sign in sign up
<<
Home , Alexander Borodin, Alexander Dargomyzhsky, Alexander II of Russia, Alexander Pushkin, Alexander Serov, Alms

Singing the Myths of the Nation: Historical Themes in Russian Nineteenth-Century

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of in the Graduate school of The Ohio State University

By

Ray Alston, M.A.

Graduate Program in Slavic and East European Languages and Cultures

The Ohio State University

2018

Dissertation Committee:

Alexander Burry, Advisor

Angela Brintlinger

Helena Goscilo

Jon Linford

© Ray Alston 2018

Abstract

Historical opera represents an important subgenre in the Russian repertoire, but many of the Russian on historical themes are unperformed and unknown in the West. However, they continue to play an important role in ’s self-exploration and historical identity. This

dissertation seeks to address the matter of what it means to interpret history through the lens of

opera. What assumptions about history are present in these works by of the genre? To

answer this question, this dissertation draws on the of W. H. Auden who asserts that in

opera, virtuosic singing causes even real, historical persons to seem like the gods and heroes of

myth. This principle serves as something of the reversal of the concept of displacement that

Northrop Frye discusses in Anatomy of Criticism. According to Frye, all plots have a mythic

core. Realistic works displace their mythic core by limiting the power of heroes and placing

greater obstacles in their way. In opera, the process collapses. A realistic or historical plot may

displace the mythic elements of the story of an opera, but the virtuosic singing reconnects the

plot with its mythic core.

Thus, Auden and Frye combine to form the core theoretical of this

dissertation, which seeks to illuminate the particular myths about history implicit in seven operas

by prominent Russian nineteenth-century composers: Glinka’s A Life for the and

Ruslan and Liudmila, Borodin’s , Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Maid of and The

Tsar’s Bride, and Musorgsky’s and . Running through these

operas are variations on various myths, the most prominent of which is that of the Tsar as father.

Composers rework these myths, combining them with other myths. They also present different

solutions to the problems presented by the mythic nature of historical opera. Some composers,

iii such as Glinka, fully embrace the mythic potential of opera as a means of dealing with religious themes, thus situating the history of the nation in the wider context of religious narratives about the origins, end, and purpose of human history. On the other end of the spectrum is the

Musorgsky of Boris Godunov. I suggest that he saw the mythic nature of opera as an obstacle.

By presenting self-consciously performed myths in Boris, Musorgsky draws a distinction between the mythic and “true” moments of the opera. Most of the operas discussed in this dissertation fall somewhere on the spectrum between these two treatments of myth.

This dissertation will examine the different treatments of myth in each of the operas and how these myths relate to the historical and political circumstances in which the operas were written. Far from making the themes of the opera abstract and apolitical, the myths all have relevance to political matters facing the Russian nation in the nineteenth century. The operas discussed in this dissertation, therefore, serve as an important contribution to a nineteenth- century dialogue about Russia’s history and future.

iv Acknowledgments

I owe many thanks to those who have supported this project directly and indirectly. I am grateful to the Ohio State University Department of Slavic and East European Languages and

Cultures for generous support. I am also grateful to Dr. Burry, Dr. Angela Brintlinger

and Dr. Helena Goscilo for their valuable insight and assistance on this project and others, and to

Dr. Jon Linford for his assistance with the musical analysis in this dissertation. Thanks to my

colleagues for their encouragement.

The completion of this project would be impossible without the help of others who

helped in ways not academic but no less meaningful. Chief among these is my dear wife, Megan.

Your tireless work, and love made this project both possible and worth doing. Thanks

also for somehow finding time to read passages of my dissertation to check for clarity and for

listening to me lecture on these subjects when I needed to tease out an idea. I am also grateful to

our son, David, for the motivation he gives me. I am grateful to my father and mother for their

generous assistance at various times during this project. Even more importantly, you have an

example of diligence and persistence, and have had confidence in me throughout graduate

school, even when my own has wavered. I would like to thank my mother-in-law, Wendy

Chelson, for the eleventh-hour proofreading. Thanks also to my friend, Paul Williams, for his feedback on the clarity of my writing. Thanks to Kristy Russell and Andrea McVey, for watching David when both Megan and I needed to work. Thanks to other members of my family and the Worthington Ward of the Church of Christ of Latter-Day Saints for spiritual support. This has been a effort, and too many people have aided to name them all.

v As a final expression of gratitude, I wish to include the words of Captain Moroni from the Book of Mormon. After leading a decisive victory in the defense of his people, he observed

“God…has strengthened our arms… by our faith, by our , and by our rites of worship, and by our church, and by the sacred support which we owe to our wives and our children, by that liberty which binds us to our lands and our country; yea, and also by the maintenance of the sacred word of God, to which we owe all our happiness” (Alma 44:5). This has been the case for me, throughout graduate school, and I pray it will continue so.

vi Vita

2011...... B.A., English

Brigham Young University—Idaho

2014...... M.A., Slavic and Culture Studies,

The Ohio State University

2013-2017 ...... Graduate Teaching Associate, Department of Slavic

and East European Languages and Cultures,

The Ohio State University

2018 ……………………………………… Visiting Professor, Modern Languages and Literature

Kenyon College

Fields of Study

Major Field: Slavic and East European Languages and Cultures

vii Table of Contents

Abstract ...... iii Acknowledgments ...... v Vita ...... vii

Notes on Transliteration and …………………………………………………………x

Chapter 1: Introduction ..……………………………………………………………………..…...1

Chapter 2: “We are Situated, as it were, Outside of Time”: Glinka’s Operas and Pyotr

Chaadayev………………………………………………………………………….……….…...32

Chapter 3: From Myth to and Back: Rimsky-Korsakov’s Operas

…………….……………………………………………………………………………..………77

Chapter 4: “Muzhaisia, kniaginia”: a Woman as the Father of the Nation in Borodin's Prince

Igor…………………………………………………………………………………...………...117

Chapter 5: “Rage Against the Dying of the Light”: The Death of the Fathers in Musorgsky’s

Khovanshchina………………………………………………………………………...……….138

Chapter 6: “All the World’s an Opera:” Negating Myths in Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov

……………………………………………………………………………………………….…167

Works Cited ……………………………………………………………………………………194

Appendix A: Note on Musical Samples ……………………………………………………….210

(Musical Samples are included in Supplemental Materials.)

viii

Notes on Transliteration and Translation

I have opted to use the Library of Congress system for transliterating the Russian below. However, I make an exception for proper nouns. Earlier styles of transliteration for the names of composers and have become habitual. Thus, I keep the traditional “Tchaikovsky” instead of “Chaikovskii.” For the sake of uniformity, I apply this to all the names in the dissertation, including those of lesser known figures, simply because this style has become more familiar to Anglophone readers and thus looks more pleasing to the eye. Thus, “Yarustovsky” instead of “Iarustovskii.”

All from the Russian are mine unless otherwise indicated.

ix

Chapter 1: Introduction

According to Opera Base statistics, in the 2015/2016 season there were 1,490 opera performances in Russia, more than any other country after Germany and the United States.1 This fact suggests that opera maintains an important place in contemporary . Many of the operas performed there are by Western composers, such as Mozart and Verdi, and could be seen in any around the world. But operas by Russian composers are also well represented. Few of these operas are performed outside of Russia, and the attention they have received in scholarship does not match their continued relevance.

An important subgenre of is Russian historical opera. Of these operas, the only truly exportable has been Boris Godunov. However, in Russia historical opera plays an important cultural role, especially in terms of forming public opinion about history. Boris

Kutuzov, a Russian Orthodox historian, lamented in a 2008 book on church singing, “A Russian person typically learns national history primarily, not from the Church , but from the operatic stage, through the pictures of worldly artists and the books of secular writers. It is not difficult to understand how much all of this has hastened the secularization of Russian society”

(150). This statement is interesting in its own right as a barometer of ecclesiastical views about modern Russia, and as an example of the Church’s attempts to reassert itself in the post-Soviet project to define Russian identity. More to my purpose, it demonstrates the fact that since the

1 Russia has maintained third place for many years, though in the 2013/2014 season the country was second only to Germany. See http://operabase.com/top.cgi?lang=en&splash=t. Note that the statistics from the 2011/2012 season and before acknowledge that “figures for countries outside of western Europe and North America (particularly Russia) will be too low, as it was difficult to get accurate and complete .” Thus, while Russia is listed as only ninth in the world, this is based on incomplete information. 1

nineteenth century, cultural arts such as opera have rivaled more official channels of education in terms of their influence on the interpretation of history.

In light of such influence, this dissertation analyzes the interpretation of history in seven nineteenth-century Russian operas by interpreting the myths implicit in them and their relationship to the historical and political climate in which they were composed. The seven

Russian operas examined in this dissertation are the following: Glinka’s and

Ruslan and Lyudmila, Borodin’s Prince Igor, Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Maid of Pskov and The

Tsar’s Bride, and Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina and Boris Godunov. These operas were selected for their continued cultural relevance. Although several of them are seen rarely (if ever) in the

West, each of them maintains at least some place in the repertoire of Russian opera houses.2

This introduction first discusses the genre of Russian historical opera. Historical opera is not a solely Russian phenomenon. The Russian nineteenth-century composers whose work I examine inherited a tradition with about two centuries of precedent. Therefore, I will first give some brief, general descriptions of the genre as a whole. I will then examine how Russian composers set their work apart from that of their Western colleagues, suggesting some reasons as to why Russian opera focuses so explicitly on specifically Russian history and discussing trends in Russian historiography that are relevant to the operas. I then describe the particulars of my , which consists of a literary approach to opera based on the theoretical writings

2 On these grounds, I have left out ’s Kupets Kalashnikov, ’s , and Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s and . Although they deal with Russian history, the Rubinstein and Serov operas are virtually unperformed and unknown in the present day, and Tchaikovsky’s Oprichnik is performed only occasionally (four times last year, according to Opera Base). The musicologist Boris Yarustovsky considers it uncharacteristic of Tchaikovsky. It was an early composition; thus he had not yet devised the distinctive operatic style for which he is remembered in his excellent repertoire pieces, Eugene and The Queen of Spades. Mazeppa is performed more often than Oprichnik, but is still on the fringe. 2

of W.H. Auden and Northrop Frye. I explain my methods and the relevance they have for historical opera. I conclude with an outline of the dissertation’s chapters.

Historical Opera

Opera composers have turned to history as a source of inspiration from the genre’s onset.

George Jellinek’s History through the Opera Glass deals in detail with about 200 operas that tell historical stories and lists even more in passing. Jellinek’s encyclopedic approach demonstrates the importance of history as a source for opera. It also demonstrates the diversity of the genre, in terms of both the composers who have worked in it and the stories from history they have adapted. Such is evident in the fact that Jellinek’s catalogue ranges from

Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea (1642), about the Roman Nero, to John

Adams’s controversial (1991), about the 1985 Achille Lauro hijacking.3

The large and diverse number of historical operas means that generalizations about the genre as a whole run the risk of being too broad to be meaningful, or open to too many exceptions. Therefore, I limit myself to presenting a few dominant trends of nineteenth-century historical opera. Since my approach is necessarily brief and broad, I draw illustrations only from major composers whose work was not only highly visible in their day but remains vital in our own. This perspective is, naturally, limited since there were many other composers working

3 Adams’s operas have given a great deal of emphasis to history. Jellinek also notes Adams’s , though since the book predates Adams’s recent work the reader is left to make a mental note about his Doctor Atomic (2005), which tells the story of J. Robert Oppenheimer and the Manhattan project, and his more recent Girls of the Golden West about the Gold Rush era (see: https://www.operanews.com/Opera_News_Magazine/ 2017/10/Features/California_Sound.html and https://www.operanews.com/Opera_News_Magazine/2018/3/ Reviews/SAN_FRANCISCO__Girls_of_the_Golden_West.html). 3

in the genre. But, limited as my generalizations are, they provide useful points of comparison with the trends in Russian opera that I go on to identify.

The nineteenth century saw a shift in focus away from classical antiquity, which had

been the norm in historical operas during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Simon

Williams observes that “[a]mong the most long-lasting cultural effects of the French Revolution among the population of Europe was a separation from its past. By and large, the eighteenth century experienced continuity with the past, in particular an affinity with the values of classical civilization, but after the depredations of the Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, ‘all that had gone before seemed to belong to a world forever lost’” (58). This does not mean that historical opera went into decline in the nineteenth century. On the contrary, it flourished. Under the influence of (and such thinkers as Herder), nineteenth-century composers increasingly turned to the history of their own nations. Operas with plots from ancient history did not completely go out of favor. They did, however, become charged with nationalistic overtones.4 The classic example is the fact that the chorus “Va Pensiero” in Verdi’s stoked patriotic feelings in Italy. Set during the time of the Old Testament, Nabucco dramatizes the captivity of the Hebrews. Verdi’s audience applied the Hebrews’ longing for the Promised

Land to their own battles for independence. History, thus, could serve as an allegory for contemporary . Ancient narratives are taken not as a universal, human history, but as something of an allegory for the legacy and current trials of the composer’s own people and culture.

4 Perhaps the earliest instance of this phenomenon is in the of Handel, which served as expressions of English nationalism. See Ruth Smith’s Handel’s Oratorios and Eighteenth-Century Thought (9-10). 4 Seen against the backdrop of these trends, Russian opera seems unusually preoccupied by specifically Russian history. True, there are examples of Russian historical operas set in other countries and in the ancient world. Serov’s has a Biblical (Apocryphal) setting;

Tchaikovsky’s Maid of Orleans is set, naturally, in medieval ; the Biblical Sacred Operas of Rubinstein are related. These operas, however, represent the exception to the rule.

Furthermore, besides not dealing with national history, these operas have in common the fact that they have never entered the permanent repertoire in Russia or in the West. The most representative Russian historical operas deal directly with Russian national history.5

Why did Russian composers portray national history so explicitly, when some Western composers had to allegorize? Carl Dahlhaus speculates that historical, political and cultural differences account for differences in :

Serious consideration should be given to the possibility that different

manifestations of musical nationalism were affected by the types of

political nationalism and the different stages in political evolution

reached in each country: by the difference between those states where

the transition from monarchy to democracy was successful (Great

Britain, France) and unsuccessful (Russia), or between states formed by

the unification of separate provinces (Germany, Italy) and those formed

by the seccession of new nation-states from an old empire (Hungary,

Czechoslavakia, , Norway, Finland) (89).

5 This trend applies not only to Russian opera but also to . Dan Ungurianu demonstrates that during the height of the historical in Russia, only 14% of the historical written by Russian writers dealt with non-Russian history (260). He also adds the following qualification: “In order not to create the illusion of cultural isolationism in historical fiction of the time, it is important to recall that foreign subjects were amply represented by numerous translations from Scott and his European followers” (30). The same may be said of opera, since Western operas dealing with Western history were performed regularly in Russian opera houses. 5

Political influenced nineteenth-century historical opera, and differing political realities led to differing operatic norms.

One political reality of the time was censorship, which often made it safer for composers to allegorize nationalistic concerns by turning to ancient history or at least by turning to the history of their neighbors. Such was especially the case in nations dominated by foreign powers or otherwise disunited. Italy and Germany were both in the midst of nationalist movements and did not achieve unification until the second half of the nineteenth century. As a result, political circumstances complicated the portrayal of national history. Verdi encountered obstacles when he attempted to portray Italian history explicitly. In 1849, censors forbade his plans for a patriotic opera called The Siege of Florence, presumably because the opera “represents Pope and

Emperor as the enemies of Italian freedom” (Budden 420). Political problems caused complications for his finished opera, La Battaglia di Legnano in the 1850s, when censors demanded that the character Barbarossa be replaced with the Duke of Alva (see Budden 393).

The battle between Italians and the German Emperor probably seemed too similar to the contemporary struggle of Verdi’s countrymen against Austria.

Similar concerns underlie the way that Wagner engaged with history. His first opera to be performed on stage, , der Letzte der Tribunen, is also his one explicitly historical opera.

Rienzi, set in medieval Rome, tells the story of an ill-fated popular uprising. Its specific relationship to the project of German unification, which Wagner supported, is difficult to discern. However, it definitely parallels Wagner’s revolutionary sympathies. Barry Millington also notes the work’s “fascistic tendencies” (276), and the fact that the title character is a demagogue.6 Wagner saw patterns in the past that could guide future revolutions. In his words,

6 Apparently, Hitler kept the autograph score in his personal collection and it disappeared with him (Millington 276). 6

“The future is conceivable only in terms of the past” (qtd. in Bund 36). This represents an important motif of nineteenth-century historiography, traces of which are found in some of the operas explored below: national history defines both origin and destination.

Wagner later renounced Rienzi, possibly because of its stylistic debt to Meyerbeer, and he turned away completely from explicitly historical subjects. He turned to myth as an alternative source of inspiration. This preoccupation with myth, however, nonetheless exhibits the same tendency to allegorize national history that I have observed in the operas of Verdi. Millington observes that: “by the 1840s [the Nibelungenlied] had become a potent symbol in the struggle for German unification…Contrary to Wagner’s claim that he turned away from historical subjects on discovering the potentialities of myth for his future music , myth and history were interwoven in the Ring from the beginning” (285). Not only the Ring, but all of

Wagner’s major operas follow this . As Stewart Spencer notes, the Ring, Tannhaüser,

Lohengrin, Tristan and Isolde, Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg, and all stemmed from

Wagner’s enthusiasm for the work of German scholars of medieval history and literature.

History looms large over his operas. Thus, in Parsifal the older knight, Gurnemanz, tells the title character, “here time is one with space” (96). This is too cryptic to provide a key for decoding the relationship between national history and myth in the operas, but it nonetheless underscores their connection. Historical time, in Wagner, is transfigured by myths that give it significance.

The contrast between the and that of the Western nations mentioned should be apparent. Unlike Germany and Italy, nineteenth-century Russia was a single, unified state. It also had a continuous monarchy that had not been disrupted by revolution, as opposed to

France. Russia was also a pure autocracy that lacked any kind of parliamentary representation.

7

Nationalism took a different form in nineteenth-century Russia than it did in the West, where it at times represented a liberalizing force meant to unite and empower local populations against dominating foreign Empires. In nineteenth-century Russia, however, nationalism served the interests of the monarchy. As I discuss in chapter two, there was an official nationality set forth by the state that endorsed the values of “Autocracy, Orthodoxy and Nationality.” Benedict

Anderson proposes that such official nationalism constitutes a “willed merger of nation and dynastic empire” that “developed after, and in reaction to, the popular national movements proliferating in Europe since the 1820s” (86). In Russia, nationalism served as a means of providing cohesion throughout a large, multi-ethnic empire by centralizing cultural authority in the Orthodox Church and the monarchy.

Since such a paradigm existed, composers were encouraged to write operas with a nationalistic bent. Richard Taruskin asserts that Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar served as monarchist propaganda and Borodin’s Prince Igor promoted Russian imperialism (Defining

Russia Musically 25-47, 152-181; On Russian Music 184-189). While I do not wholly agree with

Taruskin’s analysis of either of these operas, I do not deny the fact that Russian opera did, at least at times, uphold the of monarchism.

A related reason for the popularity of Russian history as a subject for opera comes from what I will term the myth of Russian exceptionalism. Russia began the century as a newly emergent power. With the defeat of , Russia finally had a place among the great nations of Europe. National pride led to an increased interest in national history. Indeed, the first operatic treatment of the story—a by Catterino , who, incidentally, later conducted the premiere of Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar—premiered in 1815, with the

8

Napoleonic War still in recent memory (see Taruskin Defining Russia Musically 28).7 Opera served as one of the many ways to celebrate the victory, playing on the patriotic feelings it inspired. Glinka’s major operas play a part in this paradigm, though, as I argue below, they also contain reflections about history that go beyond superficial self-congratulation.

Russian national pride after the defeat of Napoleon was checked by the disaster of the

Crimean War.8 As much is reflected in Russian opera of the second half of the nineteenth century, in which national themes become increasingly ambiguous. Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov portrays a divided and troubled nation with a guilt-ridden Tsar at the head. Borodin’s Prince

Igor, for all the pomp and grandeur of the opening choruses, tells the story of a devastating military loss. Most of the action focuses on the attempts of the Prince, his wife, and the people to survive after a national catastrophe. Historical opera took an ambiguous turn in which composers explored potentially troubling subjects. This culminates in Rimsky-Korsakov’s early twentieth- century opera, , which Marina Frolova-Walker interprets as outright on the Tsarist government and on in general. Historical opera ceased to serve as an unambiguous celebration of the nation. Instead, it became a medium for exploring

Russia’s uncertain place and in the world.

The exploration of history in nineteenth-century Russia was not limited to opera.

Throughout much of the century history remained a topic of popular, as well as official, interest.

Dan Ungurianu demonstrates that the historical novel was the “dominant prose genre in Russia during the 1830s” (13). Note that Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar premiered in 1836, the same year

7 Thomas P. Hodge observes that the story of Ivan Susanin served an important role as “wartime propaganda” during the Napoleonic War. An 1812 treatment of the story in The Russian Herald [Russkii vestnik] inspired Cavos’s opera. 8 Certainly, other events and cultural influences led to the shift I discuss. I name the here less as a single catastrophic event and more as a point on the timeline from which I can show a cultural shift. 9

that Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter was published. Although the historical novel declined in popularity in the middle decades of the nineteenth century, it regained much of its previous popularity during the 1870s and retained it until the time of World War I.9 The novel was not the only literary medium for exploring history, either. There were also historical verse dramas.

Modern readers are most familiar with Pushkin’s Boris Godunov (1831). However, we should note that this was not staged until the second half of the nineteenth century. At this point, the historical verse dramas of Alexey Tolstoy and Lev Mey were widely popular. In many ways, history occupied a central place in the arts. Literature was not alone in its focus on history, since the second half of the nineteenth century also saw the iconic historical paintings of the

Peredvizhniki.

The composers of Russian opera consciously placed themselves within the cultural dialogue about history. They deliberately drew from various belletristic genres. In fact, all of the works that I discuss, except for Khovanshchina, are adaptations of literary works.The literary sources for the operas are, briefly: Ryleev’s duma (narrative poem on a civic theme) “Ivan

Susanin” is the source for Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar;10 Pushkin’s narrative poem Ruslan and

Lyudmila is the source for Glinka’s opera; Mey’s verse dramas provide the source for the two

Rimsky-Korsakov operas; the (presumably) twelfth-century epic “The Lay of Igor’s Campaign” for Borodin’s Prince Igor; and Pushkin’s Boris Godunov for Musorgsky’s opera of the same name.11 A full examination of the relationship between the operas and their sources is outside

9 , which appeared during the , was virtually an island, since it came at a time when there were few other historical novels being published and the popularity of the genre was at a low point. See Ungurianu. 10 There were a number of sources for A Life, including the earlier opera, cited above, by Cavos. I list only Ryleev because, as Thomas Hodge demonstrates conclusively, his duma was the most crucial source for the opera. 11From nearly the time of its publications scholars have debated the authenticity of “The Lay.” Citing linguistic, cultural and historical details, some scholars claim that it is a forgery or pseudipigraphical. Other scholars attempt to refute these claims. One of the most recent attempts to prove that it is a forgery is Edward Keenan’s Josef Dobrovsky and the Origins of the Igor Tale (2003), in which the author argues that the Czech scholar Dobrovsky is 10

the scope of this dissertation, partly because previous scholarship has given such a thorough treatment to the theme.12 However, it is important to note that nineteenth-century literature gave a central place to history, and opera followed suit, partly by adapting the very works that focused on it.

Nineteenth-century Russia saw not only a number of fictional and artistic works dealing with history, but also the work of many professional historians. Taruskin has written extensively on the relationship between opera and historiography.13 Observing that in the 1870s opera was seen as a serious exploration of history, he goes on to examine three different schools of historiographical thought: 1) the dynastic school, represented by Nikolai Karamzin. This school sees the and ancient Princes as the main historical agency and upholds the system of monarchy; 2) the statist school, represented by Sergey Solovyov. Drawing from Hegel, this school applied a teleological narrative that emphasizes the formation of the central state as the goal of historical development; 3) the populist school, represented most notably by Nikolai

Kostomarov, who focused on the suffering of the people and events in which the masses served as the chief agency, such as popular uprisings. The three schools’ interpretations of history are reflected in the operas of Russian composers, especially Tchaikovsky’s Oprichnik, Rimsky-

Korsakov’s Pskovitianka and Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov (see Musorgsky: Eight Essays and an

the true author of the text. Keenan also observes that the debates over authenticity have been clouded by nationalistic sentiments. On the other side, Andrei Zalizniak in “Slovo o polku Igoreve”: vzgliad lingvista (2004) gives what may be the most convincing argument for the poem’s authenticity. He demonstrates that “The Lay” uses grammatical structures found in birch bark documents that remained virtually unknown until the late twentieth century. Both provide valuable critical histories of the authenticity debates. 12 For comparisons between the literary sources and the operas see: Emerson’s Boris Godunov: Transpositions of a Russian Theme, Taruskin’s Musorgsky, Frolova-Walker’s Russian Music and Nationalism, Zsuzsa Domokos’s “The Epic Dimension in Borodin’s Prince Igor,” Thomas Hodge’s “Susanin, Two Glinkas, and Ryleev: History-Making in A Life for the Tsar,” and Gasparov’s Five Operas and a : Word and Music in Russian Culture. 13 He devotes a chapter of his book Musorgsky to this subject and revisits these themes, mostly reaffirming them, in his recent article, “Crowd, Mob or Nation.” 11

Epilogue 123-200). Taruskin’s work demonstrates the seriousness with which Russian composers engaged history. Composers were familiar with historiographical literature and drew from it in their work. enlarges on Taruskin’s work with her observation that

Musorgsky drew from each of these schools of thought but that he did not belong to any of them.

She focuses on only one composer, but she nonetheless demonstrates that Russian opera composers not only drew deeply from historiography but were also historiographical thinkers in their own right.

It is also worth remembering that the three schools of historiographical thought that

Taruskin discusses are far from the only existing voices engaging history in nineteenth-century

Russia. While Western historians were not unknown in Russia, they will, unfortunately, not be discussed in this dissertation. In my chapter on Glinka, I will discuss two other important historiographical perspectives that emerged in Russia: 1) the state sanctioned Official

Nationality, which presented an interpretation of history related to Karamzin’s dynastic view that also included a teleological narrative, and 2) the opposite views of .

Chaadayev’s radical notion that Russia stood outside of the universal (European) history proved deeply influential. It is regularly considered the beginning of the Slavophile-Westernizer debate.

His assertions may provide another explanation as to why Russian operas deal so frequently with explicitly Russian history—according to Chaadayev, it is precisely history that sets Russia apart from other nations. It can be argued that basing operas on Russian history allowed Russian composers to set their work apart from Western operas, to assert the uniqueness of their identity as and Russian composers.

To do so was necessary, because the odds were stacked against them. Imperial St.

12

Petersburg was home to three opera companies in the nineteenth century: Italian, German, and

Russian. Of these, the enjoyed the greatest prestige, and the German did not last into the 1840s. Tsar Nicholas I placed a cap on the fees paid to Russian composers and performers, but not on fees paid to foreign troupes or composers. The most extreme example is the lavish sum of 60,000 francs (33,000 rubles) awarded to Verdi for the premiere of La Forza del Destino (1862) in St. Petersburg. In contrast, the laws of the time limited the earnings of

Russian composers to 4,000 rubles per performance (see Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically

194, 207). Not only did Italian opera receive greater institutional support, but it was also vastly more popular, to the point that the Russian opera company itself performed Italian operas.14

Russian composers competed with the Italian opera for their livelihood. I suggest that another reason they turned to Russian history was to strike a patriotic chord with their audiences. It was a niche not being filled by foreign opera, so it remained fertile ground for Russian composers.

Additionally, composers may have seen Russia’s marginal place in Western history as a parallel with their marginal place in the repertoire, even in their own country.

It is important to note that, even when they focused on matters of local significance,

Russian composers were working within the wider, Western tradition. While the composers treated in this dissertation did incorporate Russian folk material into their operas,15 they were also highly influenced by Western composers.16 It is worth remembering that opera in general

14 See Julie Buckler’s The Literary Lorgnette, an insightful study on the culture of opera-going in nineteenth-century Russia. 15 For a discussion of the folk (and folk-like) material in the various operas, see Jennifer Fuller’s “Epic Melodies,” Frolova-Walker’s, Russian Music and Nationalism: From Glinka to Stalin, and Taruskin’s Musorgsky. 16 This fact has not always been acknowledged in musicological studies, which have at times shown Russian music as innately Russian, separated from the Western tradition. For a description and critique of the essentializing of Russian music, see Taruskin’s Defining Russia Musically and On Russian Music. Daniil Zavlunov’s M.I. Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar (1836): An Historical and Analytic- Theoretical Study, discusses the topic in terms of Glinka’s A Life. 13

was a cultural import into Russia, coming into the country only after the reign of Peter I.

Although Russian composers attempted to set themselves apart from their Western colleagues, the very fact that they were working within the genre of opera opened them up to foreign influences.

A complete analysis of the relationship between Russian opera and its sources in both folk and Western music is outside the scope of this dissertation. However, I will briefly mention some key Western influences as an illustration: Zavlunov notes the Italian influences on Glinka, citing, for one example, the scene of Susanin’s before his death. Susanin’s scene belongs in the same tradition of the Scena Tancredi in Rossini’s opera of the same name, as well as the

Finale of both Donizetti’s Anna Bolena and Bellini’s Beatrice di Tenda (164, 228-229); Borodin, in his own Critical Articles expresses a preference for Meyerbeer’s instrumentation over that of

Wagner; Frolova-Walker also cites Meyerbeer—specifically his Les Huguenots—as an inspiration for Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina (“ in Russia” 353-354). Taruskin suggests that the line “Midnight, in a garden, by a ” in the Polish scene of Boris

Godunov was probably inspired by a similar line in Verdi’s Don Carlo, which may have served as a model for Musorgsky’s opera (Musorgsky 267-269); Taruskin also argues that Wagner exerted a passing influence on Rimsky-Korsakov, particularly on the of . In his later works, especially in Bride, he turned to the classical, Italian tradition (“Rimsky-

Korsakov”). I find the last act of Bride strikingly similar to Donizetti’s Anna Bolena, especially thanks to the . These few examples illustrate the fact that Western opera, which dominated in the repertoire, was a powerful influence on Russian composers, despite their attempts to compose uniquely Russian works.

14

The success that Russian composers achieved in appealing to their countrymen varied. The reception history of the operas is largely outside of the scope of this dissertation, though I do include brief notes on the subject in each chapter.17 As a general matter of note, Italian and other foreign opera traditions reigned for much of the nineteenth century. Russian opera, in general, had a limited appeal. By imperial decree, Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar was the obligatory opener for every season, but his Ruslan and Lyudmila was a notorious flop. In some cases, the experiments with Russian opera of the kuchka composers were attended only by a small audience of the genre’s practitioners.18 There were popular Russian operas, notably those of

Alexander Serov, but most of these have since fallen out of the repertoire.19 The late nineteenth- century operas discussed in this dissertation were at best mixed successes at their premieres. All of them remained marginal until the end of the nineteenth century.

The present-day prominence in Russia of such works as Boris Godunov and The Tsar’s

Bride owes much to the economics of opera at the turn of the twentieth-cnetury. As Anna

Fishzon contends, the rise of companies in the -90s led to a dramatic shift in the Russian repertoire. “These companies produced Russian national-historical operas as well as popular and lesser known foreign works, heavily promoted native singers, and induced sweeping changes in the aesthetic orientation and repertoires of the competing Imperial Theaters” (13).

The late operas of Rimsky-Korsakov premiered in such private operas, which also featured the celebrated in Boris Godunov.

17 See the various volumes by Avram Gozenpud titled Russkii opernyi teatr for more on performance and reception. 18 The term moguchaia kuchka (“the mighty bunch”) refers to the “Russian Five,” the circle of , , Cesar Cui, Modest Musorgsky and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. was also associated with this circle. He both exerted his influence on them and was influenced by them. His opera and Musorgsky’s The Marriage are examples of operas that, at least initially, were seen only by those associated with the circle. 19 On the popularity of Serov, see Taruskin Opera and in Russia as Preached and Practiced in the 1860s (79). 15

In order to compete with the new, private companies, the Bolshoi and Mariinsky theaters began to incorporate Russian operas into their repertoire more frequently. This trend more or less remained stable even after the private companies closed. Throughout the Soviet period and up to the present day, the opera houses of Russia have presented Russian operas alongside more mainstream classics of the genre. Therefore, the historical operas that I discuss provide some measure of cultural continuity that connects the present with the nineteenth century, preserving some of its images and myths.

Methodology: A Literary Approach to Historical Opera

As I state above, the fact that the operas treated in this dissertation continue to be performed in Russia suggests something of their abiding importance. However, with some important exceptions that I note below, Slavists typically prefer to study Russian culture through such media as literature and film, outsourcing opera to musicologists. Even within musicology,

Russian opera is largely a niche interest. Because of this, Russian opera has not yet fully received the interdisciplinary treatment given to other media. This situation can be explained partly by the fact that few scholars have training in both musical and literary analysis. But the result of this practical matter is that scholarship primarily focuses on the musical aspects of these

Russian operas and much has gone unsaid about their literary and dramatic elements. This dissertation focuses on the literary aspects of opera. Naturally, I am not the first to observe these matters. Taruskin has been attuned to the literary dimension of opera since his first book, Opera and Drama as Preached and Practiced in Russia in the 1860s, which discusses attempts by

Russian composers to make opera viable as a dramatic and literary art. My approach builds on that of Taruskin, as well as other scholars, such as Emerson and Boris Gasparov, who analyze

16

the literary as well as musical aspects of opera. Following their lead, I make use of both musical and literary analysis.20

My methodology specifically focuses on the mythic dimension of opera. I have taken as a launch point the reflections of W.H. Auden, who not only wrote but also a number of essays on opera. He states: “It has, I believe, always been the case that, to be operatic, the principal characters must have a certain mythical significance which transcends their historical and social circumstances” (“A Public Art” 311). This idea provides a plausible explanation for why myth has been such a valuable source for operatic plots. For example, there are various operatic incarnations of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, or of , not to mention Wagner’s tendency to work with mythical subjects. But while explicitly mythical plots acknowledge directly this connection between opera and myth, the relationship remains just as strong in other plots, including historical ones.

Auden’s concepts of opera may be considered jointly with Northrop Frye’s theory of myths. Frye contends that myths form the core of all literature. He states, “The structural principles of literature are as closely related to mythology and comparative religion as those of painting are to geometry” (135). Narratives from the Bible and Classical mythology, for Frye, can be traced through all works of literature, even supposedly realistic ones. He argues,

“The presence of a mythical structure in realistic fiction, however, poses certain technical problems for making it plausible, and the devices used in solving these problems may be given the general name of displacement” (136). Displacement takes place when authors place limitations on their characters. For example, whereas mythical gods can accomplish anything

20 For the musical samples cited in the text as Figures, please see the supplemental material included with the Appendix. 17

and achieve their desires (Zeus transforms into a bull, a swan or gold to find sexual fulfilment), more realistic characters are limited by circumstances ( must leave her family and suffer the scorn of society to find fleeting fulfilment). The trick is in both limiting the power of the character and putting more insuperable obstacles in her path. If these obstacles and limitations are recognized by the reader as realistic, then the objective has been achieved.

While Frye’s theory is, naturally, debatable, in conjuncture with Auden’s concept it provides useful suggestions for theorizing about the literary aspects of opera. It barely needs mentioning that the fact that the characters sing prevents opera from ever being, in the strictest sense, mimetic, verisimilar or realistic. This seems to be one of the problems of the genre for

Tolstoy and others who object to its artificiality. In terms of Frye’s concept of displacement, the objection that operas are not realistic goes beyond the banal observation that people generally do not sing to communicate in the contexts that operas show them singing. The process of displacement collapses in operas. Historical or operas can attempt displacement by focusing their plots on ordinary human beings. However, as Auden argues, the fact that opera is a virtuouso art means that the characters are perceived as superhuman. Virtuoso singing transfigures kings and peasants alike into mythical gods and heroes. They achieve a sense of limitlessness of power and will (see The Dyer’s Hand 468-469). Thus, the displacement of a realistic or historical plot collapses through its presentation in music. Frye suggests that literature is displaced myth, but opera collapses the distance between literature and myth. The categories reunite.

I recognize that by fusing Auden and Frye in my consideration of opera as literature I am opening my work up to one of the critiques of Anatomy of Criticism: in this work, Frye seems to take mythical stories and structures as a universal given without giving proper attention to the

18

undergirding sociopolitical issues that give rise to them.21 I am not attempting to disregard this critique. Rather, I am proposing a synthesis. Throughout this dissertation, I analyze the operas within their historical context. I have attempted to lay the groundwork for this analysis by providing the discussion of opera and Russian nationalism above.

I hope to show that the mythic subtexts and narratives that the operas tap into relate, directly or indirectly, to matters of political significance. In this, my dissertation owes something to Thomas Cunningham, who applies Frye’s theories to a study of the image of Ivan the Terrible in opera. It also owes a great deal to Juliet Forshaw’s recent dissertation, “Dangerous ,

Heroic Basses, and Non-ingenues: Singers and the Envoicing of Social Values in Russian Opera,

1836-1905.” She analyzes Russian opera using a groundbreaking singer-centered approach that studies the various character types and tropes that emerged through the performances of famous artists. Because of these types and tropes, the major voice parts (, mezzosoprano/, and bass) began to tap into mythic narratives that Forshaw discusses in the context of changes in social values throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century. My approach to the operas in question is more traditional, since I am examining them as complete works rather than looking at the contributions of particular singers to individual roles.

But I make use of Forshaw’s insights into the characters of the opera and the myths to which they relate.22

21 I am paraphrasing an observation of Leroy F. Searle in “New Criticism” in The Johns Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory & Criticism. http://litguide.press.jhu.edu.proxy.lib.ohio-state.edu/cgi-bin/view.cgi?eid=193. Tzvetan Todorov in Literature and Its Theorists: A Personal View of Twentieth-Century Criticism argues that in later works Frye turns to a broader definition of myth as something related to ideology. Even in Anatomy the sociopolitical is not wholly absent, i.e. Frye’s observation that tragedy comes to be in eras when the power of the aristocracy has peaked and begins to wane. 22 Another predecessor I might list is Feldman, who examines the myths of Italian opera and their relationship to political issues in her Opera and : Transforming Myths in Eighteenth-Century Italy. 19

As noted above, I will not devote much space in this dissertation to comparing the operas with the literary works they are based on. I take such an approach for two reasons. First, as I noted above, previous scholarship has thoroughly examined the relationship between the operas and their literary sources. Second, doing so allows me to delve deeper into literary aspects that remain undetected if the discussion is not expanded beyond the question of adaptation.

I recognize that a literary approach to opera is problematic for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that composers do not always write their own librettos. I will not attempt to discuss this in detail, but a few comments are in order: all of the composers discussed in this dissertation wrote their own librettos, except for Glinka and Rimsky-Korsakov in Bride. 23

Glinka first composed the music to his operas and then requested that collaborators write verse to fit his music. Some might argue that the , therefore, lies outside of the original vision of the work, which was entirely musical. However, Daniil Zavlunov notes that the scenario Glinka provided his librettists for A Life, “suggests that he had a clear picture of the large-scale dramatic layout of the opera” (19). His plans also clearly encompassed details, since his instructions to his collaborators included specific requests for particular vowels on particular notes. Glinka micromanaged the composition of the librettos. In the case of Ruslan, he even contributed some verse. His level of control over the composition suggests that it is indeed profitable to consider the literary elements of his operas. The libretto of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Bride was adapted from

Mey by I. F. Tyumenov. The composer, however, directed Tyumenov in the writing process, so he had a level of control similar to that of Glinka (see My Musical Life). Since the composers did have such a high level of control over the librettos when they did not themselves write them, I

23 contributed a scenario for Borodin’s Prince Igor. I was unable to locate the scenario in my research, and was thus unable to compare it with Borodin’s work. 20

contend that there is good reason to consider them an integral part of the opera and make use of literary as well as musical analysis.

The Myths

The mythical nature of opera is especially problematic for the historical genre. The

Enlightenment saw a turn away from mythic approaches to history towards a more fact-based approach. The of the historians already noted (i.e. Karamzin, Solovyov, Kostomarov) can be considered myths in the broad sense. Postmodern theorists would call these myths , stories that define the meaning of historical events. Even so, through research and focusing on the facts of history, these historians attempted to distance their work from mythic narratives. Cunningham notes that, despite Karamzin’s efforts, his treatment of Ivan the

Terrible does not fit completely within his (52-54). The facts of history could take precedence over the mythic narratives that presumably give it meaning, or at least they could stand apart from it.

However, such was not the case for opera, which served as an opportunity for nineteenth- century audiences to revert to mythic visions of national history. This play between myth and history is one of the main tensions of the genre. It presents something of a creative problem for many of the composers of the operas that I examine, and each offers a different solution. Some composers, such as Glinka, fully embrace the mythic potential of opera as a means of dealing with religious themes. Doing so allows him to situate the history of the nation in the wider context of religious narratives about the origins, end, and purpose of history. Such a vision basically rejects the need for facts in favor of a fully mythic vision. On the other end of the spectrum is the Musorgsky of Boris Godunov. He saw the mythic nature of opera as an obstacle.

By presenting self-consciously performed myths in Boris, Musorgsky draws a distinction

21

between the mythic and the true. He presents Boris as something of an anti-myth. Most of the operas discussed in this dissertation fall somewhere on the spectrum between these two treatments. But all of them demonstrate the tension between myth and history.

But what, specifically, are the myths that inform Russian historic opera? There are many, and as I demonstrate below, the operas present variations on them. One myth, however, runs through all the operas discussed below: that of the Tsar as father and the people as children.

The myth of the Tsar as father undergirds the legitimacy of the system of monarchy. The

Tsar has the divine right to rule because he does so in order to watch over his people as a father watches over his children. A common folk epithet applied to the Tsar is “little father”

(batiushka). In many of the operas this epithet is used in gestures of supplication. The people call on the Tsar for support. He is thus also linked to the Christian God, the Almighty Father who watches over all creation. Forshaw argues that a singularity of Russian opera is the role of the heroic bass. These heroes represent the authority of the Tsar and of God (22-27). Glinka,

Borodin, Musorgsky, and Rimsky-Korsakov all employ powerful bass characters who are either themselves Tsars and Princes or are symbols of the Tsar’s fatherly role. Their operas explore individuals endowed with almost unlimited power as well as the problems of vesting unlimited power in a single personality.

In Rimsky-Korsakov, Musorgsky and Glinka there are also powerful characters (Tsars, fathers or those associated with them) who are presented silently or who remain offstage throughout the action. Silence in an opera creates an uncomfortable absence. As a result, these absent fathers remain ambiguous. They are at once omnipotent and impotent. Their presence and power seem to pervade the entire opera, but they lack the powerful personality of singing operatic characters. The fatherhood of such characters is therefore open to question. Is an absent

22

father truly a father? Such characters raise questions about the relationship between the Tsar and the people.

Russian historical opera places particular emphasis on the relationship between the people and the Tsar. Connected to the myth of the Tsar as father is the myth of the people as children. Presumably, the Tsar serves as the main agent who influences the course of history.

However, some composers subvert this idea through what Taruskin terms “choral dramaturgy,” a technique that expands the role of the chorus. They show the people as active agents in history.

This device subverts of the myth of the people as children, but traces of that myth nonetheless remain. Attempting to subvert a myth means acknowledging its dominance.

Related to the myth of the Tsar as father is the trope of the life cycle. This has resonance with paganism, both that of classical mythology and that of Russia’s past. It is related to myths of rebirth and regeneration. This myth is also related to the system of monarchy, since its perpetuation relies on the replacement of one generation by another. This cycle, however, also presents the opportunity for struggle between generations. The old do not wish to relinquish their hold on life or power; the young do not wish to remain in the shadow of their parents. I will argue below that this struggle has the potential to result in either the rejuvenation of the kingdom or its utter ruin.

Besides the theorists and critics I have already acknowledged, this dissertation draws deeply on the work of such Western and Anglophone scholars as Daniil Zavlunov, Mary Helena

Kalil, Inna Naroditskaya, and especially Marina Frolova-Walker, who seems to be taking up the mantle of Taruskin. Of the Russian musicologists consulted, the most crucial are Sergei Frolov,

L.N. Kiseleva, Konstantin Zenin, Anna Bulycheva, , Anatoly Solovtsov, and

Emilia Frid.

23

Plan of Chapters

Chapter 2: “We are Situated, as it were, Outside of Time”: Glinka’s Operas and Pyotr

Chaadayev

Glinka’s two operas, A Life for the Tsar and Ruslan and Lyudmila, are frequently interpreted as celebrations of the and monarchist propaganda. Thus, they correspond to the doctrine of Official Nationality formulated during the reign of Nicholas I. This doctrine encompasses a providential interpretation of history—Providence leads nations from tyranny to autocracy, and the autocrat eventually bestows upon his people a constitution that limits his power. Glinka does mostly agree with this , but his operas also share some curious common ground with the subversive historical thought of Pyotr Chaadayev.

Chaadayev criticized contemporary Russia as backward and claimed that Russia’s lack of connection to actually placed the country “outside of time” or history. In his operas, Glinka shares this perception of Russia as existing outside of history, while rejecting

Chaadayev’s basic claim that this is a negative thing.

Act I of A Life shows the Russian people existing outside of history through its dramatic stasis. This act has been criticized because the love story between Antonida and Sobinin lacks both dramatic tension and a real connection to the main matters of the plot. However, Glinka exploits this fact to show that the natural place for the Russian people is outside of history.

Glinka does so through mythical language, characterizing Russian life outside of history as an Eden. It is pastoral, dealing entirely with such events as birth, marriage and death. This state of being is possible only through the godlike protection of the Tsar. The lack of a Tsar during the has thrust the Russian people into history. Their focus on familial matters—demonstrated by the fact that they describe national matters in familial terms, and by

24

the lack of traditional in their singing—shows that the Russian people do not belong in historical time. Russia’s entrance into history in the Time of Troubles relates to the motif from

Christian thought that history begins with the Fall from Eden. This is the main mythic underpinning of the opera.

