Stassov saw in Borodin the making of a true national poet, and encouraged his secret ambition to compose an epic opera. He first took up the subject of Mey’s drama “The Tsar’s Bride;” but his progress was so frequently interrupted that his interest flagged. It needed a subject of unusual attraction to keep him faithful amid many professional preoccupations to such a long and difficult task. But in 1869 Stassov believed he had found an ideal source from which to draw the libretto of a great national opera, and sketched out a rough plot which he persuaded Borodin to consider. It is not easy to convey to those who have not studied the early Slavonic literature any just and clear idea of the national significance of “The Epic of the Army of Igor.” The original manuscript of this Rhapsody or Saga was bought from a monk by Count Moussin-Poushkin as late as 1795, and published by him in 1800. Unfortunately the original document was among the many treasures which perished in the burning of Moscow in 1812. Its authenticity has since been the cause of innumerable disputes. Many scholars, including the late Professor of Slavonic languages at Oxford, Mr. W. R. Morfill, have been disposed to regard it as one of those many ingenious frauds—like the Poems of Ossian—which were almost a feature of literary history in the eighteenth century. Others affirm that all the Russian poets of the eighteenth century put together had not sufficient imagination to have produced a single line of “The Epic of Igor.” In any case, it so far surpasses in interest most of the mediæval Slavonic chronicles that it has taken a strong hold on the popular imagination, and the majority prefer to believe in its genuine origin in spite of differences of opinion among the learned. In order to give some idea of its significance and interest, perhaps I may compare it—in certain respects—with the Arthurian Legends. The period is of course much later—the close of the twelfth century.
The book of Prince Igor, planned by Stassov and written by Borodin, runs as follows:
The Prologue takes place in the market-place of Poultivle, the residence of Igor, Prince of Seversk. The Prince and his army are about to start in pursuit of the Polovtsy, an Oriental tribe of Tatar origin. Igor wishes to meet his enemies in the plains of the Don, whither they have been driven by a rival Russian prince, Sviatoslav of Kiev. An eclipse of the sun darkens the heavens, and at this fatal passage the people implore Igor to postpone his expedition. But the Prince is resolute. He departs with his youthful son Vladimir Igorievich, commending his wife Yaroslavna to the care of his brother-in-law, Prince Galitsky, who remains to govern Poultivle, in the absence of its lord. The first scene depicts the treachery and misrule of this dissolute nobleman, who tries to win over the populace with the assistance of two deserters from Igor’s army. Eroshka and Skoula are players on the goudok, or rebeck, types of the gleemen, or minnesingers, of that period. They are the comic villains of the opera. In the second scene of Act I. some young girls complain to the Princess Yaroslavna of the abduction of one of their companions, and implore her protection from Prince Galitsky. Yaroslavna discovers the perfidy of her brother, and after a violent scene drives him from her presence, at the very moment when a messenger arrives with the news that Igor’s army has been defeated on the banks of the Kayala. “At the third dawn,” says the rhapsody, “the Russian standards fell before the foe, for no blood was left to shed.” Igor and Vladimir are taken prisoners and the Polovsty are marching on Poultivle. The news of this heroic disaster causes a reaction of loyal sentiment, and, as the curtain falls, the Boyards draw their swords and swear to defend Yaroslavna to the death.
The second and third acts take place in the enemy’s camp, and are full of Oriental colour. Khan Konchak, as depicted in the opera, is a noble type of Eastern warrior. He has one beautiful daughter, Konchakovna, with whom the young Prince Vladimir falls passionately in love. The serenade which he sings before her tent is perhaps the most fascinating number in the whole work. There is also a fine bass solo for Prince Igor, in which he gives vent to the grief and shame he suffers in captivity. Ovlour, one of the Polovetz soldiers, who is a Christian convert, offers to facilitate Igor’s escape. But the Prince feels bound by the chivalrous conduct of Khan Konchak to refuse his offer. In the second act the Khan gives a banquet in honour of his noble captive, which serves as a pretext for the introduction of Oriental dances, choruses, and gorgeous scenic effects.
In the third act the conquering army of the Polovsty return to camp, bringing the prisoners and spoils taken from Poultivle. At this sight, Igor, filled with pity for the sorrows of his wife and people, consents to flee. While the soldiers are dividing the spoil from Poultivle, Ovlour plies them liberally with koumiss and, after a wild orgy, the whole camp falls into a drunken sleep. Borodin has been severely censured by certain critics for the robust realism with which he has treated this scene. When the Khan’s daughter discovers their secret preparations for flight, she entreats Vladimir not to forsake her. He is on the point of yielding, when his father sternly recalls him to a sense of duty. But Konchakovna’s glowing Oriental passion is not to be baulked. At the last moment, when Ovlour gives the signal for escape, she flings herself upon her lover, and holds him back until Igor has mounted and galloped out of the camp, unconscious that his son is left behind. Detained against his will, Vladimir finds no great difficulty in accommodating himself to circumstances. The soldiers would like to kill him in revenge for his father’s escape. But the Khan philosophically remarks: “Since the old falcon has taken flight, we must chain the young falcon by giving him a mate. He must be my daughter’s husband.” In the fourth Act Yaroslavna sings her touching lament, as she stands on the terrace of her ruined palace and gazes over the fertile plains, now ravaged by the hostile army. Even while she bemoans the cruelty of fate, two horsemen come in sight. They prove to be Igor and the faithful Ovlour, returned in safety from their perilous ride. The joy of reunion between husband and wife may be perhaps a trifle over-emphasised. It is the man who speaks here, rather than the artist; for Borodin, who lived in perfect domestic happiness with his wife, knew, however, many long and enforced separations from her. The picture of conjugal felicity which he gives us in Igor is undoubtedly reflected from his own life.
The opera closes with a touch of humour. Igor and Yaroslavna enter the Kremlin at Poultivle at the same moment as the two deserters Eroshka and Skoula. The precious pair are shaking in their shoes, for if Igor catches sight of them they are lost. To get out of their difficulty they set the bells a-ringing and pretend to be the first bearers of the glad tidings of Igor’s escape. Probably because they are merry ruffians and skilful with their goudoks, no one reveals their treachery and they get off scot-free.
When we consider that Prince Igor was written piecemeal, in intervals snatched between medical commissions, boards of examination, lectures, and laboratory work, we marvel to find it so astonishingly cohesive, so delightfully fresh. Borodin describes the difficulties he had to contend with in a letter to an intimate friend. “In winter,” he says, “I can only compose when I am too unwell to give my lectures. So my friends, reversing the usual custom, never say to me, ‘I hope you are well’ but ‘I do hope you are ill.’ At Christmas I had influenza, so I stayed at home and wrote the Thanksgiving Chorus in the last act of Igor.”
Borodin took his work very seriously, as we might expect from a scientist. He had access to every document bearing on the period of his opera, and he received from Hunfalvi, the celebrated traveller, a number of melodies collected among the tribes of Central Asia which he employed in the music allotted to the Polovtsy. But there is nothing of meticulous pedantry apparent in Borodin’s work. He has drawn a vivid picture of the past, a worthy pendant to the historical paintings of his contemporary Vasnietsov, who has reconstructed mediæval Russia with such astonishing force and realism. Borodin modelled his opera upon Glinka’s Russlan and Liudmilla rather than on Dargomijsky’s The Stone Guest. He had his own personal creed as regards operatic form. “Recitative does not conform to my temperament,” he says, “although according to some critics I do not handle it badly. I am far more attracted to melody and cantilena. I am more and more drawn to definite and concrete forms. In opera, as in decorative art, minutiæ are out of place. Bold outlines only are necessary. All should be clear and fit for practical performance from the vocal and instrumental standpoints. The voices should take the first place; the orchestra the second.”
