Another Muscovite composer of widely different temperament to Ippolitov-Ivanov, or Kalinnikov, is Sergius Ivanovich Taneiev,[51] born November 13/25, 1856, in the Government of Vladimir. He studied under Nicholas Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky at the Moscow Conservatoire and made his début as a pianist at one of the concerts of the I.R.M.S. in 1875. He remained Tchaikovsky’s friend long after he had ceased to be his pupil, and among the many letters they exchanged in after years there is one published in Tchaikovsky’s “Life and Letters,” dated January 14/26, 1891, which appears to be a reply to Taneiev’s question: “How should Opera be written?” At this time Taneiev was engaged upon his Orestes, the only work of the kind he has ever composed. The libretto, based upon the Aeschylean tragedy, is the work of Benkstern and has considerable literary merit. Orestes, although described by Taneiev as a Trilogy, is, in fact, an opera in three acts entitled respectively: (1) Agamemnon, (2) Choephoroe, (3) Eumenides. Neither in his choice of subject, nor in his treatment of it, has Taneiev followed the advice given him by Tchaikovsky in the letter mentioned above. Perhaps it was not in his nature to write opera “just as it came to him,” or to show much emotional expansiveness. Neither does he attempt to write music which is archaic in style; on the contrary, Orestes is in many respects a purely Wagnerian opera. Leitmotifs are used freely, though less systematically than in the later Wagnerian music-dramas. The opera, though somewhat cold and laboured, is not wanting in dignity, and is obviously the work of a highly educated musician. The representative themes, if they are rather short-winded, are often very expressive; this is the case with the leitmotif of the ordeal of Orestes, which stands out prominently in the first part of the work, and also forms the motive of the short introduction to the Trilogy.
Towards the close of last century the new tendencies which are labelled respectively “impressionism,” “decadence,” and “symbolism,” according to the point of view from which they are being discussed, began to make themselves felt in Russian art, resulting in a partial reaction from the vigorous realism of the ’sixties and ’seventies, and also from the academic romanticism which was the prevalent note of the cosmopolitan Russian school. What Debussy had derived from his study of Moussorgsky and other Russian composers, the Slavs now began to take back with interest from the members of the younger French school. The flattering tribute of imitation hitherto offered to Glinka, Tchaikovsky, and Wagner was now to be transferred to Gabriel Fauré, Debussy, and Ravel. In two composers this new current of thought is clearly observed.
Vladimir Ivanovich Rebikov (b. 1866) received most of his musical education in Berlin and Vienna. On his return to Russia he settled for a time at Odessa, where his first opera In the Storm was produced in 1894. A few years later he organised a new branch of the I.R.M.S. at Kishiniev, but in 1901 he took up his abode permanently in Moscow. Rebikov has expressed his own musical creed in the following words: “Music is the language of the emotions. Our emotions have neither starting point, definite form, nor ending: when we transmit them through music it should be in conformity with this point of view.”[52] Acting upon this theory, Rebikov’s music, though it contains a good deal that is original, leaves an impression of vagueness and formlessness on the average mind; not, of course, as compared with the very latest examples of modernism, but in comparison with what immediately precedes it in Russian music. In his early opera In the Storm, based on Korolenko’s legend “The Forest is Murmuring” (Liess Shoumit), the influence of Tchaikovsky is still apparent. His second work, The Christmas Tree, was produced at the Aquarium Theatre, Moscow, in 1903. Cheshikin says that the libretto is a combination of one of Dostoievsky’s tales with Hans Andersen’s “The Little Match-Girl” and Hauptmann’s “Hannele.” The contrast between the sad reality of life and the bright visions of Christmastide lend themselves to scenic effects. The music is interesting by reason of its extreme modern tendencies. The opera contains several orchestral numbers which seem to have escaped the attention of enterprising conductors—a Valse, a March of Gnomes, a Dance of Mummers, and a Dance of Chinese Dolls.
The second composer to whom I referred as showing signs of French impressionist influence is Serge Vassilenko (b. 1872, Moscow). He first came before the public in 1902 with a Cantata, The Legend of the City of Kitezh. Like Rachmaninov’s Aleko, this was also a diploma work. The following year it was given in operatic form by the Private Opera Company in Moscow. Some account of the beautiful mystical legend of the city that was miraculously saved from the Tatars by the fervent prayers of its inhabitants has already been given in the chapter dealing with Rimsky-Korsakov. It remains to be said that Vassilenko’s treatment of the subject is in many ways strong and original. He is remarkably successful in reviving the remote, fantastic, rather austere atmosphere of Old Russia, and uses Slavonic and Tatar melodies in effective contrast. The work, which does not appear to have become a repertory opera, is worth the study of those who are interested in folk-music.
