii, xiv, 159, 213, 224,
129, 133, 138, 160, 164, 168, 176, 227
181, 183, 184, 224, 234, 235, 236, 237 Kashkin, N. D. xii, 168
Jota aragonesa 92, 101, 134 Kastal’sky, A. D. xii, 195, 244, 251, 255,
Kamarinskaya 56, 144 257–8
Night in Madrid 101 Kerzins, A. M. and M. S. xii
Operas 24, 88, 161 Khomyakov, A. S. 171–4
A Life for the Tsar 4, 28, 52, 224, 249, Khvoshchinsky 232, 247
252 Kliros 80, 195
Ruslan and Lyudmila 47, 50, 102, 114, Kolomiytsev, V. P. 130
115, 118–20, 123, 124 Konyus, G. E. 205 (see also
Overtures 144 metrotectonicism)
Sacred music 4 Korovin, K. A. 128
Songs 28 Koussevitzky, S. A. xi, xii, xiii, 205, 207, 213
Gluck, C. W. 23, 46 (see also Edition Russe de Musique)
Gnesin, M. F. 221, 222, 223, 232, 233 Kremlin xii
Songs 232 Cathedral of the Dormition xii, 196,
Goethe, J. W. von 43, 48 257
‘Gross ist die Diana der Epheser’ 44 Kreyn brothers, A. A. and G. A. 232
Gogol, N. V. 16, 19, 141, 243 Kruglikov, S. N. xii, 102–24
Gombert, N. 5 kuchkistı̈ 163, 164, 214, 235 (see also Mighty
Gounod, C.-F. 30, 31 Handful, Balakirev circle)
Grands opéras 253 Kukol’nik, N. V. 24
Grechaninov, A. T. 148, 168, 237 Kuper, E. A. 130
Praise the Lord 171
Greek tragedy 71 Lacordaire, H. 81
Gregorian chant 52 Laroche, G. A. xii, xiv, 13, 40, 45, 138, 150,
Grétry, A.-E.-M. 37, 49 168, 169, 181
Gurilyov, L. S. 27 Lasso, Orlando 5
Gutheil, A. 175 Last Judgement 203
Lavrov, N. S. 101
Halévy, F. 49 Leitmotives 61, 62, 107, 201, 253
Handel, G. F. 43, 49, 53, 77, 139 Lermontov, M. Yu. 97, 249
Hanslick, E. 13, 40, 45, 52 The Demon 249
Vom musikalisch-schönen 13, 54 Tamara 98
Haydn, F. J. 46, 139, 238 Liszt, F. 8, 10, 11, 14, 15, 44, 46, 48, 49, 53,
Hegel, G. W. F. 18 101, 133, 145, 151, 164, 177, 226,
Hugo, Victor 28, 48 234–6 (see also Weimar School)
Dante Symphony 10
Icon-painting 78, 82 Faust Symphony 48
Impressionist(s) 166, 185, 213, 214–15, 216, Gran Mass 8
218, 219, 228, 229, 230 Mephisto Waltz 97, 226
261
Index
Liszt, F. (cont.) Marenzio, Luca 5

