Later on, during the ’eighties and ’nineties, Kamenskaya, a fine soprano, was inimitable in the part of Rogneda (Serov), and in Tchaikovsky’s Maid of Orleans. Dolina, a rich and resonant mezzo-soprano, excelled as Ratmir in Glinka’s Russlan. Slavina, whose greatest success was in Bizet’s “Carmen,” and Mravina, a high coloratura soprano, were both favourites at this time. To this period also belong the triumphs of the Figners—husband and wife. Medea Figner was perhaps at her best as Carmen, and her husband was an admirable Don José, but it is as the creator of Lensky in Eugene Oniegin, and of Herman in The Queen of Spades that he will live in the affections of the Russian public.
In Feodor Ivanovich Shaliapin, Russia probably possesses the greatest living operatic artist. Born February 1/13, 1873, in the picturesque old city of Kazan, he is of peasant descent. He had practically no education in childhood, and as regards both his intellectual and musical culture he is, to all intents and purposes, an autodidact. For a time he is said to have worked with a shoe-maker in the same street where Maxim Gorky was toiling in the baker’s underground shop, so graphically described in his tale “Twenty-six and One.” For a short period Shaliapin sang in the Archbishop’s choir, but at seventeen he joined a local operetta company which was almost on the verge of bankruptcy. When no pay was forthcoming, he earned a precarious livelihood by frequenting the railway station and doing the work of an outporter. He was often perilously near starvation. Later on, he went with a travelling company of Malo-Russians to the region of the Caspian and the Caucasus. On this tour he sang—and danced, when occasion demanded. In 1892 he found himself in Tiflis, where his voice and talents attracted the attention of a well-known singer Oussatov, who gave him some lessons and got him engaged at the opera in that town. He made his début at Tiflis in A Life for the Tsar. In 1894 he sang in St. Petersburg, at the Summer Theatre in the Aquarium, and also at the Panaevsky Theatre. The following year he was engaged at the Maryinsky Theatre, but the authorities seem to have been blind to the fact that in Shaliapin they had acquired a second Petrov. His appearances there were not very frequent. It was not until 1896, when the lawyer-millionaire Mamantov paid the fine which released him from the service of the Imperial Opera House, and invited him to join the Private Opera Company at Moscow, that Shaliapin got his great chance in life. He became at once the idol of the Muscovites, and admirers journeyed from St. Petersburg and the provinces to hear him. When I visited St. Petersburg in 1897, I found Vladimir Stassov full of enthusiasm for the genius of Shaliapin. Unluckily for me, the season of the Private Opera Company had just come to an end, but I learnt at secondhand to know and appreciate Shaliapin in all his great impersonations. By 1899 the Imperial Opera of Moscow had engaged him at a salary of 60,000 roubles a year. His fame soon spread abroad and he was in request at Monte Carlo, Buenos Aires, and Milan; in the last named city he married, and installed himself in a house there for a time. Visits to New York and Paris followed early in this century, and finally, through the enterprise of Sir Joseph Beecham, London had an opportunity of hearing this great artist during the season of 1913. Speaking to me of his London experiences, Shaliapin was evidently deeply moved by, and not a little astonished at, the enthusiastic welcome accorded to him and to his compatriots. He had, of course, been told that we were a cold and phlegmatic race, but he found in our midst such heart-felt warmth and sincerity as he had never before experienced outside Russia.
Shaliapin’s romantic history has proved a congenial soil for the growth of all manner of sensational tales and legends around his life and personality. They make amusing material for newspaper and magazine articles; but as I am here concerned with history rather than with fiction, I will forbear to repeat more than one anecdote connected with his career. The incident was related to me by a famous Russian musician. I will not, however, vouch for its veracity, but only for its highly picturesque and dramatic qualities. A few years ago the chorus of the Imperial Opera House desired to present a petition to the Emperor. It was arranged that after one of the earlier scenes in Boris Godounov the curtain should be rung up again, and the chorus should be discovered kneeling in an attitude of supplication, their faces turned towards the Imperial box, while their chosen representative should offer the petition to the “exalted personage” who was attending the opera that night. When the curtain went up for the second time it disclosed an unrehearsed effect. Shaliapin, who was not aware of the presentation of the petition by the chorus, had not left the stage in time. There, among the crowd of humble petitioners, stood Tsar Boris; dignified, colossal, the very personification of kingly authority, in his superb robes of cloth of gold, with the crown of Monomakh upon his head. For one thrilling, sensational moment Tsar Boris stood face to face with Tsar Nicholas II.; then some swift impulse, born of custom, of good taste, or of the innate spirit of loyalty that lurks in every Russian heart, brought the dramatic situation to an end. Tsar Boris dropped on one knee, mingling with the supplicating crowd, and etiquette triumphed, to the inward mortification of a contingent of hot-headed young revolutionists who had hoped to see him defy convention to the last.
In Russia, where some kind of political leitmotif is bound to accompany a great personality through life, however much he may wish to disassociate himself from it, attempts have been made to identify Shaliapin with the extreme radical party. It is sufficient, and much nearer the truth, to say that he is a patriot, with all that the word implies of love for one’s country as it is, and hope for what its destinies may yet be. Shaliapin could not be otherwise than patriotic, seeing that he is Russian through and through. When we are in his society the two qualities which immediately rivet our attention are his Herculean virility and his Russian-ness. He is Russian in his sincerity and candour, in his broad human sympathies, and in a certain child-like simplicity which is particularly engaging in this much-worshipped popular favourite. He is Russian, too, in his extremes of mood, which are reflected so clearly in his facial expression. Silent and in repose, he has the look of almost tragic sadness and patient endurance common in the peasant types of Great Russia. But suddenly his whole face is lit up with a smile which is full of drollery, and his humour is frank and infectious.
As an actor his greatest quality appears to me to be his extraordinary gift of identification with the character he is representing. Shaliapin does not merely throw himself into the part, to use a phrase commonly applied to the histrionic art. He seems to disappear, to empty himself of all personality, that Boris Godounov or Ivan the Terrible may be re-incarnated for us. It might pass for some occult process; but it is only consummate art. While working out his own conception of a part, unmoved by convention or opinion, Shaliapin neglects no accessory study that can heighten the realism of his interpretation. It is impossible to see him as Ivan the Terrible, or Boris, without realising that he is steeped in the history of those periods, which live again at his will.[55] In the same way he has studied the masterpieces of Russian art to good purpose, as all must agree who have compared the scene of Ivan’s frenzied grief over the corpse of Olga, in the last scene of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera, with Repin’s terrible picture of the Tsar, clasping in his arms the body of the son whom he has just killed in a fit of insane anger. The agonising remorse and piteous senile grief have been transferred from Repin’s canvas to Shaliapin’s living picture, without the revolting suggestion of the shambles which mars the painter’s work. Sometimes, too, Shaliapin will take a hint from the living model. His dignified make-up as the Old Believer Dositheus, in Moussorgsky’s Khovanstchina, owes not a little to the personality of Vladimir Stassov.
Here is an appreciation of Shaliapin which will be of special interest to the vocalist: