And to its simplicity, its economy. For, whatever their impact may have been, these were not for Chaliapin rhetorics—a rhetoric of costume and makeup, a rhetoric of bodily presence and movement, or even a rhetoric of voice. They were simply aspects of the single, unified truth he sought with such zeal. Once that was found, it set its own bounds on all ways of expressing it. There was no “internal” or “external.” There was only a reality that comprised both. As in life. ^(I) Not that Chaliapin always achieved his goals. For one thing, even the greatest artist is naught but one of us poor mortals. For another, in the theatre, no goal can be fully achieved in solitary splendor. It requires colleagues with similar goals, an onstage surrounding compatible with them, and, in opera, collaboration from pit and podium in full agreement with them. Chaliapin was never again to come as close to these conditions as he did in the company of Savva Mamontov.

Nevertheless, after three years with Mamontov, Chaliapin decided to return to the Imperial Theatres, for reasons reminiscent of Stanislavski’s earlier departure from the Mamontov Circle. Of what use, K. S. had asked, were these miracles of visual aesthetics, even of verisimilitude in production, if the acting did not begin to approach the same level, and this central problem was not recognized as such? Chaliapin asked the same question in relation to musical matters, not because some A-list musical talent wasn’t present (he had prepared several of his roles with none other than Rachmaninov—a very young Rachmaninov, but still, Rachmaninov) or even because there were not some excellent singers in the company, but because he knew that the resources of the state theatres—orchestra, chorus, conductors, principals—were greater in both quantity and quality than those of the Private Opera could ever be, and that many of the works he championed had no hope of consummation without such forces. Moreover, he now had the confidence born of his new, completed self and his many triumphs with Mamontov, and with the backing of the Bolshoi’s new director (the same Telyakovsky who later invited Stanislavski to form his Opera Studio there), he re-entered the Imperial realm as a star of unusual privilege and influence, not to mention unusual emolument. In 1901 he ventured to La Scala, where he stunned public, press, and colleagues (including Caruso and Toscanini) with his revolutionary realization of Boito’s Mefistofele. His potential as international star was now evident, and that is where we find him as he undertakes that first recording session with Fred Gaisberg in Moscow.

I accept the report of countless devotees, professional and otherwise, that, to an even broader extent than with other great singers, Chaliapin’s records do not begin to convey the impact of his live performing. The weight of evidence really forecloses any challenge on that point. But I would also maintain that many of the records are so evocative as to bring the theatre of the mind’s eye fully to life before us. This life may not in many instances correspond closely to the one Chaliapin actually lived on the stage or recital platform—we collaborate in fashioning it, after all—but it is extraordinarily vivid, all the same. And when we call Chaliapin “an actor who sings,” we must add that he sings with a voice of unusual puissance and quality, under almost total technical command, and that without those the loftiest aspirations of the most extravagantly gifted actor would go unmet.