Following the logic of this mythic underpinning, Glinka establishes Ivan Susanin as a

Christ figure whose sacrifice restores the Russian people to their paradisiacal state outside of history. At the end of the opera, the Tsar and the state assume responsibility for matters national.

The Russian people return to timelessness. Glinka thus frames the beginning of the

Romanov in the Christian narrative of the Fall and Redemption. Russia’s place outside of history is an ideal, possibly a calling.

Glinka’s second opera, Ruslan and Lyudmila, takes the point even farther. This opera, however, is concerned entirely with the trope of the life cycle. The entire plot is bound up in the marriage of the title characters. This opera, therefore, only knows cyclical, generational time.

Catastrophe comes when Chernomor kidnaps Lyudmila, preventing the wedding from taking place. Chernomor’s power thus has the ability to halt the natural flow of time, disrupting the life cycle. Central to the opera are myths of generational struggle, such as that of Chronos devouring his offspring. As in this example, the struggle stems from the fact that the older generation attempts to extend its hold on the young. Ruslan sets out on a quest to restore the normal flow of time. In doing so, unlike Chernomor, he accepts the inevitability of his own death. He seeks not to be immortal, but to be remembered. Glinka shows that history is not so much what happened, as what is remembered. As the relevance of national events fades with time, in the long run, only the life cycle and family matters will have relevance. This is Glinka’s final answer to

25

Chaadayev—in the long run, all history is family history. Russia’s place outside of time keeps this in perspective.

Chapter 3: From Myth to Realism and Back: Rimsky-Korsakov’s Ivan the Terrible Operas

The horrors of the reign of Ivan the Terrible have earned it a place in Russia’s cultural imagination. As a result, many myths have arisen about or around him. Cunningham contends that Karamzin presents a myth of Ivan the Terrible that corresponds to Frye’s concept of the sixth phase of tragedy, associated with Hell and the demonic (34-40). It portrays tortures and horrors without any mitigating principle or enlightenment. It forms the backbone of the cultural image of the Terrible Tsar, who is the demonic inversion of the mythic Tsar as father. A capricious, wrathful God, he is more like a demon with absolute power.

In the 1870s, however, Rimsky-Korsakov sought to present a more human version of the

Tsar in his first opera, The Maid of Pskov. As part of his kuchka experiments with operatic form and his striving for realism, he attempts to move away from the myths of Ivan the Terrible and his reign. Although the Tsar appears as the father figure, his human limitations are emphasized.

He is not a godlike being at all, but a human one. As a result, he does not unilaterally control the course of history. The participation of the chorus in the action of the plot subverts the myth of the people as children of the father Tsar. It shows a limited version of historical agency, one that stresses the limits of individual will, not unlike some of the historical commentary in Tolstoy’s

War and Peace.

In The Tsar’s Bride (1899), Rimsky-Korsakov returns to the mythic roots of the Ivan the

Terrible narrative. This opera presents its plot in terms of the myth of a demon falling in love

26

with a human being. It, therefore, returns to the interpretation of Ivan the Terrible’s Russia as a demonic world. However, it also adds the counterweight of innocent Marfa and the paradisiacal world in which she lives. Tsar Ivan stands apart from both worlds, a godlike shade who is distant from the action of the opera but wields absolute power.

The movement of the portrayal of Ivan the Terrible from myth to realism and back

corresponds to nineteenth-century Russian politics. The (relatively) liberal reign of

Alexander II gave way to the reactionary politics of Alexander III and Nicholas II. The mythic

Ivan of Bride parallels the division between the autocracy and people at the end of the nineteenth century. Marfa’s mythic paradise represents a parallel to the mysticism of such groups as the

Symbolists that served as an escape from the oppressions of the real world. Myth, therefore, is taken up as a means to both explore and transcend the problems of history. Additionally, through the return to myth, Rimsky-Korsakov explores the metahistorical issue that history, at root, is mythic, in that historical facts have significance only insofar as they correspond to mythic metanarratives.

Chapter 4: “Muzhaisia, kniaginia”: A Woman as the Father of the Nation

Borodin’s unfinished opera, Prince Igor, amends the myth of the Tsar as Father by adding a female parental figure. In Act II, Borodin fashions a plot present neither in “The Lay of Igor’s

Campaign” nor in the Primary Chronicle wherein Yaroslavna leads the people in Igor’s absence, battling the Polovtsians and struggling with her brother, Prince Galitsky, who is usurping authority and abusing young women. I suggest that this act provides the central mythic subtexts of the work. Through his defeat and captivity, Igor is deprived of his status as father. Yaroslavna must therefore take on the mythic, parental attributes usually reserved for father figures. Borodin presents her in terms of two myths: 1) the myth of the Empress, a woman who qualifies for 27

leadership because she takes on masculine attributes, and 2) the myth of the Bogoroditsa, not as a Virginal Mother, but as Intercessor and protector. Galitsky, in turn, is presented as a demon usurper linked to Satan or Lucifer. This mythic presentation allows Borodin to point out that the myth of the Tsar as father ignores the contributions of women to history. He calls attention to these contributions, and in doing so he also points out the potential of his female contemporaries.

This serves, at least partly, as a call for change in society that will grant greater agency to women. But this call for change also calls for equally powerful continuities with the past through its memorializing of Russia’s past and religious heritage.

Chapter 5: “Rage Against the Dying of the Light”: The Death of the Fathers in

Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina

In his last and unfinished opera, Khovanshchina, Musorgsky problematizes the myth of the Tsar as father by showing not one, but three father figures who present competing claims of authority. The plot deals with the last attempt of the , Russia’s ancient aristocratic class, to assert their power during the regency of Sophia Romanova. Leading this struggle are the rival father figures—Prince Ivan Khovansky, the Old Believer leader named Dosifei, and Vasily

Golitsyn. Each of them has a claim to authority as a mythic father, and each of them represents a contrasting element of Russia’s heritage. Their differing ideologies cause them to conflict sharply with each other.

Khovansky is a Dionysian father, drawing on the pagan energies of Russia’s past. He is unprincipled but nonetheless life-affirming. Of the opera’s father figures, he is the only one who has literally fathered offspring. Besides commanding the and leading them in their

28

Dionysian excesses, he seeks to put his son Andrey on the throne. This attempt to secure power through an ongoing hereditary line shows his connection to the life cycle.

In contrast, Dosifei is a father in the style of the Christian God. Musorgsky critiques his quest to renounce the world, because it ensures that he cannot find a solution to problems within time and space. He and the who follow him are powerless to deal with history, or even with life. Their only answer is to escape the world through self-immolation.

Lastly, Musorgsky presents as something of a failed mythic Peter I. A half-baked Westernizer and a reformer with limited success, he remains mired in superstition and nativist obscurantism. Worst of all, unlike Peter I he is powerless to bring his will into effect.

In a time when they need to unite in order to reassert their power, the three instead struggle with each other because of their vastly different . As a result, they are never able to form an effective alliance. They are swept aside by the ascendancy of Peter I in another iteration of the myth of the generational cycle. However, whereas in Glinka this cycle is rejuvenating, in Musorgsky it is apocalyptic. Peter I remains offstage, an impersonal force who nonetheless drives much of the drama. He is never greeted as a father figure. The fathers in

Khovanshchina are therefore not replaced by a son becoming a father, but by a coercive impersonal force. Fatherhood itself dies to make way for the modern state where personality is sacrificed to a mechanistic system and utilitarian values deny the worth of individuals.

Chapter 6: “All the World’s an Opera”: Negating Myths in Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov

In Boris, Musorgsky attempts to create a realist opera. The mythic nature of opera plots, therefore, constitutes a problem for him. He attempts to solve this problem by presenting a series

29

of self-consciously performed or narrated myths. exhibits the myth of the Tsar as father. However, this is a myth that the characters are performing, and not inherent to the events.

Musorgsky takes pains to illustrate the illusory nature of this myth. His choral dramaturgy shows that the people are not truly a united group. Their performance as the suffering children is artificial. The Tsar’s performance similarly breaks down through the fact that he confesses his feelings during the ceremony. A similar pattern is at work in Polish scenes, in which the

Pretender attempts to court the Princess Marina. These scenes rely on myths of romantic love—a mainstay of opera. But the courtship is presented as a play composed and directed by the Jesuit

Priest Rangoni. Both the and Marina play roles assigned to them, and both of them do so imperfectly. The fact that such characters as Varlaam and Misail narrate myths of the end times is given a similar treatment. Each of these myths is discredited by Musorgsky and is shown as merely a means of one character manipulating another or even manipulating a whole group.

However, in calling attention to the falseness of these myths, Musorgsky points towards the true core of the opera. The ceremonial and performative scenes allow him to differentiate between the true and the false. In such moments as Boris’s aria, Musorgsky points at the human core of experience beneath the myths of the opera. In this moment, Boris is presented as alone and stricken by guilt. While his aria relies on myth, it is stripped of the element of self-conscious performance, and therefore presented as a truth about Boris’s experience.

Lastly, the role of the Holy Fool serves to negate all the myths of the opera. The opera itself becomes something of an anti-myth. Self-conscious performance of myth within opera neutralizes the mythic presentation of history and allows audiences to reflect on human experience rather than to passively accept mythic propaganda. Boris thus becomes an instance

30

of both revisionist history and operatic reform.

31

Chapter 2: “We are situated, as it were, outside of time”: Glinka’s Operas and Pyotr

Chaadayev

A Life for the Tsar

Mikhail Glinka’s opera A Life for the Tsar (1836) tells the pseudo-historical story of the peasant, Ivan Susanin. According to , Susanin gave his life to conceal the location of the newly elected Tsar Mikhail Romanov from an invading Polish army. The political nature of the plot seems self-evident, and, as I will discuss later, many scholars view the work as mere monarchist propaganda. However, fully understanding Glinka’s interpretation of history in A

Life requires an examination of the competing schools of historiographical thought in Russia of the 1830s. Specifically, I will examine the conflict between the official version of history endorsed by Count Sergei Uvarov and the subversive view of history put forth by Pyotr

Chaadayev. An examination of the opera in this light reveals that while Glinka does hold monarchist views, he actually shares some common ground with Chaadayev by presenting the

Russian people as existing outside of time. I will first examine the relationship of A Life to

Chaadayev, and then I will demonstrate that similar principles are at work in Glinka’s later opera, Ruslan and Lyudmila.24

Count Sergei Uvarov, the minister of education, preached a theory of Official Nationality that stressed “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, Nationality” as Russia’s defining values. Cynthia Whitaker demonstrates that Uvarov’s triad of values is related to his particular interpretation of Russian history, which in ways coincides with that of Karamzin. Whitaker states: “Since its first

24 The references to the score throughout come from the facsimile edition of the 1892 score, except for Fig. 4, which is taken from the orchestral version of the score for the sake of convenience. I found two discrepancies between the text of the libretto in these two editions. In both cases, I defer to the libretto as found in the orchestral version, on the grounds that this version of the text is attested in the video performance cited below. 32

publication, Uvarov warmly endorsed the message of Karamzin's History that the autocracy embodied Russian tradition and was responsible for its greatness. Therefore, the rise of the autocracy was presented as the most essential feature of Russia's organic development and the tsar its natural guide” (164). Uvarov believed that Providence led nations through history in a natural course from tyranny to autocracy to the eventual establishment of a moderate, constitutional monarchy. This development must be gradual, and revolution would only disrupt the process. The official values that Uvarov sought to instill in the Russian people were meant to bolster the autocracy, which would prepare the way for a constitution, though he insisted that

Russia was not yet ready for this last step.

The example of Chaadayev demonstrates that this reading of history was not only taught but also enforced. In September (Old Style) of 1836—only two months before the premiere of

Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar—Chaadayev’s “First Philosophical Letter” was published (see

Tempest 281). Meant to be the first of a series of “Philosophical Letters,” this essay views history as providential—history is directed by God through the revelations of Christianity. These historical developments, over time, will create greater unity among peoples. In the end, an apocalyptic kingdom of God will unify all. Apocalyptic predictions may be commonplace in the

Christian tradition, but Chaadayev’s is distinguished by the fact that he does not place his kingdom of God outside of historical time. It will be historical, and in fact, political.

Most controversially, Chaadayev argues that Russia has been excluded from the providential developments of Western history, partly because of its adherence to Eastern

33

Orthodoxy as opposed to Universal (Catholic) Christian culture.25 Chaadayev does not merely say that Russia is backward or has failed to as fast as the West—he says that Russia has no history. In Chaadayev’s words, “We are situated, as it were, outside of time. The universal education of mankind has not spread to us” (323). Outside of time and history, Russia has neither benefitted from nor added to Western progress and development. It is clear that this vision of history contradicts Uvarov’s theory of a universal model of progression. Uvarov was actually personally incensed at the publication of Chaadayev’s letters and called for his strict punishment.

Chaadayev was declared insane and forbidden to publish further.26

Only two months after the letter was published (in November of 1836), A Life premiered.

In contrast to Chaadayev’s “Letter,” Glinka’s opera met with the approval of the establishment.

Tsar Nicholas I was thrilled with the opera and decreed that it would open every future season at the Imperial Theaters (see Taruskin Defining Russia Musically 38). This warm endorsement probably explains why many readings of Glinka’s A Life argue that the opera endorses Uvarov’s theory of Official Nationality and, by implication, his historical views.

The reading of the opera as monarchist propaganda underscores the fact that the opera proved controversial during the Soviet period. In order to keep it on stage, the title was changed to Ivan Susanin and a new, ideologically palatable libretto was written. Curiously, Soviet musicologists occasionally seem to claim that their substitute libretto represents Glinka’s true intentions and that the monarchism of the original libretto is the result of censorship and interpolations. Boris Asafyev, for instance, not only quotes from the Soviet libretto in his study

25 Based on a letter of Chaadayev to A. I. Turgenev, Raymond McNally asserts that while Chaadayev was sympathetic to the , he did not align himself wholly with it. “Chaadayev’s so-called ‘religion’ was a syncretism drawn largely from the works of other elitist intellectuals in history” (325). 26 In his later “Apologia of a Madman,” Chaadayev elaborates his philosophy, arguing that Russia has entered history, but only through the reforms of Peter I. 34

of the opera but also speculates that the official patriotism that the opera expresses was added under the guidance (or pressure) of the poet .27 The original libretto has seen a resurgence since the end of the Soviet period, and most musicologists agree that the work is deeply monarchist—Taruskin refutes the Soviet claim that the monarchism of the original libretto is an interpolation by showing that recurring themes in the music of the opera reinforce the ideology (Defining Russia Musically 36-38). Thomas Hodge calls the opera “a brilliantly constructed monument to the sanctity of autocratic absolutism” (14). This analysis has become the reigning opinion of musicologists.

This opinion is not restricted to Anglo-American musicologists, either. In recent years,

Russian musicologists have embraced, rather than apologized for, the opera’s monarchism. To cite just two examples: L.N. Kiseleva contends that the opera played a key role in the formation and indoctrination of the official state ideology. Galina Savoskina sees a fusion of generic features of the and the opera in A Life. With this fusion, Glinka raises patriotism to the level of a religious value (77). In most post-Soviet Russian readings, the overt patriotism of the opera is accepted unabashedly and presented as a necessary part of the work. Perhaps a similar perspective underlies some of the reception of Dmitry Tcherniakov’s production that has been in the repertoire of the Mariinsky Theater from 2004 to this day.28 While his production uses the original libretto, the sets, costumes and general tone significantly depart from tradition, generally downplaying the opera’s patriotic message.29 Instead of Poles, the villains appear to be bureaucrats, and the opera focuses on the destruction of the “little man” and disruption of family

27 To his credit, Asafyev acknowledges that his conclusion is speculative. Zhukovsky is a natural target, because he was the tutor of Duchess Alexandra Fyodorovna, the wife of (future) Tsar Nicholas I. He was connected to the court and held mainly conservative views. 28 See https://www.mariinsky.ru/playbill/repertoire/opera/susanin/ 29 See Yevgenia Krivitskaya’s review “Strasti po Susaninu.” 35

happiness by depersonalized power (see Krivitskaia 78). Predictably, some critics have condemned the production as a departure from Glinka’s intentions, which are generally assumed to be monarchist.30

The monarchist interpretation of A Life sees the opera at odds with Chaadayev’s concept of history. Sergei Frolov draws a direct connection between the opera and the thinker, suggesting that A Life can be seen in the context of responses to Chaadayev, partly because the opera’s plot demonstrates the greatness of Russia’s history. This interpretation may indeed apply to the sacrifice of Susanin and the more general fact that Glinka commemorates Russian history in his work. However, this does not take into account the fact that a great deal of stage time is devoted to a subplot that deals with the love between Susanin’s daughter, Antonida, and her fiancé,

Sobinin. This subplot, as I demonstrate below, is not directly connected to the main plot or to historical events. It is, in effect, outside of history. I suggest that in placing so much focus on this ancillary plot, Glinka accepts Chaadayev’s premise that Russia has existed outside of universal history, but he denies his basic claim that such an arrangement is negative.31

The difference between the views of Glinka and Chaadayev is religious in essence. It relates to differing interpretations of the myth of the redemption of man. For Chaadayev, this is a process that takes place within history. It begins with the appearance of Christ, whose teachings and life change history’s course by providing a sanctifying influence. It is noteworthy that

30 Besides Krivitskaia’s review, meant for an academic audience, the Internet provides some more popular sources that are worth examining. For a negative review from the initial performance, see http://izvestia.ru/news/290684. For a more recent and positive review (from 2015), see http://reznikers1.livejournal.com/85110.html. 31 Ancillary, romantic plots are not uncommon in historical opera, especially in French Grand Opera. However, they are usually more directly linked to the historical matters than in A Life. For example, in Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots, the fictional love story between Valentine (Catholic) and Raoul (Protestant) helps to draw into focus the religious conflict at the heart of the opera’s exploration of history. As I will demonstrate below, the love story in A Life is not connected to the plot or to history. 36

Chaadayev refers to the Bible but does not idealize the historical epochs depicted in it, i.e. he does not look back with nostalgia on the apostolic period. His predominant interest lies in what has happened in Christendom in the following centuries. He sees the influence of Christianity growing through the centuries and bringing about positive change through such events as the

Enlightenment and the abolition of in Western Europe. In Chaadayev’s view, the growth of the influence of Christianity will ultimately lead to the redemption of man.

In contrast, Glinka’s interpretation of redemption adapts the narrative of the Old and

New Testaments, particularly the parallel between the book of Genesis and the book of

Revelation. Because these books are placed as the first and last books of Christian Scripture, the

Bible begins with fallen mankind’s expulsion from paradise and ends with redeemed mankind’s entrance into the New Jerusalem. This view of redemption, in contrast to that of Chaadayev, is ahistorical. Northrop Frye observes the following about the relationship between time and the myth of the Fall: “In Adam’s situation there is a feeling, which in Christian tradition can be traced back at least to St. Augustine, that time begins with the fall; that the fall from liberty into the natural cycle also started the movement of time as we know it” (213). Time, or history, is traditionally presented as a consequence of mankind’s fallen condition. Following this tradition,

Glinka maintains that redemption cannot fully occur within history. Just as the Fall made mankind subject to history, so must redemption entail saving mankind from it.

In A Life, Glinka situates Russia within this myth. In doing so, he shows that Russia’s absence from history is not only a boon—it is an Edenic state. His vision of Russia outside of history relies on the two myths that I mention in the Introduction. The myth of the Tsar as Father is vital, because the Tsar safeguards the people. He protects them from the ravages of historical time. Thanks to his guardianship, the Russian people are able to enjoy a pastoral time, one that

37

revolves entirely around the second main myth, that of the life cycle. The natural place of the

Russian people is therefore a limited sphere that focuses on the family. The Time of Troubles that the opera depicts represents a disruption of the natural order. The absence of a Tsar means that the people are confronted with history. It is a Fall. The Christological sacrifice of Susanin, by ensuring the survival and reign of the Tsar, restores the Russian people to their lost paradise.

The remainder of my discussion of A Life examines how Glinka constructs this myth of Russian history, and how it both parallels and is at variance with the views of Chaadayev.

The opera’s opening scene introduces the tension between the historical difficulties the

Russian people have encountered and their natural state outside of history. In the opening chorus, peasants sing of the troubles that have beset the nation and the recent relief they have experienced. The men express their readiness to die for the Tsar and the country, even though no

Tsar has been elected yet. This civic heroism is necessary because the people have entered history. However, there are also indications that this is not their natural place. The peasants apply domestic terms to the invading Poles, singing, “Woe to the unexpected, wicked guests” (25-26).

The peasants, accustomed to dealing with the pastoral world of the family, apply its terms to the unfamiliar world of national history. Glinka brings the domestic concerns of the peasants into sharper focus in the next number, Antonida’s . Amidst national problems, Antonida sings only about her beloved. She expresses conventional longing for his return — “Will you not soon return, my falcon?” (30) — and also discusses her specific plans, i.e. “In that hut I will live with you” (34). Her concerns about her destiny concentrate on her impending wedding, even in the Time of Troubles.

Glinka shows that this focus on family matters is true also of Antonida’s fiancée, Sobinin.

When he arrives from the war, he immediately greets her, “Oh, joy unbounded! Can it be you,

38

my soul, my beautiful [maiden]!”32 (45). Susanin tries to shift Sobinin’s focus back to the national problems, singing, “Say, with what news did you come to us?” (45). At his prompting, the people ask if he has come with good news. As was shown to be the case with Susanin’s insistence to Antonida that she cannot think of a wedding until the nation is safe, the people need

Susanin’s prompting to think in national terms.

Even when urged to focus on national matters, Sobinin still has trouble getting to the point. He responds to the questions about the war by teasing his audience:

“Eh, when does a bold [udaloi] Russian soldier return home from the field of

honor without bold, good news? Eh, lads! There are no honest feasts in Russia

without hangovers! And a groom cannot go to [his] wedding without

happiness!” (45-47).

Sobinin’s riddle-like reply means, “of course I have come with good news.” The fact that he answers in riddles draws out the discussion. Rather than delivering his message clearly and quickly, he tantalizes his audience. He continues this circumlocution when Susanin asks whether

Moscow is “ours,” by replying with the question, “When was it not ours?” (47). Finally, when asked if was burnt, he says, “No, lads, [it is] saved!” (47-48). Sobinin’s method of delivering news demonstrates that, whatever his feats on the battlefield, the military is not where he belongs. His native language is not the efficient laconicism of the military messenger but the garrulity of the story teller. The folksy circumlocutions and riddles are intended to mark him as part of the Russian people.

32 The orchestral version reads devitsa, the piano version reads solnyshko. 39

Note also the focus of the three sayings included above: the first deals with war, but the following two are taken from the domestic sphere. Drinking at a feast is invoked as a normal part of social life. The feast in the second saying is implicitly linked with the wedding in the third. He is alluding to his own feelings of anticipation. Frolova-Walker observes that “here his is, appropriately, very close to passages in Antonida’s cavatina” (Russian Music and

Nationalism 97. Compare Fig. 1 and 2). The musical similarity underscores his spiritual similarity to her. They are both focused on domestic matters. He makes his priorities clear when later in the scene he states, “I came home for [my] wedding” (55). His joy comes more from his impending wedding than from the victory he has helped bring about. Since his rhetorical style aligns him with the Russian folk, Glinka implies that this focus on domestic matters is something that he shares with the rest of the community.33 The treatment of the music stresses the family events as well. After Sobinin tells the tale of military victory, Antonida addresses Susanin —

“My father! On your face there is something bitter [i.e. you look sad]. Why should we wait any longer?” (52). Unlike the narration of the battle, which is through-composed without repetition, this line is repeated three times. Glinka thus deemphasizes matters national and emphasizes the familial. He shares the priorities of his characters.

As I will explore below, Susanin helps the other peasants to see family life in the context of national history. He protests that until Russia is no longer “an orphan” (55) it is not truly safe.

Therefore, the wedding cannot happen yet. Since he perceives dangers that other characters are unable to see, he is uniquely able to mediate between the family and national matters. Thus, he helps the rest of the peasants to handle the problems of history while also keeping the family in

33 I have opted to call his expressions “folksy” and “folk-like,” because they are meant to sound like the expressions of the folk but are not necessarily taken from authentic folklore. See Frolova-Walker’s Russian Music and Nationalism. 40

focus. Susanin’s role is made clear when during the trio he sings with Antonida and Sobinin.

Sobinin laments the fact that the wedding day has not yet come, while Antonida and Susanin comfort him that it will indeed happen in the future. Susanin does not oppose the wedding, and the domestic sphere is his main concern as well.

The fact that the chorus joins in with the trio demonstrates that the wedding is a part of the social life of the people. They have a vested interest in it. The family circle is their natural focus. When forced to deal with matters of national history, the Russian folk process it in familial terms. The myth of the Tsar as father fits this paradigm. The opera presents it as a logical, even natural part of their . Susanin invokes this myth with his statement that

Russia without a Tsar is an “orphan.” The opera carries the metaphor even further by presenting the Tsar as the husband of Russia. In the opera’s figures of speech, the coronation of the Tsar becomes a parallel to the wedding of Antonida and Sobinin. This parallelism is probably further suggested by the fact that the Orthodox wedding ceremony, or venchanie, involves crowning the bride and groom. With this parallelism in mind, the chorus sings of the crowning of the Tsar:

“All Rus will adorn itself like a beautiful bride! And a wedding celebration [prazdnik] has come for all Rus!” (73). The wedding serves as a central trope of the opera. As a comic trope, weddings symbolize the foundation of a community. Frye suggests that it is specifically the foundation of a redeemed community. New Testament associates weddings with the

Second Coming of Christ, and His final union with those He has redeemed.34 Presenting the coronation of the Tsar as a wedding, the opera portrays the beginning of the Romanov dynasty as the redemption of Russia.

34 The most relevant instances are the Parable of the Ten Virgins (Matthew 25), and passages in the Book of Revelation, especially Rev. 19:7-9; 21:2,9. It is also present in the Christian interpretation of some of the (symbolism of Isaiah (i.e. Isa. 61:10) and in the allegorical reading of the Song of Solomon. 41

Scholars have objected that Act I bears no connection to the general plot.35 Daniil

Zavlunov asserts that “The local crisis…over the postponement of Antonida’s marriage to

Sobinin is dramatically irrelevant; in fact, the entire love subplot is superfluous” (91). The obvious parallelism between the weddings (Sobinin to Antonida and the Tsar to Russia) presents a thematic resonance between the two plots, but otherwise there is no direct connection. They are indirectly connected, since Susanin will not allow the couple to wed until after the Tsar’s coronation. Even with this slight connection, all of Act I remains mostly decorative. In terms of exposition, nothing is revealed that is not also introduced in Act II. The Poles also receive news of the Russians’ victory and of the election of the Tsar. While also mostly decorative, Act II does move the plot forward, since the Poles finish the Act by resolving to go defeat the Russians once and for all. Act I of A Life seems dramatically superfluous, even compared to Act II.

Worst of all, Act I fails to sustain dramatic tension. No true obstacle stands in the way of

Antonida and Sobinin’s wedding. Susanin is not one of the forbidding fathers of opera who prevent young lovers from coming together. He only asks that they wait for Russia to be safe again. The audience has no reason to expect that such will not be the case. A cursory knowledge of history makes the outcome certain in the audience’s mind. But even without outside knowledge, the audience knows that the outcome is certain: As soon as Susanin says that a Tsar must be chosen before they can wed, Sobinin says, “Then we won’t have to wait for long!” (63)

The council is already convened; there will be a Tsar soon. Everyone then celebrates. Whatever problems might have existed for the characters will be resolved by mere passage of time.

While I agree with the critics of Act I, I suggest that its apparent superfluity is part of

35 Zavlunov makes the most succinct objection, but this line of thought goes back to the Boris Asafyev. 42

Glinka’s design. I recognize that it has become rather conventional to argue that the perceived flaws of a work are in fact intentional and are the result of profound innovations on the part of the artist. There is a rich tradition of such readings of Glinka’s work dating at least back to the debates between Stasov and Serov about Ruslan and Lyudmila.36 Such readings can be fascinating and insightful, but they run the risk of denying the obvious— Glinka was a skilled musician, but he lacked the theatrical intuition and experience to create dramatic tension. His efforts, however, still analysis. I ask readers to consider the structure as an experiment of

Glinka’s, one that failed to sustain drama, but one that nonetheless remains vital to the work.37

The fact that the wedding of Antonida and Sobinin is irrelevant to the central plot of A

Life coincides with the fact that all the Russian folk are situated outside of time. As discussed above, their experience of time is pastoral, entirely focused on the generational cycle. National history intersects with the course of their life because of the catastrophes of the Time of

Troubles. Therefore, the ravages of war stand in the way of family happiness. In the natural order, they all inhabit a timeless, pastoral world. The logical extension of this timelessness is dramatic stasis. The absence of real dramatic tension in Act I is designed to show the Edenic space that the peasants are accustomed to inhabiting.

This dramatic stasis is heightened by the unusual nature of the opera’s recitative, a matter that has been noted in scholarship. Zavlunov notes “the negligible role of recitative in A Life”

36 See Taruskin’s Opera and Drama in Russia as Preached and Practiced in the 1860s (1-28). 37 My concession owes something to Gasparov’s forthrightness in his chapter on Khovanshchina, where he states, “I am aware that turning a work’s incoherence into polyphonic richness and its loose ends into openendedness has become an all-too-predictable feat of poststructuralist criticism; still, it seems worthwhile to consider the indeterminacy of Khovanshchina’s text and message as an inherent property—as we are accustomed to treating many classics…rather than to scrutinize it against the backdrop of our expectations of what it might or should have been like” (103). 43

and suggests that “perhaps because the opera has little dramatic action, the need for recitative is reduced” (609). Frolova-Walker observes that in the place of traditional recitative, Glinka

“employed what he called ‘recitative chantant’: a flexible , sometimes used throughout a number, and on occasion incorporating the chorus in a dialogue with soloists” (Russian Music and Nationalism 96). A brief comparison with the recitative technique of , a contemporary of Glinka’s, is instructive. Note the recitative in Figure 3, taken from an early passage in . This is an example of fairly standard parlando recitative. The focus is on the rhythm of speech, rather than on a melodic line, which remains largely netural. Contrast that with the passage from A Life, when Sobinin enters (Fig. 4). Glinka emphasizes the melodic line.

Note also the many leaps, the coloratura passages, and how high the passage is scored in the tenor register. This “recitative chantant” was a deliberate departure from the operatic conventions of the day.

Why did Glinka use such an unusual recitative? Zavlunov suggests that Glinka did so because A Life was the first work to use recitative instead of spoken dialogue

(see 609). The technique was created to make Russian recitative sound less strange for the audience. On a related note, Frolova-Walker surmises that Glinka’s recitative chantant serves at least three purposes: First, it allows Glinka to distance his style from that of Italian opera.

Although Glinka drew on Italian opera, he was committed to asserting his own style. J.A.

Westrup states that “recitative was an Italian product, devised to suit the genius of the most musical of languages. Transplanted to other countries, it fared well or ill according to circumstances. Its adoption was most successful where composers were able to adapt its methods to their own language without slavishly following its formulas” (Russian Music and Nationalism

39). Laying aside the discussion of whether one language can be more musical than another, this

44

statement demonstrates that recitative has historically been perceived as possessing specifically national traits. This concept probably comes from the fact that recitative is associated with spoken language, since it is considered closer to natural speech than aria. Closer to spoken language, recitative should demonstrate its national character. While issues such as national character are (at least in the West) now considered outdated, for Glinka they were part of the intellectual landscape. They belong to Romantic ideologies of nationalism, asserted by philosophers such as Herder in the West and the Slavophiles in Russia.38 The “nationality” in

Uvarov’s triad also owes something to Romantic nationalism. In writing the first true opera in

Russian, Glinka turns to Romantic ideology in his attempt to create a recitative style fit for the

Russian language.39

Frolova-Walker’s second point is that Glinka’s unusual recitative allows him to “promote greater musical continuity across the span of each act” (Russian Music and Nationalism 96).

Third, it “allows Glinka to provide each of the four main characters with a distinctive voice throughout the opera, and not merely in ” (ibid 96). This individuation sets the main characters apart from each other. It also sets them apart from the Polish characters. As I show below, the Polish characters are presented only as a collective. Glinka’s use of recitative, therefore, further establishes the contrast between Russia and Poland, and by extension, Russia and the West.

Another reason for the unusual recitative is that it heightens the sense of stasis, related to the sense of the principal characters belonging outside of time. It should be noted that while A

Life lacks recitative in the traditional sense, it still presents a number of arias. Antonida, Sobinin

38 See Nicholas Riasanovsky’s Russia and the West in the Teaching of the Slavophiles. 39 Note that later Russian composers also experimented with forms of recitative, especially Dargomyzhsky and the kuchka. See Taruskin’s Opera and Drama as Preached and Practiced in Russia in the 1860s (266-328). 45

and Vanya all have arias assigned them. Their use of aria, the timeless genre, demonstrates that they are at home in the timeless space outside of history. In this space they speak of their love and family life. The arioso-like recitative chantant they sing serves as an apt symbol of the liminal space where timeless family history collides with national history in the fallen world.40

But they are most at home in the aria. The more they focus on family matters, the more melodic their recitative becomes. I have noted the unusual recitative in the first act of the opera, but Act

III may present an even better example (See Fig. 6). At this family occasion, their conversation becomes something of a collective arioso, rather than a lengthy recitative.

The arias not only musically suggest timelessness, but the style in which they are written is associated with the domestic sphere. Frolova-Walker asserts that the arias of the main characters are permeated with the style of the romance, the Russian equivalent of the .

This genre is associated with domestic life largely because of its origins. Frolova-Walker demonstrates that the was a synthesis of “French chanson, German lied and

Italian opera” (Russian Music and Nationalism 83) used as a genre of salon music in early nineteenth-century Russia. Despite its cosmopolitan influences, it became perceived as a uniquely Russian style because of its role in Russian salon culture. Thus, Boris Gasparov states:

“their mixed origin notwithstanding, the sounds of the Russian romance exuded the spirit of

Russianness coupled with that of domestic intimacy, something one feels oneself to be instantly and poignantly at home with” (49). The romance belongs to a world of family and friends. The

40 Yet another reason for the recitative chantant is the fact that Glinka was primarily a salon composer and, as I have observed, lacked a background in the theater. Composers who lack such a background regularly avoid recitative and, therefore, often struggle with keeping a plot in motion. I am indebted to Jon Linford for this insight. While the lack of recitative may be a function of Glinka’s inexperience, like the dramatic stasis, it is integral to the work and therefore, merits analysis. Again, I ask readers to look at these elements as experiments. 46

sounds of the romance, assigned to the Russian characters, further characterize them as focused on family life.

As I have observed, for Glinka, national history is the province of the father tsar who protects his children from its vicissitudes. In the absence of a tsar, Susanin becomes the temporary protector. He plays a distinctly paternalistic role, both within his actual family and in the wider community. This is seen when he insists that Sobinin and Antonida to postpone their wedding until the nation is safe. It is his charge to see to their protection. He serves as the foster father to the nation.

His role as foster father becomes even clearer in Act III, when the character Vanya is introduced. Act III opens with Vanya singing a song about an orphaned bird and an orphan boy, both of whom were taken in and adopted. The song is obviously about him. As Susanin enters, he prefaces the announcement that a Tsar has been singing with the comment, “My Vanya keeps singing to himself about the little bird! Rus is now singing a different song, one of joy!” (137-

138). Susanin again shifts the focus from the personal sphere to the national. He urges Vanya to leave his thoughts of his own family situation and join the general rejoicing. Note, also, the parallel construction: Vanya sings, Rus sings. Besides setting up a contrast between the personal and the national, Susanin compares Vanya to the Russian people. Vanya serves as a symbol of the folk, also orphaned in the loss of a tsar.

Vanya can also be seen as a double of the Tsar. Juliet Forshaw suggests as much: “the absent Mikhail would have been approximately the same age as Vanya. Might we not see the orphan as a covert allusion to the vulnerable young tsar?” (234). Susanin’s devotion to the orphan, thus, prefigures his sacrifice for the tsar. I suggest that Vanya may serve as both a symbol of the people and as a double of the tsar. Even if some critics insist on bifurcation—

47

considering Vanya either a symbol of Russia or a double of the tsar — the implication for

Susanin is more or less the same: if Susanin is the caretaker of the tsar’s double, then implicitly he must function in the tsar’s role until the tsar can do so himself. Therefore, he must see to the nation. As a foster father to the people, he has responsibility for their safety until the tsar is crowned. The two roles are equivalent.

The fact that Susanin’s devotion to the tsar is reflected in his care for the orphan once again shows national matters translated into familial terms. Forshaw suggests that “Susanin’s unselfish love for this adopted boy mirrors his self-sacrificial love for his country’s ruler, bolstering the opera’s linkage of patriarchal values and patriotism” (234-235). Such a patriotism reverses some of the effects of Official Nationality, which, according to Taruskin, sought “to associate love of country not with love of its inhabitants but with love of the dynastic state”

(Defining Russia Musically 26). The fact that Vanya may be read as both a symbol of the

Russian people and the Russian tsar suggests that in A Life, Glinka was not presenting “the sundering of the one link and the forging of the other” (ibid 26). Actually, in A Life, love for the

Russian tsar is the same thing as love for the people. The dynastic state and the people form a symbolic family. The tsar, as father, protects his children from history. The tragedy of the Time of Troubles comes from Russia’s orphaned state. Without a tsar, the people are forced to deal with the vicissitudes of history.

Susanin can stand in as a foster father, but he is himself one of the people. Therefore he is not a permanent replacement. Although he can participate in matters national, this is not his natural role. He belongs outside of time. Forshaw observes that, “Susanin’s power as a symbol resides largely in the fact that he is both the authority figure in his local community and a humble peasant who seeks faithfully to serve the monarchy. Thus he embodies the two mutually

48

reinforcing myths on which the Russian political system was grounded: the image of the benevolent patriarch and the image of the happily submissive peasant” (35). A peasant patriarch,

Susanin is both the Father and the Son. This characterization establishes him as a Christ parallel.

From the beginning he is set apart as the sacrifice necessary to restore Russia to its paradisiacal state outside of history.

The fact that he is set apart from the other characters is also emphasized in the style of his singing. Zavlunov notes that not only does Susanin lack the traditional recitative style, like the other characters, but “with a single exception Susanin does not sing arias in the opera. Instead, he sings solo episodes within larger dramatic complexes. Some of these episodes border on arioso” (601). While the other characters shift in and out of recitative chantant into aria, Susanin consistently sings in what Zavlunov terms “lyrical declamation” (601). In Act I, when

Susanin asks Sobinin about the result of the battle, his recitative presents a contrast with that of

Sobinin (see Fig. 3). Susanin's laconic response is closer to parlando recitative (see Fig. 5). In effect, he brings Sobinin down to earth. In Act III, the music shows the more lyrical side of

Susanin, appropriate because in this scene he is focused on matters familial (See Fig. 6). The audience sees Susanin oscillating in his roles as a father of a family and a father of the community. His character is built, as it were, at the point of intersection between national and family life. He mediates between history and the Russian people. Through the “lyrical declamation,” Glinka offsets Susanin from the beginning of the opera as a stand-in for the tsar, a surrogate who, at least temporarily, can deal with matters of history. This helps to mark him as a

Christ parallel who sacrifices himself to restore the natural order.

The Russian folk’s place outside of history comes into greater focus when compared to the behavior of the Poles in Act II of the opera. Gasparov notes that “what Glinka himself

49

cherished in A Life for the Tsar was the contrast between two musical worlds: the Russian and the Polish” (31). This contrast of two worlds represents an important device of historical genres.

Dan Ungurianu observes that such a device was central to the Romantic historical novel, a genre that flourished in Russia in the 1830s (65).41 I suggest that such a device may help to account for why Glinka included Act I at all—it develops the Russian nation and characters, allowing Glinka to develop the contrasting Polish nation in Act II.

The logic behind developing the two nations in two separate acts is, perhaps, more musical than dramatic. Zavlunov observes, “at the heart of Glinka’s dramaturgy lies ” (19). Glinka establishes the traits of the two nations in the first and second acts in what might be called the dramatic equivalent of sonata form. In this form, a composer may introduce two or three themes in the first section, known as the exposition, and then have them interact in the second section, known as the development. Glinka, similarly, introduces the two nations separately and brings them into conflict in the later acts. As I have demonstrated, the text sung in

Act I, along with the dramatic tension, unusual treatment of recitative, and romance style demonstrates that the natural state of the Russian characters is outside of history in an Edenic world of family life.

In contrast, the Poles are shown as worldly. Their characterization is worked out through the lengthy dance set pieces in Act II. Note that not even the rhythm of the two worlds is the same. Frolova-Walker demonstrates that “the Russian style is dominated by duple time, whereas the Polish scenes are largely cast in triple time” (Russian Music and Nationalism 92). The rhythmic contrast is most brilliantly realized in Act III: when Poles come into the betrothal

41 Ungurianu discusses this in terms of , whose Waverly novels contrast the Scots and Englishmen. Scott’s example was then followed by such Russian writers as Lazhechnikov (see Ungurianu 65-67). 50

celebration, the two rhythms are first played separately to show the contrast, and then are played against each other (see Fig. 7). The two worlds of the opera are colliding. The triple time is given in terms of dance rhythms, particularly that of the krakowiak, , and .

Thus, the Poles are characterized as a dancing nation. The worldliness and sparkling superficiality of their music contrasts with the simple sociality of the Russian folk-style chorus and the domestic intimacy of the romance. While the Russians focus mainly on family life, the

Poles focus entirely on matters national. They belong wholly to the fallen world of history, and they are not seeking to reclaim a place in Eden.

Acts I and II both portray a celebration, and the focus of the celebration shows the contrast between the two nations. The Russians celebrate the anticipated coronation of the tsar, but they also celebrate the impending wedding of Sobinin and Antonida. The Poles celebrate only military victory. The chorus of Poles only discusses the war and the glory of its victorious troops. Note that their descriptions of defeat are much more literal than those of the Russians —

“Is the prince already ousted?” (108) contrasts markedly with the Russians’ description of their nation as an “orphan.” Whereas the Russians process national matters in familial terms, the

Poles think only in national terms.

Glinka goes beyond situating the Poles entirely within historic time. He actually depersonalizes them. Zavlunov observes that “Glinka envisions the Polish side of the opera as a collective—there are no individuals” (96). The Poles are denied the desires grounded in personal life that Glinka assigns to the characters Antonida and Sobinin, and even the Russian chorus.

They are also denied individual identities in music, expressing themselves solely as a chorus with Glinka’s motifs based on “the Polacca and Mazurka of Act II” (ibid 96). This serves as a theatrical effect that allows Glinka to develop the heroes as fully formed characters but to reduce

51

the antagonists to two dimensions. In terms of Glinka’s historical vision, it suggests that in the fallen world, there is no room for individual personality. History subsumes the will of individuals, while the family allows individual will to find expression.

The unfavorable characterization of the Poles in A Life probably owes much to the anti-

Polish strain of Russian nationalism. Gasparov rightly asserts that the Time of Troubles was “a politically expedient topic in the aftermath of the Polish uprising of 1830-31 and its suppression”

(27). The anti-Polish sentiment of A Life can also be understood with reference to Chaadayev.

Since Poland is a nation of Catholic Slavs, it may be the best example of what Russia might have been if the nation had embraced Catholicism and therefore fit into the pattern that Chaadayev calls universal history. The Polish scenes, therefore, establish Russia’s identity outside of history through contrast.

Corresponding to this position, the Russian chorus stands outside of the dramatic tension of the opera, while the Polish chorus provides the work’s only true conflict. Zavlunov notes that

“while Glinka was able to characterize the Russian folk through music, he was unable to integrate this music (and, therefore, the narod [folk]) into the drama” (95). As a group, the

Russian people contribute decorative set pieces with thematic resonance, but they do not influence the plot. The only dramatic action, Susanin’s self-sacrifice, is undertaken by one man alone. The Russian folk remain offstage, outside of historical time. In contrast, Zavlunov notes that the Polish chorus is “dramatically indispensable” (96). The Poles’ preoccupation with matters of history and their determination to hunt down the newly elected tsar provide the tension and conflict of the work.

52

The entrance of the Poles and the dramatic tension disrupts the Edenic world of family happiness. It is the most literal visualization of the opera’s mythic subtext. History literally enters the family world, and Susanin must sacrifice himself to restore the proper order.

In his role as a Christ parallel, Susanin offers himself willingly when the Poles invade the betrothal ceremony. Glinka strengthens the Christ parallel in Susanin’s prayer scene. Knowing that death is certain, Susanin calls on God for strength—“In my bitter hour, in my frightful hour, in my hour of death, strengthen Thou me” (316). His prayer parallels that of Christ in

Gethsemane. L.N. Kiseleva rejects this comparison and denies that Susanin is a direct

Christ parallel. She contends that “such an association is possible only insofar as every martyr is similar to Christ” (301 n. 46). To me, this seems like unnecessary hair splitting.42 The parallel with Christ is not only reflected in the situation of the prayer, but in Susanin’s role as a savior of the Russian people. Submitting himself to the Father through his sacrifice, Susanin not only saves the life of the tsar but also restores Russia to an ahistorical paradise in a direct parallel to the Christian Savior. The paradise comes thanks to the crowning of the tsar, but Susanin’s sacrifice makes this possible.

The Epilogue exhibits dramatic stasis and therefore brings the work back full circle.43 It is dominated by a trio and a chorus, both of which, in this case, occupy what Emerson would call aria time (Boris Godunov 152-153). It brings the opera back into the territory of the

“superfluous” Act I. The Russian people are again safe in their paradise regained.

