The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes. "Let's kill the children and live happily ever after Julian Barnes Shostakovich

On January 5, 1948, twelve years after a brief appearance at the opera performance of Lady Macbeth, Stalin and his entourage again honored the Bolshoi Theater with their presence, this time to listen to Vano Muradeli's opera The Great Friendship. The composer, and concurrently the chairman of the Muzfond, was proud of his harmonious, patriotic work, imbued with the spirit of socialist realism. The opera, commissioned for the thirtieth anniversary of October, had been running for two months with great success on the main stages. Its plot was the strengthening of Soviet power in the North Caucasus during the Civil War.
Georgian by birth, Muradeli knew the history of his people; Unfortunately for the composer, Stalin, also a son of Georgia, knew history much better. Muradeli showed how Georgians and Ossetians opposed the Workers 'and Peasants' Red Army, while Stalin - not least because his mother was Ossetian - had authentic information that from the eighteenth to the twentieth year Georgians and Ossetians, hand in hand with Russian Bolsheviks fought for the cause of the Revolution. And counter-revolutionary activities were carried out by Chechens and Ingush, who were an obstacle to strengthening the friendship of the peoples of the future Soviet Union.
To this historical and political mistake, Muradeli added an equally unforgivable musical one. He included lezginka in his opera, knowing for sure that this was Stalin's favorite dance. But instead of choosing a genuine, familiar Lezginka and thereby glorifying the richness of the cultural traditions of the Caucasus, the composer presumptuously decided to invent his own dance “in the spirit of Lezginka”.
Five days later, Zhdanov held a meeting of Soviet music figures with the participation of seventy composers and musicologists to discuss the ongoing corrupting influence of formalism; A few days later, the Politburo of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks published an official resolution "On the opera" Great Friendship "by V. Muradeli." From it, the author concluded that his music is far from being as harmonious and patriotic as he thought, he, too, was branded a formalist for his "fascination with chaotic, neuropathic combinations" and pandering to the tastes of a narrow layer of "specialists and musical gourmets."Hurrying to save his own skin, not to mention a career, Muradeli did not find anything better than He was, they say, seduced, led astray from the true path - first of all by Dmitry Dmitrievich Shostakovich, and more specifically, the work of the indicated composer, “Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District”.
Comrade Zhdanov once again reminded domestic musical figures that the criticism that was voiced in the editorial of the Pravda newspaper in 1936 has not lost its relevance: the people need harmonious, pleasant to the ear music, and not "mess". The speaker associated the unfavorable state of modern Soviet music with such figures as Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Khachaturian, Myaskovsky and Shebalin. He compared their music with the sounds of a drill and a "musical gas chamber".

Life has entered the post-war course, which means that the world has turned upside down again; Terror returned, and with it madness returned. At an extraordinary congress of the Union of Composers, a musicologist, guilty of having naively written a laudatory book about Dmitry Dmitrievich, declared in humiliated despair that his foot had never been in Shostakovich's house. He asked the composer Yuri Levitin to confirm this statement. Levitin "with a clear conscience" showed that this musicologist never breathed the noxious air of the chief formalist's apartment.

At the congress, his Eighth Symphony and Prokofiev's Sixth Symphony became the target of criticism. The theme of both was war, tragic and terrible, as these opuses showed. But what the formalist composers lacked was the understanding—how little they understood—that war was majestic and triumphant, it deserved to be glorified! And these two fall into "unhealthy individualism" and "pessimism." He was not going to participate in the congress of the Union of Composers. Because he got sick. But in fact, because he was close to suicide. Sent a letter of apology to the congress. The apologies were rejected. Moreover, the congress announced its intention to continue its work until the personal appearance of the notorious recidivist Dmitry Dmitrievich Shostakovich: if necessary, it was supposed to convene a council for the purpose of diagnosis and treatment. “And there is no protection from the fates,” he went to the congress. He was warned to prepare for public repentance. Walking to the podium, he tried to think of something to say, and then a ready-made text of the speech was thrust into his hand. He hummed monotonously into the microphone. He promised to write melodious music for the People in the future, following the instructions of the Party. In the middle of his speech, he raised his head from the official paper, looked around the audience and said helplessly:
– It always seems to me that when I write sincerely and the way I feel, then my music cannot be “against” the Folk and that in the end I myself am a representative ... albeit to a small extent ... of our Folk.

