tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45409772094367214672023-11-16T11:16:00.708+00:00Devil's TrillDespatches from planet classicalAndrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.comBlogger228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-89195667759501574162021-03-15T12:07:00.001+00:002021-03-15T19:32:55.025+00:00Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth (Part 5)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZxRxPSrad0wPbuV621Iv4xpaRKwSiS_WZ7orHqrArPDu_wf5-Y-aKJtvBJh0z8bv_R7FePmhTmPDIqAiYy8xjk26v3kzjMFb_Nrvwfjx-QXmC7bvqVi_s-UCg5QgT8Uzoqx91L4WVDM//" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="360" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUZxRxPSrad0wPbuV621Iv4xpaRKwSiS_WZ7orHqrArPDu_wf5-Y-aKJtvBJh0z8bv_R7FePmhTmPDIqAiYy8xjk26v3kzjMFb_Nrvwfjx-QXmC7bvqVi_s-UCg5QgT8Uzoqx91L4WVDM/w432-h640/image.png" width="432" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Shostakovich talking with Rudolf Barshai in the early 1970s</div><br />And here is the final part of my book. I am really pleased with a lot of what's in this part (if I say so myself), though there are a few things I would like to change, including one bit that I don't think works at all. If you've made it this far and would like to let me know what you think, you can leave a comment or email me via the contact form. Maybe one day you'll get to see this with pictures and world bubbles? We can but dream.<p></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part 5 – Spring
1969</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 1<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Moscow</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rudolf Barshai is
getting ready to leave his apartment. He puts on a scarf and picks up his bag.
He opens his door. A postman is outside. He looks up and hands Barshai two
pieces of mail.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Postman:</b>
Comrade Barshai.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Rudolf Barshai:</b>
Thank you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barshai opens the
first letter, which reads:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“In response to the request of 14<sup>th</sup> January,
the District Union of Workers has decided that Comrade Barshai has no need for
a telephone”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> No need!
My mistake.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The second letter
is a telegram, which reads:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Rudolf Borisovich, please ring me as soon as possible! D
Shostakovich”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RB leaves his
building, heads to a call box. He has to wait. When his turn comes, he dials
the number.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Dmitri
Dmitrievich, this is Barshai.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Rudolf Borisovich!
This is most urgent. How many percussionists do you have in your orchestra?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Err… two,
but we find more when necessary.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Very good.
Wonderful! This is very important information for me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Can I ask
what you are working…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RB starts, but
there is *click*. DS has hung up.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Later, RB is on the
podium, in front of the Moscow Chamber Orchestra.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> We’ll pick
it up from there after lunch.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Assistant:</b>
Rudolf Borisovich, telegram for you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RB opens the
telegram, which reads:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Rudolf Borisovich – please ring me most urgently! D Shostakovich”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RB is next seen on
the phone.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> How many
double basses can you get?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> As many as
you need.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Excellent!
Thank you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He hangs up. RB
hangs up, again a little confused. The phone then rings. He answers.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Rudolf
Borisovich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I have too
much to ask you! What’s the earliest you could see me?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 2</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Town of Zhukovka,
near Moscow.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">RB steps off a bus
on a leafy street, carrying a folder in his hand. Around him are the signs of
spring: he wears a coat, but there are buds and leaves on the trees. He walks
along a wide track lined with rough trees and bushes. A cat walks in front of
him; he reaches down to stroke its head. He then comes to a wooden house. He
looks at the house, then checks a piece of paper with an address on it. He
looks around. While he has his back turned to the house, Irina Shostakovich
appears at the front door.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Rudolf
Borisovich!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Irina
Antonovna!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Won’t you
come in? Mitya’s so looking forward to seeing you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Of course.
I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> He’ll
explain everything.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They enter the
house. DS is sitting with Kirill Kondrashin, who leaps up and strides over to
RB.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> Rudik!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Kirya –
good to see you! I didn’t know you were involved with this.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> I’m not.
The honour falls elsewhere this time, my old friend.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS is trying to
stand, with great effort.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Dmitri
Dmitrievich, please don’t worry…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mitya.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I’m fine!
Thank you so much for coming.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> It’s an
honour to be invited.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mitya, a
drink for the occasion?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Go ahead,
please! But I’d better stick to my prescription.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> What’s
that?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Water.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina is getting
glasses and pouring vodka, which she hands around.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> What’s the
occasion?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Well, the
birth of something special. I do think this one is very special, actually.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> A
landmark.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Thank you,
Kirill Petrovich! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(to RB) </i>Did you get
the poems?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I did.
Quite a journey, though, I think you omitted the title?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I’ve
finally settled on Symphony No 14.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> Isn’t it
wonderful? We’ve waited with baited breath, Rudik!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Well I’ll
drink to that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They drink. RB then
gestures to a large book on the table.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> And is
this it?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS sits back down.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Mm. Doesn’t
look much, like that, but in there are the darkest things I could dream.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> The verses
were… astonishing.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> They still
chill me. All those poets were young. They didn’t see old age.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> Well I’m
eager to hear it. This seems something very new.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I really
don’t think I’ve written anything to equal it. My whole life has been moving
towards this point. I thought at one time that my best music belonged to my
youth, but here we are.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Is the
premiere arranged?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Hardly.
I’ve yet to ask the conductor!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Who is it
to be?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I’m really
hoping that you will do me the honour.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Are you…
serious?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Oh, but if
it’s not…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> It would
be the greatest honour of my life.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Thank
goodness! I’ve rather fallen in love with your wonderful chamber orchestra.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I only
hope I can do it some justice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> You are
younger than me. But you know the truth of what it says. I’m sure of it. I know
you were only a boy, but you remember that time. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(He looks at Irina)</i> Youth couldn’t hide any of us from that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I must say
I’m dying to have a closer look at the score…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Don’t
worry, Rudolf Borisovich. We’re alone.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Yes…
alright. I suppose one looks for a way out of talking about… that sort of thing.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I know. I
do. I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding tricky subjects. When I was young, I let
them talk me out of writing tricky music. I suppose it was the sin of wanting
to live. But I’m not young now. While I can see, and hear, and put the pen on
the paper, I want to address this… end that is waiting for all of us. I want to
tell everyone that they’re not alone, that we’ve all seen it and lived with it.
Will you help me, Rudolf Borisovich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> There’s no
question.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I’m so
very grateful. You recall what Apollinaire says? “The day is dying, see how a
lamp/ is burning in the prison./ We are alone in my cell,/ fair light, beloved
reason.” Let us be the lamp.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS starts to stand
again.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I’d really
like to play the symphony for you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina and Barshai
move to steady him.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Don’t
worry! I’m alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 3</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outside the Zhukovka
dacha. Kondrashin is walking with Barshai, and waving back to Irina, who is
stood in the door of the house. They walk away up the track towards the road.
Some time passes between them before either speaks.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> This is
all… unexpected.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> What were
you expecting?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I don’t
know. To give some advice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> He doesn’t
need advice. He doesn’t take it, anyway!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Well I can
happily comment on matters of orchestral texture. But what this symphony says –
I can barely take it in.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> That’s why
he writes this stuff down – so there’s at least a blueprint. But you and I – we
only need to understand so much.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Were you
hurt? That he didn’t choose you?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> Not at
all. I had my holy scripture. And Melodiya were good enough to issue the Gospel
According to Kirill Petrovich on long-playing record.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I don’t
know if I’m ready to be an apostle.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> It’s like
he said. This country made you ready.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I’ll have
to approach Khrennikov.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KK:</b> Details.
Khrennikov can foul up your plans, if he pleases, but you’ll come through. This
is a gift, one we are uncommonly lucky to have been granted. It will live on
when you and I are just footnotes in a book or names on a record sleeve.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 4</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In Tikhon
Khrennikov’s office. Khrennikov sits behind a large desk. Barshai is on the
other side, lower than Khrennikov. Khrennikov is reading some papers. There is
silence. Eventually:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Tikhon Khrennikov:</b>
This is not ideal. These texts and their subjects are… unfortunate.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I think
it’s a very important work. Very deeply felt, very serious.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> That may
be. This is Lenin’s anniversary year. Perhaps Comrade Shostakovich has
forgotten…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> … I don’t
think there’s anything wrong with Dmitri Dmitrievich’s memory…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> … and
after his good sense with the symphonic poem October, it would have been
expected that he might produce something more in the spirit of this time of
celebration.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Should you
decide to refuse permission then…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> Refuse?