There is little satisfaction in presenting my readers with a mere list of names, but space does not permit me to do much more in the case of the following composers:
G. A. Kazachenko (b. 1858), of Malo-Russian origin, has written two operas: Prince Serebryany (1892) and Pan Sotnik (1902),[53] which have met with some success. A. N. Korestchenko, the composer of Belshazzar’s Feast (1892), The Angel of Death (Lermontov), and The Ice Palace (1900). N. R. Kochetov, whose Terrible Revenge (Gogol) was produced in St. Petersburg in 1897; and Lissenko, sometimes called “the Malo-Russian Glinka,” the composer of a whole series of operas that enjoy some popularity in the southern provinces of Russia.
This list is by no means exhaustive, for the proportion of Russian composers who have produced operatic works is a striking fact in the artistic history of the country—a phenomenon which can only be attributed to the encouragement held out to musicians by the great and increasing number of theatres scattered over the vast surface of the Empire.
As we have seen, all the leading representatives of Russian music, whether they belonged to the nationalist movement or not, occupied themselves with opera. There are, however, two distinguished exceptions. Anatol Constantinovich Liadov (b. 1855) and Alexander Constantinovich Glazounov (b. 1865) were both members, at any rate for a certain period of their lives, of the circles of Balakirev and Belaiev, but neither of them have shared the common attraction to dramatic music. Glazounov, it is true, has written some remarkably successful ballets—“Raymonda” and “The Seasons”—but shows no inclination to deal with the problems of operatic style.
The “opera-ballet,” which is not—what at the present moment it is frequently being called—a new form of operatic art, but merely the revival of an old one,[54] is engaging the attention of the followers of Rimsky-Korsakov. At the same time it should be observed that the application of this term to A Night in May and The Golden Cock is not sanctioned by what the composer himself has inscribed upon the title pages.
At the present time the musical world is eagerly expecting the production of Igor Stravinsky’s first opera The Nightingale. This composer, by his ballets The Bird of Fire, Petrouchka, and The Sacrifice to Spring, has worked us up through a steady crescendo of interest to a climax of curiosity as to what he will produce next. So far, we know him only as the composer of highly original and often brilliant instrumental works. It is difficult to prophesy what his treatment of the vocal element in music may prove to be. The work is in three acts, based upon Hans Andersen’s story of the Emperor of China and the Nightingale. The opera was begun several years ago, and we are therefore prepared to find in it some inequality of style; but the greater part of it, so we are told, bears the stamp of Stravinsky’s “advanced” manner, and the fundamental independence and novelty of the score of The Sacrifice to Spring leads us to expect in The Nightingale a work of no ordinary power.
Russia, from the earliest institution of her opera houses, has always been well served as regards foreign artists. All the great European stars have been attracted there by the princely terms offered for their services. Russian opera, however, had to be contented for a long period with second-rate singers. Gradually the natural talent of the race was cultivated, and native singers appeared upon the scene who were equal in every respect to those imported from abroad. The country has always been rich in bass and baritone voices. One of the most remarkable singers of the last century, O. A. Petrov (1807-1878), was a bass-baritone of a beautiful quality, with a compass extending from B to G sharp. He made his début at the Imperial Opera, St. Petersburg, in 1830, as Zoroaster in “The Magic Flute.” Stassov often spoke to me of this great artist, the operatic favourite of his young days. There were few operatic stars, at least at that period, who did not—so Stassov declared—make themselves ridiculous at times. Petrov was the exception. He was a great actor; his facial play was varied and expressive, without the least exaggeration; he was picturesque, forcible, graceful, and, above all, absolutely free from conventional pose. His interpretation of the parts of Ivan Sousanin in A Life for the Tsar, the Miller in The Roussalka, of Leporello in The Stone Guest, and, even in his last days, of Varlaam in Boris Godounov, were inimitable for their depth of feeling, historic truth, intellectual grasp, and sincerity. Artistically speaking, Petrov begat Shaliapin.
