Patriotic Elegy and Epic Illusion: Schiller’s Johanna in Russia

CHAPTER 4 Patriotic Elegy and Epic Illusion: Schiller’s Johanna in Russia PART I. ZHUKOVSKY’S Opлeaнcкaя дeвa (“MAID OF ORLEANS”) The distance between Verdi’s Milan and Zhukovsky’s Petersburg is great enough, but the difference between Italy of 1845 and Russia of 1824 is greater still. Whereas Western Europe had by then already experienced revolution, restoration, and counter-revolution, Russia was locked in the grip of an aristocracy heedless of change. The result of this difference meant that the two decades dividing Verdi’s Giovanna from Zhukovsky’s Ioanna actually amounted to a cultural divide at least twice that size. Just as Milan represented an aspirational pinnacle fraught with infuriating disappointments and frustrations for Verdi, so Petersburg became the place where Zhukovsky’s hopes for his art failed to translate into positive change for his homeland. The Russian poet’s enormous talent represented the foundational efforts to bring forth Romanticism in Russian literature and inspired a generation of reform-minded thinkers, but the hostility between the forces supporting the Russian aristocracy and those resisting it would continuously impede chances for a broad reconciliation. Vasily Andreevich Zhukovsky (1783–1852) spent his entire career convinced that poetry and literature were the keys to raising the consciousness of Russia’s ruling classes and that this in turn would resolve the larger social problems facing the Russian empire. Those whom he persuaded, much to his dismay, often concluded that reform would never © The Author(s) 2019 J. Pendergast, Joan of Arc on the Stage and Her Sisters in Sublime Sanctity, Bernard Shaw and His Contemporaries, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27889-2_4 131 132 J. PENDERGAST be enough: The monarchy and aristocracy themselves were the problem. Zhukovsky would never accept this. One of the pinnacles of his creative output is his translation of Schiller’s Jungfrau von Orleans, published in 1824 as Opлeaнcкaя дeвa (Orleanskaya deva “The Orleans Maid”). The works related to its creation and the forces that prevented its performance during his lifetime coalesce to provide a study of the inherently patriotic and elegiac quality of all of Zhukovsky’s work and the disparity that exists between his lofty aspirations and the historical circumstances that doomed them. Zhukovsky had genuine and ardent ties to the royal family. Beginning in 1815, he was reader to the dowager Empress, Mariya Fëdorovna, who had been Tsar Pavl’s Tsaritsa. This was essentially a sinecure that provided him with some income, while allowing him to continue other literary activities. In 1817, his duties expanded to include teaching Russian to the young German bride of Grand Prince Nikolay Pavlovich, the future Tsar Nikolay I (1796–1855).1 She was Princess Aleksandra Fëdorovna (Charlotte of Prussia, 1798–1860), whose brother was Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm III, future King of Prussia (Semenko 26–27). When their son, Aleksandr Nikolaevich, reached eight years of age in 1826, Zhukovsky became tutor to the future Tsar Aleksandr II (1818–1881).2 Although these aristocratic appointments were significant and afforded him broad access to confidence and privilege, Zhukovsky was prevented from promotion in rank or advantageous marriage by the circumstances of his birth. Zhukovsky was born on an estate in the Tula province on 9 February 1783 (NS).3 Although his father was a wealthy landowner, his mother was a slave who had been acquired during the war in Turkey in 1770 (Semenko 13–15). His illegitimacy demanded that he be denied the patronymic4 and surname of his father, Afanasy Ivanovich Bunin, and instead have that of his godfather, Andrey Zhukovsky, an impoverished nobleman. His noble blood secured a degree of material security for the boy but made him an outsider in his own family. “I was not left behind or cast aside; I had my corner,” he wrote of his childhood: “but I was no one’s favorite and felt no one’s love” (Makogonenko 248).5 Zhukovsky found solace in the company of works of literature. At the age of fourteen, he moved to Moscow and was provided a place at a pensionat for the children of nobility, where he met the Turgenev brothers, Andrey, Nikolay, and Aleksandr.6 Their father, Ivan Petrovich Turgenev, was the director of Moscow University and was on good 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 133 terms with Zhukovsky’s father (Semenko 15–16). The pensionat was a subsidiary of Moscow University. The primary venue for Zhukovsky’s exposure to literature—especially contemporary literature—was not the classroom. He was initially encouraged to take up Schiller by Andrey Turgenev, who was the leader of Arzamas, a literary society which existed outside the confines of the university but took its mission very seriously: “The friends were concerned with social and moral issues – about man, his rights and obligations to the people and homeland – they were interested in the fate of literature, the creativity of modern writers” (Makogonenko 247–48).7 One month after the coronation of Tsar Aleksandr I in 1801, Turgenev gave a speech at a meeting of the society, professing fervent feelings of love for his homeland and calling for his fellows, “to be its sons, to sacrifice all in danger for its well-being” (248).8 Zhukovsky very likely heard these words, but his poetic sentiments, no doubt influenced by his childhood experiences, tended initially to be more concerned with the individual’s struggle for personal happiness as against the exigencies of fate. Bowman, Terras, and Pein all agree that Zhukovsky’s enthusiastic commitment to rendering Schiller, as well as Goethe, Tieck and others, into Russian made him a primary conduit for the transference of German Romanticism into Russia. In translating these works, he seems to embrace Schiller’s dictum on translation: “Von einer Übersetzung fordere ich, daß die Treue mit Wohlklang verbinde; daneben den Genius der Sprache, in der sie geschrieben ist – nicht aber den der Originalsprache atme.”9 Many of the German ideas, particularly Schiller’s, were significantly altered in the process, which shall be seen in the examples to follow. These alterations seem to consist of three broad types: a tendency to embrace antiquated or intentionally conservative styles, especially those expressive of loss or longing; the prominence of explicitly religious terminology, in place of the more generally spiritual; the exaltation of patriotism over nationalism, a distinction more significant than it may seem at first. Given the largely conservative nature of the literary atmosphere in which Zhukovsky began writing, it is perhaps not surprising that the Russian poet’s output, from roughly 1802 to his death in 1852, is concerned primarily with the types of poetic genres—odes, elegies, and ballads—that began appearing four or five decades earlier in Western Europe. His immediate forebears, such as Derzhavin and Karamzin, had been pioneers in public- and civic-minded odes and elegies, whereas Zhukovsky’s achievement in poetry consisted primarily in refining the 134 J. PENDERGAST quality of the verse and in lending it more personal content. Given his immutable outsider status, it is also not surprising that he consistently invested this poetry with the themes of loss and longing, arising from his own deeply painful personal experiences. For example, although he eventually developed affectionate ties with both his birth mother, Elizaveta Dementevna, and his adoptive mother, Mariya Bunina—that is, his father’s wife—he lost both of them when they unexpectedly died in 1811 (Semenko 23). Prior to that, Andrey, the Turgenev brother to whom he was closest, had died in 1803 (Semenko 16). He experienced a hopeless romance with his half-sister’s daughter, Mariya Protasova, who actually returned his affection. Her mother, however, rejected his proposal of marriage before he left to join the war against Napoleon in 1812, and in 1817, she married Johann Moyer. The marriage made their social interaction easier, and although all three remained on friendly terms, Zhukovsky’s love poetry continued to be filled with his unresolved feelings for Protasova. Despite the somewhat antiquated forms that Zhukovsky preferred, for Russian readers of the early nineteenth century, almost anything written in the Russian language, as opposed to French, German, or English, was still a novelty. Throughout the eighteenth century, anyone in Russia who could read would have found very little literature in Russian. In fact, most Russian aristocrats only mastered enough Russian to be able to communicate with their servants or with merchants. It seems appropriate to cite two literary examples of this situation. When Tolstoy published the first complete edition of War and Peace in 1869, the extensive conversations critical of Napoleon in the salon of Anna Scherer that make up the opening chapter were printed in French. This was because the language of the court in the early decades of the nineteenth century was French. By Tolstoy’s day, this had changed, largely because of antiFrench sentiment resulting from the Napoleonic and Crimean wars, but the setting of his novel is half a century earlier. Pushkin set his novel in verse, Evgenij Onegin, in precisely the period in which he was writing, roughly the mid-1820s, which means that, although it was written forty years before War and Peace, it takes place ten or more years later. One of the most famous episodes in that novel is the letter Tatyana writes declaring her love for Onegin. It provides a contemporaneous view of the place of French in Russian daily life. Pushkin’s first-person narrator explains the linguistic situation in stanza XXVI of Canto 3: 4 XXVI Eщe пpeдвижy зaтpyднeнья: Poднoй зeмли cпacaя чecть, Я дoлжeн бyдy, бeз coмнeнья, Пиcьмo Taтьяны пepeвecть. Oнa пo-pyccки плoxo знaлa, Жypнaлoв нaшиx нe читaлa, И выpaжaлacя c тpyдoм Ha языкe cвoeм poднoм, Итaк, пиcaлa пo-фpaнцyзcки… Чтo дeлaть! пoвтopяю внoвь: Дoнынe дaмcкaя любoвь He изъяcнялacя пo-pyccки, Дoнынe гopдый нaш язык К пoчтoвoй пpoзe нe пpивык. (Pushkin 58) PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 135 Yet I foresee some hardship: To save our homeland’s honor, I must without a doubt, Translate Tatyana’s letter. Her Russian was quite weak, She did not read our journals, And expressed herself with effort In her own native language, And so, she wrote in French… What’s to be done! I say again: Ladies in love heretofore Did not reveal it in Russian, Our proud language was heretofore Unaccustomed to prose epistles. Additionally, literacy in Russia was extremely limited, causing the relatively few practitioners to have enormous influence over their captive audience: “In the early nineteenth century, five percent of Russia’s people could read. The fate of literature was in the hands of several dozen gifted, well-born multilingual innovators concentrated in the two capitals and writing for one another” (Emerson 99). Zhukovsky’s first major literary success was his 1802 translation of Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard,” which he rendered as «Ceльcкoe клaдбищe: Eлeгия» (“Sel’skoe kladbishche: Ėlegiya” “Country Church-yard: an Elegy”) and published at the age of nineteen.10 “Zhukovsky’s ‘Country Church-yard’ was immediately acclaimed as a model of elegiac form; it was quoted in one breath with verses by the best poets of his day” (Semenko 17). As significant as are the extreme youth and talent of the poet-translator, two other characteristics of this poem stand out even more sharply and paradoxically: Although the translation is based on an elegy written fifty years earlier, it contains features representing innovations for Russian poetry that would serve the poet for the remaining fifty years of his life. Thus, the conservative form becomes the medium for inventive expression. This expression includes such devices as personification, de-generalizations, intentional use of archaisms, and emotional intensification, all of which appear over and over in the poet’s work throughout his life. Although the cumulative effect of all these changes subverts the sublime sanctity of Schiller’s Johanna, 136 J. PENDERGAST Zhukovsky makes these changes to communicate his own aesthetic ideas, which in turn prove to be enormously influential in Russian literature. The final three stanzas of the Elegy provide ample evidence of the effect Zhukovsky’s devices produce. They are marked in the Gray poem as the “Epitaph.” Zhukovsky seems to trust his reader not to need this subtitle and leaves it out. The first of the stanzas is generally very faithful, with the exception that he chooses to personify “Fair Science” as muzy (“the muses”). Not surprisingly, he retains the word “melancholy,” although in this case he resists personification: “And melancholy’s stamp was on him.” In the final two stanzas, Zhukovsky seems to decide to be freer than in his preceding verses, and to lay the groundwork for what Lebedeva calls “signal-words” of lyric poetry: sensitivity, misfortune, and tears. These are words that signal a connection between the emotional themes found in much of Romantic poetry and liberal political ideas, such as individual rights and freedom. Signal-words will be explored in greater detail below in connection with his translation of Die Jungfrau von Orleans. Their presence in one of his earliest published poems, as well as in all his later poetry, suggests that Zhukovsky’s aesthetic and political convictions, unlike those of Schiller, were formed in his youth and remained unchanged throughout his life. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear, He gain’d from Heav’n (‘twas all he wish’d) a friend. Здecь пeпeл юнoши бeзвpeмeннo coкpыли; Чтo cлaвa, cчacтиe, нe знaл oн в миpe ceм. Ho мyзы oт нeгo лицa нe oтвpaтили, И мeлaнxoлии пeчaть былa нa нeм. Oн кpoтoк cepдцeм был, чyвcтвитeлeн дyшoю — Чyвcтвитeльным Tвopeц нaгpaдy пoлoжил. Дapил нecчacтныx oн — чeм тoлькo мoг — cлeзoю; B нaгpaдy oт Tвopцa oн дpyгa пoлyчил. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. (109–10) 137 Пpoxoжий, пoмoлиcь нaд этoю мoгилoй; Oн в нeй нaшeл пpиют oт вcex зeмныx тpeвoг; Здecь вce ocтaвил oн, чтo в нeм гpexoвнo былo, C нaдeждoю, чтo жив eгo Cпacитeль-Бoг. (57) Zhukovsky maintains faithfully the gift of “a tear” offered by Gray’s youth. Whereas Gray describes the departed youth as having a “sincere soul,” Zhukovsky’s rendering conveys the idea “sensitive of soul” and then repeats the adjective to define the youth’s entire character: “the Creator laid the prize on the sensitive one.” The religious tone, implicit in Gray, especially in his final line, is considerably greater in translation. In place of the more cosmic “Heaven,” both times Zhukovsky chooses Tvorets (“the Creator”). While in lower case, this word might have been equivalent in religiosity to “Heaven,” that is to say, its interpretation could depend on the reader’s perspective. With the initial letter capitalized, the reader familiar with the Russian translation of the Bible can infer no one but the celestial entity credited in the Old Testament with making the universe and humanity. Additionally, the passerby is not merely requested to refrain from passing judgment on the departed youth: “No farther seek his merits to disclose/ Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.” Zhukovsky’s speaker invites the reader to “pray at the grave” (“pomolisʹ nad ėtoyu mogiloj”). Additionally, the departed youth is not merely in repose, but has “left behind all that was sinful in him.” Gray at no time mentions sin, and the phrase “Zdesʹ vse ostavil on, chto v nem grekhovno bylo” is arguably the most religious reference in the poem. The literary success of this religious tendency would again depend on the perspective of the potential reader, but regardless of one’s religious inclination, the context raises the stakes for the departed youth and diminishes the possibility of disinterest in his fate, which is to say that Zhukovsky’s use of de-generalization and preference for explicitly religious overtones increases the emotional intensity. One anachronism embedded in the translation is the Russian meter. The shift which he makes from the original meter is not mentioned in most of the commentary on this translation. Unlike the iambic pentameter of Gray’s original, the preferred verse form of Elizabethan poetry, 138 J. PENDERGAST Zhukovsky’s verses are in the Alexandrines preferred by French Baroque poets. The anachronism is complex. Alexandrines have their model in ancient classical poetry, yet their adoption by the French, which began in the early modern era, continued in full flower well after the Elizabethan adoption of iambic pentameter. The Elizabethan meter signaled modern innovation, whereas the French meter was an intentionally conservative aesthetic. Zhukovsky’s fidelity to Gray’s a-b-a-b rhyme scheme in each stanza precludes the possibility of the couplets usually present in Alexandrines, but it cannot be denied that nearly every verse contains the Alexandrine’s twelve syllables with a caesura at the mid-point. Harder finds fault in Zhukovsky’s early translations of Schiller precisely for his persistent use of Alexandrines: “As long as he remained trapped by Alexandrines, the metrical fetter of all poetry, and hesitated to attempt Schiller’s trochaic meter, he was only a small step from impairing the content” (169).11 In 1806, Zhukovsky published the first of his poetic creations that was not in some sense a translation, “Vecher” (“Evening”). In this poem, he uses an unusual blended meter: Three Alexandrines followed by a line of iambic tetrameter. Much of the mood certainly owes something to Gray’s “Elegy,” but in this poem, perhaps because he was under no obligation to adhere to the pattern of another author, Zhukovsky’s lyricism achieves greater intensity. Additional analysis of this poem and its significance cannot improve upon Semenko’s (45–47). Among the most noteworthy features, she finds in the poem is its musicality: “Perhaps no other Russian poet’s work was so organically connected with music” (Semenko 46). As a confirmation of this quality, we find the text used as a set-piece duet in Tchaikovsky’s opera, Pikovaya dama (The Queen of Spades). The latter part of this chapter examines Tchaikovsky’s setting of Zhukovsky’s Orleanskaya deva (his translation of Schiller’s Jungfrau von Orleans), for which the composer served as his own librettist. The librettist for The Queen of Spades was the composer’s brother, Modest. The choice to use Zhukovsky’s “Vecher” in the libretto of an opera based on a story by Pushkin appears to have been inspired by its conformity to the librettist’s intention to set the opera several decades earlier than the original setting of the story. “One deviation of the libretto from its literary original had consequences that proved crucial for the meaning of the opera: the shift of the implied time of the narrative. Pushkin’s story was written in 1833–34 and evidently takes place at about that time […] At a later stage, Tchaikovsky made his own alterations to the libretto in order to reinforce and make more explicit 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 139 the references to the 1790’s” (Gasparov 139, 141).12 Gasparov identifies a number of other anachronistic interpolations to reinforce the antiquated modality of the opera’s chronotope, including a pastoral by Pëtr Karabanov from 1786 (244). Gasparov correctly observes that Tchaikovsky’s use of Zhukovsky’s “Vecher” actually constitutes an anachronism of fewer years than, for example, the physical appearance of Ekaterina II in the opera, but clearly both the composer and his librettist found the selection of “Vecher” to be in a mood consistent with all these earlier works.13 One of Zhukovsky’s first articles on criticism to appear in print is “O poėzii drevnykh i novykh” (“On the Poetry of the Ancients and Moderns”), which was published in the Messenger of Europe (Vestnik Evropy) in 1811. He had taken over the editorship of this journal in 1808 when Karamzin decided to devote himself fully to his seminal work, The History of the Russian State. Much of the article is concerned with the merits of classical Greek tragedians’ depictions of persons and actions relative to those by poets of the modern era, such Racine, Lessing, Goethe, and Walter Scott. This particular question concerned the Turgenevs and other members of Zhukovsky’s Arzamas circle around this time, with some saying that the moderns create incomparably better poetry than the ancients, and others arguing exactly the opposite. Significantly, this nineteenth-century debate was carried out along lines that had been drawn by the French in the seventeenth century.14 Although Zhukovsky provides a rather thorough summary of the major proponents of these ideas, he never mentions the name of Schiller. Nonetheless, the article is redolent of Schiller’s ideas, especially the epistemology of On Naïve and Sentimental Poetry, in which ancient poetry is classified as “naïve,” while modern poetry is seen as “sentimental.” Pein, in her dissertation on Schiller’s influence on Zhukovsky, points to this article as an example of this influence. She sees the Russian writer turning away from the naïve as unattainable for modern writers: It is the inaccessible province of the ancients. Zhukovsky redefines Schiller’s “sentimental” category as precluding idealization of either the reader’s experience or the poet’s moral-ethical state, rather as a mode of feeling by which modern sentimental poetry synthesizes the “sensory” (chuvstvennoe) and the “miraculous” (chudesnoe). The poetry of the ancients is original, sensory, unrelated to any alien perspectives; the poetry of the moderns is imitative, concerned with 140 J. PENDERGAST conceptions related to alien perspectives. […] The examination of nature, the living depiction of the sensory, the continual focus of attention on the object depicted—such are the main features comprising the character of the ancients; deep penetration into the inner person, the depiction of the mental, the joining of external circumstances with the depicted object— such is the distinctive character of the modern poets. (Zhukovsky 125, 129, emphases mine)15 Thus, the ancients possessed a capacity for connection to the sensory world which has either been lost in the modern era, or simply no longer commands the interest of the modern poet. The modern poet is concerned with his interior world or that of his characters. The ability to convey that feeling to his reader is a kind of creative miracle. “The whole business of the artist consists only in looking at the objects that fall under his gaze and depicting them with potential vitality; then his creative talent seems miraculous, while his inspired songs will have the power of enchantment” (129, emphasis mine).16 The religious overtones in Zhukovsky’s use of the latter term are not at all accidental. A sensitivity to the implications of Christian interpretation permeates all of his work, both the critical and the creative. This is not to suggest that he is a religious writer, but that he is a proponent of the idea that Christianity, especially of the Russian Orthodox type, is a key component to the unique potential offered by Russian literary thought. Later writers as varied as Tolstoy and Dostoevsky built upon this idea, albeit from opposite ends of the political and philosophical spectra and with perhaps little understanding that it originates in Zhukovsky. This idea of Russia as possessing a kind of messianic mission is completely in accord with Zhukovsky’s generally conservative, monarchist leanings and counts among the primary reasons that his translations of Schiller, especially The Maid of Orleans, often fail to achieve the effect of sublime sanctity. Schiller’s proto-saint achieves a national victory by the force of her singular personality, unwilling to bend at any cost. Zhukovsky’s Ioanna, on the other hand, is most effective when she surrenders herself to being the instrument of God to do his will on earth. In spite of this disparity, however, what he achieves in his translations of Schiller comes to have resounding significance for Russian literature and the Russian monarchy. Later, the famous socialist critic of the middle nineteenth century, Vissarion Belinsky praised him as the poet whose translations of Schiller 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 141 made the German poet seem like a Russian (Kostka 16). Semenko, referring to his translations of Schiller’s Greek-influenced ballads, such as “Der Ring des Polycrates,” “Klage der Ceres,” and “Das Eleusische Fest,” observes that in some cases, Zhukovsky exceeds Schiller in fidelity to the ancient style: “Sometimes Zhukovsky introduces features of the Homeric style lacking in Schiller’s original, for example, the use of compound epithets” (140). She attributes this to the skills he had gained in translating fragments of the Iliad earlier. The critic D. S. Mirsky goes a step further and asserts: “Schiller’s ‘Greek’ ballads, owing to Zhukovsky, are possibly more ‘classical’ in Russia than in Germany” (Kostka 16). Yet it is also arguable that the Russian breath in Zhukovsky’s translations of Schiller sometimes stifles the subtle classical spirit that the latter crafted so carefully in his poetry. Two of Schiller’s works from 1788 offer some explanation for the irreconcilable differences of perspective between Schiller and his ardent Russian translator: Die Geschichte des Abfalls der vereinigten Niederlande von der spanishen Regierung (History of the Secession of the United Netherlands from Spanish Rule) and Die Götter Griechenlands (The Gods of Greece). The Secession has been summed up as “the victory of freedom of thought over religious intolerance” (Garland 126), while the poem extols “the serene abundance of antiquity over the gloomy austerity of the present” and favors “the rich polytheism of the Greeks over the bleak monotheism of Christianity” (Garland 128). It is a fact of enormous consequence that the tumult in Western Europe that resulted from Lutheranism and the Protestant Reformation has no analogy in the history of Russia. True, at the turn of the eighteenth century, the reforms of Tsars Aleksey and Peter the Great resulted in a painful schism in the Russian Orthodox religion, but it never came to a complete rupture into separate professions of faith. Perhaps more important, the schism in Russia never led the nobility to take up arms against one another in the name of religion, as was the case in the Dutch Revolt and the Thirty Years’ War. While Zhukovsky had observed the contrast between “abundant antiquity” and “austere present” in his essay, O poėzii drevnykh i novykh (On Ancient and Modern Poetry), he would have been utterly unwilling to share Schiller’s preference for “the rich polytheism of the Greeks over the bleak monotheism of Christianity” (Garland 128). The sincere admiration expressed by Schiller and Goethe for ancient Greek (and other forms of) pantheism might not have been possible had they not lived and worked in liberal Protestant principalities. Wiese might 142 J. PENDERGAST argue that this characterization is an oversimplification of Schiller’s depiction of Christianity, saying specifically of Die Götter Griechenlands: “Indeed the uniqueness of the poem is demonstrated in the remarkable blending of Christianity and the Enlightenment into a single enemy. In the course of the poem, the monotheistic god of Christianity is transformed into the abstract god of enlightened thought ” (Wiese 408–9).17 Thus, the object of Schiller’s poem is to scorn the Enlightenment, with monotheistic Christianity as its embodiment. Zhukovsky would have willingly joined in Schiller’s opposition to the Enlightenment, but his poetry, particularly his translations of Schiller, always promotes a conservative Christian theological perspective. Acknowledging Schiller’s pantheism is critical to seeing the operation of the Iphigenia myth in his Jungfrau. In this play and his philosophical works, he is advocating for the freedom of individual conscience offered by the poetry of the ancients and the promise it holds for ending tyranny and improving the lives of ordinary people. Without pantheism, his play and other poetry on Greek themes lose much of their subversive and anti-clerical tone and can even seem stodgy. Zhukovsky, on the other hand, has no interest in subversion, and far from viewing monotheism as bleak, sees the Russian Orthodox Church as uniquely poised to preserve Russian culture. His attraction to Schiller and to Romanticism, although steeped in the potential for raising personal consciousness and refining taste, always stops short of anything truly rebellious.18 Shortly after taking over as the editor of Vestnik Evropy, Zhukovsky decided to try his hand at translating a Schiller ballad on a Greek theme. He had previously been successful with a free translation of Bürger’s ballad “Lenore” (Lyudmila 1808).19 In 1809, he published his rendering of Schiller’s ballad, “Kassandra” (Semenko 132–33). Both versions concern the agony endured by the prophet, Cassandra, who foresees the fall of Troy, but is unable to convince any of her compatriots to believe her. Throughout, the Russian poet employs the aforementioned archaisms: glas (“voice,” line 4), zlato (“golden,” 14), votshche (“in vain” 41). In the penultimate line, both Schiller’s original and Zhukovsky’s translation describe the departure of the gods: “Alle Götter fliehn davon” “bogi mchatsya k nebesam,” presumably leaving mankind to its own devices. Zhukovsky’s version names the gods’ destination, while Schiller’s does not, yet another de-generalization. Schiller’s original ends: “Und des Donners Wolken hangen/ Schwer herab auf Ilion” (“And the thunder clouds hang heavy over the city of Ilium”). Zhukovsky renders this as: “I 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 143 karayushchij gromami/ Grozno smotrit na Pergam” (“And the wielder of Thunder/Looks with wrath upon Ilium”) (Semenko 133). Whereas Schiller’s final tone is, if not pagan, then godless, Zhukovsky invents the brooding, vengeful presence of a Zeus in the manner of an Old Testament Jehovah. Similarly, where Schiller’s Johanna, after the manner of the pagan Iphigenia, draws moral inspiration to defy the authority of her father and the trappings of conventional piety, Zhukovsky draws inspiration from the opportunity to exalt his sovereign and the sacred duty to serve his homeland. Schiller’s Romanticism seeks the sublime, with nationalistic overtones; Zhukovsky’s Romanticism is elegiac and devoutly patriotic. Another patriotic effort from six years later is very well known both inside and outside Russia, although few realize he was its author: the Russian imperial anthem. The first imperial anthem was merely a setting by Zhukovsky of Russian words to the tune of the English national anthem, “God, Save the King.” It appeared in 1818, when the poet and the nation were still flush with the excitement of victory over Napoleon and the subsequent gains achieved by Russia as part of the Restoration and the Council of Vienna. Its title was “Molitva russkogo naroda” (“The Prayer of the Russian People”). The