42 To be fair, the difference in perspectives may merely be the result of a difference in religious views. The Latter- Day Saint Christology that I believe differs somewhat from that of Russian Orthodoxy. 43 The stasis of Epilogue has led some, notably Asafyev, to compare it to an oratorio. Zavlunov rejects this comparison because Glinka only uses the term opera in his notes and other writing on A Life. 53

The paradisiacal state of the Russian people is demonstrated through the strict separation of the national and personal. There is a deliberate contrast presented in the fact that while the

Epilogue begins with a chorus of rejoicing in the new tsar and the salvation of Russia, this gives way to the trio of Sobinin, Antonida, and Vanya. Amid general rejoicing, they sing sorrowfully about their loss. Outside of history, they are able to occupy themselves with personal grief. As they sing, a captain approaches them.44 He asks them, “What is your anguish and sorrow about, when all Russia is in joy and rejoicing?" Sobinin responds, "Good people, we have our own [i.e. private] grief among us” (355). Given no personal identity, the captain is a representative of the state, which now deals with matters of national history. The people, separate from it, are able to occupy themselves with family matters.

The second trio of Sobinin, Antonida, and Vanya further frames Susanin’s death in purely familial terms. Unlike Sobinin’s earlier narration of military victories, which is through- composed, this trio contains a great deal of repetition. Their purpose is not to provide a succinct narration of events, but to express their own sense of loss. Antonida and Vanya sing about the fact that Susanin died alone, surrounded by the enemy, rather than with family. Sobinin does emphasize civic duty by saying, repeatedly, that Susanin died “As a memory and example for all

Rus” (362-364). He also sings of the following military victory in which he and the other

Russians defeated the Poles. However, he presents ths victory as vengeance for Susanin.

Susanin’s death and connected matters are thus processed primarily in personal terms.

44 The orchestral version of the score attributes these lines to the Captain. The later piano version attributes it to a men’s choir. I have followed the attribution of the first, though the text (which is the same) is cited from the second. Note that the change in attribution does not change the meaning, since the men's choir is also the representative of the state. 54

The captain, as a representative of the state, takes on a paternalistic role: “Take comfort, children. Your father did not die in vain, but in an honest death…for the Sovereign and for

Holy Rus” (361-365). Note that the captain tries to cheer them up by turning their attention to the national line of history. He fulfills the role that Susanin did in Act I when he helped

Antonida and Sobinin realize that the time for their wedding had not come. The state now mediates between the people and history. The captain represents the state embodied by the tsar offstage.45 The proper order is restored—the people again concern themselves with family life, and the tsar and his state handle national history.

Glinka’s Russia resembles Chaadayev’s concept of Russia outside of history, but he shows it as the ideal arrangement. The personal grief of the main characters actually heightens the sense of a paradise regained—now that they are protected from matters national, the characters can focus on pastoral family life and its cycle of birth, marriage and death. These are the true things of value to Glinka, and national history only serves to distract from them.

The Christian concepts of A Life form Glinka’s most complete rebuttal of Chaadayev, who argues that Russia’s failings stem largely from its separateness from Western Christianity.

Susanin’s martyrdom demonstrates that Glinka sees Christianity as the very foundation of the modern Russian state. The Romanov dynasty comes into being because Susanin laid down his life in imitation of Christ. Additionally, Glinka demonstrates that Russia is the most truly

Christian nation by presenting the Poles as a contrast. While Christian sacrifice lies at the foundation of Russian life, the Poles are presented as worldly and secular. The Russians

45 The edict banning the portrayal of Romanov tsars would not be issued until 1837, the year following the premiere of A Life. However, there seems to have been an unofficial rule prior to this point. Inna Naroditskaya observes that in eighteenth-century Russian opera, empresses were typically portrayed allegorically, through mythical or historical figures. Alternatively the empress in the audience would be addressed explicitly by choruses in the opera written to praise her. (See Bewitching Russian Opera esp. p. 40-52). The precedent had already been set. 55

frequently use Christian figures of speech, i.e. “God will give us a tsar” (63). In contrast, the first words sung by the Poles invoke not the Christian deity, but classical mythology. “The God of

War, after battle gives us living joy” (77). Glinka reverses Chaadayev’s claim. Russia adheres to a true Christianity from which the West has been cut off.

The Finale emphasizes the Christian vision of A Life. According to Frye, “The sense of tragedy as a prelude to comedy seems almost inseparable from anything explicitly Christian”

(215). The tragedy of Susanin leads to the comic ending of the marriage—literally with Sobinin and Antonida, figuratively with the tsar and the nation. But the Finale does not portray either event.46 Instead, it shows Antonida, Sobinin, and Vanya joining with all the people in praise of the tsar. The individuals are integrated into a monolithic nation. They are still recognizable as individuals, but they become united with the Russian people. The characters join the new, redeemed community. Integration into the community is also a characteristically comic trope.

Glinka shows the foundation of modern Russia as a brought to pass through

Christlike self-sacrifice. He therefore emphasizes Christianity as central to the nation, as is family life. He shows the preservation of the latter as the goal of the state, and Russia’s place outside of history as a unique blessing. I will demonstrate that in his later opera he comes to similar conclusions, though through differing means.

Ruslan and Lyudmila

Glinka’s Ruslan and Lyudmila was a notorious flop at its 1842 premiere, but became highly influential on later Russian composers. Since it takes its plot from the fantasy story of

46 In some modern productions the tsar and his coronation are portrayed in the Finale. One such is the 1992 recording directed for Video by Derek Bailey. This production may be viewed on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xCc0uc3QoU4. 56

Pushkin’s long poem of the same name it may seem out of place in a dissertation devoted to operas based on literal historical events. However, as I will argue below, many of the concepts that Glinka explores in the opera have clear significance for Russian history. Ruslan reiterates some of the themes of A Life, though with differences that I will examine below.

Arguing about the thematic similarity between the A Life and Ruslan is counter-intuitive.

For virtually all its reception history, Ruslan has been analyzed in terms of its contrasts with A

Life rather than its kinship with it. This perceived contrast animates the nineteenth-century journalistic debates between Stasov and Serov, which served as a watershed for operatic dramaturgy in Russia and catalyzed the formation of two camps within Russian operatic culture.

Composers were perceived as taking the side of A Life or of Ruslan, never both. While later audiences and scholars have not necessarily agreed with the specifics of the arguments of Serov and Stasov, the essential difference between A Life and Ruslan has been accepted as axiomatic.47

The contrasts are, indeed, considerable. For all its dramatic weaknesses, A Life tells a fairly focused story while Ruslan is sprawling. Musically, the two operas could scarcely differ more from each other. Where A Life focuses on the two musical worlds of Russia and

Poland, Ruslan presents a hodgepodge of musical styles ranging from Farlaf’s Italianate basso buffo to the of Ratmir. Acknowledging these contrasts, I suggest that Ruslan does not at all resemble A Life superficially—that is, in terms of style, structure, and plot—but rather on the deeper level of thematic resonance.

Another perceived contrast between A Life and Ruslan is the fact that the former is an openly nationalistic story, while the latter is presumably a magical or fairy-tale opera. Thus, it is

47 See Taruskin’s Opera and Drama in Russia as Preached and Practiced in the 1860s (1-28). 57

closer in genre to Mozart’s The Magic or Weber’s Oberon than to its predecessor.48

However, some scholars and critics have noted a nationalistic subtext in Ruslan. An early, anonymous critic of the opera, known merely as O****, presented an alternative interpretation of the opera as a . The critic argues that Glinka’s “idea lies not only in the magic, but in the elemental struggle of different peoples, who are ready to merge into an indissoluble whole” (qtd. in Frolova-Walker Russian Music and Nationalism 119). Glinka’s opera is not only an adaptation of Pushkin’s poem, but also a foundation myth. Apparently the Fyodor

Dostoevsky saw a national narrative in the opera. His daughter, Lyubov, records that her father interpreted the opera as “a political allegory, prefiguring the destiny of the Slav nations”

(Dostoevsky 202).49 While this interpretation diverges from that of O****, it demonstrates that at least one other Russian thinker of the nineteenth century held the view that the opera is a national epic, even if this view remained on the fringe.50

Recent scholarship has brought the notion of Ruslan as a national epic to the center. In the

New Grove Opera Dictionary entry for Ruslan, Taruskin calls it an epic.Frolova-Walker and

Gasparov both discuss the opera’s imperial subtext, focusing on the ideology of “Russian omnireceptiveness (vseotzyvchivost’)” as an Imperial theme (see Five Operas and a Symphony

48 Naroditskaya in Bewitching Russian Opera also demonstrates that Ruslan draws upon a local tradition of Russian magical and fairy-tale operas (159-188). 49 The allegory runs as follows: “Ludmilla, the daughter of Prince Vladimir, represents the Western Slavs. Tchernomur, an Oriental magician, a hideous dwarf with a long beard, who personifies Turkey, arrives at Kiev when a great festival is in progress, plunges every one into a magic sleep, and carries off the fair Ludmilla to his castle. Two knights, Russlan (Russia) and Farlaff (Austria), pursue the dwarf, and after many adventures arrive at Tchernomur’s castle” (202). Note that this quote presents a plot that diverges from both Pushkin and Glinka. 50 There are similar views about the Pushkin poem that forms the source of the opera. These views also occupy the periphery of interpretation. For example, I. Ivanov, a candidate for the post of Minister of Culture in the Zhirinovsky cabinet, interpreted the poem as an allegory for the “concept of the development of the Russian state” (qtd. in Evdokimova and Golstein 621). In his curious reading, Ruslan represents the Russian land, Lyudmila the people, the head represents “a government that is separated from the people” (ibid 621), and Chernomor represents the “global organ that controls world processes” (ibid 621). 58

32-36). This ideology, related to the myth of Pushkin as both the universal man and the quintessential Russian, consists of the that an inherent trait of Russian culture is the ability to relate to and absorb all other peoples. The opera demonstrates such a characteristic by subsuming musical motifs from a variety of cultures, all of which come together in the Finale.

The logical extension of these arguments is the conclusion that the epic features of Ruslan demonstrate a commitment to Imperialist ideology.

Russian scholarship also frequently characterizes Ruslan as an epic opera. Yuri Vasilyev argues that Glinka creates an epic atmosphere in Ruslan by demonstrating the distance of the present day from the ancient setting of the opera, partly through musical techniques that

Glinka’s audience associated with the past (148-149).51 These devices establish what Bakhtin terms a “valorized past,” a sense of a bygone heroic age, an ideal, irretreviable past that inheres in epics (15). Marina Cherkashina-Gubarenko states that, “in the opera, Kievan Rus, with its signs and symbols, is interpreted as a mythical of national history” (201). Even though this Golden Age is presented as a distant and valorized past, Yuri Vasilyev notes that the prophecy of Bayan and the Finale of Act V point forward to the future. Thus, mythic Kievan Rus is positioned toward the Russian empire in a way similar to the traditional Christian interpretation of the Old Testament—it is a shadow, type, and prophecy of greater things to come. Broadly speaking, the main relationship to history in Ruslan is a sense of prefiguration.

This presents the nineteenth century as a restoration of the Golden Age. Glinka is again seen as an ardent supporter of the Russian empire of his own day.

51 These techniques include the special effect of using a harp and piano to imitate the sound of a gudka, the use of unison in multiple octaves in the chorus and/or orchestra, the parallel movement of instruments in the , and the use of such unusual time signatures as 5/4. The author also posits that the exoticism in Chernomor’s music (even the ) may have been associated with Russia’s own pagan past as well as with the “Orient” (148- 149). 59

To propose that Ruslan validates Russian imperialism suggests a profound similarity between it and A Life—both are firmly in the camp of official nationality. As I demonstrated above, however, Glinka’s views are far more nuanced than a musical distillation of Uvarov’s

“Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality,” since they also share traits with the philosophy of

Chaadayev. I suggest that a valuable way of discerning Glinka’s views about history is to compare and contrast A Life and Ruslan. Such an approach shows that the second opera continues his dialogue with Chaadayev, asserting Russia’s place outside of history.

In both works, an interrupted marriage serves as both the central trope and the primary impetus for the plot. In A Life, this trope is related to the myth of the restoration of a lost Eden.

Ruslan, however, takes place entirely within an unfallen, pastoral world.52 There is no fall into history that disrupts the life cycle. The history in Ruslan encompasses both family and national life. Perhaps the idealized depiction of unity between family and national life stems from the fact that in Ruslan Glinka portrays the “valorized past” and, as some of the critics I have cited contend, the opera portrays a mythical Golden Age of Russia. While the treatment of time/history is different in Ruslan than in A Life, both operas demonstrate Glinka’s glorification of Russia’s position outside of history. A Life shows this ideal among the Russian people who live an Edenic life thanks to the protection of the tsar, who takes care of history and the outside world. Ruslan shows the pastoral world as the only one. National and family life are one, even for the ruling class.

52 Angela Brintlinger and Helena Goscilo have brought to my attention the fact that the rescue of the bride is a motif from folklore, as is the life cycle. These folklore motifs come into the opera, largely, through the Pushkin poem it adapts. A full examination of the relationship between the opera and folktales (as well as between the opera and its Pushkinian source) is outside of the scope of this dissertation. 60

The opera, therefore, continues the dialogue with Chaadayev, but on a deeper level.

Instead of only showing that Russia’s position outside of history is a positive thing, Glinka also calls into question assumptions about the nature of history and even time. Chaadayev’s teleology requires a linear sense of time and history, but Glinka advocates a concept of time as cyclical.

The cyclical nature of time is expressed in the structure of the opera. Taruskin observes that the opera’s structure is an “embodiment of what Mikhail Bakhtin was later to call the epic chronotope: ‘closed like a circle, with everything in it totally finished and complete’. On all levels, time is rounded: the outer acts, set in Kiev, frame the magic quest with a single action (a wedding feast interrupted and resumed), in which all the music resonates thematically with

Bayan’s opening incantation” (“Ruslan and Lyudmila”). The opera literally comes full circle.

The cyclical plot, which revolves around a wedding, thus presents another variation on Glinka’s view of Russian history.

Although the plot is cyclical, unlike that of A Life, it is not presented in terms of a redemption myth. The apocalyptic association of marriage with the Second Coming of Christ

(see above) is noticeably absent in this opera. Instead, Glinka conflates the comic trope of marriage as the foundation of a community, the pastoral trope of marriage as the continuation of the generation cycle, and the dynastic trope of marriage as the safeguard of the nation through the preservation of the monarchial line. As Asafyev notes, the imagery and themes of Ruslan relate more closely to paganism (and folklore) than to Christianity. The Christian redemption myth is noticeably absent. In its place is the trope of the life cycle, more characteristic of pagan and secular literature. However, this does not mean that Glinka advocates paganism as a positive alternative to Christianity. There is ample precedent for the use of pagan symbolism by Christian writers and artists. This change in the symbolism is probably suggested by the setting, since the

61

story takes place in pre-Christian Rus. Also, if Ruslan takes place in an unfallen Russia, as I suggest, there is no need for a redemption. Rather than exploring the restoration of the proper order outside of history, as he did with A Life, Glinka in Ruslan explores the order itself. He focuses on the life cycle that defines the unfallen nation.

The scene of the wedding that opens the opera brings the full life cycle into perspective.

Asafyev sees the “mystery” of marriage as central to the entire work. In his view, the plot of the opera is related to ancient mysteries in which an initiate must overcome antagonistic forces.

Ruslan’s quest to retrieve his bride thus draws from rituals connected to fertility and the life cycle. Such motifs from folklore are brought into focus from the wedding scene in the beginning. All stages of life are present, since the wedding encompasses the projected future births of children, and through the fact that the bride and groom pray for love and happiness until death. The title characters accept their place in the life cycle, including the certainty that they will die someday and their place will be taken by a future generation.

The prophecies of Bayan also highlight the life cycle. Bayan’s ability to tell the future seems tied to the idea that time is cyclical, and therefore follows clear patterns. His prediction that Ruslan and Lyudmila will face challenges but ultimately prevail is framed by observations of a more universal nature: “Sorrow follows after blessings,/ Sorrow is the earnest of joy” (20) and “a storm will rush on…But the sign of joy,/the Child of rain and light,/ the rainbow will rise again” (24-26). Bayan’s prophetic ability resembles that of the Romantic poet who perceives universal truths in nature. He sees patterns in a cyclical history that, like nature, remains consistent through repetition.

The prophecy of Pushkin, too, comes from the perception of a pattern— Bayan prophesies that another great will arise to save the names of Ruslan and Lyudmila from

62

oblivion. He thus presents Pushkin as a repetition of himself, though perhaps a greater version of which he is merely the prefiguration. The cyclical nature of history means that just as Bayan sings of Ruslan and Lyudmila, a future singer must arise and do the same. The prophecy that this future singer will have but a short mortal sojourn is also corroborated with a universal observation, “All the immortals are in the heavens” (34). Glinka offers Bayan as a precursor to the Pushkin of myth— the prophet of Lermontov’s “The Death of the Poet,” Gogol’s praises and, later, Dostoevsky’s speech at the unveiling of the Pushkin monument.53 A national prophet,

Bayan foretells the future of Russia. He does so by prophesying about Ruslan and Lyudmila.

They will go through trials, come out victorious, and they will be remembered through the words of a great future bard.

Bayan’s prophecies are, at best, only partly understood by the characters onstage. When he prophecies “storms” and trials ahead for the couple, Ratmir and Farlaf interpret it to mean that

Ruslan will soon fall to them. Svetozar merely asks him to sing something cheerier. The characters do not understand the prophecy about Pushkin at all. They do not even respond to it.

The prophecies are directed more at the audience than at the characters. In fact, Bayan gives away the plot of the opera to the audience—through his prophecy about Ruslan and Lyudmila he sets up the expectation for the cyclical pattern of the plot. He ties this cyclical motion to Russian history through his prophecy about Pushkin.

Since the opera itself pays tribute to Pushkin, it seems fitting to comment on the way it represents his work. Scholars have commented about the differences between the opera and its

53 For a brief consideration of the reception history of Pushkin, including the myth of Pushkin as prophet, see Victor Terras’s “Some observations on Pushkin's image in .” 63

source material.54 The changes to the plot are many, but most scholars see the shift in tone or genre as far greater. Whereas Pushkin’s early long poem is a witty, subversive tale, Glinka takes it seriously as a national epic. Still, some scholars have noted important continuities between the opera and its source. Asafyev and Frolova-Walker note that the joyous music that pervades the opera—beginning with the delightful overture—coincides with and draws from the youthful verve of the poem. Gasparov sees in both works a satirical take on the artificial world of St.

Petersburg (36-55). I suggest another important continuity: a focus on the generational cycle and struggle. This continuity underlies Glinka’s views of history.

Both Glinka’s and Pushkin’s Ruslan portray the displacement of one generation by another, a vital element of the life cycle. Gasparov observes that Pushkin’s poem deals with the struggle of the young against the old. As in many of Pushkin’s works, the young naturally triumph in this struggle.55 Joe Peschio suggests that Ruslan not only portrays the struggle of young versus old, but actually enacts it. The rudeness and sexual innuendo of the work represents a young poet thumbing his nose at the establishment. Glinka removes or significantly mutes these aspects in the opera. For instance, the operatic Lyudmila is abducted, not from her wedding bed, but from her wedding. Glinka does not personally rebel against the establishment by subverting ideas of decency.

The opera itself may not be a struggle with the authority of the older generation, but its plot still deals with generational struggle. The opera’s true antagonists belong to the older, ruling

54 For comparisons, see Gasparov’s Five Operas and a Symphony, Frolova-Walker’s Russian Music and Nationalism, and Naroditskaya’s Bewitching Russian Opera. Naroditskaya also explores the opera’s roots in eighteenth-century literature. 55 He cites not only Ruslan, but also The Gabrieliad, as well as the youthful political verses that prophesy the overthrow of tyranny. In later Pushkin, there are times when the seemingly lifeless older generation springs to life to assert itself at the expense of the young rebels, as in The Stone Guest, The and other such works. However, in other late works such as and The Captain’s Daughter, the same temporal organicism is observed. I am indebted to Helena Goscilo for this observation. 64

generation. Chernomor’s magical beard serves as the most obvious indication that he represents the ruling, older generation against whom the young lovers struggle to come together. But

Chernomor is not the sole representative—Naina, too, belongs to the old order and tries to dominate the young. It is against these characters that Ruslan struggles, rather than with Farlaf and Ratmir, who belong to his own generation. Ratmir gives up the pursuit of Lyudmila in Act

III, reconciling with Ruslan. Farlaf continues to bluster against Ruslan, but he becomes an agent of Naina.

Farlaf’s subservience to Naina may explain why Glinka characterizes him as a basso buffo, or comic bass, in his rondo. This characterization is most evident in the rapid patter of the music throughout, especially in the acceleration near the end that recalls “Largo al Factotum” from Rossini’s The Barber of Selville. Rossini may have provided a pattern for the aria, but

Glinka also reaches back to the eighteenth-century buffa aria, in which, as Mary

Hunter observes, the bass or expresses “pretension, ineloquence and excess” (126).

Farlaf exhibits these attributes throughout the rondo with his combination of commonplace and inflated language.

Note the recitative just before the rondo begins: “I knew, I felt it beforehand, that I alone am fated to accomplish this glorious feat” (127). These lines set the tone for the language of the rondo. Their musical language, however, is set apart, not only from the rondo, but from the rest of the opera. Glinka styles these lines as formal, and in fact, secco recitative (see Fig.

8).56 There are examples of such formal (even conservative) recitative in the operas of Glinka’s contemporaries, but in general such an approach was falling out of fashion. More importantly, as

56 In nineteenth-century opera, the chords of secco recitative could be provided by the orchestra. This is seen in French Grand Opera as well as some of the operas of Rossini. Originally, the term refers to recitative accompanied only by chords given by the continuo (usually harpsichord and ). See “Recitative.” 65 seen in the first section of this chapter, Glinka avoids traditional recitative in A Life. The same is true in Ruslan, where these seven measures of Farlaf’s are virtually the only examples of traditional recitative. Therefore, the passage seems stilted compared to the rest of the opera, especially when combined with Farlaf’s inflated language. The musical style exposes Farlaf’s pretensions to grandeur and heroism. The remainder of the rondo, with Farlaf’s pompous lyrics sung to a comical patter, shows how unfounded his pretensions are.

Traditionally, the buffa aria mocks pretension in the middle classes of society. Hunter explains, “the paradigmatic singer of the buffa aria is a man of bourgeois or barely noble origins exercising inappropriate power, unearned authority, or demonstrating a certainty later shown to be misplaced” (111). All of these attributes apply to Farlaf, even though he is presumably the social equal of Ruslan. He even references “the castle of [my] grandfathers” (134) in the rondo, emphasizing his rank. I suggest that the musical representation of his social status descends into buffa style, not because of birth, but because he accepts a position of subservience. The rondo comes immediately after he makes a pact with Naina. The audience is meant to understand that

Farlaf becomes her lackey. Even among other obsessive repetitions in the rondo, particular emphasis is placed on the phrase “Naina’s command” (134-135). Note that Naina’s name is given a full seven beats (see Fig. 9). This makes it the only word sustained in the patter. Farlaf has become entirely dominated by Naina. His pretensions to heroism actually express servility to his patron. For Glinka, this results not only in a lack of independence, but in a loss of status.

Farlaf’s loss of status may be understood in terms of the generational struggle at the heart of Ruslan. Rather than asserting his place in the life cycle, Farlaf fights for his natural enemies.

He is an example of the young being manipulated by the old order. His service to Naina is thus

66

another disruption of the life cycle. In following her, he loses his place as one of the young generation. This may explain why he is alone at the end of the opera.

The treatment of generational conflict in Ruslan resonates with stories from classical mythology. Hesiod’s Theogony, in particular, presents generational conflict among the gods. In

Hesiod’s narrative, sons must overcome their fathers or be overcome by them, as shown in the stories of Cronos dethroning Uranus and Zeus dethroning Cronos.57 The former has the greater resonance with Ruslan, for two reasons: 1) both associate the defeat of the older generation with castration. In the case of Cronos dethroning Uranus, this is literal. In Ruslan, Chernomor’s beard serves as both a phallic symbol of power and a literal source of magical power and protection.58

Thus, when he loses his beard, he loses more than a symbol of his potency—he literally loses his magical power. Like Uranus, Chernomor is castrated. 2) the struggle against Chernomor, and his ultimate defeat, is linked with time.

The relationship between time and the struggle with Chernomor is stated explicitly in the poem, but left more implicit in the opera. In Pushkin, the wizard Finn reassures Ruslan that his enemy is not all-powerful by saying “the brief moment of evil will pass:/ temporarily has ill fate reached you” (202). Evil is bound by time, and so is the ruling older generation, who will eventually be displaced as it dies out. Chernomor, despite his power, is no exception. Finn later reiterates, “But against the law of time/ All his learning is impotent” (203). According to

57 For a consideration of the theme in other classical works, see Nancy Felson’s “Children of Zeus in the Homeric Hymns: Generational Succession.” 58 Naroditskaya argues that Pushkin’s use of the beard as a phallic symbol draws from a preexistent tradition present also in Lomonosov’s “Hymn to the Beard” (180) 67

Gasparov, this passage suggests Chernomor has lost his physical potency because of age (40-

41). Not Ruslan, but time (Cronos) castrates Chernomor. He lost the battle before the story began. The younger generation needs only time to prevail.

The specific passages (cited above) from Pushkin are not in the libretto of Glinka’s opera.

Absent, also, is the scene where Chernomor unsuccessfully attempts to force himself on

Lyudmila. The operatic Finn, however, does reassure Ruslan, who fears that Lyudmila’s virtue will be assaulted, by saying, “Your enemy is powerless before her” (118). The Russian word does not necessarily carry a sexual connotation, so I will not belabor the point. More significantly, as Inna Naroditskaya observes, the fact that Chernomor remains silent throughout the opera serves as an operatic symbol of impotence (183). Denying a voice to a character in an opera does not necessarily serve as a metaphor for castration in a sexual sense. However, it does remove the most potent source of identity, since operatic characters are defined primarily by what and how they sing. His power is expressed through the orchestration, especially the whole- tone scale that serves as his . 59 Despite the orchestral motifs associated with him, his ability to assert himself is severely limited. In fact, he can do so only from offstage. When present, Chernomor is negated through voicelessness. As Naroditskaya observes, “The whole- tone scale is absent in the March, the only number of the opera physically featuring the dwarf”

(183). When Chernomor is onstage he is characterized entirely by the grotesque, ridiculous appearance that undercuts the claims to power that he makes earlier in the opera. The most dramatically effective expression of his power is in the opening scene where he magically

59 Since Glinka composed Ruslan before the Wagnerian term became common currency, applying the term to the opera may well be anachronistic. Still, there is scholarly precedence for seeing an early version leitmotif in the Ruslan. See Mary Woodside’s "Leitmotiv in Russia: Glinka's Use of the Whole-Tone Scale." 68

whisks Lyudmila away from offstage. Chernomor thus ends up in an anomalous position for an opera character— his power and agency are greatest when he is not present.60

By characterizing the antagonist as impotent, Glinka creates a drama whose outcome is never in doubt, another profound similarity between A Life and Ruslan. The certainty of

Ruslan’s victory may be one of the aspects of Pushkin’s poem that attracted Glinka in the first place. As in Act I of A Life, all that the young lovers need to come together is time. Time and history in Ruslan are associated with the life cycle, just as it is in the Edenic, familial world of the peasants in A Life. As opposed to A Life, Ruslan portrays no division between family and national life, possibly because the characters come from the ruling class rather than the folk.

Recall that in A Life the tsar takes responsibility for national history and protects the people from it. The people can feel a separation between national and familial history, but for the rulers, there is none. In dynastic history and politics, personal life is political life. Weddings, for example, are events of state when the country depends on the continuation of the monarchical family.61 The wedding of Ruslan and Lyudmila is a communal event, but also a political one. The opera

Ruslan takes place in a royal world. The main conflict is in some ways the opposite of that of A

Life—in the earlier opera, the life cycle of the Russian people depends on national history, though a national history from which they need to be separated. In Ruslan, the continuation of national history (through the ruling monarchy) depends on the life cycle itself.

60 Such is not the case for the silent version of Ivan the Terrible who reigns in Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride. Though he shares with Chernomor the fact that silence depersonalizes him, characterizing him as an almost disembodied force or power, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Ivan nonetheless is a discernible presence when visible on stage. Chernomor is more of a charged absence. 61 Inna Naroditskaya explores weddings as important events of state in of eighteenth-century Russian culture (34- 40). 69

The threat to the nation in Ruslan comes from the attempt of the older generation to suspend the natural flow of time. Konstantin Zenin contends that in the opera, “Magic itself is connected with the stoppage [ostanovka] of time” (161). Chernomor’s abduction of Lyudmila magically stops time. The music that accompanies Lyudmila’s abduction portrays the stoppage of time with its “unresolved dissonances and whole tone scale that neutralizes the modal pull

[towards resolution]” (ibid 161). Time is further suspended during the Adagio canon in in which

Ruslan, Ratmir, Farlaf, and Svetozar sing the same quatrain that begins with the phrase “what a wondrous moment!” (77) (see Fig. 10). The repetition of that first phrase (besides invoking

Pushkin) suggests that the moment itself is sustained beyond what is natural. Chernomor’s magic suspends the flow of time. Perhaps this is why the opera does not include the phrase from

Pushkin, “Against the law of time/ his learning is impotent.” Although time and the natural life cycle threaten Chernomor, he has the means to stop them in their course. He stops time literally in the moment of Lyudmila’s capture, but in a broader sense, he disrupts the life cycle by interrupting the marriage and thus stopping the cycle of generations. However, as I will demonstrate, he is not permanently successful, and the opera foretells his defeat, meaning that it was certain from the beginning.62 He suspends time briefly, but he is unable to do so permanently.

The remainder of the opera deals with the quest to restore the natural flow of time. In this quest, Ruslan finds an ally in the wizard Finn. Finn is the only exception to the rule that the old

(and magical) characters struggle with the young ones. He is no stranger to time. His aria, in fact, deals with the effects of time and aging; he tells the story of seeking Naina’s affection for years and achieving success only after she reached advanced age. In Pushkin this is a humorous

62 Part of the certainty of victory is inherent in the genre of fairy tales, since such tales end happily as a rule. 70

punchline, but Glinka taks it seriously. The difference is solely one of tone, but by emphasizing the tragedy, rather than the comedy, of the situation, Glinka shows Finn submitting to the flow of time, thereby indicating his difference from Chernomor. 63 By helping Ruslan, Finn facilitates the passage of time to help reunite him with Lyudmila. Rather than trying to assert himself, he gives way to the young. He takes on the natural role of the older generation. Finn’s powers, after all, are related to nature. When telling his story to Ruslan, he says, “Through clear thought/I grasped the fearsome mystery of nature” (111-112). In Ruslan, good magic is connected to and upholds nature, while evil magic disrupts it.

Some may argue that Ruslan’s aria (No. 8) contradicts my reading. As an aria, it, too, stops the motion of the plot. Additionally, the apprehension that he expresses may contradict my analysis that the outcome of the opera is certain from the beginning. However, it is instructive to note that Ruslan’s worries center on universal problems of mortality rather than on the outcome of his quest. As he sees the remains of a great battle, he wonders who may have died gloriously there and why they were doomed to oblivion. Then he says, “perhaps for me, as well, there is no salvation from the eternal darkness of time” (139). Ruslan’s worries are timeless. He is not concerned about Chernomor, the success of his quest or even about death. In fact, he accepts the inevitability of his own death. The problem is one of memory and the desire to leave a lasting legacy. Thus, he worries that “the loud strings of Bayan will not speak” (139-140) about him.

The problem of memory connects Ruslan’s aria with Bayan’s earlier prophecy about Pushkin.

Bayan’s prophecy, in fact, answers Ruslan’s question—his name will in fact be preserved. It is being preserved at the moment that the story is being acted out in front of the audience.

63 It is also possible that the shift from a humorous to a tragic version of this story was suggested by the medium of opera. The overall tone of the opera, as I observe, reframes the humorous story as serious, and the treatment of Finn’s narrative merely follows suit. 71

Ruslan’s worries momentarily return the focus of the opera to the life cycle. The problem of memory is obviously related to time. It could be argued that this problem is compounded in cyclical time. In linear time events causally lead from one to another. The present builds on the past and therefore, in some ways, preserves it. But in cyclical time, the past is repeated, and memory does not preserve it in the same way. The writer of Ecclesiastes observes that a consequence of the fact that “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh,” is that “There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after” (1:4, 11). Ruslan’s problem is actually similar to Chernomor’s. He, too, will die and someone in a future generation will take his place.

His only hope is for his story to survive him. The contrast is that while Chernomor vainly attempts to prevent his replacement by future generations, Ruslan submits to it as an inevitability. Ruslan’s aria shows his ability to transcend his antagonist. This further highlights

Chernomor’s impotence. It refocuses the opera on the life cycle and the universal concerns of birth, marriage, generations and death.

The quest resumes after the aria, resuming the flow of time that allows Ruslan to eventually prevail over Chernomor and restore the proper order. At the end, the opera comes full circle, restoring the celebration of Act I. Essentially, the opera ends where it began as if no time had elapsed. However, there is at least one important difference between the beginning of the opera and the end. At the end, Ratmir has given up his quest for Lyudmila. In fact, he has given up his whole harem and his heroic exploits to live a peaceful life with Gorislava. During his romance, which begins Act IV, Ratmir states, “I will forget my sword and heavy helmet/ And with them glory and my enemies” (298). Ratmir forgets about heroic deeds and glory and considers a family life more valuable.

72

It is possible to see this shift in other characters as well. Gasparov sees a transition in the music of Ruslan, Lyudmila and Ratmir. All three begin the opera in a conventional operatic style in which they seem to be merely typical opera characters. But at various points all three adopt the style of the Russian romance—Lyudmila in the aria, “Oh my lot, my little lot,” Ruslan briefly in his aria and more completely when he discovers that Lyudmila is in an enchanted sleep, and Ratmir in his romance (see Gasparov 43-55). On the grounds of this stylistic shift,

Gasparov asserts, “The fairytale story of L[y]udmila’s abduction and rescue becomes the story of a psychological shift from the world of glamorous theatricality to the genuineness of private life and personal relations” (54). The main characters depart from the artificial, public world and enter one of cozy, domestic bliss. Gasparov’s reading of the opera is compelling, and it is tempting to draw another comparison with Chaadayev and say that, like A Life, this opera deals with Russia’s withdrawal from history. However, I would argue that familial matters reign in the opera from the beginning. As I have shown, the private matters of birth, marriage, aging and death pervade the work to the point that all other concerns have been crowded out.

As a commentary on history, then, it is noteworthy that Glinka focuses on familial matters at the expense of national issues. Specifically Russian history is invisible in this opera, partly because of the medium of fantasy. It is also a matter of sheer distance—the deeds of days long past eventually become so distant that some of the political matters that were significant at the time fade into obscurity. The stories of individuals can be preserved through the intervention of a bard, but eventually only the personal levels of these stories end up mattering. Glinka’s

Ruslan looks at Russia from a perspective so long term as to be almost eternal. The only significant matter is the life cycle. That Ruslan and Lyudmila come together in marriage is more important than the foreign policy of Svetozar. The opera takes place entirely in a timeless realm.

73

Glinka’s final response to Chaadayev’s thesis is that in the long run, all history is family history.

National matters will eventually lose their significance. Russia’s place outside of time keeps this in perspective.

In A Life, the Christian symbolism invites the conclusion that Russia’s place outside of history is a calling. Such an assertion of Russian exceptionalism was not uncommon at the time

Glinka was composing. Chaadayev himself in his “Letters” suggests that Russia has a special mission, even if that is only to serve as a warning to the rest of the world.64 The Slavophiles were busy declaring the specialness of Russia’s mission. Was Glinka providing musical iterations of Russian messianism? If Ruslan is seen as an amendment to the earlier opera, this conclusion seems less tenable. It is possible that Ratmir’s integration into the nation at the end of the opera demonstrates that other peoples can be welcomed into Russia’s timeless space where only the life cycle matters.65 But the fact that others can join is not necessarily evidence that

Glinka believed that Russia would save other nations. Rather, Russia’s position outside of history makes its relationship with other nations a non-issue, in the long run. It allows Russia to focus on matters of true significance, avoiding the spiritual malaise that has affected the Western world. Ratmir’s conversion is something of a counterpoint to Chaadayev’s view that Russia has been cut off from Western civilization. Yes, it has, replies Glinka, but if all peoples are to unite, then they will join us.

64 In his later Apologia of a Madman, Chaadayev proposes that there may be some advantages to Russia’s lack of history. This unique position allows the nation to draw deliberately from Western culture, winnowing away the chaff and choosing only the very best. If this is a departure from his earlier views—which it may not be, since he stands by the idea that Russia lacks history—it is still farther from the views of Glinka. Therefore I have relegated it to a footnote. 65 Timelessness is a hallmark of fairy tales, possibly another factor that attracted Glinka to the subject matter. I am indebted to Helena Goscilo for this observation. 74

Finally, the secondary theme of Ruslan, that of the bard preserving the stories of the past, allows Glinka to comment on the nature of history and the relevance of historical opera. History is not what happened, but what is remembered. The telling of historical stories, whether in words alone or accompanied by music, keeps the memory of the past alive. Pushkin is presented as a preserver of national memory, but Glinka also puts himself in this role, at least in the sense that his opera carries on Pushkin’s legacy. His opera is a defense against oblivion. The very fact that he saw in Russian history something worth preserving is a divergence from Chaadayev, who saw

Russian history as a void.

Most relevant to later composers is the fact that Glinka’s operas justify the value of historical opera as a genre. His emphasis on history as memory shows that by monumentalizing the past, historical opera enlarges the memory of the nation. It allows the people to see reenacted on stage the events that continue to give meaning to national life. This parallels Frye’s analysis that the scriptural plays of the Middle Ages, “present to the audience a myth already familiar to and significant for that audience, and they are designed to remind the audience of their communal possession of this myth” (282).66 Glinka’s operas serve a similar function. A Life was already familiar from history books, propaganda and even a previous opera.67 Glinka refashions the narrative into a symbolic passion play. He therefore ties a myth of history to an even more central cultural myth. The myths talk to each other and are shown intertwined, the history of the nation becoming one with the central myth of Christianity. Ruslan relies on a more general mythic notion of the Golden Age, an unfallen image of Russia, and the trope of the life cycle.

The mythic packaging allows Glinka to show his audience that Russia’s history belongs to them.

66 This genre, I would add, has a direct descendant in the nativity pageants still performed in Christian communities, and the Jewish Purim spiel is probably a related phenomenon. 67 See Thomas Hodge’s “Susanin, Two Glinkas, and Ryleev: History-Making in A Life for the Tsar.” 75

They reaffirm the continued relevance of such stories and reinforce what Benedict Anderson calls the imagined community of the nation. Thus, Glinka lays the groundwork for the later

Russian composers I will examine. Although these composers differ from Glinka in their particular interpretations of history, their works demonstrate a similar belief that historical opera will enlarge the memory of the nation.

76

Chapter 3: From Myth to Realism and Back: Rimsky-Korsakov’s Ivan the Terrible Operas

Tsar Ivan the Terrible appears in two of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas, The Maid of

Pskov (1873) and The Tsar’s Bride (1899). Despite this similarity, it would be difficult to find two operas by the same composer—and on similar subjects—that differ more from each other than these two. Most scholars discuss the difference between these operas largely in terms of the shift in Rimsky-Korsakov’s aesthetics that occurred because of his transition from amateur to professional musician. Certainly, the shift in his occupation represents an important shift, and I will comment on it below. However, a corresponding consequence of this shift that has remained understudied is the fact that as his approach to opera changed, so did his approach to history. I have noted the tension between myth and history that is characteristic of historical opera. As I argue, Glinka in large measure embraces the mythic nature of opera in order to explore history in religious terms. Rimsky-Korsakov’s two Ivan the Terrible operas exhibit two deeply contrasting relationships between history and myth. In Pskov, he attempts to move away from myths of Ivan the Terrible toward a more realistic vision of history. In Bride, he embraces myth as a means of exploring meaning within historical narratives.

The Myth(s) of Ivan the Terrible

In order to discuss the relationship between Rimsky-Korsakov’s two operas and myth, I must first outline the mythic image of Ivan the Terrible in Russian culture. As is often the case with powerful figures whose influence looms large, his character and significance have been interpreted variously. Terrible is in the eye of the beholder.68 Russian folklore, in fact, presents a fairly positive image of him. Maureen Perrie states, “Even his cruelty and terror are regarded as a

68 The original meaning of the Russian word in his title, Groznyi, is closer to “awe-inspiring.” 77

necessary part of his campaign against traitors, which the narod [folk] approves” (65). This approval is partly rooted in class conflict. The folk approve of the tsar’s violence against the

Boyars and others whose power was perceived by the people as oppressive. The horrors of his reign are not denied in folklore, but they are made to serve a purpose. The tsar is not infallible, but he is nonetheless a sympathetic leader who rules on behalf of his people.69 Implicit in this folkloric vision of Ivan is a myth of the tsar as the father and protector of the people. Ivan was a stern father, but a father nonetheless.

The image of Ivan as father tsar remains implicit in the work of historians popular in the nineteenth century, including Karamzin and Solovyov. 70 Karamzin condemns the atrocities of

Ivan, but nonetheless upholds the institution of monarchy. In this view, Ivan is a flawed father but does not lose custody rights. Solovyov offers clemency to Ivan because his crueler actions served as unfortunate means to the necessary end of centralizing the power of the Russian nation. His actions were commensurate with his role as father.

The myth of the tsar as father that pervades the image of Ivan makes him the principle agent directing the course of history. I have observed a similar treatment of the tsar at work in

Glinka’s A Life. In this opera, history is entirely the province of the tsar, who protects the people from its ravages. Glinka set the precedent for an image of thet Tsar that maximizes his role and power. Rimsky-Korsakov moves away from this mythic image of the tsar in Pskov by emphasizing his human limitations. In Bride, Ivan is characterized only indirectly. His power is

69 Perrie also demonstrates that in some cases, the Tsar performs executions in error, but “this is the consequence not of Ivan’s tyrannical rule, but of the activities of evil men who bear false witness, or of the tsar’s own excessive zeal for the eradication of treason” (65). This emphasizes the humanity of the tsar, but does not condemn him. 70 For a discussion of the different characterizations of Ivan in historiography, and particularly the impact these had on opera, see Taruskin’s Musorgsky (123-200) and Cunningham’s “Terrible Visions: The Sublime Image of Ivan the Terrible in Russian Opera” (1-55). I follow them in my discussion of the historians. 78

both maximized and deemphasized, since he is distanced from the plot. Therefore, it both coincides with the mythic image of Ivan and alters the myth by making his agency ambiguous.

Due to the horrors of Ivan the Terrible’s reign, the myth of the tsar as father acquires some ambivalence when applied to him.71 It becomes mixed with myths of suffering and torment, specifically that of hell. Cunningham argues that Karamzin’s History presents a mythic narrative of Ivan the Terrible’s reign that parallels Northrop Frye’s concept of the sixth phase of tragedy

(34- 40).72 At this phase, the dignity and heroism of the tragic hero is eclipsed by the horrors of the suffering depicted. Suffering is visceral and shocking, not noble. Sixth-phase tragedy descends into what Northrop Frye terms demonic imagery, “the presentation of the world that desire totally rejects: the world of the nightmare and the scapegoat, of bondage and pain and confusion” (147). This is the traditional image of hell and its torments. Thus, the mythic world of

Ivan the Terrible is a demonic one. It is senseless and merciless. The oprichniki, who brought about many of the atrocities of the era, are associated with demons. The whole era is mythically characterized as hell. Ivan thus becomes a demonic inversion of the mythic tsar as father, a capricious, wrathful god who is more like a demon with absolute power.

I will demonstrate that Rimsky-Korsakov problematizes the mythic, demonic vision of the era. In Pskov, he attempts a realistic approach that moves away from the demonic and emphasizes the human aspects of the era. In Bride, he embraces the myth of the demonic world to exploit its

71 The atrocities of Ivan the Terrible’s reign are usually associated with the oprichniki, his infamous . Under his command, they ravaged the Russian countryside on the pretext of rooting out treason. This included the massacre of the city, Novgorod. For more details, see Abraham Ascher’s Russia: A Short History. 72 In Anatomy, Frye describes “four narrative pregeneric elements of literature” (162) that he terms mythoi. These are: Comedy, Romance, Tragedy, and Satire/Irony. On the division into phases, he states, “I recognize six phases of each mythos, three being parallel to the phases of a neighboring mythos” (177). Thus, the first three phases of tragedy are parallel to Romance. Such tragedies emphasize the nobility of the hero. Glinka’s A Life, for instance, belongs to third phase tragedy, in which the hero gives his life to accomplish a heroic quest. The last three phases of tragedy are parallel to Irony, and thus heroism becomes equivocal as more emphasis is placed on the fall and suffering of the protagonist than on heroism. 79

-dramatic potential. He also adds a contrasting myth of the paradisiacal world as a counterweight that heightens the drama. I will explore the two contradictory positions below.

The Maid of Pskov

The historical basis for the plot of The Maid of Pskov is the mysterious fact that Ivan spared Republic of Pskov from the destruction inflicted on its neighbor,

Novgorod. The plot speculates that there may have been a personal motive, since Olga (the maid of the title) is Ivan’s illegitimate daughter. She lives in Pskov with her adopted father, Prince

Tokmakov. Engaged to an older man, Matuta, she really loves and is determined to marry the young Mikhailo Tucha. Their world is set in disarray by a messenger who says that Ivan the

Terrible is coming. Most of the people of Pskov agree with Prince Tokmakov’s plan to seek the tsar’s favor through a feast in his honor, but Tucha convinces some of them to fight against him.

When Ivan comes to the feast, he recognizes Olga as his daughter and decides to spare the city.

Later, the rebels attack. The tsar’s forces subdue them, and Olga is killed in the crossfire. Ivan the

Terrible grieves her death, and Pskov is incorporated into the rest of Russia.

The opera was received with enthusiasm at its premiere, especially from the liberal intelligentsia. It was revived a few times during Rimsky-Korsakov’s lifetime, most notably in the production for the private theater of Mamontov with Chaliapin as the tsar.73 The opera has never had a real place in the Western repertoire, though did bring it to the Théâtre du

Châtelet in . In order to work around the cultural specificity of the plot, he changed the title to Ivan le Terrible. This title had the double advantage of suggesting the lurid deeds of a historical tyrant and drawing attention to the role played by Chaliapin. This clever bit of marketing was not,

73 For more details on the early performance history of the opera see Rimsky-Korsakov’s My Musical Life (131-133, 375-376, 378, 391, 401,405, 80

however, a long-term solution. The opera has remained relatively obscure. Even in Russia, it is not performed with great frequency,74 though it is listed in the repertoire of both the Mariinsky and the Bolshoi Theaters.75 Despite the fact that it is not performed very often, I include it because it has left a lasting impact on the portrayal of Ivan the Terrible.76 Therefore it retains cultural importance.

Furthermore, the opera is important to the study of Rimsky-Korsakov’s development as a composer.77 The first version premiered in 1873. It was Rimsky-Korsakov’s first opera, composed largely in accordance with the ideals of the kuchka. As Taruskin contends, what united the kuchka was “their common devotion to operatic reform” (Opera and Drama 417). The reforms they were devoted to include treating music and text as equals. Therefore, many kuchka composers experimented with radical fidelity to literary sources.78 Pskov observes such a strict level of fidelity to the play on which it is based. Another related reform is the kuchka composers’ attempt to move away from operatic set pieces to a fully integrated drama. Accordingly, Pskov largely avoids decorative numbers. More important to this opera, however, is another reform of the kuchka, that of the expanded role for the chorus. I discuss this matter in greater detail below. I

74 Opera Base statistics note that it was performed only 4 times last year. 75 https://www.mariinsky.ru/playbill/repertoire/opera/pskovityanka. https://www.bolshoi.ru/performances/2075/. 76 Cunningham argues that the operatic portrayal of Ivan in such works as Pskov is in the background of ’s Ivan Vasilievich Changes Professions and the film it inspired (131-152). A similar case can (and has) been made for Sergei Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible. (see, for instance, https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story .php?storyId =102671338). 77 Boris Asafyev takes this further and argues that Pskov is a milestone in the development of Russian opera, in general (Russian Music 194). 78 The model here was Dargomyzhsky’s The Stone Guest, a setting of Pushkin’s drama of the same name to music with very little alteration. Kuchka composers drew from this example, though not usually going as far as Dargomyzhsky. Musorgsky’s early operatic exercise, The Marriage, attempts a similar treatment of Gogol’s play, as does the 1869 version of Boris Godunov of Pushkin’s play. Rimsky-Korsakov later experimented with such a treatment of text in Mozart and Salieri (1897). 81

cite it here alongside other reforms merely to demonstrate that the kuchka ideals were important to the composition of Pskov in its first version.79

However, even when the opera premiered, Rimsky-Korsakov was moving away from the kuchka in theory and practice. In 1871 he was invited to join the faculty of the Saint-Petersburg

Conservatory. His new position prompted an arduous transition from amateur to professional musician. He repudiated some of the radical experiments of his days with the kuchka and learned more accepted, conservative techniques. As part of this process, Rimsky-Korsakov attempted to revise Pskov in 1876-1877. This second version of the opera was never performed. The composer saw it as part of his apprenticeship. Later, in 1891-1892, he returned to the opera as a mature professional and prepared the third version, which is considered definitive and is still performed today. For this reason, all references to Pskov in this dissertation are to the third version.80

While the third version presents some considerable changes in the orchestration and some expansion of the role of Ivan the Terrible, much of the initial, kuchka-inspired vision of the work remains intact. The chorus retains its highly unusual, expanded role, and the opera still largely avoids decorative numbers. I would argue that the historical vision of the work also coincides with that of the composer in his kuchka days.

Despite the fact that most of the plot is fictional, scholars have analyzed Pskov as a serious engagement with historical themes. Taruskin sees in it the operatic embodiment of the statist school of history— Ivan the Terrible is humanized in part because his consolidation of power contributed to the development of a strong Russian state (Musorgsky 150-176). Cunningham sees

79 For a more detailed discussion of the operatic reforms of the kuchka, see Taruskin’s Opera and Drama in Russia as Preached and Practiced in the 1860s (281-416). Taruskin notes that, although the kuchka also sought an integrated musical drama, their vision was contrary to that of Wagner. 80 On the process of composition, see Rimsky-Korsakov, My Musical Life (88,112, 114-118,125-127,130-133,197-8). 82

a parallel to Karamzin’s History in the fact that the opera delves into the human nature of Ivan IV, trying to understand the motives and inner world of the tyrant (129). I suggest that the historical vision of the opera is related to an important aspect of kuchka reform that also touches the interpretation of history. In their quest for realistic opera, kuchka composers sought to turn away from or negate myths in their operas.81 They sought to portray history as human experience, rather than as a mythic narrative.

The attempt to portray Ivan realistically in Pskov emerges in the opera’s two contrasting images of Ivan. The first is that of the mythic Terrible One, mostly expressed in the music of the orchestra. The second image is that of Ivan the man. It is expressed in the text and music that he himself sings. This second image serves as the prosaic reality that contrasts with the myth of Ivan the Terrible. It shows his limited influence and allows other historical agents—the people—to help determine the course of events. The expanded role of the chorus demonstrates that the tsar does not have unilateral control over history. He is a man and therefore takes part in a dialogue with other human beings. This dialogue directs the course of history.

Ivan the Terrible pervades the opera. The certainty of his coming is present from the beginning. Musically, too, he asserts his influence on the opera from the beginning. The

Overture introduces Ivan’s motif first, through an ominous, moving bass line (see Fig. 11). As

Asafyev observes, this motif is related to the mythic characterization of Ivan as the Terrible

One, the executor of God’s will. This mythic aspect of Ivan is also conveyed through tremolos

81 It is also noteworthy that in their desire to move away from myth in portrayals of history, the kuchka composers were following a dominant trend of the 1860s and 70s. Tolstoy takes a similar stance in War and Peace, and Ungurianu notes that such a stance became characteristic of Russian historical novels written in the 1870s (125-148). 83

in the orchestral accompaniment when the Tsar speaks, or when others are speaking about him.

It is first heard during the nursemaids’ conversation, when they speak of the rumor of the massacre of Novgorod (see Fig. 12); it is applied to the Tsar throughout the opera, both when others are speaking about him and when he himself speaks. Note the use of tremolo when he learns that Olga has been kidnapped and orders his servants to bring Matuta to him (see Fig. 13).

This musical topos conveys the image of Ivan IV as the Terrible One. It gestures toward his absolute power and the demonic nature of his reign.

But alongside this musical image of the tsar as the Terrible One is more prosaic music that marks him as a man. His singing is dominated by recitative, which Cunningham characterizes as

“dignified, substantial and powerful” (123), thus befitting a tsar.82 While this may be the case, the text that he sings is remarkably prosaic. In the first scene for which he is onstage, most of what he sings is typical etiquette, i.e. greetings and wishing good health. Once he is brought to the feast, he asks for food and drink and wants to see beautiful women. Before he knows that she is his daughter, he even asks Olga to kiss him, though she bashfully refuses. Lust is a traditional part of the image of Ivan, but it is usually a demonic, rapacious desire, whereas here it is quotidian. Most prosaically, he converses with Stesha about the contents of the pies being served.

Stesha says the pies are made “with mushrooms.” He is wholly human. He focuses on his bodily desires, and even mishears the girl speaking to him. He is not the Terrible One, but a human being.

82 Tsar Ivan’s recitative style may partly be a matter of trying to navigate the political complexities of having the Tsar portrayed onstage. Rimsky-Korsakov had to seek special dispensation to portray a Tsar in opera at all. When he asked why the Tsar was not allowed to appear in an opera, he was told, “Suppose the Tsar should suddenly sing a ditty?” (see Rimsky-Korsakov My Musical Life p.125-127, translated by Judah A. Joffe). It seems that even when he was given permission to have a singing Tsar onstage, it was important for his music to be decorous. 84

The Ivan of Pskov is not wholly stripped of his mythic image, but he is considerably humanized. The moments when he is angry seem to evoke the myth of the Terrible One. This is especially true when he orders his underlings to bring Matuta to him (see Fig. 13). Note, however, that this is not the arbitrary anger of a mythical Terrible One, but the anger of a literal father.83 There is a personal motive attached to his anger that shows him as a human being.

The last line of the opera sung by a solo character humanizes Ivan by demonstrating the limits of his power; when Tsar Ivan orders Bomelius to heal his daughter, the latter replies, “The

Lord alone raises the dead” (248). As Cunningham notes, this emphasizes Ivan the Terrible’s humanity (129). The opera actually disassociates the Tsar from God. The Tsar is not all powerful, and his will is not an inevitable decree. He does not govern history singlehandedly.

Through the expanded use of the chorus in the opera, Rimsky-Korsakov shows that the people also help to determine the course of history. Rather than merely serving as a decorative musical backdrop, the chorus in Pskov is a character that participates in the drama. Taruskin coined the term choral dramaturgy to describe this use of the chorus (Musorgsky 157-185).84 The mark of choral dramaturgy is a chorus divided into factions. It allows for the portrayal of simultaneous states of being in the chorus, therefore accomplishing a similar effect to that of

83 Compare this Ivan with that of Alexey Tolstoy’s ballad, “Prince Mikhailo Repnin.” In the ballad, the Tsar kills his most faithful courtier in a fit of rage for denouncing the . The response exceeds the offense. Such is not the case in Pskov when he finds out his daughter has been kidnapped, a far more serious crime. 84 Taruskin argues that Pskov is the first and most successful use of choral dramaturgy, which he sees as a singularity of Russian opera (On Rusiian Music 167-168, 177). However, James Parakilas demonstrates that in Les Huguenots (1836) uses a divided chorus that participates in the plot. The term choral dramaturgy can, thus, profitably be applied to (76, 85-86). Perhaps it is more accurate to say that Russian composers developed the technique further than to say that they invented it entirely. A future study would do well to compare the crowd scene from Act III of Les Huguenots with the veche scene from Pskov. Worthy of consideration also is Boris Gasparov’s hypothesis that, inspired by Musorgsky’s Boris, adapts the technique of choral dramaturgy in (185-208). Thus, Russian choral dramaturgy has ancestry in French grand opera and at least one descendant in Italian verismo opera. 85

operatic ensembles, only with a large group rather than a few main characters.85 Used in historical opera, choral dramaturgy demonstrates conflicting movements in history. It allows

Rimsky-Korsakov to show the people of Russia in greater complexity and depth. The people are not a monolithic being, but a gathering of individuals. Thus, group psychology is complicated by the fact that all groups break down into subgroups and individuals. Part of the kuchka quest for a realistic portrayal of history in opera, choral dramaturgy demonstrates that various group and individual interests, rather than a single, governing Zeitgeist, influence the movement of history.

The choral dramaturgy of Pskov is most pronounced in the veche scene (Act I scene 2).

Far from a merely decorative choral number, this scene provides the juncture for the plot. The people are summoned to the assembly by the . At the meeting, a messenger warns them that

Tsar Ivan has just razed Novgorod and is now on his way to Pskov. From the outset, the chorus is divided into five groups, each carrying on its own conversation (see Fig. 14). Rimsky-Korsakov emphasizes the fact that the people are not a single, unified force, but are divided amongst themselves by varying interests and needs. The people reach a consensus on only one subject— that they should hold the council at all. What emerges is a dialogic vision of historical agency.

No one person, or even one group or point of view, is able to determine its course. Decisions of historical import are made in dialogue, through disagreement.

The decision to hold the council at all may seem small, but it actually carries significant historical implications. It amounts to a decision to enter history more fully. At the beginning of the opera, Pskov is something of an idyll. It is not quite the Edenic space outside of history that

Glinka portrays in A Life because the people of Pskov are at least conscious of history. In the first

85 I am thinking of ensembles like Verdi’s “Bella figlia dell'amore,” for example, that show individual characters in contrasting states of being. For this insight into the dramatic purpose of ensembles I am indebted to Auden. 86

scene, two nursemaids transition seamlessly from gossiping about Olga’s parentage to discussing rumors about the Massacre of Novgorod. History, and in fact, evil, are an acknowledged part of life in Pskov. But although the city is not prelapsarian, it is nonetheless fairly idyllic. The opera begins with a scenic game of gorelki, showing peaceful recreation as a norm disrupted by the arrival of the tsar. The main female role, Olga, has grown up in relative comfort and fallen in love with Mikhailo Tucha. She is betrothed to Matuta against her will, but she is also not terribly worried about her betrothal, which she is confident that she can persuade her father to annul. The problems that exist in Pskov, at the beginning of the opera, are rather small.

Contrary to typical operatic practice, the love triangle in Pskov is not a source of tension.

The real tension comes from Ivan the Terrible. The inevitability of his coming is palpable when, as mentioned above, the nursemaids discuss the rumor of the Massacre of Novgorod. The tremolo accompaniment demonstrates that their conversation is not idle prattle (See Fig. 12).

They are discussing an imminent threat. The foreboding increases when the bells sound to call the people to the council. As the bells sound, Olga interprets them as an omen of evil fate. While she that the omen applies to her (“they are burying my happiness” 81- 82), it also extends to the rest of the city.86

It is significant that the people of Pskov do not wait passively for Ivan the Terrible to come. Instead they hold the council to decide what to do. Thus, the people are not objects acted upon by history. They are an important agent in the plot and in history. The decisions of the chorus at the council bring about the denouement of the opera and determine the fate of the city.

86 Taruskin interprets Olga as a symbol for Pskov itself (see Musorgsky 150). 87

As a divided chorus, the people of Pskov do not reach a unanimous decision on most of the crucial issues. Note the polyphonic texture of the music as they gather to the council (see Fig.

14). The chorus divides into as many as five distinct groups. Thus, the music differentiates their interests and perspectives. As observed, they reach consensus on the subject of holding the council. This consensus is shown through both the shared text and the homophonic texture which they sing (see Fig. 15).

They reach such homophonic consensus only a few times during the veche scene. They all lament together the imminent woes coming to the city. Before Prince Tokmakov presents his plan, they all express the desire to defend the city through military action (see Fig. 16). They also all, initially, express solidarity with Tokmakov (see Fig. 17). However, homophony quickly gives way to polyphony as various perspectives clamor to be heard (see Fig. 18). Some of the people expresses agreement with Tokmakov’s plan to prepare a feast. But the first tenors and basses interrupt to ask the people to let Tucha speak his mind. They disrupt the unity and cause a second party to form. However, after this party speaks out, the people reach another brief consensus about letting Tucha speak (see Fig. 19). This is functionally equivalent to the unanimous decision to hold the veche in the first place. They can agree to engage in dialogue with each other. Beyond that, however, their views differ sharply from one another and consensus is virtually impossible.

Tucha’s plan to battle Tsar Ivan represents the opposite of Tokmakov’s. The chorus is left to choose between the extremes of meeting the tsar with a feast and resisting him through armed force. It is important to note that in this scene there is no progression towards unity, no movement from thesis to antithesis that finally ends in a synthesis. Divisions and differences are given as an absolute condition of community and even national life. It will not do to blame the violent measures on Tucha, either. As noted above, the people initially express in homophonic 88

texture the desire to defend Pskov (see Fig. 16). Tucha is not introducing a new idea to the people. He is drawing on sentiments that he knows members of the community share with him.

The people are torn between their twin desires to follow Tokmakov and to fight for the city. This rends asunder the already tenuously united city. After Tucha sings his plan, two completely distinct parties form. One joins Tucha, singing enthusiastically about the coming battle, the other joins Prince Tokmakov, singing about inevitable defeat and ruin. The chorus goes beyond merely singing in a polyphonic texture to singing essentially two completely different pieces of music simultaneously (see Fig. 20). Tucha’s party sings a hearty folk song, while the rest of the assembly sings a lament. The groups are completely at odds with each other in terms of their .

To make matters worse, Tokomakov’s party remains more individuated than unified. The scene ends with their lament, but it is expressed in polyphony. Their grief for the community is, paradoxically, personal. Perhaps the division caused by Tucha’s party irreparably shatters the unity of the community. For the rest of the opera, the chorus continues to show polyphonic individuation, even in scenes when the people apparently agree. This is true of the scene in which they prepare the feast for the tsar’s arrival. Although they sing mostly the same text, the texture at times reverts to polyphony (see Fig. 21). They share the same sense of apprehension, but it remains a personal emotion. Even when they meet the tsar, their singing is not entirely homophonic, though more so than in previous numbers (see Fig. 22). Unity is tenuous as the group dissolves into individuals.

Significantly, the two plans discussed at the veche scene are both carried out. Prince

Tokmakov’s party prepares a feast for Ivan the Terrible, and Tucha’s party engages the tsar’s forces in battle. The chorus really is an agency in the plot, capable of doing more than merely 89

talking. Its members act for themselves and their actions have consequences. Tokmakov’s feast allows Ivan the Terrible to realize that Olga is his daughter and he chooses to spare the city.

Tucha’s rebellion results in his and Olga’s death, and the loss of Pskov’s independence. The plot, then, comes about through a dialogue between the factions of the divided chorus with each other and with the tsar. History is determined, not by a single person or even a single group, but by a complex dialectic involving various groups and individuals.

The chorus that closes the opera expresses reconciliation. Taruskin characterizes it as a choral version of a scribe’s primechaniia, a gloss that elucidates the higher meaning of the historical events (172-176). In this case, the meaning is presumably the statist interpretation of the events of the opera—that everything has taken place according to the design of Providence,

Pskov was meant to fall and become part of Russia. Noteworthy, however, is the fact that while the text expresses a unified sense of reconciliation, the music continues to individuate parts of the chorus (see Fig. 23). The final number divides the chorus into eight parts, and in some places as many as nine. Polyphony dominates. The chorus reaches for unified homophony in the middle, addressing “the people of Pskov” (see Fig. 24) and then it returns to polyphony for another eleven measures. At the very end of the chorus, the parts unite on the tonic chord (see Fig. 25).

This unity, however, follows individual entrances for each of the eight parts. The final measures are not polyphonic, and they certainly don’t exhibit the same radically divided chorus of the veche scene. However, it demonstrates the fact that even in unity the chorus is not a monolithic entity. It still breaks down into individuals.

After an entire opera of a divided chorus, the final chord presents a unified resolution.

I suggest that the unity of the chorus in the last chord of Pskov plays a musico-dramatic role similar to that of the final resolution of in Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. In Tristan, the suspension 90

presented in the celebrated “Tristan chord” in the overture is carried throughout much of the opera, resolving only at the end, showing final reconciliation and redemption. In Rimsky-

Korsakov, the chorus divides at the beginning. Its division is demonstrated through much of the opera, never reaching complete unity until the very end. The ultimate unity of the chorus shows the final union of Pskov with Russia, and of Pskov coming together as one unified people. But, as in Wagner, the suspension is more memorable than the resolution.87 It is possible to see the division of the people as a consequence of the republican system. In such a reading, the tragedy takes place because of a problem that threatens the survival of any republic—an extremist movement. Such a reading would correspond to the political ideas that Ivan the Terrible sings. A kingdom needs one strong leader in order to prosper.

However, the fact that Rimsky-Korsakov sustains polyphony to the end of the opera seems to indicate that, even when the city is integrated into the rest of the Russian kingdom, different movements will continue to exist within it. The separate entrances for each voice part suggest that they are coming together as individuals. The people of Pskov are still not a monolithic group. The fact that groups break down into individuals is not unique to republics.

Pskov presents it as a law of history, one that helps to determine its course. This attempt to probe the laws of history by turning from myth characterizes the kuchka approach to historical opera and defines Rimsky-Korsakov’s early position.

The Tsar’s Bride

The Tsar’s Bride is the most popular of Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas in Russia, but, like

87 As Gozenpud notes, the veche scene was the most popular at the premiere of the opera, both with critics and audiences (61-62). 91

Pskov, has never gained a real foothold in the Western repertoire.88 With this in mind, I will briefly summarize the plot: Griaznoy, a high ranking oprichnik, has lost his usual zest for carousing after falling in love with the innocent Marfa Sobakina. Unfortunately, she loves and is engaged to Ivan Lykov. The love triangle gets more complicated when Ivan the Terrible chances to see her one day and admires her beauty. Griaznoy buys a love potion to win her affections.

Meanwhile, his current mistress, Liubasha, gets poison and replaces the love potion with it to destroy her rival. All the young women are called to appear before the tsar so he can choose a bride from among them. Griaznoy administers the poison (thinking it is the love potion). The tsar chooses Marfa. She begins suffering from a mysterious illness. Griaznoy puts Lykov to death on the false pretense that he has poisoned her. After learning of Lykov’s death, Marfa goes mad and starts calling Griaznoy by Lykov’s name. Overcome with remorse, he confesses that he unwittingly poisoned her by attempting to give her a love potion. Liubasha then confesses, and

Griaznoy kills her and is taken away as a prisoner.

Scholars frequently analyze Bride in contrast to Pskov. Asafyev sets the tone by characterizing Pskov as an “opera-chronicle” in which the historical background is more important than the drama. In contrast, he argues that Bride is more concentrated on the drama, more so, actually, than in any other opera of Rimsky-Korsakov. Taruskin and Frolova-Walker see the opera as a repudiation of the kuchka values that Rimsky-Korsakov espoused in his early career. Much of this discussion centers on the musical and dramatic differences between Pskov and Bride, though it does contrast their respective treatments of history (On Russian Music 174).

88 This is especially true of America, where the opera has no presence. In Europe it is a rarity, but it has at least been performed in Germany. Dmitry Tcherniakov apparently directed a performance of it at the Deutsche Staatsoper in 2014 (see http://metopera.org/PageFiles/41061/Feb%2021%20Prince%20Igor.pdf) 92

Taruskin calls Bride a “pseudohistorical opera” (Musorgsky 308). Frolova-Walker similarly argues, “Although the subject was historical, Rimsky-Korsakov consigned this to the background and moved a love intrigue to the centre of his version, again mocking the Kuchka’s principles”

(Russian Music and Nationalism 204). Rimsky-Korsakov disavows the historical realism that characterizes Pskov.

I suggest that the fictional plot that forms the focus of Bride does not preclude its exploration of history. Rather, Rimsky-Korsakov approaches history through imagination, using myth as a means for exploring the meaning, rather than the facts, of history. It is important to note the shift in Rimsky-Korsakov’s choices of subject for operas: between the first version of

Pskov and Bride, he composed five operas on fairy-tale and fantasy themes. 89 His interests shifted from the historical realist genre to which his first opera belonged. However, the distinction between these two genres may only relate to superficial characteristics. I have shown that Glinka’s Ruslan deals with both fantasy and history. The same is true of Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas. Frolova-Walker admirably analyzes The Golden Cockerel as a thinly veiled satire on recent Russian history and society and a of the kuchka ideologies of nationalist music.

More broadly, Forshaw contends that, “Supposedly escapist fairy-tale operas reflected political and ; conversely, many ‘realistic’ operas hinted at an interstitial divine or demonic presence through the incorporation of dreams and apparitions. The voice, the product of the body that also seems to transcend the body, is the link in this play between the material world

89 They are: (after Gogol’s short story), (after Ostrovsky’s play), Mlada, (after Gogol’s short story), and . During this time he also revised Pskov (twice); edited the operas of Musorgsky and Borodin; wrote the historical one-act The Noblewoman Vera Sheloga (after the first act of Mey’s Pskov), originally as part of his revisions of Pskov, though later separated from it; composed the opera Mozart and Salieri after Pushkin (see “Rimsky-Korsakov). Note that, of the original works that he composed, the fairy tale and fantasy operas outnumber the historical ones. 93

of visible reality and the ideal world of the imagination” (182). Just as historical opera channels myth, so can mythic opera explore history. In Bride, Rimsky-Korsakov adopts an overtly mythic approach. He applies demonic imagery to the world of Ivan the Terrible, in a return to traditional representations of that period. Therefore, I suggest that Rimsky-Korsakov’s about face from

Pskov is not so much a turn away from history as it is a turn toward myth so as to explore history.

In addition to changing aspects of his style and dramaturgy, RimksyKorsakov changed his approach to history by abandoning realism and embracing the mythic nature of historical opera.

Rimsky-Korsakov goes beyond merely embracing the demonic myth of Ivan’s reign by also portraying a paradisiacal world that contrasts with that of the tsar. In doing so he presents the plot of Bride in terms of the myth of a demon falling in love with a human being. Mary

Laurita traces the development of this influential myth, showing its origin in the apocryphal

Book of Enoch, its brief appearance in Milton’s Paradise Lost, and the detailed treatment it receives from the Romantics.90 In Russian culture, the fullest and most influential treatment of the myth is ’s Demon. This long poem tells the story of a demon who falls in love with a Caucasian princess named Tamara. Eventually he seduces her. When he kisses her, she dies, but her soul is taken to Heaven. is left alone and bereft. Not legally printed in full in Russia until 1860 (largely for religious reasons), Lermontov’s Demon was enjoying enormous popularity in Russia when Rimsky-Korsakov was composing the Bride.91

This popularity was supported by successful adaptations in other media. The year 1875 saw the premiere of an influential opera adaptation of the work by Anton Rubinstein, the virtuoso

90 The examples she explores, besides Lermontov, are: Byron’s Cain and Heaven and Earth, Thomas Moore’s The Loves of the Angels, De Vigny’s Eloa. Valentin Boss adds Thomas Moore’s Lalla-rookh and Pushkin’s Gabrieliad. David Bethea argues that that this myth is a subtext of Pushkin’s The Stone Guest (220-221). 91 See Valentin Boss Milton and the Rise of Russian Satanism. 94

pianist, composer, and founder of the St. Petersburg conservatory of music. The opera received one hundred performances in the first ten years of its existence, and by the end of the nineteenth century it had become the second most popular opera in Russia after A Life for the Tsar

(“Rubinstein, Anton Grigor’yevich”).92 In the visual arts, Mikhail Vrubel in 1891 provided the illustrations for an edition of Lermontov’s works commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the poet’s death. Half of the twenty-two illustrations he provided were for The Demon (Laurita 133).

He was also working on sets and costumes for productions of the Rubinstein opera. The

Symbolist movement was burgeoning in the 1890s, as well, and they found in Lermontov’s (and

Vrubel’s) demon a symbol of poetic inspiration and power. The myth was an important cultural touchstone. Rimsky-Korsakov was well aware of the fact that the demon myth was permeating

Russian culture in the 1890s. In My Musical Life he claims that he had read all of Lermontov while at school. Although he does not comment on Rubinstein’s The Demon, he was acquainted with the composer; they were colleagues at the St. Petersburg Conservatory of music. He also states that he “became well acquainted” (372) with Vrubel in 1898, directly before commencing work on Bride.93 Since Vrubel’s obsession with Lermontov’s work has been well documented

(see Laurita), it is plausible that the subject came up in their conversations. Perhaps it is worthy of note that the scenery for the premiere of Bride was based on sketches by Vrubel (see My

Musical Life 385 n33). The artist participated in the creative process of the opera. Thus, the possibility of the composer being influenced by Lermontov’s work is likely.

92 Since, by imperial decree this opera opened every season at the state theaters, analyzing its popularity with audiences based on the number of performances is problematic. 93 Translated by Judah A. Joffe. 95

Furthermore, Rimsky-Korsakov was interested in the demon myth on his own. Parallel to composing Bride, he composed a duet called “The Angel and the Demon” (1898). While it does not specifically show a demon in love, it presents a contrast between the innocence of the angel and the dark seductiveness of the demon. As I will argue, a similar contrast plays an important role in Bride. Also in 1898, Rimsky-Korsakov considered Byron’s Heaven and Earth for the subject of a future project with the librettist V. N. Belsky (ibid 379). This proves that the myth of angels and demons in love with human beings attracted the composer.94 While the opera never came to fruition, the myth appears in Bride in a displaced form.

To illustrate the presence of the demon myth in Bride, I will first demonstrate through literary parallels that: 1) the setting of the first two acts contrasts demonic and paradisiacal imagery, and 2) the actions and words of the characters place them within the narrative of a demon falling in love with a human being. Since this myth comes not solely from Lermontov, the literary parallels I draw with the opera come not only from his work but also from John Milton’s

Paradise Lost and various works of .95

94 Taruskin claims that at the time of his death, Rimsky-Korsakov was working Heaven and Earth (see “Bel’sky, Vladimir Nikolayevich”). If such is the case, then the theme remained of interest to him. 95 My justification for including Milton in this discussion comes from: 1) Valentin Boss’s argument that Paradise Lost was, along with the works of Byron, Pushkin, Friedrich Klopstock’s Der Messias and Goethe’s Faust, a central source of inspiration for Lermontov’s long poem. I do not include Klopstock or Goethe because their demons do not fall in love. I do not include Byron because the angels of Heaven and Earth are different in kind from the demons of the myth I am examining. I do not refer to the demons of his other works on the grounds that his popularity in Russia waned in the second half of the nineteenth century. See Nina Diakonova and Vadim Vatsuro, “‘No Great Mind and Generous Heart Could Avoid Byronism’: Russia and Byron.” 2) Boss also shows that Paradise Lost was popular in nineteenth-century Russia, and its popularity grew more and more in the second half of the century (in contrast to that of Byron). Thus, it is reasonable to suggest that Bride was influenced by Milton, if not directly then at least through Lermontov and cultural osmosis.

96

The Setting

The opera opens in the demonic realm. The first scene, according to the stage directions, should have on the wall a crossbow, a large knife, and a bearskin. These are all reminders of warfare and death, and therefore they are examples of what Frye terms demonic imagery. They characterize the opening scene as a place of captivity and suffering, which are exhibited most obviously by Liubasha, Griaznoy’s kept woman. But, as I will explore below,

Griaznoy himself is suffering as well, because of his unfulfilled love for Marfa. The joviality of the first scene, including the drinking and choruses of praise, is merely his attempt to distract himself from his misery. The setting never allows us to forget that the action takes place in hell, or at least a hellish space.

Marfa is a wholly innocent character who inhabits an Edenic paradise. In her first aria, she tells Duniasha about her childhood and the fact that she and Lykov grew up together. Most of her narration focuses on the setting, which she presents in idyllic terms. “Every bush nodded its head to us, the trees looked on us with amazement and quiet affection” (125). Marfa’s childhood was spent in total harmony with the elements. This peaceful relationship between humankind and nature belongs to Eden before the Fall. Before driving Adam and Eve out of Eden, the Lord told them, “cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life;

Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee...In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread”(Genesis 3:17-19). The enmity between man and nature belongs to the postlapsarian world. In the world before the Fall, they live in harmony.96

96 This concord between man and nature also characterizes the redeemed world. The apocalyptic prophecies of Isaiah serve as one example: “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid…and the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’s den. They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain” (Isaiah 11:6,8). 97

Marfa is further connected with Eden in the fact that the word “garden” is used three times in the aria. It was a blessed state, as she affirms herself, “And so we lived in a green garden, and we breathed freely” (125). As opposed to the demonic imagery of the first scene,

Marfa’s aria employs paradisiacal imagery, or in Frye’s terms, apocalyptic imagery. As Frye states, “the apocalyptic world, the heaven of religion, presents, in the first place, the categories of reality in the forms of human desire, as indicated by the forms they assume under the work of human civilization” (141). The garden of Marfa’s memories occupies this sort of a paradisiacal world. It is set up as the opposite of the first scene. The open-air setting (“we breathed freely”) and the freedom implied by it contrasts with the claustrophobia and captivity of Griaznoy’s chambers.97

This setting allows Marfa to live in a completely innocent state. Her love for Lykov is completely pure. It comes from companionship and shared experience. He takes part in the domestic of Act II, the most unambiguously paradisiacal moment in the opera. Anatoly

Solovtsov observes, “the slow, calm, affectionate melody sung by Sobakin [Marfa’s father] is developed in the parts of the other participants of the ensemble” (59). The peaceful emotions are, thus, communal, another contrast with Act I. The trio of Liubasha, Bomelius and

Griaznoy demonstrates three opposing states of being. Their vocal parts harmonize with each other, but they do not develop or share a common theme. (See Fig. 26). They experience emotional disjuncture that is a far cry from the concord and unity of the characters in paradise.

That Lykov shares emotions with Sobakin and Marfa demonstrates that he is at home in her family circle. They are all united. Whereas Griaznoy abducted Liubasha from her family, Lykov

97 My analysis owes something to Greg Ormiston, who argues that Dostoevsky in The Brothers Karamazov uses indoor and outdoor spaces to increase and relieve tension. 98

is part of Marfa’s. He, too, is a positive and innocent character. His love for Marfa contrasts with that of Griaznoy. In the opening scene when he comes to Griaznoy’s gathering his good nature clashes with the demonic setting. Solovtsov observes that in this scene, Lykov is characterized by a “bright, cheerful melody” and a sense of “noble modesty.” Notice the calmness of his arioso in a major key, with the steady chords in the accompaniment, as opposed to the stormy arpeggios that accompany Griaznoy’s first aria (see Fig. 27 and Fig. 28). Lykov is blissfully out of place in this setting of captivity and suffering, but at home in Eden.

The Narrative

Following a classic structural principle of demonic narratives, Rimsky-Korsakov begins the opera with Griaznoy singing an aria that introduces his sense of longing and loss. Both

Paradise Lost and The Demon begin with demonic characters cast out of Heaven, reflecting on their loss. Griaznoy’s aria, with its repetitions of the phrase, “Where has my former boldness gone?” (18), owes more to the elegies of the Romantic age than to the mindset of the quasi- monastic ruffians who were the sixteenth-century oprichniki. He follows the pattern of living a dissipated life and then losing interest in it, like Eugene Onegin and, to some extent, Grigory

Pechorin. But, unlike these two, he is not afflicted by unexplainable ennui—his riotous living loses meaning because he has fallen in love with Marfa.

The loss of interest in carousing because of newfound love directly invokes the myth of the demon falling in love with an innocent woman or an angel. It follows the pattern of Milton’s

Satan, who upon seeing Eve is so astounded by her pure beauty that he loses the will to do evil

99

and briefly becomes “stupidly good.”98 It follows the pattern of Pushkin’s poem “Angel,” in which a demon sees an angel and feels “the heat of involuntary, tender emotion”; of Pushkin’s

The Stone Guest, in which tells Dona Anna that her love has changed him;99 of

Lermontov’s demon, who upon seeing Tamara for the first time, in the narrator’s words, “could not find in his mind/ crafty words of temptation” (327). In each of these demon narratives, the sight of a pure being causes the demon, however briefly, to cease from evil. Griaznoy adheres to this narrative, and like other demons he returns to sin with redoubled zeal after the moment is past.

Griaznoy’s love for Marfa is not redemptive but, in fact, demonic. In his first aria, he speaks of his longing for Marfa. Unfulfilled desire is a mark of hellish love. Note the following passage from Milton when Satan sees Adam and Eve together:

Sight hateful, sight tormenting! thus these two

Imparadised in one another’s arms

The happier Eden, shall enjoy their fill

Of bliss on bliss, while I to Hell am thrust,

Where neither joy nor love, but fierce desire,

Among our other torments not the least, Still

unfulfilled with pain of longing pines.

(Paradise Lost 4:505-511)

98 “Her graceful innocence, her every air/Of gesture or least action overawed/His malice, and with rapine sweet bereaved/His fierceness of the fierce intent it brought” (Paradise Lost 9:459-462). 99 David Bethea in “’A Higher Audacity’: How to Read Pushkin’s Dialogue with Shakespeare in The Stone Guest,” contends convincingly that the subtext of The Stone Guest is a demon falling in love with an angel (220-221). This work, especially, would have been on Rimsky-Korsakov’s mind at the time he was working on Bride, because his previous opera, Mozart and Salieri alludes to Dargomyzhsky’s adaption of The Stone Guest, and is also explicitly dedicated to that composer (see “Rimsky-Korsakov”). 100

Griaznoy’s fierce, unfulfilled desire contrasts with the innocent fulfillment of Marfa’s relationship with Lykov. He acknowledges the unedifying nature of his love at the end of the opera, saying, “I love her like a wild wind loves freedom” (245). A wild wind, in Russian metaphorizes potentially destructive, uncontrolled passions.100 Griaznoy’s love does prove destructive. It motivates him to befriend Lykov hypocritically while plotting to steal his bride from him and ultimately kill him. The nature of his love marks him as a demonic character.101

Griaznoy is not alone in hell. Liubasha, too, belongs to the demonic realm. Although she is certainly a victim, she does not remain innocent. She is possessed by sexual jealousy, anger, and the desire for revenge. She ends up agreeing with Bomelius to exchange sexual favors for poison in order to destroy her rival. Possessiveness overtakes faithfulness. Her love, like that of

Griaznoy, leads her on to destructive acts that harm the innocent characters of the opera.

Note that the opera presents submissiveness to fate as a virtue in both sexes. The demonic characters struggle with their fate through scheming, potions, poisons, false witness, murder, and sexual bartering. Struggling with fate is in itself presented as a demonic trait. The innocent characters, male or female, submit. Note the scene when Lykov worries that the tsar might choose Marfa as his bride. He accepts the prospect in terms that fall somewhere between stoic philosophy and folksy fatalism: “If something must be, then there’s no escaping it” (173).

Although he says he might not live long without her, this is in a spirit of resignation, not of willful self-negation, as in Romeo’s “then I defy you, stars!” No character inhabits a middle

100 Pushkin’s “God Grant I Shall Not Lose My Mind,” is one example. More to the point is probably Lermontov’s “The Sail,” in which the sailor, in a clearly demonic gesture, seeks storms and winds “as if in storms there were peace.” 101 Griaznoy’s name (etymologically linked to “dirty”) can be taken as another hint about his nature. However, it is important to note that the name was not a fabrication. Grigory Griaznoy was historically a favorite of Tsar Ivan who was was executed for allegedly poisoning his bride. See Cunningham (87-90). 101

ground, where fate might be changed through virtuous (or at least harmless) deeds. In the world of the opera, one can either righteously submit to fate or wickedly try to change it.

If Liubasha is a demonic character, why does Rimsky-Korsakov spend so much effort on showing her in a sympathetic light? Liubasha’s song from Act I shows her as a suffering victim, not as a demon. Rimsky-Korsakov draws attention to this moment by having the song sung without accompaniment, a highly unusual device in opera that stands out even more because of the many traditional aspects of Bride. This seems to show that her grief defines her. Solovtsov demonstrates that her music at other points of the opera repeats motifs from the Act I song. Thus, he argues that although she may be one of the “evil forces” of the opera, her music emphasizes her grief rather than her malice.

However, there is no opposition between sympathetic and demonic traits. All demonic characters suffer and they are all sympathetic. Milton’s Satan is the obvious example, since he commands enough sympathy that the Romantics proclaim him the real hero of the epic.102

Lermontov’s demon is likewise sympathetic and uses that fact to his advantage. He devotes much of his monologues to evoking feelings of sympathy, characterizing himself as “the one whom no one loves” (339), and saying, “My sorrow is here without change/ and like me it will have no end,/ and will not ever sleep in the grave” (342). Lermontov’s demon, like all demonic characters, relies on sympathy to achieve his ends. Demons thrive on presenting themselves as

102 The classic example is ’s statement, “The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil’s party without knowing it” (71). similarly argues, “Milton's Devil as a moral being is as far superior to his God, as one who perseveres in some purpose which he has conceived to be excellent in spite of adversity and torture is to one who in the cold security of undoubted triumph inflicts the most horrible revenge upon his enemy” (30-31). Byron’s Cain can also be seen as an iteration of the Satanic interpretation of Paradise Lost. 102

victims. The fact that Liubasha’s music tugs at the heartstrings of the audience makes her more, not less, demonic.

Victimhood, for Liubasha, is a tool. Note that when she is afraid that Griaznoy will leave her, she tries to stir up feelings of pity to manipulate him. She says, “My maiden shame I forgot for you. I forgot my father and mother. I forgot my kin and family. I didn’t shed a single tear for them, and it was all for you” (95). Liubasha does not regret leaving behind her family or giving herself to Griaznoy. Her lost paradise is not her childhood at home but the short time she was loved. She recites the litany of her losses only to manipulate her lover. Solovtsov observes that her music at this point exhibits “fervent love and tenderness.” It is Griaznoy that she focuses on.

The melody reaches a climax at the words, “it was all for you” (95 see Fig. 29). Losing his love is the only true loss that she feels. Having lost his love, she attempts to keep her hold on him through sympathy and guilt. While she fails to do so, she does gain some measure of power over the audience through the sympathy that she commands.

Bomelius, too, belongs to the demonic world. Throughout the opera, other characters call him by epithets resonant with black magic and blasphemy. These include, but are not limited to, warlock (koldun), unclean (nechistyi), witch doctor (znakhar), and heathen (pogannyi). Lest the audience should think this association comes only from the people’s ignorance, RimskyKorsakov gives Bomelius ominous musical motifs. Solovtsov calls this motif “the chord of the dark forces.” It is used when Bomelius assures Griaznoy that there is such a thing as a love potion; it is applied to Bomelius when Liubasha knocks on his door (See Figure 30). It is used as an ominous signal that Liubaha is turning to demonic means to avenge herself on her rival. He himself sings this motif during their duet when she asks for the poison (See Figure 31), strengthening that connection. It is repeated as an introduction to his threat that he will tell 103

Griaznoy about her request unless she give herself to him in exchange for the poison (see Figure

32). Thus, the motif does not merely stand for the poison. It is associated with evil, of which poison is only one manifestation. Finally, he himself professes abilities more magical than medical, i.e. “there are many arcane secrets in the world, many dark powers undiscovered, but in study is the key to these secrets given” (86). Bomelius belongs entirely in the demonic world.

The opera first introduces the demonic world and then contrasts it with the paradisiacal one. The first act introduces Griaznoy, Liubasha, and Bomelius and shows their world.

The beginning of Act II serves to demonstrate the complete separation of the demonic and

Edenic worlds of the opera. In this act, Marfa sings the Edenic aria analyzed above, and the domestic quartet follows, presenting an idyllic scene of innocence and contentment. In one of the most dramatically effective scenes of the opera, Liubasha enters this idyllic scene. Solovtsov observes that the short orchestral expresses her thoughts and feelings. “The woodwinds sing the sorrowful melody familiar to the listener—the tune of the song “Snariazhai skorei” [her unaccompanied song from Act I]. Accompanying the melody…pizzicato in the strings colors the music in foreboding, agitated tones” (59 see Fig. 33). This time, there is menace in Liubasha’s pathos, signaling that Liubasha comes as a representative of the demonic world.

Liubasha’s presence brings the marked contrast between the two worlds of the opera into the forefront. She has come to see her rival and assess how much danger she might be in. When she sees how beautiful Marfa is, she laments her loss and approaches Bomelius to ask for a potion that will make her rival wither away. Bomelius agrees, on the condition that she give herself to him. The torment and manipulation experienced by the demonic characters is presented in sharp relief since it foregrounds the domestic comfort and sociality of Marfa and her family 104

circle. The contrast becomes even more apparent when, immediately after Bomelius’s demand, the sound of happy singing and laughter is heard from Sobakin’s house. The music of their laughter is a brief and abrupt shift from the rest of the scene. It is a jovial outburst at Allegro vivo, with Sobakin singing good-humoredly, Lykov quipping back, and Marfa and Dunyasha laughing in harmony (See Fig. 34). The laughter represents a brief return to the concord of the domestic quartet, albeit at a faster tempo. Immediately following the laughter, Liubasha launches into morose recitative, followed by an even more morose aria. The scene presents the opera’s most immediate contrast between the demonic and paradisiacal worlds.

Additionally, Liubasha’s presence in the scene becomes another iteration of a demon looking in on innocence. It parallels the moment, cited above, when Milton’s Satan observes

Adam and Eve together. The sight or sound of happiness reinforces the evil intentions of demonic characters. When Liubasha hears the laughter, she says, “You will pay me for that laugh” (154). The laughter is the catalyst that helps her to agree to Bomelius’s terms. A demonic character can only respond to happiness with envy and wrath. This moment is the clearest indication of Liubasha’s demonic characterization.

If Liubasha and Griaznoy are demons looking at a paradisiacal world, what does that say of the tsar, who also intrudes on that world? Ivan, clearly, does not fit into the categories to which the other characters belong. First of all, the tsar appears in the opera but remains silent.

Cunningham sees Ivan’s silence as a powerful absence. “Not being at the center of his own plot,

Ivan is empowered to determine plot events for the other characters” (94). The Ivan the Terrible of Pskov was humanized by his singing. By keeping him silent in Bride, Rimsky-Korsakov characterizes him entirely in terms of his mythic power. He becomes a godlike shade whose power is absolute. He chooses Marfa and thus pulls her out of her paradise. I have observed that 105

the characters are either innocent beings submitting to fate or demons struggling with it. Ivan the

Terrible is ultimately the one who controls fate. While the demonic characters can influence the plot through their machinations, the denouement shows that their influence is limited. Ivan is the lord of fate, and he governs history.

Parodoxically, Ivan’s powerful silence also implies limits to his power. As I observed above about Chernomor, voiceless characters are deprived of the principal means that operatic characters have of asserting identity. Silence is an absence. In the case of Chernomor, silence is impotent and relates to the fact that he is unable to influence the course of events in the long run.

Ivan the Terrible’s silence is not impotent, since he is the only character truly able to direct fate.

It does, however, create a vacuum that the opera attempts to fill by characterizing him indirectly through what other characters say about him and through the music of the orchestra.

Cunningham discusses the first topic and Solovtsov the second. I will review their main points

and present my own analysis.