To Petrov succeeded Melnikov, a self-taught singer, who was particularly fine in the parts of Russlan, the Miller, and Boris Godounov. Among true basses Karyakin possessed a phenomenal voice, but not much culture. A critic once aptly compared his notes for power, depth, and roundness to a row of mighty oaken barrels.
Cui, in his “Recollections of the Opera,” speaks of the following artists, stars of the Maryinsky Theatre, St. Petersburg, between 1872 and 1885: Menshikova, who possessed a powerful soprano voice of rare beauty; Raab, who was musically gifted; Levitskaya, distinguished for her sympathetic qualities, and Pavlovskaya, a remarkably intelligent and “clever” artist. But his brightest memories of this period centre around Platonova. Her voice was not of exceptional beauty, but she was so naturally gifted, and her impersonation so expressive, that she never failed to make a profound impression. “How she loved Russian art,” says Cui, “and with what devotion she was prepared to serve it in comparison with most of the favourite singers of the day! None of us native composers, old or young, could have dispensed with her. The entire Russian repertory rested on her, and she bore the burden courageously and triumphantly.” Her best parts were Antonida in A Life for the Tsar, Natasha in The Roussalka, Marina in Boris Godounov, and Donna Anna in The Stone Guest.
Among contraltos, after Leonova’s day, Lavrovskaya and Kroutikova were the most popular. The tenors Nikolsky, Orlov, and Vassiliev all had fine voices. Orlov was good as Michael Toucha in The Maid of Pskov; while Vassiliev’s best part was the King of Berendei in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Snow Maiden. Another tenor, whose reputation however was chiefly made abroad, was Andreiev.
Later on, during the ’eighties and ’nineties, Kamenskaya, a fine soprano, was inimitable in the part of Rogneda (Serov), and in Tchaikovsky’s Maid of Orleans. Dolina, a rich and resonant mezzo-soprano, excelled as Ratmir in Glinka’s Russlan. Slavina, whose greatest success was in Bizet’s “Carmen,” and Mravina, a high coloratura soprano, were both favourites at this time. To this period also belong the triumphs of the Figners—husband and wife. Medea Figner was perhaps at her best as Carmen, and her husband was an admirable Don José, but it is as the creator of Lensky in Eugene Oniegin, and of Herman in The Queen of Spades that he will live in the affections of the Russian public.
SHALIAPIN AS DON QUIXOTE
SHALIAPIN AS DON QUIXOTE
In Feodor Ivanovich Shaliapin, Russia probably possesses the greatest living operatic artist. Born February 1/13, 1873, in the picturesque old city of Kazan, he is of peasant descent. He had practically no education in childhood, and as regards both his intellectual and musical culture he is, to all intents and purposes, an autodidact. For a time he is said to have worked with a shoe-maker in the same street where Maxim Gorky was toiling in the baker’s underground shop, so graphically described in his tale “Twenty-six and One.” For a short period Shaliapin sang in the Archbishop’s choir, but at seventeen he joined a local operetta company which was almost on the verge of bankruptcy. When no pay was forthcoming, he earned a precarious livelihood by frequenting the railway station and doing the work of an outporter. He was often perilously near starvation. Later on, he went with a travelling company of Malo-Russians to the region of the Caspian and the Caucasus. On this tour he sang—and danced, when occasion demanded. In 1892 he found himself in Tiflis, where his voice and talents attracted the attention of a well-known singer Oussatov, who gave him some lessons and got him engaged at the opera in that town. He made his début at Tiflis in A Life for the Tsar. In 1894 he sang in St. Petersburg, at the Summer Theatre in the Aquarium, and also at the Panaevsky Theatre. The following year he was engaged at the Maryinsky Theatre, but the authorities seem to have been blind to the fact that in Shaliapin they had acquired a second Petrov. His appearances there were not very frequent. It was not until 1896, when the lawyer-millionaire Mamantov paid the fine which released him from the service of the Imperial Opera House, and invited him to join the Private Opera Company at Moscow, that Shaliapin got his great chance in life. He became at once the idol of the Muscovites, and admirers journeyed from St. Petersburg and the provinces to hear him. When I visited St. Petersburg in 1897, I found Vladimir Stassov full of enthusiasm for the genius of Shaliapin. Unluckily for me, the season of the Private Opera Company had just come to an end, but I learnt at secondhand to know and appreciate Shaliapin in all his great impersonations. By 1899 the Imperial Opera of Moscow had engaged him at a salary of 60,000 roubles a year. His fame soon spread abroad and he was in request at Monte Carlo, Buenos Aires, and Milan; in the last named city he married, and installed himself in a house there for a time. Visits to New York and Paris followed early in this century, and finally, through the enterprise of Sir Joseph Beecham, London had an opportunity of hearing this great artist during the season of 1913. Speaking to me of his London experiences, Shaliapin was evidently deeply moved by, and not a little astonished at, the enthusiastic welcome accorded to him and to his compatriots. He had, of course, been told that we were a cold and phlegmatic race, but he found in our midst such heart-felt warmth and sincerity as he had never before experienced outside Russia.