first two stanzas, of six total, give the general tone: Боже, Царя храни! Славному долги дни Дай на земли; Гордых смирителю, Слабых хранителю, Всех утешителю Всё ниспошли! God, save the Tsar! Long days to the glorious one Grant on earth; Subjugator of the proud, Guardian of the weak, Consoler of all Provide all! Перводержавную, Русь православную, Боже, храни! Царство ей стройное! В силе спокойное! Всё ж недостойное Прочь отжени! First among powers, Orthodox Rus’, God, save her! Let her empire be strong! Mild in her strength! All that is unworthy Cast away from her! (PSSP.II 99) When Zhukovsky revised the text to the familiar music by Aleskey L’vov in 1833 (later incorporated by Tchaikovsky in his “Slavonic 144 J. PENDERGAST March” [1880] and “1812 Overture” [1882]), many of the basic components of the text remained the same. The autographed manuscript, which he called by its 1818 title, “Molitva russkogo naroda” (“Prayer of the Russian People”) is preserved, although it was published as the “Russkaya narodnaya pesnya (‘Russian National Song [Anthem]’)” and known by that name throughout the years of its usage: Молитва русского народа Prayer of the Russian People Боже, царя храни! Сильный, державный, Царствуй на славу нам, Царствуй на страх врагам, Царь православный, Боже, царя храни! God, save the tsar! Strong and powerful, Rule to our glory; Rule to the foes’ terror, Orthodox tsar, God, save the tsar! Жуковский Zhukovsky Among the basic components of the older text, the most significant to be preserved in the new anthem can be summed up in three words: pravoslavie, samoderzhavie, and narodnost’ (“orthodoxy, autocracy, and nationalism”). Pravoslavie appears as Rus’ pravoslavnuyu in the earlier text, attributing the quality of orthodoxy to the ancient nation, whereas in the anthem, it is applied more allegorically to the tsar himself as the representative of the nation. Samoderzhavie is reflected as pervoderzhavnuyu in the 1818 text, and as derzhavnyj in the anthem. Overtly, narodnost’ is absent in both texts but appears in the title of both. Despite the fact that Zhukovsky’s autograph title differs from the official title, we find narod there, as well, in its adjectival form, rather than as a noun: Russkaya narodnaya pesnya. The use of the first-person plural pronoun, nam (“to us”), in the anthem also strongly suggests the presence of the people, especially when one imagines them singing it as a large group. Those three words, pravoslavie, samoderzhavie, and narodnost’ became the official ideology of the tsarist government the same year the anthem appeared. As newly appointed minister of education, Sergey Uvarov declared “Orthodoxy, Autocracy, and Nationality” the “sacred trilogy” of official Russian state philosophy (Billington 304). Uvarov was on friendly terms with Zhukovsky and was a member of the literary society, Arzamas, of which Zhukovsky was the leader (Lebedeva 85). His political and aesthetic inclinations were essentially the same as the poet’s: “…Uvarov was an urbane and effective apologist for the 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 145 anti-Enlightenment, [… his] circular of the same year brought to a close hopes for educational reform. But in contrast to the law code, Uvarov’s writings helped open up new avenues for Russian thought by keeping alive some of the ideological passion of the preceding era” (Billington 304). The “new avenues” that many thinkers of the succeeding generations would pursue mostly concerned the third component of the trilogy, narodnost’, which can be rendered a number of ways in English. It can be “nationalism” or “nationality,” but it also conveys a sense of the mystical power endemic to the people (narod) itself. Consequently, it was appealing to both conservatives, who interpreted it as the devotion of the people to the tsar and his empire, and liberals, who interpreted it as the untapped power of the people to build a better nation. A century later, when Stalin’s cultural aide-de-camp, Andrey Zhdanov, proclaims the three tenets of baleful “Socialist Realism,”—idejnost,’ partijnost,’ and narodnost’ (“forward thinking, party loyalty, and nationalism”), we see that, although orthodoxy and autocracy were replaced with concepts more appropriate to communist ideology, narodnost’, with its multivalent potentiality, is still there (535). This is perhaps the clearest evidence of the slippery flexibility of the term. Years later, when Zhuovsky was living in Germany with his wife, he conveyed his impressions about the thoughts and feelings he would have upon hearing the anthem performed: […]the national anthem, dedicated to the tsar and in his person to the whole empire, repeated at all important events of national life, has a deep significance that belongs to it alone. […] When you hear the opening words: God, save the Tsar! all of your Russia, with its past days of glory, its present might, and its sacred future, appears before you in the person of His Majesty. And it was sweet for me to think about my great extended family, about our Russia, where […] reverence before the shrine of God’s truth and history, and reverence before the shrine of the powerful authority proceeding from them, is preserved inviolate, as a pledge to present might and future blessings, and deeply, deeply in my soul, the words of our national anthem rang out, expressing this whole shrine: God, save the Tsar! (7 July 1848, PSSP.II 683–84)20 Clearly, Zhukovsky did not see the composition of the national anthem as a mere official commission. It represented a kind of lyric manifestation of his devotion to Russia’s past, present, and future, personified in the tsar himself. It is also striking to note in this example of his epistolary prose the presence of the features already mentioned as indicative of his 146 J. PENDERGAST lyrical, or elegiac style: archaisms (blagogovenie, blagodenstvie “reverence, blessings”); as well as explicitly religious allusions (svyashchennym budushchim, v dushe moej, svyatynyu “sacred future, in my soul [the reversal of the noun and possessive pronoun is especially liturgical], shrine”). Although Peterson, the publisher, would remark in 1833: “But the people know nothing about it,” a decade later, the composer of the music asserted: “After ten years, it became popular” (PSSP.II 683).21 Following the war, he returned to another Schiller ballad, “Die Kraniche des Ibykus,” published in 1813 as “Ivikovy zhuravli.” This poem concerns the murder of a famous Greek poet, Ibykus, which takes place as he heads to Athens for the Festival of Dionysus, where the tragedians would present their works in a contest each year. The murderers reveal themselves during the performance of Aeschylus’s play, The Eumenides. They are moved, along with the rest of the crowd, by the appearance on stage of the Furies.22 Cranes, which had flown overhead at the time of the murder, reappear in the sky over the amphitheater just as the scene with the Furies take place. One of the murderers, overwhelmed with guilt by the coincidence, calls out the murdered poet’s name, and the crowd exacts revenge for the poet’s death. Rather like his methodology in “Kassandra,” Zhukovsky makes his references to Zeus much more overt. He names the god in general much more often than does Schiller in the original and treats Zeus less as a member of a pantheon (as Schiller always does) and more as a stand-in for the Christian god. This in itself is consistent with the tradition going back to the Renaissance of equating Zeus and Jupiter with “God the father,”23 but Zhukovsky tends to choose words that hearken to Russian orthodox prayers (underscored in original and translated selected texts below; English translations available in Appendix C). Die Kraniche des Ibykus Ивиковы журавли “Von fern her kommen wir gezogen Und flehen um ein wirtlich Dach. Sei uns der Gastliche gewogen, Der von dem Fremdling wehrt die Schmach.” «Чужого брега посетитель, Ищу приюта, как и вы; Да отвратит Зевес-хранитель Беду от странничей главы.» (21–24) Und munter foerdert er die Schritte Und sieht sich in des Waldes Mitte – […] И с твердой верою в Зевеса Он в глубину вступает леса (25–26) 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … Nur Helios vermag’s zu sagen, Der alles Irdische bescheint. […] Der streng und ernst, nach alter Sitte, Mit langsam abgemessnem Schritte Hervortritt aus dem Hintergrund, Umwandeld des Theaters Rund. […] Der Fackel duesterrote Glut […] “Wohl dem, der frei von Schuld und Fehle Bewahrt die kindlich reine Seele! […] 147 Лишь Гелиос то зрел священный, Все озаряющийс небес. (71–72) По древому обряду, важно, Походкой мерной и протяжной, Священным страхом окружен, Обходит вкруг театра он. (97–100) Свечи, от коих темный свет. (107) «Блажен, кто незнаком с виною, Кто чист младенчески душою!” (121–22)24 In this particular case, the combination of pagan and Christian elements is not unlike the mood of Russian fairy tales (skazki) such as Ilya Muromets or Koshchej Bessmertnyj, where the hero is drawn from pagan myth and legend but invested with Christian beliefs and piety. Helios is described as “svyashchennym” (“sacred” 71), whereas in Schiller he merely “shines upon all earthly things” (“alles Irdische bescheint” 72). Likewise Schiller’s description of the chorus is generally colored by otherworldiness, whereas Zhukovsky makes it seem perhaps more like a procession of old believers (“po drevnomu obryadu”), exhibiting “holy terror.”25 Schiller’s “Fackel” (“torch”), a German word that Russians use with the same meaning, becomes “svechi” (“candles”). The song of the chorus itself provides the clearest example. While Schiller employs terms that indicate the religious nature of the function of the chorus, he avoids the patently biblical “Selig” in favor of the more humanistic “Wohl dem,” whereas Zhukovsky indulges in the clearly Judeo-Christian “Blazhen” (“Blessed”).26 Timotheus (one of Ibykus’s murderers and the only one named) becomes Parfenij. This name is of Greek origin also, but interestingly, it is associated with several saints and beatified persons of the Orthodox tradition. 148 J. PENDERGAST Zhukovsky decided to translate Schiller’s Jungfrau von Orleans sometime in 1818, and first mentions work on it, with the Russian title, Orleanskaya deva (“The Orleans Maid”) on 19 April 1818. He would finish his work three years later, on 1 April 1821 (PSSP.VII 591). He had considered translating others of Schiller’s works: Don Carlos, Wallensteins Lager, Piccolomini, Wallensteins Tod, and the unfinished Demetrius. Concerning the last, and important from our point of view here, he had considered writing his own play on the same theme and went so far as to create a scenario: “Plan original’noj tragedii na syzhet iz ėpokhi Smutnogo vremeni” (“Plan for an original tragedy on a subject from the Time of Troubles”).27 Apparently, he initially considered creating an opera libretto on Orleanskaya deva and even formulated a complete scenario with a Prologue and five acts (594–95). He accompanied the entourage of Aleksandra Fëdorovna to Western Europe and even saw a performance of Schiller’s Jungfrau in Berlin on 8 December 1821 with “M-elle Franz” in the title role (PSSP.XIII 151–52). He noted in his diary that he did not find her to be a great talent with regard to declamation or stage movement, but he found her face to be very expressive. The ensuing commentary in his diary confirms the assertion of his friends that he knew Schiller’s play practically by heart: “In the great monologue of the Prologue she failed to maintain the appropriate gradual change [in mood]. ‘It was accomplished, and this helmet was sent by him’ [Schiller: Er sendet mir den Helm, er kommt von ihm, line 426; the Russian words in the poet’s diary are precisely what he published three years later in 1824]. This verse and others following were not made distinct. At the beginning of the fourth act, she shouldn’t enter, but already be on stage. During the march, she shouldn’t stagger so theatrically, rather she should go along in deep contemplation, with a stride distinct from all the others” (151–52).28 His diary notes that he saw it again four nights later. In Milan, he saw the pantomime ballet, based on Schiller, by Vigano (598). His interest in the theater becomes clear from the fact that his diary records his attendance at theatrical performances of one kind or another nearly every evening that found the entourage in a major city. His exposure to exciting new ideas about human freedom, which he experienced first-hand in the performance of Schiller’s works, had a significant impact on his political beliefs: “Profoundly impressed by the humanitarian content of Schiller’s tragedies which he saw performed during his trip through Europe (1820–21), he resolved to buy back his former serfs, whom he had sold before his departure, and made written arrangements for their immediate release” (Kostka 16). In a similar spirit, 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 149 he later became committed to the emancipation from serfdom of the Ukrainian poet, Taras Shevchenko. To raise the money to buy him from his owner, Zhukovsky set up a lottery for the sale of a portrait of himself by the painter, Karl Bryullov, and paid 2500 rubles for Shevchenko’s release (Semenko 34). He published portions of the play as he completed them from 1818–1821. In 1824, Orleanskaya deva was published in its entirety as part of a collection of his complete works (PSSP.VII 591, 757). Many of the changes Zhukovsky makes to Schiller’s text are similar to those already mentioned: a preference for archaisms, emotional intensification, and de-generalizations. In his translation of Schiller’s play, however, their preponderance introduces significant alterations in tone that affect the meaning of the play. Like those in “Die Kraniche des Ibykus,” the archaisms very often have biblical and liturgical connotations. They are frequently words one would encounter in Russian Orthodox Church services, which use an older dialect of Russian known as Old Church Slavonic.29 Arguably, in a play about a girl who believes herself to be heaven’s emissary, such connotations should be appropriate, but the themes from ancient Greek tragedy, especially Euripides’s Iphigeneia plays, with which Schiller imbued his play, become almost indiscernible in Zhukovsky’s version. As a result, it produces a rather different effect, which is worth exploring. In Thibaut’s opening speech, Zhukovsky changes Schiller’s “old soil” to “sacred soil.” In one of Johanna’s first speeches, he changes “temple violator” to “one who curses shrines,” shrine being a word nearly exclusively associated with saints and holy relics (examples are underscored in cited passages; see Appendix 3 for English translations). Prolog Thibaut. Ja, liebe Nachbarn! Heute sind wir noch Franzosen, freie Bürger noch und Herren Des alten Bodens, den die Väter pflügten; Wer weiß, wer morgen über uns befehlt! (1–4) Тибо. Так, добрые соседи, нынче мы Еще французы, граждане, свободно Святой землей отцов своих владеем; А завтра… как узнатьʹ? чʹи мы? что наше? (1–4) 150 J. PENDERGAST Johanna. Und diesen Salisbury, den Tempelschänder, (321) Иоанна. С ругателем святыни Салисбури (323)30 In general, apart from a few antiquated poetic forms that appear in Ioanna’s farewell soliloquy («зeмныя… poдныя» 413, 415), the translation of the Prologue is remarkably faithful and strictly follows Schiller’s meter and rhyme scheme. In the recognition scene (Act I, Scene x), the transformations largely pertain to the nature of Ioanna’s powers. When the Dauphin asks Johanna who she is, he adds the appositive, “mächtig Wesen” (“Who are you, mighty creature?”). Schiller’s “mächtig” (“mighty”) is rendered as “chudesnaya” (“miraculous”) by Zhukovsky, and when shortly afterward the Dauphin’s formulation is repeated by La Gir, the translation follows suit. The implication is perhaps that Ioanna’s power is not her own but merely the wondrous workings of supernatural forces behind her. When the archbishop asks Johanna her name, she replies in a manner perhaps consistent with medieval practice, more conscious of his aristocratic rank than his ecclesiastical one, addressing him as “Ehrwürd´ger Herr” (“Venerable Lord”). Zhukovsky’s Ioanna completely eliminates the aristocratic title, saying instead: “svyatyj otets” (“holy father”). The spelling and pronunciation of “holy” are also archaic. I.x. (Recognition scene) Karl Wer bist du, mächtig Wesen? Woher kommst du? (1032) Johanna Ehrwürd´ger Herr, Johanna nennt man mich (1047) La Hire Sie führ´ uns an, die Mächtige, im Streite! (1135) Но кто же ты, чудесная?.. Откуда? (1027) Святый отец, меня зовут Иоанна (1047) Mы paды в бoй. Чyдecнaя, вeди! (1125) 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 151 In the Montgomery scene in Act II, there is another feature to account for, which is Zhukovsky’s treatment of Schiller’s ancient trimeter, to which the German poet had resorted exclusively in the scene, in order to heighten the classical element. Lexically, again there are several instances of metaphors or attributes altered into either fatalistic or explicitly religious formulations. The “foot” that drags Montgomery to his confrontation with Johanna is identified by Zhukovsky’s Ioanna as his “fate” (tvoj rok). Schiller’s verb “wirken” should not be confused with “werken,” which would suggest that Johanna is something of an automaton endowed only with power from an external force. “Wirken” has more to do with an idea or vision coming into being, a semblance becoming a reality; in both interpretations Johanna is the apparatus for the development, and her personal will is the catalyst for the transition from seeming to being. Zhukovsky’s translation—“what do you create with me”—conveys the sense that Ioanna’s physical substance is key to the action, but seems to leave no room for her will in the process. II.viii. Иoaннa. [Johanna to Montgomery, after killing him] Dich trug dein Fuß zum Tode Fahre hin! Tвoй poк пpивeл тeбя кo мнe… пpocти, нecчacтный! (Sie tritt von ihm weg und bleibt gedankenvoll stehen) Erhabne Jungfrau, du wirkst Mächtiges in mir! (1676–77) (Oтxoдит oт нeгo и ocтaнaвливaeтcя в paзмышлeнии) O блaгoдaтнaя! чтo ты твopишь co мнoю? (1629–30) The central point of this scene is Johanna’s insistence that Montgomery defends himself before her, a fellow human being, rather than the supernatural demon the English believe her to be. Zhukovsky captures the ironic sympathy here but turns it into sympathy for a predetermined fate. Johanna herself asserts that Montgomery’s feet brought him to the spot where he now stands before her. If the significance of human will were not such a central point in the dramatic dilemmas that confront the characters in this play, perhaps these alterations would be unimportant, but human will is indeed the central point. Johanna is not the only character to confront fate with her will. Montgomery does the same but 152 J. PENDERGAST with diametrically opposite consequences. He surrenders frantically and dies shamefully. Talbot, on the other hand, faces his fate with sublime equanimity and dies with dignity, as will be seen below. In Zhukovsky, “Sublime Virgin” becomes the Old Church Slavonic “blagodatnaya,” (closer to “full of grace”). This is the epithet used by the angel Gabriel in addressing Mary the Virgin in Luke 1:26–38 on the biblical occasion known as the Annunciation. Although the epithet charges the scene with an appropriately intense religiosity, with this one choice the Russian poet removes a word that signifies the principal idea as personified by Johanna’s experience, namely, that her struggle to overcome her obstacles is sublime, and that in perceiving the gradual success of her personal will, the audience must experience the sublime along with her. Significantly, Schiller worked on Jungfrau at the same time as Über das Erhabene, one of the main themes of which is the predominance of human will in its assertion of humanity: Wer sie [die Gewalt] uns antut, macht un nichts Geringeres als die Menschheit streitig; wer sie feigerweise erledit, wirft seine Menschheit hinweg. “Whoever inflicts force upon us denies us nothing less than our humanity. Whoever submits to it out of cowardice casts away his humanity” (Ungar Anthology 24). While Ioanna may impress us with her insuperable blessedness, Johanna impresses us with her invincible humanity. When Zhukovsky was writing his translation, it appears that Russian had no word distinctly equivalent to sublime. While the notion would have been familiar to readers of Burke, Kant, and Goethe, not to mention Schiller, it seems that these works had not yet been translated into Russian and were only familiar in their original languages. In Vestnik Evropy, the journal edited for a time by Zhukovsky, his and others’ commentary related to the sublime tended to use vysokij (“high, lofty”), which, while not exactly inaccurate, oversimplifies the idea.31 Schiller, more so than any of the writers just mentioned, went to great lengths to distinguish noble and dignified feelings from those which may be attained only after enduring pain and suffering. To describe that rarefied condition, he used the word “erhaben.” It seems that for this purpose the more precise Russian word is vozvyshennoe, which may be a neologism coined after Zhukovsky’s time. The word does not seem to appear in any of his writings, including Orleanskaya deva. Whether or not the word existed, these ideas did not accord with his conception of this translation. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 153 In his last moments, Talbot also contends with insurmountable obstacles. Although Schiller paints the great commander as a godless rationalist, he imparts an impressive dignity to his depiction, particularly because Talbot faces his circumstances with steadfastness rather than resignation. Zhukovsky preserves Talbot’s rhetorical grandeur. In his translation of one of Schiller’s most famous lines from the play (underscored below), he also allows him one of the only truly polytheistic utterances to be found in it: III.vi. Talbot. Unsinn, du siegst und ich muß untergehn! Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens. Erhabene Vernunft, lichthelle Tochter Des göttlichen Hauptes, weise Gründerin Des Weltgebäudes, Führerin der Sterne, Wer bist du denn…! (2318–23) […] - So geht Der Mensch zu Ende - und die einzige Ausbeute, die wir aus dem Kampf des Lebens Wegtragen, ist die Einsicht in das Nichts, Und herzliche Verachtung alles dessen, Was uns erhaben schien und wünschenswert – (2352–56) Бeзyмcтвo, ты пpeвoзмoглo; a я Пoгибнyть ocyждeн. И caми бoги Пpoтив тeбя нe в cилax ycтoять. O гopдый yм, ты, cвeтлoe poждeньe Пpeмyдpocти, вepxoвный ocнoвaтeль Coздaния, пpaвитeль миpa, чтo ты? (2254–59) […] Becь гибнeт чeлoвeк — и вcя нaм пpибыль Oт тягocтнoй бopьбы c cypoвoй жизнью Ecть yбeждeниe в нeбытии И xлaднoe пpeзpeньe кo вceмy, Чтo мнилocь нaм вeликим и жeлaнным (2288–92) Zhukovsky once again overlooks the role of the sublime (erhabene) in this speech, as with Ioanna’s soliloquy after killing Montgomery. In true anti-Enlightenment fashion, intelligence is called “proud” (gordyj), rather than sublime, while the spoils of life become cool disdain for what seemed great (rather than sublime) and worth wishing for. 154 J. PENDERGAST Earlier in Act III, when Dunois and La Hire are arguing about their rival affection for Johanna, Dunois explains that, although he sees himself as her best choice, she should make the choice freely: III.i. Dunois (to La Hire). Sie ist das Götterkind der heiligen Natur, wie ich, und ist mir ebenbürtig. Sie sollte eines Fürsten Hand entehren, Die eine Braut der reinen Engel ist, Die sich das Haupt mit einem Götterschein umgibt, der heller strahlt als ird’sche Kronen. […] …Sie hat Frankreich frei gemacht, Und selber frei muß sie ihr Herz verschenken. (1844–58) Oнa нeбecнoe дитя cвятoй Пpиpoды, кaк и я; paвны мы caнoм. И пpинцy ли бeccлaвнo pyкy дaть Eй, aнгeлoв нeвecтe нeпopoчнoй? Блиcтaтeльнeй зeмныx кopoн cияют Лyчи нeбec кpyгoм ee глaвы […] Oнa cвoбoдy нaм cпacлa — Пycкaй caмa ocтaнeтcя cвoбoднa. (1794–1809) Schiller’s words Götterkind, Götterschein (as opposed to the singular forms of Gotteskind or Gottesschein) have an ancient, pantheistic feel that Zhukovsky shuns, opting instead for Old Church Slavonic “heavenly” formulas: “nebesnoe ditya” (simultaneously representing an archaism in the word for child) and “Luchi nebes.” Whereas Johanna “sets France free,” Ioanna “rescues [their] freedom,” which initially might seem objectively accurate. Spas, however, is also the Old Church Slavonic word for “redeemer.” In the scene with Black Knight, Zhukovsky scrupulously maintains the tone, easily the most supernatural of the whole play. His tendency to intensify the supernatural and religious elements works to advantage here: “die Stimme des Prophetengeistes” is marvelously rendered as “glas prorocheskogo dukha,” “Gelübde” perfectly translates into “obet.” The Knight’s warning to release good fortune from its accustomed and devoted servitude is maintained with the same layers of Old Testament double meaning familiar from Exodus and the psalms. The knight’s final 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 155 line: “Umershchvlyaj/Odno lishʹ smertnoe” borrows its imperative verb from Exodus 23:7: Udalyajsya ot nepravdy i ne umershchvlyaj nevinnogo i pravogo, ibo YA ne opravdayu bezzakonnika.32 Schiller’s only connection to Lutheran language in this scene is what may perhaps be an oblique reference to the Fifth Commandment in: Töte, was sterblich ist (2445). Schiller’s knight, according to Johanna, is an “image of Hell” and comes from the “pit of fire.” Ioanna is less metaphorical; he is “from hell.” After his mysterious disappearance, as Johanna is contemplating his significance, Zhukovsky once again asserts Ioanna’s sacred predetermination over Johanna’s individual will to act on behalf of freedom. Johanna’s “noble heart”—the source of her strength—is replaced by Ioanna’s “holy faith.” III.xi. Es war nichts Lebendes. – Ein trüglich Bild Der Hölle war’s, ein widerspenst’ger Geist, Herausgestiegen aus dem Feuerpfuhl, Mein edles Herz im Busen zu erschüttern. (2446–49) To был нe здeшний И нe живoй… тo былo пpивидeньe, Bpaждeбный дyx, изникнyвший из aдa, Чтoбы cмyтить вo мнe cвятyю вepy. (2384–87) Sworn testimony from Joan’s trial transcripts asserts the veracity of her leap from the tower of Beaurevoir and her surviving that leap. Nonetheless, when Johanna escapes in Act V, Schiller’s diction permits an interpretation within the realm of skeptical possibility. Soldier: “What? Does she have wings? Has some storm’s wind carried her off?” Zhukovsky presents the action metaphorically, nonetheless emphasizing the miraculous nature of the situation: “She is on wings; she rushes headlong like a vortex.” V.xiii. Soldier to Isabeau Wie? Hat sie Flügel? Hat der Sturmwind sie Hinabgefürht? (3483) Oнa нa кpыльяx; виxpeм мчитcя. (3460) 156 J. PENDERGAST The one character who undergoes the most substantive changes in Zhukovsky’s translation is Queen Isabeau (Koroleva Izabella in Zhukovsky). With considerable historical support, Schiller depicts Isabeau’s nefarious rejection of her own son and her pernicious and politically motivated preference for the foreign occupation of France in lines that Zhukovsky drastically alters in his translation. He “omit[s] those passages in which Schiller had painted a particularly telling picture of the Queen Mother’s cynicism and dissolute way of life” (Semenko 148). The most telling instance is to be found in Act II, Scene ii, where Isabeau discovers that Talbot and Philipp, Duke of Burgundy, do not share her motivations for making war. Talbot asserts that he is fighting for the honor of his homeland, while Philipp claims to be avenging the murder of his father, ordered by Dauphin’s party. Isabeau mocks their intentions and scorns their supposedly noble defense of honor as nothing but hypocrisy. Of the three, she claims that only she has a valid reason, because she was personally disgraced and exiled by the Dauphin.33 As his mother, she occupies a unique position: II.ii. Isabeau. Euch treibt die Ehrsucht, der gemeine Neid Ich darf ihn hassen, ich hab ihn geboren. (1423–24) Кopoлeвa. O нeт! кopыcть и зaвиcть вaш зaкoн. Ho мнe oн cын – влacтнa я нeнaвидeть. (1398–99) Zhukovsky follows Schiller in establishing the mother-son enmity between the Queen and the Dauphin, but assiduously avoids the Russian verb “to give birth,” possibly to lend credence to the rumor, supported by the Dauphin’s own mother, that Charles VII was illegitimate. This rumor, and the resulting dispute over French succession, bolstered the English prerogative to stake a claim to France. A few lines later, Schiller’s Isabeau explains: “ich kam als Königin/In dieses Land” (1440–41), referring to the historical Queen Isabeau’s origins in Bavaria. She goes on to explain that when her husband went mad, she took the affairs of state into her own hands and did what she saw necessary to maintain her freedom and keep control. Zhukovsky cuts these eighteen lines. One explanation for this is Zhukovsky’s desire to avoid the clear parallels between this situation and the contemporaneous Russian monarchy. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 157 Tsar Aleksandr I had ascended the throne in 1801 on the assassination of his father Tsar Pavl I, largely through a conspiracy hatched by his grandmother’s crowd of retainers, lovers, and admirers. Those loyal to Ekaterina II (“Catherine the Great”), who came to Russia as a foreigner, deposed her erratic husband, and despised her son, Pavl (Semenko 147– 48). Her penchant for courtiers and favorites cast doubts on his legitimacy (Billington 200). Thus arise the parallels between Isabeau and Ekaterina, to which must be added the issue of succession. Aleksandr I died unexpectedly without an heir in 1825, leaving his unpopular brother Nikolay as his successor. Arguably, disputes over monarchial successions lie at the root of the entire Hundred Years’ War, that is, the setting of both Joan of Arc’s life and Schiller’s play. The accession of Nikolay I, in turn, seemed the propitious signal for a secret, anti-monarchial society to make its move. Because they did so in December of that year, they became known as the Decembrists. Six years earlier, in 1819, Zhukovsky had been invited by Sergey Petrovich Trubetskoy to join the nascent movement, which he rejected, but importantly and perhaps paradoxically, he never betrayed to the authorities the confidence of his friends that such a society existed (Semenko 29). Despite his affinity for the royal family, Zhukovsky had chosen a dangerous subject for his translation. In her commentary in the 1999 complete collected works (PSSP), Lebedeva describes two distinct but related motivations at work in the poet’s choice of words throughout Deva.34 The first relates to the overall elegiac style of his translation of Schiller’s drama. The second concerns what she calls slova-signaly “word-signals,” which she argues would be picked up by the Decembrists and take on a new meaning in the coming decades. Accordingly, the presence of the two in this translation sets into motion two new aesthetic tendencies for Russian theater. The elegiac style has arisen in the previous discussion of other works considered here: “Sel’skoe kladbishche” (“Country Churchyard”) and “Ivikovy zhuravli” (“Cranes of Ibykus”) among others. The specific examples which Lebedeva cites are already familiar from that earlier discussion: tishina “silence,” mechta “dream,” priyut “sanctuary,” blagogovenie “reverence,” blagoslovenie “blessing,” zadumchivyj “contemplative,” pechal’nyj “sad,” milyj “kind,” mladaya “youthful,” svyatoj “holy.” Regarding the play, however, she argues that most of these words are not connected by a motif to their counterparts from the original. Their use in the play is intended to increase the emotional intensity of the language itself. 158 J. PENDERGAST A particularly striking additional example is Zhukovsky’s almost insistent rendering of Schiller’s “Hertz” (“heart”) as dusha (“soul”): “In Zhukovsky’s system of poetic imagery, it [the word ‘soul’] is extremely polysemantic, and in the eyes of his contemporaries was the universal attributive symbol of Zhukovsky’s creativity and personality […] Zhukovsky’s deep romantic depiction of the psyche found its expression in these translational transformations. It appeared to the greatest degree in the interpretation of the character of the main heroine: in Ioanna’s speech characteristics, Zhukovsky maximally accented the intensity of spiritual, emotional life” (PSSP.VII 601).35 Along the same lines, Lebedeva argues that still other lexical choices result in what she calls “word-signals” that would subsequently appear in the dissident works of Decembrist lyric poets and in anti-tyrannical theater. These include the archaisms that we have already explored to some extent (glas “voice,” otchizna “fatherland”), but also word combinations and politically charged language beyond the bounds of lyrical or elegiac rhetoric. She cites the following examples: pyl dushi “the ardor of the soul,” vyshnee izbran’e “the high elect,” rokovoj chas “the fatal hour,” nadmennaya vlast’ “arrogant authority,” otecheskie nivy “paternal fields,” narod “the people,” rodina “the motherland,” svoboda “freedom,” grazhdanstvo “citizenship,” spravedlivost’ “justice,” muzhestvo “courage.” In the play’s setting, these seemingly innocuous words and phrases would have carried an implication of criticism, owing either to the presumed dearth of positive conceptions, such as freedom and justice, in Russian society, or to the presence of negative ones, such as the high elect or arrogant authority. The presumptuousness inherent in suggesting that authority can be arrogant may be invisible to eyes unaccustomed to censorship. Likewise, showing the struggle for freedom and justice long ago and in a foreign land might imply that such a struggle is alien to its audience. Finally, the notion of citizenship—as opposed to mere habitation—which connotes full participation in the affairs of state by citizens possessing rights, was a new idea straight across Europe. The cumulative effect of these elegiac lexical choices and word-signals, according to Lebedeva, is a kind of “civic pathos” (grazhdanstvennyj pafos): “In the translation of The Maid of Orleans, the depiction of the psyche as the means of portraying dramatic character is joined with the patriotic content of this character; high civic pathos is animated with tender and heartfelt elegiac lyricism. Because of this, the traditionally rationalistic category of civic duty becomes the manifestation of a person’s 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 159 intimate emotional life, just as precisely as love or elegiac melancholy” (PSSP.VII 602).36 By incorporating these words, therefore, into the context of a patriotic drama, ostensibly conventional notions, like “love” and “elegiac melancholy,” which pervade all of Zhukovsky’s lyric poetry gain a greater significance as evocations of the deep feelings that can be expressed toward one’s nation and people. Patriotism, seen in this light, can be a force for positive action motivated by emotions that had previously been relegated to melodrama. The result is the amalgamation of the two leading tendencies of incipient Russian drama of the nineteenth century: Social political dramas of the sort that Pushkin, Gogol, and Tolstoy would produce; and introspective psychological dramas of the sort for which Chekhov would become famous (602–3). The censor, A. V. Kochubey, decided to approve the work for publication, but not for performance (PSSP.VII 604). Whether he was concerned about its “word-signals” or for some other reason is not entirely clear. What is known is that two years later not only Zhukovsky’s translation, but all works in blank verse were deemed inappropriate for Russian theaters (Semenko 148). Zhukovsky had wanted to exalt the regime and inspire the people. He had attempted to soften the political implications and had changed the subtitle. Yet one is not entirely surprised. Schiller’s “Romantic tragedy” was deemed provocative because of its associations with the liberal ideas of the Romantic movement in Western Europe. For this reason no doubt, Zhukovsky gave his work the subtitle “dramatic poem.” His efforts to be sensitive and discreet in respect to the possible concerns of the monarchy were ultimately not enough, however, and it is likely that the censor granted permission to publish the work as a dramatic poem largely on the basis of the poet’s intimacy with the royal family. Zhukovsky was livid. It is clear that the censor’s decision surprised him because he had already begun to make plans to mount the play in Petersburg, although he was on tour in Europe with the royal entourage. With his friend, the poet Nikolay Ivanovich Gnedich (1784–1833), he had exchanged notes regarding costumes, actors, and scenery (PSSP. VII 602). In May of 1822, he was very frank, albeit typically poetic, with Gnedich in his assessment of the situation: “And Ioanna has been taken prisoner by the sort of jailer unlikely ever to let her see freedom! We are, it seems, not in Europe, but up the devil’s ass.” (“И Иoaннa пoпaлa в yзники к тaкoмy тюpeмщикy, чтo yж нe видaть eй cвoбoды! Mы, кaжeтcя нe в Eвpoпe, a y чёpтa в жoпe” 604). The last sentence in Russian, despite its plain language, has the meter and rhyme of verse, 160 J. PENDERGAST and it is interesting that the suppression of one of the aforementioned word-signals (svobody “freedom”) figures as an element in the poet’s expression of indignation. Additionally, the word for “jailer” (“tyuremshchik”) is a colloquialism that carries a second meaning, according to Ozhegov’s dictionary: “An oppressor, one who flouts freedom and democracy” (710). He eventually tried with bitter irony to reconcile himself to the circumstances. In a letter of 18 February 1823 to his cousin, Avdot’iya Petrovna Elagina, hostess of a prominent Moscow literary salon, he remarks: “Bcё к лyчшeмy: здeшниe aктёpы yдaлили бы ee нe xyжe цeнзypы!” (Lebedeva 64).37 It is also worth noting that in his translation Zhukovsky makes a consistent effort to associate the bravery and idealism of Ioanna and her compatriots with an analogous potential in Russia. Rather like his replacement of “heart” with “soul,” Schiller’s words “Frankreich” and “Land” are consistently replaced by the more emotionally charged and far more patriotic words rodina “motherland,” otchizna, and otechestvo, both of which mean “fatherland,” with the former an archaism and the latter the more contemporary vernacular. While this attempt to downplay the play’s foreign setting might have been a consolation to his liberal readers, it failed to impress the censor. Despite all his changes, Zhukovsky is sensitive to Schiller’s text. The supremacy of freedom and the individual will that Schiller propounds and consistently demonstrates through Johanna’s actions (even in the face of the Black Knight’s warning) is subordinated to the ineluctable power of fate and the will of God, which for Zhukovsky seem to be the same thing. This alteration of Johanna’s motivation is particularly significant within the context of the main theme of these pages, to wit, that Johanna’s suffering was brought on by her consciousness of her human vulnerability, whose fatalism makes her suffering sublime. Her sanctity, on the other hand, derives from her persistent will to complete her mission, fully cognizant of her vulnerability. She is rewarded for her sublime sanctity in the final apotheosis. In Zhukovsky’s version, the relegation of Ioanna’s will to the background and her consistent characterization as an instrument of God diminishes the heroism of her decision to bear her suffering and to overcome it. This situation seems to diminish the sublime nature of her suffering. Additionally, the repeated preference for depicting Ioanna’s achievements as deriving from supernatural power, rather than from the indefatigable energy we see in Schiller’s Johanna, strips her of so many of the features of sanctity that one might mistake 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 161 her for Shakespeare’s sorceress Pucelle were it not for the profusion of overt Christian terminology and symbology to focus the attention. Clearly, Zhukovsky’s reasons for undertaking his translation differed from the motivations that inspired Schiller to produce his original. Notwithstanding these disparities, and in spite of the censor, his work had an enduring impact on Russian drama: Up to the very beginning of the 1820s the ‘French’ alexandrine verse form had dominated Russian drama, making it virtually impossible to create new dramatic characters or situations. Zhukovsky translated Schiller’s The Maid of Orleans in the meter of the original: in rhymed iambic pentameter with optional caesura and frequent enjambments. This form was subsequently (particularly in the 1830s) widely employed in Russian verse drama and facilitated its emancipation from the canons of French Classicism. (Semenko 146) The play seized the imagination of the Russian literati, as Belinsky’s assessment attests: We will not digress upon the worth of Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller’s The Maid of Orleans: its worth is long-established and unanimously acknowledged. With his excellent translation, Zhukovsky gained possession of this excellent work for Russian literature. And no one except Zhukovsky could have rendered this inherently romantic creation of Schiller’s, nor would Zhukovsky have been in a condition to render into Russian any other drama of Schiller’s, as he has so excellently done with The Maid of Orleans. (PSSP.VII 607, emphasis Belinsky’s)38 Belinsky recognizes that Zhukovsky’s translation represents two significant accomplishments: It transmits and preserves the romanticism of Schiller’s play and does so in a native Russian vernacular which Zhukovsky was uniquely qualified to create. He furthermore implies that, although the poet might not have been prepared to achieve the same effect with others of Schiller’s plays, he has now made it a vital national possession, both important and necessary. The urgency to develop literature to enhance national consciousness, even from foreign sources, would have been familiar to Schiller and the other German Romantics, and Belinsky is acknowledging here that, with Orleanskaya deva, Zhukovsky has done just that. 162 J. PENDERGAST A feature of both Zhukovsky and Belinsky’s criticism that stands in sharp distinction to Schlegel, Schiller and the German Romantics of every stripe is that the latter were concerned with creating a literature that they believed would—on the basis of its artistic power—assist in unifying and establishing a German nation of grand stature to take its place among the nations of the world. The Russians, on the other hand, were already conscious of the organic existence of their imperial state, one which was already under the unified control of the tsar. Their task was to elevate the stature of the nation through the elevation of its literature. This point is central to the topic under discussion—the development of Romantic nationalism, and the history of Joan of Arc as depicted by Schiller in German and translated by Zhukovsky into Russian represents a momentous example of this development. Given the enormous importance which Zhukovsky placed on his service to the Russian people, it is perhaps ironic that the final phase of his career took place almost entirely in Germany. On 21 May 1841 in Düsseldorf, he married Elisabeth von Reutern (1821–1856) (Lebedeva 647). Her father, Gerhardt von Reutern, had served as an officer in the Russian forces. He was wounded in 1812 and became an artist. He was an old friend of Zhukovsky’s, and as the girl grew up, she developed feelings for the poet (Lebedeva 366). Although she converted from Lutheranism to Orthodoxy, in the last years of his life, it was Zhukovsky who came to embrace the more radical elements of his wife’s native Pietism, which “emphasized the need for personal repentance and salvation, often at the expense of the Lutheran dogma against which it had originally been a reaction. The influence led him to excessive religious exaltation; somber thoughts on sin and retribution weighed heavily on his spirit” (Semenko 38). Between 1845 and 1850, he wrote more than fifty very conservative essays, bearing a superficial resemblance to those of Montaigne in their subjects perhaps, but without the sympathy and humor that distinguish those works. His essays were met with considerable antipathy by his colleagues back in Russia and may explain the relegation of his earlier literary essays to relative obscurity. The one that aroused the greatest disapproval was “On Capital Punishment” (1850). The work was provoked by the poet’s abhorrence of public executions as staged in Western Europe, and particularly one that had taken place in London on 13 November 1849. The execution of the murderers, Frederick and Maria Manning, had resulted in a riot (Vinitsky 3). 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 163 Zhukovsky had written his article to propose that executions should take place indoors away from the public, under the ministrations of unnamed acolytes mystically performing orthodox death rites, to afford the condemned individual a chance for repentance. This reimagining of the procedures for capital punishment into a kind of religious drama becomes especially striking when one considers Schiller and Zhukovsky’s reimagining of Joan of Arc’s execution into a drama of national deliverance. Although capital punishment had been suspended under Elizabeth I and Ekaterina II in the late eighteenth century, Nikolay I reintroduced it in the wake of the Decembrist revolt, sentencing thirty-one of the “criminals of the first rank…to death by beheading.” It should be recalled here that Zhukovsky had declined an invitation to join this movement several years before. The sentence would be commuted for all but five, who were executed on 13 July 1826 (Anikin 108). The intelligentsia, who took Zhukovsky for one of their own, were vociferously opposed to capital punishment. After the infamous “mock” execution of the Petrashevtsy (or “the followers of Petrashevsky”) in 1849, capital punishment became one of the most sensitive topics of the time. Its importance was second only to agitation for the abolition of serfdom, the cause Zhukovsky had been inspired to champion after seeing Schiller’s plays in Germany. In an astonishing display of the peculiar nature of Tsar Nikolay I’s despotism, members of a social reform movement, including the writer Fëdor Dostoevsky, were arrested and condemned to death: “All of them, like the Decembrists, were young men, none older than thirty. Petrashevsky, Dostoevsky and a few other young men whose entire guilt consisted in the fact that they discussed questions of socialism, were sentenced to death. At the last moment they were informed that this had been commuted to penal servitude” (Anikin 141, author’s emphasis). As with the objectionable signal-words that had barred Zhukovsky’s Deva from the stage in the 20s, when confronted with dangerous words in the even more dangerous times of the 40s, the state responded, this time in a drastic illustration of the censorious impulse, by condemning men to death. Given these conditions, Zhukovsky’s aim in writing the article was bewildering: “It was branded blasphemous, barbaric, pharisaic, medieval, worthy of Nero and the Grand Inquisitor, bigoted, ‘foully moving,’ ‘basely solemn,’ and ‘incomparably abominable’” (Vinitsky 1). Zhukovsky’s reputation among the intelligentsia never fully recovered from the impact of this essay. He remained in Germany, primarily 164 J. PENDERGAST because of his mentally ill wife, traveling from one spa to another, under the protection of his brother-in-law, King Friedrich Wilhelm. In the end, his wife outlived him by four years (Lebedeva 647). He died in Baden-Baden. It is possible to conclude that the reform of the monarchy from within that Zhukovsky ardently believed in was partially fulfilled in his former pupil, Tsar Aleksandr II, who enacted sweeping reforms in the 1860s, chief of which was the emancipation of the serfs. In March of 1881, Aleksandr II was ready to sign into law a constitutional program to include the intelligentsia and the bourgeoisie in the control of the government, in the manner of a parliamentary Duma (Billington 401). Unfortunately, his assassination by the populist movement Narodnaya volya (“People’s Will”) halted that project, and the accession of his son, Aleksandr III, who openly disregarded his father’s reforms, put an end to such hopes, arguably forever. A weak, ineffectual Duma was formed under Nikolay II in 1905, in the period of great unrest leading from the 1905 revolution to the First World War and the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. Following the fall of communism in 1991, the Duma was formed again, but if balance of power among the branches of government is any indication of the integrity of a constitutional democracy, the Russian Federation has yet to achieve it. Shortly before his death, Zhukovsky wrote to L’vov, the composer who had set the words of his imperial anthem to music, and pronounced those “humble verses” likely to outlast everything else he had written: “Our joint two-fold work will long outlive us. The national anthem, once heard, having gained the right of citizenship, will remain forever, so long as the people endure who have taken it as their own. Of all my verses, these humble five, thanks to your music, will outlive all their brothers. Where have I not heard it sung? In Perm, in Tobolsk, in the foothills of Chatyrdag [a mountain range in Crimea], in Stockholm, in London and Rome!” (PSSP.II 684).39 In some respects, Zhukovsky was entirely correct; the words and music would ring in the hearts of the Russian people for some sixty years after his death, after which they would come to represent the totalitarian extremes of the tsarist regime itself. The identification of Zhukovsky’s high-minded anthem as a totalitarian motto is perhaps analogous to the appropriation of Schiller’s patriotic verses by the National-Socialists. The ode to Zhukovsky’s beloved Russia that he thought would outlive him itself becomes an elegy to the Russia that is no more. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 165 PART II. THE GENESIS OF TCHAIKOVSKY’S ORLEANSKAYA DEVA (“MAID OF ORLEANS”) In 1975, a reviewer wrote of Orleanskaya deva (The Maid of Orleans): “For the first time in France, one of Tchaikovsky’s grandest operas was heard in a concert performance, on a subject that directly concerns France” (Arkhipova 269).40 Irina Arkhipova, one of the most noted Russian mezzo-sopranos of the time and a pre-eminent interpreter of Ioanna,41 appeared in the performance and observed in her memoirs: “An opera by a Russian composer about France’s national heroine became a very real discovery for the French, attested to by numerous newspaper reviews, one of which declared: ‘Joan of Arc has come in from the cold to us’” (269).42 The work was just as little known within Russia. It did not premiere at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow until 1990, and even at the Imperial Theater in Saint Petersburg, where it had premiered in 1881, it was performed only seventeen times, disappearing from the repertory in 1884, the same year that Evgenij Onegin premiered and began to claim its permanent place on the stage (Shaverdyan 270).43 It seems strange that an opera by one of the nation’s most beloved composers, Pëtr Il’ich Tchaikovsky (1840–1893), based on the most highly praised drama of Russia’s preeminent lyric poet Zhukovsky, would slip into oblivion. It is stranger still that such a fate would befall a work by a composer whose immediate predecessor, Onegin, is among the most successful of Russian operas.44 Before settling on Joan of Arc as the subject of his next opera, Tchaikovsky had considered returning to Romeo and Juliet, which he had treated in a celebrated “Fantasy Overture” in 1869 (ZT I 327). One of his most eminent modern biographers, David Brown, also expresses wonder at the disparate destinies of these two operas: “Having only recently, in Onegin, set a subject which abounded in those human qualities of character and feeling which he now discovered in Romeo and Juliet, Tchaikovsky’s attraction to this Shakespearean subject occasions no surprise. It is the more strange, therefore, that within a year he should have set the grandiose and misconceived libretto which he himself freely devised from Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller’s Die Jungfrau von Orleans” (II 280). The success or failure of an artistic creation as complex as an opera cannot be accounted for by any one factor, if at all. The circumstances of its creation, however, can be studied. In the case of Tchaikovsky, the amount of material available for study is extensive and often leads to a good deal of postmortem psychoanalysis. 166 J. PENDERGAST This chapter will not explore that path, at least not in a conventional sense. Instead, the guiding question here will be: To what extent do the circumstances in Tchaikovsky’s life and the aesthetic choices he made at the time of Deva’s composition compare to Schiller’s aesthetic formulations with regard to poetry and drama? The primary works by Schiller that will drive the discussion are Die Jungfrau von Orleans, “Vom Erhabenen” (“On the Sublime” 1793), Breife über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen (On the Aesthetic Education of Man 1795), and Über naïve und sentimentalische Dichtung (On Naive and Sentimental Poetry 1795–96). The goal of looking at Tchaikovsky’s circumstances in this manner will be to explore such notions as the dilemma of subjective feeling versus objective reasoning, the anxiety between realism and idealism, and the solutions Schiller proposes to these problems in the aforementioned philosophical works, to provide an aesthetic context by which to assess the impression created by Orleanskaya deva (1879). The epic grand-opera idealism of Orleanskaya deva seems to indicate a temporary shift in his aesthetic approach away from the lyric realism of Onegin. The explanation for the shift will be sought in the unusual events of the period 1877–1879 in Tchaikovsky’s life, on the basis of which one can argue that when the composer was projecting what will be called here his lyric persona, he produced works of enduring interest and acknowledged importance; works either obscure or of questionable value are projections of what will be called his epic persona. The argument emerges that Onegin is almost entirely a projection of the composer’s lyric persona; it is an enduring success, performed on the stages of opera houses worldwide and studied intensely. The works he wrote afterward and through 1879, among them Orleanskaya deva, are a peculiar blend of masterpieces, strikingly effective miniatures, and overblown “noisiness and hyperbole” (Wiley 196). Although ultimately obscure and problematic as a stage work, the opera’s libretto and score reveal that the composer was still strongly under the influence of the lyric voices of Pushkin, Zhukovsky (especially his translations of Schiller) and other Russian Romantic poets, while he continued to experiment with bolder and grander foreign ideas, especially Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and Mozart’s Don Giovanni. In particular, considerable evidence exists to suggest that his fascination with Juliet’s desperate dilemma and, to a greater degree, with Mozart’s similarly desperate Donna Anna strongly influenced his depiction of Tatyana in Eugene Onegin. All of these heroines found themselves in love with men in circumstances that offered 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 167 no hope for happiness: Juliet’s Romeo had the wrong last name; Donna Anna’s Giovanni is the epitome of the faithless womanizer, as well as the passionate forebear of Tatyana’s ice-cold Onegin. Subsequently, it seems that the composer’s decision to take up the subject of Joan of Arc, in Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller, was made while still preoccupied with Juliet, Donna Anna, and Tatyana. Stirred by the epic scope of Joan’s true history, yet touched by the lyric passion of the romantic dilemma Schiller creates for her in his play, Tchaikovsky’s retains both the historical and romantic features in his opera. As the argument to follow will attempt to clarify, any assessment of this opera is complicated by the realization that, while Tchaikovsky may be at his most effective when he creates music that reflects realistic suffering of a private and personal nature—the projection of his lyric persona—he is perfectly willing “to abandon real truth in favor of artistic truth” (Wiley 353).45 Could this mean, conversely, that when he creates music that reflects idealized aspirations of a public and impersonal nature—the projection of his epic persona—he unwittingly abandons artistic truth? The seeming paradox between Tchaikovsky’s “real truth” and artistic truth is at the heart of the proposed distinctions between the composer’s lyric and epic personae. Bullock argues that the composer endeavors to say in his songs what was not permissible in the complex social landscape of his time, but that he did not do so with the explicit intent of conveying his own personal experience. He says of Tchaikovsky’s songs that “their heightened self-consciousness renders them less subjective instances of Romantic confession than complex exercises in the projection of lyric personae” (97). Additionally, the composer seems to have engaged self-consciously in artistic fiction even in his correspondence. Bullock cites a passage from the composer’s diary: “To whomever and for whatever reason I write, I always worry about the impression that the letter will make, not only on the correspondent, but on any chance reader. Thus I pose” (97–98). Morrison associates the composer’s pose with the source of his muse: “for his letter readers—indeed, even for his prospective diary readers—Tchaikovsky often adopted the persona of a tormented and persecuted artist, finding within it a rich source for his music” (Bullock 97).46 Thus, the projection of the lyric persona describes the composer’s subjective approach to music, which achieves its most expressive potential when imbued with a sense of individual torment and persecution, arising less from his personal experience than from his sympathy with the source of inspiration. Describing the 168 J. PENDERGAST opposite mode for the composer as the projection of his epic persona is suggested by Novalis’s famous dictum: “der Mann [ist] lyrisch, die Frau episch, die Ehe dramatisch.”47 Although the idea is not Schiller’s, the classical sense that Novalis seems to suggest with these three terms—lyrical, epic, and dramatic—is in keeping with Schiller’s aesthetic philosophy. Furthermore, the dichotomy between the composer’s lyric and epic personae seems to be a reflection of the opposition posited by Schiller in defining the categories of Realist and Idealist in Naïve and Sentimental Poetry, that is to say, Tchaikovsky’s lyric persona is a Realist as understood by Schiller, while his epic persona is an Idealist. These Schillerian categories may seem to be in reverse at first glance, but it is important to recall that for Tchaikovsky, the lyric persona projects spontaneously from the internal, unmediated promptings of his own inclination to compose, while the epic persona projects self-consciously from external stimulus. Additionally, the sexual ambiguity implicit in suggesting that the composer passes back and forth from Novalis’s lyric to epic is something of a parallel to the complications arising from his sexuality, which were dramatically exacerbated by his decision to marry in 1878. Nonetheless, the sense that the lyric mode of composition is somehow true to Tchaikovsky’s sense of self, while the epic is not, is reinforced by association of the lyric persona with the male sex.48 Most important, the notion of persona permits the discussion to focus on the aesthetic qualities inherent in the works under consideration, rather than on potentially irrelevant biographical details. With respect to the argument here, musical ideas seemingly at odds with compositional techniques developed by Tchaikovsky in works prior to 1878—particularly his song style— constitute projections of the composer’s epic persona. In the period under discussion, they seem to spring from the composer’s decision to pursue projects based on their objective commercial or ceremonial potential, rather than as a result of a deeply felt emotional prompting. Although no evidence exists that he read Naïve and Sentimental Poetry, nor that he was aware of Schiller’s Realist and Idealist categories, Tchaikovsky was himself conscious of approaching the act of composing in two distinct modes, which he referred to as compositional types (vidy) or categories (razryady). In a letter to his patroness of 24 June 1878, he attempts to explain his compositional process. Significantly, he writes this letter in the middle of the year in which most of the works being considered were either sketched or revised. This is how he defines the two types: 4 1. Coчинeния, кoтopыe я пишy пo coбcтвeннoй инициaтивe, вcлeдcтвиe нeпocpeдcтвeннoгo влeчeния и нeoтpaзимoй внyтpeннeй пoтpeбнocти. 2. Coчинeния, кoтopыe я пишy вcлeдcтвиe внeшнeгo тoлчкa, пo пpocьбe дpyгa или издaтeля, пo зaкaзy, кaк cлyчилocь, кoгдa для пpoeктиpoвaннoгo в пoльзy Кpacнoгo Кpecтa кoнцepтa диpeкция Myз. Oбщecтвa мнe зaкaзaлa мapш (cepбcкo-pyccкий)… Для coчинeний, пpинaдлeжaщиx к пepвoмy paзpядy, нe тpeбyeтcя никaкoгo, xoтя бы мaлeйшeгo ycилия вoли. Ocтaeтcя пoвинoвaтьcя внyтpeннeмy гoлocy… К coжaлeнию, эти внeшниe тoлчки coвepшeннo нeизбeжны. Hyжнo идти нa cлyжбy, зoвyт oбeдaть, пpишлo пиcьмo и т.