4. At Stanislavsky’s  Opera Studio .

 

 

 


  As with everything Konstantin Stanislavsky did, his operatic experiment had a great influence on Russian theater. It was an attempt to revise operatic traditions, although this attempt was not the first. Already by the beginning of the 20^th century a rift had begun to develop between the old operatic clichés still espoused by the Imperial Theatres and the Italian Companies, and the determined efforts of some artists to merge opera and dramatic theater in their performances. The most remarkable of these artists was Fyodor Chaliapin, who amazed audiences with  the most convincing performances, make-up and the most authentic costumes, all worthy of the greatest dramatic actors. 
Ivan Yershov created his own school of acting and was  called the “Chaliapin of tenors."

 Ivan Yershov as Grishka ("The Tale of Invisible City of Kitezh") and in Wagnerian roles. Painting by  A. Golovin.


 


 Leonid Sobinov changed the perception of the tenor roles in Eugene Onegin, La Traviata, Lohengrin, and Werther. His inspired and well thought out onstage behavior, along with his charm and striking handsomeness, had a huge emotional effect on the audience.
It would not be historically accurate to say that there were no good directors or opera  productions before Stanislavsky. Also, there were other singers who could act very well, but it was mainly Chaliapin, Yershov and Sobinov who had a systematic approach to their roles. They spent a lot of time in libraries, worked with costume designers and dreamed about creating an “ideal production,” every detail of which would have been on the same high level. Both Sobinov and Chaliapin discussed operatic problems with Stanislavsky. It is said that the idea of founding the Studio was born after a conversation with Sobinov. 

 Leonid Sobinov as Levko ("May Night"), Lensky and Lohengrin.









Stanislavsky himself was inspired very much by opera, particularly with Chaliapin’s talent. “The opera singer has to contend not with one, but with three arts at once," wrote Stanislavsky,  "vocal, musical and theatrical. In this reside both the difficulty and the advantage of his creative work. The problem lies in a varied process of mastering these three arts; although when this is done, the singer has a greater and more refined ability to effect the audience than we dramatic actors do. The singer must fuse these three arts into one, and direct them to a common purpose. To me, Chaliapin is an outstanding example of how these three forms of art can be fused. Synthesis has rarely been achieved by anyone in the art, particularly in the theater. Chaliapin is the only example I can think of. My system is taken straight from Chaliapin.” 

 Feodor Chaliapin  as Salieri, Boris Godunov and Don Basilio.








In 1918 Stanislavsky organized the Studio in the Bolshoi at the request of the theater’s Chief Manager Ye. K. Malinovskaya. His aim was to teach leading singers his system and to fight against operatic clichés . Among his students were such stars as Yelena Katulskaya, Sergei Migai, Valeria Barsova, and Yelena Stepanova. The Studio did not last long, however, because Stanislavsky’s methods were in contradiction with the Bolshoi’s  style and schedule. He realized the necessity of  founding his own company of young singers, conductors and assistant directors, who would adopt his system. So, the real birth of the Studio took place in 1922. Its first productions were Eugene Onegin, Boris Godunov, La Bohème and The Tsar’s Bride by Rimsky-Korsakov. Spared from clichés, they were fresh, wholesome and tremendously successful. Eugene Onegin received rave reviews from Chaliapin and Rachmaninov. All the productions were acclaimed as the beginning of the new era in operatic theater. 
The Studio’s stage was small. Actors were close to the audience, and this helped to create an atmosphere of  intimacy and truthfulness which excluded broad acting. As most of Stanislavsky’s  productions cannot be revived without him, one has to rely on the opinions of his contemporaries. Interesting evidence comes from three people: the ballet historian D. I. Leshkov, who saw Onegin and Tsar’s Bride in the 1920’s; Anatoly Orfenov – a prominent Soviet tenor; a star  of the Bolshoi, who worked in the Studio for 10 years, and Boris Khaikin – an outstanding conductor who also worked in the Studio from 1928 to 1934. 

Leshkov: “The only rest for the soul was Stanislavsky’s opera… I was astounded by the level of perspective painting: on the tiny stage of 45 square meters there was painted an entire Kremlin wall, with the Spasskaya tower, Bomely’s house and maid-servants’  house with a garden. Perhaps Stanislavsky could choose one young artist out of a thousand, because I had never seen such a cast in all my life. All the female singers were real beauties with wonderful, fresh and lush voices, while male singers all were future Chaliapins and Sobinovs… Also magnificent was the staging of Onegin. Both  Larin’s ball and the ball in St. Petersburg went beautifully on that small stage. Performances were precise and fine, both musically and vocally, and they would probably have delighted Tchaikovsky himself…” 

The production of "Eugene Onegin", the photo taken in 1926.








 



Orfenov: “In Boris Godunov, the introduction, the coronation, and the scene in Pimen’s cell went without dropping the curtain – a mere turn of a rotating stage instantly transported the audience from one place to another. As for the coronation scene, the set-designer S. I. Ivanov painted the interior of  the Moscow Assumption Cathedral, where all the Russian Tsars had been enthroned . People sang the Tsar's praises behind the scenes, and the crowd could be seen only through the cathedral doors…The director gave all his attention not to the decorative luxuriousness of the Tsar’s court, but to the inner psychological state of the characters, to mimics and to declamation of the text. The scene near the Intercession Cathedral didn’t end with the Simpleton’s crying. When the Simpleton accused Boris of murdering little Tsarevich Dimitry and sang, “I cannot pray for Tsar Herod – the Holy Virgin doesn’t permit” the lights slowly went down, on the fading note of a French horn.  The production was a tremendous success.” 

Boris Khaikin recalled the production of La Bohème: “An atmosphere of youthfulness reigned upon the stage… Very different, brightly portrayed characters, each in their own manner— Mimi, Rodolfo, Musetta, Schaunard, Colline, Benoît. How meticulously, how lovingly did Stanislavsky work  on each of these characters!  He strove to see that no word or sound was pronounced which was not in character, or which did not derive from the character's inner sense of self... Finally, Stanislavsky achieved striking contrasts between wild merriment—without which young people cannot live, despite all their hardships—and suddenly appearing tragic circumstances… Stanislavsky directed comical scenes to the limit. Real, sincere joy existed not only on the stage, but spread to the audience as well. When, after Musetta comes in, exclaiming  fearfully, “Here’s Mimi, here's Mimi!” – and  Mimi appears, short of breath and dying (Rodolfo carried her into the room), there is a contrast, an instantly frozen joy...an anxiety on everyone's face...a chill of death entering their little garret—all this made a stunning impression."

In 1924, when Lemeshev was hired, the Studio had already achieved classic status, and  the high level of its productions was not the only reason for it. Despite the Civil War, the number of companies and theatrical styles increased. It was a period of flowering of Russian theater. Some famous directors, especially Vsevolod Meyerhold, had gone so far with their experiments that Stanislavsky’s companies, which had been considered ‘experimental” several years prior, became nearly “conservative.” The studio’s methods of  creating productions, however, were considered original and innovative.  
First of all, the Studio's artists were Stanislavsky’s pupils, who had to  learn his “system” and carry out his directives. The Studio had neither chorus  nor dancers.  Every singer could perform a leading part one day, and sing in the chorus another. “Such a system was slightly imperfect, to judge from the quality of the sound. On the other hand, this method eliminated any disconnection from the show.” (B. Khaikin). 
Singers studied choreography, rhythmic, declamation, and sketch-acting three hours a day before rehearsals. With this training, they could perform any part and could also dance, when it was necessary. Stanislavsky demanded “natural movements,” dancing “like ordinary people do,” and he was satisfied with the level of their professionalism. 
He demanded from every singer that he or she learn every part  in the opera, with the aim of making artists understand the meaning of their role in the context of the whole production. This requirement could not be ignored because the Studio never had a prompter. Also, in order to create a natural appearance on stage, anything that might ruin the scenic impression was forbidden—such things as looking at the conductor or singing to the audience, not to mention encores. 
After each performance, Stanislavsky appointed a  rehearsal to refresh actors’ feelings.

The main specific of the Studio was Stanislavsky’s approach to music and directing. A great lover of Italian bel canto repertoire, he had  had a good singing voice (baritone) and  even wanted to launch a career as a professional singer before. His musical memory was excellent and served him very well in his 60’s. But his qualities and beliefs as a director  made him prefer those composers  who could create the most convincing characters and situations – Mussorgsky, Puccini, Tchaikovsky, or Rimsky-Korsakov. The most interesting comments on Stanislavsky’s approach to music were provided by Boris Khaikin: 

“ Stanislavsky would enthusiastically tell us about Italian opera, recall the names of its stars, remembering in the slightest detail their performances, and all the nuances and vocal methods typical of each of them… He quoted musical pieces (mostly operatic and vocal music) sang them and, what was especially precious, right then describe how he understood those musical images, and which of the composer’s ideas was especially valuable for him as a director. He knew and felt the psychology of musicians so well—all our weaknesses and penchants—that sometimes it was even a bit scary…

Stanislavsky  always tried to find out what the music meant. And sometimes it was very difficult to answer this seemingly simple question. In addition to the usual difficulty of precise definition of the musical idea,… not every objectively correct answer could satisfy Stanislavsky. It was necessary to guess the direction in which his imagination started  working… Worst of all, he reacted to the answers like this: “the musical idea expresses grief, sadness, joy, tragedy.” He would say, “What? Sadness, tragedy? No, that’s not for us, we can’t play that.” Which means that an artist shouldn’t play an emotional state— one of the main principles of his system. Stanislavsky often found such musical images as best gave the possibility for action. For example, it is impossible to forget the first measures of “The Golden Cockerel” (after the introduction), when Tsar Dodon's  motif appears in C Major.  And Stanislavsky would say, “Look how pompous he is! He just blew out his cheeks from pompousness!” Saying this, he sang the theme and gave it an intonation of absolute smugness. He repeated to the artist, who sang Tsar Dodon, “You’re not pompous enough! Follow the music!” –and it turned out wonderfully. How Stanislavsky was fascinated by the thunderstorms from Il Barbiere di Siviglia and Rigoletto! He would sing both scenes by heart and imagine the scenic realization of each musical line… He said that although a naturally occurring thunderstorm seems always the same, and works simply as a background  for the action in both operas, the colors used by the composers are very different. The thunderstorm in Il Barbiere occurs before the happy ending, while in Rigoletto it happens before the tragic ending. A real operatic composer must be a bit of a director. Stanislavsky considered Puccini the best “director” among composers, and forgave him a lot for that. Remembering the production of  La Bohéme  makes it clear what type of “direction’ in Puccini’s music Stanislavsky valued the most." 