Shaliapin’s romantic history has proved a congenial soil for the growth of all manner of sensational tales and legends around his life and personality. They make amusing material for newspaper and magazine articles; but as I am here concerned with history rather than with fiction, I will forbear to repeat more than one anecdote connected with his career. The incident was related to me by a famous Russian musician. I will not, however, vouch for its veracity, but only for its highly picturesque and dramatic qualities. A few years ago the chorus of the Imperial Opera House desired to present a petition to the Emperor. It was arranged that after one of the earlier scenes in Boris Godounov the curtain should be rung up again, and the chorus should be discovered kneeling in an attitude of supplication, their faces turned towards the Imperial box, while their chosen representative should offer the petition to the “exalted personage” who was attending the opera that night. When the curtain went up for the second time it disclosed an unrehearsed effect. Shaliapin, who was not aware of the presentation of the petition by the chorus, had not left the stage in time. There, among the crowd of humble petitioners, stood Tsar Boris; dignified, colossal, the very personification of kingly authority, in his superb robes of cloth of gold, with the crown of Monomakh upon his head. For one thrilling, sensational moment Tsar Boris stood face to face with Tsar Nicholas II.; then some swift impulse, born of custom, of good taste, or of the innate spirit of loyalty that lurks in every Russian heart, brought the dramatic situation to an end. Tsar Boris dropped on one knee, mingling with the supplicating crowd, and etiquette triumphed, to the inward mortification of a contingent of hot-headed young revolutionists who had hoped to see him defy convention to the last.
In Russia, where some kind of political leitmotif is bound to accompany a great personality through life, however much he may wish to disassociate himself from it, attempts have been made to identify Shaliapin with the extreme radical party. It is sufficient, and much nearer the truth, to say that he is a patriot, with all that the word implies of love for one’s country as it is, and hope for what its destinies may yet be. Shaliapin could not be otherwise than patriotic, seeing that he is Russian through and through. When we are in his society the two qualities which immediately rivet our attention are his Herculean virility and his Russian-ness. He is Russian in his sincerity and candour, in his broad human sympathies, and in a certain child-like simplicity which is particularly engaging in this much-worshipped popular favourite. He is Russian, too, in his extremes of mood, which are reflected so clearly in his facial expression. Silent and in repose, he has the look of almost tragic sadness and patient endurance common in the peasant types of Great Russia. But suddenly his whole face is lit up with a smile which is full of drollery, and his humour is frank and infectious.
As an actor his greatest quality appears to me to be his extraordinary gift of identification with the character he is representing. Shaliapin does not merely throw himself into the part, to use a phrase commonly applied to the histrionic art. He seems to disappear, to empty himself of all personality, that Boris Godounov or Ivan the Terrible may be re-incarnated for us. It might pass for some occult process; but it is only consummate art. While working out his own conception of a part, unmoved by convention or opinion, Shaliapin neglects no accessory study that can heighten the realism of his interpretation. It is impossible to see him as Ivan the Terrible, or Boris, without realising that he is steeped in the history of those periods, which live again at his will.[55] In the same way he has studied the masterpieces of Russian art to good purpose, as all must agree who have compared the scene of Ivan’s frenzied grief over the corpse of Olga, in the last scene of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera, with Repin’s terrible picture of the Tsar, clasping in his arms the body of the son whom he has just killed in a fit of insane anger. The agonising remorse and piteous senile grief have been transferred from Repin’s canvas to Shaliapin’s living picture, without the revolting suggestion of the shambles which mars the painter’s work. Sometimes, too, Shaliapin will take a hint from the living model. His dignified make-up as the Old Believer Dositheus, in Moussorgsky’s Khovanstchina, owes not a little to the personality of Vladimir Stassov.
