Alexander Borodin
Knyaz' Igor'

Prince Igor by Borodin, my first real approach to the monumental delights of 19th-century Russian opera. Why this one and not more "canonical" titles like Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin or Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov? Of course, the Polovtsian Dances played a decisive role in my choice but, more generally, it is precisely the story behind this opera that is so peculiar and fascinating as to provoke immediate curiosity. First of all, Knyaz' Igor was conceived and composed by a part-time musician, yes indeed, Alexander Borodin was first and foremost a brilliant chemist and professor, who in his spare time dabbled in symphonies and string quartets; one of those rare eclectic geniuses able to make a mark in both art and science. Writing an opera (let alone also taking care of the libretto) in one's spare time is a very complicated matter, and Borodin dragged it on for about twenty years; he died in 1887, leaving behind an incomplete work, which was completed by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, the quintessential Russian operatic composer, who took on almost entirely the orchestration work and Alexander Glazunov, a highly influential composer at the time for whom completing Prince Igor represented his only experience in this field, to whom most of the third act and especially the magnificent overture are owed.

Three years after its creator's death, Knyaz' Igor finally saw the light of day: we are talking about 1890, and, from the perspective of a listener accustomed to Italian, Germanic, and French operas, the total, absolute anachronism compared to the styles in vogue at the time is immediately striking. As if Wagner had never existed, Borodin (in line with the conventions of Russian opera at that period, Rimsky-Korsakov above all) continued in his own way, proposing a work with a very "closed" structure with well-separated arias, duets, and chorales. Essentially, Prince Igor is a Grand Opera: "important" duration? Yes. High-flown historical-legendary themes? Yes. Ballet? Well, more than ballet, I would say an ecstasy, but that is there too. And moreover, a bombastic, deeply epic, and evocative style. Borodin reaches "titanism" following a safe, proven path, but he does it his way, with his ideas and his original, rich musicality, and the final result has a breathtaking scenic impact.

But don't make the mistake of considering Knyaz' Igor solely as a majestic succession of showpieces; as far as the libretto is concerned, there are some very evident "missing pieces," scenes and characters developed only partially, and consequently a decidedly fragmentary narrative arc. Speaking of the libretto, the prologue and first act illustrate the situation, the third act, musically valid but admittedly rushed and incomplete, hastily piles up events leading to the finale, the fourth closes the circle in an equally partial and hasty way, and in the second act... basically, nothing happens; we will get to that calmly. Put this way, it might seem like a big mess, and obviously, we must not forget the particular circumstances in which the opera was born, which, despite this, is still remarkable at a thematic level. Prince Igor is a manifesto, not a cliché. In fact, it is an epic chivalric poem in the form of opera: nationalist, but without any pettiness, dominated by the theme of the clash of civilizations which, through the love between Vladimir and Konchakovna, becomes a meeting, and this is the implied suggestion, the prelude to a common future on a larger scale. And the fruits of that common future can all be heard in Borodin's Knyaz' Igor, whose superb beauty is also based on the harmonic integration between the Russian and "exotic," oriental elements.

From a vocal point of view, the deep voices dominate the scene, and this is a typically Russian characteristic: we have a bass-baritone protagonist, two bass roles very different from each other and both brilliant, Galitsky and Khan Konchak, one for contralto, Konchakovna, and Yaroslavna, a part for soprano that requires a spinto-dramatic voice with notable mastery of the mid-low register. Now, if I were to list one by one all the showpieces with which Knyaz' Igor literally overflows, it would result in an endless and very tedious "track by track," but I would still start from Glazunov's overture, an elegant composition that introduces the listener to the opera's main themes in an initially almost muffled manner, blending them together with impeccable fluidity and exquisite taste, which further highlights the subsequent prologue, dominated by epic and grandiose chorality. In the first act, the scene-stealer is a character decidedly marginal in the narrative dynamics of the opera, Volodimir Galitsky, who finds himself ruling the city of Putivl in place of Igor, gone to fight the horde of Polovtsian invaders, a situation similar to that of Richard the Lionheart and John without Land. Galitsky is an unpleasant and envious character, characterized nonetheless by an extremely bold and lively musicality, somewhat like the Duke of Mantua in Rigoletto, and the fifteen minutes featuring him are an opulent, sumptuous scene of courtly splendor, perfectly constructed and of exquisite catchiness, a brilliant interlude in the climate of epic solemnity that characterizes almost the entire rest of the opera. After this quarter of an hour, Galitsky is "silenced" by Yaroslavna, his sister and Igor's wife, and disappears completely from the opera; as I've said before, the narrative arc of Prince Igor holds together with extreme difficulty. Speaking of Yaroslavna, it is a part that would have been perfect for Callas, given the type of drama and vocal weight it requires, dominated by two long and melancholic arias, one in the first act, imbued with a very delicate and dreamlike romanticism that gradually increases in intensity, and the sublime lament that precedes the grand finale, technically demanding, full of vocalizations and acutely emotional notes, that towers above the rest of the last two acts that, combined, make up just over a quarter of the total length of the opera.

Now, let's talk about the second act, perhaps the only part of the opera that can be considered truly complete. Now, I told you earlier that nothing happens in the second act: a slight exaggeration but, essentially, that's how it is. It's not a moment of action but of reflection and contemplation, a musical fresco where the setting plays a crucial role. A camp of yurts, and four voices in the night speaking to themselves, each expressing their own state of mind; in the background, functioning as a cohesive element, Polovtsian warriors and maidens celebrate the victory with dances, choruses, and songs. After a wonderful introductory chorale and an initial hint of dance, the first voice to emerge is that of Konchakovna, daughter of Khan Konchak, with one of the most beautiful operatic arias ever written for the contralto voice, full of an ethereal and nocturnal sensuality; Vladimir, Igor's son, responds with a lyrical-spinto singing in a very Italian style, and the two voices join in a voluptuous love duet. Then Igor and Konchak, the first defeated and imprisoned, whose torment is expressed with a very declamatory aria of absolute, bronze epicity, the latter, victorious, expresses himself in more fluid and conversational tones, with a slightly less overwhelming scenic impact, but effectively underlining the knightly magnanimity of the "barbarian" leader: the two figures are placed on the same plane as worthy rivals. And the circle closes with the ballet, that is, the Polovtsian Dances, and here the evocative power of Borodin's music truly reaches superhuman levels; as if the initial movement, with that flute intro and the maidens' chorus were not in itself a mystical experience, the discourse develops in a perfect counterpoint of male and female elements in the form of accelerations and decelerations, sung and instrumental parts, that in finale blend into a perfect closure not only of the dances specifically but of the entire second act, an hour of absolute perfection in an intrinsically, magnificently imperfect opera.

Now, according to my speculations, if it had been conceived under more "normal" circumstances and fully developed in every librettistic component, Prince Igor would have been probably a four-hour behemoth, perhaps with even more thrilling outcomes, or perhaps not. Indeed, they are just pure and simple speculations, unfortunately, needless to say, we have to make do with Knyaz' Igor as it is, with its narrative "holes" and moreover, despite having its own style and a simple yet effective symbolism, as a librettist Borodin was certainly not at the level of Wagner or Prokofiev, but, in the end, with a musical proposal of this caliber, with that apotheosis that is the second act, does it really matter that much?