Rhapsodies 97, 99 Mariinsky Theatre 24, 102, 133, 212
The symphonic Liszt 129 Orchestra of the 92, 134
Symphonic poems 48 Marx, Adolf Bernhard 45
Lodı̈zhensky, N. N. 163 Die Lehre von der musikalischen
Lomakin, G. A. 6, 8 Komposition 45
Lubok: see popular print illustration Mary, Mother of God 78
Lyadov, A. K. xi, 97–9, 100, 132, 133, 148, Massenet, J.
159–67, 185, 221, 226 Hérodiade 78
Arabesques 161 Marie-Madeleine 81
Baba-Yaga 164, 167 Medtner, N. K. 182, 185–93, 222, 231
Bagatelles 132–67 Dithyrambs 189
Ballade in the Olden Time 161 Folk-Tales 189, 190, 191
Biryul’ki (‘Spillikins’) 100, 161, 167 Novellas 189, 191
From the Book of Revelation 165 Sonatas 189, 190
Cantata in memory of Antokol’sky Sonata no. 1 (F minor) 189, 190
(collective work) 167 Sonata in E minor 190
Cantata/music for the concluding scene of Sonata in G minor 189
Schiller’s The Bride of Messina 160, Sonata-Folk-Tale 190
161 Songs 189, 191, 256
18 Children’s Songs 161, 167 ‘Meeresstille’ 191
The Enchanted Lake 164, 167 ‘On the Lake’ 191
Etudes 164 ‘Winter Path’ 191
Kikimora 164, 167, 238 Stimmungsbilder 191
Mazurkas 133–67 Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, F. 5, 153
Muzı̈kal’naya tabakerka (‘A Musical Metrotectonicism 205 (see also G. E.
Snuffbox’) 161, 165 Konyus)
Contributions to the collective Paraphrases Mey, L. A. 24
161 The Maid of Pskov 25
Piano compositions 100, 160, 238 The Tsar’s Bride 25
Polonaise in memory of Pushkin 167 Meychik, M. N. 201
Polonaise in memory of Rubinstein Meyerbeer, G. 5, 23, 29, 30, 32, 49
167 Les Huguenots 32, 68, 72
Preludes 133–67 Le Prophète 68
Quartet Imeninı̈ (‘Name-day’) (collective Michael, archangel 203
work, one movement by Lyadov) 167 ‘Mighty Handful’ xiv, 25, 31, 32, 47
Quartet Suite Les Vendredis (collective Miklashevsky xiv, 242
work, four movements by Lyadov) Symphonic poem Sisyphus 242, 248
167 Ministry of the Imperial Court xii
Four Romances 167 Modernist(s) 222, 227
Russian folksongs 167 Moloch 62
Scherzo 99–100, 133, 161 Morozov, S. T. xii
Scherzo in the Quartet on B–la–f Moscow Conservatoire 40, 138, 141,
(collective work) 167 168–70, 178, 181, 182, 205,
Songs 161 256
Variations 133–67 Small Hall 201
Variations on a Russian Theme in F Moscow Philharmonic Society xii
(collective work) 167 Moscow Private Opera Company xii, 42, 45,
Village Scene at the Tavern 161 46, 47, 60, 124, 127, 182, 184
Waltzes 161 Moscow school 148, 168–70
Lyapunov, S. M. 148, 235 Mozart, W. A. xiv, 49, 53, 90, 129, 139, 141,
Songs 256 142, 235–6, 256
Don Giovanni xiv, 56
Maliszewski, W. 247 Music drama 13, 76
Malyutin, S. V. 128 Musical Contemporary concert 221
Mamontov, S. I. xii, 182 Musical drama 13, 24
262
Index
Musorgsky, M. P. xiii, 27, 69, 132, 135, 136, Potebnya, A. A. 86

