Life, Death, and Representation in Pictures at an Exhibition

A single, unharmonized melodic line sounds to signal the entrance of the composer Mussorgsky into the exhibition featuring the pictures of his late friend Victor Hartmann. It is the opening Promenade; Mussorgsky is walking about, depicted in irregular meter. The time signature is shifting between 5/4 and 6/4, perhaps with the humorous intent of reflecting the awkward gait of the portly composer. It is, as its title indicates, a piece about walking—promenading to be exact—but there is nothing inherent in the notes to suggest that this might be the case. Only in conjunction with the title may this connection be made, and only after this is it possible to give further consideration to musical meaning. The notes have been contextualized; instead of asking why the time signature changes, the question becomes, why, in the context of promenading, should the time signature change? In other words, what might this represent? What we may derive from this are two spheres of extra-musical interpretation, the first, contextual sphere being established by the composer, the second sphere being the interpretive elaboration of the listener. Indeed, in the same way the listener may reason both that it is Mussorgsky doing the promenading and that he is doing so at the exhibition, simply because the title, Pictures at an Exhibition, contextualizes the music in such a way as to allow for this interpretation. In this way the whole work may be considered, as may any work which attempts to represent an extra-musical subject, in the context of the objective declarations of the composer, in another through the subjective, interpretive allowance granted to the listener.

Relatively speaking, the opening Promenade is a vibrant movement—Mussorgsky is walking about, alive until he reaches his destination and stops. Musically, a perfect cadence into a tonic B flat major chord concludes the movement; in other words, the music has reached its destination and stopped. Having done so, however, might be regretful. The end of the Promenade is labeled attacca, which indicates to the performer that the next movement should be played continuously with the one that has just been completed. Rather than connect these movements sonorously, Mussorgsky not only begins the next melody not only fortissimo, which is jarringly loud, but the next melodic note is a C flat, a major seventh below where the Promenade left off. Mussorgsky has shifted to a rather distant key signature in a very sudden transition that is not meant to be the least bit subtle. All this has been directed with the clear aim of shocking his listeners, and this effect, if performed well, cannot fail.

What is it that is supposed to be so shocking? It is the first picture, entitled Gnome, and this gnome is of such a grotesque and frightful variety to warrant such a scare as the one Mussorgsky depicted, the scare that he meant to depict of having first glanced upon the startling picture. Of course, these are subjective elements of the interpretation—in no place does Mussorgsky indicate that the opening jolt of Gnome is to be interpreted in this way, but it is admittedly an appealing and common view to take. Mussorgsky again only contextualized the jolt, first by lulling his listeners into the patterns of the Promenade, then again through the act of titling, which allows us to know not only that this is a picture of something, but also that it is a gnome that is so startling. The movement is far from traditional in any respect, from harmony to technique, and this only adds to the discomfort, and perhaps even anger evoked by this gnome.

Let the interpretation proceed further, into far more controversial territory. Arguably, the suddenness of this shock might be put in the frame of Hartmann’s sudden death. This would then imply a duality between these first two movements, the Promenade representing life, and Gnome at least in this one respect representing death, more specifically death in the immediate sense. The chromaticism and extensive use of dissonance, not to mention the jarring gestures that permeate the whole piece fit well with this idea. In a sense, the music comes in several fits, as fits of rage or of otherwise intense and undirected feeling. It is as if to show the force with which the loss of Hartmann struck Mussorgsky.

Consonant harmonies and even peacefulness return in the proceeding promenade, where the opening melody moves to the bass clef and modulates to a new key signature. Importantly, the dynamics are soft, never being marked above piano. In every respect, this second promenade, even marked “con delicatezza,” stands in stark contrast with Gnome. Mussorgsky is walking once more, but his walk is slower—Moderato instead of Allegro—and less pronounced, though the time signatures preserve his awkward gait. Mussorgsky is past the stage depicted in Gnome, and he is going elsewhere, arriving almost in tears at the transition. The promenade theme plays in harmony while first sustained notes are held in the bass, descending twice in fifths, the second fifth an octave beneath the first, E flat to A flat. The next two measures repeat the promenade theme, this time in a diminuendo toward pianissimo with quiet octaves hanging above. Could these possibly be a groan and a sigh, a tearful inhalation and exhalation? Though this might go a bit far, the lonely, pensive sadness of the movement may be uncontroversially interpreted at least. The subjective range of interpretation, however, allows the promenade to be viewed in this way. The minute it becomes subjective, it no longer needs to be universally true.

