Feodor Chaliapin

Note by Victor Borovsky











"It is impossible to describe how he sang. He sang as Tolstoy wrote".

[Sergei Rakhmaninov]

Is it really possible to put into words the impressions of a live audience? The greater the actor, the more difficult the task; and most of Chaliapin's eminent contemporaries, even those gifted with sensitivity and a literary turn of mind, shrank from the attempt. 'He is among all singers', wrote Ernest Newman in 1926, 'the one most in need of being seen in order to be properly heard. Those who could only know his art from gramophone records can have but a faint idea of his power of swaying and subduing the audience.' 'Of superb physique, he had an uncanny gift for cosmetic metamorphosis, and, adding to dramatic gifts, a magnificent voice that rolled out like melodious thunder. It was easy for him to equal the triumphs of even Caruso those days!' recalled Geraldine Farrar. Titta Ruffo, when asked about the most celebrated performers with whom he had appeared, exclaimed: 'I know famous artists, but there is only one greatest artist: Chaliapin.' 'My whole career as a singer would be unthinkable without the imprints this unique artist has left on my mind. It seems hard to describe exactly the character of such an influence, but expressions like magic or even demonic would not be exaggerated,' affirmed Hans Hotter. 'Synthesis has rarely been achieved by anyone in the arts, particularly in the theatre. Chaliapin is the only case I can think of. My system is taken straight from Chaliapin,' confessed Stanislavsky. The list of tributes is endless.

In the minds of contemporary readers and spectators, the name Chaliapin is inseparable from the characters of Boris Godounov, Don Basilio, King Philip, Mephistopheles and Don Quichotte. Pushkin and Mussorgsky, Beaumarchais and Rossini, Cervantes and Massenet, Goethe with Gounod and Boïto, all had in Chaliapin a true interpreter. His performances were in total harmony with the composers' intentions, and their artistic validity can never be questioned. Boito, after hearing Chaliapin's Mephistopheles, joyously exclaimed: 'At last I see my own conception of the rôle! At last I have found my devil.'

Feodor Ivanovich Chaliapin [the correct transliteration is Shalyapin] was born on 13th February 1873. Poverty, hunger, his father's drunkenness and his mother's sufferings formed his first childhood impressions. This joyless, lacklustre existence motivated him to search for something beyond the drab, exhausting routine of his family's life. After joining a local church choir he learned to sight-read music, and by the age of fourteen had already gained six years' experience as a choirboy.

Singing was not Chaliapin's only enthusiasm; his other passion which developed into a vocation, was for the theatre. 'The curtain fell,' recalled Chaliapin years later, 'but still I stood bewitched in a dream come to life. The theatre drove me out of my mind, made me almost beside myself.'

He suffered long periods of adversity to which he could have easily succumbed, sinking forever into the morass of Russia's grim reality. Yet he managed not only to survive, but to shape his own destiny, never losing contact with the inner voice of his talent or the true instinct of his inspiration, always faithful to his greatest joy and keenest urge - the theatre . 'If I amounted to anything in life, it was as an actor and a singer,' wrote Chaliapin towards the end of his days. 'I was totally committed to my vocation. I had no other ruling passion whatever, no particular taste for anything other than the stage.' These words are undoubtedly true, but clearly do him less than justice. He had been blessed with an abundance of gifts. As Rakhmaninov remarked, he showed 'a boundless and phenomenal talent in whatever he turned his hand to.' His curiosity and natural aptitudes extended to spheres such as draughtsmanship and clay-modelling, fencing, and sport in general. Foreign languages presented little difficulty to him, particularly from a phonetic point of view, and his books, articles, letters and poetry are clear evidence of an outstanding literary ability.

Chaliapin was also very fortunate in his personal appearance, which was admirably suited to the theatre. His large, mobile face, free from any sharply distinctive features, was ideal for make-up, which lent conviction to his portrayals of diverse characters: kings or drunken peasants, noblemen or commoners. Tall, broad-shouldered, and of an athletic build, Chaliapin compared favourably with dancers in the flexibility and sculptural expressiveness of his body. 'Some of the movements of his Varlaam during the inn scene of Boris Godounov created a stronger impression of dance than certain entire ballets,' said the choreographer Mikhail Fokine.