137, 159, 162, 163, 164–5, 184, 185, Potulov, N. M. 6, 8
188, 195, 214, 216, 220, 228, 229, Pre-Bach music 6
236, 238, 239, 241, 245, 247, 250, Preobrazhensky, A. V. 193
252–3, 255 Pre-Raphaelite painting 6
Boris Godunov 27, 49, 109, 137, 182, pripevı̈ 196
252–3 Programme music 13, 16
Intermezzo 95–6, 133 Prokofiev, S. S. xi, 198–205, 219–20, 221–3,
Khovanshchina xi, 124–8, 238, 252–3 225, 231–2, 244, 249–52, 255
March: The Capture of Kars 92, 93 Ala and Lolly 221
Night on Bare Mountain 220 Ballade for cello and piano 223
Pictures at an Exhibition 130–1, 137 Chout (‘another ballet’) 221
Songs 255 The Gambler 221
Myaskovsky, N. Ya. 185, 207, 219, 231, 232, Piano concertos 232
233, 244–5, 248 Piano pieces 221
Alastor 232 Piano Pieces op. 4
Songs 232 Despair 219, 220
Symphonies nos. 1–3 232 Elan 219, 220
Mystery-plays 79 Reminiscences 219, 220
Mysticism, Eastern 79 Suggestion diabolique 219, 220, 223
Mysticism, Western 79 Piano sonatas 221
Sonata no. 2 op. 14 222, 223, 232
Napravnik, Eduard 92, 133–67, 179 Sarcasms 222, 223
narodnichestvo 149 Sinfonietta 221
narodnik 163 Songs 221
narodnost’ 195 Songs to poems by Akhmatova 222
Navy, Department of the 43 Songs to poems by Balmont 223
Neoclassicism/neoclassicists 228, 231 Toccata 219, 220, 222
‘New Direction’ xiii, 193–7 The Ugly Duckling 223
New Russian School: see Young Russian Psalms of David 172
School Pushkin, A. S. 24, 32, 33, 34, 37, 85, 142,
Nietzsche, F. W. 185, 201 150, 178, 183
Also sprach Zarathustra 81 Boris Godunov 24, 68, 237
Nirvana 80 Eugene Onegin 30
The Golden Cockerel 85, 86, 88, 89
Odoyevsky, Prince V. F. 6 The Queen of Spades 32
Oprichnina (special bodyguard) 19 Pyramids of Cheops 171
Ossovsky, A. V. 175
Ostrovsky, A. N. 19, 24, 25, 42 Rachmaninoff, S. V. xi, xiii, xiv, 148, 170,
Dramatic chronicles 24, 25 171, 175–85, 187, 192, 244
All-Night Vigil xiii, xiv, 171, 195, 250,
Palestrina, G. P. da 5, 7 251, 255
Pallas Athene 52 Capriccio bohémien 182
Parfeny of Kiev 65 Two cello pieces, op. 2 182
Parland, A. A. Cello Sonata 175, 183
Church of the Resurrection/Church of the Six choruses 182
Saviour ‘On the Spilled Blood’ 81 Elegiac Trio 182
Patriarchs’ Singing Clerks, Choir of the 196 Fantasy for two pianos, op. 5 182
Peter I, Russian emperor 51, 126, 128 Barcarolle 182
Petrograd Conservatoire 221 The Island of the Dead 184, 185
Petrovsky, Ye. M. 60 Liturgy 184
Ivan Korolevich 60 Six Moments musicaux 182, 185
Podgoloski 255 Operas
Poetics, rules of classical 26 Aleko 178, 182
Popular print illustration (lubok) 215, 238, Francesca da Rimini 178–80, 183
253 The Miserly Knight 178–80, 183
263
Index
Rachmaninoff, S. V. (cont.) 209, 212, 214, 216, 217, 228, 229,