Refuse? We are not in the business of censorship, Rudolf Borisovich.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I have
been advised that space at the Conservatoire might be…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> Despite
what you might think, allocation of performance and rehearsal space is not a
simple matter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> But this
is Shostakovich we’re talking about.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(after a pause, in which TK leans forward in
his chair)</i> We are talking about complicated arrangements. At the very
least, we will require an audition for the symphony, in order to be certain
that scheduling it for public performance does not have… unfortunate
consequences for anyone involved.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> And then
you’ll authorise a premiere?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TK:</b> I’m sure I
needn’t remind you that the Union of Composers does not allow or prevent
anyone’s music being heard. It is simply the responsibility of the composer in
question to ensure that their work is fit for public consumption.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 5</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At DS’s Moscow
apartment. Irina is on the phone. As she speaks, DS appears behind her, looking
somewhat worried.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Did he
give you a date? That’s a pity. I’ll pass that on. Mitya’s very worried about
the score – are they nearly finished with it? ... Oh. Well, we’ll see you next
week then, Rudolf Borisovich. ... And to you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS is now in the
next room, looking at a game of patience laid out on the table.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Barshai
says Khrennikov’s demanding a run-through. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(There’s
no response)</i> Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina gets up and
approaches DS, who’s standing at the table. She looks round him at the cards on
the table.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> The 3 on
the 4?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Uh… I
looked right through that. I can barely think!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> You
mustn’t worry. The score will be back in no time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Maybe
you’ve more faith in copyists than I do. No one ever saw the score of the 4<sup>th</sup>
Symphony again. They had to stich it all together again from the parts.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Barshai
says they’re nearly done with it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Barshai?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Yes, he
was just on the phone.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> You didn’t
say.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mitya, I
have letters to write.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina goes back to
the other room. DS goes to the piano and picks out a tune with one hand. Irina
is sorting papers when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Isaak Glikman.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Issak
Davidovich! This is an unexpected pleasure.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Irina!
Yes, I arrived a day early and wanted to come straight over.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> He’ll be
glad of the distraction. Me too. He’s worried sick about them losing his
symphony.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Well, I’ve
news from Kozintsev on King Lear. Might take his mind off it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina takes
Glikman’s coat. Glikman goes to the door of the room in which DS is poking at
the piano. He waits a moment.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Give me a
few more notes – I’m sure I’ll have the tune.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS spins around.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Issak
Davidovich! I thought you were…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Tomorrow.
Yes. I came early. I hope you don’t mind.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Just as
long as you’re not hiding any well-wishers.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> I think I
shook them at the station. Listen, Dmitri Dmitrievich, I have some news of
Grigori Kozintsev.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> There’s
too little time for well-wishers.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Kozintsev?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Oh? How is
he?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Alright.
No younger. Working on Lear.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Does he
want me?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> You are
his first choice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> How can I
commit? Is he close to shooting?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> He’s…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I might
die before they ever play my symphony. How can I think about film music?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> He’d just
like to talk some things over.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I don’t
have the capacity… I keep playing the symphony, again and again. Maybe it won’t
fall out of my head then. If they lose it, maybe I can write it out again. But
if I die, what then? No score, no composer? What if I go? I wait to be taken in
the night, but you don’t know when! That particular visitor doesn’t do the
courtesy of knocking on the front door.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Alright.
No plans. Kozintsev will wait. But I don’t think talking about tomorrow, or
next month, or even next year will make them less likely to happen. I’ll leave
this with Irina Antonovna, and if you want to look, then that’s up to you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glikman steps out
of the room to see Irina.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> He’s in a
state.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> I know.
It’s hard to see him like this. It’s getting hard.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There’s a knock at
the door.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Now who
could that…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina opens the
door. It’s Maxim and his young son Dmitri.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Maxim! How
good to see you! And little Mitya too!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Little Mitya:</b>
Hello Irina Antonovna.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> What
excellent manners!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MS:</b> I think
they skipped my generation - apologies for not phoning ahead.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> You
wouldn’t have got through – it’s barely stopped.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MS:</b> And Isaak
Davidovich! This is a fine little reunion.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> We seem to
be called together at such moments.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS joins them in
the hall.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Little Mitya:</b>
Dedushka!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Maxim! And
little Mitya! Are you scoring lots of goals for me?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Little Mitya:</b>
Some. But I like being in goal.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Good. That
was my position, once upon a time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS pats little
Mitya on the head.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> A fine lad.
What a fine lad.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Won’t you
come and have some tea?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As the visitors
head into the apartment, DS turns to Glikman:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> You know,
when I see little Mitya, I remember that when I’m gone, I won’t really be gone!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 6<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At a rehearsal for
the 14<sup>th</sup> Symphony. Barshai is conducting the Moscow Chamber
Orchestra in a large rehearsal room. DS and Irina are sitting behind.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Rudolf
Borisovich says the run-through is confirmed for 21<sup>st</sup> June.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> It’ll be
heard at least once, then!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> The first
of many, Mitya.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barshai is seen
conducting the orchestra. DS is captivated. Barshai stops the orchestra, and a
hand is seen prodding him sharply in the back. He looks around with real
surprise. DS is grinning, standing behind him.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Keep
going! I never imagined it would sound this good!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 7<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At the
Shostakovichs’ Moscow apartment. DS is standing, looking at the front door. He
looks down at some papers he is holding. He then rubs his face, and has an
anguished expression.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Is there
time for patience? No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d have a drink,
if only Dr Ilizarov hadn’t been quite so firm about it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS puts down the
papers and picks up a tie. Putting it around his neck, he motions to the paper
and says:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Did you
have a look my notes?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> I did.
There are some powerful things there.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Hopefully
it’ll convince one or two sceptics to humour me for an hour or so, just as long
as I don’t lose my voice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS fumbles with his
tie.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina comes to tie
it for him.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Oh it
isn’t usually this bad!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mm, though
this is a particularly special one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> It is, you
know. I think it’s my best. I think it might also be my last.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> You’ve
said that before.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I feel I
might not have any choice in it this time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> You’ve
said that before too!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina straightens
his tie and buttons his jacket.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Irischka,
what would our lives have been like if we could have met when we were both
young?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Well,
you’d have been able to tie your own tie and there’d have been nothing for me
to do!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> You might
have had a family of your own.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mitya,
you’re my family.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS Smile gently.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Now, come
on. Let’s go and hear it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 8</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Small Hall of
the Moscow Conservatory. We see DS sitting, looking anxious.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> It’s
alright Mitya. There are friends all around.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS looks surprised.
He turns and sees Aram Khachaturian.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> We
wouldn’t miss this, my old friend!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Slava Rostropovich
and Galina Vishnevskaya are beside Khachaturian.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GV:</b> Hello
Dmitri Dmitrievich!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Did you
see Maxim over there?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maxim waves.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> And look,
Kirill Kondrashin. And Grigori Kozintsev too.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kondrashin and
Kozintsev wave.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Further away,
Khrennikov is sitting with Pavel Apostolov.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Khrennikov:</b>
Who’s he talking to now? Pavel, can you see? I can’t see.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Apostolov:</b> No…
I can’t…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">At that moment,
Barshai walks on to the stage, bows, and gestures to DS. DS stands, turns
sideways, and speaks to the audience. He is holding a folded piece of paper in
his hand.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> We… We are
going to rehearse my... my 14<sup>th</sup> Symphony.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Audience member:</b>
Is that Shostakovich speaking?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Audience member 2:</b>
Shush! I can’t hear what he’s saying!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I would
like to say a few words about this piece. Err… there are 11 poems. I’m not
going to read them – I read out badly – but this is the gist </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Khrennikov:</b>
What’s the matter with you?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Apostolov:</b> I
don’t feel so good.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> The first
two are by Federico Garcia Lorca. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">De
profundis</i> is about the very severe and threatening calm that you find in
graveyards, then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Malaguena</i>, a Spanish
dance, happens at a tavern where there are drunken fights. Knives are drawn and
death comes in and reaps his bloody harvest. After this are six poems by
Guillaume Apollinaire. Lorelei lives for love, but is a sentenced by judges and
a bishop to imprisonment in a convent. But she escapes and falls into the Rhine
where she imagines that her beloved is waiting for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After this comes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Suicide, </i>about the suffering and torments of a man who takes
his own life. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On Watch</i>, a bullet
catches up with a soldier. His beloved has a premonition about it. The next
poem seems to be about the same woman, who hysterically mourns her lost love.