Unable to rid himself of his fascination with the theatre, Chaliapin left home at the age of sixteen to join the chorus of a provincial operetta company. Years of agonised wandering through Russia stretched ahead, and he trudged from town to town, often going hungry, working as a porter, clerk or stevedore when necessary and agreeing to any conditions in order to obtain work in the theatre. At last he could bear it no longer and was on the point of committing suicide, from which he was fortunately saved by friends. Not long afterwards he met Professor Dmitry Usatov, his one and only singing teacher.

Usatov agreed to teach Chaliapin free of charge. He was a relentlessly exacting teacher who forced the young singer to perfect his vocal technique. But he taught more than the art of cantabile singing, directing particular attention to the dramatic interpretation of a vocal part, insisting on the necessity of blending the art of the singer with that of the actor.

Usatov made another significant contribution to the singer's artistic development: he introduced him to the music of Mussorgsky. Chaliapin's affinity for this composer's music, to which he felt 'something astonishingly akin and familiar', is well-known, and it would be no exaggeration to say that his art in later years persuaded both critics and public alike to acknowledge Mussorgsky's hitherto virtually unrecognised genius.

Needless to say, Chaliapin did not turn into a mature artist overnight. 'I was vaguely groping towards something new, but towards what precisely, I still did not know myself.' Like any young artist, he needed time to grasp basic artistic principles and methods of creating a character, but his genius helped to accelerate this process and the results of his perceptions were far more impressive. He had a clear understanding that vocal technique alone was not sufficient in itself to give birth to a persuasive stage character, with convincing thoughts and feelings expressed and revealed in every phrase. 'An unusual voice can make a star, but never an artist,' he said. Writing at the end of his life he claimed that 'in the colour of the word and phrase lies all the strength of singing.' He abandoned the old idea of opera as a concert in costume in favour of productions whose elements were integrated by a unifying concept of work. 'It is impossible' said the Wiener Zeitung (1927), 'to separate Chaliapin the singer from Chaliapin the actor. Each works for the other. Where the singer ends, the actor begins and vice-versa. They are both on stage at the same time.'

As he mastered the various ways of breathing life into an operatic role, he studied the art of living and thinking in character. The famous Chaliapin 'metamorphosis' was the result of a complex system of interaction between the singer and his rôle. His ability to personify theatrical characters and their complex mental states down to the smallest detail is what distinguishes true acting talent from mere craftsmanship. 'I once sang Marguerite in a festival performance in which he was singing,' recalls Lotte Lehmann. 'The impression he made was indescribable. After the scene where Mephistopheles challenges nature to help him in corrupting the innocent Marguerite, he stood like a tree, perfectly still against the background. He gave the impression of After a distinguished career in Russia with both the Imperial Opera (St. Petersburg) and the Bolshoy (Moscow) he made his international début at La Scala in 1901. He went on to establish his reputation at the Met. in New York, in Paris (with Dyagilev), and in London. He emigrated from the Soviet Union in 1921.

Reams have been written about Chaliapin's performances yet in this extensive literature there are few analyses of his vocal mastery. 'Last night...it really seemed as if we had heard no real singing since he left us in 1914,' commented Ernest Newman on Chaliapin's 1921 concert in London. 'His voice was beautiful in texture, perfectly produced, thrilling in range and power, his vocalism was an outstanding exhibition of breath control, tonal production and phrasing,' reflected Gigli following their joint appearance the same year in America. 'Then he began to sing,' recalled Arthur Rubinstein, 'with a voice of unique quality, powerful and caressing, soft as a baritone's and flexible as a tenor's it sounded as natural as a speaking voice.'

In the past half-century since Chaliapin's death, more than one generation has grown up to whom he is known only through records, photographs and published material. But Chaliapin's creative heritage has lost none of its enduring value. Now the words of Rakhmaninov, spoken on the day of Chaliapin's funeral in Paris on 18th April, 1938, seem particularly appropriate: 'For future generations, Chaliapin will become a legend.'

Afterword by Marfa Hudson Davies (née Chaliapin)

Often I am asked: "What was your father like?" It's a question I don't like to answer. How can a cluster of adjectives describe a fabulous creation? I know if he walked into a room all talk stopped - even if not everyone knew him. Often in Paris going for a walk with him people turned and stared after us. I did not like it. Born in poverty of a drunken father and a battered mother, the Gods were on his side. Though never educated as a child he was intensely observant and instinctively intelligent. In his twenties when his career took off and when the artistic elite befriended him his education was completed. It was the Renaissance of Russian art. My father was totally devoted to the theatre. Even as he was dying he said to my mother: "Masha why is it so dark in this theatre? Tell them to turn on the lights".


© 1991 Victor Borovsky

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