Piano Concerto no. 1 182 230, 232, 233, 235, 237, 238–9, 242,
Piano Concerto no. 2 175, 176, 183 245, 249, 250, 252, 253
Piano Concerto no. 3 184 Antar 136
Five piano pieces (Morceaux de fantaisie), ‘Folk-tale operas’ 238
op. 3 182 ‘Non-folk-tale operas’ 254
Prelude in C-sharp minor 182 Operas 84
Seven piano pieces (Morceaux de Salon) Christmas Eve 75
for two hands, op. 10 182 The Golden Cockerel 84–91, 217, 230,
Six piano pieces (Six Morceaux) for four 250
hands, op. 11 182 Kashchey the Immortal 60–4, 208, 253
Piano Sonata no. 1 183 The Legend of the Invisible City of
10 Préludes pour le piano, op. 23 175, Kitezh and the Maiden Fevroniya
183, 185 64–84, 208, 238, 254
The Rock 182, 185 The Maid of Pskov 25, 45, 48, 86, 149,
Songs 254–5 254
Six Songs, op. 4 182 May Night 46, 75
Six Songs, op. 8 182 Mlada 68, 75
Twelve Songs, op. 14 182 Mozart and Salieri 179
‘Spring Waters’ (no. 11) 176, 183 Sadko, opera 54–60, 65, 66, 68, 70, 75,
Twelve Songs, op. 21 nos. 25–36 175, 76, 79, 87, 91, 253
183 The Snowmaiden 70, 75, 79, 91, 101,
‘By the Fresh Grave’ (no. 2) 177 208, 253
‘Fragment from de Musset’ (no. 6) 177 The Tsar’s Bride 250, 252, 254
‘How Fair This Spot’ (no. 7) 177, 185 Tsar Saltan, The Folk-Tale of 73, 85,
‘How Painful for Me’ (no. 12) 177 87, 89, 253
‘Lilacs’ (no. 5) 176, 177 Piano Concerto 101
‘Melody’ (no. 9) 177 Sadko, fantasia/symphonic picture 46, 55
‘On the Death of a Linnet’ (no. 8) 177, Skazka (‘fairy-tale’) 136
178 Songs 256
‘They Answered’ (no. 4) 177 Spanish Capriccio 96–7, 101, 134
‘Twilight’ (no. 3) 177, 185 Symphony no. 1 144
Songs, op. 26 183 Rimsky-Korsakov, school of 188
‘The Fountains’ (no. 11) 185 Roger-Ducasse, J. xiv, 166, 214, 225
Cantata Spring 183, 185 Romanovsky, G. I. 130, 131
Suite no. 2 for two pianos, op. 17 175, Romanticism/Romantics 181, 185, 253, 254,
182 255
Symphony no. 1 182 Roslavets, N. A. 233
Symphony no. 2 183, 184, 185 Quintet 233
Variations pour le piano sur un thème Songs 233
de F. Chopin, op. 22 175, 183 String Quartet 233
Two violin pieces, op. 6 182 Violin Sonata 233
Raff, J. 14 rospev 196
The Fatherland 14 Rossini, G. 152
The Forest 14 Rostand, E.
Leonore 14 La Samaritaine 81
Spring 14 Rozenov, E. K. 124
Ravel, M. 166, 186, 214, 225, 229 Rubinstein, Anton xii, 24, 30, 45, 133, 134,
Reger, M. xiv, 162, 225, 231, 233 150, 152
Rembrandt 192 Operas 24
Riemann, H. 233 Symphony no. 1 144
Rimsky-Korsakov, N. A. xi, xii, xiii, xiv, 10, Rubinsteins, Anton and Nikolay 184
42–90, 97, 101, 102, 124, 132, 133, Russian art-song 254
134, 135, 137, 138, 146, 147–8, 149, Russian church music 193–7, 257
152, 155, 158, 160, 161, 162–3, Russian intelligent/intelligentsia 237, 238,
164–5, 168, 185, 187, 194–5, 208, 240, 254
264
Index
Russian Musical Society (Imperial Russian Rogneda 24