Ivan the Terrible in Bride

Ivan the Terrible is a topic of conversation at two major points in the opera: first, during the gathering at Griaznoy’s house in Act I. During the celebration, Lykov recounts his travels. He gives glory to the Tsar for encouraging the people to learn from distant lands. He presents an image of Ivan the Terrible as an enlightened despot, something of a proto-Peter I. However, the benevolence Lykov perceives in the tsar may merely be his own reflection, and the music seems to suggest as much. Solovtsov writes that, “the cantilena of the arioso is captivating in its refinement, the simplicity of its rather noble modesty, [which is] characteristic of Lykov’s image” (48). Since the tsar is silent, characters who attempt to fill the void in his identity do so by drawing from their own nature. Rimsky-Korsakov suggests that humankind understands 106

history by remaking their ancestors in their own image. Imagination and myth, therefore, are shown as necessary elements in exploring history.

The Tsar’s demonic attributes are shown to be just as imaginary as his benevolent ones.

Responding to the rumor that in some countries “they say our tsar is terrible [grozen]” (50), Maliuta declares that this is correct: “The thunderstorm is the mercy of God/ the thunderstorm breaks the rotted pine,/ and revives the whole, sleeping forest” (51). These lines are a pun on the title Groznyj (“the Terrible”), since the Russian word for thunderstorm, is groza.

The oprichniki set the tsar up as a godlike figure. His wrath is deserved. Only those who are a threat to the kingdom fall victims to it. The rest of the kingdom is sustained by the very attributes that might be termed terrible. Maliuta sees the actions of the tsar as within the best interest of the people and, indeed, well within his rights and responsibility as tsar. Cunningham sees Maliuta’s perspective as an expression of the statist position, but it is important note that the opera remains noncommittal about whether Maliuta’s views are truly the case (99). It is merely a story told by one character. Attempting to fill the void of Ivan’s personality, an oprichnik presents a myth of

Ivan as an elemental force of righteous wrath, and he sees himself as an agent thereof.

The second scene in which the tsar features as a topic of conversation is when he has called all the young women to appear before him, an event that takes place offstage. Onstage are shown the actions of Lykov, Sobakin, and Griaznoy as they wait to hear of the results. I have already discussed the apprehension of both Lykov and Griaznoy. The tsar comes into focus when

Saburova, Dunyasha’s mother, enters to brag about the attention the tsar has paid to her daughter.

Saburova describes the glory and refinement of the tsar, and his goodness toward Dunyasha.

Cunningham sees in her narrative an expression of the folk’s continued reverence for Tsar Ivan as God’s chosen (103). However, this version of the tsar is also the most flattering to her and her 107

daughter. It is clear from later events that Ivan did not favor Dunyasha. The accuracy of

Saburova’s report is called into question. It may be exaggerated in more ways than one. All of the characters’ stories about Ivan are called into question.

The music also serves as a means of indirectly characterizing Ivan the Terrible.

Solovtsov identifies two leitmotifs that fulfill this function. One is the “Slava” theme, a leitmotif that is employed at various times. In the scene of the gathering at Griaznoy’s, it is used to glorify him. The broad choral setting gives a sense of grandeur. However, as noted above, the fact that it takes place in the demonic world of Griaznoy’s quarters gives a sinister backdrop to the happenings in the scene. The chorus for this number includes not only the oprichniki, but the servants of Griaznoy, singing at his command. The tsar is glorified by demons and their captives.

In Act II, when Ivan the Terrible sees Marfa and Dunyasha, this theme is reworked.

Solovtsov observes that “the tune of ‘Slava’ here sounds completely different than it did in the first Act: dark, foreboding, like a musical image of ill fate, a harbinger of irreparable misfortune”

(57 see Fig. 35). He argues that the use in this scene of the theme from Pskov is foreboding as well, and contends that, “this music does not so much create an image of the Terrible One as it speaks of the horror that has gripped the girls [Marfa and Dunyasha]” (58). Certainly, these feelings do grip the girls. Their dialogue makes such apparent, as does the melody that they sing following the tsar’s exit. But it seems a mistake to say that the music does not characterize the tsar. The theme is employed here precisely so that the audience will recognize him. Without the music, only the costume and posture of the actor would identify him. Rimsky-Korsakov includes the theme in this scene to remove ambiguity about who is standing there looking at Marfa.

Therefore, the sense of foreboding that Solovtsov hears in the music can apply directly to the tsar. He is presented as a fearsome, mighty being. The music does nothing to elucidate his 108

character, only to establish his authority. As Solovstov elsewhere states, it presents him as

“impersonal.”

The scene that includes Ivan the Terrible identifies him, not only by the “Slava” theme, but by a second theme attached to him, familiar from Pskov (compare Fig. 11 and Fig. 36. Note that Fig. 36 interweaves the theme from Pskov with the "Slava" theme transposed into a minor key). The fact that the two operas share a common leitmotif brings the portrayal of Ivan the

Terrible in the two operas into greater contrast. In Pskov, this leitmotif suggested the

Terribleness, his mythic image and contrasts with the more human image that he presents in the recitative. In Bride, however, he has no vocal parts with which to present a contrast. The melody, therefore, stands uncontested. Its resonances with ecclesiastical music demonstrate his awesome power, linking him with God.

Since Tsar Ivan is presented in such an impersonal manner and with such power, I suggest that he does not fit into the two worlds I have described. He is not a demon who falls in love with a being from paradise. He is also not from paradise, but closer to an inscrutable demiurge or other godlike being. His decree brings Marfa out of her Eden. What is the historical implication of this action? As discussed in the chapter on Glinka above, the Fall from Eden is identified with the exit from the timeless and the entrance into historic time. It is tempting to say that Bride presents Ivan the as the tsar who brings about Russia’s entrance into historic time. This is the role Chaadaev, in his Apologia of a Madman, assigns Peter I. It was his will that brought

Russia out of its timeless isolation into universal (Western) history. Assigning this role to Ivan the Terrible accepts some of Chaadaev’s concepts while placing Russia’s entrance onto the world stage at least a century earlier.

109

The opera, however, does not sustain such a reading. Bride portrays two extreme worlds of hell and paradise. There is no middle, earthly ground where history can take place. Marfa enters a demonic rather than a human, historical world. Furthermore, she does not stay in the demonic world for long. As Forshaw argues, the madness that Marfa exhibits in her final aria serves as an escape (209-210). Solovtsov observes an “arc” connecting Marfa’s first aria and this final aria. This is seen especially in the string part accompanying Marfa as she tells about their betrothal (see Fig. 37). The chromaticisms mirror the main theme of the final aria (see Fig. 38).

For Solovtsov, the key phrase is “gold crowns,” a phrase shared by the two arias that indicates the many years of happiness with Lykov that she imagines. That the string accompaniment alludes to her final aria serves, in Solovtsov’s view, as a kind of foreshadowing that these dreams will not be fulfilled.103 However, I suggest that this “arc” can also be seen as evidence that her madness restores her to paradise. In her mind, she is with her beloved again, since she mistakes

Griaznoy for Lykov. She returns to an innocent world of beauty and pure love.

The imagery of her final aria’s text restores the garden imagery of her earlier aria. She begins by addressing Griaznoy as Lykov: “Ivan Sergeich, if you want we’ll go into the garden”

(246). Apparently she does not see the same setting that the audience does. Act IV takes place in the Tsar’s terem which, despite having some luxuries, is a confined space. This is epitomized by the stage direction that indicates there should be “windows with gilded bars” in the scene (217).

In place of this confined, indoor space, Marfa sees an “apple-tree always in bloom” (248) and a vast, beautiful sky.104 The freedom and openness of her first aria returns and her final aria

103 Asafyev, similarly, sees “unfulfilled hopes” as a repeated motif in the vocal music of the opera (Izbrannye Trudy Tom III 206). 104 The apple-tree could possibly be a reference to Eden, since Milton names the apple as the fruit of knowledge of good and evil. 110

becomes a visionary restoration of paradise. The orchestra accompanies, rather than contradicts, her aria, and the melody is doubled at the climax (See Fig. 39). This suggests that her vision is validated, not discredited.105 Her vision overwhelms the reality she is experiencing. Marfa is restored to paradise and the company of her beloved in the opera’s most memorable set piece.

Marfa, therefore, has no real relationship with history. She briefly leaves Eden and steps into the demonic world, but is restored to paradise through her madness. Forshaw sees Marfa’s ahistorical role as evidence of her ability to transcend the problems of history. She characterizes

Marfa as one of Russian opera’s “poignant, doomed young women who transcend their own downfall to bear a message of inner serenity in the face of destruction” (210). Marfa’s final aria is a triumph over history and suffering. It also may offer salvation to other characters. This time, beholding her innocence causes Griaznoy and Liubasha to break down and confess their misdeeds. It is possible that this provides them both with some portion of redemption. Liubasha embraces her own death (even thanking Griaznoy for stabbing her) and Griaznoy begs to be tortured and killed. They begin to submit to fate and give their lives to atone for their misdeeds.

They, too, might be given an escape from the demonic world.

This mythic treatment of the plot in Bride contrasts markedly with the historical realist approach of Pskov. Presenting the oprichnik as a demon who falls in love with a being from paradise dehistoricizes the narrative. Ivan the Terrible himself is made into a mythic being, without the human emotions he is given in Pskov. The opera itself focuses less on typical questions of history, such as the causes of events and the locus of power and agency. Instead it

105 This argument owes something to Auden’s statement, “Self-deception is impossible in opera because music is immediate, not reflective; whatever is sung is the case. At most, self-deceoption can be suggested by having the orchestral accompaniment at variance with the singer, e.g., the jolly tripping notes which accompany Germont’s approach to Violetta’s deathbed in ” (The Dyer’s Hand 471). 111

deals with themes of good and evil, love, suffering and redemption. Thus, Bride follows the operatic tradition of applying a mythic treatment to history.

However, Bride is not severed entirely from interpretations of history. I have noted that

Griaznoy and the oprichniki, Bomelius, and Liubasha belong to a demonic world, while Marfa,

Dunyasha, Sobakin, and Lykov belong to an Edenic world. These characters are grouped along lines of moral character rather than social class. Thus, the opera diverges from the folkloric interpretation of the oprichnina as a class struggle in which the people allied with the tsar against the class. The tsar, in fact, is separate from both groups. He occupies his own place in the narrative as a mysterious being of great power. His separation from most of the events distances the opera from the interpretations of Karamzin and Solovyov, which place Ivan in the center. The characters whose will drives the plot are primarily the demonic ones.

Rimsky-Korsakov presents the will to influence history as a demonic trait.

This, of course, is a Romantic concept, demonstrated in the nineteenth-century myths of

Napoleon and Satan. However, Rimsky-Korsakov presents some important contrasts with the

Romantics. Romantic poets reevaluate the image of Satan and give him a positive charge. In their work he becomes associated with rebellion against the oppressive forces of monarchy, institutionalized religion, and such received notions as the great chain of being.106 Lermontov adds to this the suggestion that perhaps the demon is an everyman, since his cosmological homelessness is the existential fate of all mankind. We are all, in a way, cut off from a dimly perceived ideal world. Therefore, we all rebel against this world.107

106 Of course, focus on the demonic was merely one possible option for Romantic poets. Blake’s assertion that a true poet must belong to the Devil’s party is a hyperbole that does not encompass the rich diversity of poets, including those of the Romantic age. One would be hard pressed, for instance, to fit Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, Pushkin and Mickiewicz into a Procrustean notion of the Devil’s Party. 107 I am indebted to Boris Eikhenbaum and Boris Udodov for the observation that the ethos of the demon is central to 112

Rimsky-Korsakov, in contrast, sympathizes with his demonic characters but does not at all justify them. Liubasha and Griaznoy are sympathetic because of their suffering. If they are given redemption at the end, it is through their final submission and repentance, though it is debatable that either takes place. In any case, moral categories are fixed in Rimsky-Korsakov’s

Bride. There is no questioning of the power structures that undergird morality or of traditional hierarchies. Social hierarchy is shown in flux because the whim of the tsar and the orpichniki can elevate or destroy people arbitrarily. This is seen in the change of Sobakin and Marfa’s social status and Lykov’s hasty execution. But only the tsar, whose position is absolute, can determine fortunes. The demonic characters, despite their attempts, only have a short-term influence on the plot and history. It is the tsar who truly controls them. The great chain of being is firmly in place in Bride. The portrayal of Ivan draws from the mythic association of the tsar with God. That

Rimsky-Korsakov maintains such an association in an age when the monarchy was in decline is curious, especially since, less than a decade later, he would compose The Golden Cockerel, an opera that diminishes the image of the tsar.

Perhaps this return to traditionalism in the opera can be understood in terms of the reactionary turn in the politics of late nineteenth-century Russia. Alexander III certainly moved away from the liberal approach of his predecessor, and Nicholas II followed suit.108 The connection between the tsar and God was thus strengthened. However, there are two important aspects of the opera that may be interpreted as subversive: the silence of the tsar and Marfa’s visionary restoration to paradise. I have observed that the silence of the tsar creates a void. He is

Lermontov’s poetics. Terryl Givens notes the cosmological homelessness in the poem “Angel,” which suggests that even in an angelic poem, Lermontov’s poetics are demonic (254-255). 108 Benedict Anderson contends that Official Nationality (“Orthodoxy, Autocracy and Nationality”) had its heyday not during the reign of Nicholas I, but during that of Alexander III, who was more committed to propagating it (87). 113

powerful, but also lacks a stable identity. He is also mostly absent. Therefore, Rimsky-Korsakov perhaps questions the myth of the tsar as father. Can an absent father truly be a father? What if his power does not render him a stand in for the Father God of Christianity, but something closer to a demiurge? Rimsky-Korsakov does not necessarily advocate rebellion against the Tsar, but he does show that the myth of the Tsar as Father is not an accurate representation of reality. The tsar is shown separated from the people, living so much apart as to be inscrutable. While this is not the satire of The Golden Cockerel, it can be interpreted as a critique. It would barely be an exaggeration to say that by 1899 the Romanovs lived in a different world from the Russian people. Rimsky-Korsakov does not explicitly criticize the royal family, but the distance of the

Tsar in Bride has some parallels with the political landscape in which it premiered. In this case, the return to a mythic treatment allows for a veiled criticism.

Meanwhile, Marfa’s triumph through a visionary restoration to paradise can be seen as related to the rise in mysticism around the turn of the twentieth century. Due to the reactionary turn in the politics of Alexander III and Nicholas II, hope for liberal reform became increasingly remote. The fact that some members of the intelligentsia turned to mysticism may be understood as an attempt to transcend the political problems that, at least for a time, resisted change.109 The role of Marfa may be compared to this development. Unable to determine her own fate, she achieves transcendence through an ecstatic vision that frees her from reality. This is not to say that Marfa is directly connected with the mysticism of the turn of the twentieth century, but that she is governed by the same impulse that gave rise to it. Myth, therefore, is an asset.

109 I am indebted to Forshaw, who sees Marfa as a representative of a type of light soprano role that emerged at the turn of the twentieth century through the performances of Nadezhda Zabela (205-220). Forshaw connects this type to the philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov, positing that such characters (as Marfa) may be a stand-in for the Divine Sophia (212-213). I see the connection as less specific. 114

Visions of ideal worlds are, naturally, more clearly communicated in mythic terms than in realistic ones. Rimsky-Korsakov’s turn to a more traditional treatment of opera is therefore an attempt to find and provide solace in myth. At the moment of Marfa’s vision, the music attempts to share her transcendence with the audience. The vision opens, if only for a brief moment, through the mythic world of opera and its music.

Finally, I suggest that the opera returns to the mythic version of Ivan the Terrible partly to serve as a metahistorical statement. The deliberately mythic approach demonstrates that all historical narratives are on some level fictitious. I have shown that in the opera, the character of

Ivan the Terrible is a void. Various characters and the music attempt to fill that void based on their own character, expectations, or other preconceived notions. Writing about history, whether as a historian or writer of fiction, requires a similar degree of imaginative work because the past is not entirely knowable. Knowledge of historical facts is always incomplete because it cannot replicate the experience of the past. At their best, imagination and myth provide a means of filling gaps left in documentary history. Myth helps to reconstruct historical facts into a meaningful narrative.

Thus, Rimsky-Korsakov reaches conclusions similar to those of Peter Munz, who sees history and myth as interpenetrating categories. According to Munz, without mythic stories, knowledge of historical facts and events would be incomprehensible (9-10). Myth helps to identify what stories from history are significant and relate to perceived universal truths. Rimsky-

Korsakov’s return to a mythic approach in Bride is, therefore, not a regression. Rather, it is an acknowledgement that historical stories all tap into mythic patterns and . In Bride, he turns to myth deliberately in order to exploit its potential. This turn to myth is not necessarily religious, as it is in Glinka. Rather, it is a means of conceptualizing history. Myth is the 115

traditional means of conceptualizing history in opera, and in Bride Rimsky-Korsakov works within traditional parameters rather than struggling with them. Whether or not this approach was successful is open to question, but the fact that Bride remains the composer’s most popular work in Russia shows that it at least continues to speak to the nation whose history it depicts.

116

Chapter 4: “Muzhaisia, kniaginia”: a Woman as the Father of the Nation in Borodin’s

Prince Igor

A rather free adaptation of the epic “The Lay of Igor’s Campaign,” Alexander Borodin’s opera tells the story of Prince Igor, who leads the Russians to war against the Polovtsians, suffers defeat, is captured, and miraculously returns home. The performance and scholarly reception of the opera has traditionally been dominated by matters of Russian nationalism.110 The central assumption is that Borodin was an ardent supporter of Russian nineteenth-century imperialist expansion and that his opera puts forth this view.111 Many of these analyses are insightful, but making nationalism the central focus has crowded out other important discussions. Most notably, scholarship has not yet provided a thorough examination of Yaroslavna and the scenes in which she assumes the leadership of Putivl, probably because the Polovtian scenes and the contrast they present between the Russians and Polovtsian characters probably best serves the discussion of national identity. I suggest, however, that the Yaroslavna’s scenes in Putivl are not only

Borodin’s most original contribution to the Igor mythos, but they also play the central role in the opera’s mythic subtexts. The most crucial myth of Prince Igor is that of the tsar (in this case, prince) as father. In Yaroslavna’s scenes in Putivl she takes up the mantle of parenthood. The traditional gender associations of the myth are broken as the mantle passes from a man to a

110 In scholarship, Prince Igor is often analyzed as the operatic version of the Romantic ideal of a national epic. Some version of the term “epic opera” is applied or implied by such diverse scholars as Boris Asafyev, Zsuzsa Domokos, Jennifer Fuller, Olga Kamarnitskaya, and Marina Frolova-Walker. 111 The most outstanding critic of the opera as nationalist propaganda is Richard Taruskin with his analysis of the Orientalism of Borodin’s music. In his reading, the music of the opera conveys messages of Russian racial superiority and glorifies imperialism (see Defining Russia Musically 152-176). Frolova-Walker objects that the musical patterns Taruskin associates with Orientalism are neutral, stylistic features of the kuchka style and are actually exhibited by both Russian and Polovtsian characters in the opera (Russian Music and Nationalism 143-155). 117

woman. Borodin emphasizes the contribution of women to Russia’s history and their potential to contribute in the future.

First, however, I must comment briefly on the matter of what edition and performances of the opera I am drawing upon in my analysis. Since it was left unfinished at the time of

Borodin’s death in 1887, the opera was completed by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander

Glazunov.112 Their version has been the reigning edition of the opera from its premiere in 1890.

Although modern directors have attempted to move closer to Borodin’s intentions by removing interpolated material, they still largely rely on the traditional, Rimsky-Korsakov version of the opera. Recent scholars question whether the nationalism of the opera’s traditional presentation in fact stems from Borodin.113 It seems that this legacy owes more to later editors, directors, and commentators.

Since the traditional version of Prince Igor is bound up in the obsessive focus on nationalism, I have opted to work with Anny Bulycheva’s edition of the score. Based on the autograph manuscripts, her version removes nearly all of the interpolations of Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov, and restores material by Borodin excluded from the traditional version.114 While scholars have expressed reservations about Bulycheva’s claim that Borodin’s opera was nearly complete and therefore her version is definitive, they have nonetheless praised her achievement.

Albrecht Gaub in particular calls it the most dramatically viable version of the opera available.

This is no small praise considering the fact that the opera is often seen as a series of tableaux

112 See Frolova-Walker’s “Fresh Prince” for a brief and accessible history of the opera’s composition process and performance history. 113 Elena and Tatiana Vereschagina, for instance, argue that Borodin’s Russian nationalism was highly exaggerated by those who wrote about him after his death (INS5). 114 Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov not only added material, but also removed some of the composer’s original work (see Verschagina and Vereschagina, “The Score as Is” INS4).

118

without real drama.115 I turn to her version of the score partly because of its dramatic effectiveness, and partly because it represents an attempt to reevaluate the opera that has not yet received the scholarly attention it is due. Her reevaluation especially provides an opportunity to examine issues outside of the well-worn discussion of nationalism.

The performance history of the opera has also been largely dominated by nationalism.

The opera was brought to the West with Diaghilev’s production, which highlighted the exoticism of both the Russian and the Polovtsian characters for Parisian audiences. However, it remains a rarity in the West.116 In Russian opera houses, at least in the major ones, it is something of a standard. In Russian productions, the trend of focusing on matters of nationalism more or less continues into the present day.117 In an effort to bring other issues to the forefront, I draw from

Dmitry Tcherniakov’s 2014 production at the , which reframes Prince

Igor as an exploration of the horrors of war and the psychological trauma experienced by the

Prince. 118 While this reimagining of the work takes some liberties, such as costumes that recall

World War I, it nonetheless sheds much needed light on the opera by focusing on the characters as individuals.

115 See Gerald Abraham’s “Prince Igor: An Experiment in Lyrical Opera.” 116 For example, the Metropolitan Opera, has mounted two productions for a total of nineteen performances. The first production was in 1915 and the second in 2014. 117 The production directed by Yevgeny Sokovnin, still in the repertoire of the Mariinsky Theater, has all the lush sets and costumes expected to provide romantic local and historic color. Despite the tragedy in the plot, the opera becomes a celebration with bright colors and exuberant music. A 1998 performance may be viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ys_4mIyktW0. ’s Bolshoi Theater production is much more minimalistic, with sparse sets and less opulent costumes. The production nonetheless relies on a contrast between the national character of the Russians and Polovtsians that is steeped in oriental exoticism, including a rather sexualized portrayal of the Polovtsians (see Taruskin Defining Russia Musically 152-176). Konchakovna brandishes a whip during her sensual cavatina. A 2013 performance may be viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CzmIu- VjRCM. 118 This production was also mounted at the Dutch National Opera in 2017. For a review, see https://bachtrack.com/review-prince-igor-tcherniakov-kochanovsky-abdrazakov-dyka-dutch- nationaloperafebruary2017. 119

It is important to note that Borodin’s approach to opera is much more traditional than that of many of his kuchka colleagues.119 Like Glinka and late Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin embraces the mythic nature of opera. He does not feel that he must struggle with this in order to tell a true story about history. In fact, Borodin takes considerable liberties with his source materials. The plot of Act II of the opera is found in neither the “Lay” nor in the Primary Chronicle.120 His innovation in this act has been understudied, and I suggest that it is central to the opera’s mythic subtext. In this Act, Yaroslavna begins to act in the mythic role of the tsar as father even as she retains her femininity. Following the pattern of the tsar as father being a symbol of the authority of God, she becomes a symbol for the Bogoroditsa in her role as an Intercessor, and Protector.

She becomes a mother of the nation, a female version of the father figure.

Igor as Father

In order to examine Yaroslavna as a father figure, I must first examine Igor as father. The opera begins by establishing Prince Igor as a powerful father figure for the nation. As Igor declares that the time has come to lead the people to war, Borodin attaches to Igor many of the operatic symbols of power and authority that I have examined in the previous chapters. He is given bass-baritone voicing, which puts him in the lower registers and symbolizes his possession of political power.121 He is a heroic bass-baritone, a symbol of the tsar’s fatherly role.

Igor holds utter sway over his people. Borodin’s chorus, as opposed to that of his kuchka colleagues Rimsky-Korsakov and Musorgsky in the same period, is completely united. Igor

119 See Taruskin Opera and Drama as Preached and Practiced in Russia in the 1860s (429). 120 Bulycheva does not explicitly divide the opera into Acts in her Table of Contents, or in the text of her edition. In the Commentary she argues that the opera should be divided into three Acts with two Scenes each. The conflict between Galitsky and Yaroslavna, in her edition, takes place in Scene 4. In calling this Act II, I have opted to follow Tcherniakov’s production, for the sake of simplicity. See the synopsis online: http://www.metopera.org/uploadedFiles/MetOpera/8_live_in_hd/cast%20sheets/Igor.synopsis.US.pdf. 121 Here I am drawing from Forshaw’s “Dangerous Tenors, Heroic Basses, and Non-Ingénues” and Gilles de Van’s Verdi’s Theater. 120

begins the opera surrounded by hosts of his people who are singing his praises. He is godlike.

There is no qualification to his praise, as there is in Musorgsky’s Boris, or as in Rimsky-

Korsakov’s Pskov. The chorus at the beginning of Prince Igor is united in unfeigned adoration, as demonstrated in the homophonic texture of their singing demonstrates (See Fig. 40). True, the praise is directed not only at Igor but also at other princes, presumably his equals. However, except for Igor’s son, Vladimir, none of the princes praised is present onstage. As I have observed in the discussion of the Ivan the Terrible operas, an absent father figure can possess only ambiguous authority. Igor is the only visible father figure, and therefore, from the audience’s point of view, his power is maximized while that of the other princes is minimized.

Igor becomes the primary recipient of the praises. Since he is Vladimir’s father, he shares in the praises directed at him. These praises, furthermore, give Vladimir a subservient or at least secondary position—the chorus calls him “young Vladimir” (11), emphasizing his status as son rather than father. The opera begins by showing Igor wielding near absolute power.122

However, the image of Igor as omnipotent is only a first impression, and one that is

immediately undermined by the solar eclipse. When the people see it, they call it a sign from

God, an omen of ill fate and they warn Igor not to go to war. Not only do they question the prince’s command, but they suggest that his plans may contradict the will of God. Igor tries to ignore their warning and suggests that they do not perhaps understand what God is trying to convey. It could be a good omen. With this decision to proceed despite the omen, and his inability to interpret it, Igor distances himself from the traditional connection between the father figure and God. Furthermore, his absolute sway over his people ends when the boyars, and later

122 Note that Bulycheva’s edition of the presents a variant text of Borodin’s underneath the one generally heard in the opera. While the first text praises the other princes, the second focuses entirely on Igor. This variant text, therefore, goes even further to give all the glory to Igor at the very beginning. 121

his wife, all show greater foresight by questioning his decision. More damning still is the fact that the eclipse also opens the way for outright dissent. Skula and Eroshka, upon seeing it, decide to desert the army and join Prince Galitsky. The absolute loyalty that he initially seemed to hold dissolves in the divisions among his people. These divisions, in fact, form the central conflict of

Act II, which I discuss below. The primary tension of the work, introduced in the prologue, comes from the fact that Igor has lost his formerly absolute power.

The chorus that closes the prologue thus differs markedly from the one that opens it. In place of a people wholly united in unbounded praise of their prince, there is a divided people praising a prince who, they have reason to believe, is mistaken.123 And they are proven right;

Igor next appears defeated and in captivity. In a rather brief interval, Igor goes from absolute to limited power, and then to absolute powerlessness.

The abruptness of the transition has caused disagreement about where the captivity scenes should be placed in the opera. In the Rimsky-Korsakov version of the opera, they are presented after the scenes in Putivl that I discuss below. Bulycheva presents them directly after the Prologue, as does Tcherniakov.124 Frolova-Walker contends that this configuration

“undermine[s] any sense of drama or narrative coherence in the first part of the opera: Igor sets out to battle, then reappears already in captivity, with the audience left to guess at the course of the intervening battle” (“Fresh Prince”). Offstage battles are not unheard of in opera—Verdi’s

Aida gives a clear example. The crux of Frolova-Walker’s argument seems to be

123 This is a change in context rather than music, since the final chorus of the prologue maintains the homophonic texture of unity. The context, however, utterly changes the meaning of the united praises. It makes them ironic in a sense similar to Pushkin’s hymn to St. Petersburg in The Bronze Horseman—although he initially praises the city, he goes on to portray events that show it and its founder in a problematic light. 124 The first to suggest this configuration of Acts was the conductor . See Frolova-Walker, “Fresh Prince.”

122

that, unlike in Verdi, there is no interval for anticipation if the captivity scene comes directly after the prologue.125 However, abrupt shifts are not alien to operatic dramaturgy.126 Auden suggests that they are essential to it: “Music cannot exist in an atmosphere of uncertainty; song cannot walk, it can only jump” (The Dyer’s Hand 471). What the configuration lacks in symphonic development it makes up for in bold musical contrasts. The abrupt shift between the prologue and the Polovtsian scenes presents the most drastic contrast between Igor’s initial power and his utter defeat.

In captivity, Igor is stripped of his authority. In his aria he laments not only his defeat, but also the loss of his power. He sings, “Heavy to me is the consciousness of my powerlessness”

(246). Konchak claims that he is not a captive, but a guest, but this claim does not make up for his loss. In fact, Konchak’s presence serves as a reminder of Igor’s losses. As a father figure, he actually possesses the absolute power that Igor only appeared to have in the first scene. His bass voicing denotes his authority even greater than Igor’s, and his people praise him with both singing and dancing. As they dance, Konchak reiterates to Igor the offer from his aria: “Do you want a captive from the distant seas?...if you want, just say the word to me and I will give any

[of them] to you” (65, 76, 8990).127 Note that he offers Igor captives from other groups and tribes. His power extends beyond his own people. Furthermore, Konchak’s power is absolute in ways that Igor’s never was. His people’s bodies serve his whims, whether through singing and dancing or through service as concubines. Konchak has the boundless power of the primal

125 She specifically suggests, “An orchestral entr'acte with some dramatic battle music would have helped” (ibid). Tcherniakov uses the “Chorus of the Polovtsian Maidens” for the purpose of this transition, juxtaposing the sensuous music with images of the devastation of war in a manner that recalls the final scene of Dr. Strangelove. 126 The Count’s sudden repentance in Mozart’s La Nozze di Figaro is just one example. 127 I am providing the pagination for both versions of Konchak’s aria since both are provided in Bulycheva’s edition, and also the pages for his reiteration during the “.” Note that this brief solo of Konchak’s is typically left out of concert performances of the “Dances,” usually only performed with the full opera.

123

father.128 His power and the nature of his fatherhood goes beyond what Igor ever possessed, and probably beyond what he, a Christian prince, has ever sought. But just as the presentation in the prologue maximizes the audience’s sense of Igor’s power, so does the contrast between Igor and

Konchak maximize the audience’s sense of Igor’s powerlessness.

Stripped of his power, Igor loses his status as a father. He is also not truly a child. He occupies an ambiguous position. There may, therefore, be a kinship between him and Ovlur.

While Ovlur’s identity remains mysterious in the original “Lay,” Borodin characterizes him as a

Polovtsian eunuch who has converted to Christianity. Note that Ovlur enters to propose his escape plan directly after Igor ends his aria with the words, cited above, “my powerlessness”

(246). The word bessil’e can also be rendered “impotence,” though it does not necessarily have a sexual connotation. The fact that this word seems to cue Ovlur, however, suggests that Igor’s loss may go beyond political power. One should not make too much of this detail, but perhaps there is a suggestion that the loss of Igor’s power is a loss of fatherhood, something of an emasculation.

Igor’s escape, though necessary, does not fully solve the problem, either. The escape itself is presented as something shameful and unbecoming through the fact that Igor initially objects to

Ovlur’s plan. Furthermore, Igor does not return to his former glory. Rather, he returns as a shamed Prince. There is a noticeable difference between the praises he receives at the end of the opera and those at the beginning.129 The chorus with which his people greet him at the opera’s end does, in some measure, glorify him. They greet him as batiushka, reenthroning him as a

128 I am thinking in terms of Freud’s concept of the primal horde. Freud attributes this concept to Darwin, but recent commentators have protested Freud misrepresents the latter’s position. See Richard J. Smith, “Darwin, Freud, and the Continuing Misrepresentation of the Primal Horde.” 129 Note the following difference between the traditional and Bulycheva editions: In the former, the opera ends with a chorus glorifying the prince, one that in many ways echoes and equals the beginning of the opera. In this case, the prince is restored to his former position. I follow the Bulycheva edition, whose ending is much more equivocal. 124

father. However, there are three elements that indicate the diminishment of Igor’s stature. First, the final chorus is not only far briefer from the beginning one, but it also lacks the jubilant repetitions of “glory” that make up the main body of the opening chorus (see Fig. 41).130 Second, before the chorus sings, Igor is glorified by Eroshka and Skula. These two are treacherous drunks, and they sing glory to Igor only to save themselves from his potential wrath. Their words are undercut by their own ethos, so the glorification is ironized.131 This inevitably creates a context for the final chorus of praise to Igor. Third, the chorus does not focus on the prince at all.

Although they do praise him, the people mainly sing about the end of their own troubles. “The prince has not returned in vain, the time of chaos has passed,” (305). The final chorus certainly has a joyful sound, but it is perhaps more a sigh of relief than an encomium. Igor does not return to the glory and strength he once knew. The ending of the opera is equivocal, and seems to indicate that Igor has forever lost something of his status as father.

Yaroslavna as Mother

The loss of Igor’s fatherhood is presented as a hindrance to the prosperity and even survival of the nation. Someone must take his place as father if the nation is to overcome.

Paradoxically, it is Yaroslavna who assumes this role. Borodin thus places Yaroslavna in a rather contradictory position. Her part is clearly written for a soprano. It requires a range of C4 to C6 with a relatively high . This voicing emphasizes her womanhood to the greatest degree available in opera. Forshaw suggests that soprano roles typically embody cultural ideas and ideals about femininity (180-181). Her analysis applies to Yaroslavna, who exhibits traditional

130 I am providing the music for the whole final chorus, since it is not typically performed. Tcherniakov’s production does include the final chorus, but it is followed by some interpolated orchestral material, also by Borodin. 131 Emerson observes that “the lofty central portion of the ‘Lay’ (Prince Sviatoslav’s lament and the ‘Golden Word’ mourning Igor’s defeat) is reflected only in passing and from the mouths of fools: Eroshka and Skula, two drunken rogues and draft-dodgers, dance, call for drink, and sing incoherently of Igor’s shame” (Boris Godunov 148). 125

stereotypical features of womanhood. When she tells Igor not to go to war, the words rely on the perception of women as creatures of emotion: “I believe my heart, my dear, I have never known such anguish [toska], and fear…I understand with my mind…but I have not the power to constrain my prophetic [veshchii] heart” (30-31, 32-33). Note that her rapidly ascending lines in a high tessitura exhibit an intense level of emotion to which no other character in the opera is given access (see Fig. 42). Later, she exhibits stereotypical “feminine” weakness by fainting when she is told that Igor has been taken captive. All of these details work alongside

Yaroslavna’s voicing to demonstrate that she fits within cultural myths of womanhood.

But when the people turn to her as a leader, they ask her to assume masculine characteristics, a fact that the libretto illustrates when the Boyars come to support her and ask her to take the role of leader. They say, “Muzhaisia, kniaginia” (“take courage, princess).” The

Russian verb muzhat’sia, “to take courage,” or “to take heart,” is etymologically charged with gender associations, deriving from muzh, an archaic word meaning “man.” There is a paradox in this command. It linguistically reinforces a myth of manhood as physical and moral strength, the inverse of the myth of womanhood presented in Yaroslavna’s weakness and emotionality. But, since the command is directed to a woman, the categories are not so distinct after all. Yaroslavna can—and in fact, must—take on masculine traits in order to be a leader.

The idea of a female leader possessing both masculine and feminine traits can be termed the myth of the empress. This myth comes from the apparent contradiction of a single woman on the throne in a patriarchal society. In such instances, individual female rulers do not overturn centuries of tradition and transform the nation into a matriarchy. Rather, they are perceived (and present themselves) as adopting masculine traits. Those familiar with British history will recall

Elizabeth I’s use of this myth in her speech to the troops at Tilbury, preparing for the invasion of

126

the Spanish Armada: “I know I have the body of a weak, feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too” (362). Implicit in these words is a myth that the office of monarch is inherently masculine—she does not say that she has the heart of a man, but of a king. These masculine traits are presented as necessary to monarchical leadership, and

Elizabeth I’s claim to them is an assertion of her legitimacy.

The myth of the empress, far from being an ideology unique to Elizabeth I, also played an important role in Russian history. As Naroditskaya notes, the eighteenth-century empresses of

Russia (Catherine I, Anna, Elizabeth and Catherine II) also relied on such a myth in their ceremonial self-presentation. They laid claim to masculine characteristics through gestures demonstrating physical strength132 and erudition,133 or through cross-dressing.134 This myth left its mark on operatic culture, since performances of opere serie praising virtuous kings were understood in Russia as applying to the reigning empress (see Naroditskaya 44). Male characters could serve as a stand-in for them. Such gestures and operas served as a performance of the myth that allowed the single Empresses of Russia to assert their self-sufficiency as rulers.

Borodin invokes this myth in his treatment of Yaroslavna. However, in an important contrast to the eighteenth-century empresses, Yaroslavna does not deliberately perform the role.

She does not self-consciously create her image. Instead, her people ask her to assume this role out of necessity. Therefore, in her case the myth is not expressed in ostentatious, symbolic gestures. It simply comes from the fact that she must exercise political agency. As Forshaw notes, politically assertive soprano roles are a rarity in nineteenth-century Russian opera, and

132 For example, Naroditskaya writes that Catherine I would pick up a heavy mace with one hand as a demonstration of her strength (10). 133 Catherine II’s literary experiments are cited by Naroditskaya as part of her masculine self image (11). 134 Elizabeth dressed in male clothing at masquerades; portraits of both Elizabeth and Catherine II in military attire also presented the Empresses as possessing masculine traits (11-12).

127

many of them are negative or ambivalent characters (183-188).135 Political authority was the sole province of the male characters, especially the father figures. When Yaroslavna becomes invested with political authority, she takes on an inherently masculine role, that of the father.

As discussed above, the myth of the fatherhood of the tsar in opera and in culture is bolstered by his association with God the Father. This association, however, is not available for female rulers. Russia’s eighteenth-century empresses typically took advantage of the nascent secular culture136 and instead relied on a connection with the goddesses of classical Greece and

Rome (see Naroditskaya 21-28).137 Yaroslavna cannot have the same connection to classical deities, since she belongs to an age long before the secularization of Russia. However, Borodin nonetheless gives her a connection to divinity, which is first visible in the fact that she, along with others, correctly intuits the meaning of the omen of the eclipse when Igor is unable to do so.

More importantly, Borodin draws a parallel between her and Mary, or as she is more commonly called in Russian culture, the Bogoroditsa.138 This connection becomes evident when the women of Putivl come to her for aid. They tell her that Prince Galitsky has kidnapped a young girl and is keeping her with sexual intent. Apparently, other women have suffered from

135 Naroditskaya discusses the existence of such characters in eighteenth-century opera, including male characters who allegorically referred to the empresses (see, for instance, her discussion of Catherine’s spectacle The Early Reign of Oleg 113-145). She also asserts that this image was suppressed in nineteenth-century culture (148-151). Forshaw attributes the rise of the politically assertive heroine in mid-nineteenth-century Russian opera to the social changes associated with the woman question, including the movement to expand women’s education in which Borodin participated (181). The examples of these heroines that Forshaw gives are the title character from Dargomyzhsky’s , the titular characters of Serov’s Judith and Rogneda (181-189). Mary Helena Kalil gives a similar characterization to the titular character of Musorgsky’s Salammbo, Marina in Boris Godunov, and Marfa in Khovanshchina (23-75). 136 A. C. Hamilton suggests that secular English literature flourished in the Elizabethan period partly because the fact that she was an unmarried woman made courtly love the language of politics, which legitimized love and even desire in literature (385-386). A similar argument could be made for the eighteenth-century Empresses of Russia, since it is during this period that secular Russian literature begins to flourish. 137 For example, Naroditskaya writes of a called Le Rivali, composed for the third anniversary of Catherine II’s reign. In this cantata, Apollo brings an end to a competition between Minerva and Venus by assuring them that the empress of Russia combines both of their . The goddesses then admit the superiority of the empress and a final chorus of praise to her closes the work (45). 138 “God-bearer,” a calque of the Theotokos. 128

Galitsky’s abuses, but the situation has gotten worse since Igor left. They ask for her help in religiously resonant terms: Multiple times they repeat such requests as, “We beg, we ask, do not desert us” (163, 165),139 “protect us and intercede” (164), and “have mercy” (167). These are terms that might be used to petition any saint. However, Yaroslavna is not simply a symbol of a female saint, but is directly linked to the Bogoroditsa. The key word that indicates this is

“intercede,” since one of Mary’s titles is “the Intercessor.” 140 Borodin further connects

Yaroslavna with Mary later in the opera when she prays, “Oh Holy Queen, help me!” (249-250) as the Polovtsian forces approach Putivl. The prayer serves as a signal to the audience, demonstrating Yaroslavna’s connection to the Bogoroditsa as a parallel figure.

The use of the title “Holy Queen” emphasizes that Yaroslavna is connected to Mary as a figure of authority rather than as a literal mother. The cast of characters listed at the beginning of the score makes it clear that Yaroslavna has no child of her own, since it lists Vladimir Igorevich as “his [Igor’s] son from his first marriage” (8). Although, Yaroslavna becomes a mother to the people of Putivl, in many ways her version of motherhood downplays her femininity. The people call on her, not for nurturing and comfort, but for intercession, redress, and protection. While protecting and interceding for children is certainly a motherly trait, it is noteworthy that this vision of Mary is a far cry from the Stabat Mater or Pietà. It recalls the fact that in folklore, various icons of the Bogoroditsa are credited with miraculously defending Russia against

139 In Russian, “we beg” or molim, has the same root as molit’sia “to pray.” 140 The Bogoroditsa assumes the role of intercessor most famously in the apocryphal text, “The Descent of the Virgin into Hell.” In this text, the Bogoroditsa visits sinners in eternal torment and through her intercession secures them temporary release 153-160). The title “intercessor” is also applied to her in secular literature. In just one example, Mikhail Lermontov writes the following, “I want to entrust an innocent maiden/to the warm Intercessor (zastupnitsa) of this cold world” (24) Note that in this example, as well as in Borodin, the intercession is on behalf of an innocent girl. 129

invading enemies.141 Applying this aspect of the Bogoroditsa to Yaroslavna—but withholding her traditionally feminine traits—allows Borodin to Christianize the myth of the empress. The paradox of Yaroslavna thus deepens in the fact that her human traits (including voicing, physical weakness, etc.) maximize her femininity, while the mythic subtexts applied to her minimize it.

Borodin not only gives Yaroslavna a plot of her own in which she intercedes against

Galitsky on behalf of the women, but also elevates this plot to the level of a cosmological struggle. Galitsky becomes symbolically identified with Lucifer, or Satan, through his attempts to usurp authority. When Yaroslavna threatens that he will answer to Igor when he returns,

Galitsky says, “I am my own prince, I am my own ruler, I am my own lord [here] at Putivl’”

(176-175). More to the point, Yaroslavna reminds him: “You were cast out by [our] father for riots and by all our kin for vile treachery… father cast you out, [our] brothers cast you out, only

Igor gave you , only he took compassion on you. For his sake father forgave you” (177-

179). This detail about Galitsky’s past demonstrates that he is not merely a petty demon or folkloric devil. Galitsky’s sins go far beyond drunkenness and lust, and even beyond violence to women. In rebelling against Igor, he makes himself a repeat offender by committing treason a second time. This time he betrays his host, a man who graciously helped him. In light of the mythic characterization of Igor, Galitsky’s actions can be interpreted as rebellion against God.

Furthermore, Galitsky is guilty not only of personal rebellion, but of inciting sedition. In the

Kniazhaia pesnia the drunken rabble claims him as their “father” (140). In doing so, they reject the fatherhood of Igor, which has passed to Yaroslavna. Thus, they not only join Galitsky in his

141 See Rancour-Laferriere, Daniel. The Joy of All Who Sorrow: Icons of the Mother of God in Russia. Particularly interesting is the following folkloric detail: “She [the Mother of God] seems to have taken over as protective ruler of Russia in March of 1917, right after political opponents of Nicholas II had forced him to abdicate” (264). Since this event took place after Borodin died, it naturally cannot be claimed as a precedent he was drawing on. But it does demonstrate that the idea of the Mother of God ruling in the absence of a Tsar or Prince is not incongruent with Russian culture. 130

treason, but they create a stronger connection between Galitsky and Satan by showing him as the father of sin.142 Borodin makes it clear that Galitsky is not a comical, drunken lout, but a Satanic figure. This makes Yaroslavna’s struggle with him all the more poignant.

Galitsky continues to play his role as Satan—which, after all, means, “the Accuser”— when he hints that his sister cannot possibly be remaining chastely devoted to her husband in his absence.143 Yaroslavna then threatens to have Galitsky sent back to their father if he does not free the girl, whereupon Galitsky relents, if only partly— “I will free the girl. And take another one!” (182) While Yaroslavna’s success with her brother is limited, she gets results by invoking her father. Igor’s authority has become entirely ineffectual. Since he has lost his fatherhood, his power is undermined. Thus, Galitsky cannot be commanded in Igor’s name. Yaroslavna achieves limited success by invoking her own father. Yaroslavna’s invocation of paternal authority establishes a mythic link between her and God the Father. Additionally, Yaroslavna posseses such power, not through her marriage, but through her own bloodline and the fact that, unlike her brother, she has retained her father’s good graces. With this power she can force Galitsky to reckon with their father. Note that whereas the Bogoroditsa typically becomes the voice of mercy

(feminine) in her role as intercessor, in this case she is the voice of justice (masculine). Again, in her role as a mother figure, Yaroslavna must assume masculine characteristics. She is, to a point, successful in doing so.

One might protest that Galitsky cannot commit the sin of rebelling against God if Igor has fallen from godhood. However, the mantle of godhood/parenthood has fallen to Yaroslavna.