All the processes in the Studio, from teaching to set design, were under Stanislavsky’s personal control. As he was not young, he needed assistance. His sister Zinaida Sokolova and his brother Vladimir Alexeyev had studied his “system” and became directors. Though they didn’t possess outstanding talents for directing, they were the most loyal and reliable people. This was very  important for Stanislavsky since he had a very complicated relationship with the co-founder of the Artistic theater, Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko. Stanislavsky, who was always wary of intrigues and control infringement, was only comfortable with Sokolova and Alekseyev as assistants, knowing that they would carry out his directives and teaching methods precisely.During the first weeks in the Studio, Lemeshev worked under their guidance while Stanislavsky was touring the USA.

 Stanislavsky, Zinaida Sokolova and Vladimir Alekseyev.













As Anatoly Orfenov wrote, not without humor, “Zinaida Sergeyevna Sokolova earnestly, conscientiously and , I would say, reverently took all her brother’s instructions – up to asking us in “Onegin” to point exactly with the right index finger during the line, “You’re a treacherous seducer!” 
A former actress, Sokolova  lectured on the “system” and analyzed librettos with the students. In her notebook on the students’ attendance, she wrote a short remark on Sergei: “Lemeshev often skips lessons; he listens very attentively, but never asks about anything and doesn’t answer questions.”  To judge from his book and other people’s remembrances, when asked a serious question or when he was nervous, Lemeshev always tried to find the best  possible answer, and the person who had asked him sometimes got tired of waiting. His biographers explained the skipped lessons by pointing out the fact that  he was still a Red Army soldier during the time  when his Studio lessons began to require more and more of him. 
Upon returning from the USA, Stanislavsky wanted to hear the new singers, and Lemeshev recalled that auditioning was almost as unnerving as examinations in the Conservatory. He sang Werther’s romance. Sokolova and Alexeyev  told Stanislavsky of their concerns about Sergei’s height (172cm), but Stanislavsky pointed out Lemeshev’s  proportional build. The problem of height never came up again. Stanislavsky wrote down in his notebook, “Lemeshev – a Conservatory student, lean, pale and hungry.” 
 
Sergei’s account of the first meeting with Stanislavsky reflected the atmosphere of the Studio and the emotional effect of Stanislavsky’s  personality: “The first conversation with the beginners took place; all the studio was present. Stanislavsky talked a lot  about scenic art, including opera. He suggested to us that the actor’s task is a hard one, and requires total devotion  to the profession; that an actor never gets tired and must always be collected and ready to work:

"For those who admire themselves, who think about becoming an actor without effort, there is no place in the Studio," said Konstantin Sergeyevich; " I’ll start to teach you only when I’m sure about your devotion to the art.”

We were a bit scared. As I remember, I thought “What would happen if Stanislavsky is not impressed with me? What if he decides that I want to become an actor without effort?  That would be shameful !” We all cast our eyes down, perhaps to show Konstantin Sergeyevich that it had never occurred to anyone to admire themselves. But at the same time everyone was full of proud joy; to us and no one else had Stanislavsky spoken these words! The mansion in Leont’yevsky lane became for us something like a “temple of art,” and just crossing its threshold awakened within us an exalted,  solemn feeling." 

 A rehearsal in Opera Studio. Z. Sokolova sits next to Stanislavsky.

The rehearsal room in Stanislavsky's mansion, called "Onegin hall".











Several months later it became clear that serving in the army impeded Sergei’s work in the Studio. Stanislavsky wrote a letter to Lemeshev’s commanders: 

“To Comrade G.A. Goltz.

  Staff Commander

  Convoy Guard Forces, USSR

", The Management of the Opera Studio named in honour of People’s Artist of the Republic K.S. Stanislavsky , requests that you transfer Convoy Regiment soldier Comrade S.Ya. Lemeshev to the staff work of which you are in charge. This transfer will make it possible for comrade Lemeshev, who possesses a good voice, to combine his army service with his work at the Studio. He will be able to continue to develop his considerable artistic abilities. Comrade Lemeshev is a valuable and useful worker for the Studio. 

Chief Manager and People’s Artist of the Republic K.S. Stanislavsky.” 

As Sergei later confessed , the document was one of the most precious items of his personal archive. “Of course, the letter worked, but the most important thing for me in the document was that Stanislavsky himself admitted my artistic abilities.” 

“Our meetings with Stanislavsky became systematical, almost daily. Konstantin Sergeyevich aspired to direct our attention to the need to develop imagination, scenic expressiveness and a sense of artistic truth. He never got tired of repeating that all this can be achieved by hard work, but the talent we must bring ourselves. He loved to tell us about great singers, especially about Patti, Tamagno and Chaliapin. He emphasized Chaliapin’s powers of observation and his ability to find material for his characters no matter where he was or whoever he met. "You must be a bit of a "thief,” Stanislavsky said, watching everyone with his attentive, all-observing eyes, "you must remember all the impressions you have received, and all the characterizations you have made of your friends, acquaintances or even passersby; you must memorize them, so you can recall them from your memory archive when it becomes necessary for your work. ... Of course, I can’t make Chaliapins of you, but you may become relatives of his." 

Willing to broaden our horizons, Konstantin Sergeyevich invited talented actors of the Artistic theater to the Studio… Such encounters became engraved on our memory for ever and were very helpful. 

Sketch lessons were regular. Stanislavsky would choose two students and send them to work on a small stage between the columns. He asked them to improvise on a given subject… One day a sketch lesson didn’t go well for some reason, and Stanislavsky said:

I don’t dare to state that my system and exercises are the only correct ones. Perhaps tomorrow some talented young man will come and achieve much better results, not knowing anything about my method. But that doesn’t mean that today we mustn’t work as I ask you to. 

He never demanded real tears, sobs or naturalistic emotions . He always emphasized the meaning of  the actor’s technique. I remember Stanislavsky once telling us a story about the scenic practice of  the famous tragedian Tommaso Salvini. In one scene… Salvini, reflecting the heat of passion of his character, would take a run and throw himself on the banisters of a staircase. The banisters were firmly fastened , so that the artist wouldn’t fall. Once, when the show began, stagehands realized that they had forgotten to fasten the banisters… The fiercer Salvini became , the more terrified they got—what would happen next? But when the artist came down, as it seemed, with all his weight upon the wretched banisters , it didn’t even tremble. Salvini's movements and technique were that calculated, and Stanislavski admired it! 

However, he was indifferent to the problems of vocal technique. And that seems all the more strange, because Konstantin Sergeyevich himself sang, and had even wanted to become a professional singer and as we know, he was very responsive to fine singing, to the physical beauty of a well-trained voice. While working with us on music—most often songs , he always drew our attention to the fact that in a short piece 2-3 minutes long, one must paint a vivid picture of  a human soul’s life; one must transmit the mood, which the composer expressed in sound. He demanded clear understanding of what we sang  and to whom we sang, reminding us, by the way, that if  words are inaudible, all the work would come to nothing. 

Konstantin Sergeyevich worked with me on romances by Tchaikovsky and Cui.


 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1rMJMHsQBM

Lemeshev sings Tchaikovsky's romance "Upon the yellow fields..." 1937. 


Our teacher  was especially critical  of tenors, stating that no matter which roles a tenor sings, they all seem like the same one. Because of that, he demanded the greatest possible diversity of intonations and ability to transmit the slightest nuances of the mood. Soon I started to work on Lensky. “Eugene Onegin” had already been performed with the piano… After Pechkovsky’s  departure  Sergei Smirnov sang Lensky; there wasn’t another performer for the part, so I was charged to work on it. I started reading Pushkin’s novel with Zinaida Sergeyevna Sokolova, though I had long ago learned by heart everything connected with Lensky. We worked without haste, supposing that I would be able to sing it on the stage no earlier than the following year. However, because of Smirnov’s illness, I had to take part in stage rehearsals after 5 or 6 lessons with the teacher.” 

Stanislavsky's mansion, where the Studio rehearsed . Leont'yevsky Lane, 6 in Moscow.

It must be said that the Studio was famous for holding the longest rehearsals. A young singer had to spend a year or two preparing the role accordingly to the “system.” The dramatic tenor Pechkovsky wrote in his memoirs that he had rehearsed “Werther” for two years. Every single scene or even a movement required hours or days of work. Finally, he began to wonder about the need to work for years on each part, and approached Stanislavsky with his doubts. He was told that the longest rehearsal period is necessary only for the first time, with an aim toward learning the “system." The next part would be much easier and quicker to prepare. “And so it was,” wrote Pechkovsky. Lemeshev’s work with Z. Sokolova was a part of the huge process of everyday preparation for stage rehearsals. 

“ It’s curious – as soon as I started to sing, my perception of the character abruptly changed. The music corrected me. In Pushkin’s novel the character is tinged with slight irony, as if the poet didn’t take Lensky absolutely seriously. Presumably, to some extent he parodied sentimental literature of the period. Tchaikovsky understood the character differently. With Lensky, as it was with Tatyana, he developed his own theme of devotion to overwhelming and tragic love. And yet I consider the work on Pushkin’s novel helpful, because I developed a better feeling for the words used in the music and my phrasing became more natural. Z.S. Sokolova worked with me on the technique of stage speech. At her lessons we learned to find the most important words and psychological accents.”
   

Stanislavsky worked on librettos too, and his method was quite original. As Boris Khaikin  recalled, “Instead of memorizing  the text, actors were asked to speak in their own words and in the first person about their aims and tasks; that is, “What  must you (the character) do in the scene? Why have you come on stage? What preceded your appearance; what will happen after your leave?” (All this was described in his theory). And after that, things began which were not described… Actors were asked to speak their text, as it had been learned  (still without singing), and to interact with each other, pronouncing the text. And then something terribly confusing   happened: they could neither declaim it expressively nor  read it by heart. It turned out that to remember the learned words it was necessary to sing the line and then to say them; to sing the next one and so on. The melody and the text were learned together and some subtle subconscious mechanisms refused to let them work separately. Stanislavsky sometimes made them play whole scenes without  music. … Only after that they began to sing. Moreover, when actors started singing, Stanislavsky told them to sit down and didn’t permit them either to move or to make gestures.” 

Lemeshev: “Stanislavsky became very inspired during rehearsals, when he tried to achieve definite action in every scene. He would insist and yell, but meeting us the next day, he sometimes said: "Everything is wrong, the scene won’t work like that, let’s do it in a different way."  He was never afraid to reject his own requirements, nor was he afraid to jeopardize his authority, unlike some other directors. The main thing for him always was  authenticity of  performer’s feelings. He always searched  for the stage presentation which would be the  most suitable for a certain artist, for their temperament and appearance. 