Musical Society) xi, 1, 7, 10, 92, 93, Stabat Mater 4
97, 139 Seventeenth century, music of the 44
Russian Orthodox Church 1, 7, 171, 193–7 Severyanin, I. 223
Russian Quartet 93 Shaginyan, Marietta 192
Russian Symphony Concert(s) 95, 132, 134, Shakespeare, W. 10, 14, 26
135, 137, 182 Coriolanus 68
Ruysbroeck, the Wondrous 80 Dramatic chronicles 68
Ryelandt, Joseph Hamlet 14, 15
Sainte Cécile 78 Julius Caesar 68
Richard III 26
Sabaneyev, L. L. xiv, 232 Romeo and Juliet 10
Monograph on Skryabin 232 Shcherbachov, N. V. 133
Monograph on Taneyev 232 Shestakova, L. I. 161
Safonov, V. I. xiii, 40, 201 Shostakovich, D. D. 232
Saint-Saëns, C. Shpazhinsky, I. V. 24, 26, 28
Danse macabre 97 Shteynberg, M. O. 232, 239, 247
St Cecilia 78 Early symphonic and chamber works 232
St Godeliva 78 Metamorphoses 232
St John the Baptist 78 Princesse Maleine 232
St Nicholas 79 Sixteenth century, music of the, 5, 7, 44
St Petersburg Conservatoire 30, 42, 43, 130, skazki 253
133–67, 168, 181, 185, 232, 234, 247 skomorokhi 56, 57, 59, 68
(see also Petrograd Conservatoire) Skryabin, A. N. xi, xiv, 148, 153, 162, 164,
St Petersburg national school of music 142 165, 166, 170, 182, 185, 186, 187,
St Petersburg school 148, 168, 169 188, 190, 198, 199, 208, 217, 218,
St Petersburg theatres 160 222, 225–8, 231, 232, 235, 236, 240,
St Petersburg University 234 248–50
St Yefrosinya, Princess of Murom, Life of 66 Orchestral works 199
Scarlatti, A. 49 Piano Concerto 241
Schiller, J. F. 19 Piano Sonata no. 3 226
Joan of Arc 19 Piano Sonata no. 5 199, 200, 202–3, 226
Schloezer, B. de 199, 201 Piano Sonata no. 7 227
Schoenberg, A. xiv, 215, 225, 228, 233 Piano Sonata no. 9 227, 241
Schubert, F. 176 Piano works 199, 225, 241
Schumann, R. 5, 10, 12, 18, 22, 24, 29, 46, Poem of Ecstasy 199–205, 226, 228, 240
53, 100, 129, 139, 161, 164–5, 177, ‘Poem of Ecstasy’ in verse 201, 203
182, 185, 199, 231, 234–5 Prometheus (Poem of Fire) 162, 205–7,
Carnaval 130 226, 228, 240, 248
Genoveva 24 Rêverie 199
Manfred 10, 15 Satanic Poem 226
Paradies und die Peri 22 Symphonies 199
First Symphony 92 Symphony no. 1 225–6, 248
Sedan 49 Symphony no. 2 204, 205, 226, 248
Senilov, V. A. 233 Symphony no. 3 (the Divine Poem) 202,
Operas 204–5, 226, 249
Vas’ka Buslayev 233 Skryabin Societies 248
Yegory the Bold 233 Skryabinists 232
Symphonic poems Mtsı̈ri 233 Slav Ur-culture 215
The Scyths 233 Slovo o polku Igoreve (‘The Lay of the Host
The Wild Geese 233 of Igor’) 102, 104, 107, 118–20
Vocal items 233 Smolensky, S. V. 184
Serafim of Sarov 65 Sokolov, N. A. 163
Serov, A. N. 4, 21, 22, 23, 24, 27, 30, 31, 32, Song Commission of the Imperial
50, 68, 165 Geographical Society 162
The Power of the Fiend 27, 49, 68 Spontini, G. 27
265
Index
Stanchinsky, A. V. xiv, 233 Charodeyka (‘The Enchantress’) 19,