142 i.e. John 8:39,44: “They answered and said unto him, Abraham is our father. Jesus saith unto them, if ye were Abraham’s children, ye would do the works of Abraham…Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it.” 143 This scene has some incestuous overtones. They serve to show just how depraved Galitsky really is. 131

She suggests as much by saying to Galitsky, “Have you forgotten that I am the Princess, that authority was given to me by the Prince?” (181) Such an event is not portrayed in the opera and the line itself may be one more legacy of the fact that the opera remained unfinished. It can be argued that this comment of Yaroslavna’s contradicts the fact that Igor says that he “entrusts” her to Galitsky while he is gone. Galitsky certainly holds that he, not she, has authority because of this assignment. But Igor was clearly asking for emotional support—“guard the peace of your sister, my friend, and disperse the anguish [toska] of separation for her with your affectionate conversation” (34). 144 The boyars later affirm that “she [Yaroslavna] reigns here by the Prince’s will” (205). To them, at least, there is no ambiguity about who has the right to rule. Therefore,

Galitsky rebels sacrilegiously against rightful authority, against God. He deepens his sacrilege by urging the boyars to “to choose a new Prince” (201). However, they remain faithful to their oaths, which they still see as binding, even though the recipient of their loyalty has changed.

As yet another signal of Yaroslavna’s connection with divine forces and Galitsky’s with the diabolical, the conflict is ended by a deus ex machina. On a literal level, it is the beginning of the Polovtsians attack on Putivl, and the fact that they set fire to the city. But all the characters understand the attack as Divine Intervention. Yaroslavna, the women and the men all in their turn sing “this is the punishment of God, the wrath of God” (208-209). They all join together homophonically to say “No one can escape from the judgment of God” (211-212) at the end of the scene. As I have argued above with regard to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Pskov, homophony indicates unity among the members of the chorus. The Polovtsians’ attack puts an end to the divisions among the people. Although Galitsky is present at the beginning of the scene, by the

144 A variant text has the less ornate request “and comfort her in the days of separation with your affectionate conversation” (34). 132

time it ends he no longer has lines of his own. He also does not appear in the rest of the opera.

Tcherniakov’s interpretation makes sense—Galitsky is struck down by the Polovtsians in the first wave of their attack and his death is what prompts the comments about the judgments of

God. Certainly, there are other possible interpretations.145 In any case, this attack removes whatever power Galitsky may have had. If he is not killed by the Polovtsian invasion, he at least is prevented from taking control of Putivl and stripped of all power. In the final scene, Eroshka and Skula who were the first to follow him, disavow their allegiance, “We are not

Galitsky’s…we are Igor’s” (295-296). While these spineless characters change sides according to who seems to have power, in this case the shift in power is brought about by an event that the other characters understand as an act of God. Thus, the end of Galitsky’s rebellion can be seen as an apocalyptic event. God puts down the sacrilegious rebellion of Galitsky and his rabble, while

Yaroslavna protects the faithful. Her previous threat that Galitsky will have to account to their father for his crimes is literally realized.

Even though Putivl is razed and the people are defeated by the Polovtsians, Yaroslavna is able to restore the unity of the people and help them survive the ordeal. Her resilience ensures that there is a chorus to greet Igor at the end of the opera. The divisions first arise in the prologue, while Igor is still present. The unity of the people is achieved while he is still absent, under Yaroslavna’s leadership. She additionally maintains the connection with the divine that

Igor loses early on. While Igor is delivered by a eunuch, Yaroslavna experiences divine intervention through the deus ex machina that defeats her brother. She becomes a symbol of

145 The 1969 film adaptation, for instance, shows a reconciliation between Galitsky and Yaroslavna during the defense of Putivl. When Igor returns and then (again) leads the people off to battle with the Polovtsians, Galitsky is left behind in shame. 133

Mary as the protector of the people. Thus, while Igor’s power is diminished during the course of the opera, Yaroslavna’s increases. It is not a stretch to say that Igor’s re-enthronement as father at the end of the opera comes about only through his connection to Yaroslavna. Without her, it is doubtful that the people would have remained united. Her resilience helps to save the people, and ultimately, Igor. If, as I suggest, Igor does not return to the absolute power and glory he possessed at the opera’s beginning, Yaroslavna, too, has changed.

Conclusion

As demonstrated above, Borodin takes a deliberately mythic approach to history in

Prince Igor. He accepts the traditional relationship among opera, history and myth. He does not struggle with it, as Rimsky-Korsakov did in Pskov. His interest is not in reworking the relationship between opera and myth, but in reworking the myths themselves. In

Prince Igor, Borodin amends the traditional myth of the tsar as father by adding the myth of the empress as mother. Thus, he takes a highly traditional myth (and one that, as I argue, plays an important role in Russian opera,) and grafts onto it a myth that plays an important historical role, but nonetheless remains the exception. In doing so, he not only presents an original variation on the theme of the tsar as father, but he also calls into question traditional myths about gender.

Though cultural myths of women as the weaker sex are present in the opera, Yaroslavna’s ability to function in a masculine role shows that the categories of male and female are not so separate.

The role of father to the people is open to male and female. Perhaps the opera relies on the conservative, Karamzinian myth that the monarch is the principal agent of history, but it nonetheless grants this agency to females.

Thus, Borodin points out a blind spot in the traditional myth of the tsar as father: it largely ignores the contribution of the women who have played leading roles in history. The use

134

of the myth of the empress in Prince Igor calls attention to them. It points to the eighteenth- century empresses who deliberately fashioned their images with such a myth in mind, as well as the women who had power and influence during the Kievan period of Russian history that the opera portrays.146 But the opera also looks forward. If, as I suggest, by the end of the opera

Yaroslavna still possesses power by retaining the mythic stature that Igor has lost, then Borodin suggests that her agency will play a role in the future. Since the composer was also an advocate for women’s education, it is no stretch of the imagination to see the role of Yaroslavna as also pointing to the women who were his contemporaries.147 The myth of the empress, therefore, was not only a matter of acknowledging the history of women’s contributions, but of acknowledging the potential of women to contribute to society. Yaroslavna is at least the equal of Igor, and in many ways she surpasses him as a leader. Naturally, other women could succeed if they were given leadership opportunities. The opera, then, calls for the creation of such opportunities.

Of the operas treated in this dissertation, Prince Igor is perhaps the most specific in terms of its correspondence with an actual political program in nineteenth-century Russia. It can be seen alongside the other literary, theatrical and polemic ruminations on the so-called “woman question,” such as Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s What is to Be Done? and Tolstoy’s Anna

Karenina.148 But if Borodin’s message concentrates on the Russia of his own day, then can

Prince Igor truly be considered a historical opera? I suggest that the answer is yes, partly

146 On the powerful women of the Kievan period, see “Igor’s Death and Olga’s Revenge” (54-58) and “The Siege of Kiev and Olga’s Death” (59-62) in Zenkovsky’s Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles, and Tales. Note that Olga is seen as a sacred figure, a forerunner to the Christian era. See also Natalia Pushkareva, Women in Russian History: from the Tenth to the Twentieth Century. 147 I am indebted to Frolova-Walker for making the connection between Borodin’s advocacy of women’s education and the role of Yaroslavna. See her “Fresh Prince.” For the particulars of Borodin’s involvement in the movement, see Willem Gerard Vijvers. Alexander Borodin: Composer, Scientist, Educator: a Biography. Richard Stites’s The Women’s Liberation Movement in Russia: Feminism, Nihilism, and Bolshevism 1860-1930 is an excellent discussion of the historical context. 148 See Anna Mendelker, Framing Anna Karenina: Tolstoy, the Woman Question and the Victorian Novel for a reading of Tolstoy as a radical feminist. 135

because, as I mention above, the emphasis on women’s agency points to important female figures in history. However, the historical implications go beyond that, because for many nineteenth-century thinkers, national history was a matter of both origin and destination. It is significant that Borodin found in history good reasons for women to participate in current society. He saw the need for change in certain aspects of society, but he also calls for some powerful continuities.

By connecting Yaroslavna to Mary, Borodin creates a version of the myth of the empress that points back to Russia’s religious heritage. In doing so he avoids, among other things, the possible objection that the myth of the empress (or the nineteenth-century feminism that Borodin supported) is merely a foreign import, alien to Russian culture. In the nineteenth century, it was common for writers to criticize eighteenth-century Russian culture as derivative of foreign countries. In some cases, such imitation was merely seen as a matter of cultural epigonism, negative for largely aesthetic reasons because it hindered the creation of original works.149 For the Slavophiles, the matter took on a moral dimension. The importation of foreign norms into

Russia in such historical events as the reforms of Peter I severed the link between Russia and its heritage, which exacerbated the class distinction between the aristocracy and peasantry, since the latter belonged to a Europeanized culture while the former retained (at least to some extent) native traditions. The perceived loss of religious faith and values among the educated elite was seen as a result of this separation.

Such thinkers might criticize the myth of the empress as an eighteenth-century import from Western culture. Borodin sidesteps this potential criticism by showing a version of the myth

149 For just one example, there is Pushkin’s characterization of Sumarokov as “the weak child of foreign lessons” (129). Such a position naturally has ethical implications, but it begins as an aesthetic evaluation. 136

arising in twelfth-century Russia. In this case, the myth of the empress is neither an import nor related to secularization. It is, in fact, consonant with the veneration of the Bogoroditsa as intercessor and protector. This veneration, so important to Orthodox culture, can and should translate into the acknowledgement that women have the potential to contribute to society at all levels. Thus, the myth of the empress is given in terms that allow for the preservation of Russia’s religious heritage. Borodin sees progress as a return to history rather than a flight from it. For him, historical opera serves as a way of returning to history and reclaiming important aspects of it, highlighting its continued relevance. Borodin follows Glinka in ascribing to the idea that opera plays a role in preserving the memory of history. Borodin was no less a defender of Russia’s heritage than his predecessor, even if they did not share the same political opinions. Borodin saw

Russian history as a powerful, positive part of the nation and it contributed to his optimism and faith in progress.

137

Chapter 5: Rage Against the Dying of the Light: The Death of the Fathers in Musorgsky’s

Khovanshchina

Musorgsky’s final opera, Khovanshchina, is unique among the operas treated in this dissertation in that there is no literary prototype. Drawing from nineteenth-century histories of

Russia and various seventeenth-century documents (see Frid 84), Musorgsky pieced together a sprawling plot that conflates various uprisings that took place during the course of over thirty

150 years into a single event (Gasparov 99-101). His very free treatment of history and the fact that both the opera and the libretto remained unfinished at the time of Musorgsky’s death have rendered the plot fairly convoluted. Thus, even though the opera has at least a toe-hold in the

Western repertoire, for the sake of clarity, I will provide a brief plot summary before proceeding.151

The plot takes place during the regency of Sophia Romanova, directly before the accession of Peter I. It focuses on the attempt of the ancient aristocracy known as the boyars to reassert its waning power. Prince Ivan Khovansky, leader of the streltsy, seeks to put his son,

Andrei, on the throne. Vasily Golitsyn, the sometime lover of Sophia, seeks to Westernize Russia and refine its institutions along the lines of the Enlightenment. Meanwhile, Dosifei leads the Old

Believers in a quest to restore the former practices to the . Due to their

150 Basing a libretto on historical documents is unusual, but not wholly unprecedented. Eugene Scribe based the libretto of Le Prophète entirely on historical accounts of the events depicted, without any literary antecedent. See Karin Pendle “Eugene Scribe and French Opera of the Nineteenth Century.” Where Musorgsky differs from Scribe is in the fact that he composed music while piecing together the libretto, whereas Scribe presented a complete, definitive libretto to Meyerbeer. As I observe below, some of the convolutions and contradictions in Khovanshchina are probably a result of this curious composition process. Thanks to Jon Linford for observing this contrast. 151 Program notes for the Metropolitan opera revival of the opera in 2012 recount that the house had previously held 32 performances. 138 vastly different views, these parties fail to unite.152 Therefore, they remain unable to change their circumstances. Meanwhile, the boyar Shaklovity schemes in behalf of the young Tsar Peter I. He succeeds in assassinating Prince Khovansky. Golitsyn falls out of favor with Sophia and is banished. When the church turns forever from the old ways and a death sentence is pronounced on the Old Believers, Dosifei encourages them to burn themselves rather than surrender. Andrei joins them, lured there by Marfa, his former mistress. Throughout the opera she has a vision of burning together with Andrei, and at the end this is fulfilled. All of the old order is swept aside.153

The opera’s treatment of history is noteworthy, not only for its free treatment of events, but for the significance ascribed to them. Two major—and opposite—interpretations of

Musorgsky’s historical thought have emerged, melioristic and pessimistic. The view of

Musorgsky as a melioristic historical thinker belongs mostly to Soviet musicology and performance practice.154 Boris Asafyev and Emilia Frid, for instance, see the opera as a portrayal of class conflict involving spontaneous rebellions of the seventeenth-century Russian people.

152 I have opted to use the term “Old Believer” rather than “Old Ritualist,” partly because this term is the more common one in English. In the community itself, there is some debate over which term is the most correct. Both are generally considered more acceptable than “schismatic,” a common appellation even in the twentieth century, that is considered offensive by the community. 153 My summary follows the events as portrayed in the opera. For a brief discussion of the opera’s relationship to documentary history, see Gasparov Five Operas and a Symphony (99-101). 154 Note the ending of the Oscar-nominated 1959 film adaptation directed by Vera Stroyeva: a group of peasants look on in horror at the self-immolation of the Old Believers. They are then shown walking through the Russian countryside, singing about Russia’s trials. Then the orchestra reiterates “the dawn” theme that opens the opera and a quote of Musorgsky’s is displayed on the background— “the artist believes in the future, because he lives in it.” All of the tragedy depicted is redeemed by historical processes that promise to eventually alleviate the suffering of the downtrodden but resilient folk. It is available on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmAsf-IeNgo It is perhaps noteworthy that this organization of the ending (the chorus about Russia’s trials and the reiteration of “the dawn” theme) comes from Shostakovich’s version of the opera. 139 Asafyev calls attention to the “anarchic” aspects of the streltsy. This interpretation is built on the logic of the Soviet concept identified by Katerina Clark as the Spontaneity/Consciousness dialectic. According to this concept, revolutions were not wholly organic, but organized by a vanguard of “conscious” revolutionaries who can guide the masses. Soviet historiography typically presents the rebels of the seventeenth century as unconscious precursors to the

Bolsheviks, who led the first truly conscious, and therefore successful, revolution.155 To see such an interpretation of history in Musorgsky anachronistically attributes to him views characteristic of Soviet historiography. Musorgsky was, indeed, a contemporary of radical thinkers and revolutionaries. He did draw freely from the comparatively liberal work of the historian

Kostomarov and even from the radical folklorist, Khudiakov. However, it is doubtful that he himself espoused such views.156

The view of Musorgsky as a pessimistic thinker belongs largely to recent reevaluations of the opera, which began with late Soviet scholarship, but in the West are mostly associated with

Taruskin and Emerson.157 Taruskin demonstrates that the melioristic interpretation of the opera stems largely from the interpolations of later editors and composers.158 He suggests that the opera is an aristocratic tragedy with a pessimistic view of Russian history.159 Emerson sees the opera in apocalyptic terms, summarizing the experience of the characters as, “the world as we know it is

155 Dmitry Zhukov’s 1972 biography of Avvakum is a characteristic example. 156 For a discussion of Musorgsky’s drawing from populist sources in his operas, see Richard Hoops’s “Musorgsky and the Populist Age” (284-301). For a refutation of the notion that the use of these sources makes Musorgsky a populist, see Taruskin’s Musorgsky (183-199). 157 The late Soviet reevaluation of Musorgsky is actually most evident in literature on Boris, especially E. Levashev’s “Drama Naroda i Drama Sovesti v Opere Boris Godunov,” and Orlova, Alexandra and Maria Shneerson. “After Pushkin and Karamzin: Researching the Sources for the Libretto of Boris Godunov,” translated by Véronique Zaytzeff. 158 Left unfinished at the time of Musorgsky’s death, Khovanshchina has been posthumously finished more than once, by Rimsky-Korsakov, later by Diaghilev with the help of Ravel and Stravinsky, and then by Shostakovich. On the various editions, and their role in creating the sense of a melioristic view of history, see Taruskin’s Musorgsky (318-322). 159 Taruskin suggests that the subtitle “narodnaia muzykal’naia drama,” should be translated as a “national historical drama,” rather than “a folk [or people’s] musical drama,” a connotation that comes from the Soviet period (Musorgsky 322-324). 140

disappearing before our eyes, and in its place there is suddenly a whole other structure, alien, indifferent to my past, run by other principles” (“Apocalypse Then, Now, and (For Us) Never”

20). In both of their readings, the Old Believers are given a privileged position. Their apocalyptic worldview grants them transcendence. Petty squabbles for political power lose significance as the

Old Believers step outside of history through their selfimmolation. But while the Old Believers achieve transcendence, the rest of Russia is deprived of its best and most worthy.

My interpretation of the opera in many respects descends from the recent reevaluations, since I accept the basic premise that Musorgsky is pessimistic in his view of history. Following these reevaluations, I have opted to draw from the 1976 reissue of Pavel Lamm’s edition of the opera in my references to the score and libretto. I have also relied on a video recording of the

1989 performance, which follows the Shostakovich orchestration but includes Stravinsky’s finale to Act V. Critics see this finale as more consonant with the idea of

Musorgsky as a pessimistic thinker.160 But while I share some common ground with Taruskin and Emerson, I disagree with the privileged position they give to the Old Believer characters. No perspective within the opera is presented as absolute. Certainly, enough stage time is given to expounding the competing creeds and their proponents that it seems each is worthy of consideration.161 With this in mind, I will focus on each of the characters vying for leadership,

Prince Khovansky, Dosifei, and Golitsyn. A reading of the mythic subtexts of these roles demonstrates that they are not simply ideologues, but father figures.

As discussed above, the myth of the tsar as father underlies the prominence of heroic bass and bass-baritone characters in Russian opera. So far I have shown the presence of this myth in

160 That being said, Emerson criticizes the anachronisms of the production, especially Marfa’s costume and the fact that the Dosifei is clean-shaven. See “Apocalypse” (15 n4). 161 For this insight I am indebted to Thomas May, who asserts, “Everyone thinks they are doing what is right for Russia—and thinks they are alert to the dangers threatening her—yet no central vision is established to resolve their dissension” (41). 141

several operas. Khovanshchina presents a special case because it is one of the most bottom-heavy vocal scores in all of nineteenth-century opera. Six bass characters are given names in the score.

Of main characters I discuss below, two are basses and one is a baritone.162 And while some of the streltsy who appear briefly can be seen as comic basses, most of the basses have some claim to paternal authority.163 The opera is a contest in which the main characters attempt to assert themselves as father figures. They are not merely attempting to impose their views.

They are competing for custody of Russia. As I will demonstrate, they do not solely compete against each other, but against a rising, impersonal system of power that threatens to annihilate fatherhood itself.

Khovansky

Recent scholars rarely spend much time discussing Prince Khovansky, despite his centrality to the opera. In many ways he dominates Act I. His influence is felt through the streltsy whom he leads. They are first seen in the opera in acts of drunkenness and violence. Their acts indirectly characterize his leadership, associating him with drunkenness and violence. When

Shaklovity orders the scribe to write a denunciation of Khovansky, he audience learns that he is engaged in a plot to put his son on the throne. The scribe’s fearful reaction shows something of

Khovansky’s power. He begins as a powerful agent in the plot, even the focus of Act I.

When Khovansky enters, he does so with pomp and grandeur. A procession of men (the streltsy), women, and children precede him, singing his praises. He has real power and commands respect. The people see him in a paternalistic role. The boys’ choir sings “Glory to

[our] father” (76). He accepts this role for himself, opening his speech to the people saying,

162 Boris has eight named bass characters, but it also devotes considerably more stage time to the tenor role. 163 Bass roles can be comic or authoritative, or both at once. Through her insightful analysis of Dargomyzhsky’s Rusalka, Forshaw demonstrates that in some cases these categories can be interpenetrating (53-59). I treat these roles as opposites in this chapter solely because Musorgsky does not, to my knowledge, ever combine them. 142

“Children, my children!” (82). The praises and tribute, not to mention his bass voice, show

Khovansky as a father figure invested with power and authority. Shaklovity’s denunciation, the scribe’s fear, and the behavior of his streltsy show that the way he uses his power and authority is questionable. Furthermore, in his speech before the crowd he shows himself as hypocritical. He professes to protect the people and fight for the wellbeing of the tsars, even though he is plotting to dethrone them. However, only the scribe and the audience are privy to Khovansky’s plot. For most of the people, Khovansky remains a father figure. The opera will continue to show

Khovansky as unprincipled. His power, too, will later be shown waning. But the initial grand procession and his pervading influence over Act I characterize him as a powerful father figure.

Even though he is not technically a tsar, he is a bearer of the myth of the tsar as father, especially since he wants to put his son on the throne. He represents the old patriarchal order, and his actions and fate serve as a meditation on its merits and failings.

The first act shows that the power of Khovansky and the system to which he belongs is waning. The shift begins when Khovansky demands Emma. His demand further shows him as unprincipled in his use of power, since he disregards both Emma’s resistence and his son’s claim on her. When his son, Andrei, refuses to relinquish Emma, Khovansky sees his disobedience as more than misbehavior. It is a sign that Khovansky’s power is diminishing. He says, “It’s as if we truly no longer hold dominion” (113). His power hinges entirely on his secure position as a father figure in a patriarchal society. His son’s rebellion shows that his position is unstable. In this way,

Andrei’s act of openly flouting his father’s will recalls Don Carlo’s rebellion in the auto-da-fé scene of Verdi’s opera.164 James Parakilas observes that this moment in Verdi “reveal[s] a chasm in the political order that will need to be resolved” (89). For Khovansky, disobedience does not

164 The parallel between the two operas is even more evident in the fact that the father and son are in conflict over a woman. Thanks to Helena Goscilo for noticing this parallel. 143

simply undermine his personal authority, but the entire socio-political system, which puts fathers at the head. And the scene only shows the matter getting worse: Khovansky orders his streltsy to take Emma, but they are unable to get past Andrei, who threatens to kill her. Then Dosifei enters and halts the action entirely. The conflict shows the limited nature of Khovansky’s power, and the fact that his sway as a father figure is not absolute. His competition with his son over an unwilling woman also calls into question whether he is fit to be a father figure. In doing so, it points out the principal flaw in societies in which power is possessed by fathers—the position of father is achieved by physically begetting offspring, not by merit. Such a flaw is inherent in monarchy and Russian mestnichestvo.165 As I argue below, Khovansky’s views and persona are deeply tied to such systems.

Another problem the opera presents is that, in the time of Sophia’s regency, there was no single father who could claim the loyalty of the people. Rather, there were competing father figures. Dosifei’s entrance not only shows the limits of Khovansky’s power, but also introduces

Dosifei as a rival father. When he enters, Marfa greets him saying, “Father, bless me” (117).

Dosifei also possesses authority. He, too, is a father to the people. Emerson suggests that in the opera the Old Believer characters, through their spiritual authority, put an end to conflicts and the deadlock that they bring about (“Apocalypse” 13). However, I suggest that there is no mystical ability to end conflict. Dosifei brings the action to a halt simply because the loyalties of the people are divided. The streltsy share the faith of the people. They exit, saying, “we will lay down our bones for the faith” (121). Since they are also Old Believers, they are not willing to oppose Dosifei. They are divided by loyalty to their faith leader and to their military commander.

Dosifei’s entrance actually brings stasis. The divided loyalty of the people shows the

165 This refers to the ancient Russian system in which important state offices were assigned based on rank and lineage, rather than on merit. 144

precariousness of both sides. Their strength is equivocal unless they can somehow unite. I will examine the obstacles to uniting below in my discussion of Act II.

Later in the opera, Khovansky expounds on his socio-political views. In Act II, he stands by the ancient system of mestnichestvo. He mourns the loss of tradition. However, his complaints about the passing of tradition are perhaps rooted less in political theory and a sense of what is right for Russian society, than in keeping his own power from eroding. Shaklovity understands

Khovansky’s central concern. In Act IV, he baits Khovansky with the lie that Sophia has called him to a council. Thrilled with the prospect of receiving the respect that his station demands,

Khovansky lets down his guard and is killed. Since his quest is to reclaim his former station,

Khovansky belongs to the trope of fathers trying to extend their hold. Above, I examine this trope in Glinka’s Ruslan and Liudmila, but note a crucial difference: Glinka sides with the sons and

Musorgsky sides with the fathers. In the work of the latter, the life cycle becomes tragic.

Khovansky seeks to perpetuate his power not by unnaturally extending his own life, but through his son, Andrei. He embraces mestnichestvo because this system allows his power to be passed down to his descendants. The same goes for his religious slogans. He repeats religious clichés throughout the opera, most characteristically, “God save us.” This motif becomes something like the operatic version of an epic epithet, used as a mnemonic device to identify a character.166 He professes to fight for the Old Faith, but in reality, he sees it as just another pretext for returning to the lost traditions of mestnichestvo. In Act II, Dosifei rebukes Golitsyn for his “new ways,” and Khovansky agrees, “I have also always said, ‘Prince, don’t destroy the old ways.’ But, look, he has diminished the boyars’ place” (187). The old ways, for Khovansky, are

166 Naturally, a leitmotif serves a similar purpose, but Khovansky’s “God save us” is too brief and lacks the development that would mark it as a leitmotif. 145

less a pattern of piety and more a system of hereditary power. Religious issues are not central to him. Dosifei, in fact, disapproves of his leadership of the streltsy as well as his personal excesses.

Khovansky is at odds with Dosifei in matters religious.

I suggest that in these excesses are the true key to Khovansky’s religion, more so than in the clichés he recites. In his association with drunkenness and excess, Khovansky manifests pagan energies. He is a Dionysian father.167 This is also manifest in the behavior of the streltsy he leads, who spend most of their time on stage somewhere between a drunken revelry and a drunken stupor. Their violence, too, is Dionysian in its undisciplined wildness. The fact that his lust for Emma is not a one-time indiscretion is affirmed later, in Act IV, when he comforts himself with his dancing slave girls. All of these attributes demonstrate that he is overflowing with life unto excess. Such excess is associated with paganism more than with Christianity.

Dosifei strengthens the connection between Khovansky and paganism by rebuking him for the conduct of the streltsy, by saving, “they serve Mammon and Belial” (166). Mammon literally means “riches,” but it is often personified as a devil and/or pagan deity. Belial is identified with the devil and thus, also with pagan deities.168 Dosifei’s comment is a common cliché to denote sinful conduct. He himself uses it later in the opera when he accuses the judgmental Susana of serving Belial, as well. But in both cases, the cliché seems literal.169 Dosifei means to associate the streltsy, and by extension Khovansky, with pagan forces. He is, therefore, tied to Russia’s pre-Christian history, and perhaps has the oldest claim to the people’s loyalty.

167 Khovansky is Dionysian in the broad sense of the term used by Nietzsche. I am not arguing that he reenacts a particular mythic story about Dionysus, merely that he demonstrates the associated traits. 168 Early Christians tended to not deny the existence of pagan gods, but to simply believe that they were demons who had led the ancients astray in false worship. This concept survived into the seventeenth century, at least, appearing, for instance, in Milton’s Paradise Lost, which includes both a Mammon and a Belial among the demons. 169 Dosifei’s clichés may be taken literally also, in Gasparov’s reading of the opera as a pandemonium in the original sense of the word (coined by Milton), a gathering of diabolical forces (see Gasparov 130). 146

I suggest that Musorgsky does not judge Khovansky’s pagan energies as wholly negative or destructive. Rather, since Khovansky is Dionysian, he is actually presented as a life-affirming character. In an opera that deals with death and decline—both individual and national, both spiritual and physical—Khovansky is a bearer of life. Besides living his own life well beyond fullness, he has sired a son. Among the father figures of Khovanshchina, he is the only to have done so. This shows that the other father figures are sterile, and perhaps unable to influence the course of the nation past their own generation. Khovansky alone maintains a direct link with the life cycle. If this is insufficient to prove his effectiveness as a leader, it is nonetheless necessary for the survival of the nation. Despite his unprincipled behavior—or perhaps because of it—

Khovansky is the most life-affirming character in the opera.170

Dosifei

Dosifei presents an image of fatherhood that contrasts directly with that of Khovansky.

Their contrasting titles suggest something of the differences in their approach to fatherhood— the people call Khovansky “bat’ka,” and later the streltsy and their wives call him “batia,” a traditional, folk way to say father.171 Marfa greets Dosifei as “otche,” a vocative form associated with religious language, especially prayer. Dosifei, as a father, is linked to the Christian God.

Asafyev contends that, since he seeks to restore the Old Belief to its former place as the dominant faith, his designs are political, not solely spiritual in nature. While such may be the case, his focus is not on temporal, but spiritual matters. His guiding principle is renouncing the world, as shown throughout the opera: to Khovansky and Golitsyn he identifies himself as Prince

Myshetsky, revealing that in the past he renounced his rank to take holy orders. After his prayer

170 My analysis of Khovansky as a life-affirming character, and the impetus for this chapter, draw from Carol Apollonio’s reading of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov in her study, Dostoevsky’s Secrets: Reading Against the Grain. 171 See http://gramota.ru/slovari/dic/?word=%D0%B1%D0%B0%D1%82%D1%8F&all=x. 147

in Act I, he instructs the other Old Believers to “sing a song of renunciation from the world”

(123). These efforts culminate at the end of the opera in self-immolation.

What Dosifei shares with Khovansky is diminished power as a father figure. Although he wields authority through his ability to command the respect of the people (most of whom, it seems, share his faith), Dosifei is shown in a position of weakness. Frid observes that, “The [Old

Believers], impotent and helpless in their actions, become for Musorgky the bearers of high moral principles” (119) But, despite their principles, they remain unable to cope with the problems of history. Dosifei’s faith does not offer solutions in this world. It is a faith of negation, of and martyrdom. He seeks to transcend the world rather than to live in it. Emerson has seen in this the victory of the Old Believers (see “Apocalypse”). In their apocalyptic view of history, everything important has already happened. Christ has already completed His work and will prevail eternally. Waiting for history to unravel is all that is required. They seek a country outside of time and space and thus transcend the petty squabbles of history.

While Emerson presents a correct characterization of the Old Believer position, both historically and within the opera, I contend that Musorgsky does not present the Old Believer characters as unambiguously positive.172 Indeed, much of his portrayal of Dosifei and the other

Old Believers can be interpreted as a critique of Old Believer spirituality. Thomas May observes:

“The mode of prayer is a kind of common denominator in Khovanshchina, but its dominant tone is one of pessimistic resignation” (41). Transcending history is the quest of those powerless to influence it. The Old Believers are overwhelmed and defeated, perhaps from the beginning of the opera. I suggest that Musorgsky sees the Old Believers in a manner similar to V. A. Miakotin, who wrote an 1894 biography of Avvakum. Miakotin contends: “he [Avvakum] is important to

172 To be fair to Emerson, she acknowledges that the attempt to transcend history makes the Old Believers impotent within it. Still, she asserts that they achieve a spiritual authority through their transcendence, which is something that I wish to call into question. 148

history as the defeated [party], and in this is his significance” (154). For the late nineteenth- century educated class, the Old Believers were the champions of a lost cause. Although they have the courage to die manfully, they are unable to bring anything into effect. Their heroism is sterile.

Musorgsky taps into this sense of a lost cause through the music accompanying the prayers of the Old Believers. In Act I, Dosifei prays, “Oh Lord, do not allow the power of the enemy to overcome [us]” (122). As soon as he finishes this prayer, the orchestra sounds twice a sinister tritone symbolizing the bells of the Ivan the Great Tower (see Fig. 43). This bell tritone continues to sound as Dosifei calls upon the Old Believers to sing their “song of renunciation”. It sounds in the middle of their song; it sounds as Dosifei says, “Father!

My heart is open to Thee” (124) and as the Old Believers pray for strength. It closes the scene.

Tritones have been called diabolus in musica for their dissonant sound. They came to symbolize the forces of evil. The repetition of the tritone during a scene of prayer for deliverance creates the sense that evil will be victorious. The fact that it is supposed to be a bell makes the situation even worse, since bells are associated with the church and the call to worship. The bell tritone serves as an auditory manifestation of the greatest fear of the Old Believers, that the devil had already taken charge of religion itself. Gasparov argues that in the final scene, Dosifei sees the world entirely overrun by diabolical forces (128). The bell tritone of Act I suggests that diabolical forces have overrun the world of the opera from the beginning. The Old Believers’ only possible recourse is an escape from the world and history.

The fact that the tritone is also used to symbolize bells in the prologue of Boris Godunov may lead some to suggest that reading them as diabolical in Khovanshchina may be straining the point. David Brown, however, suggests that the tritone in the coronation scene may be interpreted as diabolical: “That Musorgsky was consciously exploiting this association is supported by his powerful use of the triton in the St. Basil Scene when Mitukha and the crowd speak of the

149

anathema pronounced against the Pretender” (155 n13). Brown does not wholly commit himself to such a reading, which may be more of an intriguing possibility.173 Alternatively, I suggest that there is a distinct difference between the use of the tritone in the two operas. In Boris, the tritone is meant to symbolize bells that are part of the coronation. When they repeat during Boris’s death scene, he hears them and says, “a death knell!” (387). The bells are linked to the occasion In

Boris, the tritones sound in order to make the bells heard. Khovanshchina takes the opposite approach: not strictly tied to the occasion, and only incidentally related to the setting, the bells sound in order to make the tritone heard. The bells chime a total of thirteen times, which may be another signal of diabolical or sinister forces.174

Musically, there is a difference between the two uses. In Khovanshchina, the tritone creates what I call tonal shock. Dosifei finishes his prayer on the dominant note of a D major chord. The traditional nature of his consonant harmony with the orchestral accompaniment is reassuring. But the concord is immediately disrupted by the tritone, which gives a leap from an F♯ to a C ♮. The sound of a tritone is typically jarring, and always requires accidentals, but here

Musorgsky maximizes the jarring effect by flatting the leading tone (see first page of Fig. 43). In terms of tonality, the rug Dosifei is standing on is pulled out from underneath him. During the

“song of renunciation” the same tritone sounds, and the F♯ becomes a disturbing pedal tone that clashes with the C major cadence of the chorus and Dosifei’s repetitions of E (see second page of

Fig. 43). In the coronation scene in Boris, the tritone is not nearly as jarring, because it does not insistently clash with an established tonality. The sound is still striking, but since it is positioned

173 Brown actually hedges his bets: in the body of his book he says, “We cannot know whether the sinister interval between these common pitches (C and F♯/ G♭—the tritone, or diabolus in musica, ‘the devil in music’ of medieval theory) was fundamental to Musorgsky’s conception, though it seems not improbable” (155). The passage I quote above that makes a more definite claim is given as a footnote. 174 In Russian, thirteen can be called a “devil’s dozen,” chertova diuzhina. 150

at the beginning of a new number, rather than interrupting one underway, it does not present the same sense of disruption.

The tritone in Boris that comes closest to that of Khovanshchina is in the tsar’s death scene. Here, the leading tone is not flatted, but the tritone does contrast with the end of Boris's prayer and the choral lament that follows (see second page of Fig. 44). It is ominous, a death knell indeed. However, since the tritone is not played simultaneously with these other elements, its effect is more mild than in Khovanshchina. Furthermore, in Khovanshchina the doom foretold in this opera is not that of one man but of the whole generation and, perhaps, nation. For this reason I draw a distinction between the two operas’ use of the tritone: in the one it foretells personal tragedy, in the other, national and generational apocalypse.

Powerless to influence his fate, Dosifei shares with Khovansky a sense of diminished power, but unlike Khovansky he is life-negating rather than life-affirming. Dosifei’s mystical vision of Christianity offers no solutions in this world. The contrast between the two fathers is important. The typical interpretation is that Khovansky fails as a father to the people, because in

Act IV, he does not sally forth to protect them. However, life goes on for the streltsy. In fact, it is possible that their lives are, in fact, spared because of Khovansky’s counsel to not go to battle.

Thanks to his counsel, they are not, ultimately, traitors to the crown. Khovansky may not have been a particularly successful father, but he at least meets the criteria of caring for his children’s lives. All Dosifei can offer is death. He may be morally superior to Khovansky, but the only legacy he leaves is one of self-destruction. Musorgsky presents in Khovansky and Dosifei two competing fathers. The one father bears the pagan, life-affirming energies of Russia's past. The other bears the Christian, negative energy of self-renunciation, also associated with the past.

151

These two cannot combine. Although they both wish for the restoration of the former order, they are at enmity with each other.175

Golitsyn

As if this conflict between two father figures were not enough, yet another father, Vasily

Golitsyn, enters the drama in Act II and aggravates the conflict. Golitsyn is an authoritative father figure, partly through his relationship with Sophia Alekseevna. She starts her letter to him with the salutation, “My dear brother Vasia, hello my father [batiushka]!” (126) Her odd conflation of terms of endearment suggests that his position is contradictory The voicing of the opera further shows his contradictory position, since he is the only tenor among the opera’s father figures. His authority, though real, is undercut by the contradictions in his role. His power is limited, even more so than that of Khovansky and Dosifei.

Golitsyn’s style of fatherhood differs from that of both Dosifei and Khovansky. Although a boyar, he was instrumental in abolishing the mestnichestvo system. Thus, he has tried to create a meritocracy in the government service as a replacement for assigning positions based on station and birth. He is a proponent of making Russia’s institutions more modern and rational according to Western, Enlightenment standards. Thus, he is something of a forerunner to Peter I.

Musorgsky exploits this parallel in his meeting with the German pastor. The pastor opens by saying, “I have dared to interrupt you in your great thoughts” (135-136). This highly formal salutation seems to echo the beginning of Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman, which says of Peter

I, “On the shore of the desolate waves/He stood, full of great thoughts” (388).176 In thought and

175 It is worth noting that the Old Believers battled not only the forces of modernity, but also the pagan forces of Russia’s past. Avvakum’s Life characterizes the Western-oriented reformers as minions of the devil, and he does the same for skomorokhi, shamans, and diviners. 176 There is a slight difference in the adjectives applied to the thoughts. The pastor in Khovanshchina uses the adjective vysokie, literally “high” and Pushkin uses velikie, literally “great.” Both, however, convey a sense of grandeur, perhaps a bit of affectation since the one character is a foreigner doing his best with the language and Pushkin is parodying the language of eighteenth-century odes. See Michael Wachtel’s “Pushkin's Long Poems and the Epic Impulse.” 152

intention, Golitsyn is aligned with the mythic image of Peter I.

However, as the scene continues, it becomes clear that the comparison to Peter I does not work in Golitsyn’s favor. Gasparov observes that the tone is set by the stage direction indicating that the room should be furnished “in mixed taste,” indicating, not just a mixture of Russian and

European fashions, but that his Westernizing efforts are mostly affected (118). Despite his claims to cultivation and education, he remains highly superstitious, consulting Marfa as a diviner to instruct him about his future. His pro-Western stance is further called into question in his meeting with the pastor. When the latter asks for redress for Emma, Golitsyn says that he cannot meddle in Khovansky’s affairs. When he asks for permission to build a church in the German quarter,

Golitsyn flatly refuses. His reasons seem to be largely nativist, since he exclaims, “Have you gone mad or are you just brave? Do you want to make [all of] Russia into [one of] your churches?” (142-143).177 His Westernizing intentions, as well as his tolerance, are called into question. It is possible that, just as his fear of angering Khovansky keeps him from granting the first request, his fear of angering Dosifei keeps him from granting the second. Dosifei, after all, expresses xenophobia towards the Germans during their council. He accuses Golitsyn of tainting his values through his education, and says, “Well then, lead the Teutons and [their] devilish forces against us” (184). For Dosifei and the Old Believers, nativist politics are necessary to maintain religious purity.178 This concession to obscurantism and nativism shows a significant disparity between Peter I and Golitsyn and shows the latter in a more negative light.

The unfavorable comparison between Peter I and Golitsyn is not simply presented in terms of the latter’s equivocal relationship with the West. He differs most from the mythic Peter I in the fact that the later tsar is able to bring his intentions into effect. Pushkin’s mythic Peter I

177 His wording is difficult to translate. I would paraphrase it as, “Are you trying to build your churches all over Russia and convert us all to Lutheranism?” 178 This attitude has been the source of liberal critique of the Old Belief, at least since the nineteenth century. Miakotin’s biography is characteristic. 153

shares with the God of Genesis the ability to create by merely speaking. St. Petersburg is created by his words, “let there be a window to the West.” Peter’s godlike position culminates in the narrator’s invocation “O, mighty lord of fate” (399) and in the fact that Evgeny is struck down for blaspheming his image. The comparison throws Golitsyn’s impotence in sharp relief.179 His relationship with the opera’s other father figures keeps him in stasis. His attempts at

Westernizing prove both incomplete and ineffectual. And Marfa’s divining makes seals him wholly in the past by showing that he has no future except exile and ignominy. The mythic Peter

I continues to point the way into Russia’s future. He is a pioneer of modernity. But Golitsyn belongs entirely to the past.

Bound in the past, Golitsyn cannot leave a lasting legacy. He is an impotent fatherHe has no literal offspring through his precarious relationship with Sophia, and he has no figurative children, either. Unlike Khovansky and Dosifei, who both have supporting choruses attached to them, Golitsyn is alone. Only once in the opera is there a chorus associated with him—as

Golitsyn is being carted off to exile, a crowd of people gather to witness it. They sing briefly to acknowledge what is happening, and they offer the following brief prayer on his behalf: “The

Lord forgive you, and help you in your captivity” (319). The brevity of this chorus contrasts with the extended choruses of praise directed at Khovansky and the hymns that the Old Believers sing to express solidarity with Dosifei. Only eleven measures of the entire opera are devoted to the chorus singing about Golitsyn. His authority and fatherhood are limited. Note also the chorus about Golitsyn is sung merely by the people (prishlye liudi). The choruses attached to Dosifei

179 Michael Wachtel sees some ambiguity in the power of Peter I in Pushkin’s poema. Peter I attempts to command the elements, but they prove uncontrollable during the course of the poem, and the final scene returns St. Petersburg to the primordial chaos of the wilderness at the poem’s beginning. I would counter that the impotence against nature may not be Peter I’s. The tsar who admits, “tsars cannot control the elements of God,” is not Peter I but Alexander I, during whose reign takes place. The implication could be that this later tsar fails to live up to the legacy of his predecessor. Peter I is a demiurge, Alexander I a human being. Thus, Pushkin is ambivalent about Peter I, whose power is both creative and destructive, but he is not ambiguous about his power.

154

and Khovansky are bound to them through particular claims on their allegiance (i.e. the streltsy through oaths of service, the Old Believers by shared faith). But the chorus that marks Golitsyn’s exile is made up of passerby who gather to see the spectacle of his forcible removal.

Unable to beget spiritual children who share his ideals, Golitsyn remains separate from the people. Therefore, he fails in a way that is, perhaps, more tragic even than the failures of his fellow fathers, since the Old Believers join Dosifei in embracing martyrdom, and Khovansky is survived by the streltsy. Musorgsky shows Golitsyn’s impact on history as negligible and his fatherhood as equivocal.

Act II

After having introduced each of the father figures and showing their power in decline,

Musorgsky brings them together in Act II when they confront each other. Ostensibly, they meet to plan how to reclaim their former power. In their meeting, however, they prove unable to come to any consensus about the most fundamental issues. When Golitsyn asks where

Russia’s true strength is, Dosifei simply says “in the godly heart and the holy faith” (180).

Golitsyn testily replies “Yes, of course. But where is our strength, otherwise?” (180-181). When

Dosifei says that there is none other, Golitsyn replies, “Then, then the discussion is over” (181).

Their differences go beyond preventing their alliance; they prevent them from even communicating effectively. Dosifei’s spirituality cannot present any solutions that are grounded in this world. Worldly Golitsyn can only greet his counsel with sarcasm. A similar lack of communication goes on between Golitsyn and Khovansky. Khovansky demands respect because of his rank, while Golitsyn seeks something closer to a meritocracy. Dosifei rebukes Khovansky for his shortcomings as a leader. Khovansky and Golitsyn in turn chide Dosifei for renouncing his rank. Their values are completely at odds, and as a result the boyars lack a common language.

155

The conflict, therefore, is deeper than a mere difference in ideology, because it extends beyond articulated philosophy and worldview to encompass the characters’ experience of the world, even their identities. Attempts to find common ground prove more alienating than unifying.

So Act II portrays the fathers attempting to come together to assert their authority collectively. Each of them has claim on Russia for loyalty. Each of them brings advantages and disadvantages. But they cannot come together and there is no possibility of compromise. So they reach complete stasis, which endures until Marfa and Shaklovity arrive and interrupt them.

Marfa

The plurality of fathers has made the situation in Russia volatile, leading to divided loyalties. The fathers have also passed down hereditary traits and impulses that are contradictory, as manifested most obviously in the contrasting choruses of the Old Believers and the streltsy.

But perhaps the best manifestation is in the character Marfa. Romantically linked to the

Khovansky family, she is also an Old Believer and a soothsaying consultant for

Golitsyn. Dosifei calls her “child,” demonstrating not only that he is her leader, but that she belongs to the Russian people. She is a child and not a rival parent. Her connection to each party demonstrates the fact that Dosifei is not her only father figure. She experiences the competition between fathers personally.