Konstantin Sergeyevich never offered  finished decisions, he didn’t insist on his mise-en-scènes. He searched for them by working together with the performers, involving them  deeply and imperceptibly in the creative process. I was so carried away by the work that the Conservatory almost drifted out of my mind. But sometime later I started  to notice, and finally became totally convinced, that I was again threatened by the break between artistic aspirations and vocal technique. I couldn’t express with my voice all the emotional richness and psychological subtlety of the character, which I felt and understood. Other performers were approximately in the same situation. We didn’t possess  the vocal skills necessary for the subtle and complex psychological nuances that Stanislavsky revealed for us in the music.   Konstantin Sergeyevich  worked hard  and at length on the expressiveness of some scene or even a single line, not noticing that we couldn’t carry out his requirements. We couldn’t combine our characters’ scenic emotions with the correct vocal production. We strained and forced the sound, and at the end of each rehearsal we faded out and went home with tired voices. 

It got even more difficult during performances , when nervousness made vocal problems worse. My rapid progression with Kardyan’s lessons, about which I had  already written, didn’t have any effect on my work at the Studio. I still got very tired in the duel scene, and my only thought was to hold on to the end of the aria. It didn’t  upset me, that I , Lensky, would be killed by Onegin. I only wanted that to happen as soon as possible.” 

In his "Biographical notes,” Lemeshev explained the vocal problems more straightforwardly. “We emphasized words very much; in some scenes we agitated ourselves, searching for inner feelings. Because of that we often had to sing with a forced sound; we got tired fast…we often simply started to wheeze, and vocally difficult pieces were already beyond our powers. Our supervisors didn’t take note of that though, and continued in the same manner. On the stage we performed very difficult tasks… But I think that by performing them, a young singer misses his chance to sing, for example,  Gryaznoy’s aria, which  is the most difficult technically. It contains a long cantilena that requires deep and even breath, and a correct arrangement of vocal powers. Otherwise the aria will not sound right. And, of course, it didn’t sound the way Rimsky-Korsakov probably wanted.” 
The tenor Anatoly Orfenov, who came to the studio three years later, in 1928, and worked there  until 1938, called those years the happiest period of his life. Besides, he happened upon a lucky year, when an idol of his—Leonid Sobinov— worked in the Studio as a consultant. In general, Orfenov disagreed with the opinion that the Studio had not permitted singers to develop their voices. Nevertheless, his personal experience sounds very much like Lemeshev’s:

“Inspired by the aim to act truthfully, I wanted to behave on the stage in such a way that people would believe me. I was in such stress, both internal and external, that the audience probably thought I was a good Lensky. However, in many places I just wheezed! In the first three performances I couldn’t sing the line “Zhelanny droog" at all…I couldn’t coordinate very abrupt movements of mine, always violating principals of breath. Finally, hoping to deal with my vocal troubles, in the third or fourth performance I decided not to act at all and to think only about expressive and correct singing of the part. The result was astonishing. After that I was awaiting “havoc” from the director, who was in charge of the performance. But she was delighted. How can it all be explained?  Only, I believe, by the fact that an artistic feeling was achieved during the year of rehearsals, so that without even thinking about the scenic tasks, I was in the character all the time.” 

Lemeshev came to a different conclusion, however, “It seems to me that the blame can be laid not only on our inexperience, but also on too much care about the expressiveness of words, which absorbed all the attention. It was forgotten that words would have seemed a hundred times more expressive if they were not independent from their incarnation in musical sound. Music became just a component of the action, but not its driving force. With that, the power  of singing itself, the beauty of sound and the human voice, (which contains the richest emotional expressiveness and the palette of colors that permits the transmission of feelings without using words); all that was ignored. 

 I remember Sergei Ivanovich Migai. He was one of the first of Stanislavsky’s pupils from the Bolshoi, but he came to the Studio when he was at the top of his vocal skills, when  his lyric baritone, of striking beauty, was in full bloom. I dare not judge how much more expressively he started to sing after Stanislavsky’s school – I hadn’t heard him before. But when I began to attend the Bolshoi in my Conservatory years, I was irresistibly impressed by his voice, just like everyone else in the audience. Migai enchanted everyone with the long, wave-like flow of his truly “velvety” voice. He could sing 10 or 12 measures on a single breath. Sometimes he made fermatas , which were inexcusable in terms of the dramatic logic of words and actions, such as this one in Gryaznoy’s final line: “Stradalitsa nevinnaya pro -------sti ( Innocent sufferer, fooooooooor--give me.” But many people were in tears, because the incomparable beauty of sound itself was impressive and took on special dramatic significance.

http://youtu.be/hJyxmi8yqMk
Sergei Migai as Boyar Gryaznoy and as Robert from Tchaikovsky's "Iolantha", recorded in the 1930's

 In Onegin’s line,”Ah, schast’ye bylo tak vozmozhno, tak blizko ("Ah, happiness was so possible, so close,”) where it is logical to emphasize the word “tak” ("so”) Migai often emphasized “schast’ye ( happiness”) and we were delighted by its beauty and at the same time imagined how great that happiness might have been! 

The final line of Onegin’s arioso, “…Mechtami, mechtami lyohkiye mechty” ( “… trade one passing dream for another”) Sergei Ivanovich sang on a single breath, spinning out the high F on a swelling crescendo, and after that, making the sound die away on the most tender pianissimo, enrapturing the audience. He could do everything he wanted with his voice, seemingly afloat in a broad, liquid plasticity of sound. Sometimes, the things he permitted himself to do were simply illiterate in dramatic sense, but not  many people noticed that… It’s interesting that logically, Segei Ivanovich analyzed the role absolutely correctly, but as soon as he went on stage , he fell under the influence of the music and the element of  vocal inspiration... While learning at the Studio to be attentive to the words and to the logic of the text, for which we sacrificed  expressiveness of sound, at the Bolshoi theater I nonetheless felt great excitement listening to its wonderful artists, who enchanted first of all by singing itself.

Much later I became totally convinced that images in opera are created by different factors than in dramatic theater; that correct psychological nuances and intonations had already been put into music. Singing must be musical; that is, it must follow the flow of the musical line and the laws of vocal expressiveness. These laws  sometimes seem to contradict logic (fermatas, portamentos, and swelling  crescendos, for example), but make their own specific forms of beauty… And so my days at the Studio progressed,  in doubts, hesitations (but also with enthusiasm) until an unpleasant incident occurred.

During one of the night rehearsals of the scene at Larin’s ball, Konstantin Sergeyevich persistently nagged  Pavel Mokeyev, our Onegin. We had been rehearsing the only quarrel scene in Onegin for three hours and couldn’t make any progress. Mokeyev burst into tears. While continuing to nag at him, Konstantin Sergeyevich looked at me all the time—such was his manner. That shattered my composure too. I felt that if I not leave at once, I would either weep too or flare up. With the words, “I can’t stand it any longer” I left. To leave Stanislavsky’s rehearsal purposely meant to leave for ever. I realized that when I rushed out onto the street, but my pride would not permit me to return. I sped home and looked automatically at the street clock, while I ran through the square near the Nikitskiye gates. The clock showed 2.30 am…

Less than two days elapsed before I bitterly regretted that I had not returned, and I grew depressed. Upon noticing my worries, Ivan Nikolayevich Sokolov, who worked at the Studio as a conductor, asked:  "What if I talk to Konstantin Sergeyevich and ask him to let you come and explain yourself?   I happily agreed and waited nervously, trying to guess what result Ivan Nikolayevich would come  from the Studio with. But it was two or three days before he managed to speak to Stanislavsky. Konstantin Sergeyevich  didn’t reply, as though he didn’t hear anything and it was two days later that he asked Sokolov:  "How is he there, still suffering?"

Ivan Nikolayevich was quick to confirm.

I was told to come to the Artistic theater at 9pm. The production “The Lower Depths” was on. Dead silence reigned backstage. [Note - Stanislavsky demanded that everyone maintain absolute silence backstage during performances, so as not to make even the sound of footsteps. This requirement was carried out especially meticulously when he himself performed.]  

 Stanislavsky's dressing room.

Stanislavsky as Satin. The 1910's.
























Guiding me to Stanislavsky’s dressing room, his secretary started to tiptoe, as did I, and tiptoeing, we sneaked along the corridor. If I were not terrified, I would have laughed out loud. Imagining now what we must have looked like, I can say for sure that it reminded me very much of the “leopard crawl” on the drill field of Cavalry school. The atmosphere overwhelmed me completely. The secretary knocked at the door; I heard Stanislavsky’s voice, “Come in,” and felt my feet almost give way under me.  But I gathered up all my courage and walked in…Stanislavsky, who didn’t take part in the act that was on, wore Satin’s costume: a vest, a grey shirt, narrow, shabby trousers and a bow-tie. He was resting on the couch.  Lying down, Stanislavski seemed to me even taller than he was . He pointed at the chair, but I didn’t sit down. Knowing the irreconcilable nature of Konstantin Sergeyevich in everything concerning art, I was prepared to listen to the most biting reproach. However, that didn’t happen. 

He was silent for a long time. I was silent too, not knowing what to say in my defense. A lengthy and heavy pause hung. Finally, Konstantin Sergeyevich  asked me, stretching words and making big pauses: So, do you repent of your deed?"  "I do repent, I do regret very much and I suffer," I confessed sincerely. Then he asked, "Do you really want to work in the Studio?  "I do, very much." I couldn’t add anything more, trying hard not to burst into tears. Stanislavsky, apparently, understood my condition, and let me go. He told me not to permit myself to do such things any more, and to come the following day to rehearsal. So, I was forgiven!” 

People who worked in the Studio recalled that it was perhaps the only time that Stanislavsky forgave such a “crime.” He could be very attentive and kind to his pupils, but he considered the director’s power and control the most important thing. As he stated, it was necessary for the theater. The general attitude and ‘ideology” of the Studio are perfectly expressed in a short speech which he gave in 1926 when the Studio received a new and larger building:  “Get organized, achieve the strictest discipline, sacrifice everything you can, guided by the single slogan, ” this is necessary for the project, which we are creating for the sake of art—art which will warm and feed us throughout our lives!”
 Criticizing mischievous students, he usually accused them of lack of professionalism, “admiring themselves” or even “betraying the art,” which was unbearable for people to hear who were “brought up" under Stanislavsky’s ideology. Besides, being an outstanding actor himself, he used his skills to mesmerize “rebels.”  Anatoly Orfenov was one of the most devoted workers , and Stanislavsky praised him, yet even he faced the master’s rage in 1938. It was shortly before Stanislavsky’s death; the Studio’s future seemed vague. 