Sketches 233 24–32
Stasov, V. V. xii, 69, 132, 150, 161, 163–4 Cherevichki (‘The Slippers’) 18, 19, 27,
stichera na podoben 196 243
Strauss, Richard xiv, 162, 186, 217, 225, Eugene Onegin 18, 19, 23, 25, 29, 30,
230, 233 31, 33, 35, 79, 239, 243, 252
Salome 78 Mazeppa 18–24, 27
Stravinsky, I. F. xi, xiii, 162, 198, 207, The Oprichnik 27
213–19, 225, 228–31, 232, 248, 250, The Queen of Spades 32–8, 183, 239,
253 240, 252
Early ballets xiii Undina 18
The Firebird 207–9, 219, 229 Voyevoda 25
Petrushka 209–12, 215, 219, 230, 253 Romeo and Juliet overture 10, 15, 133
The Rite of Spring 213–19, 230 Serenade for Strings 17
Fantastic Scherzo 229 Songs 254, 255
Firework 229 Suite no. 1 in D, 7
The Nightingale 230, 232 Suite no. 2 in C (containing a waltz) 17
Pastorale 229 Suite no. 3 in G 15
Songs to poems by Gorodetsky 228 Suites 10
Songs to poems by Verlaine 229 Swan Lake 21
Symphony 228, 248 Symphonic poems 14, 27
Strict style 5, 6, 7 Symphonies 10, 181
Symphonic poem 13 Symphony no. 1 145, 239
Synodal Choir (Moscow) xii, 193–7, 257 Symphony no. 2 21, 243
Synodal School of Church Music (Moscow) Symphony no. 3 21
xii, 193–7 Symphony no. 4 15, 151, 239, 243
Manfred Symphony 1, 10–13, 14, 15
Taneyev, S. I. xi, 148, 150, 153, 156, 169, Symphony no. 5 1, 16–18, 243
181, 205, 235, 250, 256 Symphony no. 6 1, 38–41, 239, 240, 248,
Cantata On Reading a Psalm 170–4 257
Chamber music 256 The Tempest 10
Quartets 256, 257 Teresa of Avila 80
Invertible Counterpoint in the Strict Style Tikhon Zadonsky 65
170, 172 Tinel, Edgar
Ioann Damaskin 172 Godelieve 78
Religious cantatas 257 Tolstoy, Aleksey 24, 25, 180
Songs 256 Ivan the Terrible 24, 25
Symphony 256, 257 Tret’yakov, P. M. xii
Tappert, Wilhelm 53 troparia 196
Wandernde Melodien 53 Turgenev, I. S. 16, 19, 238
Tchaikovsky, Modest 32, 33, 36, 37, 178, Fathers and Sons 132
179
Tchaikovsky, Pyotr xi, xiii, xiv, 1–41, 42, 60, Ulı̈bı̈shev, A. D. 129
76, 133, 135, 137, 138, 142, 143, 144, Beethoven, ses critiques et ses glossateurs
146–8, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 129
155, 158, 168–9, 173, 182, 184, 187, Nouvelle biographie de Mozart 129
188, 197, 209, 228, 233, 234, 236,
238, 239–45, 246, 248, 249, 250, Vasilenko, S. N. 256
252–3 Songs 256
Concert Overture in F 1 Vasnetsov, A. 128
Francesca da Rimini 10, 11, 179 Vasnetsov, Viktor 79
Hamlet 13, 15 Verdi, G. 5, 8, 30
Italian Capriccio 97 Un ballo in maschera 69
Liturgy of St John Chrysostom 1, 3–9 Verstovsky, A. N. 27
The Nutcracker 253 Veysberg (Rimskaya-Korsakova), Yu. L. 233
Operas 18 Fantasia 233
266
Index
Scherzo 233 Tannhäuser 80

Symphonic poem At Night 233 Tristan und Isolde 32, 67, 74, 80, 81, 82
Symphony 233 Wagnerism 252
Vocal works 233 Weber, C. M. von 32, 50
Virgil 180 Weimar school 8, 13, 14, 48
Vitol’, I. I. 138, 163, 185 Weingartner, F.: The Symphony after
Vittoria, T. L. da 5 Beethoven 150–1
Viyel’gorsky, M. Yu. Count 144 Weltschmerz 181
Vol’f-Izrael’, Ye. V. 221 Wilde, O. 210
Volkslied 51 Willaert, A. 5
Vrubel’, M. A. 181
Yakovlev, V. V. 180
Wagner, R. xiv, 5, 8, 23, 31, 32, 45, 46, Yershov, I. V. 65
47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 55, 61, Yesipova, A. N. 221
62, 63, 67, 68, 77, 88, 125, 150, Young Russian School 42, 43, 44, 49, 50, 51,
153, 164, 165, 169, 173, 179, 182, 52, 53, 69, 84, 132, 136, 138, 140,
185, 190, 199–200, 201, 226, 234, 149–50, 162, 164, 168, 214
235–6
Der fliegende Holländer 47 Zapevı̈ 196
Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg 68 Zeus 52
Oper und Drama 49 Zhukovsky, V. A. 33
Parsifal 67, 84, 199 Ziloti, A. I. xi, xiii, 181
Der Ring des Nibelungen xiv, 48, 58, 67, znamennı̈y rospev 196, 233, 257
72, 153 Zverev, N. S. 181
267