The seventh poem, also by Apollinaire, is a noble and decent protest against
injustice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">The next poem is by Wilhelm Kuchelbecker, the Russian
Decembrist poet. It’s a message to his friend Delvig, about the beauty of many
things: creative work, the struggle for great ideals, and friendship. Oh, and I
forgot: Before that, there is a is the letter from the Zaporozhian Cossacks to
the Sultan of Constantinople, which expresses great outrage and hatred towards
everything that is evil, base, dirty and repulsive. The penultimate poem grieves
for a great poet who had just passed away, and this little poem tells us that
death is lying in wait for us everywhere.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">You are probably wondering why it should be that I have
suddenly decided to devote so much attention to such a cruel and terrible
phenomenon as death. These things play on the mind. I am not so old, I suppose,
but I feel the shells are falling closer and closer to me and taking with them friends
and dear ones.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We see Ivan
Sollertinsky.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">And all this reminds me constantly of those words of
Nikolai Ostrovsky, that life is given to you only once and it needs to be lived
honestly, beautifully in every respect and in such a way as to not do anything
shameful.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We see Nina
Shostakovich, with DS half in the frame.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">When writing this symphony, I thought of the death of
Boris Godunov: When Godunov is finished off, a moment of lightness seems to set
in. This comes, I think from religious beliefs, which I do not share: though
life may be bad, when you died everything would be alright, and you could
expect complete peace in the next world. Death terrifies me, because I see
nothing beyond it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We see a number of
the Babi Yar Jews.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I myself feel closer to Mussorgsky, whose cycle <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Songs and Dances of Death</i> is a great
protest against death and a reminder that one should live one’s life honestly,
nobly and decently and never do anything bad. For, alas, it will be a long time
before our scientists figure out immortality, and death awaits us all. I see
nothing good about such an end to our lives.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We see Irina as a
child, with her parents.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">We are going to play the symphony now, and I must ask you
to be very quiet as we wish to record it to see what problems there are. I am
sorry for this.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS sits down. He
smiles to Irina and takes her hand. Then, he waves to Barshai, who is ready to
start on the stage.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barshai conducts.
The bass sings the first song. Then, we see Apostolov in the audience, who is
looking very ill.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Khrennikov:</b>
What has got into you!?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apostolov suddenly
stands, clutching his chest with a pained expression on his face and bulging
eyes. He reaches the aisle, and staggers for the exit. There are gasps and
mutterings from the audience. The performance continues. In the hall foyer,
Apostolov falls to his knees, and then lands face-down on the floor. He is
dead. As he falls and dies, we see the performance come to an end in the hall,
with strings scrubbing and Barshai’s wide eyes in close-up. His hand is raised.
There is silence. DS’s head drops in seeming exhaustion. Then there is great
applause. DS rises to his feet and moves slowly to the stage. He goes onstage
and bows. When he returns, he thanks some people as he passes them. His
attention is drawn to a developing crowd at the back of the hall.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS: </b>Ira,
what’s going on at the back?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Isaak says
it’s Pavel Apostolov. He had a heart attack! He’s dead!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> What?! Oh,
no, no. That’s not what I wanted. Not at all. My goodness.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> It’s not
your fault.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I didn’t
ask for this! Can’t we talk about death without being dogged by it?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the foyer, amid
a crowd, Apostolov’s covered body is being taken away on a stretcher.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On one page, we see
a number of Shostakovich’s relatives and friends, and each is speaking about
what they have just heard.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maxim is speaking
to his wife:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Maxim:</b> My God.
Do you think the music did that? He hounded father, you know.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grigory Kozintsev
is speaking to an unseen companion:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kozintsev:</b>
There were so many images in there. I suppose that’s the film-maker’s curse!
But I need time to work through it all.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kondrashin is
speaking to a companion:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kondrashin:</b>
His way with humour amazes me. How did do it, in this of all pieces?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Companion:</b> I’m
sure I heard some dancing skeletons!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kondrashin:</b>
Exactly!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Galina
Vishnevskaya is speaking to Mstislav Rostropovich:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Vishnevskaya:</b>
It’s all so unspeakably tragic. But true, no? I can barely wait to sing it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS is being
congratulated by members of the audience. Irina handy back. Glikman and Irina
speak:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> I haven’t
had the pleasure of seeing this one being created.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> You see
the bits and pieces, but you can’t imagine what it is until, well, now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> It’s
beyond our comprehension, yes. I think he’s made a mighty tombstone. But it
isn’t impassive. It grips me and forbids me to blink. And where ever I go, I’ll
carry it with me. It’s for all those who don’t have a grave of their own, I
think.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Now they
have this.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Let’s hope
it lasts and very long time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Mm. I’m
sorry, Isaak Davidovich. My head is swimming with many things.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> It’s
alright. It takes a lot of strength, to be this close to the flame.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> It’s not
that. I’m just overwhelmed by thoughts… and memories.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> There’s
much to say. But maybe, away from so many burning ears.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS is standing in
the crowd, and is approached by Khachaturian.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> Dmitri
Dmitrievich! Remarkable. I’m awed and shaken, in equal measure.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Thank you,
Aram Il’yich, Thank you!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just then, some
other people approach, congratulating DS. He thanks them. When the leave, AK
leans in.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> What do
you see when you imagine death?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Well, I,
er…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> We’ve seen
him, you and I! Although not for…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He abruptly
straightens and smiles and more people pass nearby.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> … Yes
Dmitri Dmitrievich! We must speak more about the orchestration.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As the people pass
away, AK leans back in, conspiratorially:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">AK:</b> What I
mean to say is: He had a face. We saw him, you and I, and I might have thought
him immortal, had I not seen his open casket. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">More well-wishers
pass, and when they’ve gone, DS realises that AK has vanished. Irina meets him.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> I can go
and bring the car round now, unless you want to stay? Are you alone?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Aram
Khachaturian and I were just reminiscing, but he’s gone. Is… Apostolov still
out there?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> I saw an
ambulance, but...</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I think
I’d just like to go home now. I’ve summoned something and I’d like to slip out
before it sees me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina takes DS’s
hand and they smile to each other. We see Glikman, standing apart and looking
on at them. He has a melancholy expression.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 9</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Outside the hall.
DS gets into the waiting car. IG is already waiting inside. Barshai comes out
to see him off. Kondrashin is there also. Barshai speaks briefly to Irina.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> Is he
happy, do you think?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> He is very
happy, but tired.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RB:</b> I’m so
thrilled.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> He’ll be
in touch, soon.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irina gets into the
front of the car, and Barshai<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and
Kondrashin wave it off.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Kondrashin:</b>
Good job, Rudik. Good job. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 10<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In the car.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> There’s
another of your wonderful symphonies in the world. Will you have a drink to
celebrate?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I mustn’t.
And they might still refuse permission!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Ach, not
now. Every writer and musician in Moscow was there.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> And many
asked me to pass on their congratulations.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> They’re
all too kind, of course.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Anyway,
there’s no way our esteemed colleagues at the Composer’s Union will want to
spread the rumour that your symphonies are fatal for officials!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Please.
Don’t even joke about it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> I’m sorry.
But I did tell you there’d be surprises to come.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> I
surprised myself most of all! I’d so convinced myself I’d go before hearing the
thing that I can barely believe I’m still here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b> Well I
think we should have a drink to more surprises. And it’ll count, even if you
stick to water.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS:</b> Good surprises,
only. I don’t like the bad sort. No more of those, please.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG:</b> Of all the
people, though. You have to admit there’s certain poetry to it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DS: </b>No. There
is no poetry in death. That’s still a soul that’s gone forever, and it isn’t
for me to judge its value. It can strike at any moment. We are never safe. All any
of us can do is work, and keep on working, and die with our boots on. That’s
important. I mean to live by this rule.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He looks out the
window.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">In the morning, I think I might ring Rudolf Borisovich.
I’ve an idea I’d like to set some more poems soon. And there’s King Lear to
think about.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">You know what? I think I might have a little drink after
all.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The car drives
through Moscow.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The end.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-22180289643864866522021-03-14T21:43:00.002+00:002021-03-15T12:28:10.302+00:00Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth (Part 4)<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Here is part 4 of my written-but-as-yet-unillustrated graphic novel about Shostakovich in the 1960s, Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth. It includes an interlude set in 1965, which I'm not sure if I'll keep. Incidentally, a version of the final speech of part 4 was the first bit of the whole book I ever wrote. I was sitting on the steps of the Albert Hall in London in the summer of, I think, 2016, queueing for a BBC Prom concert.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">If you've landed on this page and want to start from the beginning of the book, click <a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-against-dry-earth-part.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Interlude – 1965</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At Shostakovich’s
Moscow apartment. DS is in his study. He is standing at his desk, holding the
pages of a letter in one hand.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(To himself)</i> Really… just… really.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina enters,
holding some papers.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> Are you
talking to me, Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(Briefly still reading)</i> How can… Irina,
have you seen this?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> No. I
haven’t started intercepting your mail!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b>
Tischenko’s gone too far. I need to tell him.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina sits, putting
down the papers.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> What
does he say?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> He’s been lecturing
me about Yevtushenko, saying… oh, are you sure? Aren’t you in the middle of
something?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> I’m
here now. Go on.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh… well
he’s setting me straight about Yevgeny Aleksandrovich. It’s nothing new. I
heard it all in ’62, though never from my own students.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> What
does he object to?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> He says
all Yevtushenko does is moralise, tell the reader not to be cruel or deceitful.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> What
does he think is wrong with that? It’s important to be reminded of these
things.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Quite! I
knew you’d agree.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> Are you
going to reply?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I wouldn’t
usually… but Tischenko is more talented than the others. He needs to know.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> <i>(getting up)</i> Do you want me to take it
down for you?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No –
I’ve already started. I’ve reached a third side already. <i>(Picking up his own letter)</i> So, I thank him for his letter –
there’s always room for civility, even in a telling off! Then – here we are –
“I am offended on behalf of my favourite poet, or one of my most favourite
poets - Yevtushenko. Let's put on one side such things as syllabic beauty,
inventive rhymes etc. I don't much understand things like that. You do not like
it that he sits on your shoulders and teaches you what you already know: "Don't
steal honey", "Don't lie" etc. I also know that one should not
do that. And I try not to do it. Except that it is never boring to me to hear
those thoughts repeated one more time. Perhaps Christ talked about such things
better, and maybe better than anyone. But that doesn't take away the right to
speak about such things from Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Chekhov, J.S.Bach,
Mahler, Mussorgsky…” Then I think I’ve gone round in circles, and I’ve put a
rather strange imagine in his mind, the pious composer… here: “Every morning,
instead of prayers, I bring to mind a couple of poems by Yevtushenko:
"Boots" and "A Career". "Boots" speaks of our
conscience, "A Career" speaks of morality. You cannot get rid of your
conscience. To lose a conscience is to lose everything.” And then after that
I’ve started quoting the bible. Whatever will he think of me? I’ll sound like
some aged father from the old days.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> No,
I think you’re quite right. Though…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b>
What, Ira? Please tell me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> It’s
just… I did feel Yevtushenko lost the moral high ground by changing <i>Babi Yar</i>.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Now,
I’m really not sore about that. He did what he thought he must.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> He
could have consulted you. He was your partner in the Thirteenth. I never told
you… that did anger me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> And
others. I know. But I do so admire him, and I do so hate falling out with
people. Now I suppose I’m heading for a falling out with Tischenko. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> But
you must defend what you believe. Shall I leave you to finish it off?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm.