д. Boт пoчeмy тaк peдки coчинeния, кoтopыe вo вcex чacтяx ypaвнoвeшeны пo кoличecтвa мyзыкaльнoй кpacoты. -- Oтcюдa являютcя швы, пpoклeйки, нepoвнocти, нecooтвeтcтвия… (ZT II 148–49) PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 169 1. Works, which I write at my own initiative, resulting from a direct inclination and an irresistible internal need. 2. Works, which I write as a result of an external stimulus, at the request of a friend or publisher, or by commission, as was the case when the directorate of the Music Society commissioned the march (Slavonic March) from me for use at the Red Cross concert… For works belonging to my first category there is nothing more than the slightest willpower needed. One only needs to obey the inner voice… Unfortunately, these external stimuli are unavoidable. One must get to work, come to dinner, answer the mail, etc. This is why works that achieve balanced musical beauty throughout are so rare. For this reason, they show their seams and patches, or the fabric is misaligned or mismatched… Given his recent completion of the sketches for Onegin, the fact that it was not commissioned by anyone, and the passionate sincerity he reveals in all the correspondence related to its composition, this opera, which he preferred to call “lyrical scenes” (liricheskie stseny), clearly belongs to his 170 J. PENDERGAST first category. Arguably, it springs from the projection of lyric personae, resulting specifically from the composer’s sympathy with the characters of Tatyana and Lensky in the novel. As he states outright in the letter, he considers the Slavonic March (1876), on the other hand, a work from his second category. It was indeed commissioned, yet the composer felt an emotional impact from the circumstances that led to its commissioning. He found it “gratifying” that Russia had decided to come to the aid of Montenegro and Serbia following the Ottoman Empire’s massacre of Christians in the Balkans (Brown II 99). On one occasion when the young son of a friend announced his decision to go off to war, he was present and was “terribly shaken by the scene” (100). In composing the march, he decides to make use of the Russian Imperial anthem, along with three Serbian folksongs (Brown II 100). While the work is arguably a projection of his epic persona, his emotional connection to the suffering of the Balkan peoples and the families of Russian volunteers, along with the use of folksong and the anthem with text by the Sentimentalist lyric poet Zhukovsky, provides a number of lyric qualities that make this work an extremely effective orchestral piece.49 When one considers the opera he would next compose, Orleanskaya deva, however, disparities arise. This work was not commissioned by anyone. As later examples will show, he speaks of Ioanna’s suffering with the sort of sincere sympathy that he expresses for Tatyana, and he also expresses considerable satisfaction with the progress and outcome of his work. According to these criteria, Tchaikovsky would himself place the opera in his first category. As the discussion here seeks to reveal, however, this work has no shortage—to borrow Tchaikovsky’s own words—of “seams and patches” showing, and its “fabric” has been routinely criticized for being “misaligned or mismatched.” The composer is both the client and the tailor of this piece, and yet it cannot reasonably be placed in the same category as Onegin. For these reasons, this discussion prefers to analyze the works according to the proposed terms of lyric and epic personae. As the example of the Slavonic March above shows, however, it is not necessary to see these terms as applying uniformly to an entire work. Passages of inspired brilliance can be found alongside stretches of noisiness or kitch. Deva contains moments of all three. The features common to works projecting the composer’s lyric or epic personae can be found throughout the period to which this chapter is devoted. To understand these features, it is important to look closely at these works and the circumstances of their composition, to consider 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 171 Tchaikovsky’s evaluation of them, and to compare his evaluation with the epic and lyric categories. In a letter of 29 July 1878 to his publisher, Pëtr Jurgenson, Tchaikovsky writes: “Dear friend, my manuscripts are now in your hands. You have received no small amount of material for your engravers” (ZT II 156).50 He lists the new works he has completed over the last six months, which are ready for publication, along with the honorarium he proposes for each: As listed in the letter For the sonata 50 rubles For 12 pieces @ 25 ea 300 rubles For the children’s album 240 rubles @ 10 ea For 6 romances @ 25 ea For the violin pieces @ 25 ea For the Liturgy 150 rubles 75 rubles 100 rubles As designated among his complete works Grand Sonata for Piano in G major (Op. 35) 12 Pieces of Medium Difficulty for Piano (Op. 40) Children’s Album, 24 Easy Pieces (à la Schumann) Six Romances (Op. 38) Six Romances (Op. 38) Souvenir d’un lieu cher, (Op. 42) The Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom (Op. 41) (ZT II 166–69) In addition to this impressive collection, he also proposes honoraria for previously submitted works, for which he has not yet received payment: the opera Evgenij Onegin (Op. 24), 500 rubles; and the Violin Concerto in D (Op. 35), 50 rubles. “My dove, please review and settle the state of our accounts; for me this is quite necessary” (157).51 A few sentences later, the urgency becomes clearer, as he lists the payments that his publisher has made for the last six months to Antonina Ivanovna Miliyukova, that is, his wife, from whom he has been estranged since the previous September (Wiley 157). The composer’s sudden decision to marry in 1877 has been examined exhaustively by all of his biographers, and many of its implications extend far beyond the scope of this inquiry. Gasparov argues convincingly that Tchaikovsky saw Evgenij Onegin’s rejection of Tatyana in the novel as unjust and sought to avoid committing a similar injustice to a young woman, in whom he saw (perhaps blinded by an overly sympathetic aesthetic response) an analogous personality: “his relations with Milyukova had reached the point at which it became his 172 J. PENDERGAST duty to propose marriage” (65). They married in Moscow on 6 July 1877 (Wiley 149). He wrote Onegin over the next six months (ZT II 167). He regretted his decision to marry almost immediately and left for his sister’s estate in Kamenka twenty days after the wedding, enduring his final personal contact with his wife 24 September 1877 (Wiley 151, 155). Having made a decision based on a sense of duty influenced by aesthetic susceptibility, his feelings soon overpowered him: “My soul was filled with such fierce hatred of my unfortunate wife that I felt like strangling her” (PC I 66).52 The inspiration to continue work on Onegin, however, remained. It suffices to say that his decision, and its consequences, represents a critical period in the composer’s life that affected his compositional choices. In the letter to his publisher, a moment crystallizes in which all the works and events in question appear, prior to the composer’s consideration of Joan of Arc as a subject. For the remainder of the chapter, the discussion will consider the argument that the composer developed a distinct compositional style, which can be described in concrete musical and aesthetic terms consistent with Schiller’s philosophical writings. This style was already evident in works prior to 1877, such as the collection of songs Op. 28 and Onegin. Mid-way through that year, the composer married, following which he produced the works outlined above in 1878. Several of the works he produces in this period show features consistent with his pre-1877 compositional style; while others seem like failed experiments. Those consistent with this style are largely projections of the composer’s lyric persona, while those inconsistent with this style are largely projections of his epic persona. The table below organizes the works according to these terms: Projection of Lyric Persona Songs, Op. 28 Evgenij Onegin Twelve Pieces of Medium Difficulty (piano) Children’s Album (piano) Songs, Op. 38 Violin Concerto Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom (choral) Projection of Epic Persona Sonata in G Souvenir d’un lieu cher Orleanskaya Deva The thematic interrelationships—in terms of both music and subject matter—among the works in the left column are striking. The Violin Concerto, especially the melody of its middle movement, plays a 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 173 surprisingly unifying role. It will be seen that among the vocal works there, texts devoted to love at first sight and hopeless romance predominate, as the examples below make clear. Furthermore, these subjects often refer with remarkable specificity to particular literary and operatic characters: Shakespeare’s Juliet, and Donna Anna from Mozart’s Don Giovanni. To varying degrees, both of these heroines play a role in Tchaikovsky’s depiction of Tatyana in Onegin. In the song cycle, Op. 38, the composer’s selection of texts and musical ideas suggests that his conception of Tatyana fuses with that of Juliet and Donna Anna as a muse-synthesis for the projection of his lyric persona. It is when the composer attempts to treat Ioanna (Russian for “Johanna”) as an extension of this muse-synthesis that difficulties begin to emerge. Although there is evidence in Orleanskaya deva of musical and thematic material from the lyric column, where they are employed effectively, their presence in the latter opera is either out of place or is manifested in isolated passages of effective material. In 1875, before the idea of Onegin or Orleanskaya deva had occurred to him, Tchaikovsky produced a set of songs (Opus 28), which are called romansy in Russian, in which he develops a distinctive compositional method, which influences everything he writes for the next several years. Orlova observes: “For Tchaikovsky, harmony never turns into a selfsufficient material, a stiff blotch of coloration, but is always connected seamlessly with the movement of the melody and fulfills a dramatic function” (91).53 This compositional technique can serve as the definition of the projection of Tchaikovsky’s lyric persona: Sensitivity to the melody inspired by the text above all, with demands regarding genre and form as secondary considerations. In this respect, despite a gap of some four decades between their lifetimes, he is a composer after Schiller’s own heart. It has been noted before in these pages that one of Schiller’s favorite composers was Gluck, who vindicated the melody-driven style of opera against its harmony-driven forebear, the tragédie lyrique.54 The composer whom Schiller felt did most justice to his poetry in his lifetime was Karl Friedrich Zelter, largely because he subscribed to the prominence of melodic momentum over harmonic form. In fairness, both Gluck and Zelter were bound to stylistic and formal genres that Tchaikovsky eschewed in his vocal music, but the notion that harmony serves a dramatic function subordinate to the melody of the text is common to all of these composers. According to Orlova, Tchaikovsky develops a “conversational melodic language” in the collection of songs, Op. 28 (1875), which she calls a “laboratory” for the music he would create for Onegin (84). They are characterized by, as she describes it, “flexibility of musical speech…the 174 J. PENDERGAST ability to bring together improvisational freedom and a tightly constructed theme simultaneously…This collection of songs…played a huge role as a ‘laboratory’ for the melodic style of Onegin, an opera deeply bound to everyday inflections and to the style of chamber lyricism. Improvisational, speech-like ‘conversational’ melodic language is typical throughout this entire opera” (84–85).55 Significantly, she cites his compositional technique for Deva as an aberration from that which he had established and maintained prior to writing that opera. Her source is a letter of 11 December 1880 to the conductor Napravnik, in which he refers to changes necessary for the premiere of the opera: “It is better for the melodic line to be disfigured than for this to happen to the musical idea’s very essence, located in direct dependence on modulation and harmony, to both of which I have grown accustomed” (91).56 Two points here are surprising: Tchaikovsky’s assertion that he has created an operatic moment with harmony as its musical essence, and his willingness to “disfigure” the melody that he has created for the singer for harmonic purposes. This approach is in sharp contrast to the methodology of Onegin and the songs that come before and after it. Its uncharacteristic manner is an example of the projection of the composer’s epic persona. The primary feature common to the song collections, which comes to serve the composer in Onegin as well, is a melody for the voice that suggests improvised speech.57 Asaf’ev actually refers to the composer’s style in Onegin as romansnoe (“song-like”) and suggests that his juxtaposition of monologic (internal) and dialogic (conversational) themes influenced Chekhov and the Stanislavsky acting method (94). In contrast to Deva, Onegin expresses sincere, human feelings on such a personal level that some critics felt it was actually unsuitable for the stage. Present at the premiere in March 1879, in a student performance at the Moscow Conservatory, was the famous pianist Anton Rubinstein, brother of Nikolay Rubinstein, the director of the conservatory. His reaction regarding this aspect of the opera’s ostensible unsuitability is typical: “He criticized the opera to bits; mostly he was dissatisfied with the everyday quality of the libretto and the absence of grand operatic style in the music” (ZT II 232).58 Indeed, this everyday quality (budichnost’), which Tchaikovsky seems to have associated with sincerity and realism, had been exactly the impression he had hoped to create. He had shared manuscripts of the earlier scenes with one of his students, Sergej Taneev, who loved the music but was concerned about the work’s stageworthiness. In a letter of 14 January 1878, Tchaikovsky answers him, providing considerable insight into his ideas about opera: 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … Oчeнь мoжeт быть, чтo вы пpaвы, гoвopя, чтo мoя oпepa нe cцeничнa. Ho я вaм oтвeчy, чтo мнe нa нecцeнничнocть плeвaть. Фaкт, чтo y мeня нeт cцeничecкoй жилки, дaвнo пpизнaн, и я тeпepь мaлo oб этoм coкpyшaюcь. Hecцeничнo, тaк и нe cтaвьтe, и нe игpaйтe!! Я нaпиcaл этy oпepy пoтoмy, чтo мнe в oдин пpeкpacный дeнь зaxoтeлocь пoлoжить нa мyзыкy вce, чтo в Oнeгинe пpocитcя нa мyзыкy. Я этo cдeлaл, кaк мoг. Я paбoтaл c нeoпиcaнным нacлaждeниeм и yвлeчeниeм, мaлo зaбoтяcь o тoм, ecть ли движeниe, эффeкты и т.д. Плeвaть мнe нa эффeкты! Дa и чтo тaкoe эффeкты? Ecли вы иx нaxoдитe, нaпpимep, в кaкoй-нибyдь Aидe, тo я вac yвepяю, чтo ни зa кaкиe бoгaтcтвa в миpe нe мoг бы нaпиcaть oпepы c пoдoбным cюжeтoм, ибo мнe нyжны люди, a нe кyклы. Я oxoтнo пpимycь зa вcякyю oпepy, гдe xoтя и бeз cильныx и нeoжидaнныx эффeктoв, ecть cyщecтвa, пoдoбныe мнe, иcпытывaющиe oщyщeния, мнoю тoжe иcпытaнныe и пoнимaeмыe. Oщyщeний eгипeтcкoй пpинцeccы, фapaoнa, кaкoгo-тo бeшeнoгo нyбийцa я нe знaю, нe пoнимaю. Кaкoй-тo инcтинкт пoдcкaзывaeт мнe, чтo эти люди дoлжны были чyвcтвoвaть, двигaтьcя, гoвopить, a cлeдoвaтeльнo, и выpaжaть cвoи чyвcтвa, coвceм кaк-тo ocoбeннo, – нe тaк, кaк мы […] Этo бyдeт лoжь, и этa лoжь мнe пpoтивнa. […] К coжaлeнию, я нe yмeю нaйти caм ничeгo и нe втpeчaю людeй, кoтopыe мoгли бы нaтoлкнyть мeня нa тaкoй cюжeт, кaк, нaпpимep, Кapмeн Бизe, oднa из пpeлecтнeйшиx oпep нaшeгo вpeмeни […] Mнe нyжнo, чтoбы нe былo цapeй, нapoдныx бyнтoв, бoгoв, мapшeй, cлoвoм, вceгo, чтo cocтaвляют aтpибyт grande opera [in French]. Я ищy интимнoй, нo cильнoй дpaмы, ocнoвaннoй нa кoнфликтe пoлoжeний мнoю иcпытaнныx или видeнныx, мoгyщиx зaдeть мeня зa живoe. (ZT II 67) 175 It may well be that you are correct in saying that my opera is not stageworthy. But I reply to you, that I spit on unstageworthiness. I acknowledged long ago the fact that I have no scenic inclination, and now I worry myself about it very little. If it is not scenic, then don’t mount it, don’t play it!! I wrote this opera because one fine day I wanted to set to music all that cries out for music in Onegin. I did this as well as I could. I worked with indescribable pleasure and enjoyment, little concerned about action or effect, etc. I spit on effects! And what are effects? If you find them, for example, in some Aida, then I assure you that I could not write an opera on such a subject for all the riches in the world, for I need people, not dolls. I would apply myself eagerly to any opera in which, although lacking in powerful and unexpected effects, there are creatures like me, who have experienced feelings that I myself have experienced and understand. I neither know nor understand the feelings of an Egyptian princess, pharaoh, or some raging Nubian. Some instinct whispers to me that these people must have felt, acted, spoken, and consequently, expressed their feelings somehow quite differently— not as we do […] That would be a lie, and this lie is disgusting to me […] Unfortunately, I am unable to find anything and know no one who could acquaint me with such a subject as, for example, Bizet’s Carmen, one of the most delightful operas of our time […] I need for there to be no kings, popular uprisings, gods, marches, in a word, all that applies to the attribute grande opera. I seek intimate but powerful drama, based on states of conflict experienced or witnessed by me, capable of touching me deeply. 176 J. PENDERGAST Thus, the composer associates stageworthiness and grand opera with falsehood and sees these as unsuited to his musical instincts. This is the same letter in which he declares his intent not to call the work an opera but lyrical scenes. It is important to emphasize that he was an early champion of Bizet’s Carmen, which Parisian operagoers had initially disliked for exactly the reason against which he is defending his Onegin. The subject was too close to ordinary life. By this point, he has completed the sketches for Onegin and is already looking for another operatic subject. His assertion that he distresses himself very little about stageworthiness, and grand opera, will be called into question when he eventually chooses Joan of Arc as his next operatic project. Nine months earlier, when he had just begun to work on the lyrical scenes, he had written his friend, I. A. Klimenko, explaining his attraction to its source: “Eugene Onegin is full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know well enough the work gives little scope for stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Pushkin’s inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other respects” (Newmarch I 203).59 Pushkin’s novel in verse, from which Tchaikovsky develops his lyrical scenes, occupies a place in Russian literature unlike few works in the national literature of any other country. It is known, or claimed to be known, and admired by Russians from all types of backgrounds, who all, somehow, seem to see something of themselves in it. Belinsky called it “an encyclopedia of Russian life.”60 Nabokov believed that went too far, but acknowledged that the range of the work was, if not unprecedented, certainly on an equal footing with the epic poetry of Cervantes or Shakespeare (I 7; III 192). Beyond its poetic richness, however, the work is acknowledged as the starting point of realism in the Russian novel, which would be developed as the nation’s primary literary movement of the nineteenth century by the subsequent efforts of Turgenev, Dostoevsky, and Tolstoy. “The realism of Onegin is that peculiarly Russian realism which is poetical without idealizing and without surrendering anything of reality” (Mirsky 91). As Gasparov points out, the composer’s decision to take on this realistic subject was problematic: “an opera so close to the contemporary world, whose characters’ feelings and behavior could be recognized by the listeners as something close to their own, represented a drastic deviation from the habitual operatic domain of the fantastical, the exotic, and the historical” (64). Tchaikovsky recognized that he faced a challenge but could not resist it. When the work was complete, he found that even in private, he was deeply touched by 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 177 its effect. Although he admits that he “poses” in many of his letters, he was consistently honest—sometimes brutally so—with his brother Modest. It is possible that this honesty was engendered by their shared experience of homosexuality, but whatever the reason, when he writes something to Modest, it is usually with complete sincerity: Beчepoм вчepa cыгpaл чyть нe вceгo Eвгeния Oнeгинa. Aвтop был и eдинcтвeнным cлyшaтeлeм. Coвecтнo пpизнaтьcя, нo тaк и быть, тeбe, пo ceкpeтy, cкaжy. Cлyшaтeль дo cлeз вocxищaлcя мyзыкoй и нaгoвopил aвтopy тыcячy любeзнocтeй. O, ecли бы бyдyщиe cлyшaтeли мoгли тaк жe yмилятьcя oт этoй мyзыки, кaк caм aвтop!! (ZT II 144) Last night I played through almost all of Eugene Onegin. The composer was the only listener. I’m ashamed to admit it, but there it is. I’ll tell you as a secret. The listener was enraptured to tears by the music and showered the composer with a thousand kindnesses. Oh, if only future listeners might be as moved by this music as the composer himself is!! Tchaikovsky, although recognized as a proponent of realism, especially in the depiction of the scenes from Onegin, had little use for a prosaic, mirror-like naturalism. He felt, in fact, that this approach lacked artistic merit. Interestingly, he chooses Mozart’s Don Giovanni as the sine qua non example for this argument. In the letter already cited in connection with his idealization of Tatyana and Lensky, Tchaikovsky writes Mrs. Nadezhda von Meck, who was for many years his patron, to reply to her assertion that theatrical music, particularly opera, has the inherent quality of nesostoyatel’nost’ (“groundlessness” or “poverty”). The notion is tied to her sense that symphonic music and chamber music, being less driven by programmatic schemes or dramatic plots, are purer, and therefore more edifying. She had not formed this opinion on her own. There were many in the nineteenth century who had reached the conclusion that much vocal music, and particularly operatic music, was inherently false and undesirable. Unsurprisingly, many of the proponents of this idea, mostly German, were not themselves opera composers, including Brahms and Schumann. Tchaikovsky, admitting the paradox, replies that her opinion pleases him. He goes on to say that Lev Tolstoy shared her opinion and had personally advised him to leave opera behind. He then refers to the scene in War and Peace in which Natal’ya Rostova attends the opera, then becomes physically ill from what she (and, one deduces, Tolstoy) 178 J. PENDERGAST perceives as the falsity of the experience. He attributes their opinion to their having lived away from cities for so long and having devoted their time to family, literature and education. As a consequence, a person such as Mrs. von Meck or Tolstoy “дoлжeн живee дpyгoгo чyвcтвoвaть фaльшивocть oпepнoй фopмы” (“must feel the falsity of the operatic form more strongly than others”).61 His insistence on associating Mrs. von Meck’s opinion with the famous author is clearly designed to flatter her and sets the scene for his rebuttal, which starts off somewhat timidly, but then gains strength and conviction: Дa, и я, кoгдa пишy oпepy, чyвcтвyю ceбя cтecнeнным и нecвoбoдным, и мнe кaжeтcя, чтo в caмoм дeлe, нe нaпишy бoлee никoгдa oпepы. Teм нe мeнee нyжнo пpизнaть, чтo мнoгиe пepвocтeпeнныe мyзыкaльныe кpacoты пpинaдлeжaт дpaмaтичecкoмy poдy мyзыки, и aвтopы иx были вдoxнoвлeны имeннo дpaмaтичecкими мoтивaми. Ecли бы нe былo вoвce oпepы, тo нe былo бы Дoн Жyaнa, Cвaдьбы Фигapo, Pycлaнa, и т.д. Кoнeчнo, c тoчки зpeния пpocтoгo здpaвoгo cмыcлa, бeccмыcлeннo и глyпo зacтaвлять людeй, дeйcтвyющиx нa cцeнe, кoтopaя дoлжнa oтpaжaть дeйcтвитeльнocть, нe гoвopить, a пeть. Ho к этoмy aбcypдy, люди пpивыкли, и cлyшaя ceкcтeт Дoн Жyaнa, я нe дyмaю o тoм, чтo пpoиcxoдит нeчтo, нapyшaющee тpeбoвaниe xyдoжecтвeннoй пpaвды, a пpocтo нacлaждaюcь кpacoтaми мyзыки и yдивляюcь пopaзитeльнoмy иcкyccтвy, c кoтopым Moцapт cyмeл кaждoй из шecти пapтий ceкcтeтa дaть ocoбый xapaктep, oттeнить peзкими кpacкaми кaждoe дeйcтвyющee лицo тaк, чтo, зaбыв oтcyтcтвиe пpaвды в caмoй cyщнocти дeлa, я пopaжeн глyбинoй ycлoвнoй пpaвды, и вocxищeниe зacтaвляeт yмoлкнyть мoй paccyдoк. (ZT II 522, emphases Tchaikovsky’s) Yes, and when I write opera, I feel restricted and constrained, and it seems to me that I really shouldn’t write opera anymore. Nonetheless, I must admit that many first-rate musical gems belong to the dramatic species of music, and their authors were inspired precisely by dramatic motives. If there were no such thing as opera, there would be no Don Giovanni, Marriage of Figaro, Ruslan [and Lyudmila], etc. Of course, from the standpoint of simple common sense, it is senseless and stupid to force people acting on the stage, who should reflect reality, not to speak, but sing. But people are accustomed to this absurdity, and listening to the sextet of Don Giovanni, I don’t think that what is happening is something that violates the demands of artistic truth. I simply enjoy the beauty of the music and marvel at the striking artistry with which Mozart was able to provide each of the six parts a distinct quality, to paint each character with bold colors so that I forget the absence of truth in the thing itself and instead am struck by the depth of conditional truth, and this delight forces my intellect into silence. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 179 The discussion below will return to the link which the composer sensed between Tatyana and Mozart’s Donna Anna. Before moving on to that subject, however, it seems that a closer look is needed at the connection he saw between Tatyana and Shakespeare’s Juliet, especially since the features of this connection figure so prominently in the changes he makes to Zhukovsky’s Ioanna. Chief among the similarities is the idea that each of the heroines falls in love at the first sight of her beloved. Initially, Juliet expresses doubt that any such thing is possible. In Act I, Scene iii., when her mother advises her to consider marriage to Paris, Juliet responds (words referring to love at first sight underlined): I’ll look to like, if looking liking move: But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. In Act I, scene v., when Romeo crashes the Capulets’ feast incognito, he falls in love with Juliet before she has even seen him: O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night! An important difference between the two stories is that the love of Romeo and Juliet is mutual, while the feelings between Tatyana and Onegin, at least in the first part of the story, rest entirely on her side. Some argue that it is not clear that Pushkin’s Tatyana actually falls in love with Onegin immediately, and with respect to the novel this may or may not be the case. With regard to Tchaikovsky’s conception of Tatyana, his own words in a letter to his student Sergej Taneev affirm his conviction: 180 J. PENDERGAST Oтнocитeльнo вaшeгo зaмeчaния, чтo Taтьянa нe cpaзy влюблятcя в Oнeгинa, cкaжy – вы oшибaeтecь. Имeннo cpaзy: “Tы тyт вoшeл, я в миг yзнaлa, вcя oбoмлeнa, зaпылaлa и в мыcляx мoлвилa: вoт oн!” Beдь oнa влюбaeтcя в Oнeгинa нe пoтoмy, чтo oн тaкoй или дpyгoй: eй нe нyжнo yзнaвaть eгo, чтoбы пoлюбить. Eщe дo eгo пpиxoдa oнa влюблeнa в гepoя нeoпpeдeлённoгo cвoeгo poмaнa. Oнeгинy cтoилo тoлькo пoкaзaтьcя, чтoбы oнa тoтчac жe cнaбдилa eгo вceми кaчecтвaми cвoeгo идeaлa и пepeнecлa нa живoгo чeлoвeкa любoвь, кoтopyю питaлa к дeтищy cвoeгo pacпaлeннoгo вooбpaжeния. (ZT II 68) Regarding your remark that Tatyana does not fall in love suddenly with Onegin, I will say – you are mistaken. Quite suddenly: “You walked in; instantly I realized, utterly stunned, aflame, and thought to myself: it’s him!” Of course, she does not fall in love with Onegin because of anything particular to him. Even before his arrival, she is in love with the hero of one of her unidentified novels. Onegin had only to show up for her to endow him instantly with all the qualities of her ideal and to transfer to a living person the love, which she had nurtured as the offspring of her enflamed imagination. The other important feature linking Shakespeare and Pushkin—and in Tchaikovsky’s understanding, Schiller—is the circumstances that make fulfillment of the romantic relationship impossible. Shakespeare’s famously “star-crossed lovers” are the children of two families whose “ancient grudge” forces Romeo and Juliet first into a secret marriage and ultimately into something of an unwitting suicide pact. The impossibility of love for Tatyana is perhaps less fatal, but no less final. It begins with Onegin’s coldness, which completely vanishes when he sees Tatyana at the ball in Scene 6. Similar to the circumstances in Shakespeare, familial and marital demands stand in the way: ‘A cчacтьe былo тaк вoзмoжнo, Taк близкo!.. Ho cyдьбa мoя Уж peшeнa. Heocтopoжнo, Быть мoжeт, пocтyпилa я: Meня c cлeзaми зaклинaний Moлилa мaть; для бeднoй Taни Bce были жpeбии paвны… Я вышлa зaмyж. Bы дoлжны, Я вac пpoшy, мeня ocтaвить; ‘And happiness was quite possible, So close!…But my fate Is already decided. Incautiously, Perhaps, did I act: With spellbinding tears Did my mother plead; for poor Tanya All rolls of the dice were the same… I married. You must, I ask you, leave me alone; 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … Я знaю: в вaшeм cepдцe ecть И гopдocть, и пpямaя чecть. Я вac люблю (к чeмy лyкaвить?), Ho я дpyгoмy oтдaнa; Я бyдy вeк eмy вepнa.’ EO 8 XLVII 181 I know: in your heart of Arc there is Both pride and upright honor. I love you (why play games?), But I have been given to another: I will always be faithful to him.’ The significance of visual infatuation (love at first sight) and—after the manner of the Schillerian sublime—the enormous potential for pathos afforded by an impossible love relationship feature prominently in the Collection of Songs, Op. 38, from the above list of works composed in 1878. These songs, composed in the months before he began work on Deva, reveal that the composer still had Onegin much in mind, as well as Romeo and Juliet and Don Giovanni. The attraction that the composer clearly felt to these themes serves as at least a partial explanation for his decision to make Schiller’s Johanna into the lovesick Ioanna, at least in the last two acts of the opera. The sense of the sublime in the songs of this collection accords with that of Schiller, albeit in varying degrees from song to song. The subject in the text of each song suffers the misfortune of falling in love with someone who is inaccessible. Four of the six songs are from texts by Aleksey Tolstoy, which von Meck had recommended to him (ZT II 107).62 The first song he composed in February 1878 became the last song in the collection.63 He composed the remainder through May 1878 (ZT II 168). Song No. 1., Don Juan’s Serenade, comes from Tolstoy’s dramatic poem Don Zhuan (Don Juan), written from 1859 to 60 (Sylvester 113). The music is based on the rhythm of the Spanish jota, but without much concern for true Spanish authenticity. Although remarkably well-traveled for a Russian of his time, Tchaikovsky never visited Spain, yet his lifelong fascination with the Spain of Mozart’s Don Giovanni and Bizet’s Carmen provides an interesting analogy to his notion of the preference for artistic truth over “real life” (ZT II 522; ZT III 343; Wiley 353).64 With no experience of the real thing, he nevertheless believed that these works, both written by non-Spaniards, captured something that he felt reflected the artistic truth of Spanish culture. This intentional removal to a realm beyond the merely real is an essential component in the sublime aspect of Tchaikovsky’s lyric persona and convinced him that the ahistorical component of Deva was not an artistic problem. 