Orfenov received an invitation from the Kirov theater in Leningrad, which promised him a bigger salary, and being a family man, he decided to go there to audition. He was accepted by the Kirov theater, but the things that happened next ruined his plans and showed perfectly the hypnotic influence of Stanislavsky.
In Orfenov's words,“As soon as they learned about that in Stanislavsky’s theater, the director Arthur Grigor’yevich Orlov hastily got me into his car and drove to the sanatorium, where Konstantin Sergeyevich  took medical treatment and rested. And there I was , sitting before Stanislavsky, not knowing what to say, like a rabbit before a snake. Konstantin Sergeyevich was severe. He said, “Do you want to perish? To become an ordinary operatic singer? To perish, like Pechkovsky and Jadan, who left my theater, did. ?” I was so afraid I didn't know what to do. What was the Kirov, after all? Fear of Stanislavsky, trepidation during rehearsals – all that had such a depressing effect on us, that it seemed impossible to disobey or not to fulfill his wishes. I was sitting in the “prisoner's dock”, neither dead nor alive, and babbled something about a mistake of mine; that I hadn't even thought about leaving, that I only wanted to try myself, to audition for some other theater, and so on. Of course, I didn't leave, and perhaps it was for the best.”

After Orfenov’s words, it is especially interesting that the “quiet and bashful” Sergei managed to confront Stanislavsky twice. Another incident had taken place before the mentioned conflict, and ended up peacefully.  Actress Olga Sobolevskaya related, in March 1925, how Lemeshev had come to Stanislavsky’s rehearsal one and a half hours late. During that hour and a half the director and the group of students sat and waited for him. Someone tried to suggest to Stanislavsky that he begin the rehearsal without Sergei, but he was adamant. The situation was all the more strange because Lemeshev never came late to  rehearsals and he knew very well about the director’s irreconcilable attitude toward undisciplined students. It turned out that Lemeshev  was caught in a heavy rain on his way to the Studio and had to choose whether to stay at some shop until the rain stopped, or to run to the Studio. He chose the former. Stanislavsky, still angry, asked him, why he didn’t take a cab. Lemeshev replied, that he had no money for such luxury; his shoes were almost falling apart, and he didn’t want to catch a cold. Stanislavsky willingly forgave him and the rehearsal went well.

 The photo signed, "S. Ya. Lemeshev, the artist of Stanislavsky's State Studio "

Orfenov’s story also reveals one of the main problems of the Studio: other theaters often lured Stanislavsky’s pupils. It  was not a very difficult thing to do, because salaries in the Studio were smaller than in provincial theaters. As a true perfectionist, Stanislavsky hired the best conductors and most famous singers to tutor his pupils; every artist was paid during months and years of rehearsals, but in such a situation salaries couldn’t be high. Some singers also got tired of endless rehearsals and were very eager to work on stage.  As for Lemeshev, he made his debut  in “Eugene Onegin” two weeks after he had been taken back. In January of 1926 a courier brought him a note – Sergei had been asked to replace Sergei Smirnov, who was ill.

“I rushed to the Studio at once. The first person I met was  Z. S. Sokolova. Smiling somewhat ironically, she said, “There you are, your dream comes true earlier, than you thought. Let’s remember everything we did.” And we opened…Pushkin’s novel and started to read. Konstantin Sergeyevich came, asked me how I was. I hurried to reply, that I was fine. Stanislavsky stopped the reading and we  began to remember mise-en-scenes and to trace the development of the action. It was already 2pm…Konstantin  Srgeyevich asked me sympathetically, “Did you have a proper meal for lunch? Could you stay with us for lunch and after that to rest?” I was embarrassed and even perplexed. I thanked him and said, that I had everything… Then he let me go and told me to have a good rest and to come back early in the evening…I came to the Studio two hours before the performance. A make-up artist had been already waiting for me. He studied me for a long time, fitted the wig and studied again. Despite my almost full 23 years, I looked like a 19-year-old. He had just started to work on my face when Konstantin Sergeyevich came in, sat beside the mirror and said, “Don’t put too much make-up on. He’ll pass for Lensky even without any make-up at all.”…The small hall of the Studio kept an actor close to the audience— heavy make-up would have been gross. Then Konstantin Sergeyevich began to brief me– he talked about the friendship of Lensky and Onegin, about the Larin’s home, about their attitude towards Lensky, who was considered Olga’s groom, and so on. Approximately half an hour before the performance Konstantin Sergeyevich said, “You know, most likely you‘re already going to the Larins’ with Onegin. You are happy and proud and at the same time a bit scared, as usually happens, before some important event.”

I felt slightly awkward: it seemed to me that I was beginning to inhabit the character in a way that was somehow wrong. Because of that I couldn’t remember of take full advantage of that unique, minute-by-minute hour and a half which Konstantin Sergeyevich spent with me, helping me to be prepare for the first performance. And yet something happened to me during that hour- I came on the stage with Lensky’s excitement, with his trepidation and child-like solemnity. In a word, some store of the character’s feelings was within me. Stanislavsky gave me that.

The entrance itself was successful, but three steps before Larina I slipped and nearly fell over. But even that accident didn’t knock me out of the mood which I had brought with me onto the stage. Apparently, I was “charged up” well enough by the conversation with Konstantin Sergeyevich. During the first act and Larin’s ball everything was more or less all right. A little embarrassment occurred before the arioso “V vashem dome,” though. I got so much into the character , I was angry and I suffered; and then I made a very natural pause and proceeded to forget what key we were in! For some time I tried to find the D with which to begin the arioso. Finally a pianist played it for me, and I started to sing correctly, on pitch. I can say in my defense that later I became convinced that that moment was one of the most treacherous spots in my repertoire. It often happens  that a prompter has to give the note by a tuning-fork even to experienced singers.

Before each entrance Konstantin Sergeyevich came to my dressing room. I wasn’t ready enough, and he wanted to help me keep on the right path. Was it achieved? I don’t know, but I had success, and for some time was very glad, especially when I went on the stage to take bows. After the duel scene, agitated and at the same time confused with my own inexperience, I ran to my dressing room and stopped still, upon seeing Konstantin Sergeyevich. I was surprised when  he looked at me with a kind smile, congratulated me for my first success and added that if I worked a lot, in the future I would achieve something. That was typical of him. Of course, he wanted to cheer me up and to inspire me on to further work, but I came to the sad conclusion that I didn’t do well. And yet his words could not suppress my excitement  that night— I continued to live with the enthusiasm which I had experienced on stage. Konstantin Sergeyevich asked me another question: did my shoes fit? (Of course, he noticed that I had nearly fallen over). The shoes really were too big; it was uncomfortable to walk. Konstantin Sergeyevich immediately ordered a new costume and shoes especially for me, and  the next show I performed in my new outfit.

  
Meanwhile, the Studio’s life went its own way. A rehearsal was scheduled before each performance . We started to prepare “Tsar’s Bride.”  Konstantin Sergeyevich directed, Vyacheslav Ivanovich Sook conducted… [Note -  An outstanding  conductor and a friend of Stanislavsky’s, Sook, (1861—1933) was born in Kladno, now the Czech republic; he worked in Russia beginning in 1880; from 1906 on he was a principle conductor of the Bolshoi theater. ]

 Vyacheslav Sook

I met him while working on the role of Lykov. My first acquaintance with a great conductor increased my respect for this profession. Experienced singers always talked about conductors with awe; they said that a conductor was the main teacher and a tutor for singers; one who noticed all mistakes and imperfections and corrected them skillfully. Though in the future I often came across mere "wand-wavers," as bad conductors are deservedly called, I still think that I was lucky with musical supervisors, and I am very much obliged to them…

Sook was an awesome musician. But he was strict, and we were slightly afraid of him, especially because of the biting jokes in which he usually wrapped his critical remarks during rehearsals. He understood the vocal problems that I experienced, and constantly tried to draw my attention to smooth vocal production, working always toward a free-flowing and melodic line, and to developing a noble sound within the voice. But he made his remarks in such a way that  they would not be heard by Stanislavsky. Sometimes, walking by and meeting me in the corridor, Vyacheslav Ivanovich said,  “You phrase too much. Sing more, sing.” While putting on his coat in the cloakroom he often said to those who came to see him to the door… (he was Czech and spoke with an accent),” Of course, it’s good to hear expressive words, but in opera they must be sung...”  Meanwhile, Konstantin Sergeyevich, searching for the most important line, even changed the prescribed tempi. He always reminded us to “Give me words, don’t delay, sing faster, with more agitation,”  and that didn’t allow a performer to sing a scene with proper breath support … With his authority and assuredness, Stanislavsky was persuasive to such a degree that no one objected, not even Sook.  

During rehearsals, Stanislavsky many times appealed to conductors, asking them if his requirements contradicted or impeded the music. Carried away by his temperament, his aspiration to create life-like authenticity, and his ability to reveal the new psychological sides of the character, conductors almost always agreed with him. But in Stanislavsky’s absence they often changed their minds, saying “Let’s come closer to the composer...”  Since we couldn’t combine both Stanislavsky's and Sook’s  requirements in our performances we wandered back and forth between the two giants. The solution lay in merging the two sources—words and music—but this was a synthesis we had not yet been able to find.

Understanding the difference between their approaches, in my mind I drew ever closer to Sook. But during rehearsals I couldn’t help giving into the colossal creative energy  and enthusiasm of the great director.  Besides, if I declaimed interestingly, and controlled my diction, I knew that I would be praised by Stanislavsky himself (who among us would not have wanted that!) If I held a well-produced note a bit, or sang a line more melodically, I would hear an ironic "It's not your Bolshoi theater here!"

 Where was the truth? I can honestly say that we didn’t know at that time! And with the same frankness I confess that I could only formulate these thoughts much later, as a result of personal experience, observations and reflections.”

Stanislavsky’s relationship with the Bolshoi theater and its style was contradictory. He admired the greatest singers and musicians, yet at the same time he considered average operatic singing meaningless, just a display of vocal range and technical skills. As Boris Khaikin explained this paradox, “I don’t want to say that Stanislavsky didn’t like “music for music’s sake.” He simply stated that there was no place for it in musical theater…. A well-learned part, sung precisely, was absolutely not enough for him. It even upset him if he found out that singers had already learned everything, but without having bothered to find the correct emotional state.”  

During rehearsals Stanislavsky  directed all his energy against meaningless vocalization and clichés, and thought perhaps that singers would cope with their vocal problems on their own, or with the help of their vocal coach. The words "to sing the line” meant to sing for the beauty of the sound itself – the thing against which Stanislavsky  fought. His pupils sang, of course, and many of them had very good voices and were outstanding artists; audiences admitted that the musical  level of the productions was high. However, this was achieved in spite of the methods that were used during rehearsals. In general, many people, including Anatoly Orfenov, admitted that vocally the Studio couldn’t compete with the Bolshoi, which is where the best singers in the country, some of whom were good actors, were working. The more interesting thing is that Stanislavsky admitted the Bolshoi’s musical superiority too, and wrote in his notebook, “The greatest musical culture is there, in the Bolshoi.”