Here is an appreciation of Shaliapin which will be of special interest to the vocalist:
“One of the most striking features of his technique is the remarkable fidelity of word utterance which removes all sense of artificiality, so frequently associated with operatic singing. His diction floats on a beautiful cantilena, particularly in his mezzo-voce singing, which—though one would hardly expect it from a singer endowed with such a noble bass voice—is one of the most telling features of his performance. There is never any striving after vocal effects, and his voice is always subservient to the words. This style of singing is surely that which Wagner so continually demanded from his interpreters; but it is the antithesis of that staccato ‘Bayreuth bark’ which a few years ago so woefully misrepresented the master’s ideal of fine lyric diction. The atmosphere and tone-colour which Shaliapin imparts to his singing are of such remarkable quality that one feels his interpretation of Schubert’s ‘Doppelgänger’ must of necessity be a thing of genius, unapproachable by other contemporary singers. The range of his voice is extensive, for though of considerable weight in the lower parts, his upper register is remarkable in its conformity to his demands. The sustained upper E natural with which he finishes that great song ‘When the king went forth to war,’ is uttered with a delicate pianissimo that would do credit to any lyric tenor or soprano. Yet his technique is of that high order that never obtrudes itself upon the hearer. It is always his servant, never his master. His readings are also his own, and it is his absence of all conventionality that makes his singing of the ‘Calunnia’ aria from ‘Il Barbiere’ a thing of delight, so full of humour is its interpretation, and so satisfying to the demands of the most exacting ‘bel cantist.’ The reason is not far to seek, for his method is based upon a thoroughly sound breath control, which produces such splendid cantabile results. Every student should listen to this great singer and profit by his art.”[56]
A few concluding words as to the present conditions of opera in Russia. They have greatly changed during the last thirty years. In St. Petersburg the Maryinsky Theatre, erected in 1860, renovated in 1894, and more or less reorganised in 1900, was for a long time the only theatre available for Russian opera in the capital. In 1900 the People’s Palace, with a theatre that accommodates 1,200 spectators, was opened with a performance of A Life for the Tsar; here the masterpieces of national opera are now given from time to time at popular prices. Opera is also given in the great hall of the Conservatoire, formerly the “Great Theatre”; and occasionally in the “Little Theatre.” In Moscow the “Great Theatre” or Opera House is the official home of music-drama. It now has as rivals, the Zimin Opera (under the management of S. I. Zimin) and the National Opera. In 1897 the Moscow Private Opera Company was started with the object of producing novelties by Russian composers, and encouraging native opera in general. It was located at first in the Solodovnikov Theatre, under the management of Vinter, and the conductorship of Zeleny. It soon blossomed into a fine organisation when S. Mamantov, a wealthy patron of art, came to its support. Through its palmy days (1897-1900), Ippolitov-Ivanov was the conductor, and a whole series of national operas by Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, and others were superbly staged. Shaliapin first made his mark at this time.
Numerous private opera companies sprang up in Russia about the close of last century. Cheshikin gives a list of over sixty, mounting opera in the provinces between 1896 and 1903; indeed the whole country from Archangel to Astrakhan and from Vilna to Vladivostok seems to have been covered by these enterprising managers; and the number has doubtless increased in the last ten years. When, in addition to these, we reckon the many centres which boast a state-supported opera house, it would appear that Russians have not much to complain of as regards this form of entertainment. But the surface of the country is vast, and there are still districts where cultivated music, good or bad, is an unknown enjoyment. Nor must we imagine that the standard of these provincial private companies is always an exalted one, or that national operas, if presented at all, are mounted as we are accustomed to see them in Western Europe. We may hope that the case cited by a critic, of a Moscow manager who produced Donizetti’s “La Fille du Régiment” under the title of “A Daughter of the Regiment of La Grande Armée,” in a Russian version said to have been the work of an English nursery governess, with a picture of the Battle of Marengo as a set background, was altogether exceptional. But indifferent performances do occur, even in a country so highly educated in operatic matters as Russia may fairly claim to be.