He returned from the congress in a semi-conscious state. He was removed from his professorial posts at the Moscow and Leningrad conservatories. He thought it might be better to lie low. However, instead he undertook - following the example of Bach - to write preludes and fugues. Naturally, the first thing they were given a dressing down: he was accused of distorting the "surrounding reality." And he still could not forget the words - partly his own, partly typed for him on a piece of paper - that had been flying off his tongue in recent weeks. He not only accepted the criticism of his works, but also met her with applause. In fact, he renounced "Lady Macbeth". And he remembered what he once said to a familiar composer about artistic honesty and personal honesty, as well as about the role of each.

Now, after a year of disgrace, he had a Second Conversation with the Power. Thunder, contrary to the well-known saying, struck from a cloud, and not from a dunghill. On March 16, 1949, they were sitting at home with Nina and the composer Levitin. The phone rang; he picked up the receiver, listened, frowned, and announced to his wife and guest:
Stalin will speak.
Nita rushed into another room to the parallel machine.
“Dmitry Dmitrievich,” came the voice of the Authority, “how is your health?”
- Thank you, Iosif Vissarionovich, everything is fine. Only the stomach hurts.
- That's not the point. The doctor will examine you.
– No, thank you. I do not need anything. I have everything.
- Well, that's good.
There was a pause. Then the same voice with a strong Georgian accent, which had been heard from millions of loudspeakers and radio stations all day long, asked if he knew that the World Congress of Scientists and Cultural Workers in Defense of Peace was scheduled in New York. He replied: Yes, I know.
- And what do you think about this?
- I think, Iosif Vissarionovich, that peace is always better than war.
- Fine. So, you will gladly join our delegation.
No, unfortunately I can't.
- You can not?
- Comrade Molotov has already asked me this question. I told him that I didn't feel well and I couldn't fly.
“In that case, I repeat, we will send a doctor to you.
- That's not the point. It makes me very sick. I can't stand flights.
- It's not a problem. The doctor will prescribe pills for you.
- Thank you for your concern.
- So you agree?
He stopped. Some part of consciousness suggested that one wrong syllable could lead him to the camps, and another part, surprisingly, did not feel fear.
- No, I really can’t, Iosif Vissarionovich. For a different reason.
- Yes?
- I don't have a coat. Without a tailcoat, it is impossible to perform in front of the public. I'm sorry, but at the moment I don't have the funds.
- A tailcoat is not in my direct competence, Dmitry Dmitrievich, but I am sure that the atelier of the Administration of the Central Committee of the Party will provide you with a concert costume, don’t worry.
But, unfortunately, there is another reason.
- What is the real reason for your refusal to travel?
Yes, it is quite possible that Stalin did not know everything.
- You see, the fact is that my position is very difficult. There, in America, my compositions are heard all the time, but not with us. It will be difficult for me to answer provocative questions from American correspondents. How can I go when my music is not played here?
- What do you mean, Dmitry Dmitrievich? Why are your works not performed?
- They are prohibited. Along with the works of some other members of the Union of Composers.
– Prohibited? Who banned?
- Glavrepertkom. Last year, the fourteenth of February. There is a whole list of compositions prohibited for execution. Because of this, concert organizations, as you understand, Iosif Vissarionovich, refuse to include my other works in their programs. And musicians are afraid to play them. So I can be said to have been blacklisted. And some of my colleagues too.
- From whom exactly did such an instruction come?
Apparently from the government.
“No,” said the voice of Power. We didn't give any such instructions.
Power plunged into thought; he didn't interfere.
- No. This is mistake. We will call our fellow censors to order. None of your writings are prohibited. They can be performed freely. As always.
Almost on the same day, he, like other composers, was sent a copy of the original decree. A document was attached to it, in which this decision was canceled as erroneous, and the Glavrepertkom was reprimanded. The document was signed: "Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the USSR I. Stalin."
And therefore had to fly to New York.