In “Biographical Notes, Sergei described the moment when he decided to leave the Studio:

“The next day there was  “Tsar’s Bride” at the Bolshoi also, and I went to hear it. Of course, I had heard this opera before, but I listened to it just like everyone else did. This time I felt that I could understand much more… It has to be said that the Bolshoi was not recognized in our Studio, though not openly, on the quiet …And so I found myself in the Bolshoi, comparing its production with ours, which was almost ready. I understood that dramatically we were more convincing. Our mise-en-scenes were well thought out, and developed in a more subtle way. They made a better impression by their logic and authenticity . Especially impressive were  our mass scenes. Chorus singers of the Studio were not just a crowd, but real people. Everyone had their task and a character, and acted accordingly. 

 But to return  to the Bolshoi’s performance:  Nikolai Semyonovich Golovanov, a magnificent master—deservedly considered the best interpreter of Russian classical music—conducted the wonderful overture. The curtain rose, and I saw the Boyar Gryaznoy – it was Leonid Filippovich Savransky. He sat exactly like they did in our production, gazing on one spot; his look and his figure expressed grief and a great inner strength. And when he sang the first line, “S uma ney’dyot krasavitsa,  I rad by zabyt eye’yo – zabyt-to sily net” ("I cannot get her beauty out of my mind! I would be glad to forget about her, but have no strength to do it!”) I thought, astounded, “How could he sing it so thrillingly, powerfully and convincingly, when he didn’t study in our Studio? And the sound of his singing! We didn’t even dream about something like this!"

Then Lyubasha , played by Nadezhda Andreyevna  Obukhova, came on stage. So awesome was her timbre, her phrasing, the meaning of her on-stage behavior, her expressiveness and the sincerity of her sufferings, that it not easy to describe… 

http://youtu.be/Ydd80rcvILE 

Nadezhda Obukhova as Polina in "The Queen of Spades", the 1930's

.Antonina Vasil’yevna Nezhdanova sang Marfa. Nezhdanova possessed a voice of stunning beauty; she had perfect technique and an extraordinarily cordial and warm sound… and I realized that in opera one must sing first of all.”

http://youtu.be/VooGSlXIxjg


Antonina Nezhdanova sings Elsa's Song to the Breezes (Lohengrin), 1910.

“…More and more clearly I came to understand that only by practicing in larger, professional size halls could I bring my voice up to an appropriate level.”He continued in his memoirs, “I firmly decided  to leave the Studio and to try my luck at an audition for the Bolshoi theater. I sang Rodolfo’s aria. They said, “Thank you” and  asked me to come two or three days later to learn the results. But suddenly everything took a different turn. As soon as I came home, I was called by the well-known bass Vasily Nikitich Lubentsov, who told me that the Chief Manager of the Sverdlovsk Opera theater,  Boris Samoilovich Arkanov, had been at the Bolshoi audition and wanted to hear me once more. They came to my home, where I sang Gerald’s aria and Werther’s romance for them. Arkanov immediately offered me a  contract for one year at the Sverdlovsk, doing leading tenor parts for a salary of 200 rubles per month. He added, “You will probably be accepted by the Bolshoi, but I wouldn’t advise you to go there. At first they will keep you on small parts, while with us you’ll sing the repertoire of a leading tenor.” Arkanov must have had second sight. After signing the contract with him I didn’t even go to learn the results of the audition at the Bolshoi, but two days later they called me from the office and said that I had been accepted by the company. After my question, “in what parts?” there was a pause, and then a reply: "At first, in the small ones, of course: Gaston in “La Traviata”, Borsa in “Rigoletto.” Then I said, not without pride: ''I’m going to Sverdlovsk, and there in “Rigoletto”  I’ll sing the Duke instead of Borsa. I’ll be back to your theater five years later or so, when I gain some experience and repertoire.”

[To leap forward just a bit,  I must say that exactly five years later I entered the Bolshoi Theater, already with the repertoire of a leading tenor, heaving sung nearly 20 roles. Replying to them as I did, I relied not only on my luck; I set a goal and achieved it.]

Upon signing the Sverdlovsk contract, I started thinking about ways to leave the Studio without having a conversation with Stanislavsky.  I felt that I was right, although I couldn’t imagine how to explain all that to Konstantin Sergeyevich.  I was quite certain that this time he would not forgive another “betrayal” by me. I lost heart and limited myself to informing only the Studio’s manager F. D. Ostrogradsky about my leaving, and asked him pass it to Konstantin Sergeyevich.  Stanislavsky’s reply was: "Tell that brat never to show up in the Studio or even to walk on our sidewalk again.”

 And so, I was forever separated from any creative contact with the great master. Later, when I sang at the Bolshoi, there were many reasons to meet him. But I avoided those opportunities— I would never have been able to bring myself to tell him that I was happy with my life; my respect for Stanislavsky was too deep. But I didn’t want to lie either.

Now, looking back, I have no regrets about my decision. Quite to the contrary, I’m glad that my intuition lead me down the professional path.  And I was not, incidentally, the only one who did it. Some time earlier, the Studio had been abandoned by one of its brightest representatives— Nikolai Konstantinivich Pechkovsky, the possessor of an outstanding dramatic tenor voice and a huge fan of Stanislavsky’s… Upon entering the Kirov theater  (formerly the Mariinsky) he was given appropriate  repertoire and absolutely conquered the Leningrad audience from the first season. His Werther, Gherman, Lensky, José and later Otello made an indelible impression… The determination to  upgrade their vocal skills also lead to the Bolshoi some other singers:   A. Alekseyev, V. Prokoshev, and A. Orfenov.”

Stanislavsky’s faithful followers were proud of their ability to work not for money alone, and of course they would often say that the main reason people fled the Studio was financial. To a certain extent, that is true.  Stanislavsky did not permit people to combine work at the Studio with part time jobs in other theaters. Singers could earn additional money only during summer vacations, so Lemeshev demonstrated his determination to work “for art’s sake” and spent a year and a half at the Studio (from January 1925 to June 1926) , though he desperately needed money. During the last 6 months he had an opportunity to sing Lensky on stage nine or ten times; all the rest was rehearsals. Really active work started for him during the next season in Sverdlovsk.

 One of the main reasons for his leaving was in fact Stanislavsky’s overwhelming personality. Many years later, retelling the story of his début in “Eugen Onegin” to the director G. Ansimov, Lemeshev admitted that he had felt “small and pathetic" during that hour and a half he would spend with Stanlslavsky, even though the master was kind to him. However, Lemeshev soon disobeyed Stanislavsky’s order  to stay away from the Studio. Three years later, during the short break between engagements, Sergei  came to hear “ Tsar’s Bride,” and described it as “one of the best operatic performances staged by Stanislavsky." Rehearsals for the production of the “Tsar’s Bride” in which he had taken part before his leave were,  as he recalled, “of great interest”. Then he commented, "Here I may be accused of contradicting myself. But what can I do , when the contradiction  is rooted in life. And it was only natural that Stanislavsky, rightfully fighting against clichés, wanted to focus on the central theme and upon psychology, all implemented through the precision and logic of stage actions and images. I think, however, that his reform was not suited to beginners, who didn’t control their apparatus, but rather to real masters of vocal production. Returning to the past, it’s hard for me to imagine how my artistic destiny would have turned out if I had not meet Stanislavsky. In the Studio I learned what stage culture was, and what comprised an actor's professionalism. I learned to recognize the difference between stage routine and clichés, on  one hand, and truly creative work on the other; I developed a taste for words and proper declamation. Many things that  I had felt and sometimes comprehended intuitively—almost unconsciously—were revealed to me as laws of the realistic nature of the performer’s art…”
In the 1930’s, now a star of the Bolshoi, Lemeshev frequently attended Stanislavsky’s theater, and, as Anatoly Orfenov recalled, “…we were always nervous knowing that Lemeshev was in the audience.” Years later, in the 1960’s, Sergei even had to defend Stanislavsky’s system, which  in his opinion had been corrupted by modern directors.

Bibliography:

S. Lemeshev “Put k iskusstvu” 1968

E. Grosheva “S. Ya . Lemeshev” 1987.

V. Vasil’yev. “S. Lemeshev. Vospominan’ya, fotografyi< dokumenty.” 1999.

B. Khaikin "Besedy o dirijerskom remesle" 1984

A. Orfenov "Zapisky russkogo tenora" 2004

Copyright © 2012 by Natalia A. Bukanova.  No part of this blog may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the author.

3. The Conservatory  

The commanders of the Cavalry School agreed to assign Sergei to study in Moscow after  a request for the transfer was received from the Tver  Music school. The request is an interesting document, which was published in Ye. Grosheva's 1987 compilation of articles on Lemeshev: 

"To The Military Commissar of The Tver Cavalry School 

The Provincial Department of Arts brings to your attention the fact that the cadet in the group you are in charge of, comrade Sergei Lemeshev, studying at  the 1^st State Music School, is gifted with a fine (tenor) voice and with musicality. He is a decidedly valuable asset, and for that reason the Department of Arts asks you to render assistance to him; that is, to give him an opportunity to develop his natural gift so that he may, in the future,  pursue a career both on the concert stage and in opera.  

 K. Pavlov, Head of the Department of Arts 

V. Sokolova Head of the Musical Section of the Department.” 

( The original document is kept in the Central Archives of the Soviet Army.)  

In July of 1921 Lemeshev arrived in Moscow, and from the train station he went directly to the Conservatory. Its office was crowded with young people. “In my opinion, there were too many of them. I was staggered to learn that more than 500 people had applied for the 25 vacancies listed by the vocal faculty. The competition would take place a month later! I nearly became completely discouraged, but some apparently experienced comrade advised me to try my luck at the Philharmonic society, just in case ... . So I applied there too.” 

 Moscow Conservatory in the 1920's.

Upon leaving the Cavalry School, Lemeshev lost his army salary—50 rubles per month (which he most likely had been sending to his family) and also lost his lodging place and his meals. He had to live somewhere for a whole month before the examinations, and so he went back to Tver. Whether or not he had told his mother about his determination to enter the Conservatory is unknown. It is obvious, though, that his plans for becoming a singer had distressed his family, and for some reason he didn’t return to Knyazevo, where he could have spent that month more comfortably. The living conditions in Tver  were miserable: “Someone let me stay in the corner of the food shop, near the hairdresser’s, where I was pestered by rats. Before going to sleep I would accumulate an arsenal of stones and chopped firewood. As soon as the rats started their revelry, I would throw a stone or a piece of firewood at them and could then rest for half an hour.”