182 J. PENDERGAST While Tchaikovksky is engaged in composing the song collection and babysitting his sister’s children, he decides to read Romeo and Juliet, inspired by his sister and brother’s decision to see the play in Kiev (ZT II 141). In a letter of 23 May 1878, he writes to von Meck, that he: “…read that same Romeo and Juliet, which they were watching in the theater. At that very moment, I was struck by the idea of writing an opera on this subject. I will think a great deal about the scenario of this opera, to which I would devote all the strength still in my possession” (ZT II 141).65 Thus, from the outset, we see in the first song of this collection the complete representation of the Juliet-Donna Anna-Tatyana synthesis. Song No. 2, “To bylo ranneyu vesnoj” (It was in early spring) is also by Tolstoy, written in 1871. The importance of eyes and love at first sight permeates the poem. The reference to a shepherd’s horn increases the idyllic mood of this poem and establishes another connection to Onegin. In the novel, when Tatyana awakens after writing her fateful letter, she sees a shepherd passing by her window. Tchaikovsky retained a reference to this pastoral interlude with an elaborate oboe obligato that is heard in the opera as Tatyana awakens after the letter scene. It thus serves as a musical synecdoche for the entire chronotope of that portion of the novel and the corresponding portion of the opera. The exclamation “O schast’e!” (O happiness!) in the final stanza seems to prefigure the peculiar moment in Deva when Ioanna utters the same words in her fateful first meeting with Lionel. Some ambiguity is inherent in the fact that the word can also be understood as “luck.” It is peculiar for two reasons. It has no basis in either Schiller or Zhukovsky, which means that Tchaikovsky created the moment for his own purposes. Additionally, this is precisely the moment when her successful campaign ends, which is to say it is the moment when her happiness ends, and her luck runs out. In the song, the words are sung to passionate and rueful music that seems more appropriate to the subsequent “O slëzy!” (O tears!) than to an expression of joy. This is because the singer is not expressing happiness with his present experience, rather he is recalling his past happiness, as well as his lost youth and former hopes, with vivid regret. As with the other texts Tchaikovsky chooses for this cycle, the physical manifestation of love and loss in these poems is almost entirely by means of the eyes. The eyes glance, see, and are lowered; they close, and they weep. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 183 To былo paннeю вecнoй, Tpaвa eдвa вcxoдилa, Pyчьи тeкли, нe пapил знoй, И зeлeнь poщ cквoзилa; It was in early spring, The grass had just started sprouting, The streams flowed, it wasn’t yet hot, And the groves began to show green; Tpyбa пacтyxья пoyтpy Eщё нe пeлa звoнкo, И в зaвиткax eщё в бopy Был пaпopoтник тoнкий. Mornings the shepherd’s horn Did not yet ring out loudly, And in the pine grove, still enfolded Stood the tender ferns. To былo paннeю вecнoй, B тeни бepёз тo былo, Кoгдa c yлыбкoй пpeдo мнoй Tы oчи oпycтилa. It was in early spring, It was in the shade of the birch, When you stood before me with a smile And lowered your eyes. To нa любoвь мoю в oтвeт Tы oпycтилa вeжды — O жизнь! O лec! O coлнцa cвeт! O юнocть! O нaдeжды! It was in response to my love That you lowered your eyelids – O life! O forest! O sunlight! И плaкaл я пepeд тoбoй, Ha лик твoй глядя милый,— To былo paннeю вecнoй, B тeни бepёз тo былo! And I wept in front of you, Gazing at your sweet face, – It was in early spring, It was in the shade of the birch! To былo в yтpo нaшиx лeт — O cчacтьe! O cлёзы! O лec! O жизнь! O coлнцa cвeт, O cвeжий дyx бepёзы! It was in the morning of our years – O happiness! O tears! O forest! O life! O sunlight! O youth! O hopes! O fresh smell of the birch tree! “Sred’ shumnogo bala” (“Amid the din of the ball”), No. 3, is undoubtedly the best-known song from the collection. Tolstoy based his 1851 work on a poem by Lermontov (Sylvester 117) “Iz-pod tainstvennoj, kholodnoj polumaski” (Behind a mysterious cold mask, 1841), which was itself based on an earlier Pushkin poem “Ya pomnyu chudnoe mgnoven’e” (I remember the wonderful moment, 1825). This succession of inspiration invites the observation that although Tolstoy was a close contemporary of Pushkin’s and personally acquainted with Zhukovsky, his poetic style often explored experimental techniques that they avoided. Orlova observes that in his poetry: “One often comes across certain ‘rough edges’ in the exposition of the idea and the style of 184 J. PENDERGAST speech. Polish and finished details are alien to his language. For Tolstoy, rhythmic precision was not a requirement for a work of poetry” (48).66 This description would not apply to Pushkin and still less to Zhukovsky, and those poems of his that Tchaikovsky selects hew more closely to Zhukovsky’s lyric refinement that to Tolstoy’s more experimental creations. In “Sred’ shumnogo bala” once again, the infatuation depends largely upon the action of the eyes, and every stanza contains a visual reference describing the progress of the poet’s fascination (underlined in the text). Admittedly, this poem adds the element of the voice and laughter of the beloved as another enchanting feature, but at the conclusion, when poet recalls the “sad eyes” and “happy conversation” and wonders whether he is in love, the final recollection arises in “daydreams,” which tend to be primarily visual experiences. Tolstoy wrote the poem to describe his first encounter with his wife (E. Orlova 51). A reader armed with this knowledge might see the final lines as the start of the poet’s relationship with his wife: “Lyublyu li tebya – ya ne znayu./No kazhetsya mne, chto lyublyu!” (I don’t know if I love you or not/but it appears that I do!) He is perhaps a bit bemused to find himself in love, but the promise of further development in the relationship is a reasonable expectation. Tchaikovsky’s wistful waltz permits no such possibility. The key of B minor, as already noted with respect to the Don Juan Serenade, was associated by Tchaikovsky with death. In the case of this song, it is far too melodramatic to suggest that the association should be taken literally, but at the very least, it suggests that this should not be seen simply as a sweet love song. Additionally, the waltz tune in the piano accompaniment plays a dual role in conveying the sense that this moment represents a lost opportunity, rather than the start of a relationship. The fact that it is a waltz at a ball immediately calls to mind the problem of the falseness of social behavior, which the poet suggests with the words “mirskoj suety” (worldly vanity) and about which the composer often complained.67 When the vocal part ends, the opening strains of the waltz return while the singer and the object of his infatuation remain strangers. In this manner, Tchaikovsky subverts Tolstoy’s “meet cute” and instead projects a lyric persona who experiences a sublime dejection as the music of the waltz carries the beloved away, along with any chance of meeting. Another small, but significant feature uniting this poem with both Onegin and Zhukovsky is the reference to the shepherd’s pipe (svirel’). As noted in connection with the previous song, 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 185 this pipe appears metaphorically in the orchestra when Tatyana awakens after the letter-writing scene. The word svirel’ also calls to mind the duet with which Onegin opens: “Slykhali ‘l vy…svireli zvuk unylyj i prostoj?” (Have you heard …the melancholy and simple sound of the shepherd’s pipe?). As noted earlier, this Pushkin poem, “Pevets” (“The Bard”), is replete with parallels to Zhukovsky, suggesting his association with the character Lensky. Even the mysterious beloved bears a resemblance to Tatyana, partially because of her “sad eyes” but especially for her “pensive expression.” Tolstoy might not have intended all these associations, but it seems plausible that Tchaikovsky was attracted to the text for at least some of these reasons. Cpeдь шyмнoгo бaлa Amid the Din of the Ball Cpeдь шyмнoгo бaлa, cлyчaйнo, B тpeвoгe миpcкoй cyeты, Amid the din of the ball, by chance, Under the nervous strain of worldly vanity I saw you, but mystery Concealed your features. Teбя я yвидeл, нo тaйнa Tвoи пoкpывaлa чepты. Лишь oчи пeчaльнo глядeли, A гoлoc тaк дивнo звyчaл, Кaк мopя игpaющий вaл. Only your eyes sadly glanced, And your voice resonated so wonderfully, Like the sound of a distant shepherd’s pipe, Like the playful breakers of the sea. Mнe cтaн твoй пoнpaвилcя тoнкий И вecь твoй зaдyмчивый вид, A cмex твoй, и гpycтный и звoнкий, C тex пop в мoём cepдцe звyчит. I found your tender figure pleasant And all your pensive expression, And your laugh, both sad and resonant, Echoes ever since in my heart. B чacы oдинoкиe нoчи Люблю я, ycтaлый, пpилeчь — Я вижy пeчaльныe oчи, Я cлышy вecёлyю peчь; In the night’s lonely hours, Weary, I love to lie back – I see those sad eyes, I hear your happy conversation; И гpycтнo я тaк зacыпaю, И в гpёзax нeвeдoмыx cплю… Люблю ли тeбя — я нe знaю, Ho кaжeтcя мнe, чтo люблю! (CPSS.44 224–27) And thus I fall asleep sadly, And dream strange daydreams… I don’t know if I love you or not, But it appears that I do! Кaк звoн oтдaлённoй cвиpeли, 186 J. PENDERGAST Shortly after composing the last song in this collection, he writes von Meck and sends her a copy of it. He also writes to thank her for the recommendation of the Tolstoy poems, particularly the selection from his dramatic poem Don Zhuan for the serenade that begins the collection. A few days later, perhaps still thinking of Don Juan, he wonders about von Meck’s dislike of Mozart. He acknowledges that Mozart’s music may not seize the imagination in the same way that Beethoven’s does, but: Я бoгoтвopю eгo. Лyчшaя из вcex кoгдa-либo нaпиcaнныx oпep - для мeня Дoн Жyaн […] Пpaвдa, чтo Moцapт зaxвaтывaeт нe тaк глyбoкo, кaк Бeтxoвeн; paзмax eгo мeнee шиpoк. Кaк в жизни oн был дo кoнцa днeй бecпeчным peбeнкoм, тaк и в мyзыкe eгo нeт cyбъeктивнoгo тpaгизмa, cтoль cильнo и мoщнo cкaзывaющeгocя в Бeтxoвeнe. Этo oднaкo ж нe пoмeшaлo eмy coздaть oбъeктивнo тpaгичecкoe лицo, caмoe cильнoe, caмoe пopaзилтeльнoe из вcex oбpиcoвaнныx мyзыкoй чeлoвeчecкиx oбpaзoв. Я гoвopю o Дoннe Aннe в Дoн Жyaнe. […] Я нe в cocтoянии пepeдaть Baм, чтo я иcпытывaл, cлyшaя Дoн Жyaнa, кoгдa нa cцeнe являeтcя вeличaвый oбpaз мcтитeльнoй, гopдoй кpacaвицы Дoнны Aнны. Hичтo ни в кaкoй oпepa тaк cильнo нa мeня нe дeйcтвyeт. Кoгдa Дoннa Aннa yзнaeт в Дoн Жyaнe тoгo чeлoвeкa, кoтopый нe тoлькo ocкopбил ee гopдocть, нo и yбил ee oтцa, кoгдa ee злoбa нaкoнeц бypным пoтoкoм изливaeтcя в гeниaльнoм peчитaтивe и пoтoм в этoй дивнoй apии, гдe злoбa и гopдocть чyвcтвyeтcя в кaждoм aккopдe, в кaждoм движeнии opкecтpa, - я тpeпeщy oт yжaca, я гoтoв кpичaть и зaплaкaть oт пoдaвляющeй cилы впeчaтлeния. (TPM I 300, ZT 111) I idolize him. For me, the best opera of all ever written is Don Giovanni […] True, Mozart does not seize one as deeply as does Beethoven; his range is less broad. Just as in his life he was a careless child to the end of his days, so does his music lack the subjective tragic element that is so forcefully and powerfully expressed in Beethoven. This however, did not prevent him from creating an objectively tragic individual, the most powerful and striking of all human images depicted by music. I am speaking of Donna Anna in Don Giovanni. […] I am incapable of conveying to you what I experience listening to Don Giovanni, when the grand, vengeful, proud beauty Donna Anna appears on the stage. Nothing in any opera affects me so powerfully. When Donna Anna recognizes that Don Giovanni is not only the person who disgraced her, but also killed her father; when her fury finally pours out in a raging torrent in the brilliant recitative and then, in that wondrous aria, where rage and pride can be felt in every chord, in every movement of the orchestra: I tremble in horror. I’m ready to scream and weep from the crushing force of the impression. Brown has taken note of the composer’s attraction to this type of character: A “significant strand running through Tchaikovksy’s work – 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 187 and one which invariably lifts the level of his inspiration, sometimes to its greatest heights – is that of the suffering woman, almost always young and vulnerable, and almost always innocent – or, at least enduring torments far greater than her failings” (II 320). In the case of Tatyana and Donna Anna, even the composer’s musical conception of Pushkin’s heroine is influenced by her Mozartean older sibling. By this point, the examples provided of the projection of the composer’s lyric persona have established its features. Something of the same is now necessary to demonstrate the projection of the epic persona. The Piano Sonata in G seems to have been Tchaikovsky’s attempt to create a large, important solo work for the instrument in the manner of Beethoven, Schumann, or Liszt (Wiley 195). Wiley in fact cites the first movement of this sonata as an example of the composer’s poor taste and misguided technique. He particularly faults the interpolation of the medieval plainsong Dies irae toward the end. Tchaikovsky “frequently alluded to other music and admitted it, but allusion is ambiguous in a piece this pretentious. The effect of quoting the Mass for the dead, bellowed out with accents at the approach of the final cadence, forces a distinction between loftiness and kitch, an ambiguity writ large across the Sonata which may speak to [his] state of mind at the time” (Wiley 196). It should be noted that the complex manifestation of the epic persona should not be construed as resulting in exclusively bad or forgettable music. The fault in the sonata is not with the Requiem tune itself apparently, for he had previously used it to better effect in the “Marche funèbre” (from Six morceaux, composés sur un seul thème, Op. 21, No. 4) in 1873, the construction of which Wiley calls “vision-like” (119), and in the “New Greek Song” (from Six Romances, Op. 16, No. 6) in 1872, cleverly serving as an allusion to the dedicatee’s impending conversion from Catholicism to Orthodoxy (114). Thus, the Dies irae crops up as a musical idea in the composer’s lyric and epic personae. Similarly, his use of the imperial anthem, which is effective and largely tasteful in the “Slavonic March,” comes across somewhat more bombastically when he employs it three years later in the “1812 Overture.” The aesthetic shift from one persona to the other, therefore, cannot be explained by musical ideas alone. Schiller’s ideas in “Vom Erhabenen” (“On the Sublime”) offer some explanation of Tchaikovsky’s aesthetics with regard to Deva and likewise establish a connection between the composer’s lyric and epic personae and Schiller’s philosophical perspectives. In this essay, he formulates his 188 J. PENDERGAST theory of the sublime as the experience of being confronted by something frightening and then conquering the cause of the fear either mentally (“the contemplative sublime”) or morally (“the pathetically sublime”). The experience of the contemplative sublime consists in choosing to regard the fear as either unfounded or not posing an immediate danger, “an abyss appearing at our feet, …a mass of rock looming over us as though it were about to plunge down on us… ferocious or poisonous animals” (NA.20 187).68 For many people, simply thinking about such things causes anxiety, which Schiller argues must be confronted by distinguishing between a danger that is actually present and a danger that arises purely from its contemplation. The pathetically sublime, on the other hand, demands that we sympathize involuntarily with the suffering of another, while retaining the consciousness of our independence from the cause of the other person’s suffering. While both types of sublime experience play a role in ordinary life, the latter type has its more proper place in the experience of the theater. Although Schiller would revisit the issue of the sublime in later writing, the basic defining components of contemplative and pathetic fears would remain the same. The aspect that would change in his later essays is the role of human will. The implication in the essay written earlier, in 1793, is that rational thought frees one from the bondage of physical needs. Two years later, he reconsiders the relationship of the sensuous and the rational in his Briefe über die ästhetische Erziehung.69 In that work, he concludes that reason—if carried to its logical end without recourse to the moderating influence of humane sympathy—ultimately has as much destructive potential as uncontrolled physical passions, a conclusion he reached in observing the excesses of ideological zeal that followed the French Revolution. Because of those excesses, he proposes that these two drives, Stofftrieb and Formtrieb (or “the instinctive impulse” and the “intellectual impulse” respectively), must be compelled to interact by the operation of what he calls the Spieltrieb (“the impulse to play”). The Spieltrieb represents the human ability to moderate physical impulses and excessive rationalization by distinguishing between moral and aesthetic choice. For Schiller, the most effective means for confronting these choices is active engagement in literature, poetry, theater, and all the pursuits that qualify as art. Although there is no overt evidence that Tchaikovsky read these articles, we will see below that the ideas he expresses in his letters to Mrs. von Meck often reveal a very similar thought process. Schiller returns to these questions, specifically as they relate to poetry, in Über naïve und sentimentalische Dichtung. In that work, he argues 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 189 that ancient Greek poetry (in which he includes drama) had more vitality and freshness because the Ancient Greeks were closer to nature, and he encapsulates both their poetry and their culture in the word “naïve.” Modern poets, on the other hand, cannot escape consciousness of themselves or of the expectations of society—itself an artifice—and consequently he terms their sensitive, intellectualized poetry “sentimental.” In the final portion of the work, he proposes that, although modern society as a whole will never recapture the natural connection the Greeks felt toward their surroundings, naïve and sentimental types of people still exist, but that we now consider them respectively Realists and Idealists. Although these types are inherently inclined to view the world in opposing ways, each has the capacity to seek a common ground. Based on the conclusions of the contemporaneous Briefe über die ästhetische Erziehung, it seems reasonable to argue that Idealists and Realists must seek the mediating influence of something like the Spieltrieb in order to achieve a balanced approach to life and art. In “Vom Erhabenen” (“On the Sublime”), Schiller observes: “We are only dependent as sensuous beings; as rational beings we are free.” This intermediary and incomplete aesthetic formulation provides a possible perspective for the questionable approach Tchaikovsky took toward his art at the time he decided to compose an opera on the subject of Joan of Arc.70 The creation of Onegin, an opera to be found in the repertoire of opera houses throughout the world, had begun before his marriage crisis. In it, we see his aesthetic idealism tempered throughout by humane realism, or the projection of his lyric persona. Although at moments he seems to want to place Tatyana on a pedestal, Lensky on a cloud of lyricism, and Onegin in a vault of icy indifference, he finds numerous ways to restore each to the sphere of human interaction. In Deva, on the other hand, the often brilliant music fails to delineate the characters as believable people. This failure is arguably a fault it shares with a great deal of grand opera, but it leaves one wondering why Tchaikovsky would have been attracted to this genre in the first place. In the context of Tchaikovsky’s biography, another observation of Schiller’s from “Vom Erhabenen” might accurately describe one of the most disruptive events of the composer’s life: his disastrous marriage: “When we find ourselves in actual danger, when we confront a natural adversarial power; then our aesthetic judgment is done for.”71 He had initially entertained the idea of marrying as early as 1876, and even tried to convince his homosexual brother Modest of the wisdom inherent in such a course of action (Wiley 99). Days after the wedding, however, 190 J. PENDERGAST he experienced a nervous collapse, and his family insisted that he would only improve if he got away from his wife. Mrs. von Meck provides the financial means to facilitate his travel. He writes to thank her: Я eдy чepeз чac […] Ecли я выйдy пoбeдитeлeм из yбийcтвeннoй дyшeвнoй бopьбы, тo бyдy этим Baм oбязaн, Baм, иcключитeльнo Baм. Eщe нecкoлькo днeй, и, клянycь, я бы c yмa coшeл. (TPM I 45) I’m leaving in an hour […] If I emerge victorious from this murderous spiritual struggle, then I will be endebted to you for this, to you, and only you. In a few more days, I swear to you, I would have lost my mind. Curiously, in the throes of this struggle, he manages to produce Onegin, a work for the theater in which he makes use of his most successful compositional techniques in the full projection of his lyric persona. It seems possible to suggest that his confrontation with a truly frightening situation had the impact—in Schillerian terms—of summoning the Spieltrieb in order to reconcile the Formtrieb and the Stofftrieb. In other words, the crisis activated his “impulse to play,” in order to reconcile his initial intellectual decision to marry with his instinctive impulse to reject it. Tchaikovsky seems to have a finely tuned sense of the sublime, one that is to a considerable extent in accord with Schiller’s. For him, at least during this period of his creative output, his sense of the sublime is almost entirely concerned with the experience of hopeless or unrequited love. His sensitivity to the sublime potential of hopeless or unrequited love becomes clear in his sympathy for the character of Donna Anna in Don Giovanni and, in the same mode, very likely informed his creation of Tatyana and his determination to give prominence to her character, as well as Lensky’s, in the opera. The sublime potential of hopeless love also seems to have drawn his attention to Romeo and Juliet during this period, which can be seen not only in the sketches he creates for an opera on the subject, but in the corresponding moments in the cycle of romances from 1878. Admittedly, when Tchaikovsky reads Orleanskaya deva, the salient features of sanctity that Schiller imparted to his depiction of Johanna had already been diluted by Zhukovsky’s 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 191 translation, primarily by the Russian poet’s tendency to portray Ioanna’s strength as deriving from supernatural sources, rather than from her will. Tchaikovsky’s inspiration, saturated with the personalities of Donna Anna, Juliet, and Tatyana, leads him even farther afield. As sublime as the predicaments may be in which these three heroines find themselves, the means by which each overcomes her fate does not call to mind the Schillerian conception of sanctity. Juliet perhaps comes closest: She chooses death rather than to be separated from Romeo. Her choice, however, cannot be called selfless. She acts entirely in her own interests, without any regard to the consequences for her loved ones. The retribution that Donna Anna seeks against Don Giovanni is, on the other hand, selfless, for she wishes to prevent him from harming other women, but this retribution is not to be hers. The supernaturally animated statue of her father is the avenger who drags Giovanni off to hell. Additionally, the preservation of her relationship with Don Ottavio, to which she, her father, and Ottavio have committed themselves throughout the opera, is anything but extraordinary. It is a model of bourgeois respectability. The same can be said of marital fidelity, for which Tatyana rejects Onegin, which is why, although we may experience sublime pity for her earlier in the opera, her situation also fails to produce any association with sanctity. For Romeo and Juliet, Don Giovanni, and Eugene Onegin, this omission is of no consequence. None of these stories depends upon sanctity for their dramatic impact. The dramatic and aesthetic impact of Schiller’s Jungfrau von Orleans, conversely, demands the sense of sanctity. Although Zhukovsky’s translation begins the watering down process, Tchaikovsky’s incorporation of elements from the stories of Juliet, Donna Anna, and Tatyana serves to obliterate it. In his letters to his brothers just after deciding to leave his wife, expressing his frustration at his rash choice to marry in the first place, he refers to his wife as “the serpent” (Poznansky 324), “the reptile” (322) and at least once “the bitch” (298). Her characterization of him, on the other hand, is much more flattering.72 Undoubtedly, this discrepancy is in large part due to the circumstances in which she was writing. She had been asked by the Saint Petersburg newspaper, Peterburgskaya gazeta, to provide her recollections after her husband’s death in 1893. They published her detailed recollections in 1894. According to Poznansky, they constitute the “first important published accounts relating to the biography of the composer” (111). If she harbored any bad feelings toward him, she had evidently decided that it was better to keep them to herself. 192 J. PENDERGAST In 1877, when his relationship with von Meck was only a little over a year old, Tchaikovsky revealed a subtle appreciation for the line between the representation of truth and an escape from reality. He was in Venice, one of several places in which he carried on his composition of Onegin. In a lengthy letter written over two days, 29–30 November/11–12 December, among a number of other topics, Mrs. von Meck had compared her response to music to the enjoyment of a bottle of sherry. Tchaikovsky finds this an unacceptable analogy and replies on 5/17 December: B Baшeм пиcьмe ecть тoлькo oднo, c чeм я никoгдa нe coглaшycь, – этo Baш взгляд нa мyзыкy. Ocoбeннo мнe нe нpaвитcя Baшe cpaвнeниe мyзыки c oпьянeниeм. Mнe кaжeтcя, чтo этo лoжнo. Чeлoвeк пpибeгaeт к винy, чтoбы oбмaнyть ceбя, дocтaвить ceбe иллюзию дoвoльcтвa и cчacтья. И дopoгoй цeнoй дocтaeтcя eмy этoт oбмaн! Peaкция бывaeт yжacнa. Ho кaк бы тo ни былo, винo дocтaвляeт, пpaвдa, минyтнoe зaбвeниe гopя и тocки – и тoлькo. Paзвe тaкoвo дeйcтвиe мyзыки? […] Oнa пpocвeтляeт и paдyeт. Улoвить и пpocлeдить пpoцecc мyзыкaльнoгo нacлaждeния oчeнь тpyднo, нo c oпьянeниeм oнa нe имeeт ничeгo oбщeгo. Bo вcякoм cлyчae, этo нe физиoлoгичecкoe явлeниe. Caмo coбoю paзyмeeтcя, чтo нepвы, cлeдoвaтeльнo, мaтepиaльныe opгaны, yчacтвyют в вocпpиятии мyзыкaльнoгo впeчaтлeния, и в этoм cмыcлe мyзыкa ycлaждaeт нaшe тeлo, – нo вeдь извecтнo, чтo пpoвecти peзкoe paзгpaничeниe мeждy мaтepиaльнoй и дyxoвнoй cтopoнaми чeлoвeкa oчeнь тpyднo: вeдь и мышлeниe ecть тoжe физиoлoгичecкий пpoцecc, ибo oнo пpинaдлeжит к фyнкциям мoзгa. Bпpoчeм, здecь вce дeлo в cлoвax. Кaк бы мы paзличнo нe oбъяcнили ceбe знaчeниe мyзыкaльнoгo нacлaждeния, нo oднo нecoмнeннo, – этo тo, чтo мы любим c Baми мyзыкy oдинaкoвo cильнo. (ZT II 51) In your letter there is only one thing with which I could never agree – it is your opinion on music. I am particularly displeased by your comparison of music with intoxication. It seems to me that this is false. A person resorts to wine to deceive himself, to create for himself the illusion of satisfaction and happiness. And this deception comes at a cost! The reaction can be horrible. But no matter what, wine allows one, it is true, to forget one’s troubles and sorrows momentarily – and only that. And is this really how music acts? […] It illuminates and makes one glad. To capture and analyse the process of musical enjoyment is very difficult, but it has nothing at all in common with intoxication. In any case, it is not a physical phenomenon. It stands to reason that the nerves, consequently, are material organs and participate in the perception of a musical impression, and in this sense, our body enjoys music, – but of course it is well known that drawing a sharp distinction between a person’s material and spiritual sides is very difficult: and of course, thought is also a physiological process because it belongs to the functions of the brain. However, this is all a matter of words. However differently we may explain the significance of musical enjoyment to ourselves, one thing remains without doubt – that you and I love music equally strongly. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 193 After this disquisition, he goes on to address his opinion of her philosophy on the inherent qualities of good and evil in human nature, with which he agrees. Whether he drops his argument about the sharp distinction between being drunk and enjoying music because he knows it will not please Mrs. von Meck, or because he is unsure whether she will grasp the subtlety of his argument, is unclear. What is striking is his discernment of the interweaving of the physical and spiritual processes in music and the resemblance of this idea, despite his sense that he has not yet fully developed it, with Schiller’s notion of the Spieltrieb, which is the operation that compels the instinct and the intellect to interact. This discernment is significant to the aesthetic discussion here, because it suggests that while he was composing Onegin, his aesthetic approach was very similar to Schiller’s fully developed notion of the Spieltrieb from Ästhetiche Erziehung. Taking this point one step further, the projection of the composer’s lyric persona can be seen as akin to Schiller’s Spieltrieb, while the projection of the epic persona, prominent in the composition of Deva, seems to stem from an overreliance on something akin to Schiller’s Formtrieb. Of the many differences between Onegin and Deva, Tchaikovsky’s involvement in the creation of the libretto is not one. In both operas, he served as his own librettist and drew a great deal of the text from their literary sources. In the case of Onegin, 570 of the one thousand lines of the libretto are lifted directly from Pushkin’s novel in verse.73 The portion of Zhukovsky’s translation that appears in Tchaikovsky’s Joan of Arc opera is smaller: 424 of 1002 lines. While this is a significant difference, it seems to be less important than the sources themselves. Pushkin’s Onegin, however much it may owe its inspiration to Byron, is not a translation; it is Pushkin’s creation. Tchaikovsky’s Onegin opera is, in many ways, radically different in tone and mood from Pushkin’s novel. Whereas Pushkin’s novel is by turns light or profound, ironic or heartfelt, Tchaikovsky’s opera is almost unrelentingly sincere and somber. The exuberance of the peasant dances and the liveliness of social life in the ball scenes never completely dispel the fatalism that pervades most of the orchestral score and almost all of the solo and ensemble lines. The stark emotional contrast between the music in the choruses and that of the ensembles reinforces a theme of the opera, which is that the excitement and elegance of social life provides a false and misleading perception of reality. Only the sincere exchange of feelings in a private interaction can expose emotional and spiritual truth, the revelation of which, in turn, is often painful. Before finally deciding to take up the subject of Joan of Arc for his next opera, Tchaikovsky seriously considered several other projects. 