As I write the last pages of this book, the comprehensiveness of its title fills me with dismay. “An Introduction to the Study of Russian Opera” would have been more modest and appropriate, since no complete and well-balanced survey of the subject could possibly be contained in a volume of this size. Much that is interesting has been passed over without comment; and many questions demanded much fuller treatment. One fact, however, I have endeavoured to set forth in these pages in the clearest and most emphatic terms: Russian opera is beyond all question a genuine growth of the Russian soil; it includes the aroma and flavour of its native land “as the wine must taste of its own grapes.” Its roots lie deep in the folk-music, where they have spread and flourished naturally and without effort. So profoundly embedded and so full of vitality are its fibres, that nothing has been able to check their growth and expansion. Discouraged by the Church, its germs still lived on in the music of the people; neglected by the professional element, it found shelter in the hearts of amateurs; refused by the Imperial Opera Houses, it flourished in the drawing-rooms of a handful of enthusiasts. It has always existed in some embryonic form as an inherent part of the national life; and when at last it received official recognition, it quickly absorbed all that was given to it in the way of support and attention, but persisted in throwing out its vigorous branches in whatever direction it pleased. Persecution could not kill it, nor patronage spoil it; because it is one with the soul of the people. May it long retain its lofty idealism and sane vigour!
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, Y.
Abizare, 35
Acts of Artaxerxes, The, 16, 17
Act of Joseph, The, 32
Adam and Eve, 18
Alcide, 53
Aleko, 373
Alexander and Darius, 25
Americans, The, 41, 43
Amore per Regnante, 34
Angel of Death, The, 380
Angelo, 272, 273, 274
Aniouta, 40, 41, 42, 96
Armida, 50
Askold’s Tomb, 64
Assya, 375
Belshazzar’s Feast, 380
Berenice, 34
Bird of Fire, The, 59, 382
Boeslavich, The Novgorodian Hero, 40, 41
Boris Godounov, 225, 228-240, 250, 388
Boundary Hills, The, 64
Boyarinya Vera Sheloga, 291, 308
Caprice d’Oxane, Le (see Cherevichek), 304
Captain’s Daughter, The, 280
Captive in the Caucasus, The, 269, 274
Cephalus and Procius, 36
Charodeika (see The Enchantress)
Chaste Joseph, The, 18
Cherevichek, 342, 343, 358, 359
Chlorida and Milon, 41
Christmas Eve Revels, 304, 305, 306, 341
Christmas Festivals of Old, 67
Christmas Tree, The, 379
Christus, 166
Citizens of Nijny-Novgorod, The, 364, 365
Clemenza di Tito, La, 36
Cosa Rara, La, 49
Cossack Poet, The, 59
Credulity, 67
Cruelty of Nero, The, 25
Daphnis Pursued, 28
Deborah, 66
Demofonti, 53
Demon, The, 165, 172-177
Dianino, 49
Dido Forsaken, 35
Didone, 52
Dmitri Donskoi, 163, 168-172
Dobrynia Nikitich, 59, 374
Doubrovsky, 366
Dream on the Volga, A, 370, 371
Early Reign of Oleg, The, 47, 50
Enchantress, The, 353, 354, 358
Epic of the Army of Igor, The, 2
Esmeralda, 119, 124, 171
Esther, 66
Eudocia Crowned, or Theodosia II, 35
Eugene Oniegin, 344-347, 350, 353, 355, 357, 358, 359, 363, 371, 375
Fair at Sorochinsi, The, 228
Fall of Sophonisba, The, 27
Faucon, Le, 54
Feast in Time of Plague, A, 277
Fedoul and Her Children, 47, 49
Feramors, 165, 181
Feveï, Tsarevich, 46, 47
Fils Rival, Le, 54
Fingal, 66
Flibustier, Le, 275, 276
Forced Marriage, The, 67
Forza dell’Amore e dell’Odio, La, 34
Francesca da Rimini, 366, 367
Golden Calf, The, 22