It was at about this time that he got his first job on the stage of a professional theater. K. Pavlov, head of the Department of Arts, advised  N. Mosolov, director of the Tver Dramatic Theater, to hire Lemeshev as an extra. The theater was rehearsing a popular play, “The great Communard,” for the next season. “Another extra and I played guards, who transported the main hero to the courtroom and stood at the door until the end of the trial ... . Mosolov and everyone else in the theater treated me very well, and I tried very hard to do my best at that very simple job.

Nevertheless, my first theatrical experience ended tragicomically ... . I had been transporting the Communard to the court for five days already and apparently felt as though I was a real expert at it. I grew careless! On the last day I got carried away by the conversation I had become involved in before going on stage; I shook out the last tobacco from my pocket, rolled up a cigarette and lit up (I did not know then that smoking was dangerous for singers; I quit it as soon as I entered the Conservatory.) At that moment I was called on stage. Perplexed, I held the cigarette in my hand and went on, not noticing that smoke was coming out of my sleeve. But the director did notice and yelled: 'Sentry, drop the cigarette!'  I became rooted to the spot and didn’t react to his order. He yelled the same order once more – I didn't move. Then, being beside himself with anger, the director bellowed: 'Out of the theater, you, rascal!' Only then was I able to move and I rushed headlong from the stage. I quickly changed my clothes and ran to my shop…there was no going back now. However, I did not have to grieve for too long ... .  I went to the Department of Arts  again, and they found me another job. This time I was appointed a “Traveling Instructor For Places of  Entertainment.”  The prospect of not only getting rations, but also of watching shows, films and concerts—for free—opened up for me. I used those opportunities very meticulously, and limited my new position to doing only those things. Who could I instruct, really, when I didn't know anything myself?!” 

 During the period of Military Communism, the job meant that Lemeshev had the right to check and verify that shows, concerts and films were ideologically appropriate, and to instruct theater managers and directors in case of oversights or mistakes. But, to judge by the preceding  excerpt, theaters had few if any problems with an instructor like Sergei. 

The same comrade Pavlov introduced him to the local conductor, K. Vlasov, and Sergei sang exercises and prepared the Prince’s Cavatina  from Dargomyzhsky's The Mermaid, under Vlasov’s direction. 

In September, Lemeshev went back to Moscow. He was immediately accepted by the Philharmonic society, but was still eager to try himself at the Conservatory examinations. Though he was very happy to have this opportunity, it is evident from the biographical article published in 1946 that he had been nervous about possible failure. He consulted his teachers at the music school, and they assured him that he was ready for the exams. Though the Soviets promised education for everyone, some groups had advantages. Preferential access to higher education was given to Red Army soldiers, children of factory workers, and the poorest peasants. Lemeshev fell within this general category, and his teachers were quite certain that he would be accepted.  However, too many people of the same social background had applied to the Conservatory. Before the competition, as he wrote in one of his articles, he had become so nervous, that he “couldn’t stop trembling.” 

“I looked at the examiners," he wrote, "and circles floated before my eyes. At the big table, covered with the green cloth, sat M.N. Ippolitov-Ivanov, A.N. Labinsky, V.A. Zarudnaya, M.A. Deysha-Sionitskaya, N.Z. Salina, and L.Yu. Zvyagina. Many of these  glorified masters of the Russian operatic stage had been known to me from the Kvashnins’ stories and photos, and I had become accustomed to thinking about them with awe. But to sing before them! To invigorate myself, I decided to strike an “independent” posture: I planted my weight on one foot and placed another one forward, as a real artist would. But the leg that was placed forward trembled from fear and the “independent” posture  didn’t  turn out well.” 

In addition to that, Sergei looked younger than his 19 years, which made some examiners suspicious. “Raisky scrutinized me from head to foot and asked mistrustfully, 'How old are you, strictly speaking?' I tried to figure out what to do:  should I  tell the truth, or add a couple of years?  Which would be better? As I didn’t have time to think it out properly, I told the truth. After several arpeggios and scales, I started to sing the Prince’s Cavatina ... . Upon getting to the line 'Proshli bezvozvratno dni yunosti svetloi  ('The days of my radiant youth have passed irretrievably'), I didn’t take the high B natural. Raisky stopped the pianist and asked: 'Have you sung the wrong note accidentally, or learned it like that'? I didn’t reply. He offered me the opportunity to sing it again. I sang. 'Learned like that,' said Raisky, and after a small pause asked me to sing it once more. That time I decided to take a random note—would it be the right one? Missed again. They told me, 'That’s enough.' 'Failed,' I thought. I was too ashamed to look at the examiners, but one of them, an elderly lady (it was L. Yu. Zvyagina, as I later learned) took me by the hand as I walked dejectedly past the table and whispered, 'Don’t be upset, you did very well!'  I didn’t believe, however, that in the Conservatory they would speak up and say 'that’s enough' when they meant 'very well done' and I plodded toward the door. 

   

That same day Nikander Khanayev took the examination. The results were published three days later. I remember it clearly, as though it were now. When I came to the board where the lists were posted, I was afraid to look at them!  I was almost certain that my name was not only absent, but obviously couldn’t be there – after all,  I didn’t sing the B natural!  So I stood before the board, not looking at it. Finally, I plucked up my courage and looked; I saw “Khanayev” and a bit lower down I caught a glimpse of something familiar. I examined it; it was my last name. I read out the letters—yes, mine; I read it by syllables—yes, mine again. Strange. At that moment  Professor Raisky passed by, a tall, stout man with well-groomed beard and laughing  eyes. He recognized me, approached  me and said loudly, for the whole lobby to hear, 'Well then, you were nervous, but we’ve accepted you! Whose class  do you wish to attend?'  His cheerfulness won me over immediately, and I replied shyly: 'Yours, but it seemed to me there were no vacancies  in your class.'  'It’s all right; for you one can be found.' He walked away and left me alone with my happiness .' 

 Nazary Raisky.

It became clear with the first lesson that some students had heard Sergei’s performance during the competition, and that his voice had made a good impression. In general, he was well received in the class, though Professor Raisky didn’t let him become too proud of himself. “Nazary Grigor’yevich [Raisky] asked me to sing the Prince’s Cavatina and immediately pointed out some mistakes in vocal production. He called my performance “amateurish.” It turned out that I breathed improperly and forgot about breath support, along with other necessary things. From all that, I understood only one thing: to sing like I had done before was no good. So, the first lesson brought me bitter disappointment. I had thought that to study singing was easy and pleasant, but it turned out to be so complicated—almost impossible to master. At least that is what I thought, having been swamped by the erudition of my Professor, who had forgotten for a moment that I was just a peasant, not knowing much about breath support, the diaphragm  or vocal production. I didn’t want to give in, though. Besides, my other musical subjects— piano, solfège, and music history—were not difficult for me. 

Someone wrote that when I entered the Conservatory, I could sing only by ear. That’s wrong. At the Kvashnins’ I learned to read sheet music and could easily play my vocal line on the piano. I studied  under Professor Chesnokov [note: Pavel Chesnokov was an outstanding choirmaster and a composer of religious music] and Alexander Alexandrov, who later founded the famous Red Army Chorus.  Alexandrov taught harmony and passed me in his subject without exams, knowing my hardworking attitude during the lessons. I also took the general subjects required for those who did not have a complete college education. 

Times were difficult. The Civil war was still going on, but at the Conservatory there were many young peasants and factory workers who not only studied for free, but also received a scholarship. From the first day we were given wheat flour instead of bread. Three times a day I mixed batter and baking soda and made pancakes on the kerosene stove at the communal kitchen, much to the admiration of my neighbors, four middle-aged women (all teachers at the conservatory) who had taught me that simple recipe. 

Those flat-cakes, lightly coated with sunflower oil, were for a long time my only dish for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The military overcoat, which I had from the Cavalry School, was my only overcoat. Nevertheless, despite all the difficulties, I was in good spirits, enthusiastic and healthy.” 

Wheat flour was a luxury in comparison to bread, made mostly of chaff, which people in the cities got as the major part of their rations during the Civil War. The communal apartment which Sergei mentioned had been a part of the Conservatory campus.  In those years the Conservatory had serious problems with heating during the winter. It was so cold in the classrooms that teachers, who in addition to rations received firewood or coal, invited their students home. Many students  worked or served in the Red Army, trying to improve their situation. At some point, Lemeshev came to feel that flat-cakes three times a day were not enough, and he had to join the army again. He was assigned to the convoy guard. It is not known exactly when he was assigned to the guard or what his duties were, but judging from his workaholic attitude during his lessons, he seems not to have had very demanding tasks as a soldier. 

“I considered singing to be the most important profession... I didn’t walk but ran to the Conservatory and simply pitied those who could not sing ... . But for a long time, almost two years, the most important thing in my life—singing—was also a stumbling block.  It was my greatest difficulty;  I simply couldn’t understand how to sing properly! Either I would miss the breath and strain the throat muscles, or my tongue would get in the way, and the more I thought about it, the more difficult it was to deal with. It seemed to me that no sooner did I find something than it turned out to be wrong again.

In those days, voice students used to gather in empty classrooms and demonstrate their achievements to each other and share their 'artistic' experience. I have to admit that at those competitions I looked rather dull, although I didn’t miss an opportunity to sing something: either the Prince’s Cavatina or Nadir’s Romance. In so doing, I tried as hard as I could to forget everything I was taught in class, and tried to remember how I had sung before…During those ‘exchanges' everyone would give advice on technique and criticize the students of other professors while praising their own teachers, trotting out the names of all their pupils who had gone on to become famous singers  - so, it’s easy to imagine what a mess all that created in my poor mind, which had already been assailed by doubts! It was no accident that in voice classes students often ran from one professor to another.

I didn’t understand my teacher, nor could I learn from practice his method of vocal production.  Meanwhile, Nazary Grigor’yevich Raisky [note: 1876-1956 .Studied at the Warsaw Conservatory in G. Nuvelli’s class], was a highly educated musician and an excellent singer. In his prime he performed lyric-dramatic parts with Zimin’s company. I heard him in chamber concerts. Nazary Grigor’yevich loved to sing Bach arias, accompanied by organ, in the Conservatory's Great Hall. He was a fine interpreter of songs by Metner, Taneyev, Rachmaninov, Schuman , Wolf.  Although he did not have a particularly beautiful vocal timbre, he was  nevertheless famous for his great artistic culture, a profound sense of style, and excellent phrasing in any language. ( He sang all the pieces in their original language.) A friend of Taneyev’s, Raisky had a reputation as a great expert in vocal literature and he also had an uncommon ability to choose interesting but not overly performed repertoire for his students. Eventually, it had an effect on me too. By watching Raisky teaching other students, and by listening to his remarks on phrasing and declamation, or to his explanations of the meaning of one or another piece,  my musicianship began to improve.  Without realizing it, I accumulated knowledge and began to acquire a sense of taste. I suddenly grew from being a 'second-rate' student to a 'vocalist with  perspective.' 