194 J. PENDERGAST He began revising his earlier Undina, based on Zhukovsky’s free rendering of la Motte Fouqué’s Undine, indicating his continued interest in the Russian poet (Brown II 320). The point to which Tchaikovsky seems to have been especially sensitive is Zhukovsky’s ability to express yearning for lost love and the desire to hold on to the pain of the loss rather than to reconcile oneself to it. Schiller would have recognized the purifying effect that such suffering produces as the experience of the sublime, the evocation of which he often identified as the poet’s primary task. Semenko identifies this quality as an important change the poet makes even in his translation of Goethe’s poem “An den Mond” (49). Eventually, however, Tchaikovsky decides against this subject and writes to his brother Modest in May 1878: “Forgive me, my poor, dear librettist for tormenting you in vain about Undine. To hell with this Undine! …how stupid and banal it is…” (ZT II 143).74 The strength of his response seems to arise from his frustration with the fairy-tale aspects of the subject, which is perhaps more familiar to contemporary audiences in the version of Hans Christian Andersen’s “Little Mermaid.” Elsewhere in the same letter, as he had already done with von Meck, he reminds Modest of his incidental reading of Romeo and Juliet. Modest seems to have expressed reservations about the subject, and the composer wants to dispel them: Кoнeчнo, я бyдy пиcaть Poмeo и Юлию. Bce твoи вoзpaжeния yничтoжaeтcя пepeд тeм вocтopгoм, кoтopым я вoзгopeлcя к этoмy cюжeтy […] Hичeгo нeт бoлee пoдxoдящeгo для мoeгo мyзыкaльнoгo xapaктepa. Heт цapeй, нeт мapшeй, нeт ничeгo, cocтaвляющeгo pyинтиннyю пpинaдлeжнocть бoльшoй oпepы. Ecть любoвь, любoвь, любoвь […] Пepвый любoвный дyeт бyдeт coвceм нe тo, чтo втopoй. B пepвoм вce cвeтлo, яpкo; любoвь, нe cмyщaeмaя ничeм. Bo втopoм – тpaгизм. Из дeтeй, бecпeчнo yпивaющиxcя любoвью, Poмeo и Юлия cдeлaлиcь людьми, любящими, cтpaждyщими, пoпaвшими в тpaгичecкoe и бeзвыxoднoe пoлoжeниe. (ZT II 142–43) Of course, I’ll write Romeo and Juliet. All your objections are annihilated in the face of the burning ecstasy that I feel for this subject […] There is nothing more suited to my musical nature. No kings, no marches, nothing that belongs to the usual routine of grand opera. There is love, love, love […] The first love duet will be nothing like the second. In the first, all is bright and colorful; love undisturbed by anything. In the second – tragedy. Romeo and Juliet are transformed from children carelessly intoxicated by love into suffering lovers, who find themselves in a tragic situation from which there is no escape. Hopeless love is undoubtedly one of the most prevalent of operatic subjects and cannot be adduced as the distinctive theme that ties Tchaikovsky’s 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 195 Onegin with Deva. He continues to ponder the possibilities of Romeo and Juliet for several months, eventually sketching out the first of the duets mentioned in the letter above.75 Just before he returns to Moscow to resume his duties at the Conservatory, he writes von Meck to say that he is still “captivated by Romeo and Juliet, but in the first place, it is terribly difficult, and in the second, Gounod’s opera on this subject, although mediocre, nonetheless frightens me” (TPM I 458).76 After this, little more is heard about that idea. It is strange that a subject which he had seen as natural to his gifts only two months before has now become “terribly difficult.” One wonders whether the fear of having his work compared to Gounod’s perhaps lurks behind the “mediocre” assessment. The next major event in the composer’s life, the break with the Conservatory, follows shortly and consumes the next several weeks of his life. When, a few months later, he takes up the subject of Joan of Arc for his next opera, it seems that the image of Juliet, joining with those of Donna Anna and Tatyana, will remain with the composer, adding the motifs of poison and the kiss before dying to those of love at first sight and hopeless romance to his list of operatic prerequisites, and perhaps explaining some of the changes which Tchaikovsky makes in Deva, often to the apparent detriment of Schiller.77 Most significantly, the anxiety he experiences during this time seems to affect his aesthetic judgment, provoking the projection of his epic persona. With regard to quitting the Conservatory, the composer reveals a number of impressions associated with this time, seemingly fleeting, but potentially significant to the epic mode of composition he will follow with Deva. En route to Moscow, he spends a few days in Petersburg, where he encounters Cossacks patrolling the streets and troops returning from the Russo-Turkish war, drawing from him an atypical foray into political commentary: “We are living through a terrible time, and when you begin to think about recent events, it makes you frightened” (TPM I 477).78 He observes that the “disgraceful” terms of the truce (pozornogo mira) to which the Russian government agreed resulted from its failure to act quickly and that thousands of young people were sent off to their deaths for a lost cause. This situation is made worse by the masses’ indifference: “the masses, wallowing in their selfish interests, are indifferent to it all and regarding each without the slightest protest” (477).79 Somewhat like his decision to marry, his desire to leave Moscow and the Conservatory is at first a vague feeling, quickly becoming unbearable only after he is faced with the practical reality of his circumstances: “I arrived in Moscow with one very firm conviction: to leave here as soon as possible.” Later the same day: “I came to Moscow with revulsion, 196 J. PENDERGAST sorrow, and an uncontrollable, invincible desire to break away from here to freedom.”80 The moment that he fears above all else is explaining his decision to the director of the Conservatory Nikolay Rubinshtein, both because he has many reasons to be grateful to him and because the director has revealed an explosive temperament in the past. Tchaikovsky writes to von Meck on 4 September about his resolution; it is critical that she supports his decision, both emotionally and financially. However tedious he may find his position at the Conservatory, it is his sole source of steady income, apart from unpredictable and sporadic royalties. After months of letters exchanged at intervals of no longer than three or four days—and usually shorter—over two weeks go by before he finally receives a telegram on 19 September, followed by a letter the next day inviting him to stay in her townhouse in Moscow until he is ready to leave, and explaining that the delay had been caused by her move from Paris to San Remo. Emboldened by her support, he speaks to Rubinshtein, who, to his great surprise, offers no resistance (493). Perhaps the most significant of his remarks associated with this period are his impressions of a performance of his own opera Vakula the Smith.81 This had never been one of his favorite works. In listening to it with two more years of experience composing, he seems to have reached some conclusions about its shortcomings: Гocпoди, cкoлькo нeпpocтитeльныx oшибoк в этoй oпepa, cдeлaнныx нe кeм иным, кaк мнoю! Я cдeлaл вce, чтoбы пapaлизoвaть xopoшee впeчaтлeниe вcex тex мecт, кoтopыe caми пo ceбe мoгли бы нpaвитcя, ecли б я бoлee cдepживaл чиcтo мyзыкaльнoe вздoxнoвeниe и мeнee зaбывaл бы ycлoвия cцeничнocти и дeкopaтивнocти, cвoйcтвeннoй oпepнoмy cтилю. Oпepa вcя cплoшь cтpaдaeт нaгpoмoждeниeм, избыткoм дeтaлeй, yтoмитeл’нoю xpoмaтичнocтью гapмoний, нeдocтaткoм oкpyглeннocти и зaкoнчeннocти oтдeльныx нoмepoв […] Я oчeнь чyткo coзнaю вce нeдocтaтки oпepы, кoтopыe, к coжaлeнию, нeпoпpaвимы. Ho из нoвoгo пpocлyшaния, я пpинec xopoший ypoк для бyдyщeгo. Mнe кaжeтcя, чтo Eвгeний Oнeгин – шaг впepeд. (TPM I 516) Lord, how many unforgiveable mistakes there are in this opera, made by no one other than me! I did everything to paralyze the impression of those parts, which could have been pleasing by themselves, if only I had maintained better control of purely musical inspiration and paid closer attention to the demands of stagecraft and decorative effects characteristic of opera. The whole opera suffers from piling on, from an excess of details, from tiresome chromatic harmony, from insufficient polish and finish in the various numbers […] I openly acknowledge all the shortcomings of the opera, which are unfortunately beyond repair. But I learned a good lesson for the future from this recent listening. It seems to me that Eugene Onegin is a step forward. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 197 The break with the Conservatory serves as a biographical reference point, but it seems that it is merely a coincidental event. The fear of confronting Rubinshtein turns out to be unfounded. The more substantial fears that he carries with him as he leaves are those of Russia’s disinterested masses, of an increased and possibly misplaced dependency on Mrs. von Meck, and of the need to make changes to his operatic style. The last of these fears is probably the strongest of them. The curious aspect of his conclusions about Vakula is that, although he sees Onegin as a step forward, at the same time, he seems to sense a need to emulate the more theatrical and decorative elements of grand opera, the very qualities he rejected in creating his lyrical scenes. This appears to be an example of the phenomenon Schiller observes in “Vom Erhabenen” of aesthetic judgment being left behind in the face of actual danger, and by extension the overrationalized working of the Formtrieb. From Petersburg, he heads to the familiar environs of his sister’s estate in Kamenka. There, in November he finds himself once again thumbing through the pages of a volume of Zhukovsky’s poetry. He informs von Meck: “A new subject for an opera begins to lure me powerfully, Schiller’s Maid of Orleans, to be precise.”82 Initially, he is concerned with getting his hands on a copy of the libretto for a Joan of Arc opera by the French composer Mermet and mentions that he is already familiar with Verdi’s Giovanna d’Arco, which he considers do krajnosti plokha (“extremely bad” 180). Schiller’s sources on Joan of Arc had been limited, but by the late 1870s, Europe had developed a fascination with her. As a result, Tchaikovsky was inundated by a nearly overwhelming variety of representations of her life: in literature, painting, drama, and opera. After he relocates to Florence, von Meck sends him a copy of Henri Wallon’s Jeanne d’Arc (1860), which he gratefully acknowledges as a “wonderful edition” and “well-written” also, “but with too obvious an intent to convince the reader that Joan truly was in the company of archangels, angels, and saints” (ZT II 195).83 Its index includes a list of literary and musical works about Joan of Arc, as well as two excerpts from Mermet’s opera, which he does not recommend, singling out that opera’s angel chorus as donel’zya plokh (“impossibly bad” ZT II 195). Given Tchaikovsky’s decision to include a chorus of angels in his opera, his criticism of the representations of Verdi, Wallon, and Mermet must perhaps be read as a determination to succeed where they had failed. 198 J. PENDERGAST When he has already been working on the opera for about a month, he goes to Paris to seek the scores and libretti of the Mermet and Gounod versions of Joan. While there, he sees Gounod’s Polyeucte, based on the life of the eponymous saint and with the same librettist as that composer’s Jeanne d’Arc. He finds it unbelievable that the composer of Faust could produce such drivel: “It cannot be denied that Faust is written, if not with genius, then with unusual craftsmanship and no small amount of originality” (ZT II 203).84 His high opinion of Faust was by no means an impulsive, fleeting impression. In April of 1892, when he was commissioned by the private Pryannishnikov Opera to conduct three operas, along with Rubinshtein’s Demon and his own Onegin, he included Faust (Poznansky 545). Perhaps his respect for that opera explains his decision to incorporate elements from the Gounod-Barbier Joan of Arc opera, primarily the inclusion of a chorus of angels.85 Tchaikovsky works on Orleanskaya deva from November 1878 to August 1879, a nine-month period, which he begins and ends as a guest of von Meck (ZT II 255). As with Onegin, he confides to her many details about his creative process. His choice to pursue the subject, as was also the case with Onegin, presents him with the significant problem of not having a complete libretto. Although he borrows ideas and effects from Barbier and Mermet, he ultimately finds their libretti unsuitable and develops the libretto “bol’she vsego u Zhukovskogo” (“mostly from Zhukovsky” TPM I 620). He eventually settles upon a process of creating a scene of libretto on one day, which he sets to music the next. At one point, von Meck recommends that he simply order a libretto from Russia. The composer replies that he cannot because he has almost two acts completed. Additionally, he argues that talented writers come to see their work as svyatynya (“a shrine”), charge too much for their services, and object to having their work altered for theatrical purposes. While he believes that he could probably find a mediocre writer to do it: “я нe cдeлaю xyжe иx” (“I will do no worse than they would” TPM II 639). To his brother Modest, he confesses that the effort is like a kind of “creative fever.” Despite his criticism of Wallon’s style, noted above, he reveals a response to the description of Joan’s trial, condemnation, and execution as depicted there, which drastically affects his plan for the opera: 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … Пocлeдниe дни пpoшли в oчeнь cильнoй твopчecкoй лиxopaдкe. Я пpинялcя зa Opлeaнcкyю дeвy, и ты нe мoжeшь ceбe пpeдcтaвить, кaк этo мнe тpyднo дocтaлocь. T.e. тpyднocть нe в oтcyтcтвии вздoxнoвeнии, a, нaпpoтив, в cлишкoм cильнoм нaпope eгo. (Haдeюcь, чтo ты нe yпpeкнeшь мeня в caмoxвaльcтвe!) Mнoй oвлaдeлo кaкoe тo бeшeнcтвo; я цeлыe тpи дня мyчилcя и тepзaлcя, чтo мaтepиaлa тaк мнoгo, a чeлoвeчecкиx cил и вpeмeни мaлo. Mнe xoтeлocь в oдин чac cдeлaть вce, кaк этo инoгдa бывaeт в cнoвидeнии. Hoгти иcкycaны, жeлyдoк дeйcтвoвaл плoxo, для cнa пpиxoдилocь yвeличивaть виннyю пopтcию. Читaя книгy o Жaннe д’Apк, пoдapeннyю мнe H.Ф. (вeликoлeпнoe издaниe, cтoящee, пo кpaйнeй мepe, фp. 200) и дoйдя дo пpoцecca, abjuration [note: written in French] и caмoй кaзни (oнa yжacнo кpичaлa вce вpeмя, кoгдa ee вeли, и yмoлялa, чтoбы eй oтpyбили гoлoвy, нo нe жгли), я cтpaшнo paзpeвeлcя. Mнe вдpyг cдeлaлocь тaк жaлкo, бoльнo зa чeлeвeчecтвo, и взялa нeвыpaзимaя тocкa. Пpи этoм вдpyг мнe вooбpaзилocь, чтo вы вce бoльны, yмepли, чтo я тaкoй бeднeнький (тoчнo бyдтo мeня cocлaли cюдa нacильнo) и т.д. Hy, cлoвoм cильнo вoзбyждeнныe нepвы тpeбoвaли пapoкcизмa […] Я мнoгo, мнoгo oбдyмывaю либpeттo и eщe нe мoг cocтaвить peшитeльнoгo плaнa. B Шиллepe мнoгoe мнe нpaвитcя – нo, пpизнaюcь, eгo пpeзpeниe к иcтopичecкoй пpaвдe нecкoлькo cмyщaeт мeня. Ecли тeбя интepecyeт знaть, кaкyю cцeнy я нaпиcaл, тo мoгy cкaзaть. Oнa пpoиcxoдит y кopoля, нaчинaя co вxoдa Иoaнны; cнaчaлa oнa yзнaeт кopoля, кoтopый xoтeл иcпытaть ee и вeлeл Дюнya изoбpaзить кopoля, пoтoм ee paccкaз, пoтoм aнcaмбль и гpoмкий вocтopжeный финaл. (ZT II 196–97) 199 The last few days were spent in a very powerful creative fever. I have gotten to work on The Maid of Orleans, and you can’t imagine how difficult it’s been for me. That is, the difficulty comes not from the absence of inspiration, but on the contrary, from its too powerful force. (I hope you won’t accuse me of being conceited!) I am possessed by a kind of raving; for three whole days I’ve been tortured and torn by the fact that there is so much material and so little time or human strength. I’d like to get everything done in one hour, as sometimes happens in dreams. My fingernails are nubs, my stomach is a mess, in order to sleep I’ve had to increase my servings of wine.86 Reading the book N[adezhda] F[iloretovna von Meck] gave me (a magnificent edition, costing at least 200 francs), when I reach the trial, condemnation, and the execution itself (she screamed horribly the whole time when they led her out, and begged them to cut off her head and not burn her), I bawled terribly. I was suddenly so sick and sorry for humanity, and overwhelmed by inexpressible sadness. Along with this, I suddenly imagined that all of you were sick or dead, and that I was such a little wretch (just as though I had been viciously banished here), etc. Well, in a word, my powerfully aroused nerves needed a paroxysm […] I’m constantly reworking the libretto and still can’t put together a decisive scenario. There is much that I like in Schiller – but I confess, his disregard for historical truth troubles me somewhat. If you are interested to know which scene I’ve just written, then I can tell you. It takes place at the court, beginning with Ioanna’s entrance; first, she recognizes the king, who wanted to test her and ordered Dunois to pretend to be him, then her narration, then an ensemble and a loud ceremonial finale. (emphasis Tchaikovsky’s) 200 J. PENDERGAST The composer’s letter offers many points to consider. First, it shows that he felt that he could not follow Schiller’s plot to the end, because he found the actual historical account so moving. His description of the emotions which he felt in reading Wallon’s account of the execution is remarkably similar to the sublime effect that Schiller argues is the reason that we derive enjoyment from tragedy. This situation is ironic because the composer’s response is precisely the stimulus that causes him to reject Schiller’s version of Johanna’s death. The power of his response causes him to prefer historical truth to artistic truth, which directly contradicts the argument he has made previously that artistic truth is always superior.87 He chooses to abandon the aesthetic approach that he has maintained in the projection of his lyric persona, admired in the works of Mozart, Bizet and others, in favor of its opposition, the epic persona. In the dramaturgy of the libretto, Al’shvang identifies three primary mistakes: (1) the telescoping of the character of the vacillating Burgundy into Lionel, which has the result that Ioanna falls in love not with an enemy soldier but with a comrade-in-arms; (2) the removal of the Black Knight and his warning against continuing to fight, which eliminates the element of hamartia, or Johanna’s tragic mistake; and (3) the introduction of the angel chorus, which he compares, unfavorably, to a deus ex machina (484–85). To Al’shvang, Johanna’s love for the English knight Lionel in Schiller forms a critical component in the drama, a more severe crime than her broken vow of chastity. Al’shvang fails to note that much of the text from the Montgomery scene in Schiller is also given to Lionel, but as presented by Tchaikovsky, these lines are sung before Lionel changes sides, thereby consistent with Al’shvang’s argument. In fairness, once the composer decides to prefer historical truth to artistic truth, it makes sense to eliminate the Romantic appearance of the Black Knight, although Al’shvang is correct in saying that this reduces the “mystic tendency” of Ioanna’s realization of her mistake (483). He also argues, convincingly, that having Lionel change to the French side confuses the operation of the vow of chastity itself within the opera. The audience is left with the impression that her affair with Lionel is the crime for which she is being burned at the end, although why the English would take the trouble to burn her for this crime is not at all clear. Conspicuously absent from the libretto is Talbot, Schiller’s sympathetic anti-hero, as well as Schiller’s Isabeau, the Dauphin’s villainous mother, whom Zhukovsky had already partially eliminated from his translation. Dropping these villains drastically reduces Ioanna’s vulnerability, or the sense of any real enemy or danger, further mitigating 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 201 the plausibility of the finale. The appearance of the angels to announce Ioanna’s redemption as she burns also seems ineffectual to Al’shvang, although for Schiller’s part, the invisible deus ex machina at the end of his play is an important component in his recasting of the story as a kind of Greek tragedy. A point that seems to receive no attention, but which is of considerable importance to the interpretation of the opera in these pages, is its connection to some of the themes in Romeo and Juliet. As noted above, the composer had been seriously considering writing an opera on that subject when he came across Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller. The notion of love at first sight and the impossibility of the relationship are already present in Schiller’s Jungfrau. What is missing are the elements of poison and the lovers’ kiss before dying. The strong desire to include these elements may offer another explanation for the composer’s decision to alter the relationship between Ioanna and Lionel. In the denunciation scene in Act III (No. 20), despite the fact that the chronotope is based on Schiller, Tchaikovsky provides nearly all of his own text for the ensemble. This partly results from the inclusion of Lionel in this sequel to the French king’s coronation, which would have been unthinkable in his Schillerian incarnation as a hostile English knight. Although the impetus for this scene is consistent with Schiller’s original, Ioanna’s denunciation by her father Tibo for her supposed witchcraft seems to be tinged with something else. Four of the principal characters—Ioanna, Tibo, Dyunua (Dunois), and Lionel—sing about poison in various guises. For Dyunua and Lionel, whose vocal parts follow the same text: “i yad obidnogo somnen’ya im serdtse slaboe pronik” (“and the poison of offensive doubt penetrates their weak hearts” CPSS.37 360–61). For Tibo: “O kak uzhasno yad tletvornyj v nej dushu padshuyu mutit” (“Oh, how terribly the fatal poison within her disturbs her fallen soul” (360–61). For Ioanna: “Soyuz bozhestvennyj navek narushen! V krovi gorit lyubovnyj yad” (“The union with God is ruined forever! My blood boils with love’s poison” (362–62). Unlike that of Romeo and Juliet, the poison here is metaphorical, but it is a metaphor chosen by Tchaikovsky himself. Ioanna kisses Lionel after he dies at the end of Act IV, Scene i. (No. 22), which further strengthens the thematic relationship with Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers. Before this, in a moment that could never have happened in Schiller—both because Lionel does not die in Schiller and because Johanna’s love is a fleeting moment of weakness— Ioanna and Lionel end their duet on the words: “Schast’em blesnul iz mraka tuch svetlyj luch lyubvi!” (“From clouds of gloom, happiness 202 J. PENDERGAST shone the bright light of love!” (436). The angel chorus appears abruptly and declares Ioanna a sinner for having broken her vow, with assurances that captivity and death now await her. To make matters worse, trumpets announce the imminent arrival of English troops, who rush onto the stage and surround the lovers. Lionel attempts to defend Ioanna but is killed. Before the English put Ioanna in shackles, she sings: “Primi poslednee lobzanie moe! I zdhi menya, svidan’e blizko!” (“Take my last kiss! Wait for me, our reunion will be soon!” 443). Thus, the sequence of deaths is the same as in Shakespeare: first the man, and later the woman. In Act V, scene iii in Shakespeare, thinking Juliet is dead, Romeo takes poison with his famous line: “Thus with a kiss I die.” Although Juliet eventually kills herself with Romeo’s dagger, she first tries to poison herself with the remnant of poison on Romeo’s lips by kissing him. Romeo and Juliet’s fatal kiss is followed by the approach of the Capulet guards, much as the approach of the English troops precipitates Ioanna’s farewell kiss. The composer’s perception of the suffering woman is so clouded by the images of Juliet, Donna Anna and Tatyana that he creates a moment for Ioanna both impossible and illogical. When the opera premiered in 1881, except for the first act, according to Modest, it was received coolly. The critics were generally unkind, but the “first-place prize for attack” belongs to César Cui, whose review he quotes at length (ZT II 385): Дaжe пoзaбыв o выcшиx oпepныx зaдaчax и пpимeняя cниcxoдитeльcкyю мepкy к oпepe кaк к пpocтoмy пpeдлoгy вoкaльнoй мyзыки Opлeaнcкaыa дeвa в тeмaтичecкoм oтнoшeнии cлaбeйшee пpoизвeдeиния Чaйкoвcкoгo. Teм мaлo, a тe, кoтopыe ecть, бecцвeтны, бaнaльны, бeзличны, a кoтopыe пoлyчшe, тe нaпoминaют Aидy, Фaycтa, Wильгeльмa Teлля, Гyгeнoтoв, Пpopoкa […] B oтнoшeнии гapмoнизaции Opлeaнcкaыa дeвa тoжe пpeдcтaвляeт знaчитeльнoe ocкyдeниe фaнтaзии кoмпoзитopa. (386–87) Even if one forgets about the higher aims of opera and accepts a condescending approach to opera as a simple pretext for vocal music, in its thematic respects The Maid of Orleans is Tchaikovsky’s weakest work. Colorless, banal, and indistinct as much of it is, the better parts remind one of [Verdi’s] Aida, [Gounod’s] Faust, [Rossini’s] William Tell, [Meyerbeer’s] Les Hugenots, [and] Le Prophète […] Regarding harmonization, The Maid of Orleans also represents a significant impoverishment of the composer’s imagination. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 203 Cui reserved praise only for the opening chorus of Maidens, which is discussed below, and for the composer’s orchestration. His aim was obviously to convince the public of the opera’s failure. Considering Tchaikovsky’s intention to produce a work that would appeal to popular tastes, however, it must be admitted that he succeeded in emulating nearly all of the composers who appealed to those tastes. As illusory as his effort may have been, the discussion below will demonstrate that in projecting his epic persona, he created a grand opera reminiscent of its most admired practitioners. Of all the composers mentioned, Gounod, and particularly his Faust, stands out in Cui’s criticism. It will be recalled that Tchaikovsky “feared” Gounod’s treatment of Romeo and Juliet, respected his treatment of Joan of Arc, and revered his setting of Faust. Musically, several motives bear an unmistakable resemblance to the oblique inspiration of Gounod’s Faust, especially to Marguerite’s arpeggiated vocal line in the heroic trio finale of that opera (“Anges purs, anges radieux,/Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!” Ex. 4.1). Tchaikovsky’s incorporation of organ music into the coronation scene (No. 20) calls to mind the scene in the church in Faust. The triple meter of Gounod’s Faust finale is replicated in the grand hymn “Tsar’ vyshnykh sil” from Act I, and in the severe chorus of the angels that appears in Act I, reprised by Ioanna in Act II, during the “Rasskaz Ioanny” (“Ioanna’s narration”). The redemption achieved by the heroine at the end of both operas is almost lost in the onslaught of impressions surging forth simultaneously from the other principal singers, choruses, and the orchestra.88 Admittedly, two of the three examples just cited—the coronation and Ioanna’s narration—derive from Zhukovsky’s play, thus the influence of Gounod is probably unconscious on the composer’s part. The third example, the Act I hymn, is entirely the composer’s invention, and so pleased is he with the melody of the hymn that he reprises it in the Ex. 4.1 Gounod Faust, Finale, Marguerite: “Anges purs” 204 J. PENDERGAST intermezzo between the first and second acts, for which Brown observes, there is no “very compelling dramatic justification” (48). Since music criticism always depends on taste and style, a truly objective assessment of the opera’s music is impossible. Brown’s analysis of the opera, although dismissive, suggests that the opera’s most effective moments are those consistent with the projection of the composer’s lyric persona. Brown quotes from the letter to Taneev cited above, in which the composer dismisses all the routine elements of grand opera, and concludes that: “in describing what he did not need, Tchaikovsky could have been talking about The Maid of Orleans” (II 61, emphasis Brown’s). Regarding changes such as those noted above, he remarks that “as a piece of coherent, serious drama Tchaikovsky’s scenario is …irredeemably flawed” (45). He finds Verdi’s Giovanna d’Arco more “crisply dramatic,” with much more “psychological insight” than Tchaikovsky’s opera. “Certainly the dialogue is efficiently dispatched, but there is a cumulative impression of melodic parsimony. Only rarely in this flow of musical prose does some memorable phrase raise itself above the general level as a lyrical or dramatic landmark to give point to the listener’s journey. The paucity of inner drama and lack of thematic distinctiveness are by no means compensated by positive qualities in the opera’s numerous ensembles” (49). Given Brown’s willingness to provide objective, if not blunt, criticism of the opera’s flaws, it is interesting to take note of those moments in the opera that he sees as effective and to consider the qualities they have in common. What emerges here is that three elements seem to reflect the projection of the composer’s lyric persona, even in this opera: (1) lines borrowed directly from Zhukovsky; (2) music based on folk song; (3) dance music. It is important to explore how various moments correspond to these elements. In Act I, Brown identifies three moments that contain “some positive things” (51). The first is the Maidens’ Chorus (No. 1) which opens the action. The chorus here is very similar to the opening of Mermet’s opera, from which the composer’s brother confirms this scene is borrowed (ZT II 258). As they dance, the maidens sing about the oak tree that Tchaikovsky’s libretto indicates should be on the left side of the stage, opposite a chapel with an image of the Blessed Mother. This arrangement is exactly as indicated in Zhukovsky’s stage directions. The appearance of the maidens and the text they sing, however, are inspired only obliquely by Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller. In the translation, Ioanna’s father Tibo and Rajmond, the man he wants her to marry, merely discuss the pagan customs and traditions associated with the tree, 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 205 which Schiller calls the “Druid tree” (line 93) and is identified in the transcripts of Joan’s trial as the “Fairies’ tree” (Champion 152). In the libretto, Tchaikovsky adds the direction: “As the curtain rises, the maidens are decorating the oak with garlands” (21). The type of dance is not indicated, but the folk-like quality of the music strongly suggests a khorovod, precisely the type of singing dance used by the composer in Scene 1 of Onegin and common in Russian opera. Brown observes that this music “places the locale not in France but Russia; nevertheless, one forgives this geographical ineptitude when offered such an enchanting example of that species of female chorus whose origins lay deep in Glinka’s art” (51). This khorovod and the subsequent scene in the opera serve to heighten the dramatic tension created by Tibo’s suspicions of his daughter’s motivations. In the play, Thibaut expresses his concerns to Raimond that Johanna spends so much time at this tree in her presence, but she seems unaware that her father actually believes her to be in league with the devil until he denounces her at the coronation in Rheims. In a manner consistent with many other choices which he makes in constructing the libretto, Tchaikovsky decides to make the moral dichotomy merely implied by the chapel on the right and the tree on the left much more straightforward by having Tibo express his concerns to Ioanna directly, adding this line for emphasis: “Opomnis’, Ioanna, strashnoj karoj/tebya nezhdanno pokaraet gospod’” (“Come to your senses, Ioanna, the lord will punish you unexpectedly with terrible retribution” (40). He also decides to omit the gypsy helmet and Thibaut’s vision of Johanna enthroned from Schiller, two elements used to considerable effect in Verdi’s Giovanna d’Arco. The addition of the khorovod, then, comes at a price, but its basis in Zhukovsky and its folksong and dance qualities add a lyric quality to the opera. Brown calls Ioanna’s farewell aria (Prostite vy kholmy polya rodnye, “Farewell, you native hills and fields,” No. 7) a “piece of some musical substance” (52). It is probably the work’s most familiar number. 