Golden Cock, The, 325-331, 382
Good Luke, or Here’s my Day, 49
Good Maiden, The, 40
Goriousha, 166
Gostinny Dvor of St. Petersburg, The, 45
Gromoboi, 65
Hadji-Abrek, 164, 171
Harold, 365, 366
Homesickness, 64
Ice Palace, The, 380
Ilya the Hero, 59, 60
In the Storm, 378
Invisible Prince, The, 59
Iolanthe, 357, 358
Iphigenia in Aulis, 49
Iphigenia in Taurida, 52
Ivan Sousanin, 59, 60, 62, 90, 91, 92
Ivan the Terrible (see The Maid of Pskov)
Judith, 150-154, 191
Judith cut off the head of Holofernes, How, 18, 19, 20
Kastchei the Immortal, 318, 319, 320
Khovanstchina, 241-248, 293
Kinder der Heide, 165
Kitezh, the Invisible City of, 321-325, 329
—— The legend of the City of, 379, 380
Legend of Tsar Saltan, The, 315, 316
Life for the Tsar, A, 62, 86, 93-104, 145, 171, 291, 292, 363, 393
Love Brings Trouble, 46
Maccabees, The, 165
Mahomet and Zulima, 25
Maid of Orleans, The, 349, 350, 358
Maid of Pskov, The, 171, 283, 289-295, 308, 340
Mam’selle Fifi, 276
Mandarin’s Son, The, 269
Mary of Burgundy, 368
Match-Maker, The, 226, 227
Mazeppa, 350-353, 358, 359
Médecin malgré lui, Le, 25
Merchant Kalashnikov, The, 166, 177-180
Miller, The Wizard-, 40, 42, 44, 56, 96
Minerva Triumphant, 39
Miroslava, or the Funeral Pyre, 60
Miser, The, 48
Mithriadates, 35
Mlada, 303, 304
Moonlight Night, or The Domovoi, A, 68
Moses, 166
Mountains of Piedmont, The, 60
Mozart and Salieri, 307, 317
Mummers, The, 367
Nal and Damyanti, 372
Nativity, 22
Nebuchadnezzar, 21
Nero, 165, 171
Night in May, A, 295-299, 382
Nightingale, The, 382
Œdipus, 224, 225
Œdipus in Athens, 66
Œdipus Rex, 66
Oprichnik, The, 337-341, 350, 358, 359, 363
Orestes, 376, 377
Orpheus, 41
Orpheus and Eurydice, 18
Pan Sotnik, 380
Pan Tvardovsky, 64
Pan Voyevode, 320, 321
Papagei, Der, 166
Paradise Lost, 165
Peasants, The, or The Unexpected Meeting, 59
Petrouchka, 322, 382
Pique-Dame (see The Queen of Spades)
Power of Evil, The, 157, 158, 159
Prince Igor, 171, 182, 192, 206, 256-266, 296, 374
Prince Kholmsky, 104
Prince Serebryany, 380
Prisoner in the Caucasus, The, 68, 188
Prodigal Son, The, 22
Queen of Spades, The, 354-357, 358, 359, 363
Quinto Fabio, 53
Raphael, 371
Regeneration, 40
Ré Pastore, Il, 52
Rogneda, 154, 155, 156
Roussalka, The, 121-130
Roussalka of the Dnieper, The, 59
Roussalka-Maiden, The, 368
Ruins of Babylon, The, 59
Russlan and Liudmilla, 77, 83, 105-114, 145, 261, 291, 292, 374
Ruth, 375
Sadko, The Rich Merchant, 1
Sadko, a legendary opera, 251, 288, 309-312
Saint Alexis, 21
Salammbô, 225
Saracen, The, 274, 275
Scipio Africanus, 27
Seleucus, 35
Servilia, 317, 318
Shulamite, The, 166, 180
Sibirskie Okhotniki (The Siberian Hunters), 164
Sinner’s Repentance, The, 38
Skomorokhi (see The Mummers)
Snow-Maiden, The, 295, 299-303
Stone Guest, The, 123, 130-136, 187, 218, 251, 261, 290
Svietlana, 60
Tale of the Invisible City of Kitezh, The, (see Kitezh)
Taniousha, or the Fortunate Meeting, 39, 42
Terrible Revenge, 380
Three Hunchback Brothers, The, 59
Tobias, 18
Tom the Fool (Thomouska-Dourachok), 163
Toushino, 368
Tower of Babel, The, 165, 171, 180
Tradimento per l’honore, Il, 27
Triumph of Bacchus, The, 120, 122
Tsar’s Bride, The, 312-315
Tutor-Professor, The, 41
Two Antons, The, 48
Undine, 337
Vadim, or The Twenty Sleeping Maidens, 64
Vakoula the Smith (see Le Caprice d’Oxane), 304, 342
Veillée des Paysans, La, 67
Village Festival, a, 49
Voyevode, The, 336-338
Wave, The, 369
William Ratcliff, 269-272
Wizard, The Fortune-Teller and the Match-maker, The, 41
Year 1812, The, 375
Youth of John III, The, 60