During my first year of education I sang mainly exercises and vocalizes. Only at the end of that year did Raisky give me a song  by Rimsky-Korsakov, 'O yesli b ty mogla' ('If you just could') and Bayan’s Song from Ruslan and Lyudmila. For my end-of-year examination I sang Rymsky-Korsakov’s song 'Gornimi tikho letela dusha nebesami' ('The soul flew quietly through the heavenly heights') and Tamino’s aria (from The Magic Flute). I also sang Tamino's aria for my second year entrance exam. During my second year I sang both of Rimsky-Korsakov’s songs for the student concert held in the Conservatory's Small Hall. It was my first success in Moscow. I was well received by the audience and I believed then that I would become a singer.” 

 Sergei Lemeshev - the student of Moscow Conservatory.

As everyone who knew Lemeshev was aware, he was often, in his book, too strict with himself. This is also true of the way he described his singing during the Conservatory period.  Other people’s comments on the student Lemeshev also exist, and the most interesting of them is by Mikhail Teryan, a prominent violinist, conductor, and pianist who studied in the same group as Sergei.  “ The Conservatory classes and corridors were filled with an unruly crowd of  young girls in headscarves and young men wearing Red Army overcoats. I remember Sergei Lemeshev in such an overcoat; a young man with pale brown hair and blue eyes, modest as could be. But perhaps he first drew my attention because he was quiet and bashful, all of which made him stand out from his noisy fellow students. His appearance also attracted attention . And what a pleasant surprise it was when I saw this young man in one of the student concerts in the Small Hall, and heard his singing! The voice of young Lemeshev – he was less than 20 then – was so fine and tender, his performance so warm and soulful, that I have never forgotten him, and it was with great pleasure that I took part in the concerts in which he sang. 

Soon we met in the music theory classes, particularly in Alexandrov's class on harmony and solfége. There, not only Lemeshev’s musical talent revealed itself to me, but also his personal qualities. Despite his bashfulness, Sergei proved to be very nice company; sociable and possessing an inquiring mind. He even attended our class to listen to the quartet rehearsals. It turned out that he especially loved the sound of the viola. Its timbre reminded him of a human voice ... . We would meet  at “patronage” concerts at workers’ clubs and for Red Army units. [note: These were concerts for factory workers, soldiers and peasants that the Conservatory teachers and students gave as a part of the Bolshevik Enlightenment Program.] Usually the most talented students took part in those concerts, and I remember that I heard Sergei Lemeshev several times. He was particularly moving in Russian folk songs, perhaps because in those years not  many people [in the cities] sang them; or , rather, he sang them like no other. His voice was so expressive, with such piercing sadness when he sang sad songs, and such dashing boldness in merry ones, that it was unforgettable. I remember, though, that Lemeshev also sang Lensky’s aria, along with 'Song of The Indian Guest' and various romances, always captivating even the most inexperienced audience with his ingeniousness, devotion and a certain radiant spirituality in his performance.” 

Aside from the Conservatory, Lemeshev as a singer was greatly influenced by famous artists of the Bolshoi. From 1921 on, he frequently visited both theaters and concert halls. He was perhaps most impressed by Fyodor Chaliapin’s last concerts in 1921, just before the famous bass left Russia. Sergei’s account of those four concerts deserves a separate chapter. 

Despite the Civil War, the Bolshoi’s repertoire in the 1920’s was vast and complex: Glinka's Ruslan and Lyudmila; Rimsky-Korsakov's Snow Maiden, Tale of Tsar Saltan and The Tsar’s Bride; Borodin’s Prince Igor;  Dargomyzhsky's Mermaid; Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin and Queen of Spades; Wagner's Lohengrin and Verdi's Aida.  Smaller productions, such as Manon, Il Barbiere di Siviglia, La Traviata, Rigoletto, Boheme, Rubinstein's Daemon, and Napravnik's Dubrovsky all went into the so called "New Theater." Later, in 1924, the Bolshoi affiliate  moved to the building formerly occupied by Zimin’s company, which had been renamed "The Experimental Theater," or simply "The Affiliate." 

“The Conservatory students could go to the Bolshoi for free. We were given “complimentary” tickets once or twice a week. It is strange, but not all the voice students were eager to go to the opera.  There were enthusiasts, though, who tried not to miss a single opportunity to get to the theater. We formed a group of three: the dramatic tenor N. Khanayev; the basso-profundo S. Krasovsky and me, the lyric tenor. (Later, we  all were fortunate enough to sing at the Bolshoi.) Soon we became known to ushers in the upper gallery. Naturally, they were all well informed about theater life, had favorites among the artists. They were the most enthusiastic about Leonid Sobinov – and of course he was an idol of mine too. Khanayev was fascinated  by the brlliant artistry of the dramatic tenor Boris Yevlakhov, while the object of Krasovsky’s admiration was the outstanding bass Vasily Petrov. Soon I learned to go to the Bolshoi on my own, and I enjoyed the incomparable art of its singers. 

As for imitating them, I experienced that in all its futility. During those years I focused all my attention upon the man who was for me the ideal artist -  Leonid Vital’yevich Sobinov. As soon as the Bolshoi opened its season—the first season for me—I rushed to see Eugene Onegin. In the upper gallery, squeezed by the crowd of his fans, I intently studied his Lensky and tried not to miss a single gesture. I tried to remember his every intonation and note. I was astounded by his rare and what I would call natural simplicity; the artistry of his manners; his even, transparent and clear voice of vibrant, soulful timbre.  I of course started to imitate him and did it reasonably well.   

 Leonid Sobinov as Lensky.

 

After every night at the opera, I usually showed my friends how Sobinov had sung. I tried to copy his timbre, voice colors, pronunciation, and even his vocal production, all as precisely as I could. Apparently that helped me, at least to some extent, to find the correct method of breath control, among other things. I breathed better than usual when I imitated Sobinov. My friends were delighted with my “abilities,” but my enthusiasm reached a dangerous level in the third year. I had not been so naïve as to demonstrate my Sobinov-like singing to Raisky, but outside Raisky’s class, that was the only way I sang. So, I decided to perform Lensky’s arioso and Werther’s romance in the student concert. 

Leonid Vital’yevich had an original, distinctive manner of sound production:  sometimes he didn’t attack a note all at once, but gradually unfolded a note on the breath, as it were. That gave a special charm to his singing. To his, not mine! However, I didn’t think about it when I stood on the stage and looked at the audience, which I was about to amaze with my Sobinov-like timbre. The success was huge. Inspired by that, I ran down the stairs  to the hall, to hear praise from my friends. Luckily, the first person I met was Victor Ivanovich   Sadovnikov, an excellent and respected musician, conductor and singer, who was in charge of the ensemble class. He took me aside to a corner, and I was prepared to listen to glowing praise: 'You are very pleased with yourself and the success you’ve had - it’s written all over your face. But I must warn you that the value of your success is nothing. What you have done is a phony caricature of Sobinov. You took from him only his imperfections and exaggerated them. Meanwhile, you have good qualities of your own, which you must develop in order to be yourself in every situation. Remember, only in this way can you achieve success.'

Victor Ivanovich explained to me, in a friendly way and at some length, that one should never copy anybody. 'One should learn from great artists,' he said, but to learn doesn’t mean to imitate.' I fell from heaven to the ground and didn’t even want to appear in the hall anymore. I walked slowly home, thinking about what had happened. I am still grateful to Sadovnikov for the bitter truth, and for his frank and stern criticism, which saved me from delusions. I didn’t imitate Sobinov after that, though I never ceased to admire his art ... . The most important thing in a performer's art is the moment of inspiration, that moment of genuine feeling which must bring life into the character and move the audience with emotion – that’s why  imitation is impossible. Every single moment of life is unique, as it is in art when it reflects real life. A true artist, performing the same aria on stage for the hundredth time, always expresses feelings that appear on that day, at that particular moment, and not yesterday or a week ago. Culture, intellect, knowledge and experience can help you move faster and more easily into a given set of circumstances from which the feeling is born, but the genuine feeling itself cannot be recreated without living through the character’s sufferings and joys.. Of course, I learned all this much later. 

The conversation with Sadovnikov started a new period in my professional development.  I began to place more trust in Raisky’s  lessons, and I developed a new enthusiasm: musical expressiveness. Nazary Grigor’yevich was a great master of this and gave unsparingly of his time for us: he strictly controlled our phrasing, and patiently helped us to develop softness, the spinning out of crescendos,  as well as other nuances. He loved to give us difficult repertoire, within which our skills and artistic sense could grow; he spent a lot of time refining our taste for ensemble performance. In class we always sang duets, trios, and quartets. However, he often overrated our abilities. 

Wishing to further develop our artistry, Raisky paid considerably less attention to voice training and to vocal technique. As a result, we all began to feel like “artists” and dreamed about the stage, not realizing that in a technical sense we were still raw. At that time the words of Sadovnikov made me look at myself from an outsider’s viewpoint and understand that my musicianship was developing independent of my technical abilities. My voice grew neither in range nor in power. Raisky just thought that these were the limits of my abilities and that there were not many parts for me in opera, mostly just supporting ones. In Rigoletto he promised me only Borsa, while I had been dreaming about the role of the Duke; in “Dubrovsky” only Grisha, though I had recently admired Sobinov in the leading role. “Well,  I said to myself,  in that case, I had better go back to my village; I had not aspired to study in Moscow for that.” 

Sergei’s need for money only made the situation worse, because during those years in the Conservatory he could not help his family. Like many other students, he tried to earn money in concerts , but “patronage” concerts were not for profit. His army wages were not enough even for himself.  Several times a group of students tried to organize commercial concerts in the provinces, but their attempts were unsuccessful. 

In his second year, Lemeshev auditioned for Zimin’s private company. Founded by the great manager and theater lover Sergei Zimin ( Raisky’s father-in-law), it was the only private opera and ballet theater which could compete with the Bolshoi and the Mariinsky. Zimin’s theater was closed after the Revolution and opened again in 1922. In 1924 it was closed forever; its building became the Bolshoi Affiliate and the former owner worked there as a staff member for the rest of his life.  In 1923, however, Lemeshev had been hired and successfully sang Hadji (Lakme) and Sinodal (Daemon) in Zimin’s summer theater. After that, he was persuaded to sing young Faust. Judging from his book, he only developed a high C two years later. Perhaps he had been permitted to use his extraordinary falsetto in Faust’s Cavatina. Also, Zimin’s theater was famous as a place where young singers could study and test themselves on the stage. (Before the Revolution it had opera and ballet schools which brought up new artists for the company.) But Lemeshev’s debut as Faust was a failure. On that day another tenor, who sang the elderly Faust, became sick. “An agitated director suddenly ran into my dressing room, ‘Put on the beard! The beard! Quick!!’  It turned out that I had to sing both parts. I did not have the nerve to refuse. It seemed to me that the older Faust should be sung very loud. After the first few scenes, I had forced the sound and was exhausted. 'We have to say goodbye to you,'  the manager said sternly.”