It has been noted that Mussorgsky was going somewhere in this promenade, and that is The Old Castle. Mussorgsky here depicts a lone minstrel of sorts at the titular location, whose song may be found in the treble-ranged melody. The other notes, those in the background and those in the harmonically richer A major theme that starts the twenty-ninth measure, are presumably those of his instrument, which would appear on a stylistic basis to be a guitar or some like stringed instrument. Two features pervade this movement. The first is the sense of abject loneliness to be found in this movement. The second, ironically, is the constant company of a pedal-point G sharp, which serves a significant role in imitating the Italian style, but given this contradiction, it may behoove us to seek more in this G sharp. Now, the loneliness as it relates to Mussorgsky has already begun to permeate since the prior promenade, but this G sharp lingers on, even where, as a non-chord tone, it is quite dissonant. A number of possible construals seem appropriate for characterizing this G sharp. It could be the sense of loss, or otherwise the sadness lingering with Mussorgsky. It could be taken as the spirit of Hartmann, remaining in Mussorgsky’s consciousness. Regardless, that G sharp is filled with a persistent mourning that cannot be shaken, and in this way the loneliness of The Old Castle may keep its company.

Fermatas on rests conclude The Old Castle, into which the melodic and harmonic movements began to break apart and diminish and diminuendo, and after a period of silence, another promenade takes Mussorgsky forcefully away, forte and Moderato, but this promenade follows in the key signature whence it came, but this is the relative major, B major. Something of The Old Castle remains with Mussorgsky, and at the end of this brief section of music, the melody, which had previously been in octaves in both hands, sheds its outer doublings, goes silent, and then plays only a bit of the melody in a solo fragment. Mussorgsky’s walk was interrupted. Something has caught his eye.

Tuileries maintains B major, and it provides yet another, far more thorough contrast with the movements preceding it. It depicts children playing and quarrelling, and it does so with great levity. The opening melody seems to mimic the sounds of a child’s taunt, which receives a retort in the form of a repeat. This basic structure advances up the keyboard a couple of times as the quarrel grows in intensity, only to quickly boil back down to a repeat of the initial material. New melodic material is introduced as the quarrel, for some reason, be it discipline or some kind of feigned or actual apology, subsides, but opening taunts quickly begin to assert themselves again, eventually reaching their climactic state before the ending, where the levity of the start takes hold again.

Could it be that Mussorgsky is approaching this light triviality as a distraction from the previous pervasion of death? Children, after all, are not exactly potent conveyers of death—quite the opposite, actually. Could this movement be Mussorgsky’s embrace of the trivialities of life, having confronted death? On a darker note, is Mussorgsky mocking death through this movement? The jump to the Tuileries palace in France, a sort of idealized and luxurious locale, is more suggestive of an escapist interpretation, that this movement represents a flight from the issue of death. Children, furthermore, suggest a flight to childhood, when quarrels were trivial, not at all like the quarrel with death that Mussorgsky has begun upon the loss of Hartmann. Indeed, if any of these interpretations is to be taken as best, the idea of flight to an idealized childhood apart from the idea of death seems to be the one, and this fits very well with the proceeding movement, Bydlo, which refers to an oxcart, specifically in Poland.