I should. Though I’m rather losing faith in my own little sermon. I’ll see
Tischenko soon and I could mention it then. Though I probably won’t.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> Perhaps
speaking out is the best way to honour the poet’s best ideals. <i>(She gets up)</i> Call me if you want me to
read it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS gestures
his thanks as Irina leaves. He looks closely at his own letter. His shoulders
sink. Finally, he folds it and throws it into the bin. He leaves the room. The
room is empty for a frame. Irina enters, looks back to the door, then retrieves
it from the bin and reads.</i> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part 4<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 1</b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Early 1969. The
Kremlin Hospital, Moscow.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS is in a hospital
bed, in a private ward. There is a window behind him on his left. It’s daylight
outside. He is sleeping in a sitting position with his head bent forward. His
glasses are on the bed in front of him. A book is slipping from his hands.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>There is a shout
from beyond the ward. DS wakes up with a start, head jerking upright. He
reaches around for his glasses, finds them, and puts them on. He picks up the
book again – The Diary of Anne Frank – and squints at it, trying to find his
place. Finally, he gives up, places the book on the bed and looks around the
room, his eyes eventually falling downward.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A nurse enters the
ward.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Nurse:</b> Dmitri
Dmitrievich? Your wife is on the phone. Shall I bring it in?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes, thank
you! Very kind.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The nurse wheels in
the phone, which is on a trolley.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS Takes the
receiver and presses it to his ear.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ira?
Irischka? Can you hear me?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Yes Mitya.
I can … you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Say again?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I said…
Oh, it’s not a good line.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> In any
case, it’s wonderful to hear your voice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> And to …
yours too.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It must be
a relief to be free of all my needs! Nice and quiet.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> It is
quiet, yes, but I’m thinking about you all … time. I look at the clock and
think “it’s time to get Mitya some tea” but then you’re not there. Are they
bringing you tea?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Now and
then. I can’t complain.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Are you
sleeping?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes,
sometimes. The poor wretch along the corridor often cries out in the night. It
is rather frightening, though it must be hell for him.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Is there
anything the nurses can do? It’s important that you sleep.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m fine.
What have you been doing? I miss hearing about what you’ve been doing.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Editing
some articles. Nothing unusual.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Does that
mean the new issue is coming?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Not yet.
The last one will have to sustain you a little longer.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm. I’ve read
most of poems several times. There are some good ones. Which reminds me – did
you manage to find the Rilke volume?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> And the
Lorca, yes.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m
itching to see them again.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’ll bring
them with me as soon as I’m allowed.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I do hope
it’s soon. The nurses are tight lipped about the end of the quarantine. Some
nasty’s broken out, but they won’t say what. It could be days, or it could be a
week – two!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> As soon as
… let me … be with you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m dying
to see you and have a proper conversation. Though there’s something about the
quiet here. It’s given rise to strange and wild music – my thoughts are gripped
by it! I think something’s coming Ira, something that couldn’t have come a
moment before. Irina…? </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DS holds the phone away
from his head. The line is dead. He replaces the receiver.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 2<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Night, in the
hospital. DS is in bed, with the light on. In his hands is a large score –
Mussorgsky’s </i>Songs and Dances of Death<i>.
He is leafing the pages. He stops. He reads the vocal line.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“Forest and glades,
no one is around./ A snow storm is crying and groaning”.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>We see him from the
window, which is streaked with rain.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“It feels as in the
gloom of the night/ The Evil One is burying someone;/ Hush, it is so!”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS looks up. There
is a yelp from the man in the other room. DS sinks, in fright, further into his
bed.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 3 <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS is in his
hospital bed, asleep. IG sits beside the bed. There is a pile of books on the
bedside table.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS’s eyes open. He
opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Dmitri…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(groggily)</i> Irina… where?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> It’s Isaak
Davidovich.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(smiling weakly)</i> Ahh. Old friend. My
old…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> It’s ok.
No need to speak. Rest.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS reaches around
for his glasses and puts them on. He looks towards IG and sees the pile of
books.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> What’s
that… Rilke! Is Irina here?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> She is.
She’s only gone for a moment.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> You have
no idea how wonderful it is to see you. Peace and quiet is all very well, but I
could do without living through such a long spell again.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Fortunately,
you did live through it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Were many
taken? Poor souls.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> They
haven’t said. How are you feeling?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m fine.
Just fine. Though my hand is next to useless. And my legs are quite painful.
And I have a terror of waking up and finding I’ve lost my sight or the use of
the other hand. Or of not waking up at all. But I’m fine, really. Besides, I’ve had Anne
Frank for company.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> An apt
companion.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Now, Isaak
Davidovich. I don’t suppose anyone brought her three good meals a day. Enough
of me: have you been alright? Has Irina?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I’ve at
least been busy, and enjoying more letters that usual.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well, as I
said, time on my hands. And the replies cheered me up. Too much of my other
mail has been bringing news of deaths of people I knew when I was young.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At this moment, a
nurse and doctor enter the room.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Nurse:</b> Now,
Dmitri Dmitrievich, don’t move.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The nurse takes his
blood pressure and quotes it to the doctor, who writes it down. They leave.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(Looking glum)</i> They measure me all the
time. I’m surprised they don’t just count “days until expiration” and be done
with it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> It’s just
blood pressure. Nothing sinister. And anyway, Irina Antonovna is being stoic.
Let’s keep things bright for her.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I don’t
know what I’ve done to deserve that one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Come on –
you’ve given so much.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Stop it.
I’m not a saint. You always try to make me out to be some sort of superhuman,
but I’m not. I’m very human. I shit and piss and say stupid things. I’m one of
the worst there is. But I’ve been given an angel.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I don’t
want to hear you talking this way.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well,
they’ll all say it when I’m dead so why not now?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I won’t
let them.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Isaak
Davidovich! You’d have to live for ever – assuming anyone remembers who I was
half an hour after I’m gone – and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At this moment,
Irina enters the room.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> You’re
awake!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ira! What
a relief to see you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina goes to the
bed and kisses DS.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Who are
all those people out there?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I don’t
know, but I’ve a mind to have a word with the doctors and getting you some more
peace and quiet.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> We were
just discussing angels and demons. You’ll never guess which one Dmitri
Dmitrievich has himself pegged as.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Oh I can.
I’ve heard that one before.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well this
sinner’s very pleased with his books. Thank you Irischka.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I brought
some more manuscript paper too.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Have you
written much down yet?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Bits and
pieces. In the night, the sound of it fills my head, and it’s still there in
the morning.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I’m dying
to hear it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’d sing
it for you, but the experience would cure your curiosity.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Have you
thought of a title?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I did
think about that for a long while. I had time on my hands, you see. But, for
the first time I can recall, I really don’t know what it is I’ve written!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Well, I’m
hoping there’ll be room for <i>Lorelei</i>.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh yes! I
want to start with Lorca’s <i>De Profundis</i>
– sounds religious, doesn’t it? Then, some real violence: “Death walks in and
out of the tavern”. Though I’m a little worried about the reference to “the
smell of women’s blood”. Some of our more discerning critics might get the
wrong idea. Then there’s <i>Lorelei</i>.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Is this
all one singer?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No – two! <i>Lorelei</i> needs a man’s and a woman’s
voice.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I must
admit that I don’t know this one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> It’s the
saddest story.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Do you
have the Apollinaire there? Really, Isaak, you must hear this.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina opens a book,
finds the page and hands it to DS.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you.