  The easiest way to earn money was singing in pubs and restaurants. (A large number of them had begun to appear in Moscow with the beginning of the New Economic Policy), but that meant  losing both the voice and the reputation. Returning to his village on summer vacation, Sergei had to listen to the reproaches of his mother and her friends. Their attitude towards artists had not changed. “What bad move that son of yours  made, Akulina! Became an artist! Don’t you know that those people have no morals! They don’t believe in God, don’t respect their parents. He’ll forget about you; don’t expect any help from him when you’re old!” My mother was quiet and modest, always ready to respond to someone’s request;  she believed everything they told her ... . She was never carefree or calm ... .  She thought that the poor don’t have a right to sing; that it was a privilege of  rich and happy people. That’s why she was so upset, so utterly destroyed by my studying in the Conservatory.” 
  Both the vocal problems and the money problems had to be solved as soon as possible. “Feelings of protest grew into an awareness of the need to find a solution: I remembered Khanayev. He studied in L. Zvyagina’s class and was very pleased with his teacher’s work on his vocal technique and his sound production. All her students were technically very advanced ... . That was what I lacked. In Raisky’s class I learned to understand music and was eager to transmit my feelings to the audience, but my voice didn’t do what I wanted it to do. I decided to attend Zvyagina’s class.  It turned out not to be an easy thing to do. I felt deep respect for Raisky; besides, he was so kind and friendly to me. Words just stuck in my throat. Finally, one day I met Raisky in the corridor, and not giving myself time to rethink what I was saying, I blurted out my decision to leave his class. 'Well,'  he said dryly, 'I’m not going to hold anyone by force.' 

 Lidia Zvyagina.

 

After summer vacation, I began to study in Zvyagina’s class. [note:  Lidia Zvyagina (1861-1943)  was a famous contralto, a leading singer of the Bolshoi from 1889-1909; she had graduated St. Petersburg Conservatory. Among her teachers were Camillo Everardi and Polina Viardo]. With vocalizes and exercises, she quickly cured me of muscular tension; my voice began to develop in range and in power. She didn’t let me sing difficult pieces, and avoided the high register beyond G natural. She also smoothed out the notes of the passaggio. For the Winter Session exams, I sang “The Backstage Song” from Arensky's Raphael, and Glinka’s song 'To Molly.' But for the Fourth Term Spring entrance examination, I fairly easily sang Vladimir Igorevich's cavatina from Prince Igor and was praised by the examiners. What was interesting, however, was that as soon as I achieved more technical freedom I felt as if I had nothing more to do in Zvyagina’s class. There was no real creative discipline there, but what in my opinion was even more important, was that there was no attention to expressiveness or to the choice of repertoire. Infected by artistic aspirations in Raisky’s class, I was bored. After the examination in which I sang the cavatina, Raisky himself approached me and praised me very much. Then I became bold enough to ask him to take me back. 'I’ll take you back with pleasure,' he replied." 

In 1924 Lemeshev met I.N. Sokolov, a pianist and conductor at the Conservatory who, along with his family, was able to give the young singer significant support. “Ivan Nikolayevich Sokolov – a fine musician, a pupil of Taneyev’s, was my piano teacher and he also lead the senior opera class, which I was not ready for at that time. Once, during my piano lesson, he said, “ I heard that you were a good singer. I was confused. He then asked me to sing something, a request I willingly complied with. While Ivan Nikolayevich did not say anything specifically encouraging, he did invite me to his home that Wednesday.  That was the day musicians gathered at the Sokolovs'. On my first Wednesday I met Heinrich Gustavovich Neighaus , who was in top form that evening and played a lot. I sang a lot too ... . I might possibly have created the impression of a person who should be helped. 

Anna Petrovna Kiselevskaya, Sokovov's wife, showed great interest in me. She was an excellent singer and studied, along with Nezhdanova, in Umberto Masetti’s class.  She also sang at the Bolshoi ... . Later, she performed in Ukraine. At the time I met the Sokolovs, she had already left the stage and was dedicating herself to her family. She often sang at home, though, winning over the audience with her skills and enthusiasm. She gave me a lot of practical advice, while Ivan Nikolayevich helped me work on my repertoire . ... 

My first concerts belong approximately to that period. There were few of them. Students usually took part in the Conservatory evening, or “patronage” concerts, but those who were more courageous dared to organize concerts on their own. It was not too difficult, however, if you could manage to get a hall. I started to think about it in the Winter of 1924, not so much from courageousness as from necessity. I had been to my village during summer vacations. My mother still lived in the small, old log cabin which my father had built. The cabin was so low to the ground that even as a 9-year-old child I could easily toss fishing rods onto the roof and take them down again when I went fishing. The cabin was rapidly getting decrepit, even though there was a lot of timber around, in addition to my mother’s share of free logs that she received after the nationalization of the forest. If I could somehow manage to get 150 rubles, a new log cabin could be built! Then it came to me: “What if I give a concert?' I had already prepared  the repertoire; to Russian folksongs and operatic arias I added songs by Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, and Cui. A friend of mine helped me get a hall at the Moscow Theatrical Institute almost for free…, and friends also helped sell tickets. I chose a partner for the concert, A.M. Timoshayeva. Upon arriving at the concert hall that evening, I found another pretty girl backstage, a ballerina – it was young  E. Il’yushenko, who had already danced at the Bolshoi.” [note: For some reason, from the 1920’s until the first half of the 1930’s,  solo concerts were forbidden. Every performer had to find partners. It may have had something to do with “collective spirit” and the war against the star system].

 “My enterprise turned out to be so successful that my spirits went up considerably. With the 175 rubles that I got from the concert, we built  a new three-window cabin on the lot that we had received after the Revolution.  My mother and my younger brother lived there until 1932.

I was happy and proud that I had been able to establish the dignity of the artist in the minds of the local peasants.  And there you have it. Not only did I myself not perish, but also managed to earn  big money. This fact greatly enhanced my prestige among the villagers. 

My next concert also took place in 1924, in the hall on Gherzen street. This time I was not guided by material interests but by the call of my soul.  I wanted to sing! I.N. Sokolov offered his help in preparing the concert ... . I remember that I had particular success with a short piece by Cui, which turned out so well that the audience called for encores. Delighted, Ivan Nikolayevich said, 'Now you see, Sergei, what it is like to do a real job!' 

In his book, Lemeshev expressed special gratitude to the Sokolov family, which now embraced him as a member. At one point, they invited him to live with them, and later their daughter Natalia, who was also a talented singer, became Sergei’s first wife.  

Like other students, Lemeshev combined his conservatory studies with attempts to start working in the theater . From the end of 1924 on, he studied in the opera class and learned his first part; Vodaemont, from Tchaikovsky’s Iolanta. He learned the role under the guidance of Professor Sokolov, who also worked as a conductor at Stanislavsky’s Opera Studio, where Sergei was accepted  early in 1925. 

 Sergei Lemeshev as Vodaemont. 1924.

“In addition to the role of Vodaemont, which I sang well enough in the Spring, I started to work at the Studio on Lensky and Lykov [the latter from The Tsar’s Bride.] That led to increased vocal stress and became very difficult for me. I clearly realized the shortcomings of my vocal technique and became upset again.  About that time I met Nadezhda Grigor’yevna Kardyan [a voice teacher at Stanislavsky’s  Studio.]  A graduate of the St. Petersburg Conservatory, a superb singer and profound musician, she did not perform in the theater because of unbearable stage fright; rather, she devoted herself to teaching. She was in her 30’s at that time.  When I came to Kardyan , she said that she had been watching me for a long time and thought that I was moving in a slightly wrong direction. It was necessary to work on vocal production and a sustained melodic line, or 'cantilena.' Studying with Kardyan, I started to make so much progress that three months later she offered me the chance to sing Faust’s cavatina, "Salut, demeure..." I gasped, but she insisted.  In fact, I sang the cavatina without effort and easily took the high C. I was so happy I ran home rather than walking. I was too eager to enjoy singing high C’s.  I enjoyed it until I sang myself hoarse and had to remain silent for two weeks. That did not bother me much, though, because I had managed to develop a high C. I advanced a lot, learning more and more difficult pieces, including excerpts from such parts as Gerald, from Lakme, and the Duke of Mantua, [from Rigoletto ... .]   

Looking back and recalling the days of my youth now, I realize with special poignancy how much others gave me. They did it absolutely disinterestedly, simply following their human impulse to share their cordiality and warmth. Though some of them, such as Nazary Grigor’yevich Raisky, Ivan Nikolayevich, Anna Petrovna Sokolov, and Nadezhda Grigor’yevna Kardyan, are now gone, they will always live in my memory”.
 

 Photo signed by Nazary Raisky:" To young Vodaemont Sergei Lemeshev from old Vodaemont and a teacher."

Lemeshev’s decision to go to Stanislavsky’s Studio was influenced by endless discussions at the Sokolov’s. Also, he often met with singers of the Studio, including Nikolai Pechkovsky—a famous dramatic tenor and one of Stanislavsky's favorite pupils. Pechkovsky’s words, 'If you have a voice, you should apply only to our theater and nowhere else!" finally inspired Sergei. Besides, it was the only theater where young singers could continue to study. “Many fellow students secretly slipped away from their teachers and ran to auditions and competitions, hoping to begin work on the stage ... .I started to dream about theater too, knowing that vocally I wouldn’t get anything more from the Conservatory.  I understood, though, that I was not ready for professional work in the theater yet. The only part I had learned was Vodaemont, which I never sang again. And so, Pechkovsky’s enthusiasm lead me to audition for Stanislavsky’s Studio.” 

He auditioned for A.V.Bogdanovich and E.I. Zbruyeva, two famous Bolshoi singers who also worked as teachers at the Studio, as well as for Stanislavsky’s relatives Zinaida Sokolova and V.S. Alexeyev, who were assistant directors there. While working at the Studio, Sergei remained a Conservatory student until Stanislavsky came back from the USA. Lessons from the great director were so important, and took so much time and energy, that Lemeshev left the Conservatory and did not even take the graduation exams.

Bibliography:

S. Lemeshev “Put k iskusstvu” 1968

E. Grosheva “S. Ya . Lemeshev” 1987.

V. Vasil’yev. “S. Lemeshev. Vospominan’ya, fotografyi< dokumenty.” 1999.

Copyright © 2012 by Natalia A.  Bukanova.  No part of this blog may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the author.