It is only in the modified, "corrected" and indubitably
castrated versions of Rimsky-Korsakoff that "Boris" and "Khovanchtchina"
maintain themselves upon the stage. This iron, this granite and
adamantine music, this grim, poignant, emphatic expression will not fit
into the old conceptions. The old ones speak vaguely of "musical
realism," "naturalism," seeking to find a pigeon-hole for this great
quivering mass of life.
No doubt the music of Moussorgsky is not entirely iron-gray. Just as, in
the midst of "Boris," there occurs the gentle scene between the Czar and
his children, so scattered through this stern body of music there are
light and gay colors, brilliant and joyous compositions. Homely and
popular and naive his melodies and rhythms always are, little
peasant-girls with dangling braids, peasant lads in gala garb, colored
balls that are thrown about, singing games that are played to the
regular accompaniment of clapping palms, songs about ducks and
parrakeets, dances full of shuffling and leaping. Even the movements of
the sumptuous "Persian Dances" in "Khovanchtchina" are singularly naive
and simple and unpretentious. Sometimes, however, the full gorgeousness
of Byzantine art shines through this music, and the gold-dusty modes,
the metallic flatness of the pentatonic scale, the mystic twilit chants
and brazen trumpet-calls make us see the mosaics of Ravenna, the black
and gold ikons of Russian churches, the aureoled saints upon bricked
walls, the minarets of the Kremlin.
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