So:</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>(As DS reads, we
see the action of the poem illustrated)</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“In Bacharach lived a witch with fair hair</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">who let all the men around die of love.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“The bishop summoned her to his court</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">and acquitted her on account of her beauty.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I don’t
know this Bacharach, but their legal system has some odd precepts.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ha! So:</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘Oh lovely Lorelei, your eyes are made of precious
stones,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">which magician gave you the power of sorcery?’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘I am weary of life and my eyes are accursed;</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">oh bishop, those who have looked at me have perished.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘My eyes are not precious stones but flames,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">throw this sorcery to the fire.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘That fire is consuming me, oh lovely Lorelei,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">somebody else has to condemn you, for you have enchanted
me.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘Bishop you laugh. Pray rather to the Virgin for me,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">let me die and may God protect you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘My lover has left for a distant land,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">let me die for there is nothing I love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘My heart is so heavy that I must necessarily die,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I would die if I would dare look at myself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘My heart is so heavy since he is no longer there,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">my heart has been so heavy since the day he left.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“The bishop summoned three knights armed with lances:</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">take this demented woman to the convent.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘Go away Lore in madness, away Lore with tremulous
eyes,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">you shall become a nun dressed in black and white.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ So the four left down the road,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">the Lorelei implored them and her eyes glowed bright like
stars.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘Knights, please let me climb onto that rock so high</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">for I may see my beautiful castle one last time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘To see once more my reflection in the river</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">and then I shall go to the convent of virgins and widows.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Up there, the wind blew her untied hair,</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">the knights cried: Lorelei, Lorelei.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘Down there, on the Rhine, comes a boat</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">and, on board, there is my lover, he has seen me and
calls.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“ ‘My heart becomes so tender, it is my lover returning.’</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">She leans over and falls into the Rhine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“To see her in the water, the beautiful Lorelei;</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">her Rhine-coloured eyes, her sun-like hair.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> What do
you think?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I think
she’s powerfully tragic. There’s a little of Katerina Izmailova in there too.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm. I
think Apollinaire and Leskov share a certain sympathy for women pushed around
by men.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> What else
is there?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Let’s see.
Next there’s…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>There are loud
voices at the door. The doctor calls over to Irina:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Doctor:</b>
There’s some men here for Dmitri Dmitrievich. They say they’re from… which
publication did you say…?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Reporter:</b> <i>(calling out)</i> Is Shostakovich there?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> What on
earth…?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Doctor:</b> They
say they’ve been promised an interview</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Reporter:</b> Are
you going to recover, Dmitri Dmitrievich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS looks
bewildered.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina:</b> No! Do
they just let anyone walk in here? (To the doctor) My husband is supposed to be
resting… no, all of you – out you go!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina leaves the
room, leaving DS with IG, who sits back beside the bed.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS clasps his face,
which is a picture of distress.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Just
despicable. Walking in here like that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS still looks
lost.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Really.
Without scruples, those people.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Maybe this
is how the dying feel when vultures begin to circle.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Come on.
No one’s dying. Look – how about I read some of this poetry?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Not just
now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I don’t
suppose there’s anything cheerful here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No. It’s
all sad poems by people who died too young. I used to devour the stuff. Now I
can’t help thinking all the poems are about people we used to know.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Do you
know what popped into my head recently? When you invited the whole Zenit squad
for dinner! You remember?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes - a
fine evening.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> When was
that. ’37? ’38?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> ’40, I
think. You know how many of them died in the war?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Mm.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Another pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I think
I’ve got a paper here, if you want to hear some news?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm. Ok.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>IG looks into his
bag and pulls out a newspaper.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Isaak,
what do you think happens when we die?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Well… I… I
think there’s an awful lot of fuss, and of course, depending on how many people
spent time sucking up to you, a really terrific funeral…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, Isaak.
I’m serious. Who knows what becomes of Lorelei’s soul? What is there after all…
this?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Oh.
Something. Maybe warmth and contentedness. I don’t know about any General
Secretary of the Heavens, but…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm. I
imagined that, at one time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Another pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> If the
stories of my youth are any guide, you’ve no need to worry unless you frighten
death itself. I recall heaven judging those sorts of antics very poorly…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS is not paying
attention, instead looking away despondently.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Dmitri?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes…? Oh. Forgive
me. I don’t mean to be inattentive. I’m tired and these morbid thoughts are
clouding my mind. I only slept a little last night - our friend along the
corridor was in full voice. It’s funny that you mention Zenit, because when I
did at last drift off, I dreamed I was at the Lenin Stadium, of all places, in
full Zenit kit, mid-match, running deep into the opposition half. The crowd was
roaring appreciatively. And as the ball found my feet, I looked up to find our
old friend Shelagin alongside me, appearing just as he must have during the ’37
season. You remember that? He smiled at me as one would to a close teammate,
and as I returned the kind acknowledgement, he disappeared in the blast of an
exploding shell, and there was only a shallow crater and a shower of earth
where he’d been. I dodged another blast, and then to my right I saw beside me dear
Ivan Sollertinsky, whose friendship I’ve so missed these past years. I felt a
deep stab of horror as he too vanished in a fresh shell blast. And as the noise
and the smoke subsided, the pitch and stands stood eerily empty, and then snow
began to fall, filling the craters and covering the earth all around. I stood
for a while, desolate in the silence. Then, I ran on into the thickening
blizzard, and looking back, saw only the soft impression of my own feet in the
snow. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I feel the need to be alone for a while –
please, my dearest friend, this is no slight against your much valued company!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Glickman leaves. DS
removes his glasses and covers his eyes with his free hand.</i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-beneath-dry-earth-part_15.html">Read the fifth and final part here.</a></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-38660289073275317772021-03-14T09:10:00.001+00:002021-03-14T21:44:53.007+00:00Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth (Part 3)<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFVZdz87EUvf_EAxMXVjUv87pE5E0p_xbv3cUQQLqFByBexkt01jvnmVoqeKMCrjmlu_ddXvup3ld1Aa8NoInpOxxxP6vPQhrY28xI5kaJe6pAVJWna8orcwzP2IrP039YzDCvZh-a0Q//" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="273" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFVZdz87EUvf_EAxMXVjUv87pE5E0p_xbv3cUQQLqFByBexkt01jvnmVoqeKMCrjmlu_ddXvup3ld1Aa8NoInpOxxxP6vPQhrY28xI5kaJe6pAVJWna8orcwzP2IrP039YzDCvZh-a0Q/w400-h270/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shostakovich and his son Maxim on the Moscow-Leningrad express train, in 1962.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p>This is the third part of my written-but-not-yet-illustrated graphic novel about Shostakovich in the 1960s, entitled Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth. It gets a bit silly in the middle, and I'm not sorry. I'm not quite sure the end lands in the way I want, so I may revise it a little at some point. <a href="https://youtu.be/McKuFBAp_i8?t=1054" target="_blank">If you want to see the bit of Kozintsev's Hamlet that features in this part, click here (you also get a little bit of Anastasia Vertinskaya as Ophelia first).</a> Oh, and a "General" is a type of enormous Soviet steam locomotive developed in the 1950s, but which was no longer in use on the Moscow-Leningrad line by 1964. Enjoy.</p><p>(If you've not read the preceding parts, start <a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-against-dry-earth-part.html" target="_blank">here</a>)</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part 3 – January
1964<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 1</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>At Leningradsky
Station, Moscow.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing can be seen
– steam obscures all view. Voices are seen from the steam, but no people at
first.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina
Shostakovich:</b> Mitya, our coach is… I
can’t see you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Dmitri
Shostakovich:</b> I can’t see anything!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The steam begins to
clear.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Is it… no…
It is! Irina, a General!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> A what?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> An
unexpected delight! I haven’t seen one for years!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The steam has
cleared enough now to see DS staring at the train in amazement.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’m going
to find our compartment.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> (<i>To the driver</i>) Hello, excuse me… Why the
change of engine?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Driver:</b> It’s too cold. Diesel’s out.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It’s
magnificent!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Driver:</b> Mind
out – steam’s coming.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Steam pours out of
the engine and the scene is quickly filled with white steam again.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IS:</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (from beyond) </i>Mitya…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> *cough* I’m coming! *cough* Oh. *cough* Oh
dear…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>White out.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 2<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>On the train. DS
stands at the door of the compartment. Irina is seated.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Mitya…
You’re a state! Give me your glasses.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’ve been
steam cleaned! I’m wrinkle-free now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina cleans DS’s
glasses.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh, it
takes me back. If it weren’t for the pain in my legs, I could almost be a young
man again, catching a train to an away match in some provincial football
stadium.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’m still
waiting for you to take me to one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina hands back
his glasses.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ira!