89 Once again, he sees the music as more Russian in quality than French, but: “Its pathos is unfailing, while the firmness of the melodic line, already displayed in Joan’s first phrase and well maintained throughout the succeeding pages, ensures that pain is matched by resolve” (53). The text is taken verbatim from Zhukovsky, albeit with some cuts, and judging from Brown’s comment, “pain is matched by resolve,” it seems that the composer achieves a moment of sublime lyricism in this aria that is in accord with Schiller’s vision of Johanna and true to his own compositional technique. 206 J. PENDERGAST In the translation, this soliloquy continues with Ioanna recalling the pronouncement of her mission by a divine voice from within the tree. Later in the court of the Dauphin, she identifies this voice as the Blessed Mother’s. Tchaikovsky lifts most of this text verbatim from Zhukovsky’s translation of the Prologue soliloquy, but decides to have an angel chorus sing it, instead of Ioanna. The influence of Gounod is palpable in the music for the angels, although the text the play itself suggests an angelic presence: Mнe oбeщaл Heбecный извeщeньe, Иcпoлнилocь… и шлeм ceй пocлaн Им. Кaк бpaнный oгнь, eгo пpикocнoвeньe, C ним мyжecтвo, кaк бoжий xepyвим… PSSP.VII 238 (427–30) Heaven promised me a sign, And it was fulfilled…this helmet was sent by Him. Like the fire of battle, its touch brings with it Bravery, like God’s cherubim… As noted above, the composer dispenses with the helmet mentioned in these lines, replacing it with a sword. In Zhukovsky, the voice from the tree says: Boзьмeшь мoю ты opифлaммy в длaни PSSP.VII 238 You will take the banner in hand In Tchaikovsky, the angels sing: Tы мeч вoзьмeшь и opифлaммy в длaни CPSS.37 119 You will take the sword and banner in hand The revelation by Joan’s voices of a sword to be found in a previously unknown location is based on testimony from her trial. Joan of Arc requested that a sword be brought to her from the Church of St. Catherine of Fierbois, about which no one had previously been aware (Champion 63). Schiller eventually also brings this up in his play when Johanna reaches Chinon. The decision to replace the helmet with the sword seems consistent with the composer’s attempt to simplify the presence of symbolic imagery, in this case, in favor of historical accuracy. Brown observes that the melody of the angel chorus is one of the few attempts by the composer in this opera to employ the reminiscence 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 207 Ex. 4.2 Orleanskaya deva Angels’ Chorus motives (or musical compounds) that he had used so effectively in Onegin (Ex. 4.2). The melody in the soprano line will return when the Archbishop in Chinon reports on Ioanna’s miraculous appearance on the battlefield (No. 14) and again in the same scene, when Ioanna reveals her mission to the court (No. 15). Brown criticizes the composer’s use of these repeated themes: “they are so explicit that their dramatic point is unmistakable; indeed their bluntness often makes them seem trite” (48). In any case, Zhukovsky’s text inspires the composer to employ a compositional technique associated with Onegin, albeit with limited success. Brown commends the composer’s attempt to infuse what he sees as a more appropriate national color in the Chorus of Minstrels (Ex. 4.4) that opens the second act, saying that it “self-consciously attempts to confirm its location by employing the French song Mes belles amourettes” (51). It would seem that the idea to begin Act II of the opera with minstrels and dancers occurs to the composer because of a comment Dunois makes at the beginning of the second act of the play: Дюнya. Oн oкpyжeн тoлпoй шyтoв; B кpyгy cвoиx бecпeчныx тpyбaдypoв Зaбoтитcя paзгaдывaть зaгaдки И лишь пиpы дaeт cвoeй Aгнece. (PSSP.VII 239) Dunois. He is surrounded by crowds of jesters; In the circle of his carefree troubadours He concerns himself with asking riddles And only gives feasts to his Agnes. (Cf. lines 447–50 in Schiller) 208 J. PENDERGAST Ex. 4.3 “Old French Melody” Children’s Album (CPPS.52 158–60) Lucinde Braun identifies the tune as a brunette (Ex. 4.3), which is an anonymous French contredanse melody intended for private entertainment, probably dating back to the sixteenth century (451). It had appeared in a collection of French tunes transcribed by Jean-Baptiste Weckerlin and published by G. Flaxland in 1853, later reprinted several times by Durand. Tchaikovsky had included a shortened version of the tune in his “Detskij al’bom” (“Children’s Album”), a collection of easy solo piano 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 209 pieces published in 1878, which he composed in imitation of Schumann’s Kinderalbum (Wiley 198–99).90 The piece is No. 16 in that collection and titled “Starinnaya frantsuzkaya pesenka” (“Mélodie antique française”). Braun surmises that its place in the piano collection potentially afforded listeners familiar with the album—which was indeed popular—an opportunity to recognize a familiar French feature in the scene that opens Act II of Deva: “While Weckerlin’s collection could scarcely have been in circulation yet in Russia, there were certainly operagoers to whom Tchaikovsky’s Children’s Album was familiar […] In Russia at least, every mediocre piano student would have had some notion of the Old French Melody, so that a reminiscence effect would result for a spectator at the opera” (452).91 Braun also notes that, despite the existence of a traditional French text associated with the tune, Tchaikovsky created a completely new text in Russian that expresses a different poetic conception, as well as a new narrative perspective, as is demonstrated in its first two stanzas: Où êtes-vous allées Mes belles amourettes? Changerez-vous de lieux Tous les jours. Where have you gone My lovely little sweethearts? You will change your place Always. Puisque le ciel le veut ainsi, Que mon mal je regrette, Je m´en irai dans les bois Conter mes amoureux discours. Weckerlin 73–75 Since heaven wills, That I regret my error, I will go into the woods To tell the story of my loves. Бeгyт гoдa и дни Бeccмeннoй чepeдoю, Tepниcтoю cтeзeй к мoгилe Bcяк cпeшит. Years and days run by In changeless sequence, Along the thorny path to the grave Each one hurries. (melodic refrain repeats) Cтeзя нe дaлeкa, Moгилa пoд гopoю, Ho мнoгo нa пyти cyдьбa нaм Бeд дapит. The path is not long, The grave is under the mountain, But along the path fate Presents us many sorrows. И лишь oдин цвeтoк вoльшeбный Haм в yтeшeньe нeбoм дaн: Cилoй чyднoй и цeлeбнoй Пoлн дивный тaлиcмaн. Tchaikovsky CPSS.37 152–55 And a single magic flower Is granted us by heaven’s consolation: A miraculous and healing power Fills this wondrous talisman. 210 J. PENDERGAST Where the French text provides an example of illicit love poetry fairly typical of the Renaissance, Tchaikovsky’s version presents an elegiac lyric, consistent with the melancholy mood of Zhukovsky’s translation of Gray’s Elegy (Cf. Part I of this chapter). Unlike the amorous first-person message of the French text, the Russian text initially conveys a morbid third-person sense of life’s vanity. At the end of the subsequent verse, the text reveals the name of the magic flower: This wondrous talisman is love. Consistent with the Zhukovsky’s elegiac style, Tchaikovsky uses several archaisms in his text: stezya (“[life’s] path”), vsyak (“each one”). Similarly, the references to the grave (“mogila”) and the wondrous talisman (“divnyj talisman”) are in keeping with Russian romanticism, while the magic flower (“vol’shebnyj tsvetok”) even calls to mind the “blue flower” of Novalis, itself a potent symbol of the German romanticism that informed most of Zhukovsky’s aesthetic. In addition to supplying verses that are evocative of Zhukovsky’s style, Tchaikovsky incorporates them into an appropriately French musical setting that is furthermore entirely in accord with the melancholy, defeated mood of the court of King Charles, who is love-sick for his consort, Agnes. Tchaikovsky changed the tune in his album in two ways from the form as it appears in the French collection. He repeats the first eight bars as a kind of refrain and leaves out a four-bar bridge that modulates in Weckerlin’s setting from the minor key to the major key on the words: Je m´en irai dans les bois/Conter mes amoureux discours. Presumably, he did this to keep the piece technically simple, since it was intended for children. In the so-called Minstrel Chorus of the opera (Ex. 4.4), he includes the additional refrain (bars 11–15), but also restores the key change on the words “siloj chudnoj” (“a miraculous power”) from G minor to G major (bars 19–23), as in the original Weckerlin version, adding an introductory counter-melody on the oboe in the first six bars. Although the chorus is appropriate in both mood and style, Braun asserts that the Renaissance tune within the operatic context also demonstrates a striking juxtaposition of reality and fiction: “It exists, however, as a reference point outside the work, a trail, which one can follow further and which can lead to the discovery of the ‘real’ and not merely ‘fictitious pre-existence,’ as is often the case with inherently dramatic folksongs” (452–53).92 Seen from this perspective, Tchaikovsky’s 4 Ex. 4.4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 211 Minstrel Chorus, Act II (CPSS.37 152–55) minstrel tune signifies a moment when the “real” Renaissance coexists with the “idealized” Renaissance of the opera. This tune must have appealed enormously to Tchaikovsky because it seems that even before he uses it in the opera, he makes use of a variation on the tune for the middle movement of his Violin Concerto, 212 J. PENDERGAST Ex. 4.4 (continued) which he composed with the help of his student Iosef Kotek in spring of 1878 (Brown II 263–65). The label the composer gives to this movement, canzonetta, invites one to consider it a song. If we compare the first five bars of the violin solo (Ex. 4.5) with the first nine bars 4 Ex. 4.5 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 213 Violin Concerto, 2d movement (CPSS.30A) of the French tune as used by the composer in the Children’s Album (Ex. 4.3), the fact that the two are in the same key of G minor is striking. The difference in meter and rhythm is a bit more problematic. The piano arrangement is in 2/4 time, while the concerto movement is in 3/4. If we think of the concerto melody as a variation of the French tune and consider that a beat has to be added in each measure for a 3/4 variation on a 2/4 tune, we can see that the D to G leap in the French tune is followed immediately by an eighth-note run back up to the D an octave higher. The only difference in the canzonetta is that the melodic line pauses after the leap for the length of two eighth notes before making its run-up to the D. The remainder of the line in the French tune seems to gravitate one pitch above and one pitch below the dominant (D) for several bars before descending to the dominant an octave lower. Arguably, Tchaikovsky approximates the same idea by having the violin sustain the D for three beats, followed by a trill on the D, and then a turn, culminating with a slight lift to F before resolving to D, and making the octave leap downward again. An important difference that the composer perhaps uses to mask the similarity is that the pitch below the dominant is raised a halftone to C sharp in the concerto, giving the line a more modern chromatic intonation than the C in the French tune. If one accepts this interpretation, the melody becomes a bridge spanning the entire period of composition in question, beginning with the concerto in March 1878, continuing with the Children’s Album in May, and culminating with the opera at the end of the year (Brown II 263, 277; III 16). Another interesting realization that arises if one accepts this interpretation is that it calls into question the frequent complaints from critics about the national character of Tchaikovsky’s music. Brown argues that, with the exception of the Minstrel Chorus, too much of Deva is suffused 214 J. PENDERGAST with music that sounds extremely Russian, rather than more appropriately French. Of Ioanna and Lionel’s duets, he complains that the “all-pervasive chromaticism…pronounces these lovers more Slav than Gallic” (57). The assumption that music can be distinctly national in character is a pervasive idea, albeit one that Dahlhaus finds “precarious” (38). Writing about the song sources of the composer’s symphonic music, Al’shvang asserts that nationalist characteristics gave Tchaikovsky and other Russian composers’ music its aesthetic grounding in the turbulent 1860s: B бypнyю эпoxy шecтидecятникoв, кoгдa пyльc oбщecтвeннoй жизни билcя ycкopeннo и тpeвoжнo, вepным кpитepиeм кpacoты и cилы peaлизмa для xyдoжникa былo нapoднoe твopчecтвo. Для кoмпoзитopoв тaким кpитepиeм были cтapинныe pyccкиe кpecтьянcкиe пecни и пляcки, a тaкжe нaциoнaльныe элeмeнты мyзыкaльныx кyльтyp дpyгиx нapoдoв. Этo пpидaвaлo мyзыкaльным пpoизвeдeниям и xapaктepнyю нaтcиoнaльнyю oкpacкy и cилy oбoбщeния, нaкoплeннyю и oтлитyю в coвepшeнныe фopмы oпытoм мнoгиx пoкoлeний. Paзpыв c тaким кpитepиeм нeизбeжнo пpивeл бы xyдoжникa к лoжнoй ycлoвнocти cтиля. (111) In the tumultuous era of the 60’s, when the pulse of social life accelerated and became more alarming, popular creative output became the true criterion of the beauty and power of realism for the artist. For composers this criterion was ancient Russian peasant songs and dances, as well as national elements of other peoples’ musical cultures. This is what gave musical works their characteristic national coloring and broad power, accumulating and overflowing in complete forms by the experience of many generations. A break with such a criterion would inevitably lead the artist to a false style. Thus, when Brown and others accuse the composer of supplying music of an inappropriate national character, they simultaneously imply that such music is somehow manifestly false as artistic expression. With this mind, it is interesting to note what Brown has to say about the melody of the violin solo in the second movement (canzonetta) of the Concerto. He pronounces it the “most consistently and wholeheartedly melodic Tchaikovsky had composed since the Andante cantabile of the First String Quartet…this canzonetta breathes a melancholy as deeply Russian as the folk-based quartet movement of seven years earlier” (265). Indeed, this melody is, as argued above, also folk-based, but it is a product of the French folk, not the Russian. In fairness to Brown, the harmonization that Tchaikovsky provides for this tune is different from the French original, and it is possible that the harmony is where 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 215 the “deeply Russian” melancholy of the melody breathes. Perhaps when he complains that, even in the French tune in the opera, the composer could not “silence his national voice,” he was unconsciously associating the tune with the sound of the canzonetta (51). The point here is not to cast aspersions on Brown’s analysis, but to consider the possibility that national character in music has much in common with Tchaikovsky’s sense of truth. It exists not in the stark reality of the musical notes but in the artistic vision of the composer. Brown points to three other moments in the opera that are worthy of note: Ioanna’s narration of her mission to the court in Chinon (No. 15), and Ioanna and Lionel’s duets in Act III (No. 17) and Act IV (No. 22). In each case, the degree to which the libretto relies on Zhukovsky’s translation of Schiller seems to inspire the composer to more effective music. The narration scene contains the moment when Ioanna recognizes the Dauphin, despite having never seen him before. This is a chronotope that derives from history and is retained in the versions of Joan of Arc by Shakespeare and Schiller. Brown pronounces it “the finest stretch in the whole opera” (59). Of the two duets, he says that they “cannot be charged with dullness” (54). Between them, however, the latter duet “lacks the expansiveness of Tchaikovsky at his best,” while the earlier one contains “much worthy of admiration in his handling of this evolving dialogue, from the plangent C minor music to which Joan admits the weakening of her lethal intent towards Lionel to that gentle, wondering phrase in which Lionel confesses the spell Joan’s femininity is weaving for him,” and in the phrase that signals the transition to the formal duet, there is a “quiet blend of warmth with pain” (58). It is no surprise that the duet found lacking is based on entirely original material with no connection to Zhukovsky or Schiller. This final duet seems to be the unfortunately logical conclusion of the mistake, identified above by Al’shvang, of having Lionel become Ioanna’s compatriot, removing the obstacle of patriotic loyalty from their potential romance. The earlier duet, on the other hand, is based almost entirely on the Zhukovsky translation, albeit drastically redacted. Indeed, it is rather astonishing to compare the text of this scene in the opera with the play. The composer takes passages from five different scenes scattered among Acts II, III, and IV. Parts of Johanna’s confrontations with Burgundy and Montgomery are retained, but in reverse order.93 Since the composer has dispensed with these characters, their lines go to Lionel. Johanna and Lionel’s first encounter is largely unchanged. The text representing the “weakening of Joan’s lethal intent,” noted above by Brown, is actually taken from the opening soliloquy of Act IV, which 216 J. PENDERGAST was also the basis of one of the most striking scenes in Verdi’s Giovanna. Given all of this tailoring and patching, one would not expect a favorable result, and yet the scene in the opera is coherent. Most striking in Brown’s analysis is the composer’s achievement of the “blend of warmth with pain.” Despite the significant alteration of the text from its original organization, the composer is inspired to produce one of the most effective duets in the opera, seemingly on the strength of the poetry, and the effect is in accordance with Schiller’s sublime image of Johanna. A comparison of the number of lines in Tchaikovsky’s libretto derived from Zhukovsky’s text supports the argument that those scenes identified by Brown as “worthy of admiration” are invariably inspired by the translation from Schiller: Lines of text in each scene of Tchaikovsky’s Deva libretto Total lines Number of lines retained Percentage (%) from Zhukovsky I. 1–256 II. 257–608 III.i. 609–716 III.ii. 717–886 IV.i. 887–971 IV.ii. 972–1002 257 352 108 170 85 31 75 173 79 84 11 ≈2 29 49 73 49 13 6 Ioanna’s famous farewell aria is from Act I. The “finest stretch in the opera,” Ioanna’s narration occurs in Act II. Ioanna and Lionel’s earlier, more successful duet is from Act III, scene i. The meager two lines of the final scene, which actually only vaguely resemble Ioanna’s final words in Zhukovsky, are noteworthy for the chronotope created by the composer in his libretto. In Zhukovsky, Ioanna, dying on the battlefield, says: “Rastvoreny vrata ikh zolotye […] Minuta skorb’, blazhenstvo beskonechno” (“Their golden gates have opened […] A moment of sorrow; an eternity of blessedness” PSSP VII 373). In Tchaikovsky, the scene has been made to conform to the historical circumstances of Joan’s burning at the stake, borrowed from the Gounod-Barbier drame lyrique (ZT II 258). The borrowed scene includes choruses of saints and angels, which the composer retains. Ioanna sings: “Otkrylos’ nebo, koncheny stradan’ya” (“heaven has opened, my suffering is over” CPSS.37 459). The addition of the chorus encouraging the young girl to embrace her fate makes the scene strongly reminiscent of the moment in Schiller’s translation of Euripides’s Iphigeneia in Aulis, when she ascends the sacrificial altar to permit the Greeks to sail to Troy. The phrase passes so quickly amid a profusion of so much other sound from the orchestra that it would be easy to miss. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 217 That the composer was probably unaware of the Greek myth at work in Schiller’s Jungfrau plot and that his intention was to force the ending of his opera to come closer to history suggests that the resemblance is coincidental. Coincidental or not, however, it is striking that a finely woven remnant of Schiller’s dramaturgy can be discerned among the “seams, patches and mismatched patterns” of Tchaikovsky’s ill-fitting garment. Although the composer’s anxiety about relying solely on Zhukovsky drives him to conduct research on all the sources he could find, the translation of Schiller’s Romantic tragedy remains the poetic inspiration that comes closest to serving his compositional demands. Mid-way through his composition, he writes von Meck and reports that, with the acquisition of Michelet’s biography on Joan of Arc his “reserve of necessary materials is complete,” however, “in the end, I have come to the conclusion that Schiller’s tragedy, while not consistent with historical truth, still surpasses all other artistic representations of Joan in its depth of psychological truth” (TPM I 616).94 In his illusory adoption of grand opera style, uncharacteristic of his natural mode of composition, the composer continues to subordinate the artistic truth he senses in Schiller to the exigencies of historical reality. Tchaikovsky’s political leanings did not often come up in his correspondence during the period under consideration, but his devotion to the tsar and the imperial family was always clear when they did. Any departure from a lifelong conviction must certainly represent a significant change in one’s state of mind. In the context of the discussion here, this departure serves as an interesting example of the dichotomy between the composer’s Realist and Idealist tendencies, as defined by Schiller. The fact that it takes place while he is preoccupied with preparing his Joan of Arc opera for production further enhances its importance. In the book published following the symposium at Hofstra University convened on the one hundredth anniversary of the composer’s death in 1993, Alexandar Mihailovic offers a surprising deviation from the composer’s usual convictions: “the monarchist Tchaikovsky sounds unusually democratic when he writes from Paris in 1879 that ‘so long as all of us – the citizens of Russia – are not called upon to take part in our country’s government, there is no hope for a better future’” (3). It is noteworthy that he cites the quote from two other works, Crankshaw’s The Shadow on the Winter Palace (Viking 1976) and Weinstock’s extremely popular biography, Tchaikovsky (Knopf 1943, reprinted 1946, 1980)(13f). Given that Weinstock’s biography was probably the most widely read examination of the composer’s life and works until supplanted by Brown some 218 J. PENDERGAST four decades later, it seems likely that this quote found its way into several other books and articles during the Cold War. While it makes a nice example to suggest that Tchaikovsky was sympathetic to liberal calls for representative government, nothing could be farther from the truth. He was a convinced monarchist his entire life, much in the same manner as Zhukovsky, although perhaps to a less ingenuous degree. Prior to the point in the letter from Paris where the thrice-quoted sentence appears, he has just shared with von Meck his knowledge that his servant Alësha had seen the Grand Duke Nikolay Nikolaevich with his entourage in full military uniform at church. He looks in the Gaulois newspaper and realizes it must be because of the unsuccessful attempt to assassinate Tsar Aleksandr II, which had taken place on 19 November 1879. This event therefore takes place toward the latter end of the period being considered here. The longer quote provides a clearer contextual understanding of Tchaikovsky’s true sentiment regarding this incident: Гaзeтa Temps cпpaвeдливo зaмeчaeт, чтo oбpaщeниe гocyдapя к poдитeлям, кoтopoe oн cдeлaл в cвoeй peчи, нe ecть cpeдcтвo иcкopeнить злo, пoдтaчивaющee cилы Poccии. Mнe кaжeтcя, чтo гocyдapь пocтyпил бы xopoшo, ecли б coбpaл выбopныx co вceй Poccии и вмecтe c пpeдcтaвитeлями cвoeгo нapoдa oбcyдил мepы к пepeceчeнию этиx yжacныx пpoявлeний caмoгo бeccмыcлeннoгo peвoлюциoнepcтвa. Дo тex пop пoкa нac вcex, тo ecть pyccкиx гpaждaн, нe пpизoвyт в yпpaвлeнии, нeчeгo нaдeятьcя нa лyчшyю бyдyщyю. (TPM II 910–11) The Temps newspaper correctly observes that the appeal made by His Majesty in his speech to the parents is not the way to root out the evil that is gaining strength in Russia. It seems to me that the tsar would do well to gather people elected from all over Russia and together with representatives of the entire nation discuss measures to deal with this terrible manifestation of the most idiotic revolutionary nonsense. Until all of us, that is, all Russian citizens, are called upon to participate in government, there is no hope for a better future. The publication of a proclamation by the group behind the assassination attempt is a significant historical development that takes place between the two letters. It is still striking to compare the relative liberality of this quote from 21 November/2 December 1879 with what he has to say twelve days later on 2 December/14 December 1879. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … Пpoклaмaцию o кoтopoй Bы yпoминaeтe, я читaл. Boзмyтитeльнee и циничнee этoгo ничeгo нeльзя выдyмaть. И кaк пoдoбныe peвoлюциoнныe пpoявлeния oтдaляют тe peфopмы, кoтopыми гocyдapь нaвepнo paнo или пoзднo yвeнчaл бы cвoю кapьepy. Кaкyю cильнyю peaкцию oни вoзбyждaют! Чтo coциaлиcты гoвopят oт имeни вceй Poccии, этo глyпo и нaглo, нo нe мeнee пpoтивнa и лoжь иx, зaключaющaяcя в тoм, чтo oни кaк бы пpoтягивaют pyкy вceм yмepeнным либepaлaм вcякиx oттeнкoв, гoвopя, чтo ocтaвят в пoкoe гocyдapя, ecли oн coзoвeт пapлaмeнт. Beдь им нe этoгo нyжнo: oни идyт гopaздo дaльшe и xoтeли бы coциaлиcтичecкoй pecпyблики и дaжe aнapxии. Ho никтo нa этy yдoчкy нe пoддacтcя, и ecли в oтдaлeннoм бyдyщeм в Poccии ycтpoитcя пpeдcтaвитeльнaя фopмa пpaвлeния, тo пepвым дeлoм бyдyщeй зeмcкoй дyмы бyдeт иcкopeнeниe [same as word above in reverse] тoй oтвpaтитeльнoй кyчки yбийц, кoтopaя вooбpaжaeт, чтo вeдeт зa coбoй Poccию. Эти гocпoдa нe пoнимaют, чтo мы вce тoчнo тaк жe и дaжe, быть мoжeт, бoльшe нeнaвидим иx, чeм гocyдapь, кoтopый oлицeтвopяeт Poccию и в лицe кoтopoгo oни ocкopбляют и вecь pyccкий нapoд. Кoнeчнo, oни – cилa, нo вeдь тoлькo пoтoмy, чтo бьют из-зa yглa. Ax, кaк вce этo oтвpaтитeльнo, и кaк cepдцe oжecтoчaeтcя пpoтив пoдoбныx cooтeчecтвeнникoв! Пpиxoдитcя paдoвaтьcя, кoгдa пpaвитeльcтвo пpинyждeнo пpинимaтьcя зa кpyтыe мepы. (PCM II 929) 219 I read the proclamation that you refer to. It is impossible to imagine anything more scandalous and cynical. As with other similar revolutionary manifestations, it sets back those reforms by which his majesty sooner or later might have crowned his career. What a powerful reaction they elicit! What the socialists claim on behalf of all of Russia is stupid and brazen, but no less offensive is their lie, to the effect that they are somehow leading moderate liberals of all stripes by the hand, saying that they will leave the tsar in peace, if he convenes a parliament. Actually, this is not their intent: they want to go much further, and would like a socialist republic and even anarchy. But no one is going to fall for this trick, and if in some distant future a representative form of government is established in Russia, then the first act of the future parliament would be the rooting out of this same repulsive bunch of murderers, who imagine themselves to be leading Russia. These gentlemen do not understand that we hate them perhaps even more than does His Majesty, who personifies Russia and in whose person they also offend the entire Russian people. Of course, they are a force, but indeed only because they strike from the shadows. Ah, how disgusting this all is, and how bitter one’s heart grows toward such compatriots! It makes one rejoice that the government must resort to drastic measures. 