As the connecting link among the three parties, Marfa has attracted some negative criticism from scholars. Taruskin criticizes the love triangle between Marfa, Andrei, and Emma as both adherence to operatic formula and anachronistic (Musorgsky 318). Neither point is without merit. Concerning the first point, it is perhaps worthy of note that a major reason the first version of Boris had been rejected by the Board of Directors of the Imperial Theaters was because it lacked a prominent female role. It is possible that Musorgsky wanted to avoid a similar

156

situation in Khovanshchina. Even so, Marfa is too deeply entrenched in the design of the opera— in both the plot and the musical themes—to simply write off as a concession to demands. The idea that romantic love in the seventeenth century is anachronistic is a familiar objection levied against portrayals of the Pre-Petrine period. Ungurianu notes that love stories in historical novels about pre-Petrine Russia were a topic of some controversy during the nineteenth century. There were two basic schools of thought: 1) romantic love was entirely an import from the West and has no place in pre-Petrine Russia. 2) The social manifestations and implications of love may have been different, but the passion was the same, even in Russia (58-59). These schools of thought have opposite assumptions about history. The first assumes the complete otherness of historical epochs and the second assumes that human nature is consistent throughout history. The fact that Musorgsky includes a love triangle in Khovanshchina may suggest that he saw continuities in human nature.

Other scholars see Marfa in a more positive light, though without necessarily agreeing about her nature. Emerson arrives at a conclusion opposite to Taruskin’s—Marfa’s love is consonant with seventeenth-century Russian Christianity. She displays the Eastern Orthodox paradigm of “the discrete but inseparable interdependence of the two realms” (“Apocalypse” 15) of spirit and body. That is why Dosifei rebukes Susana for her intolerance and urges Marfa to carry on loving rather than to repent and subdue her body.180 Emerson sees Marfa, not as an anachronism, but as a believable portrayal of an Old Believer woman of the time. In contrast,

Gasparov calls into question Marfa’s commitment to Old Belief. Like Asafyev, he suggests that she may actually be manipulating Dosifei and all the other father figures for her own purposes

(Asafyev Izbrannye trudy: tom III 161-162, Gasparov 123-128). As support, Gasparov cites her

180 It is worth noting that Emerson’s conclusions are also the opposite of Valeria Sobol’s, who in Febris Erotica: Lovesickness in the Russian Liteary Imagination argues that passionate love was seen as inherently sinful in pre- Petrine Russia (8-13). 157

aside during the argument with Susana. After her statement, “our life is difficult in this vale of tears and grief,” (210-211) she sings in an aside, “I sound just like a prayer book” (211).181 Her comment certainly calls her piety into question, but I suggest she is not necessarily manipulating

Dosifei or any of the opera’s other father figures. Rather, she is defined by contradictory traits that embody Russia’s struggle due to the plurality of fathers.

In order to examine Marfa’s allegiance and the results of her contradictory nature, I will take a closer look at her religion, as I have done with Khovansky. That Marfa follows Russian dvoeverie is obvious.182 Some aspects of her religious identity have been previously ignored. The divination in Act II is an obvious and, perhaps, superficial manifestation. More telling is the fact that she reiterates six times during the opera her vision about burning together with

Andrei.183 Each time, the stage directions indicate that there is a religious element to her vision— the first time she sings “ecstatically,” a phrase that is repeated in the final scene when the vision is fulfilled. When she tells Dosifei of the vision, she does so “mystically,” the same stage direction that is given to Dosifei for his prayer in Act I. The music additionally shows the similarities of these moments through the tremolo in the accompaniment (See Fig. 43 and 45).

This tremolo is a prayer topos for Musorgsky, employed also in Boris Godunov (see Fig. 44).

Emerson suggests that Musorgsky treats prayer as a chronotope in itself (see Boris Godunov 185-

186; “Apocalypse” 13-17). It is timeless, and isolates the people praying from external reality, placing them alone with their convictions. Placing Marfa’s vision in the prayer chronotope,

Musorgsky shows that it is her central article of faith. Her love for Andrei is her true religion.

Burning together with him is her idea of salvation.

181 This translation is from Carol Borah Palca in Khovanshchina: The Khovansky Affair. 182 Dvoeverie (double faith) refers to the fusion of paganism and Christianity characteristic of Russian folk religion. 183 Two of these times are in the final scene when the vision is about to come true. 158

This article of faith means that Marfa stands apart from the Old Believers in religious matters. Dosifei does not detect any heterodoxy in Marfa, possibly because he misreads her feelings as Christian love. Her religious difference from the Old Believers manifests itself most in her reasons for self-immolation. For the Old Believers, such a measure is a last resort. It allows them to die in the faith rather than apostatize during torture.184 It is undertaken in a spirit of submission. Marfa, in contrast, makes it a quest. She seeks it from the beginning of the opera.

She sees it not as martyrdom, but as a necessary measure to cleanse herself and her lover. Dosifei encourages her to love, but Marfa considers her love sinful and seeks a release from it in a burning death. Marfa, also separates the two realms of spirit and matter when she sings to

Dosifei: “If my love is sinful, oh father, put me to death quickly, do not spare me: let my flesh die, and the death of my flesh shall save my spirit” (230). Marfa’s heterodoxy manifests the contradictions of her heritage as the child of the opera’s three father figures. With her pagan father, Khovansky, she shares a life-affirming sensuality, evidenced by the fact that she loves the sexually charged Andrei Khovansky. With Dosifei she shares the impulse to renounce the world.

The two contradictory impulses lead her to a battle against life itself. She seeks her own death and that of Andrei, whose erotic energies identify him as a life-bearer like his father. With

Golitsyn she not only shares a penchant for the supernatural, but also the paradigm of romantic love. His relationship with Sophia, as evidenced in the letter he reads in Act II, certainly has the stamp of romantic love. It is possible that she has absorbed such Western influences through

Golitsyn.185 She is a volatile combination of the contradictory traits of the father figures.

184 I am indebted to Kirill Kozhurin for this insight. He observes that the proscribed punishment for Old Believerswas burning, so they had the choice of burning while maintaining their faith or burning and potentially denying it. Self-immolation became a means of embracing martyrdom. He also implies that in some cases the burning of Old Believers by the authorities may have been misrepresented in history as self-immolation. This is fascinating as speculation, but it is not corroborated by any documents that suggest such could be the case. 185 This may be a remote possibility, since he doesn’t seem to be a mentor to her. However, he is a symbolic father, so it may be a matter of symbolic descent. Regardless, the letters of Sophia to Golitsyn undercut the idea that there 159

Marfa’s reentry in Act II brings the meeting to a close. She enters and reveals the plot to kill her. While such a revelation has the potential to deepen the struggle between the fathers, her announcement that Tsar Peter’s guards are coming actually brings them into a brief moment of unity (see Fig. 46). They unite on the dominant chord to express the same sense of surprise.

Throughout the scene they have not only battled one another, but they have existed in separate though intersecting worlds of experience. But when they are told that Tsar Peter’s guards are approaching, they (if only briefly) finally achieve the unity they have been seeking. The purpose of the meeting was to come together and find a way to battle their common enemy.

Unfortunately, they lose sight of their purpose for so long that what unity they do achieve is too little too late. When Shaklovity enters after Marfa, he demonstrates that the differences between the parties still run deep. He reveals Khovansky’s plan for a coup d’état, which leads Dosifei to again voice his disagreement, saying, “cast aside this dream” (200). Since the three fathers differ in their intentions, they are prevented from coming together in any effective way.

Shaklovity

Shaklovity’s entrance into Act II breaks the stasis that the rival fathers of Russia have reached. He acts on their inertia and sets history in motion. In this role, however, Shaklovity is clearly marked as a negative, even villainous character. He begins the opera forcing a scribe to comply with him and not reveal his identity, under pain of death. The opera emphasizes his mercilessness, not forthrightness. At times he stoops to downright treachery, as seen in Act IV in his subterfuge and of Khovansky. All of these attributes cast some doubt on the sentiments he expresses in his Act III aria wherein he bemoans the trials of Russia and prays for her deliverance.

was no place for romantic love in seventeenth-century Russia, especially since the passage that Golitsyn reads in the opera is taken from the authentic letters of Sophia. See Gasparov’s Five Operas and a Symphony (98). 160

Critics usually see this aria as disingenuous. There is a disparity between the concern he expresses for the country and the ruthlessness of his Machiavellian techniques.186 Even so, I suggest that the aria provides something of a key to the contradictory position that Shaklovity is in. A boyar, he nonetheless sings that “the power of the boyars has come to an end” (236).

Unlike the other boyar characters, he does not fight to restore the old order. He battles on the side of the new, rising forces, the strong, centralized Russian nation.

In doing so, Shaklovity plays a role similar to that of Finn in Glinka’s Ruslan and

Liudmila; although he belongs to the generation of the fathers, he fights against them. However, in Glinka this approach is life-sustaining and life-affirming, while in Musorgsky it is wholly destructive. Whereas Finn’s support of Ruslan and Lyudmila leads to their reuion, a comic ending of marriage and the perpetuation of life, Shaklovity is an agent of destruction. He assassinates the one father figure of the opera who literally has a child. Since Khovansky is a bearer of life, The assassination of Khovansky is not only a symbolic patricide, but an attack on life itself. 187 Thus, his decision to fight against the boyar class rather than assert his own power as a boyar should not be understood as a selfless sacrifice for the good of the nation. Rather, he denies life even more than Dosifei and the Old Believers. Their negation of life is entirely directed inward, at themselves.188 Shaklovity directs an all-out attack on life, which Musorgsky shows as outright blasphemy.

186 The contradiction probably comes from the unfinished nature of the opera and its curious composition process. Musorgsky did not complete a libretto (or even a scenario!) before beginning to compose. It is possible that his view of Shaklovity as a character changed during the composition process, and he was simply unable to revise the contradiction before his death. Thanks to Jon Linford for this observation. 187 Again, I am indebted to Apollonio, who characterizes the murder of Feodor Pavlovich as “a symbolic attack against the primordial roots of life itself” (146). 188 This is debatable in the case of Marfa. But, as I argue, Marfa’s spiritual sensibility differs from that of the Old Believers. 161

The impiety of Khovansky’s assassination is made even more apparent in the fact that before his death he is deprived of what little dignity he still possesses. Granted, the scene itself is rather undignified. Even before Shaklovity arrives, Khovansky is shown relaxing at home rather than going forth in battle. Demanding entertainment from his servants and Persian slave girls demonstrates something of the power he exercises as well as his Dionysian nature. But a few elements of the scene signal that Khovansky’s power is waning. In Act I, a large chorus comprised of women, children, and streltsy glorifies him in the public streets of Moscow. In Act

IV, a limited chorus comprised of female servants glorifies him in his own home. The limited chorus and the private setting demonstrate that Khovansky’s power has diminished. When

Shaklovity arrives, his claim that Sophia wants Khovansky at a council is not only deception, but also serves as a reminder of how much power and influence he has lost. Khovansky seems even more pitiful because he admits that in the past he has offered his services to no avail.

Shaklovity’s insistence that “you are the first one that she called” (313) and that the council cannot take place without him is an obvious lie, but Khovansky is so flattered that he accepts it.

He is placed in a distinctly undignified position.

Musically, the hollowness of the final chorus of praise demonstrates the loss of

Khovansky’s glory. As his servants lead him to the door, orchestral accompaniment begins to work against the chorus of praises to him. The D# augmented chord (see Fig. 47) that accompanies the final iteration of the chorus creates a disturbance of tonality. This works together with the descending bass line that follows two measures later to demonstrate the danger

Khovansky is in. Shaklovity holds all the power in this scene, and he uses it to kill Khovansky and then to shame him by singing the chorus of praise mockingly and laughing at him. This derisive use of the chorus subverts what little glory Khovansky may have had left.

162

Conclusion

In the final scene, Dosifei declares that Khovansky, through arrogance, brought about his own demise. Taruskin suggests that all of Act V, in which Dosifei delivers his interpretation,

“acts as a gloss on the rest of the drama—a Christian judgment that calls the necessity of the political events portrayed in the other four acts severely into question” (Musorgsky 322).

However, I suggest that Dosifei’s words do not need to be accepted as absolute truth. A monastic gloss relies on anonymity for its sense of absolute authority. It purports to comment on history from a position outside of it. But Dosifei is not anonymous or impersonal. He is an individual character bound to history. He even reveals aspects of his biography that would traditionally be concealed, like the fact that he renounced his rank as a prince to take holy orders. His perspective is situated in a particular time and place and therefore subject to qualification. Khovansky may have contributed to his own demise, but other factors contribute, as well. The machinations of

Shaklovity, of course, brought about his death in the literal sense, though his gradual loss of his power has helped Shaklovity, as well. The opera also makes it clear that the process began years earlier. All of the father figures begin the opera in decline for reasons outside of their own control. Their final defeat in the end is merely the culmination of a long and impersonal process governed by time.

Perhaps the circumstances of history that bring about the decline of the three father figures are not as important as the forward motion of time. The authority of all fathers is threatened by time and the inevitable loss of physical strength, mental prowess and the ability to influence others. Khovansky, Dosifei and Golitsyn all lose the battle for guardianship of Russia because their time is past. Their various strategies fail to circumvent the law of nature that one generation must give way to another. Dosifei’s attempts to transcend time give him no advantage within it. They only allow him to step outside of history and the world. Golitsyn, through his

163

efforts at reform and enlightenment, attempts to battle time by allying himself with the future.

However, his superstition and the incomplete nature of his Western inclination demonstrates that he is not ahead of his time but a relic of the past. He falls victim to shifting fashions, loses favor, and is exiled. Khovansky’s attempt to battle time is perhaps the most pragmatic—he seeks not immortality for himself, but the continuation of life through his descendants. It is significant that he does not seek to put himself on the throne, but his son. He accepts the fact that he will give way to a later generation. He seeks to give his own offspring the greatest possible power. The dynastic system of government and mestnichestvo are logical choices for him, because these are political manifestations of the life cycle that he represents in his Dionysian nature. But the fact that time has already diminished his power makes his goals impossible. In such a reading, the mythic nature of the opera makes it relate less to the specific period of history it portrays and more to universal problems of time. As a meditation on power and aging, Khovanshchina may be the closest thing to a viable operatic King Lear by a major composer, since Verdi’s designs never came to fruition.

However, even though the opera encompasses universal concerns, the historical specificity of the opera suggests that Musorgsky does indeed comment on Russia’s past. It is possible to read the mythic subtext of the opera as a historical allegory in which the death of the three father figures is symbolic of the loss of important parts of Russia’s cultural heritage during the Westernizing reign of Peter I. The remnants of paganism give way to Westernized standards of Enlightenment. Traditional Russian Christianity loses its power not only as the Church becomes more Westernized, but as the autocracy asserts its dominance over religion and society becomes more secular. The half-hearted attempts to be a part of the West or to enlighten Russia gradually gives way to drastic reforms. A partial Westernizer like Golitsyn has no place in the reign of a complete Westernizing reformer. “When that which is perfect [i.e. complete] is come,

164

then that which is in part shall be done away” (1 Corinthians 13:9). Musorgsky represents Peter

I’s reign, not as the beginning of Russian history, but as a rupture in it.

Besides being stand-ins for Russiaa’s cultural heritage, the father figures are all mighty personalities. Significantly, when Peter I comes, all of the father figures of ancient Muscovy are displaced, but they are not replaced. Peter I is not greeted as a father. He is not even seen onstage.

The physical absence of Peter I and Sophia from the stage has been discussed by Emerson, who observes, “this worked to make the Petrine image all the more abstract, powerful, and threatening” (“Apocalypse” 10).189 Because he is offstage, his image is not tied down to a human being. Therefore he becomes an elemental force which directs the plot.190 If such is true of

Musorgsky’s impersonal Peter I, this means that the three father figures of the opera have no hope from the beginning, since they are battling an omnipotent being.

Thus, the flawed but personalized fathers are overwhelmed by the abstract force of Peter I

Khovanshchina explores a theme that Simon Williams sees in grand opera, “that of the individual pitted against the forces of an impersonal society, which has little concern for the integrity and freedom of human beings” (74).191 By exploring this theme in the context of the rise of Peter I,

Musorgsky portrays the beginning of Russian modernity as an unmitigated tragedy. The sundering of Russia’s heritage is more than the death of three of Russia’s fathers. It is the death of fatherhood. Power becomes displaced from personality as governance by the amorphous state replaces the familial structure of governance in ancient Muscovy. The result is an impersonal and inhuman system.

189 Naturally, the edict banning the representation of Romanov tsars on the operatic stage is also a reason why Peter I does not appear. Emerson does not deny this, she merely focuses on the effect of the tsar’s absence. 190 I am indebted to Thomas Cunningham’s analysis of Tchaikovsky’s Orpichnik for this insight (56-85). 191 There is ample precedent for comparing Khovanshchina to grand opera. Above, I observe that Scribe set the precedent for directly basing an opera on historic events without a literary mediator. Marina Frolova-Walker argues that Khovanshchina is close to a grand opera, particularly in that, “Musorgsky’s plot shadows Les Huguenots” (“Grand Opera in Russia” 353-354). James Parakilas includes Khovanshchina in his study of the use of the chorus in grand opera. (90-92) 165

The ending of the opera reveals the spiritual emptiness of the new system. The streltsy are spared in an ostentatious display of power, showing that although the state can kill them without consequence, they will be given mercy in exchange for their fealty. Where loyalty was previously secured through tribal connections and shared values, now it is secured entirely through the coercive use of superior power. Frid interprets the shift in the music of the streltsy— from the robust drinking and soldier songs to the submissive music as they come to their execution—as a sign of their moral defeat. Although they survive physically, they are spiritually snuffed out as they become part of the mechanistic new system. With the death of the Old Believers, including

Dosifei, Marfa and Andrei, the last personalities of the opera die and clear the way for the impersonal power and its agents. Modernity is thus presented as an apocalypse. Personality and meaning fade as Russia enters the modern world through Tsar Peter I.

While the idea of modernity as degenerative resonates with the position of the

Slavophiles, Musorgsky differs from them in that he does not idealize pre-Petrine customs. As autocracy supplants the old order, a bad system gives way to a worse one. In old Russia, there were certainly abuses of power. But in the new Russia, there is nothing except for power. The worst loss is of personality, of individual value. This loss is personified in the city of St.

Petersburg, which was, proverbially, built on the bones of thousands of workers. The individual must be sacrificed for the interests of the state, not in a heroic, voluntary sacrifice, like that of

Glinka’s Ivan Susanin, but a mechanistic one, where an impersonal power determines that some individuals need to be sacrificed for the purely utilitarian good of the many. In

Musorgsky’s vision of the world of old Muscovy, despite violence and disorder, the value of the individual was still recognized. The opera does not call for a return to these times or present any plan for the salvation of modern Russia. It only mourns (and rages) at the losses of the nation.

166

Chapter 6: All the World’s an Opera: Negating Myths in Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov

Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov depicts the brief rise to power of and his downfall brought partly by a rebellion led by a runaway posing as Dmitry, the murdered son of Tsar Ivan the Terrible, and partly by Boris’s own guilt for the real Dmitry’s murder. As opposed to most of the other Russian historical operas, it has remained relevant in Russia and established a significant presence in both the repertoire and scholarship of the West.192

Following the pattern in the previous chapters, I will examine the myths of Russian history present in the opera, specifically the myth of the tsar as father. As I demonstrate below, Boris has the most radical treatment of myth out of any of the operas discussed in this dissertation. As noted above, Rimsky-Korsakov follows kuchka ideals in Pskov by attempting to create a realistic historical opera. He deliberately humanizes Ivan and subverts the myth of Ivan as the demonic

Terrible One. In Boris, Musorgsky goes even further by showing the characters of the opera self- consciously performing myths. In doing so, he calls attention to the artifice of such myths as the

Tsar as father and the people as children, romantic love as a driving force, and the end times.

Boris becomes something of an anti-myth that attempts to redefine the relationship between opera and history.

Discussing Musorgsky’s quest for realism in Boris makes it necessary to touch in brief on a subject already well documented in scholarship, the two authorial versions of the opera.193 The first version of the opera, written in 1869, exemplifies the operatic reforms of the kuchka. It

192 The Metropolitan opera has mounted 273 performances of Boris. Thus it is not only the leader there among Russian operas, with more performances than Tchaikovsky’s two repertoire pieces combined, but it also surpasses such Western classics as Beethoven’s and Mozart’s Cosî fan Tutte (see http://archives.metoperafamily.org /archives/frame.htm.) 193 For a more extensive analysis of the two versions, see Taruskin’s Musorgsky (201-290). Most of my comments here are taken from him as well as from Emerson’s Boris Godunov: Transpositions of a Russian Theme (170-175). 167

closely follows the text of the Pushkin play, largely avoids decorative numbers, and is dominated by naturalistic recitative, similar to Musorgsky’s experiments in The Marriage.194 It also boasts an expanded role for the chorus. This version of the opera, however, was rejected for performance by the Imperial Theaters. The stated reason was the lack of a significant female role, though in My Musical Life Rimsky-Korsakov intimates that the kuchka reforms may have made the opera strange and off-putting to those reviewing it (109-110).

In revising the opera, Musorgsky went far beyond merely adding a female part. In fact, he radically reworked the entire composition. In a process similar to what I have noted about

Rimsky-Korsakov’s revisions of Pskov, Musorgsky turned away from some of the characteristically kuchka reforms of the 1869 version. He added decorative set pieces to the chorus, so that it would rely less on choral recitative; the musical lines of the main characters were also changed to include lyrical passages, rather than constant recitative; he transformed

Boris’s aria in Act II into the melodramatic confession of guilt familiar to modern audience; he added the Polish scenes, which I will discuss below, in which the Pretender attempts to court the

Princess Marina; he also removed the scene that was the penultimate number of the opera, and added the Kromy scene as the Finale. This last number introduced contradictory historical messages into the opera—in place of the traditional, Karamzinian, Tsar-centered version of history, there emerged a vision of history with the people as an active force. I have shown this principle at work in Pskov. Therefore, despite the fact that in general the second version moved away from the kuchka principles of the first, aspects of the first version’s

194 For a discussion of recitative in Marriage, see Taruskin’s Opera and Drama in Russia as Preached and Practiced in the 1860s (307-325). 168

historical vision remained intact, including, as I will argue, the attempt to expose the artiface of myths.195

In something of a break with academic tradition, my analysis will not follow only one version of the opera, and it will not consider the two versions separately.196 Rather, I will follow performance practice and combine the two. Ever since a 1939 Bolshoi Theater production in commemoration of the centennial of Musorgsky’s birth, the norm has been to perform the opera with both crowd scenes, as well as Boris’s aria from the second version of the opera. The Red

Square scene comes before Boris’s death, and the Kromy scene after it. For various reasons, scholars have criticized this performance practice, but it seems to have stood the test of time.197

It has become the reigning convention in terms of how the opera is performed.198 Recently,

Taruskin has retracted his previous criticism and defended the conflation on the grounds of its dramatic effectiveness and continuing appeal to audiences (see “Crowd, Mob and Nation” 160-

164). Since I am exploring the myths of the nation, I draw upon the opera as it is usually performed as a dominant voice on the subject, one that is not always analyzed in scholarship.

Therefore, my citations from the score come from a 2012 reprint of Pavel Lamm’s edition, which includes material from both versions without including the additions of Rimsky-Korsakov.

195 Taruskin notes that even in the Kromy scene, “Lingering kuchkist scruples can be perceived in the way Musorgsky fragments the chorus into sections so as to avoid the static ‘monolithic’ effect” (Musorgsky 279). I have shown that Pskov after two revisions also still retains principles rooted in the kuchka’s theories. 196 I will also not discuss the various editions of Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovich, and others. 197 Edward Reilly in The Music of Mussorgsky: A Guide to the Editions (10-11) and Taruskin in Musorgsky (289- 290) call for considering the integrity of each version of the opera, rather than conflating them. 198 Note, for instance, the Metropolitan Opera’s 2010 performance, conducted by Valery Gergiev. It can be viewed online on MetOpera on demand. http://www.metopera.org/Season/On-Demand/opera/?upc=811357013939. For a discussion of the conflation’s political implications as well as its history, see Taruskin, “Crowd, Mob and Nation.” There have been some recent, high profile productions of the first version of the opera, notably one at the Mariinsky Theater (see below) and a 2016 production at the Vienna State Opera. (The latter was previously viewable on YouTube, but has been removed.) Perhaps this version is making a comeback. 169

The Tsar as Father

As I have stated, Musorgsky sets out to negate myths in Boris. In order to do so, he shows that myths are not inherent to history, but are self-consciously performed. The prologue is carefully designed to draw attention to the artifice of the myth of the tsar as father and the people as children. The people gather to importune Boris to take the throne in terms similar to those applied to father figures in A Life, Prince Igor, and Khovanshchina. They call him

“batiushka” and themselves “orphans.” However, Musorgsky shows the artificial nature of these pleas by framing the action with the bailiff’s commands. The first sung notes in the opera are not the people’s, but the bailiff’s as he commands them to get on their knees. This is a signal that the people’s chorus is not spontaneous or genuine, but a performance directed by the authorities.

The technique of choral dramaturgy is employed to reinforce this point. When the people sing as one chorus in the first scene, it is only when they are so commanded by the bailiff or others. When they sing of their own accord, the chorus divides into individual voices and subgroups. Musorgsky uses the technique in order to show that the monolithic chorus of pleading is forced. Note, also, that when they are divided they are not at all focused on the ceremony. Some of them don’t even know why they are there. The first one to speak up asks,

“Mitiukh, what are we going on about?” and Mitiukh answers, “How should I know?” (18) In large part, the peasants are preoccupied with other concerns. A woman begs her neighbor for some water, is then chided by others; the men and women of the chorus bicker with each other and laugh. When the bailiff returns and demands that they resume their singing, this time they express their displeasure, “He doesn’t even give us [time] to take a breath” (26-27).

The authorities, as well as the peasants, are playing a role. The speech of Andrei

Shchelkov, the Duma counselor, comes off as particularly theatrical. His exclamations,

170

“Woe to Russia!” (34) and “our land groans in wicked lawlessness” (35) seem like a cynical attempt to tug at the peasants’ heartstrings. This manipulation combines with the outright coercion of the bailiff to tell the peasants what role to play. They are told that they are suffering without a tsar; so they act accordingly. But, as the deliverer of the news and the representative of power, the Duma counselor is not simply directing the action, but is also casting himself in a paternalistic role. The opening scene is a ceremony in which the peasants as well as the powerful have specific roles assigned them.

The playacting of the opening scene culminates in the coronation, a performance on a grand scale. The stage directions read, “The Tsar’s grand procession from the Uspensky cathedral. The bailiffs place the people in rows” (55).199 The pattern of the authorities giving orders and the people following them continues to characterize the coronation scene. Since this time it happens seamlessly and without interruption, the people create the illusion of unity. But the fictitious nature of this unity has been made clear by all that comes before in the scene.

Musorgsky also points out the fictitious nature of the myths in the opera by showing that not only are they performed, but they are performed imperfectly. Just as the peasants are not truly submissive children, Boris is not an almighty father, and he is not particularly successful in projecting this image. After the grand procession, and once he has the attention of all the people,

Boris sings his first lines in the opera, and they are an admission of private grief pointing to his feelings of guilt for the murder of Tsarevich Dmitry. Among other things, his confession demonstrates that he cannot truly fit into the mythic mantle of father-tsar.

199 I have translated “шпалер[ы]” as “rows,” based on the following definition at gramota.ru: “Устар. Ряды, шеренги войск по сторонам пути следования кого-, чего-л.” (http://gramota.ru/slovari/dic/?word=%D1%88%D0%BF%D0%B0%D0%BB%D0%B5%D1%80%D1%8B&all=x). 171

Are Boris’s first words in fact heard by the people, or is this just a musical expression of something that takes place entirely internally? Emerson claims the latter. She contrasts the Boris of the opera with that of Pushkin’s play, in which the Tsar is a competent statesman playing a role before the boyars. “Pushkin’s Boris lives in a historical chronotope, Musorgsky’s in a timeless one; his lines are spoken within history, but outside it. The operatic Boris—as is clear from his first uttered lines—is not addressing his contemporaries... He is addressing his own conscience and divine judgment against it” (186). Emerson places Boris’s words in a specific

“aria time” in which the action stops, the ceremony melts away, and the audience is allowed to see into the reality of Boris’s soul. I suggest an alternative reading: because the setting is public,

Boris’s words in the Prologue should be seen differently from his aria in Act II. In the later instance, Musorgsky composed an intimate confession that shows the state of the main character’s mind. Boris’s words at the coronation are not that. He only hints at the guilt and grief that dominate later.200 In the prologue, through Boris’s initial admission of his grief and guilt, the tsar is shown incompletely filling the mythic role of the mighty father of the nation. The mask of

Boris’s assumed role slips from time to time and the audience sees, if not his true nature, the fact that what he is attempting to project is fictitious.

This slipping of the mask during the procession, again, recalls the conventions of grand opera. Parakilas observes that in processional scenes in grand opera, “the signs of discontent among the people just before the pageantry is underway set the stage for an unexpected intrusion at the height of the pageantry that challenges the legitimacy and undermines the authority of those being praised and anointed” (87). The murmuring of the peasants in the very beginning introduces tension. This tension is deepened by the “intrusion” into the ceremony of Boris’s

200 The dominance of guilt and grief later in the opera is probably also a result of intensification over time. 172

admission that his heart is grieving. Parakilas compares Boris’s expression of grief to the moment in Verdi’s Don Carlo when the title character rebels against his father in the auto-da-fé scene (87). Certainly, the challenge to Boris’s legitimacy is more subtle, since there is no public rebellion against him. However, his imperfect mastery of the role paves the way for the later rebellions in the opera by casting his legitimacy into doubt. Furthermore, it communicates to the audience that the myths in Boris are not natural or inherent, but roles that the characters adopt or attempt to force or convince others to adopt. It also points to the limited success of the performance.

This element of self-conscious performance makes the coronation scene into something of an opera within an opera. Above, I have shown that Rimsky-Korsakov in Bride makes a metahistorical statement about how history is interpreted through the mediation of mythology. In

Boris, Musorgsky takes the opposite approach, showing how the events of history themselves can come about through deliberate mythologization. In doing so, Musorgsky makes a meta- operatic statement. Historically, opera has often served as an occasional genre, commissioned to commemorate important events of state such as coronations.201 In eighteenth-century Russia, coronation ceremonies were, in fact, something like the Wagnerian , with special constructions for the day (typically arches), grand political theater, intricate costumes and music (see Naroditskaya 28-34).202 Actual operas were also incorporated into the celebrations.203

201 From its origins, opera has been part of state celebrations. The earliest opera still extant, Peri’s Euridice (1600), was commissioned for the celebration of the marriage of Maria de Medici and Henry IV (see “Opera”). This trend continues into the twentieth century with ’s (1953), commissioned to celebrate the coronation of Elizabeth II (see “Gloriana”). 202 Prior to the eighteenth century, coronations were marked by silence, because they were largely religious ceremonies. Peter I introduced music into coronation ceremonies for his wife, Catherine I, the first secular coronation in the Western style (see Naroditskaya 31). 203 The Russian Empress Elizabeth’s coronation was celebrated with a performance of Johann Adolf Hasse’s setting of ’s libretto, (see Naroditskaya 31). Mozart also set an adaptation of this libretto as a commission for the coronation of Leopold II in Prague. 173

This practice continued into the nineteenth century, and in fact, Musorgsky’s lifetime. As

Taruskin observes, the coronation of Alexander II in 1856 coincided with the reopening of the

Moscow Bolshoi Opera Theater. To commemorate both events, the Italian troupe from St.

Petersburg performed operas by Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi in the Bolshoi Theater (see

Defining Russia 204).204 The grand scale and mythic nature of opera make it, in many ways, an ideal expression of imperial power.205

The opening scene of Boris invokes these aspects of opera’s connection with coronations, but it also reverses the relationship: instead of an opera serving as part of a coronation celebration, here a coronation becomes part of an opera. Thus, instead of contributing to the mythologization of the tsar and his office, Musorgsky sheds light on the process by which the tsar is made into a myth. He shows that coronations and operas help to create such an image.

Instead of receiving the myth passively, the audience becomes aware of its construction. This demonstration of the artificiality and instability of the tsar’s mythic image allows Musorgsky to create an opera that comments on, rather than propagates, the ideology of the tsar as father.

Since the myth of the tsar as father hangs heavily over the opera, but no one has a natural claim to it, pretenderhood plays a central role. Emerson’s observation that in the Pushkin play, not only

Grigory, but also Boris, is a pretender also holds true for the opera (Boris Godunov 99-100). I argue above that Boris attempts to lay claim to the role of father through his performance in the coronation scene. It should be noted that in many ways, Boris actually believes the myth that he tries to act out. He attempts to uphold the dynastic system of succession that he himself has

204 It should be noted that Alexander II’s coronation was a lavish affair that cost the Tsar’s personal treasury an estimated ten million rubles (Pereira 47). This is evidence that, despite his reputation for , he remained committed to Imperial power. 205 For an analysis of early Italian opera’s relationship to power see Martha Feldman’s Opera and Sovereignty: Transforming Myths in Eighteenth-Century Italy. 174

violated—as he is dying, he says to his son, “You shall reign by right, as my heir” (381). This contradiction may underscore some of his guilt.206 In his aria, he laments the fact that he has failed as both a father of the nation (where he is a pretender) and as a father of a family (where he is not). He is a pretender playing the role of father of the nation, but one who sees fatherhood as the ideal. Since he at least aspires to fatherhood, his attempt to play the role is not completely cynical, not merely the manipulation of the people through ideology. The artificial nature of the opera’s myths thus also underscores one of the tragic aspects of the opera: that the myth of the tsar as father is an unachievable ideal for those who actually achieve power.

Thus, in Musorgsky’s historical vision, pretenderhood is part of the monarchical system.

The turning to such as the false Dmitry is a phenomenon supported by the ideology of

Divine Right that accompanies the myth of the tsar as father. Michael Cherniavsky points out

“the tsar-centeredness of Russian popular uprisings” (70). Rebellions in Imperial Russia asserted their cause by claiming to have the support of the tsar.207 Those led by pretenders arose in times when the reigning tsar’s claim to the throne was subject to doubt.208 The problem of pretenders is a result of the system of monarchy undergirded by a myth of Divine Right. Musorgsky depicts such matters in Boris when the people begin to turn to the pretender as a father figure. Note that, whereas they hailed Boris as father obligatorily and by constraint, when they receive the pretender their behavior is spontaneous. Again, here the artificial nature of the myth underlies

206 Orlova and Shneerson observe that the fact that Boris has children of his own increases his sense of guilt .They demonstrate that Musorgsky provides details that show the Tsarevich Dmitry and Boris’s son Feodor as younger than their prototypes in Pushkin. In Shuisky’s tale, the tsarevich clutches a toy as he dies. Musorgsky emphasizes Feodor’s youth through mezzo-soprano voicing; also, in Pushkin, as Boris is dying he tells his son that he is now “a man,” whereas in Musorgsky he calls him “my darling child.” This parallel increases Boris’s guilt. 207 Many of the famous rebellions claimed to have the tsar among their numbers. The followers of Stepan Razin claimed that the oldest son of the tsar was accompanying them (Cherniavsky 70); Grigory Otrepev was only the first of many pretenders who claimed to be the slain tsarevich.; the pattern repeated itself in the eighteenth century when Emelian Pugachev claimed to be Peter III. 208 i.e. Boris’s election (assumed to be because of his murder of the tsarevich) and Catherine II’s ousting of her husband. 175

the tragedy of history. The myth of the tsar as father and the people as children is something that the peasants perform self-consciously, as demonstrated in the coronation. Unfortunately, it is also the only way they have of conceptualizing the relationship between themselves and the ruling authority. In rejecting Boris they do not reject the idea of the tsar as father. They merely call his fatherhood spurious and seek a different, true father. But the action of the opera makes it clear that the pretender is not the father they seek. What they seek is a myth, and one that undergirds a political system riddled with problems and abuses. Thus, while the myth is discredited for the audience, the power of the myth to control and influence historical events is also depicted.

Romantic Love

In some ways, pretenderhood is the governing trope of the opera, the way that the trope of the wedding governs A Life and Ruslan. Pretending, or play-acting underlies not only the fatherhood of the tsar, but all of the dominating myths of the opera. The Polish scenes of the pretender courting Marina give treat the myth of romantic love in a similar way. Edward Reilly defends these scenes against detractors who have called their a cliché employed to pander to censors (and, I would add, to those accustomed to seeing a love story in an opera).

He argues that in these scenes the romantic idiom is “carefully worked out, not as a vehicle for the display of Romantic passion, but to show the deceptiveness of such passion and how it can be used and diverted to other ends" (9). If the music seems disingenuous or clichéd, that is precisely the point. It is not really a scene in which a tenor attempts to overcome his beloved’s reservations through effusive declarations of love, but a scene of mutual manipulation. The pretender and Marina use the idiom of romantic love as a tool for achieving their political ends.

176

In doing so, they are playing roles, but these are not roles of their own design. Critics nearly all agree that the pretender and Marina are both directed by the Jesuit Priest Ragoni.209

Something of an anti-Catholic caricature, Rangoni plots and schemes to secure the political power of the Church. He manipulates religious feelings for political ends, most plainly by telling

Marina that her salvation depends on seducing the pretender. He also uses the language of romantic love to manipulate the pretender, flattering him about Marina’s love for him. For him, the most deeply cherished beliefs and convictions are means to an end.

The strong emotion that the pretender expresses in his scene with Rangoni seems to contradict the interpretation that Rangoni is directing this play. The pretender even says that he accidentally confessed his feelings. However, there is no reason to take him at his word that his love is sincere. His presumably accidental confession focuses on matters of political power. He says, “I will raise her with me to the throne of the Tsar, and with her beauty I will blind the

Orthodox [pravoslavnyi] people” (284).210 It is clear that power and prestige, not any romantic or erotic ideal, are his goals. The pretender’s accidental confession (if such it is) serves as a moment when the mask slips from his face to reveal, if not his actual intentions, at least the artificiality of the situation.

The scene of the pretender talking with Rangoni should be seen as a contest of manipulation. Since Rangoni is an arch-schemer, he emerges victorious. His superior abilities at acting and manipulation are suggested by the fact that he never betrays his intentions to the pretender the way the latter does to him. His plans for domination are revealed in the scene with

Marina, but not to the pretender in any way. Lest the audience should forget about his Jesuit

209 Of the critics I have surveyed, not only Reilly, but also Kalil, Emerson, Oldani, Forshaw and Dubov all agree that Rangoni directs the actions of the Marina and the Pretender. 210 The term “Orthodox” was used to refer to the Russian people in the centuries before the rise of nationalism. It is used as such a form of address in the first scene of the opera. 177

conspiracy, he gives a brief aside, “Lend thy aid, Saint Ignatius” (289) during the course of his performance for the pretender. But while all of this may seem plain to the audience, and both

Marina and the pretender state their misgivings about his character, Rangoni nonetheless succeeds in manipulating them. They end up playing the roles that he assigns them. In an opera full of actors, Rangoni proves he is also a capable director.211

Since Marina and the pretender are playing roles given them by Rangoni in the courtship scene, not for a moment are they presented as sincere. Marina says that only the throne can tempt her. The pretender, at the end of the scene, gives the ecastatic outburst “Oh, repeat it, repeat it

Marina” directly after, not “I love you, my kochanie,” but once he hears her saying, “my commander” (325 see Fig. 48).212 His feelings are stirred by the power. This scene is about political power, not love. Their rather cynical admission of such indicates the artificiality of the language of love that they are using throughout this scene. Besides the obvious anti-Catholicism, this scene offers the following commentary: in a system where power, wealth or influence can be obtained through marriage, romantic love is not innocent. It can be coopted for political purposes and can serve the interests of the powerful.

The staged courtship in Boris may also serve as a meta-operatic statement. Romantic love, of course, is a standard theme of opera, one which Musorgsky conspicuously left out of the

1869 version of the opera. By introducing Rangoni into the Polish Act, Musorgsky is able to have it both ways: he introduces a romantic heroine in the traditional way, but he also places emphasis on the matters of power that underlie the presumably romantic sentiments.213 Just as romantic love may serve the interests of the powerful, so can its presentation in opera.

211 I am following Kalil by using the metaphor of play within a play (64). 212 I have opted to keep the Polonism that Musorgsky uses. 213 The character Rangoni was introduced by Musorgsky and not present in the Pushkin play on which the opera is based. See Emerson, “Tragedy or Comedy?” 178

Musorgsky invites us to reexamine the treatment of love in opera to see the motives that the myth conceals.

The End Times

As opposed to the other myths, the myth of the end times belongs to the peasants and is narrated rather than performed. In some ways it competes with the ceremonially enacted myths of the ruling class, but like them it is shown to be artificial. The chief narrator of the myth is, actually, Varlaam. Kalil convincingly interprets Varlaam as, first and foremost, a story teller

(56). Like Pimen, the Pretender, and Shuisky, he attempts to influence the course of events through storytelling. Kalil focuses mainly on the story he tells of the siege of and on the way that he saves his own life by taking control of the storytelling in reading the ukaz, but I will examine a different tale that Varlaam tells, that of the end times or apocalypse. But first, I will discuss the ways in which Musorgsky qualifies Varlaam’s perspective.

The deceptive nature of Varlaam and Misail is established from their first entrance. They come into the inn singing, “Good Christians, honest people, give but a kopeck for the building of a temple” (101). The words they sing are religious, but their music is boisterous. The heard offstage in Act I give an example of religious singing, with their quiet hymn sung in mild stepwise motion (see Fig. 49). Varlaam and Misail, in contrast, have a robust melody with leaps that would fit better in a bawdy drinking song (Fig. 50). So it is no surprise when Varlaam asks for wine, and, upon receiving it, launches into an energetic song that tells the story of the siege of

Kazan. Later in the scene, he sings drowsily as he nods off (see Fig. 51). These drowsy motifs are repeated for humorous effect as he struggles to read the ukaz, demonstrating that his difficulties with reading stem largely from constant drunkenness (see Fig. 52). All of the traits suggested by the motifs I examine are meant to lessen his creditability. It becomes clear that the

179

religious pretext under which he asks for alms is deception. While Kalil is correct that Varlaam is a skilled narrator, he is not a wholly reliable one.

His first reference to the end times, therefore, is largely comical. Here is the passage in its entirety:

Christians have grown miserly, they love money, they hide their money, they

give little to God. A great sin has come to the tongues [iazytsy] of this world.214

You walk, you beg, but you receive only three mites. What to do? In grief you

drink away the rest. Oh, our last days are upon us!” (125-126)

Notice the incongruity of the fact that he speaks in religious terms—including a prophecy— about the fact that he does not have enough drinking money. The hostess takes him seriously and responds, “Oh Lord, have mercy and save us” (126). The effect of this response is comical. She accepts Varlaam’s story at face value after he clearly has been shown to be unreliable. Varlaam’s narration of the myth of the end times conforms to the pattern I have explored in the other myths of the opera; the myths are never acted out or narrated for their own sake, but to achieve a purpose. Varlaam succeeds in manipulating the hostess through his religious references and storytelling. Like the other myths, this one serves the interests of the teller. While the myth of the tsar as father cements the power of the monarchy, the myth of the end times is meant to secure power to the clergy, or at least to secure creature comforts for those posing as clergy.

This myth of the end times returns in the Kromy scene, though with a contrasting purpose. Varlaam and Misail accompany the pretender and present him as the true Tsar sent by

God to recompense the crimes of Boris. In doing so, they draw on apocalyptic imagery— “The

214 As far as I can tell, iazytsy is used in the Biblical sense of “nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues” (Revelation 7:9), thus, synonymous with tribe or people.

180

sun and moon have grown dark, the stars of heaven have shaken, the universe shudders at the grievous sin of Boris. The unseen beast prowls…in glory of the sin of Boris” (412-414). The runaway monks draw freely from the book of Revelation and other Biblical texts to present

Boris’s crime as synonymous with the reign of the anti-Christ. Thus, they cast the pretender in the role of the Savior of Holy Russia. He is set up as the rightful ruler come to claim the kingdom from a usurper, a deliberate parallel to the role of Christ in his Second Coming. The myth is used to fully subvert the authority of Boris and secure it for the pretender.

Why does Musorgsky bring these two comical characters back as heralds of the pretender? Possibly because the apocalyptic nature of their message expands on Varlaam’s earlier reference to Russia’s end times. It also allows Musorgsky to show the constructed nature of the myth. Since Varlaam and Misail are the characters who declare the myth, they bring the same qualifications to the announcement of the end times that are present in Varlaam’s earlier unreliable narrations. It is an opportunistic exploitation of religion for political ends.

Other Myths and Techniques of Characterization

As I suggest above, Musorgsky’s attempt to negate myth in Boris can be considered part of the kuchka quest for a realistic opera, an attempt to resolve the tension between the traditional, mythic nature of opera and the desire to portray history without embellishment. Myths are still present in Boris, but they are all presented as artificial, as performances within the opera. The ceremony of such scenes as the coronation and courtship, as well as the mythic rhetoric of those who stress the end times, are shown to belong to a secondary world of performance. Thus,

Musorgsky also hints at the primary world, the real essence behind the performances. I have shown this principle at work in the prologue. When Boris speaks of his grief, briefly and

181

incompletely, the ceremony and artifice fall away, if for a moment, and the audience sees the reality of Boris at a deeper level.