According to his observations, rudeness and tyranny always go hand in hand. He noted for himself that Lenin, when dictating his political testament and considering candidates for possible successors, stressed that Stalin was "too rude." It is outrageous, by the way, that in the musical world conductors are sometimes enthusiastically called "dictators". It is unacceptable to be rude to an orchestra player who is trying his best. And the tyrants themselves, these masters of the conductor's baton, revel in their rudeness, as if the orchestra only plays well when it is driven with a whip of mockery and humiliation.
All outdid Toscanini. He did not see this conductor live - he knew him only from recordings. Everything was wrong with that one: tempo, spirit, nuances ... Toscanini chopped the music like a vinaigrette, and even poured it with a disgusting sauce. This was no joke. Once the "maestro" sent him a recording of the Seventh Symphony. In the response letter, I had to point out numerous shortcomings in execution. Whether the great conductor received this letter, and if he did, whether he delved into its essence, remained unknown. Apparently, he thought that a letter, by definition, should contain only praises, because quite soon the good news arrived in Moscow: Dmitry Dmitrievich Shostakovich was elected an honorary member of the Toscaninian Society! And immediately parcels rained down on him with gift gramophone recordings of musical works conducted by an eminent slave driver. He didn’t even listen to these records, but simply put them in a pile so that he could give them away later. Not to friends, of course, but to some of his acquaintances, people of a special sort, who, as he knew in advance, would be delighted.
It was not about amour propre and, in fact, was not only about music. Some conductors yelled and cursed at the musicians, rolled up scenes, threatened to fire the first clarinetist for being late. And the orchestra members, forced to put up with this, spread tales behind the conductor's back, exposing him as a "real beast." Over time, they themselves began to share the conviction of this lord of the wand that they could only play tolerably to the whistle of the whip. This crowded herd of masochists, who no-no and exchanged ironic remarks among themselves, generally admired their leader for his nobility and high ideals, understanding of the goal, ability to have a broader view than the one who buries in his office wiping his pants at the desk. Let the maestro occasionally, only out of necessity, show a tough temper, but he is a great leader, you need to follow him. And after that, who will deny that the orchestra is a microcosm, a cast of society?

When such conductors, ready to yell even at the score, imagined a mistake or error, he, as a composer, had a ritual, polite answer ready, honed to perfection over many years.
He presented the following dialogue.
Power: Listen, we made a revolution!
Citizen Second Oboe: Yes, of course, your revolution is wonderful. This is a giant step forward from what it was before. Indeed, a huge achievement. But from time to time a thought comes to me... Maybe I'm deeply mistaken... but is it really necessary to shoot all these engineers, military leaders, scientists, musicologists? To rot millions in the camps, using fellow citizens as slaves and driving them to death, to inspire fear in everyone and everyone, to beat out false confessions - and all under the banner of revolution? Hundreds of people every night expect to be pulled out of bed, taken to the Big House or the Lubyanka, forced under torture to sign fabricated denunciations, and then shot in the back of the head? See, I'm just confused.
Power: Yes, yes, I understand your position. You are absolutely right. But let's leave it as it is for now. I'll take your comment into account next time.

For more than one year, he made his usual toast at the New Year's table. Three hundred and sixty-four days a year, willy-nilly, every day the country listened to the insane assurances of the Power: that everything is for the best in this best of worlds; that heaven on earth has already been built - well, or is about to be built as soon as we cut down another forest, and millions of chips will scatter around, and there will be nothing left - to shoot a couple of thousand more pests. That better times will come - no, it seems that they have already come. And on the three hundred and sixty-fifth day, he, raising his glass, solemnly said: “Let's drink to something that is not better!”

Russia, of course, has known tyrants before; because of this, irony flourished among the people. As they say, "Russia is the birthplace of elephants." All inventions were made in Russia, because… well, first of all, this is Russia, where you won't surprise anyone with prejudices; and secondly, because now it is already Soviet Russia, a country with the highest level of social development in the history of mankind: naturally, all discoveries are made here. When the Ford Automobile Concern refused to produce the “Model A”, the Country of Soviets bought up all the production facilities, and - lo and behold! - genuine twenty-seater buses and light trucks developed in the USSR appeared to the world! The same is in tractor construction: from American conveyors , exported from America and assembled by American specialists, domestic tractors suddenly began to come off. Or, for example, they copied the Leica camera - and immediately the FED was born, named after Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky and therefore completely domestic. Who said that time miracles passed? And after all, all of the above was achieved through names - their transformative power is truly revolutionary. Or take, for example, the well-known French loaf. For many years it was just called that. But one fine day, the French loaf disappeared from the shelves. Instead, a "city loaf" appeared - naturally, one to one, but already as a patriotic product of Soviet cities.