You’ve kept this passion for the beautiful game to yourself.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’d like
to see what it’s like.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> You’re too
late, I fear. My football days are gone. And besides, when would we find the
time?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Shall we
ask for tea?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> This is
like the old days!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Tea,
Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh? Oh
yes! What a splendid idea.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The train moves off
and is seen travelling through the outskirts of Moscow.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Did you
pick up Grigori Kozintsev’s letters, Ira?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Yes,
Mitya. Don’t fret. I’ve got the musical scenario here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes, I’ll
have that, thank you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS takes the
document and leafs through the sheets of paper.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Look at
this… there is a lot of music required here. We’ve got the title sequence to
think about, Hamlet’s soliloquy, Ophelia’s death. It’s a lot! Here it just says
“Scene with Ghost – seven minutes”. That’s a lot of time to fill.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’m sure
it will be easier when you’ve seen the footage.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A brief pause while
DS looks at the scenario.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I could do
with that tea now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Tea and
the view of the steam from our mighty locomotive wafting by. There are worse
places to be. Do you remember your first train journey?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Yes. From
Leningrad to Lake Ladoga.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> A summer
holiday?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> No, Mitya,
in 1941. During the evacuation.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Goodness,
Irina. I am sorry. I’d quite forgotten myself.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Don’t
apologise. I was six. I don’t remember that much. It was crowded. Children
cried, though I don’t think I did.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It was
frightening enough to us adults. You must have been a brave child.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Used to
the terror, I think. You can get used to anything when you’re young. Except the
hunger.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Were you
with your grandparents?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I was. I
didn’t think Grandmother would even make it to the train, but she did.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> How
strange to think of us both in that city at that time. You know they flew us
out? I’ve never been able to board an aeroplane since without flinching at the
thought of German artillery trying to pick us out of the sky.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> And here
we both are, going back, on the train.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 3</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Later the same day.
At the Lenfilm Studio, Leningrad.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina and DS are
walking with Isaak Glikman</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> And I’m
afraid, Isaak, that I really wasn’t thinking…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Mitya,
it’s fine. And you enjoyed the journey so much – that brought me pleasure.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Irina is
far more forgiving than I deserve. Thank you, Irishka! I wish you could have
seen the engine, Isaak. It was like travelling in the company of an old friend.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I always
felt one was fast friends with a steam locomotive, until it gifted you a face
full of steam.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I am in
the unfortunate position of being able to agree.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>They reach the
studio entrance</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Here we
are. <i>(To the security guard)</i> Good
afternoon Sasha – Dmitri Dmitrievich and Irina Antonovna are here with me. Is Grigory Kozintsev in the building?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Sasha:</b> Yes –
he’s booked… projection room three. It’s down…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I know the
way, Sasha. Dmitri Dmitrievich? Into the labyrinth.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Isaak, Dmitri and
Irina make their way along darkened corridors within the film studio.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ah! It’s
barely changed.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I often used
to find you here, before the war.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> This is a
place of many ghosts.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> How many
caught in the siege, I wonder.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> What a
dreadful time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>They continue in
silence for a while. The studio corridors are quite dark. DS stops to look
through an open studio door. When he looks back, Irina and Glikman are nowhere
to be seen. He realises he is alone.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Isaak…?
Irina..? Ira…? Oh… Oh dear.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS heads along a
darkened corridor, past racks of costumes. He comes to a larger space, which
opens up into a gloomy castle hall.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh!
Elsinore!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS continues, awed
by the scale. Voices are heard in the distance. DS walks on.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Hello?
Isaak?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS wanders through
another door, towards the voices. He walks right into a set for a film. There
is a crew shooting a scene in a circus, with actors and two dogs which are
getting out of control.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Director:</b> Cut!
Can’t you keep that wretched dog in shot?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Crew 1:</b> <i>(to DS)</i> Who are you?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh I’m
sorry… I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Director:</b>
Lights! We’ll reset the scene.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Crew 2:</b> Grab
the dog! He’s off!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Crew 1:</b> Which
one? Barbos? Or Bobik?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Crew 2:</b> I
don’t know! The one running around the set!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS backs out the
door with an apologetic expression. He is again in a darkened corridor. In the
distance, there are voices.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Innokenty
Smoktunovsky:</b> I can hardly bear to watch it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Anastasia
Vertinskaya:</b> At least you got to do something with your face.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>They are leaning
against a studio wall, smoking cigarettes.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b>
Wonderful. You did see the faces he made me pull? And everything I suggested he
ignored.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> It is
Kozintsev’s Hamlet, I suppose.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS is seen
recognising the name of the film as he approaches the pair.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b> Let him
pull faces, then.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> Well I’m
coming round to it. It’s very beautiful.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b>
Hallelujah! Those hours playing with lighting weren’t for nothing.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> He
probably would have got it done quicker if you hadn’t argued so much.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b> So it’s
my fault?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS has reached
them.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Excuse me,
excuse me, I am sorry…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b> Who are
you? No one’s allowed here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m so
sorry. I was with my wife and my friend Isaak Davido...</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b> What are
you talking about?! We haven’t seen…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> Kesha!
It’s Shostakovich!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>ISm:</b> Good God!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I am sorry,
but could you direct me to Grigory Kozintsev’s room?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> Yes!
Please, follow me.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you
– most kind.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>AV glares at ISm,
who shrugs emphatically.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 4</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At the screening
room.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Grigori Kozintsev,
IS and IG and standing talking. GK is touching IS’s shoulder reassuringly.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AV:</b> Grigori
Mikhaylovich, I think we’ve found a friend of yours!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Mitya!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Grigori Kozintsev:</b>
Dmitri Dmitriyevich! I was starting to worry that we’d misplaced my favourite
composer. I’ve got some stories for you! Are you well? But quickly, did my notes
answer all your questions on the musical requirements?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Mm… well…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Ask me
anything, please.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>While the
conversation continues, DS sits with IS, IG and GK. ISm sits behind.</i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> … the
ideas are only coming to me slowly.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Trust the
pictures. The editor tells me some of them are even quite good.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> We have
been looking forward to seeing the footage, haven’t we Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Wonderful.
We were just about to look at one more scene then it’s lunch. Did I talk to you
about the ghost?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> No. We’re
ready to be surprised!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Then I
think you might like this. <i>(To the
technicians)</i> Vanya – roll it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The Ghost Scene
plays.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Film: night time –
a clock is seen, with figures revolving. Horses, moving uneasily. Hamlet’s
group walk through a creaking wooden door. They step back in surprise. The
ghost is seen beside the castle.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a name="speech10"></a><b>HORATIO</b><a name="1.4.41"><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b></a>Look, my
lord, it comes!</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET<a name="1.4.42">: </a></b>Angels and ministers of grace defend us!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Horses bolt into the mist. Hamlet runs up a
bank behind the ghost. The ghost moves in front of the castle with Hamlet seen
moving behind. DS is seen watching with mouth open. The ghost then moves above
the tiny figure of Hamlet. Hamlet addresses the ghost at the water’s edge.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a name="speech13"><b>HAMLET</b></a><b>:<a name="1.5.1"> </a></b>Where wilt thou lead me? speak; I'll go no
further.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><a name="1.5.2"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>Mark me.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><b>:<a name="1.5.3"> </a></b>I will.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><a name="1.5.8"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>And lend
thy serious hearing <a name="1.5.9">to what I shall unfold.</a></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><a name="1.5.10"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>Speak; I am bound to hear.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><a name="1.5.11"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>So art
thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><a name="1.5.12"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>What?</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><a name="1.5.26"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>List,
list, O, list!<a name="1.5.27"></a> If thou
didst ever thy dear father love--</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Ghost seen moving towards frame.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><a name="1.5.28"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>O God!</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><a name="1.5.29"></a><b>: </b>Revenge
his foul and most unnatural murder.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS watches, mouthing “most unnatural”.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><b>:<a name="1.5.30"> </a></b>Murder!</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Ghost</b><b>:<a name="1.5.31"> </a></b>Murder most foul, as in the best it is;</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech18;"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech17;"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech16;"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech15;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">
<a name="1.5.32">But this most foul, strange and unnatural.</a></span></span></span></span></span><span style="mso-bookmark: speech18;"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech17;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<a name="1.5.44">The serpent that did sting thy father's life</a><br />
<a name="1.5.45">Now wears his crown.</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>HAMLET</b><a name="1.5.46"></a><b><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b>O my
prophetic soul! My uncle!</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>After Hamlet’s reaction, ISm
is seen behind DS looking exasperated.</i><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-bookmark: speech18;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Ghost</span></b></span><span style="mso-bookmark: speech18;"></span><a name="1.5.47"></a><span style="mso-bookmark: "1\.5\.47";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 9pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">: </span></b></span><span style="mso-bookmark: "1\.5\.47";"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Ay,
that adulterate beast,</span></span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<a name="1.5.50">to his shameful lust</a><br />
<a name="1.5.51">The will of my queen:</a><br />
<a name="1.5.63">But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air;</a><br />
<a name="1.5.64">Brief let me be. </a><br />
<a name="1.5.66">Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole,</a><br />
<a name="1.5.67">With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,</a><br />
<a name="1.5.68">And in my ears did pour</a><br />
<a name="1.5.69">The distilment; </a><br />
<a name="1.5.79">Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand</a><br />
<a name="1.5.80">Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd:</a><br />
<a name="1.5.85">O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!</a><br />
<a name="1.5.93"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
Ghost’s face seen. Irina now looks in amazement<o:p></o:p></i></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="tab-stops: 78.0pt;"><b>IS:</b> His
eyes! </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="tab-stops: 78.0pt;"><span style="mso-bookmark: "1\.5\.93";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Ghost:</span></b></span><span style="mso-bookmark: "1\.5\.93";"><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> Fare
thee well at once!</span></span><span style="mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
<a name="1.5.94">The glow-worm shows the matin to be near,</a><br />
<a name="1.5.95">And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire:</a><br />
<a name="1.5.96">Adieu, adieu! Remember me.</a> Remember me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The ghost is
gone as the dawn breaks</i> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Hamlet: </span></b><a name="1.5.207"><span style="background: white;">The time
is out of joint: O cursed spite, </span></a><a name="1.5.208"><span style="background: white;">That ever I was born to set it
right!</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Vanya,
stop there.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The film stops and
the lights come up.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> My
goodness Mitya! Did you see his eyes?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> The ghost?