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This second anthology of Russian writing on Russian music be-

Stuart Campbell is Honorary Senior Research Fellow in the De-

Edited and translated by

Cambridge University Press

© Stuart Campbell 2003

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provision of

First published in print format 2003

ISBN-13 978-0-511-06799-0 eBook (EBL)

ISBN-13 978-0-521-59097-6 hardback

Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of

Chapter One T chaikovsky 1

Chapter Two Rimsky-Korsakov 42

Chapter Three Other composers of the former

(d) Kruglikov: [works by Balakirev, Lyadov, Glazunov,

Chapter Four The Belyayev generation 132

Chapter Five Moscow and her composers 168

Chapter Six New stylistic directions 198

in Moscow from 1909. The Kerzins organized a Circle of Lovers of Russian

Cui = Ts. A. Kyui: Izbrannı̈ye stat’i (‘Selected Articles’) (Leningrad, 1952)

This period witnessed the composition of Tchaikovsky’s last four operas

exclusively, whereas Mr Tchaikovsky’s Liturgy had gone through only the

in Russian music, a half-century has passed, during which Russian musi-

oblivion as well as melodic turns of phrase unknown in the Viennese pe-

2 G. A. Lomakin (1812–85) was mentioned in RRM vol. 1 as a choirtrainer and director of

4 Mı̈sli o muzı̈kal’nom obrazovanii (‘Thoughts on Music Education’), Russkiy vestnik, 1869,

The appearance of a large-scale symphonic work by a Russian composer, par-

nevertheless retains the usual symphonic structure of four movements; sec-

The third movement is a pastorale, elaborated in various ways using fa-

We can see, therefore, how powerfully an all-forgiving conclusion is

Tchaikovsky’s texture and instrumentation are masterly; we can only thank

P. I. Tchaikovsky is at the forefront of contemporary Russian music. But

on the diminished seventh, unfinished short phrases transposed from key to

expanse of steppe and idle languor, evocative of Gogol, Turgenev or Fet

(d) N. D. Kashkin: P. I. Tchaikovsky’s new symphony.

[Tchaikovsky’s career goes from strength to strength, despite the hostility of

first movement is preceded by an introduction where the main theme which

(e) G. A. Laroche: P. Tchaikovsky’s Mazeppa. Moscow

attitude to musical drama. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s other operas shows so

11 This term refers to a special bodyguard created by Tsar Ivan IV.

confrontations; among such places in Mazeppa is the scene of the quarrel

opera is not an opera at all, but nevertheless he is our only composer of

probably be created unbeknownst to the composer of Mazeppa, just as the

conspicuously energetic individuality which makes itself felt equally in his

a sonata nor a symphony, can reach. Tested by experience, fostered equally

The charming music of this number, an Andante in the minor in 98 , is filled

(g) N. D. Kashkin: The Queen of Spades. Opera in three

very beautiful. This scene again moves on to a chorus of promenaders whose

on a short rhythmical phrase opens with a three-beat rhythm, which lends

example is the superlative scene in the Countess’ bedroom, where Pushkin’s

(h) G. A. Laroche: The First Symphony Concert of the

development is one of the most irresistibly logical and stupendous moments

(a) G. A. Laroche: A new opera from the Young Russian

Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov is widely and deservedly respected as composer,

symphonies, and operatic numbers, and quartets and songs. It seems to me

provenance, are familiar to a considerable part of the public, are recognized

(b) Ts. A. Cui: Sadko, opera/heroic ballad (opera-bı̈lina) by

Let me remind the reader briefly of the distinguishing features of Mr

his announcement is challenged. A harsh sixth ratifies the disputants’ wager.

(c) Yu. D. Engel’: Kashchey the Immortal, N. A. Rimsky-

Until recently, Tchaikovsky could be considered the most prolific Russian

and Kashcheyevna is transformed into a beautiful weeping willow. A reign

10 In Russian usage, ‘decadent’ meant something very close to ‘Symbolist’.