There is little satisfaction in presenting my readers with a mere list of names, but space does not permit me to do much more in the case of the following composers:
G. A. Kazachenko (b. 1858), of Malo-Russian origin, has written two operas: Prince Serebryany (1892) and Pan Sotnik (1902),[53] which have met with some success. A. N. Korestchenko, the composer of Belshazzar’s Feast (1892), The Angel of Death (Lermontov), and The Ice Palace (1900). N. R. Kochetov, whose Terrible Revenge (Gogol) was produced in St. Petersburg in 1897; and Lissenko, sometimes called “the Malo-Russian Glinka,” the composer of a whole series of operas that enjoy some popularity in the southern provinces of Russia.
This list is by no means exhaustive, for the proportion of Russian composers who have produced operatic works is a striking fact in the artistic history of the country—a phenomenon which can only be attributed to the encouragement held out to musicians by the great and increasing number of theatres scattered over the vast surface of the Empire.
As we have seen, all the leading representatives of Russian music, whether they belonged to the nationalist movement or not, occupied themselves with opera. There are, however, two distinguished exceptions. Anatol Constantinovich Liadov (b. 1855) and Alexander Constantinovich Glazounov (b. 1865) were both members, at any rate for a certain period of their lives, of the circles of Balakirev and Belaiev, but neither of them have shared the common attraction to dramatic music. Glazounov, it is true, has written some remarkably successful ballets—“Raymonda” and “The Seasons”—but shows no inclination to deal with the problems of operatic style.
The “opera-ballet,” which is not—what at the present moment it is frequently being called—a new form of operatic art, but merely the revival of an old one,[54] is engaging the attention of the followers of Rimsky-Korsakov. At the same time it should be observed that the application of this term to A Night in May and The Golden Cock is not sanctioned by what the composer himself has inscribed upon the title pages.
At the present time the musical world is eagerly expecting the production of Igor Stravinsky’s first opera The Nightingale. This composer, by his ballets The Bird of Fire, Petrouchka, and The Sacrifice to Spring, has worked us up through a steady crescendo of interest to a climax of curiosity as to what he will produce next. So far, we know him only as the composer of highly original and often brilliant instrumental works. It is difficult to prophesy what his treatment of the vocal element in music may prove to be. The work is in three acts, based upon Hans Andersen’s story of the Emperor of China and the Nightingale. The opera was begun several years ago, and we are therefore prepared to find in it some inequality of style; but the greater part of it, so we are told, bears the stamp of Stravinsky’s “advanced” manner, and the fundamental independence and novelty of the score of The Sacrifice to Spring leads us to expect in The Nightingale a work of no ordinary power.
Russia, from the earliest institution of her opera houses, has always been well served as regards foreign artists. All the great European stars have been attracted there by the princely terms offered for their services. Russian opera, however, had to be contented for a long period with second-rate singers. Gradually the natural talent of the race was cultivated, and native singers appeared upon the scene who were equal in every respect to those imported from abroad. The country has always been rich in bass and baritone voices. One of the most remarkable singers of the last century, O. A. Petrov (1807-1878), was a bass-baritone of a beautiful quality, with a compass extending from B to G sharp. He made his début at the Imperial Opera, St. Petersburg, in 1830, as Zoroaster in “The Magic Flute.” Stassov often spoke to me of this great artist, the operatic favourite of his young days. There were few operatic stars, at least at that period, who did not—so Stassov declared—make themselves ridiculous at times. Petrov was the exception. He was a great actor; his facial play was varied and expressive, without the least exaggeration; he was picturesque, forcible, graceful, and, above all, absolutely free from conventional pose. His interpretation of the parts of Ivan Sousanin in A Life for the Tsar, the Miller in The Roussalka, of Leporello in The Stone Guest, and, even in his last days, of Varlaam in Boris Godounov, were inimitable for their depth of feeling, historic truth, intellectual grasp, and sincerity. Artistically speaking, Petrov begat Shaliapin.
To Petrov succeeded Melnikov, a self-taught singer, who was particularly fine in the parts of Russlan, the Miller, and Boris Godounov. Among true basses Karyakin possessed a phenomenal voice, but not much culture. A critic once aptly compared his notes for power, depth, and roundness to a row of mighty oaken barrels.
Cui, in his “Recollections of the Opera,” speaks of the following artists, stars of the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, between 1872 and 1885: Menshikova, who possessed a powerful soprano voice of rare beauty; Raab, who was musically gifted; Levitskaya, distinguished for her sympathetic qualities, and Pavlovskaya, a remarkably intelligent and “clever” artist. But his brightest memories of this period centre around Platonova. Her voice was not of exceptional beauty, but she was so naturally gifted, and her impersonation so expressive, that she never failed to make a profound impression. “How she loved Russian art,” says Cui, “and with what devotion she was prepared to serve it in comparison with most of the favourite singers of the day! None of us native composers, old or young, could have dispensed with her. The entire Russian repertory rested on her, and she bore the burden courageously and triumphantly.” Her best parts were Antonida in A Life for the Tsar, Natasha in The Roussalka, Marina in Boris Godounov, and Donna Anna in The Stone Guest.
Among contraltos, after Leonova’s day, Lavrovskaya and Kroutikova were the most popular. The tenors Nikolsky, Orlov, and Vassiliev all had fine voices. Orlov was good as Michael Toucha in The Maid of Pskov; while Vassiliev’s best part was the King of Berendei in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Snow Maiden. Another tenor, whose reputation however was chiefly made abroad, was Andreiev.