That shook me, I must say.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Ready for something to eat?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I’ll go
and check everything’s ready.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Thank you
Isaak. Shall we?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Wonderful.
Irina, something to eat?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> <i>(Resurfacing from her own thoughts) </i>Eat?
Yes. Lunch. Could it come here? Are you feeling up to the walk, Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes. I
feel quite revived by the wonderful footage.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> You like
it?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes –
wonderful!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> What about
Pasternak’s text?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Wonderful!
Everything is quite wonderful.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>GK looks to IS for
assurance.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> I’m quite
sure Mitya will have a lot more to say when we’ve seen more.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes –
wonderful. <i>(DS turns to IS)</i> I just
hope I can muster that sort of inspiration! I don’t want to disappoint those
two great masters who were so kind to give me the job.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> <i>(turning back to DS)</i> I confess I haven’t
spoken with William of Stratford about it, but I understand that old man
Kozintsev’s overjoyed to be working with his favourite composer again.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Let’s just
wait until one particular soliloquy is scored. Then we can breathe out.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Don’t
dwell. Hamlet cannot be a succession of Great Speeches. Fanfare and portent are
for monarchs and circuses, not for questions of conscience.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> But isn’t
it the heart of the play? Doesn’t it need the most searching music?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> I can only
speak for myself, but I find my thoughts turn most deeply inward in the most
banal of situations – tying my shoelaces, or looking out the train window. At
those moments, it’s quiet, and the monologue in my head is a gentle, constant
one. An observer would see nothing but the vacancy of thought upon my face.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS stands to go
with GK, but pauses for a moment to steady himself.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Are you
ok?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I’m fine.
Only, these days conscience and all those other voices are having to share the
space between my ears with another which complains loudly of the pain in my
legs. Yes, I’ll be just fine. Do you remember, Grigori Mikhaylovich, rushing
around these corridors, what, 30 years ago, to find a piano and hammer out some
cue? It all seemed easier then. Lighter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> It did.
But it’s easy to forget the effort it all cost us, when the sweat’s dried and
we’re no longer out of breath. Time seems to dissolve the memory of doubt. And
you think “did it really cost me this much before? Surely not.” But it did.
More, maybe.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>They walk towards
the door, and DS stops again. An idea has occurred to him.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> Do you
want to sit awhile, Mitya?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, no
it’s not that. That clock, at the beginning. Could I suggest something?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> Of course.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Just an
idea. Leningrad once had fine bells. Your clock, just now, reminded me of that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK: </b>Mm. With
the figures.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes! The
King’s court has its fanfares. Perhaps the night has its bells and its own
special music. Melodies that call out all the strange and deathly things and
that speak too softly to hear in the day. I can feel a tune coming, something
that would send a chill of fright and regret down your spine if you were awake
late enough to hear it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GK:</b> This is
the stuff! How wonderful to work with you again. Just a minute. Vanya...!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>GK leaves DS and IS,
to speak with his crew.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> See, it’s
coming together already.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Being back
here stirs a lot of things.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> It does.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Do you
remember the old bells?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> No, not
really.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Leningrad
was at least for me once filled with friends and… football games. Can this ever
have been a happy place for you?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> It might
still. It’s getting better. I’m sorry, Mitya. We should be concentrating on the
music. But I wasn’t expecting that film to make me feel this way. When I saw
the ghost’s eyes just now, I thought, with shame, that I can’t remember their
eyes. Mother, Father, any of them. I don’t even have a photograph.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Irischka…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="tab-stops: 112.5pt;"><b>IS:</b> I was only
six.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>IG comes back along
the corridor, and sees DS and Irina speaking.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IS:</b> This is
indulgent – Anyway, look. Here’s Isaak come back to find us. <i>(calling out)</i> Thank you Isaak Davidovich!
<i>(Isaak waves back)</i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(just to Irina)</i> Ira, it’s important. But
you’re right – let’s not get left behind. Knowing my luck, we’d get very lost in
this… tomb of a place and I’ve no desire to become one of Lenfilm’s ghosts just
yet!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS and IS head off
into the studio corridors towards IG.</i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-beneath-dry-earth-part_58.html">On to part 4.</a></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-85593327770435594122021-03-13T11:39:00.005+00:002021-03-14T09:11:23.760+00:00Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth (Part 2)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWFSTSALSzIJoyfWQibU7SBj5k7FcJRtRHoItuD0l_gMn_Q16DkPlQ0fvKCAz_SksSJPGdDCvfIm9n53bAvyuXqWx9OZJeh_YieGQ05jCCKpq1qBSivMpbTmDFfhlxe9eoWIOtSoKwes/s500/shostakovich-kirill-kondraschin-y-yevtushenko-dia-estreno-13-sinfonia-1962.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="500" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWFSTSALSzIJoyfWQibU7SBj5k7FcJRtRHoItuD0l_gMn_Q16DkPlQ0fvKCAz_SksSJPGdDCvfIm9n53bAvyuXqWx9OZJeh_YieGQ05jCCKpq1qBSivMpbTmDFfhlxe9eoWIOtSoKwes/w400-h290/shostakovich-kirill-kondraschin-y-yevtushenko-dia-estreno-13-sinfonia-1962.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shostakovich, Kondrashin and Yevtushenko after the premiere of <br />Shostakovich's 13th Symphony in 1962</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Below is the second of five parts of my unfinished graphic novel about Shostakovich in the 1960s. If you've arrived here without reading part 1, <a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-against-dry-earth-part.html">click here to begin at the beginning</a>.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Part 2 – 1962 <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS is in hospital.
IG visits.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Are you in
to unexpected visitors?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: As ever, I
make an exception for you, Isaak Davidovich! Alas, you just missed Irina.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: I thought
I detected a little more colour in your cheeks. Marriage is treating you well.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: I find
this one much more amenable to my health than the last, present circumstances
excepted.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: And how
pleasant to have a young woman around.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Come now,
she has a remarkable intellect, far beyond her years. Please! How rude of me.
Just move those books and do sit.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>IG picks up the
books and sits.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Ah!
Another mere babe – Yevtushenko?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: A fine
young mind, that one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Along
with... Shakespeare... Tolstoy. He’s in exalted company in this little library.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Not perhaps
yet on their level, but then, who is?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>IG reading from the
Yevtushenko book:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: “I am
terrified/ I feel as old today/ as all Jewish people”. Light reading?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: That’s the
text for the Thirteenth Symphony.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: A symphony
now? It grows!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: A symphonic
song didn’t seem enough. Listen to this – I think you’ll appreciate it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS takes the book
and leafs through it.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Where is
it? Ah… here. Let me see… “The clergy
maintained that Galileo/ Was a wicked and senseless man./ Galileo was
senseless.” Yes?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Go on.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: “But, as
time demonstrated,/ He who is senseless is much wiser.” Do you see?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: I’m not
sure I do, but do continue.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Of course.
“A fellow scientist of Galileo's age/ Was no less wise than Galileo./ He knew
that the earth revolved./ But - he had a family.” I nearly laughed aloud at
that! No?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Go on, I’m
sure I’ll catch on in a moment.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Really,
Isaak! It’s quite plain. Anyway. “And he, stepping into a carriage with his
wife,/ Having accomplished his betrayal,/ Considered himself advancing his
career,/ Whereas he undermined it,” And here we have it: “For his assertion of
our planet/ Galileo faced the risk alone/ And became truly great.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: I see,
yes. Though Galileo paid a high price.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Yes, but
that is the bargain we strike! One doesn’t achieve anything worthwhile by
nodding and grinning. And what have we survived, only to speak when spoken to? How
many uncounted millions lie without even a gravestone, while <i>we</i> live?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: <i>You</i> have a family. <i>I</i> have a family.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Then we
move carefully. We move with conscience. But this is a moment to really say
something, and at this precise moment I am feeling particularly, and I might
add uncharacteristically, brave!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 2<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At DS’s apartment.