220 J. PENDERGAST It is difficult not to sense in the latter statement that Tchaikovsky has— within his own political parameters—come back to his senses. The Idealist, in Schiller’s sense, is once more reconciled with the Realist. This should not be taken to imply that he will only compose in the lyric mode for the remainder of his life. Unfortunately, commissions and other misbegotten projects will still call upon the composer to project his epic persona from time to time. Modest makes a fascinating observation toward the end of his brother’s biography. It is 18 October 1893, only a few days before the composer contracts cholera and dies: B эти жe дни oн мнoгo гoвopил co мнoй o пepeдeлкe Oпpичникa и Opлeaнcкoй дeвы, кoтopыми xoтeл зaнятьcя в ближaйшeм бyдyщeм. Для этoгo oн взял из библиoтeки импepaтopcкиx тeaтpoв пapтитypy Oпpичникa и пpиoбpeл пoлнoe coбpaниe coчинeний Жyкoвcкoгo. Cвoиx нaмepeний oтнocитeльнo пepвoй из этиx oпep oн мнe нe выcкaзывaл, пo пoвoдy жe Opлeaнcкoй дeвы, мы бecceдoвaли c ним o пepeдeлкe пocлeднeй кapтины, пpичeм я нacтaивaл нa тoм, чтoбы, и бeз тoгo шиpoкo пoльзyяcь cцeнapиyмoм Шиллepa, oн и кoнeц cдeлaл бы пo-шиллepoвcки. Eгo этo, видимo, зaинтepecoвaлo, нo к oкoнчaтeльнoмy peшeнию пpийти былo нe cyждeнo. (ZT III 573) During this time, he spoke a good deal about revising The Oprichnik and The Maid of Orleans, which he wanted to work on in the near future. For this purpose, he borrowed the score of The Oprichnik from the library of the imperial theaters and acquired the complete collected works of Zhukovsky. He did not tell me his intentions regarding the first of these operas. Concerning The Maid of Orleans, however, he and I discussed the revision of the last scene, about which I insisted that, without making extensive use of Schiller’s plot, he should do the ending in the Schillerian manner. This apparently interested him, but he was not fated to come to a final decision. The composer is intrigued by his brother’s suggestion, implying that he realizes that the ending of the opera suffers from departing too radically from Schiller. Modest certainly thinks so. Death itself prevents the composer from acting on this suggestion. Had the composer not died, it is tempting to wonder what he might have done in his revision. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 221 NOTES 1. Tsar from 1825–1855 (PSSP.XX 674). 2. Tsar from 1855–1881 (PSSP.XX 562). 3. This is the date according to the Gregorian calendar, which Russia only adopted after the October Revolution of 1917. According to the Julian calendar observed during his lifetime, his birth date is 29 January 1783. In nineteenth-century Russian scholarship, this distinction is made by referring to the Julian date as “Old Style” (“OS”) and the Gregorian date as “New Style” (“NS”). Unless otherwise noted, dates given here are New Style. 4. This word refers to the Russian custom of adding a sexually defined suffix to the father’s first name in the creation of the middle name: -evich for males, -evna for females. Had Zhukovsky been permitted to take his father’s name, his patronymic would have been Afanas’evich. As it was, since his godfather’s first name was Andrey, his patronymic became Andreevich. 5. “Я не был оставлен, брошен, имел угол, … но не был любим никем, не чувствовал ничьей любви”. 6. These names should not be confused with the much more famous novelist a generation later, Ivan Turgenev. It is tempting to look for a family connection here, but the connection is extremely distant, if not completely coincidental. In the case of the Nobel Prize-winning author, Ivan Bunin, it seems that he himself claimed to be descended from Zhukovsky’s father. 7. “Друзей волновали вопросы общественные и моральные – о человеке, его нравах и обязанностях перед народом и родиной, – интересовали судьбы литературы, творчество современных писателей.” Many of these friends would later participate in the influential Arzamas literary society. 8. “…быть его сынами, с опасностию [sic] всего жертвовать его благоденствию.” 9. I demand of a translation that it unites fidelity with euphony, and at the same time that it breathes the genius of the language in which it is written, not that of its original language (Säkular-Ausgabe Bd. 16, 158) Schiller was referring to Stäudlin’s translation of Vergil’s Aeneid. 10. I have translated the title to conform to the subsequent quote from Semenko, but it bears noting that a more accurate translation might be “Village Cemetery: An Elegy.” Of course, graves are a common feature in church-yards, and “country” is not far from “village,” but this translation of the Zhukovsky title bears out the points to be explored in the analysis of his eschewing generalizations for concrete types and increasing emotional content. 222 J. PENDERGAST 11. “Solange er aber über den Alexandriner, die metrische Fessel aller Poesie, nicht hinauskam und vor Schillers Trochäen stutzte, war auch zur Verniedlichung des Inhalts wohl nur noch ein kleiner Schritt.” 12. The differences in the spelling of Tchaikovsky’s name arise from the perennial problems associated with Romanization of the Cyrillic alphabet. 13. Gasparov identifies Ekaterina II’s appearance in this scene as being based on a famously sumptuous feast that took place on 28 April 1791 (140). 14. The pro-“modernist” argument was based on a series of articles by Charles Perrault from 1668 to 1697, while the pro-ancient perspective was based on an article by H. Boileau-Despreaux from 1694. 15. “Поэзия древних оригинальная, чувственная, не сопряженная ни с какими посторонними видами; поэзия новых подражательная, занимающая размышления, сопряженная с видами посторонними” (125).“Рассматривание внешней природы, живое изображение чувственного, всегдашнее устремление внимания на предмет изображаемый - таковы главные черты, составляющие характер древних; глубокое проницание во внутреннего человека, изображение мысленного, соединение обстоятельств посторонних с предметом изображаемым - таков отличительный характер поэтов новых” (129). 16. “Все дело художника состоит единственно в том, чтобы смотреть на предметы, взору его подлежащие, изображать их с возможною живостию; тогда творческое дарование его покажется чудесным, а вдохновенные песни его будут иметь силу очарования” (129). 17. “Jedoch das Eigentümliche des Gedichtes zeigt sich in der merkwürdigen Verschmelzung von Christentum und Aufklärung zu einem gemeinsamen Gegner. Der monotheistische Gott des Christentums verwandelt sich im Verlauf der Geschichte in den abstrakten Gott des aufgeklärten Denkens.” 18. Many of the aesthetic and political attitudes ascribed here to Zhukovsky could just as easily be ascribed to Tchaikovsky. 19. He would in fact return to the same source with another version, Svetlana, in 1812 (Semenko 21). 20. “[…] песня народная, особенно посвященная царю и в его лице всему царству, повторяемая при всяком важном событии народной жизни, имеет глубокое, ей одной присвоенное значение. […] Когда зазвучит для тебя народное слово: Боже, Царя храни! вся твоя Россия, с ее минувшими днями славы, с ее настоящим могуществом, с ее священным будущим, явится перед тобою в лице твоего Государя. И мне было сладко подумать о своем великом семействе, о нашей России, где […] благоговение перед святынею Божией правды и истории и благоговение перед святынею власти державной, из них исходящей, сохранилось неприкосновенным, в залог настоящего могущества и 4 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 223 будущего благоденствия, и в душе моей глубоко, глубоко отозвалися слова нашей народной песни, всю эту святыню выражающие: Боже, Царя храни!” “А народ ничего не знал про нее,” “после 10 лет сделался народным…” An oblique, but possibly significant, reference to Iphigenia arises here. In this play, the Furies pursue Orestes for killing his mother Clytemnestra and her lover. Orestes has committed those murders to avenge the death of his father Agamemnon. Aeschylus has Clytemnestra state in this play that her motive for killing her husband was to avenge his murder of Iphigenia at Aulis. Some have suggested that the name of the Roman god, Jupiter, is a Latin neologism derived from “Zeus’ pater.” Translations of these texts can be found in Appendix C. The old believers, or schismatics, were orthodox Christians who, stubbornly and seditiously, clung to their old rituals (starye obryady), after sweeping reforms made by Patriarch Nikon under Tsar Aleksey, beginning around 1650. Groups of these staroobryadtsy continued to be a problem under the subsequent reign of Peter the Great and later tsars and came to be identified with fanaticism and rebellion (Billington 130– 35, 192–205). A parallel dichotomy between grandiose translation and homely original exists in the familiar Bach chorale, traditionally rendered in English as “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” whose humble Lutheran original, “Wohl mir das ich Jesum habe,” is closer to: “It is good that I have Jesus.” Fragments of each can be found in PSSP.VII (Don Karlos 475–77; Lager’ Vallenshteina 495–96; Pikkolomini 493; Smert’ Vallenshteina 490–92; Dmitrij Samozvanets 477–79; Plan 493–95). As an indication of the importance of its theme, Pushkin eventually took up this topic and created two versions of the story, one a satirical comedy (1825, Cf. Dunning, Emerson et al., The Uncensored Boris Godunov, 2006), and the other a tragedy in the Shakespearean manner, Boris Godunov (1831), which became one of the primary sources for Musorgsky’s opera. “В большом монологе пролога она не сохранила надлежащей постепенности. ‘Исполнилось, и шлем сей послан им’ -- этот стих и прочие последние были мало отделены. В четвертом акте в начале ей не должно выходить, а уже быть на сцене; во время марша она не должна так театрально шататься, а идти в глубокой задумчивости и шагом, отличным от других.” The relationship of Old Church Slavonic to Russian is more complex than this statement suggests. Linguists are reluctant to classify it as a distinct dialect because the development of its syntax and phraseology cannot be consistently mapped across time and geography. In some instances, it is 224 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. J. PENDERGAST more similar to Bulgarian than to Russian, and it contains many words derived from Greek, rather than from Slavic. Translations of these texts can be found in Appendix C. Cf., V. Izmajlov, “O vysokom,” Vestnik Evropy 21, 71 (1813). “Avoid falsehood, do not kill the innocent and the righteous, for I will not justify the lawless.” Schiller allows these claims to stand, although in reality, the Armagnac party, which was not consistently supportive of the Dauphin, was responsible for exiling Isabeau (Pernoud 188–89). O.A Lebedeva worked with A.S. YAnushkevich on both the 20-volume collected works of 1999–2011 (abbreviated as PSSP) and the 1999 publication of recollections by Zhukovsky’s contemporaries (abbreviated as Lebedeva). YAnushkevich is the main editor of PSSP, whereas as Lebedeva is the editor of the 1999 collection. As it happens, she was also the main compiler of Volume VII of PSSP, specifically devoted to Zukovsky’s dramatic works, as well as the author of the commentary. For this reason, citations from collected works show PSSP as the source, while the text refers to her as the author, whereas citations from the 1999 recollections show her name as the source. “В системе поэтической образности Жуковского оно является крайне многозначным, а в глазах современников было универсальным атрибутивным символом творчества и личности Жуковского […] В этих переводческих трансформациях нашел свое выражение глубокий психологизм романтизма Жуковского, в наибольшей мере проявившийся в интерпретации характера главной героини: в речевой характеристике Иоанны Жуковский максимально акцентировал интенсивность духовной эмоциональной жизни.” “В переводе Орлеанской девы психологизм как способ изображения драматичекого характера соединяется с патриотическим содержанием этого характера, высокий гражданственный пафос одушевляется тонким и проникновенным элегическим лиризмом. Благодаря этому традитсионно ратсионалистическая категория гражданского долга становится таким же точно проявлением интимной эмоциональной жизни человека, как любовь или элегическая меланхолия.” “It’s all for the best: the local actors would have obliterated her no less than the censor.” “Не будем распространяться о достоинстве перевода Орлеанской девы Шиллера: это достоинство давно и всеми единодушно признано. Жуковский своим превосходным переводом усвоил русской литературе это прекрасное произведение. И никто, кроме Жуковского, не мог бы так передать этого по преимуществу романтического создания Шиллера, и никакой другой драмы Шиллера Жуковский не был бы в 4 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 225 состоянии так превосходно передать на русский язык, как превосходно передал он Орлеанскую деву” (emphasis Belinsky’s). “Наша совместная двойная работа переживет нас долго. Народная песня, раз раздавшишсь, получив права гражданства, останется навсегда, пока будет жив народ, который ее присвоил. Из всех моих стихов эти смиренные пять, благодаря Вашей музыке, переживут всех братий своих. Где не слышал я этого пения? В Перми, в Тобольске, у подошвы Чатырдага, в Стокгольме, в Лондоне и Риме!” “Впервые во Франции в контсертном исполнении прозвучала одна из самых грандиозных опер Чайковского, сюжет которой прямо касается Франции” (citation from Arkhipova’s memoirs). Ioanna is the Russian equivalent of Johanna. “Опера русского композитора о национальной героине Франции стала для французов самым настоящим открытием, что подтверждали многочисленные газетные рецензии, в одной из которых было сказано: ‘Жанна д’Арк, появившаяся у нас с мороза.” Deva premiered 11 February 1881 (ZT II 262). Contrast this with Onegin’s 192 performances from the time of its premiere at the Imperial Theater on 19 October 1884 through 1899 (Shaverdyan 268, 327). Although it premiered at the Imperial Theater later, Onegin was composed earlier. Tchaikovsky completed sketches for the entire work in August of 1877 (ZT II 167), finishing the first version of the opera’s full score 20 January 1878 (ZT II 167). Sketches for Deva were completed 22 February 1879, with the full score finished 27 August 1879 (ZT II 261). “Я нисколько бы не затруднился нагло отступить от реальной истины в пользу истины художественной” (Letter to K. Romanov 3 August 1880, ZT III 343). Quoted in Wiley 353. Bullock credits Morrison’s Russian Opera and the Symbolist Movement (56) as the source of this citation and the one immediately preceding (97f). “Man Is lyrical, Woman Epic, Marriage Dramatic.” Novalis, Sämmtliche Werke: Fragmente über Aesthetisches, Vol. III, Ed. Carl Meissner. Leipzig: Eugen Dieterichs, 1898 (“Fragmente über Etisches, Philosophisches und Wissenschaftliches,” 221). The opinion maintained in these pages is that the composer’s homosexuality was a fact that demanded varying levels of discretion in dealings with his family, friends, and the larger society, rather than a scandalous secret that he hid out of shame at all cost. The rumor, published as a fact by Alexandra Orlova in Tchaikovsky: A Self-portrait (1990), that the composer committed suicide to protect the honor of his alma mater has been called into question by more recent research (Cf. Taruskin, Music 226 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. J. PENDERGAST & Letters 79.3, 1998; Wiley, Tchaikovsky, 2009; Poznanskij, Chajkovskij, 2010) and finds no place in this discussion. The point is sensitive not merely from a biographical perspective. The notion of critical reception being influenced by certain critics’ perception of the composer’s homosexuality has been explored by Malcolm Hamrick Brown in “Tchaikovsky and His Music in Anglo-American Criticism, 1890s–1950s,” Tchaikovsky and His Contemporaries (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1999). The conclusion there is that critics who have tended to reject the composer’s works as effeminate and hysterical also betray barely concealed or open disgust at his sexuality, while critics with a more sanguine view toward his sexuality have tended to be more receptive, or at least more objective in their criticism. At its premiere, “the march had to be repeated…Many in the hall were weeping” (Brown II 101). “Милый друг, тебе передадут мои рукописи. Ты получил немало материала для своих граверов.” “Пожалуйста, голубчик, расъясни и определи состояние наших счетов, это для меня весьма нужно.” “Моя душа наполнялась такою лютой ненавистью к моей несчастной жене, что хотелось душить ее” (PC I 66). “Гармония для Чайковского никогда не превращается в самодовлеющую краску, в колористическое застывшее пятно, а всегда неразрывно связано с мелодическим движением и выполняет драматическую функцию” (91). Cf. Chapter 2, 41. “Гибкость музыкальной речи…уменье сочетать одновременно и импровизационную свободу и сконцентрированную собранную тему… Группа романсов…сыграла особенно большую роль как ‘лаборатория’ мелоса для Онегина оперы, глубоко связанной с интонациями быта, со стилем камерной лирики. Импровизационно-речевой, ‘разговорный’ мелодический язык типичен для всей этой оперы” (84–85). “Пусть лучше будет изуродован мелодический рисунок, чем самая сущность музыкальной мысли, находящаяся в прямой зависимости от модуляции и гармонии, с коими я свыкся” (91). Tchaikovsky was not, however, as slavish to natural speech declamation as were Cesar Cui, Musorgsky or the other members of the so-called Mighty Handful, who insisted furthermore that the poet’s text should be reproduced inviolate, with no abridgements or repetitions. “Он раскритиковал оперу в пух и прах, главным образом недовольный будничностью либретто и отсутствием грандиозного оперного стиля в музыке”. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 227 59. 8/20 May 1877. The work from which this citation is taken is itself an edited translation of Modest Tchaikovsky’s Zhizn’ Chajkovskogo, but in compiling her work, Newmarch added some letters and materials from other sources not to be found in ZT. For this reason, it is designated in the Works Cited under her name. 60. “Онегина можно назвать энциклопедией русской жизни и в высшей степени народным произведением.” “Onegin may be called an encyclopedia of Russian life and a work of popular literature at the highest level.” V.G. Belinskij, “Evgenij Onegin, 9-aya statʹya” Sobranie sochinenij v treх tomaх. Tom III. Statʹi i ret͡senzii 1843–1848. Redakt͡siya V.I. Kuleshova. Pod obshchej redakt͡siej F. M. Golovenchenko. Moskva: OGIZ, GIХL, 1948. 61. ZT II 522. 62. Although related to Lev Tolstoy, the poet Aleksey Tolstoy (1817–1875) is an utterly different writer of an earlier generation. Tchaikovsky wrote more songs to his poetry than of any other poet (Wiley 499). 63. No. 6 “Pimpinella.” 64. A year earlier, Tchaikovsky seems to have gotten inspiration for the second theme (in the violins) of his Fourth Symphony’s first movement from the Carmen’s Aragonaise jota, which appears in the Entr’acte before Act IV (in the oboe). 65. “прочел ту самую “Ромео и Юлию, которую они смотрели в театре. Тотчас же меня засела в голову мысль написать оперу на этот сюжет… Буду много думать о стсенариуме этой оперы, на которую я положил бы все свои силы, а они еще ест’ в запасе.” 66. “нередко встречаются некоторые ‘шероховатости’ в изложении мысли, в стиле речи. Его языку чужда ‘отшлифованность,’ отделка деталей. Для Толстого точность рифмы не являлась обязательным условием поэтического произведения.” 67. When Tchaikovsky completed the sketches of Deva in February of 1879, he began reading Rousseau’s Confessions, in which he discovered particular sympathy with the French philosopher’s description of: “…the unbearable burden of maintaining obligatory conversation, in the maintenance of which one is obliged to utter empty words…My God, how subtly and truly deeply he expresses this scourge of social life!невыносимой тяжести поддерживать по обязанности разговор, причем ради поддержания разговора приходится говорить пустые слова…Боже мой, до чего он тонко и глубоко верно рассуждает об этом биче общественной жизни” (“невыносимой тяжести поддерживать по обязанности разговор, причем ради поддержания разговора приходится 228 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. J. PENDERGAST говорить пустые слова…Боже мой, до чего он тонко и глубоко верно рассуждает об этом биче общественной жизни”) (ZT II 228). “Ein Abgrund, der sich zu unsern Füßen aufthut,…eine Felsenmasse, die über uns hängt, als wenn sie eben niederstürzen wollte, …reissende oder giftige Thiere”. See Chapter 2, 78–82 for a fuller discussion of this work. Nur als Sinnenwesen sind wir abhängig, als Vernunftwesen sind wir frei (NA.20 171). Denn da, wo wir uns wirklich in Gefahr befinden, wo wir selbst der Gegenstand einer feindseligen Naturmacht sind, da ist es um die aesthetische Beurteilung geschehen (NA.20 179). Poznansky quotes these epithets from letters that Modest did not include in his Life and Letters (ZT), which is one of my two primary Russianlanguage sources. He cites them as follows: serpent Pis’ma k rodnym (Letters to Relatives), Ed. V. Zhdanov, Moscow, 1940, 496; reptile Pis’ma k rodnym, 488; Complete Collected Works, 1953, 7:551 bitch Pis’ma k rodnym, 402; Complete Collected Works, 1953, 7:242 (partial). The figure was derived by the author during research for his master’s thesis. “Onegin’s Path from Page to Stage: A Study of Tchaikovsky’s Transposition of Pushkin’s Novel in Verse into Novel in Music,” Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona, 2002, 25. “Прости меня, мой милый и бедный либреттист за то, что я даром промучил тебя над Ундиной. Черт с ней с этой Ундиной! … как это глупо и пошло…” This duet was finished and published posthumously by his student Taneev in 1893 (Wiley 466). “очень пленяет меня, но, во-первых, это ужасно трудно, а во-вторых, Гуно, написавший на этот сюжет посредственную оперу, все-таки пугает меня.” In his last opera Iolanta (1892), with a libretto by his brother Modest, Tchaikovsky returns very explicitly to the obsessive quality of love at first sight, complicated by the fact that the heroine of that opera suffers from blindness. “Мы переживаем ужасное время, и кодга начинаешь вдумываться в происходящее, то страшно делается.” “равнодушная ко всему, погрязшая в эгоистические интересы масса, без всякого протеста смотрящая на то и на другое.” “Я въехал в Москву с одним очень твердым убеждением: уехать отсюда как можно скорее.” “Я приехал в Москву с отвращением, с тоской и с неудержимым, непобедимым желанием отсюда вырваться на свободу” (TPM I 479, 481). Written in 1874 and first performed in 1876 (Wiley 465). The performance cited above took place in Petersburg on 28 October 1878 (TPM I 515–16). 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 229 82. “Меня начинает сильно манить один новый оперный сюжет, а именно Орлеанская дева Шиллера,” 20 November 1878 (ZT II 180). 83. “Она чудная как издание. Написана она же хотя и хорошо, но со слишком очевидным намерением уверять читателя, что Иоанна и в самом деле водилась с архангелами, ангелами и святыми.” 84. “Невозможно отритсать, что Фауст написан если не гениально, то с необычайным мастерством и не без значительной самобытности.” 85. For a recent detailed examination of this opera, see Thérèse Hurley’s Jeanne d’Arc on the 1870s Musical Stage: Jules Barbier and Charles Gounod’s Melodrama and Auguste Mermet’s Opera. 2013. Graduate School of the University of Oregon, PhD dissertation. 86. It is of passing interest that wine enters into the discussion, given the prominence of its effect in the disagreement the composer had with von Meck on the operation of music, but his use in this instance is consistent with his earlier argument that it serves to allow one to escape from unhappiness or distress. 87. One notes with regret that the composer did not seem to come across Zhukovsky’s own opera scenario while conducting his research (see p. 163). 88. With Gounod’s setting, it must be allowed that this is entirely consistent with the almost fleeting redemption of Gretchen at the end of Goethe’s Faust, part one. 89. Perhaps better known by its French title “Adieu, forêts.” 90. The French compiler’s name is spelled “Wekerlin” in French publications. 91. “Während Weckerlins Sammelbund in Russland kaum noch in Umlauf gewesen sein dürfte, gab es sicher Opernbesucher, denen Čajkovskijs Kinderalbum bekannt war […] Zumindest in Russland dürfte das Alte französische Liedchen bis jedem durchschnittlichen Klavierschüler ein Begriff sein, so dass bei einem Rezipienten der Oper ein Wiedererkennungseffekt eintreten kann.” Braun’s spelling of Tchaikovsky’s name follows the German transliteration system. 92. “Aber es ist zumindest ein werkexterner Bezugspunkt vorhanden, eine Spur, die man weiterfolgen kann und die zur Entdeckung der ‘realen’ und nicht bloß ‘fiktiven Präexistenz,’ wie sie bei drameninhärenten Volksliedern oft vorliegt, führen kann.” 93. Act II, sc.ix is followed by bits of II.vi and II.vii, then by III.x and finally, IV.i. 94. “Запас нужных мне материалов для Jeanne d’Arc [in French] готов.” “В конце концов я пришел к заключению, что трагедия Шиллера хотя и не согласна с историческою правдой, но превосходит все другие художественные изображения Иоанны глубиной психологической правды.” 230 J. PENDERGAST BIBLIOGRAPHY PART I Anikin, Andrei V. Russian Thinkers: Essays on Socio-Economic Thought in the 18th and 19th Centuries. Trans. Cynthia Carlile. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1988. Belinsky, Vissarion. “A Survey of Russian Literature in 1847: Part Two.” Selected Criticism: Essential Writings by the Founders of Russian Literary and Social Criticism. Trans. and Ed. Ralph Matlaw. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1962. ———. “Thoughts and Notes on Russian Literature.” Selected Criticism: Essential Writings by the Founders of Russian Literary and Social Criticism. Trans. and Ed. Ralph Matlaw. New York: E. P. 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Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1853. Harder, Hans-Bernd. Schiller in Rußland. Berlin: Verlag Gehlen, 1969. Kostka, Edmund K. Schiller in Russian Literature. Philadelphia: University of Penssylvania Press, 1965. Lebedeva, O.B. and A.S. Yanushkevich. V.A. Zhukovsky v vospominaniyakh sovremennikov [V.A. Zhukovsky in the recollections of contemporaries]. Moskva: Nauka, 1999. Makogonenko, G. P. et al., eds. “Zhukovsky.” Russkie poėty: Antologiya v 4-kh tomakh [Anthology in four volumes], Vol 1. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo “Detskaya literatura,” 1965. Muzej russkikh gimnov. “Gimn Rossijskoj imperii.” 15 May 2011. http://www. hymn.ru/bozhe-tsarya-khrani.html. Passage, Charles. “The Influence of Schiller in Russia 1800–1840.” American Slavic and East European Review 5. 1/2 (1946): 111–37. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 231 Pein, Annette. Schiller and Zhukovsky: Aesthetic Theory in Poetic Translation. Mainz: Liber Verlag, 1991. Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich. Polnoe sobranie sochinenij: v 10 tomakh. Leningrad: Nauka, Leningradskoe otdelenie, 1977–1979. T. 5. Evgenij Onegin: Roman v stikhax, Dramaticheskie proizvedeniya, 1978. Schlegel, August. “Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature Ancient and Modern (selections).” Ed. G.W. Allen and H.H. Clark. Literary Criticism: Pope to Croce. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1962. Semenko, Irina M. Vasily Zhukovsky. Boston: Twayne Publishers, 1976. Shamanskaya, L.P. V. A. Zhukovsky i F. Shiller: Poėticheskij perevod v kontekste russkoj literatury. Diss., Moscow State Pedagogical University, 2001. Terras, Victor. Belinskij and Russian Literary Criticism: The Heritage of Organic Aesthetics. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1974. Vinitsky, Ilya. “The Invisible Scaffold: Execution and Imagination in Vasilii Zhukovskii’s Works.” Times of Trouble: Violence in Russian Literature and Culture. Ed. Marcus C. Levitt and Tatyana Novikov. Seattle: UW Press, 2007. Zhukovsky, Vasilij. V. A. Zhukovsky—Kritik. Ed. Yu. M. Prozorov. Moskva: Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1985. ———. “Ivikovy zhuravli.” Russkie poėty, antologiya v 4-kh tomax. Tom pervyj. Ed. G.P. Mokogonenko and V.N. Orlov. Moskva: Detskaya literatura, 1964. PART II Abraham, Gerald. “Tchaikovsky: Some Centennial Reflections.” Music & Letters 21:2, 110–119. Al’shvang, Arnol’d. Izbrannye sochineniya v dvukh tomakh. Moskva: Izdatel’stvo Muzyka, 1964. ———. P.I.Tchaikovsky. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe muzykal’noe izdatel’stvo, 1959. Arkhipova, Irina. Muzyka zhizni. Moskva: Vagrius, 1997. Asaf’ev, Boris V. O muzyke CHajkovskogo. Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo “Muzyka,” 1972. Brown, David. Tchaikovsky, in Four Volumes. New York: Norton, 1978–1992. Bullock, Philip Ross. “Ambiguous Speech and Eloquent Silence: The Queerness of Tchaikovsky’s Songs.” 19th-Century Music 32.1 (2008): 94–128. Emerson, Caryl. Boris Godunov: Transpositions of a Russian Theme. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986. ———. Pushkin into Tchaikovsky: Caustic Novel, Sentimental Opera, 7–16. London: John Calder Publishers, 1988. Gasparov, Boris. Five Operas and a Symphony. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005. 232 J. PENDERGAST Krasinskaya, L.E. Opernaya melodika P.I. Chaykovskogo: K voprosu o vzaimodeystvii melodii i rechevoy intonatsii. Leningrad: Izdatel’svto “Muzyka,” 1986. Mihailovic, Alexandar. Tchaikovsky and His Contemporaries: A Centennial Symposium. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1999. Nabokov, Vladimir. Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse, Translated from the Russian with Commentary, 4 vols. New York: Pantheon Books, 1964. Newmarch, Rosa. “The Development of National Opera in Russia.” Proceedings of the Musical Association, 26th Session, 1899–1900.The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky. New York: Vienna Huse, 1973 [Orig. published in 1906 as an edited translation of ZT]. Orlova, Alexandra, Tchaikovsky: A Self-Portrait. Trans. R.M. Davison. New York: Oxford University Press, 1990. Orlova, Elena. Romansy CHajkovskogo. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe muzykal’noe izdatel’stvo, 1948. Poznansky, Alexander. Tchaikovsky. Moskva: Molodaya Gvardiya, 2010. ———. Tchaikovsky: The Quest for the Inner Man, New York: Schirmer BooksSimon & Schuster Macmillan, 1991. ———. Tchaikovsky through Others’ Eyes, Trans. Ralph C. Burr, Jr. and Robert Bird. Bloomington and Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press, 1999. Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich. Eugene Onegin. Trans. Walter Arndt. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1963. Shaverdyan, A.I., ed. Tchaikovsky i teatr. Moskva: Iskusstvo, 1940. Stanislavski, Constantin and Pavel Rumyantsev. Stanislavski on Opera. Trans. Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood. New York: Theatre Arts Books, 1975. Stasov, V.V. Selected Essays on Music, Trans. Florence Jonas. New York: Praeger, 1968. Sylvester, Richard D. Tchaikovsky’s Complete Songs: A Companion with Texts and Translations. Bloomington and Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press, 2002. Tchaikovsky, Modest Ilich. The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky. Ed., from the Russian by Rosa Newmarch in two volumes. New York: Vienna House, 1973. Tchaikovsky, Piotr Ilich. Eugene Onegin, libretto, Number 38 of the English National Opera Guide Series, Ed. Nicholas John et al. London: John Calder Publishers, 1988. ———. The Maid of Orleans. Vocal Score. Van Nuys: Kalmus-Alfred Publishing, 1985. Tchaikovsky, Pëtr Il’ich. Polnoe sobranie sochinenij (Complete Collected Works) Moscow: Muzgiz, 1940–68. Reprinted: New York: Edwin F. Kalmus, n.d.(after 1965). Cf. works listed among Abbreviations. 4 PATRIOTIC ELEGY AND EPIC ILLUSION … 233 Wekerlin, Jean-Baptiste. Echos du temps passé, Vol. I. Paris: Durand et fils, 1901, n.d. Wiley, Roland John. Tchaikovsky. New York: Oxford University Press, 2009. Yarustovskiy, B. Dramaturgiya russkoj opernoj klassiki. Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe izdatel’stvo “Iskusstvo,” 1953. 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