Childhood comes crashing down in the face of grinding labor, perhaps as Mussorgsky glances quickly from one picture to another, and the levity of Tuileries is crushed under the weight of a heaviness that might be unsurpassed by any other work for the piano. Bydlo consists of some very lowly pitched harmonies pounded out with perfect regularity as melodic material moves over it. The relative G sharp minor is resumed here, even though Tuileries and Byldo are not marked as continuous movements. Two primary interpretations of this movement are worth noting. The first is Rimsky-Korsakov’s, in which the listener is to hear the oxcart passing by, hence the especial volume of the middle section. This prompted the latter, in editing Pictures after Mussorgsky’s death, to make Mussorgsky’s opening dynamic much quieter. This is very disingenuous to the view of interpretation presented here. Mussorgsky provided the context of Bydlo in his title, and the interpretation of the music in context should not allow actual change to the music. Rimsky-Korsakov, as the self-appointed editor of the late Mussorgsky’s work, tried to objectify his subjective interpretation, and he had no right to do so.

The other interpretation, the one adopted here, places the listener on the oxcart, so that when the music is marked fortissimo until the end, it is loud because the bustle of the oxcart’s movement is in continual commotion. When the dynamics to drop to pianissimo and even ppp, it is because the oxcart has arrived where it is going and stopped. This is important, as the oxcart may be very well interpreted as the vehicle by which Mussorgsky is brought home to his conflict from his fanciful flight to France. Not to make too much of it, but this even works geographically, since Bydlo is Polish. Far more importantly, though, is the cultural aspect of this point. From the distant French movement, Mussorgsky passes through the rustic, closer-to-home Polish movement to get to where the oxcart takes him. Plainly, it takes him back whence he came, to his confrontation with death and loss. There is significance to the fact that the conclusion of Bydlo is marked perdendosi: dying away. Bydlo ends in death.

Following another indefinite period of silence, a promenade follows, at first marked “Tranquillo.” This promenade is significant in its variation on the promenading theme in such a way as to inflect it with a strong sense of melancholy, one which proceeds more into a sense of brooding as pitch drops, volume increases, and forceful octaves replace the tranquil harmonies. This promenade is also interesting in its contrapuntal arrangement of some of the promenade material. It is as if Mussorgsky is pondering to his full capacity how to confront death, not least Hartmann’s death, as he begins walking to some other picture. The promenade is interrupted by the opening chords of Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks, as Mussorgsky gets a glimpse of this peculiar image. The promenade is continuous with the “ballet.”

Musically, grace notes, trills, and leaps in range abound in a movement that can hardly be described without recourse to the idea of bounciness. Perhaps the most important thing to point out in this movement is the presence of a lone D flat, which sounds at a relatively high pitch and forte at the dividing point between the two sections of the piece. The emphasis placed upon it has led to the quite rational conclusion that it is supposed to represent the call of a newly hatched chick. In that respect it is a sound of life; it is a sound of birth itself. For Mussorgsky, Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks opens the door to an exploration of life that might answer the problem of death. In the music, this is a bit of a rebirth into the life that was found in the opening Promenade, but in order to see how this turns out, the proceeding few movements are in need of exploration. The chicks have called out in life, so let us see what it has to offer.

Immediately, Mussorgsky contrasts the naïve levity of the young chicks with the injustice and suffering of Two Jews: One Rich and the Other Poor. The opening strains of this movement depict the rich Jew, Samuel Goldenberg, in imposing fashion. After that, the poor Schmuyle is represented, and his theme could hardly be seen as anything but mimicry of the sounds of crying. What, though, can be the relationship between Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuyle? Though this could not work pictorially, Mussorgsky perhaps provides a musical clue in the synonymy of the names “Samuel” and “Schmuyle,” the latter just being the Yiddish variant of the former. It could be that these two characters are, in fact, one in the same, acting as a composite picture of the darker elements of life. This is perhaps supported by the combination of both characters’ themes at the end of Two Jews. Taken alongside the “ballet,” another duality arises. On the one hand is the good in life, as the chicks experience in hatching, as the Trio section of that movement illustrates. On the other hand, there is evil and there is suffering, but that is not all there is. The chicks have shown rebirth.