When it became impossible to tell the truth (since it was punishable by death), they had to disguise it. In Jewish folk tradition, dance serves as a mask for despair. And here irony has become a mask of truth. Because the ear of a tyrant is usually not tuned to it. The generation of old Bolsheviks who made the Revolution did not understand this; partly for this reason, among them there were especially many victims. The current generation, his own, grasped the situation intuitively. And therefore, having agreed to fly to New York, the very next day he wrote a letter with the following content:

Dear Joseph Vissarionovich!
First of all, please accept my heartfelt gratitude for yesterday's conversation. You supported me very much, as the upcoming trip to America worried me a lot. I am proud of the trust placed in me and I undertake to justify it. It is a great honor for me to speak on behalf of the great Soviet people for the cause of peace. My indisposition will not be able to interfere with the fulfillment of such a responsible mission.
Putting his signature, he doubted that the Great Leader and Teacher would read it personally. Apparently, the general meaning will be given to him, and the letter will be filed in the appropriate folder and sent out of sight to the archive. There it will probably disappear for decades, and possibly for two hundred billion years, after which someone will read it and begin to rack their brains: what, in fact, did the sender mean by this?

Ideally, a young man should not be ironic. In the young, irony impedes development, dulls the imagination. It is better to start life with an open visor, with faith in others, with optimism, with trust in everyone and in everything. And only then, having come to an understanding of things and people, you can cultivate irony in yourself. The natural course of human life is from optimism to pessimism, and irony helps to soften pessimism, helps to achieve balance and harmony.
But this world is not perfect, and therefore irony grows here in an unexpected and strange way. In one night, like a mushroom; merciless, like a cancerous tumor.

Sarcasm is dangerous for the user, because it is perceived as the language of a saboteur and a pest. And irony somewhere, in something (he hoped) makes it possible to preserve everything of value, even at a time when the noise of time rattles so that window panes fly out. And what is of value to him? Music, family, love. Love, family, music. The order of priorities may change. Can irony protect his music? As much as irony remains a secret language that allows you to carry values ​​past unwanted ears. But it cannot exist solely as a code: sometimes straightforwardness is needed in a statement. Can irony protect his children? Maxim, ten years old, was forced to publicly slander his father at a school exam in music. Then what is the use of irony for Galya and Maxim?
And love ... not his own awkward, confused, excitedly, tiresome declarations of love, but love as such: he always believed that love as a natural element is indestructible and that in the face of an impending threat it is possible to protect it, cover it up, wrap it up with irony. Now that confidence has waned. Since tyranny has been so successful in destroying that it is worth it to destroy love at the same time, intentionally or inadvertently? Tyranny requires love for the party, for the state, for the Great Leader and Helmsman, for the people. But from such great, noble, disinterested, unconditional "loves" is distracted by love for a single person, bourgeois and voluntaristic. And in the current situation, people are constantly in danger of not saving themselves entirely. If they are consistently terrorized, they mutate, shrink, shrink - all these are survival techniques. And therefore, he was not only in anxiety, but often in fierce fear: in fear because love was living out its last days.

They cut down the forest - the chips fly: this is what the builders of socialism say. And suddenly, lowering the ax, you will see that you have exhausted the whole forest into chips?