Prince Igor, in its finished form, is a compromise between the new and the old methods; for the declamation, although not of such primary importance as with Dargomijsky, is more developed than with Glinka. Borodin keeps to the accepted divisions of Italian opera, and gives to Igor a long aria quite in the traditional style. The music of Prince Igor has some features in common with Glinka’s Russlan, in which the Oriental element is also made to contrast with the national Russian colouring. But the Eastern music in Borodin’s opera is more daring and characteristic. Comparing the two operas, Cheshikin says: “The epic beauty of Prince Igor reminds us of the serene poetry of Goncharov, of the so-called ‘poetry of daily life’; while Glinka may be more suitably compared to Poushkin. Borodin’s calm, cheerful, objective attitude towards the national life is manifested in the general style of the opera; in the wonderfully serene character of its melody; in the orchestral colour, in the transparency of the harmony, and the lightness and agility of the counterpoint. In spite of his reputation as an innovator, Borodin has introduced nothing startlingly new into this opera; his orchestral style is still that of Glinka.... The poetry of common things exercised such a fascination for Borodin that he completely forgot the heroic tendencies of Glinka. His folk, as represented by him amid an epidemic of alcoholism, and the hard-worked, ubiquitous goudok players, Eroshka and Skoula, throw into the shade the leading characters whose musical outlines are somewhat sketchy and impermanent. Borodin’s Igor recalls Glinka’s Russlan; Yaroslavna is not a very distinguished personality; Galitsky is not far removed from Eroshka and Skoula; and Konchakovna and Vladimir are ordinary operatic lovers. The chief beauty of Glinka’s Russlan lies in the solo parts and in a few concerted numbers. On the other hand, the principal hero of Borodin’s opera is ‘the folk’; while its chief beauty is to be found in the choruses based on Russian and Tatar folk-song themes. What affects us chiefly in the music may be traced to that normal optimism with which the whole work is impregnated.” Borodin, it should be added, had far more humour than Glinka, who could never have created two such broadly and robustly comic types as Skoula and Eroshka. There is a distinctly Shakespearian flavour in the quality of Borodin’s humour. In this respect he approaches Moussorgsky.
In the atmosphere of healthy, popular optimism which pervades it throughout; in the prevalence of major over minor keys; in the straightforwardness of its emotional appeal—Prince Igor stands almost alone among Russian operas. The spirit of pessimism which darkens Russian literature inevitably crept into the national opera; because music and literature are more closely associated in Russia than in any other country. Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar is a tragedy of loyal self-sacrifice; Tchaikovsky took his brooding melancholy into his operatic works, which are nearly all built on some sad or tragic libretto; Cui deals in romantic melodrama; Moussorgsky depicts the darkest phases in Russian history. Prince Igor comes as a serene and restful interlude after the stress and horror which characterise many Russian national operas. Nor is it actually less national because of its optimistic character. There are two sides to the Russian temperament; the one overshadowed by melancholy and mysticism; prone to merciless analysis; seeing only the contradictions and vanities of life, the mortality and emptiness of all that is. I doubt if this is the true Russian temperament; if it is not rather a morbid condition, the result of sudden and copious doses of culture, administered too hastily to a people just emerging from a semi-barbaric state—the kind of result that follows alcohol taken on an empty stomach; a quick elation, an equally speedy reaction to extreme depression. The other side of the Russian character is really more normal. It shows itself in the popular literature. The folk-songs and bylini are not all given up to resentful bitterness and despair. We find this healthier spirit in the masses, where it takes the form of a desire for practical knowledge, a shrewdness in making a bargain and a co-operative spirit that properly guided would accomplish wonders. It shows itself, too, in a great capacity for work which belongs to the vigorous youth of the nation and in a cheerful resignation to inevitable hardships. Borodin was attracted by temperament to this saner aspect of national character.