This is most arguable via the next Promenade that follows Two Jews. It is effectively the initial Promenade with a number of significant modifications. First, rather than state the opening melody as a solo line, it is stated more forcefully in octaves. The other difference is the unexpected restructuring of the music, often splitting formerly conjoined measures up and leaving others out, in addition to adding some new ones. Transitions, in other words, are strange in this Promenade, given the other ones. What this might mean is a growing crowd at the exhibition, which accounts for such features as the octaves at the start, in addition to the structural changes, which might derive their stranger points as Mussorgsky has to move around the crowd. This, however, is trivial compared to the fact that Promenade is restated in the style of the initial one, since it has been suggested that the Ballet of the Unhatched Chicks implies a rebirth to the vibrant attitude of that first Promenade, before the shock of Gnome. Does Mussorgsky’s promenading in that style once more, vibrant and perhaps untroubled indicate an embrace of life against death? Perhaps he is merely distracted or even fooling himself.

Just as the exhibition develops a din of activity, a parallel is found in the next picture Mussorgsky stops to see, Limoges, which depicts a busy marketplace in that French city. The conclusion of the previous Promenade, like the first one, indicates a deliberate stop at an intended goal because of a perfect cadence. Quite differently from the transition, or lack of transition, to Gnome, a comfortable modulation from B flat major to E flat major takes place, the Promenade ending and Limoges beginning melodically on B flat. The two points worth noting here are the frantic nature of the marketplace, as depicted in the music, and its location in France. It is beginning to look as if Mussorgsky has merely hidden from death once again, this time in the distractions of life in general. France might well be taken as Mussorgsky’s symbolic hideaway, where death and loss to not matter. Rather the inanities of “The Big News,” which is the feature of the events depicted in Limoges, are the issue of the day, and these may keep one away both from death and even from the troubles found in Two Jews. There is certainly a constant influx of sound to keep the listener busy in Limoges, and the conclusion of this piece seems to be the most desperate barrage of noise of all, all leading up to the sparsest and perhaps the most musically bizarre of all the pictures: Catacombs.

Catacombs opens with B’s across three octaves, taking up a whole measure in 3/4 time and being marked with a fermata and a fortissimo. This is the strike of death, bringing all the life and bustle of the marketplace to silence. Mussorgsky could not escape death, and death descended on him—or rather he descended into the catacombs, having strayed his glance to that picture, being struck once again by the reality of death. What exactly the notes in Catacombs are intended to convey is somewhat mysterious. An important clue might be the oscillation between extreme dynamics between many of its measures. Could this be the music of dying itself—music that itself dies? It is inherent in the nature of the piano that once a note is struck, when it is sustained it dies by diminuendo. The notes in this piece are generally held for extended periods of time, and they go from loud strikes to softer ones until there is no more. Each diminuendo is another death, and to resist death is futile. In the third measure, Mussorgsky asks that the pianist do the impossible: crescendo on a sustained note on the piano. This comes as the first diminuendo would reach its closing in silence. This crescendo is a futile demand to resist death, and after that one demand on the first instance of death, it is not asked of the pianist again. Mussorgsky’s descent into the catacombs, so understood, is his statement of resignation to death.

Having so resigned himself, Mussorgsky proceeds with Con mortuis in lingua mortua, which functions like a promenade, adapts the promenade melody, but is not quite a promenade. Here too, Mussorgsky at last confronts Hartmann’s death, and he is lead to his final understanding of confronting of death. This promenade melody is vastly different in this piece than in any other. The melody is different in that it is transposed to B minor, where before it had made exclusive use of major modalities. The harmonic structure, too, is changed as one ought to expect in such a transposition. Lastly, the rhythm is reduced to a quarter note pulse with the occasional half note or rest strewn in for phrasing purposes. For the latter, a particularly interesting point may be made about Mussorgsky’s movements, as this formulation would depict them. Specifically, they are slow and careful, so much so as to eliminate the awkwardness that has been supposed in the previous instances of this melody. The presence of half notes and rests only serves to corroborate this interpretation; these would be when Mussorgsky, among the dead, felt the need to stop, either for a single step (as in the presence of a half note), or for a longer period (as in a rest, especially if it is conjoined with a fermata).