The technique of stripping away the artifice of the ceremonial scenes allows Musorgsky to develop the psychology of his principal character with considerable depth. His success calls into question Auden’s claim that opera cannot develop characters psychologically. For Auden, opera’s ability to present contrasting states of being serves as a substitute for the psychological depth afforded in other genres (see The Dyer’s Hand 470).215 Musorgsky, however, uses contrasting states of being to create depth. The simplest example is Boris’s grief and its contrast to the pageantry of the coronation. Here the discredited mythic surface points to the true core of his character. The primary and secondary worlds within the opera serve as layers in personality that point at greater psychological depth. The use of contrasting states of being in a negative approach to myth, therefore, serves as a tool in Musorgsky’s realist project of achieving psychological realism in musical drama.216

The culmination of Musorgsky’s characterization technique occurs in Boris’s aria in Act

II. Much of its power comes from the fact that it is delivered in solitude. Thanks to the contrast with the ceremonial scenes, it becomes clear that the audience is looking into the reality of the tsar’s soul. Note that he still relies on various myths. He sings, “Heavy is the hand of that

Terrible Judge, terrible is the sentence of the criminal soul” (206), and “in fierce grief, sent by

215 Auden, therefore, sees ensembles as “the crowning glory of opera” (see The Dyers Hand 470). He is probably drawing on Kierkegaard, who in Either/Or writes, “Opera does not so much have character delineation and action as its immanent goal; it is not reflective enough for that. On the other hand, passion, unreflective and substantial, finds its expression in opera” (117). While a full examination of the merits and limitations of this view of opera is outside the scope of this dissertation, I suggest that it does not wholly apply to Musorgsky. 216 There is ample precedent for comparing the operas of Musorgsky to the novels of Dostoevsky, a writer known for the psychological development of his characters. For just two examples, see Gasparov’s Five Operas and a Symphony, which compares Khovanshchina to The Demons (128-129), and E. Levashev’s “Drama naroda i drama sovesti,” which compares the Boris to Crime and Punishment. The comparison is largely in terms of thematic concerns, but the parallel with Dostoevsky is also worth considering in terms of the approach to the characters. 182

God as a trial for our grievous sin” (210). Boris understands his anguish in mythic terms. Since the opera fleshes out Boris in psychological depth, his mythic terms are understood by the audience neither as absolute truth nor as deception, nor yet as delusion. Rather, they are shown as the plausible, personal experience of a sixteenth/seventeenth-century ruler. His personal and family unhappiness, as well as his lack of success as a ruler, he attributes to the punishment of the Almighty for his sins. As opposed to the myths of the ceremonial scenes, this myth is presented as Boris’s genuine experience.

The myth is still qualified. The audience is not asked to accept the Divine agency Boris perceives behind his guilt. Like the myth of the end time, this is a story told by a character. In this case, however, it is not a story told by one character to others in order to manipulate them. It is a story told by Boris to himself to explain his experience. By exposing the artificiality of the myths in Boris, Musorgsky does not so much create a differentiation between myths that are true and false, but rather he points to the real, human experience that the myths would otherwise conceal. Underlying the myths of the tsar as father and romantic love are realities of power and politics. But underlying the myth of the judgment of God is the reality of a tormented

Some scholars would assert that the holy fool may represent an exception to the rule I have identified. Taruskin demonstrates that the music sets apart the holy fool’s perspective and validates it. When he goes from singing the foolish ditty taken from Pushkin to singing the prophecy original to Musorgsky, the meter changes to four beats, the tonality goes down a half structure, and the cadence placement changes. These changes create the sense that the holy fool is going into a trance (see Defining Russia Musically 76). In the Kromy scene, not only does he repeat this prophecy, but the orchestra repeats the ostinato that accompanies the prophecy as the final notes of the entire opera. Therefore, in Taruskin’s reading the holy fool serves as a stand-in for Musorgsky’s authorial voice. His myth is not artificial, but the truth. The role could be seen 183

as an example of the layering I observe above— establishing the artificiality of all of the opera’s myths allows Musorgsky to differentiate between the false and the true. Boris’s guilt is shown as a human truth expressed in mythic terms. The holy fool’s prophecy, in Taruskin’s reading, is presented as absolute truth.

But what is the content of the true myth of the prophecy? Since it deals with the suffering of the Russian people, Taruskin sees it as something of an iteration of Russian messianism. Russia is the holy fool of nations, “whose mission it is through suffering to bear the truth to the world” (Defining Russia Musically 80). This myth is related to the Slavophile swerve from not only Chaadaev’s philosophy, but from the entire tradition of providential history. In such a tradition, the purposes of Providence can be discerned clearly through history. Historical progress is rational and teleological. As explored in the chapter on Glinka, Chaadaev saw Russia as existing outside of providential history. The Slavophile answer to Chaadaev represents a turn away from rationalism towards Eastern Orthodox mysticism— the purposes of God cannot be apprehended rationally. Therefore, the teleology of a man-made philosophical system cannot adequately reflect the real influence of God in history. Russia’s place outside of a teleological narrative, therefore, actually demonstrates its divine calling.217 The historical vision of

Musorgsky, in such a reading, parallels Tyutchev’s quatrain:

Russia’s not fathomed by the mind,

Nor by some common standard known:

She is unique in all mankind;

Her fate, revealed through faith alone. (88)218

217 I am indebted to Alexander Dolinin for this insight into the Slavophile view of providentialism. See his “Historicism or Providentionalism? Pushkin’s History of Pugachev in the Context of French Romantic Historiography” (308). 218 Translated by Eugene M. Kayden. 184

However, despite this parallel, Musorgsky cannot be completely connected to the

Slavophiles.219 Musorgsky lacks the Orthodox fervor characteristic of such Slavophiles as

Aleksei Khomiakov. As I have shown above in my reading of Khovanshchina, Musorgsky’s feelings towards Russian Orthodox Christianity are complicated at best. The connection I am attempting to draw between Musorgsky and the Slavophiles is merely one of analogy. I suggest that Musorgsky rejects the Western concept of Providence but not in favor of the Orthodox God.

If there is an immanent will guiding history, it is even more inscrutable to Musorgsky than to the

Slavophiles. Perhaps for him there is no such force at all, human history is merely governed by chance and power. In either case, his vision is darker than that of the Slavophiles, for whom

Christianity still offered the possibility of an apocalyptic future outside of history. Musorgsky rejects all teleology and apocalypticism. As Taruskin notes, the opera ends with the orchestra’s repetition of the ostinato that accompanies the prophecy of suffering (see Defining Russia

Musically 79-80). The final note is the dominant, a note of non-resolution (see Fig. 53). The only certainty is suffering. Other than that, the future is totally indeterminate.

Because of the indeterminate nature of the prophecy and the ending, the holy fool may be perceived as playing a purely negative role. In Emerson’s reading, for instance, he does not present a competing myth of his own. Rather, he negates all the myths of the opera (see Boris

Godunov 206). He exposes the false nature of the myth of Boris as father tsar in the Red Square scene by accusing the tsar of complicity in the tsarevich’s murder and comparing him to the

Biblical King Herod. In doing so, he counteracts the fact that the peasants call Boris batiushka earlier in the scene. In the Kromy scene, the holy fool’s prophecy negates the pretender’s attempts to take on the myth of the tsar as father. The holy fool thus serves as another means by

219 Taruskin himself notes this point in On Russian Music (35-36). 185

which Musorgsky shows the artificial nature of the myths in the opera. He is the Übermyth, the myth from the standpoint of which the falseness of all the others is made manifest.

The fact that holy foolishness may be the true myth of the opera does not contradict my thesis, because the phenomenon of holy foolishness is entirely compatible with the concept of self-conscious performance. Holy foolishness, in many instances, is itself performative. While some holy fools likely were affected by one or another intellectual disability, others were playing a part. Some saints or religious leaders deliberately played the role of a holy fool, sometimes to teach a particular lesson, at other times as an ascetic act of purgation.220 The governing principle of the holy fool’s performance is a rejection of the world and its wisdom as illusory.221 In many ways, this is parallel to Musorgsky’s rejection of accepted myths in Boris. Musorgsky shares with holy fools a negative spirituality. As the holy fool rejects the world, all of the opera’s myths so does Musorgsky reject all myths as false.

Conclusion

The negative approach to myth in Boris points to a concept of history as something that cannot be understood outside of experience. As I have mentioned above, Peter Munz sees myth as necessary to creating meaning in history. He stresses the human aspects of the story, such as the problems of power and of guilty conscience, rather than any mythic vision. Musorgsky invites opera goers to examine the real experience behind the myths of history. Boris can be seen as a matter of both revisionist history and of operatic reform. Besides calling for an examination

220 For just one example each, Avvakum played the role of holy fool to show the vanity of worldly learning. See Priscilla Hunt “Holy Foolishness in the Life of Avvakum.” An Old Believer leader, Avvakum was never officially canonized. He has been revered by the Old Believers and is increasingly revered in mainstream Russian culture as well. Saint Kiril Belozersky played the part of holy fool to abase himself and avoid the glory of men. See https://days.pravoslavie.ru/Life/life1269.htm. 221 For a more thorough consideration of the phenomenon, see Svitlana Kobets, Genesis and Development of Holy Foolishness as a Textual Topos in Early Russian Literature, and D.S. Likhachev and A.M. Panchenko’s Smekhovoi mir v drevnei rusi. 186

of the real human experience of history, Musorgsky presents a concept of opera as anti-myth.

Although opera tends to present events and characters in mythic terms, doing so self-consciously prevents what Roland Barthes would call the naturalization of signs (see Mythologies 142-144).

Instead of presenting the myths as inherent to the events, they are shown as performed and narrated, invented by human beings to explain human phenomena. Thus, opera becomes a reflection on history rather than a propaganda piece.

Such a radical treatment of myth in opera is rare. I have shown that, in Boris, Musorgsky goes beyond what Rimsky-Korsakov did in Pskov. However, having read the previous chapter, the reader can infer that Musorgsky as well as Rimsky-Korsakov followed the path from myth to realism and back again in his operas. This is probably related to the fact that, already in the second version of Boris, Musorgsky was turning away from some of the kuchka’s theories. He continued to follow this trajectory in Khovanshchina, which, as I argue, does not seek to negate myth, or even to avoid it. The treatment of myth in Boris therefore was an anomaly in

Musorgsky’s work, and in many ways it distinguishes it from the rest of nineteenth-century

Russian opera.

I suggest that the self-conscious treatment of myth makes Boris a proto-modernist opera.

It has a later proponent in ’s The Rake’s Progress, with its allusive libretto by

Auden and Chester Kallman. Willard Spiegelman contends that the myth of the pastoral world or golden age in this opera exists only in the minds of the characters and audience. The opera presents self-conscious play with myths, culminating in a final sequence in which the main character, now in Bedlam, hallucinates that he is Adonis and that his beloved is Venus. The madness of the main character presents the myth as belonging to a secondary world in a manner similar to the layering in Boris. It reworks the mythic nature of opera to express, instead of

187

limitless power and will, a sense that these have been made weak by time and fate. It presents the modernist problem of “what to make of a diminished thing” (Frost 180). As a matter of speculation, I suggest that perhaps this sense of diminishment is one reason that Musorgsky abandoned the approach of portraying self-conscious myth in his later opera, Khovanshchina. In

Boris, he found that it was possible, though difficult, to negate myth. But in doing so, he turned away from one of the things opera does best, dramatically speaking, and what sets it apart and makes it desirable as a genre. The return to myth was a concession to the genre, a desire to work within it rather than against it.222 He was able to present the themes with considerable nuance in

Khovanshchina working within the traditional, mythic confines of opera. Perhaps he felt that to continue in the vein of Boris would bring diminishing returns.

Perhaps, also, the relationship between Stravinsky’s and Musorgsky’s operas is understudied. Olga Komarnitskaya includes The Rake’s Progress in her study of the problem of genre in Russian opera in the 19th-21st centuries (370-400), a puzzling decision because of the opera’s international background: The Rake’s Progress has an English language libretto by two

British émigrés to the United States, is set in eighteenth-century England, inspired by the paintings of William Hogarth, and premiered in . Considering it inherently Russian seems rooted in a resurgence of Romantic nationalist sentiment that sees composers and music only in terms of nationality. Taruskin and Frolova-Walker have long battled against this sort of mentality, and in doing so they have produced some of the best work on Russian music in the last three decades. That said, dramaturgical parallels between Stravinsky and Musorgsky do exist, which may present an argument for considering it part of the legacy of

222 There is a similar tendency at work in the turn toward greater lyricism in the music of the second version of Boris, a trajectory that Musorgsky followed in Khovanshchina. 188

Russian opera. Musorgsky’s use of self-conscious performance of myths in opera, therefore, has proved more lasting than a mere one-time experiment, since its influence has borne fruit in the opera most performed out of any written after the death of Puccini.223

Boris itself also has proved enduring, and in fact, is still presented as encompassing not only one period of Russia’s history, but all of it. In 1991, Taruskin wrote with cautious optimism about the fall of the , concluding his book Musorgsky with the following passage:

“The best outcome one could desire for Russia is one in which her tragic music dramas can at last retire from current events and find permanent home in the museum. A Russia in which

Musorgsky no longer looks like a prophet is the Russia we all long to see” (407). If the performance practices of Boris are an indication, the hour is not yet come. The opera is still presented as applying to contemporary conditions. A 2012 Mariinskii theater production presents images from Imperial, Soviet and post-Soviet history. The people stand in Soviet style lines, but are dressed in contemporary fashion; the Duma official speaks from a rostrum adorned with a

Soviet insignia; Boris is crowned with the Monomakh’s cap and wears pre-Petrine robes; Pimen writes his history on a laptop computer.224 While the production is deliberately obscure, I will hazard an interpretation: these incongruous images gather all of Russia’s history into one place.

In place of the teleology suggested by the Soviet productions,225 this one suggests an eternal return. All periods of Russian history are marked by a problematic relationship between the people and those in power as well as those who seek it. Totalitarianism is the trial that the nation

223 See Paul Griffiths’s Igor Stravinsky, The Rake’s Progress. Opera Base statistics indicate that this statement (from 1982) is still true, at least for the 2015-2016 season, when The Rake’s Progress ranked the 79th most performed opera in the world. 224 The performance may be viewed on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUJAV6UqlaI. 225 The 1959 film adaptation is characteristic. Available on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=8N1CN3WcAjk

189

must face in exchange for stability. The production thus presents the opera as the essence of

Russia’s history, including contemporary history. All times are the Time of Troubles.

This reinterpretation of the opera suggests that even when a production follows the trend—popular for some time now—of removing an opera from its original context, the nationally specific content still remains. In many ways, anachronistic productions actually magnify the relevance of historical opera by showing it applying to contemporary contexts. Such productions may, in some cases, emphasize the interpretation of the director over that of the composer. Still, it is important to continue to look at how the myths presented in such operas continue to apply to national history. All of the operas treated in this dissertation continue to be performed in Russia, to various degrees of frequency. The myths of each are, therefore, seen as relevant to the nation. Further study of operas’ myths and their continued relevance is a necessary part of the study of Russian culture. This would entail a more in depth analysis of contemporary Russian performance practice.

Musorgsky’s approach in Boris is a fitting conclusion to the dissertation because of his self-conscious use of myth. It draws attention to the mythic nature of opera, which I have explored throughout this dissertation. The effort to negate the myths comes from a belief that the passive acceptance of them is potentially harmful. Opera and the myths it presents have historically often served the interests of the powerful,226 and for this reason some critics have condemned the genre.227 Musorgsky, in contrast, suggests that consciousness of the myths

226 One obvious reason is the fact that opera is very expensive to produce, so for most of history it has relied on the patronage of the powerful. 227 In a Russian context, I think of Lev Tolstoy and the Left-leaning Bolsheviks as the fiercest critics of opera. Tolstoy’s denunciation of opera in What is Art? focuses on a theory that mixing genres causes a sort of dilution of their potential to infect the audience. But he also sees the problems of the genre in terms of its elitist appeal, and the fact that the labor of many peasants is necessary to provide such entertainment for those who can afford to spend an evening idly. Irina Kotkina in “Soviet Empire and Operatic Realm” observes that many of the Left-leaning Party members and the Proletkult believed opera was an aristocratic/bourgeois art form and needed to give way to new 190

neutralizes whatever ill effects they may otherwise have. The problem is not inherent in the genre, but in how it is presented and received.

This dissertation has followed reasoning similar to that of Musorgsky, holding that an analysis of the myths of Russian opera can lead to greater understanding of the works themselves as well as the culture they belong to. I have analyzed the various myths of seven nineteenth- century Russian historical operas. I have demonstrated that all of the operas discussed in this dissertation have variations on the theme of the tsar as father. The centrality of this myth to the genre demonstrates, among other things, the political nature of Russian opera. As Forshaw suggests, the varying approaches to the myth of the tsar as father demonstrates the changes in attitude toward the monarchy in nineteenth-century Russia (22-86). More broadly still, the focus on the tsar serves as an exploration of power and agency within history. I have shown that in all of the operas the power of the tsar has limits of one kind or another. Thus, the myth of the tsar as father is, among other things, an exploration of the limitations of individual will. The tsar, as the bearer of the most power, is an extreme case study of the limits of human power. Even an absolutely powerful monarch still has human limitations. Russian nineteenth-century opera is skeptical about the ability of individuals to influence history.

I have also noted and explored a variety of other myths represented in Russian historical opera. These include: Eden, the Fall, redemption, Hell and demons, romantic love, the Empress as an androgynous figure, and so on. The variety of myths demonstrates that history is never interpreted unambiguously or one-sidedly. Indeed, composers sometimes attach completely different meanings to the same historical period. Glinka’s Time of Troubles in A Life has very

ones. Others defended opera, but nonetheless felt that it would eventually recede, as was believed about the state. Lenin was partial to opera, but felt it should not be a top priority (506-510). 191

little resemblance to that of Musorgsky’s in Boris; likewise, Glinka’s Kievan period in Ruslan differs from Borodin’s in Prince Igor. Furthermore, a single composer can present two contrasting approaches to history. Both Rimsky-Korsakov and Musorgsky had a dynamic relationships with history, as I have demonstreated in their journey from myth to realism and back again. History was not a monolithic, fixed image for nineteenth-century composers. It was ambiguous and shifting in its meaning. The music and myth of opera was a tool to grasp history, but no single interpretation was or is definitive. Composers felt compelled to continue reinterpreting it.

This process, in many ways, continues into the present day. New productions of the operas treated in this dissertation continue to reimagine history through myth. Furthermore, while historical opera is by no means a dominant artistic genre, there have been noteworthy additions to the genre since the nineteenth century. The most notable twentieth-century example is Prokofiev’s operatic adaptation of Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Composed in the wake of the

Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, this opera harmonizes Russia’s two patriotic wars in mythic terms that deserve to be revisited by scholarship. More recently, ’s 2006 choral opera, Boyarina Morozova, presents a new portrayal of the schism and Old Believers that begs to be compared to that of Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina. Russian historical opera is a living, if marginal, genre. Its mythic language continues to provide an important means of exploring and conceptualizing history. I have attempted to begin to explore these matters in this dissertation, but much remains for future scholarship.

Lastly, I suggest that a mythic approach to opera may be the best way to make the case for the art form as drama. Most of the popular books on opera open with apologetic passages that center on the perceived implausibility of the plots. The solution is not to treat opera as absolute

192

music, but to go to Auden’s theories and speak of the mythic nature of opera. I have attempted to show the dramatic viability of Russian opera in terms of its mythic subtexts. Such an approach helps to illuminate the richness of the genre. Forshaw has observed mythic subtexts in particular roles in Russian opera, and Martha Feldman has analyzed the mythic nature of early Italian opera, but there is still a great deal of work that future scholarship can do to read opera as mythic literature.

193

Works Cited

Anderson, Benedict R. O.G. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of

Nationalism. New York: Verso, 2006.

Apollonio, Carol. Dostoevsky’s Secrets: Reading Against the Grain. Evanston: Northwestern

University Press, 2009.

Asafyev, Boris. Izbrannye trudy. Tom I: izbrannye raboty o M.I. Glinke. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo

akademii nauk SSSR, 1952.

—. Izbrannye trudy. Tom III. Kompozitory “Moguchei kuchki.” V.V. Stasov. Moskva:

Izdatel’stvo akademii nauk, 1952.

—. Russian Music: From the Beginning to the Nineteenth Century. Translated by Alfred J.

Swan. Ann Arbor: American Council of Learned Societies, 1953.

—. Symphonic Etudes: Portraits of Russian Operas and . Edited and Translated by David

Haas. Lanham: The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2008.

Ascher, Abraham. Russia: A Short History. Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2009.

Auden, W. H. “A Public Art.” in The Complete Works of W.H. Auden: Prose Volume IV

19561962. Edited by Edward Mendelson. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010.

309- 311.

—. The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays. New York: Random House, 1962.

Authorized of The Holy Bible. United States of America: Intellectual

Reserve, Inc. 1979.

194

Bakhtin, M. M. “Epic and Novel.” The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M. M. Bakhtin. 3-

40. Ed. Michael Holquist. Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin:

University of Texas Press, 1981. Print.

Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. https://soundenvironments.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/roland-

barthes-mythologies.pdf.

Bethea, David M. “’A Higher Audacity’: How to Read Pushkin’s Dialogue with Shakespeare in

The Stone Guest.” In The Poetics of Brevity: Alexander Pushkin’s Little Tragedies.

Edited by Svetlana Evdokimova. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 2003.

211-228.

Blake, William. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. In Blake’s Poetry and Designs. 2nd Edition.

Edited by Mary Lynn Johnson and John E. Grant. New York: W. W. Norton &

Company, 2008.

Borodin, Aleksandr. P. Knjaz' Igor'. Edited by A. V. Bulycheva. Moskva: Klassika 21, 2012.

—. Kriticheskie stat’i. Moskva: Muzyka, 1982.

—. Prince Igor. Directed by Yuri Lyubimov. ( Bel Air Media, 2013 https://www.youtube.com/

watch?v=CzmIu-VjRCM).

—. Prince Igor. Directed by Yevgeny Sokovnin. (EuroArts Entertainment OHG, 1998

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ys_4mIyktW).

Bulycheva, Anna V. “Kommentarii.” Kniaz' Igor'. Edited by A. V. Bulycheva. Moskva: Klassika

21, 2012.

Boss, Valentin. Milton and the Rise of Russian Satanism. Toronto: University of Toronto Press,

1991.

Brown, David. Musorgsky: His Life and Works. New York: , 2006.

195

Brown, Howard Mayer, Ellen Rosand, Reinhard Strohm, Michel Noiray, Roger Parker, Arnold

Whittall, Roger Savage, and Barry Millington. "Opera (i)." Grove Music Online.

http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/grovemusic/view/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.001.

0001/omo-9781561592630-e-0000040726.

Budden, Julian. The Operas of Verdi. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992.

Bund, Konrad. “The Reich in Europe : 1871-1883.” The WagnerMilli Compendium: A Guide to

Wagner’s Life and Music. Edited by Barry Millington. New York: Schirmer Books,

1992.

Chaadayev, Pyotr. P. Ia. Chaadaev: Polnoe sobranie sochinenii i izbrannye pis'ma. Tom 1.

Moskva: Nauka, 1991.

Cherkashina-Gubarenko, Marina R. M. I. Glinka: K 200 Letiiu so Dnia Rozhdeniia. Materialy

Nauchnykh Konferentsii. Tom 2. Moskva: Moskovskaia Gosudarstvennaia

Konservatoriia im. P. I. Chaikovskogo, 2006. 196-204.

Cherniavsky, Michael. Tsar and people : studies in Russian myths. New Haven : Yale University

Press, 1961.

Cioran, S. D. “Introduction.” In The Petty Demon by . Ed. Murl Barker. New

York: Ardis Publishers, 2006.

Cunningham, Thomas Thurston. “Terrible Visions: The Sublime Image of Ivan the Terrible in

Russian Opera.” PhD diss., Princeton University, 1999. ProQuest. (9928392).

Dahlhaus, Carl. Between and Modernism. Translated by Mary Whittall. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1980.

De Van, Gilles. Verdi’s Theater: Creating Drama Through Music. Translated by Gilda Roberts.

Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1998.

196

Diakonova, Nina and Vadim Vatsuro. “‘No Great Mind and Generous Heart Could Avoid

Byronism’: Russia and Byron.” In The Reception of Byron in Europe Volume II:

Northern, Central and Eastern Europe. Edited by Richard A. Cardwell. New York:

Thoemmes Continuum, 2004. 333-352.

Dolinin, Alexander. “Historicism or Providentioalism? Pushkin’s History of Pugachev in the

Context of French Romantic Historiography.” Slavic Review. 58.2 (1999): 291-308.

http://www.jstor.org.proxy.lib.ohio-state.edu/stable/pdf/2673072.pdf?refreqid

=excelsior:ff03a4edb3bfa6780300cb8c3a55b3cf.

Domokos, Zsuzsa. “The Epic Dimension in Borodin’s Prince Igor.” Studia Musicologica

Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 33, no. 1/4, 1991. 131-149.

www.jstor.org/stable/902441.

Dostoevsky, Aimée. : A Study. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1922.

Eikhenbaum, Boris. Lermontov: Opyt istoriko-literaturnoi otsenki. Leningrad: Gosudarstvennoe

izdatel’stvo, 1924.

Elizabeth I, Queen of England. “Speech to the Troops at Tilbury.” In The Norton Anthology of

English Literature. 8th Edition. The Major Authors. Volume A. The Middle Ages Through

the Restoration and the Eighteenth Century. Edited by Stephen Greenblatt and M. H.

Abrams. New York: W. W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2006.

Emerson, Caryl. “Apocalypse Then, Now, and (For Us) Never: Reflections on Musorgsky’s

Other Historical Opera.” In Khovanshchina: The Khovansky Affair. New York: Calder

Publications Limited, 1994. 7-20.

—. Boris Godunov: Transpositions of a Russian Theme. Bloomington: Indiana

University Press, 1986.

197

—.“Musorgsky’s Libretti on Historical Themes: From the Two Borises to Khovanshchina.”

National Traditions in Nineteenth-Century Opera Volume II: Central and Eastern

Europe. Ed. Michael C. Tusa. Burlington: Ashgate Publishing Company, 2010. 235-265.

—. “The Boris Plot on Stage: Karamzin, Pushkin, and Musorgsky as Historical Thinkers.” In

Intersections and Transpositions: Russian Music, Literature, and Society. Edited by

Andrew Baruch Wachtel. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1998. 20-32

—. “Tragedy or Comedy? Boris the Visuals and Musico-Visuals: Juliet Forshaw and Stacy

Dubov.” Pushkin Review 10 (2007): 35—.

Feldman, Martha. Opera and sovereignty: transforming myths in eighteenth-century Italy.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 2007.

Felson, Nancy. “Children of Zeus in the Homeric Hymns: Generational Succession.”

Academia.edu.https://s3.amazonaws.com/academia.edu.documents/31315774

/Children_of_Zeus.pdf?AWSAccessKeyId=AKIAIWOWYYGZ2Y53UL3A&Expires

=1522952802&Signature=ho0ThoDjiwJ7sOX9RBdqS69kjx0%3D&response-content-

disposition=inline%3B%20filename%3DChildren_of_Zeus_in_the_Homeric_Hymns

_Ge.pdf.

Fishzon, Anna. Fandom, Authenticity, and Opera: Mad Acts and Letter Scenes in Fin-de-Siècle

Russia. New York : Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.

Forshaw, Juliet. “Dangerous Tenors, Heroic Basses, and Non-Ingénues: Singers and the

Envoicing of Social Values in Russian Opera, 1836-1905.” PhD diss., Columbia

University, 2014. ProQuest. (3619015).

Frolov, Sergei. “Kul’turnye Mifologemy Opery Glinki Zhizn’ za Tsaria.” In M. I. Glinka: K

200 Letiiu so Dnia Rozhdeniia. Materialy Nauchnykh Konferentsii. Tom 2. Moskva:

198

Moskovskaia Gosudarstvennaia Konservatoriia im. P. I. Chaikovskogo, 2006. 42-53.

Frolova-Walker, Marina. “Fresh Prince.” Opera News 78, no.8 (2014):

http://www.operanews.com/Opera_News_Magazine/2014/2/Features/Fresh_Prince.html.

—. “Grand Opera in Russia: Fragments of an Unwritten History.” in The Cambridge Companion

to Grand Opera. 344-365.

—. Russian Music and Nationalism: From Glinka to Stalin. New Haven:

Yale University Press, 2007.

Frost, Robert. “The Oven Bird.” In Robert Frost: Selected Poems. Avenel: Outlet Book

Company, 1992.

Fuller, Jennifer. “Epic Melodies.” Intersections and Transpositions: Russian Music, Literature,

and Society. 33-57. Ed. Andrew Baruch Wachtel. Evanston: Northwestern University

Press, 1998.

Frye, Northrup. Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957.

Gasparov, Boris. Five Operas and a Symphony: Word and Music in Russian Culture.

New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005.

Gaub, Albrecht. “A New Edition of Borodin’s Prince Igor.” In Notes 70, no. 4 (2014): 739-745.

Glinka, Mikhail Ivanovich. A Life for the Tsar. Adamant Media Corporation, 2005.

—. A Life for the Tsar: Opera Vocal Score. [Boston?]: Elibron Classics, [2001].

Gozenpud, Abram. Russkii opernyi teatr XIX veka. Vol. 3. Leningrad: “Muzyka” Leningradskoe

otedelenie, 1969.

Griffiths, Paul. Igor Stravinsky: The Rake’s Progress. New York: Cambridge University Press,

1982.

Hamilton, A.C. “The Renaissance of the Study of the English Literary Renaissance.” English

199

Literary Renaissance Vol. 25, No. 3, The State of Renaissance Studies: A Special

Twenty-fifth Anniversary Symposium in Honor of Dan S. Collins (AUTUMN 1995),

372-387. The University of Chicago Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43447497

Accessed: 21-09-2017 09:51 UTC.

Hodge, Thomas P. “Susanin, Two Glinkas, and Ryleev: History-Making in A Life for the Tsar.”

In Intersections and Transpositions: Russian Music, Literature, and Society. Edited by

Andrew Baruch Wachtel. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1998. 3-19.

Hoops, Richard. “Musorgsky and the Populist Age.” In Musorgsky in Memoriam 1881-1981,

edited by Malcolm Hamrick Brown. 271-306. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982.

271-306.

Hunter, Mary Kathleen. The culture of in Mozart's Vienna: a poetics of

entertainment. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. 1999.

“Igor’s Death and Olga’s Revenge.” In Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles and Tales. Edited by Serge

A. Zenkovsky. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. 54-58.

Kalil, Mary Helena. “Reports from Offstage: Representations of Slavic History in Russian and

Czech Opera.” PhD diss., Prince University, 2002. ProQuest (3041838).

Kierkegaard, Søren, Either/or. Translated by Steven L. Ross, and George L. Stengren. New

York: Perennial Library, 1986.

Kiseleva, L.N. “Stanovlenie russkoi natsianol’noi mifologii v Nikolaevskuiu epokhu.”

Lotmanovskii sbornik. Vyp. 2. Moskva: O.G.I Izd-vo RGGU, 1997. 279-302.

Keenan, Edward. Josef Dobrovsky and the Origins of the Igor Tale. Cambridge: Harvard

University Press, 2003.

Kobets, Svitlana. Genesis and Development of Holy Foolishness as a Textual Topos in Early Russian

200

Literature. PhD diss., The University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 2001. ProQuest

(3023098).

Komarnitskaya, Olga Vissarionovna. Russkaia Opera 19-Nachala 21 Vekov: Problemy zhanra,

dramaturgii, kompozitsii.” Dissertatsiia na soiskanie uchenoi stepeni doktora

isskustvovedeniia, Moskovskaia gosudarstvennaia konservatoriia imeni P. I.

Chaikovskogo, 2012.

Kotkina, Irina. “Soviet Empire and Operatic realm: Stalinist Search for the Model Soviet Opera.”

Revue Des études Slaves 84, no. 3/4 (2013): 505-18.

http://www.jstor.org.proxy.lib.ohiostate.edu/stable/24372082.

Kozhurin, Kirill. Povsednevnaia zhizn’ staroobriadtsev. Moskva: Molodaia gvardiia. 2014.

—. Protopop Avvakum: Zhizn’ za veru. Moskva: Molodaia gvardiia, 2011.

Krivitskaia, Evgeniia Davidovna. “Strasti po Susaninu.” Muzykal’naia Akademiia:

Ezhekvartanl’nyi Nauchno-Teoreticheskii i Kritiko-Publitsisticheskii Zhurnal. no. 3

(January 1, 2004): 78-79.

Kutuzov. B. P. Russkoe znamenoe penie. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Andrey Rublyov, 2008.

Laurita, Mary. The Demon as Poetic Metaphor from Lermontov to Akhmatova. PhD diss.,

Columbia University, 1996. (9611160).

Lermontov, Mikhail. Demon. In Izbrannye proizvedeniia. Minsk: Gosudarstvennoe

uchebnopedagogicheskoe izdatel’stvo BSSR, 1956. 322-353.

—. “Molitva.” Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov: polnoe sobranie sochinenii. Tom pervyi:

stikhotvoreniia. Moskva-Leningrad: OGIZ, 1948. 24-25.

Levashev, E. “Drama Naroda i Drama Sovesti v Opere -Boris Godunov.” Sovetskaia Muzyka no.

5 (1983): 32—.

201

Likhachev, D. S. A.M. Panchenko. “Smekhovoi mir” drevnei rusi. Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo

“Nauka,” 1976.

Mandelker, Amy. Framing Anna Karenina: Tolstoy, the Woman Question, and the Victorian

Novel. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. 1993.

Masing-Delic, Irene. Abolishing Death: A Salvation Myth of Twentieth-Century Literature.

Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992.

May, Thomas. “Program Notes.” Metropolitan Opera Program for Modest Musorgsky,

Khovanshchina. 2012. https://metopera.org/uploadedFiles/MetOpera/season_and_tickets/

Playbill/Khovanshchina/Feb%2027%20Khovanshchina.pdf.

McNally, Raymond. "Significant Revelations in Chaadayev's Letters to A. I. Turgenev." Studies

in Soviet Thought 32, no. 4 (1986): 321-39. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20100187.

Miakotin, V.A. Protopop Avvakum: ego zhizn’ i deiatel’nost’. Biograficheskii ocherk.

Sankt-Peterburg: Obshchestvennaia pol’za, 1894.

Millington, Barry. “.” In The Wagner Compendium: A Guide to

Wagner’s Life and Music. Edited by Barry Millington. New York: Schirmer Books,

1992. 285-287.

—.“Rienzi, der Letzte der Tribunen.” In The Wagner Compendium: A Guide to Wagner’s Life

and Music. Edited by Barry Millington. New York: Schirmer Books, 1992. 274-276.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Edited by Scott Elledge. New York: W. W. Norton & Company,

1993.

Munz, Peter. "History and Myth." The Philosophical Quarterly (1950-) 6, no. 22 (1956): 1-16.

doi:10.2307/2217333.

Musorgsky, Modest. Boris Godunov: Opera v chetyrekh deistviiakh s prologom. Edited by P.

202

Lamm. Saint-Petersburg: Izdatel’stvo “Kompozitor,” 2012.

—. Boris Godunov. Directed by . (Marinsky Theaterm 2012

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUJAV6UqlaI&t=959s).

—. Khovanshchina: Narodnaia muzykal’naia drama. Redaktsiia P. Lamma. Leningrad:

Izdael’stvo “Muzyka,” 1976.

—. Khovanshchina: The Khovansky Affair. Translated by Carol Borah Palca. New York: Calder

Publications Limited, 1994. 45-124.

—. Khovanshchina. Directed by D. Tambieva. (1959; Corinth Films.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmAsf-IeNgo ).

—. Khovanshchina. Performed by the Vienna State Opera (1989; Arthaus Musik.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7JUbJWSKrY).

Naroditskaya, Inna. Bewitching Russian Opera: The from State to Stage. New York:

Oxford University Press, 2012.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy. Translated by Douglas Smith. New York: Oxford

University Press, 2000.

“Opera Statistics.” Operabase. http://operabase.com/top.cgi?lang=en&splash=t.

Orlova, Alexandra and Maria Shneerson. “After Pushkin and Karamzin: Researching the Sources

for the Libretto of Boris Godunov,” translated by Véronique Zaytzeff, in Musorgsky in

Memoriam 1881-1981, edited by Malcolm Hamrick Brown. Ann Arbor: UMI Research

Press, 1982. 249-70.

Ormiston, Greg. “The Prison Worlds of Dostoevskii, Tolstoi, and Chekhov.” PhD diss., The

Ohio State University, 2017. Unpublished Dissertation.

Parakilas, James. “The Chorus.” The Cambridge Companion to Grand Opera. Edited by David

203

Charlton. Cambridge: The University of Cambridge Press, 2003. 76-92.

Pendle, Karin Swanson. “Eugene Scribe and French Opera of the Nineteenth Century.” PhD diss.

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaigne, 1970. Ann Arbor: UMI, 1970.

Pereira, N. G. O. Tsar-liberator: Alexander II of Russia, 1818-1881. Newtonville: Oriental

Research Partners, 1983.

Petrovich, Avvakum. Zhitie Protopopa Avvakum, Im samim napisannoe i drugie sochinenia.

Edited by N.K. Guzdiia. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe Izdatel’stvo Khudozhestvennoi

Literatury, 1960. 53-122.

Perrie, Maureen. The Image of Ivan the Terrible in Russian Folklore. New York: Cambridge

University Press, 1987.

Porter, Andrew and . Parsifal: Richard Wagner. : Published in

association with and , 1986.

Prince Igor. By Alexander Borodin. Dir. . Metropolitan Opera, New York.

1 Mar. 2014. Met Opera On Demand: Student Access. http://metopera.org/Season/On

-Demand/opera/?upc=811357017180.

Pullinger, Mark. “Finding release among the poppy fields: Dmitri Tcherniakov's powerful

Prince Igor reaches Amsterdam.” https://bachtrack.com/review-

princeigortcherniakovkochanovsky-abdrazakov-dyka-dutch-national-opera-february-

2017.

Pushkareva, Natalia. Women in Russian History: from the Tenth to the Twentieth Century.

Translated and edited by Eve Levin. Armonk: N. E. Sharpe, 1993.

Pushkin, A. S. Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich. “Angel.” In Sochineniia v trekh tomakh. Tom

pervyi. Moskva: Khudozhestvennaia literature, 1985. 399.

204

—. “K Zhukovskomu.” Sochineniia v trekh tomakh. Tom pervyi. Moskva: Khudozhestvennaia

literature, 1985. 128-131.

—. Kammenyi gost’. In Sochineniia v trekh tomakh. Tom vtoroi. Moskva: Khudozhestvennaia

literature, 1985. 450-478.

Rancour-Laferriere, Daniel. The Joy of All Who Sorrow: Icons of the Mother of God in Russia.

Moskva: Ladomir, 2005.

“Recitative.” Monson, D., Westrup, J., & Budden, J. (2001). Grove Music

Online. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/grovemusic/view/10.1093/gmo/

9781561592630.001.0001/omo-9781561592630-e-0000023019.

Reilly, Edward R. The Music of Mussorgsky: A Guide to the Editions. New York: The Musical

Newsletter, 1980.

“Repertory Report.” MetOpera.org. http://archives.metoperafamily.org/archives/frame.htm.

Riasanovsky, Nicholas V. Russia and the West in the Teachings of the Slavophiles: A Study in

Romantic Ideology. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1952.

Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai. “Angel i demon.” Polnoe sobranie sochinenii. Tom 46: duety i trio.

Edited by Maksim Brazhnikov. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe muzykal’mpe izdatel’stvo,

1949.

—. My Musical Life. Translated by Judah A. Joffe. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1942.

—. The Maid of Pskov: an Opera in Three Acts. Melville: Belwin-Mills Publishing Cor., 1982.

—. Tsarskaia Nevesta. Leipzig: M. P. Belaieff.

Sandler, Stephanie. Comemmemorating Pushkin: Russia’s Myth of a . Stanford:

Stanford University Press, 2004.

Savoskina, Galina. “Simfonicheskaia Sistema kak Osnova Muzykal’noi Dramaturgii Opery

205

Glinki Ivan Susanin.” In M. I. Glinka: K 200-Letiiu so Dnia Rozhdeniia. Materialy

Nauchnykh Konferentsii. Tom 2. Moskva: Moskovskaia Gosudarstvennaia

Konservatoriia im. P. I. Chaikovskogo, 2006. 69-78.

Searle, Leroy F. “New Criticism.” in The Johns Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory & Criticism.

http://litguide.press.jhu.edu.proxy.lib.ohio-state.edu/cgi-bin/view.cgi?eid=193.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. A Defense of Poetry. Edited by Albert S. Cook. Boston: Ginn and

Company, 1890. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015009131965;

view=1up;seq=6.

Smith, Richard J. 2016. "Darwin, Freud, and the Continuing Misrepresentation of the Primal

Horde." Current Anthropology 57, no. 6: 838. Science Reference Center,

EBSCOhost (accessed April 12, 2018).

Sobol, Valeria. Febris erotica: lovesickness in the Russian literary imagination. Seattle:

University of Washington Press, 2009.

Solovtsov, A. Tsarskaia Nevesta N. A. Rimskogo-Korsakova. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Muzyka,

1964.

Spencer, Stewart. “Wagner’s Middle Ages.” The Wagner Compendium: A Guide to Wagner’s

Life and Music. Edited by Barry Millington. New York: Schirmer Books, 1992. 164-167.

Spiegelman, Willard. “The Rake's progress : an Operatic Version of Pastoral.” In W.H. Auden:

Modern Critical Views. Edited by Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House Publishers,

1986.

Taruskin, Richard. “Bel’sky, Vladimir Nikolayevich.” New Grove Opera Dictionary. Grove

Music Online.

206

—.“Crowd, Mob, and Nation in Boris Godunov: What Did Musorgsky Think, and Does It

Matter?” The Journal of Musicology 28, no. 2 (Spring 2011): 143-65.

—. Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermeneutical Essays. Princeton: Princeton

University Press, 1997.

—. Musorgsky: Eight Essays and an Epilogue. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993.

—. On Russian Music. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009. —. Opera and Drama in Russia As Preached and Practiced in the 1860s. Michigan: Ann Arbor

Press, 1981.

—. “Rubinstein Rubinshteyn, Anton Grigor’yevich.” Grove Music Online. Retrieved 13 Apr.

2018, from http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.proxy.lib.ohio-state.edu/grovemusic/view

/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.001.0001/omo-9781561592630-e-5000005418.

—. "Ruslan and Lyudmila." Grove Music Online. 13 Apr. 2018.

http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com.proxy.lib.ohio-state.edu/grovemusic

view/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.001.0001/omo-9781561592630-e-5000005029.

—. The Oxford History of Western Music. Volume 3 The Nineteenth Century. New York:

Oxford University Press, 2005.

Tempest, Richard. “Madman or Criminal: Governmental Attitudes to Petr Chaadayev in 1936.”

Slavic Review. 43, No. 2 (Summer, 1984): 281-287.

Terras, Victor. “Some Observations on Pushkin’s Image in Russian Literature.” In Alexander

Pushkin: Modern Critical Views. Edited by Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea House

Publishers, 1987. 203-213.

“The Descent of the Virgin into Hell.” In Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles and Tales. Edited by

Serge A. Zenkovsky. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. 153-160.

207

“The Siege of Kiev and Olga’s Death.” In Medieval Russia’s Epics, Chronicles and Tales. Edited by

Serge A. Zenkovsky. New York: Penguin Books, 1974. 59-62.

Todorov, Tzvetan. Literature and its Theorists: a Personal View of Twentieth-Century Criticism.

Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987.

Tolstoy, Count Alexey. “Prince Michael Repnin.” In The Heritage of Russian Verse. Edited by

Dmitri Obolenski. Blooomington & Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1976. 172-

175.

—. What is Art? trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. New York: Penguin Books,

1995.

Tyutchev, Fyodor. “Russia.” Translated by Eugene M. Kayden. In Poems of Night and Day.

Boulder: The University of Colorado, 1974.

Udodov, Boris Timofeevich. M. Iu. Lermontov: Khudozhestvennaia Individual’nost’ I

Tvorcheskie Protsessy. Voronezh: Izdatel’stvo Voronezhskogo Universiteta, 1973.

Ungurianu, Dan. Plotting History: the Russian Historical Novel in the Imperial Age. Madison:

University of Wisconsin Press, 2007.

Vasilyev, Yuri. “Ruslan i Lyudmila: eshche raz o kul’turno-istoricheskom kontekste.” M. I.

Glinka: K 200 Letiiu so Dnia Rozhdeniia. Materialy Nauchnykh Konferentsii. Tom 2.

Moskva: Moskovskaia Gosudarstvennaia Konservatoriia im. P. I. Chaikovskogo, 2006.

137-155.

Vereschagina, Elena and Tatiana Vereschagina. "Prince Igor: The Score As Is." Metropolitan

Opera Program for Alexander Borodin, Prince Igor. 2014.

http://metopera.org/PageFiles/41061/Feb%2021%20Prince%20Igor.pdf.

Vijvers, Willem Gerard. Alexander Borodin: Composer, Scientist, Educator: a Biography.

Amsterdam: American Book Center, 2013.

208

Wachtel, Michael. “Pushkin’s Long Poems and the Epic Impulse.” In The Cambridge

Companion to Pushkin. 75-89. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006.

Westrup, J.A. “The Nature of Recitative.” Aspects of Art Lecture. From The Proceedings of the

British Academy, Volume XLII. London: Oxford University Press, 1956.

Whittaker, Cynthia H. "The Ideology of Sergei Uvarov: An Interpretive Essay." The Russian

Review 37, no. 2 (1978): 158-76.

Whittall, Arnold. "Gloriana." Grove Music Online. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/

grovemusic/view/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.001.0001/omo-9781561592630.

Williams, Simon. “The Spectacle of the Past in Grand Opera.” The Cambridge Companion to

Grand Opera. Edited by David Charlton. Cambridge: The University of Cambridge

Press, 2003. 58-75.

Woodside, Mary S. "Leitmotiv in Russia: Glinka's Use of the Whole-Tone Scale." 19th-Century

Music 14, no. 1 (1990): 67-74. doi:10.2307/746677.

Yarustovsky, Boris. Opernaia dramaturgiia Chaikovskogo. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe

Muzykal’noe izdatel’stvo, 1947.

Zalizniak, Andrei Anatolievich. Slovo o Polku Igoreve: Vzgliad Lingvista. Moskva: Iazyki

Slavianskoi Kul’tury, 2004.

Zavlunov, Daniil Yakov. M.I. Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar (1836): An Historical and

Analytic Theoretical Study. PhD diss., Princeton University, 2010. ProQuest. (3435952).

Zhukov, Dmitry. Avvakum Petrov. Russkie pisateli XVII veka. Moskva: Molodaia gvardiia, 1972.

Print.

209

Appendix A: Note on Musical Samples

The musical samples are given in the supplemental materials. They are given in the order in which they are listed in the dissertation.

210