At the height of the war, he wrote "Six romances on verses by English poets" - one of those works that the Glavrepertkom banned, and later allowed by Stalin. The fifth romance was for Shakespeare's sixty-sixth sonnet: "Being exhausted by everything, I want to die ..." As a Russian, he loved Shakespeare and knew his work well from Pasternak's translations. When Pasternak read the sixty-sixth sonnet from the stage, the audience listened anxiously to the first two quatrains and waited tensely for the ninth line:
And remember that thoughts are closed mouth.
In this place, everyone turned on: some barely audibly, some in a whisper, the bravest - fortissimo, but no one doubted the truth of these words, no one wanted his thoughts to be shut up.
Yes, he loved Shakespeare; Even before the war, he wrote music for the play Hamlet. Who would doubt Shakespeare's deep understanding of the human soul and life circumstances? Has anyone been able to surpass "King Lear" in depicting the all-encompassing collapse of human illusions? No, not like that: not a crash, because a crash implies a sudden deep crisis, and human illusions rather crumble, gradually fading away. The process is long and painful, a toothache of the soul. But the tooth can be pulled out - and the pain will pass. And illusions, already dead, rot within us, exuding a stench. We can't get away from their taste and smell. We always carry them with us. He is definitely.
Is it possible not to love Shakespeare? At least for the fact that Shakespeare loved music. It permeates all his plays, even tragedies. Take, for example, the moment when Lear shakes off his madness to the sound of music... And The Merchant of Venice, where Shakespeare directly says: one who has no music in his soul is capable of robbery, treason, cunning, and you can’t believe this. That is why tyrants hate music, no matter how they try to portray otherwise. However, they hate poetry even more. Unfortunately, he was not able to attend that evening of Leningrad poets, when, at the appearance of Akhmatova, the audience jumped up as one and gave an ovation. Stalin, when he was informed, furiously demanded an answer: “Who organized the rising?” And even more than poetry, tyrants shy away and are afraid of the theater: "Who organized the rise?" Shakespeare holds a mirror to nature, and who wants to see their own reflection? No wonder that Hamlet remained banned for a long time; Stalin hated this tragedy almost as violently as he did Macbeth.
However, for all that, Shakespeare, who knows no equal in depicting tyrants knee-deep in blood, was a little naive. Because these monsters were tormented by doubts, bad dreams, remorse, guilt. They were the spirits of the slain. But in real life, in conditions of real terror, where does a troubled conscience come from? Where do bad dreams come from? This is just sentimentality, false optimism, the hope to see the world the way we want, and not the way it is. Among those who swing an ax so that the chips fly, who smoke Belomor at their desk in the Big House, who sign orders and make phone calls, who put an end to your business, and at the same time in life, there are many among them those who are tormented by bad dreams or have ever seen before them someone's reproachful spirit?

As Ilf and Petrov said, "you must not only love the Soviet government, you must make it love you too." The Soviet government never loved him himself. The origin let us down: from the liberal intelligentsia of the suspicious city of St. Leninburg. The purity of worker-peasant blood was valued by the Soviet authorities no less than Aryan purity by the Nazis. And besides, he had enough self-conceit (or stupidity) to notice and remember that yesterday's words of the party often run counter to today's. He wanted to live surrounded by music, family and friends - the simplest desire, but completely unrealizable. Someone constantly needed to process his soul, as well as the souls of the rest. Someone needed him to be reforged like the slave builders of the White Sea-Baltic Canal. Someone needed an "optimistic Shostakovich." The world is drowning in blood and slurry, and you know smile. But the artist has a different mental organization: pessimistic, nervous. So someone needs to excommunicate you from art. However, people of art who have nothing to do with art, and so bred in abundance! As Chekhov said, if you are served coffee, do not try to look for beer in it.
Yes, and not everyone has political skills: for example, he did not learn to lick his boots, he did not know how to seize the moment to start weaving nets against the innocent or betray friends. For such tasks, someone like Khrennikov is better suited. Tikhon Nikolaevich Khrennikov: a composer with a bureaucratic soul. Khrennikov's hearing is mediocre, but his nose for power is absolute. Rumor has it that he is a creature of Stalin himself, who has a flair for such appointments. As they say, the fisherman is the fisherman...
Among other things, Khrennikov was lucky to be born into a family of horse dealers. From childhood, he knew how to please buyers of horses, and later - those who, having donkey ears, gave instructions on the composition. From the mid-thirties, he smashed artists who were much more original and talented than some kind of Shostakovich, and after receiving the chair of the first secretary of the Union of Composers from Stalin in the forty-eighth year, he also took official power for himself. He led the persecution of formalists and rootless cosmopolitans, hiding behind verbiage, from which ears wither. He interfered with growth, crushed creativity, destroyed families ...
But his understanding of power can only be envied; here he has no equal. Signs hang in stores: "SELLER AND BUYER, BE MUTUALLY POLITE." But the seller is always more important: there are many buyers, and he is one. Similarly: there are many composers, but one first secretary. With his colleagues, Khrennikov behaves like a salesman who has never read courtesy signs. In his little world, he has achieved unlimited influence: both punishes and pardons. And like any exemplary official, he strictly follows the authorities.