Presumably Mussorgsky is walking among the dead in order to confront death, apparently having lost himself among Hartmann’s pictures, and based on Mussorgsky’s note in his autograph of Pictures, it seems Hartmann leads the way. It says, “Latin text: with the dead in a dead language. A Latin text would be suitable: the creative spirit of the late Hartmann…leads me to the skulls, summons me to them, the skulls have quietly lit up.”[1] Con mortuis in lingua mortua is divided into two distinct sections, the first having been described above. The second section oscillates between dissonances and F sharp major chords with a small, chromatic melodic figure in between and F sharp major arpeggios following. Eventually, F sharp major proceeds to the tonic B major, and that harmony approximately follows the pattern established by the F sharp major figures into a high register B major chord to close out the piece. Importantly, this second section lacks both the promenade theme and the eeriness of its quality in this piece. Mussorgsky is no longer walking. Hartmann has led him through the underworld with his pictures, and the peace that permeates this section may very well be taken as Mussorgsky’s newfound peace with the loss of Hartmann. He and Hartmann brought together still in Hartmann’s work, and this is how Mussorgsky determines death is to be transcended—through creativity.

It should seem peculiar, that if this interpretation is accurate, that Baba Yaga, a folkloric witch who lives in a hut on chicken’s legs, should follow, but let us not forget that it was the other folkloric picture—Gnome—that struck Mussorgsky in the first place. As Gnome forced Mussorgsky into conflict with death, Baba Yaga shall whisk him away from such conflict in her hut chicken’s legs, much like the oxcart carried him out of Tuileries. It is symmetrically important, therefore, for this movement to take place as the final transition before the transcendence of The Great Gate. The continuity between these two movements is important, as Baba Yaga leads directly into The Great Gate, almost as if the hut itself entered Kiev through it. Both folkloric images are frightening ones; Baba Yaga, like Gnome, is a dark and intense piece of music. The difference is where each proceeds. Gnome leads to mourning, Baba Yaga to transcendence.

At last Mussorgsky lays eyes on The Great Gate, the grand finale of Pictures. In this movement, two sections are particularly noteworthy for our purposes. The first has two subsets, and these are the expressionless arrangements of the Russian Orthodox hymn, first piano then fortissimo. The inclusion of this section is not particularly curious; it provides a contrast to the grandness exhibited in the rest of the piece. What is curious is the designation “senza expression,” without expression. Why should Mussorgsky make such a demand, unless some characterization is to be derived from these sections? In addition, why should this section modulate upward and change its dynamic so dramatically? It is almost as if the second time, the voice behind this theme is trying desperately to be heard, but is drowned out by the rest of The Great Gate. If indeed The Great Gate is about transcendence through creativity, namely Hartmann’s transcendence, then it is clear that the “creative spirit” of Hartmann lives on in grand form, while the ordinary voice behind an ordinary hymn cannot overpower the force of his creations, which sound through Mussorgsky’s music.

The Great Gate seems to imply that Hartmann somehow transcends death though his creative endeavors, as has been suggested several times already. In the middle, in the section that can hardly be taken to represent anything but the bells of the Great Gate, among these bells sounds the promenade theme one final time. This theme has already been associated with life, but up to this point it has only been applied to Mussorgsky. Here, in the ringing of the bells on the Great Gate of Kiev, is Hartmann walking among us, or at least his “creative spirit” is, and as long as this is so, he has transcended death. In this artistic transcendence, Mussorgsky retains a link to his dear friend through what he left behind, and this is what Pictures at an Exhibition is about. Death is indeed central to this work that was largely a response to Hartmann’s death, but in the end, death is not the victor.

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[1] Modest Moussorgsky. Pictures at an Exhibition and Other Works for Piano. Pavel Lamm, ed. Dover, New York: 1990.