Evening.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Friends and
colleagues have gathered for a private performance by DS of the 13<sup>th</sup>
Symphony.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS stands at a
table, away from the others. He looks pensive and leans on the table.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Maxim Shostakovich:</b>
It’s filling up in here… Father, a drink?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ah? Oh,
no, Maxim. Actually, yes. Just a small one.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>MS pours DS a small
vodka and DS chucks it back.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>There is a knock at
the door.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> That’ll be
Yevtushenko. Could you let him in? Then we can get on with it.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS then goes to
greet YY.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yevgeny
Aleksandrovich! Thank you so much for coming.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Yevgeny Yevtushenko:</b>
I’m honoured beyond all expression.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> The honour
is ours. This symphony is as much yours as mine! Let me introduce you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>They move to the
assembled guests.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> My
esteemed colleague Kirill Kondrashin.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> I’ve
enjoyed your concerts often!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Kiril Kondrashin:</b>
And I your fine words.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> You’ve met
Maxim, and I think Irina too, no? Good. Do come and say hello, Ira!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Irina comes forward
hesitantly.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Here is my dear friend Isaak Davidovich, and do you know
Aram Khachaturian?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>AK shakes YY’s
hand.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Aram Khachaturian:</b>
I was most moved by <i>Babi Yar</i>. At last
the silence is broken. Most brave!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> Well, my
head’s now on the block.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> I think
Khrushchev more minded to bark than bite. And you gave as good as you got! I
don’t remember ever being as fearless.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Yes, the
leader seems to have become quite the discerning art lover – did you hear him
say he dislikes our generous host’s music and is more of an Oistrakh man?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> He must
feel most conflicted when Oistrakh plays my violin concerto!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Laughter.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Irina Shostakovich:</b>
What was it Khrushchev said about Yevgeny Aleksandrovich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> The leader
was giving some of our most talented young artists a public dressing down. Our
young hero here spoke out in favour of artistic integrity and the leader
retorts “the grave cures the hunchback”! Go on, what did you say?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> I replied
“No longer the grave, but life.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS:</b> Good! I
don’t see why a man should be pushed around.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> I’m sure
you don’t. You’ll understand though if my generation finds our mouths snapping
shut in such circumstances through involuntary reflex. Still, Yevgeny, I am
impressed by your fortitude in the face of such public criticism.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> I’d rather
have it said to my face than read about it in the newspaper later.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Believe
me, as a veteran of both, I’d say it’s far preferable to learn about it from
the paper after the fact!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> Dmitri,
there will surely be some official criticism of this new symphony.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I do
anticipate much valuable reflection on the musical and thematic deficiencies of
the piece, it’s true.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> And
they’re letting the premiere go ahead?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes. I am
still awaiting Mravinsky’s conformation nervously, however.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> He’ll be
nervous too. He’s not used to conducting political hot potatoes. Babi Yar is a
fine poem with much truth, but it’s hardly the official history.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It’s high
time that the Jewish victims were recognised. What’s the point of notoriety if
I can’t address the truth?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> He will be
worried about the consequences for his career. And I wouldn’t blame him.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Are you
saying we should back down?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> No... I
don’t know. But they can make life a lot harder.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> And I just
nod and grin?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> That’s
not...</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It’s hard
to imagine a Gogol or a... Tolstoy sitting at their desk and thinking “how much
truth today? Oh I hope they won’t mind if I tell how Borodino <i>really</i> happened.” We go past Babi Yar on
the train every time we go to Kiev, and it’s like the poem says. There’s no
stone or plaque. Like nothing happened. You know the Nazis told those people to
bring all their belongings, to travel. They arrived at Babi Yar in their best
coats and shoes expecting a new life. I can’t imagine their pain. And our own
government won’t even recognise them.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>AK:</b> Dmitri,
believe me, I also look to <i>your</i>
bravery in awe. I’m afraid 1948 may have fatally compromised my courage.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, my
friend, it weighs on me too. I only hope that what scraps of courage I can
muster have done justice to the words, and to the past. Still, Mravinsky will
come through, I’m sure. He’s never let me down yet. And bravery is much easier
to find in the company of friends. Now, if you’re ready, I’d like to play
through the 13<sup>th</sup> Symphony. I must apologise in advance for the
inevitable deficiencies in the performance. My right hand is still weak and I
must warn you all that, despite what you might have heard, my voice will be no
match for the men of the philharmonic chorus! I would like to start by reading Yevgeny
Aleksandrovich’s poems. This is Babi Yar: “No monument stands over Babi Yar./ A
steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone./
I am afraid./ Today, I am as old/ As the entire Jewish race itself…”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>After the
performance</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yevgeny
Aleksandrovich, could I borrow your ear? Just a moment.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS pours a vodka
and drinks it, and then another.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS: </b>Well?</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 3</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At the Moscow
Philharmonic Hall</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Kondrashin sees DS
walk past his office.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> <i>(calling to the door) </i>Dmitri Dmitrievitch,
in here!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Ah! Kirill
Petrovich! My apologies – I was caught in a sudden shower.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Let me
hang your coat above the heater.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I fear the
score caught the rain.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Thank you
so much for…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, thank
you! I was quite bereft when I heard from Mravinsky. Now, it ought to be
impossible to lose a symphony in a bag…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Believe me
– the honour will be mine… bringing another Shostakovich symphony into the
world…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(points at some
paper in the bag) </i>Is that it?<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, loose
paper… Ah. Here. Not too damp. Not yet extinguished, despite the best efforts
of someone I had come to rely upon!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Everyone
at the Philharmonic was surprised by Mravinsky’s decision. Had he see the
score?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes, and
returned it. Do excuse me; I’ve left wet footprints all over your study!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Please
don’t worry. Did he offer any explanation?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes. He
said one should only conduct ‘pure music’, whatever that is. The musical
equivalent of crossword puzzle, I imagine. I have begun to wonder if he was
only ever beating time in my 8<sup>th</sup> Symphony – No, I don’t mean this! I
am sorry. I’m somewhat hurt, that is all.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Quite
understandable. A birth is rather easier for the presence of an experienced
midwife.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> You are no
second best though, dear friend! Such a fine job with the Fourth. A fine job!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Thank you!
Now, Dmitri, I must warn you that Mravinsky’s departure is not the only issue
with which we may have to contend. He’s cautious, but he’s well established. A
young singer may react similarly, faced with such… pressures.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Is
Nechipailo not committed? Is he wavering?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> No no,
Victor’s still with us, at present. I mean simply that it would be wise to
consider some… insurance.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Do you
have another soloist in mind?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Merely an
understudy, with your permission. A fine young bass, Vitali Gromadsky. A little
untested, but with huge potential. He’s just upstairs, if you’d like to meet
him.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes, of
course…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> (Calls out
of the door) Maria… Could you ask Gromadsky to join us? (To DS) Really – I hope
I’m not pushing you into this.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No. Quite
sensible.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Gromadsky appears
at the door.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Ah,
Vitali. Have you met Dmitri Dmitriyevich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Vitali Gromadsky:</b>
No. You don’t look as old as I’d heard!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well… I…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Please,
sit, Vitali. Dmitri has written a symphony, based on words by Yevgeny
Yevtushenko…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Goodness,
that’s brave!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> …Victor
Nechipailo is due to sing the bass solo role at the premiere and we’re just
concerned that he may have… other commitments. Would you consider learning the
part, as understudy?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Oh yes! It
sounds very exciting.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It is a
very serious role and I hope…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> …though
which Yevtushenko poems is it? I read one about anti-Semitism in the Soviet
Union…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Yes, <i>Babi Yar</i>. That’s the title…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Bit odd, I
thought.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> And odd
how exactly?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Well,
there isn’t any anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh really!
What nonsense! There is, and it is an outrageous thing and we must fight it. We
must shout about it from the roof tops!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Goodness…
I didn’t mean to…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Thank you,
Vitali. I’ll be in touch very soon.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Gromadsky leaves
hastily.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> I’m so
sorry. How inexcusable!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, it was
unforgivable to snap as I did.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Shall I
find someone else?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> There’s no
time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> In any
case, I’ll ask him to apologise.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No need. But
this is precisely why we must be brave, to shake people out of that sort of
complacency. He’s young. Maybe we owe it to young men like Gromadsky to forgive
their ignorance.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> But not
their rudeness…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(waves the point aside)</i> Being brave
means thickening one’s skin. But I grieve – for what we had to learn, and what
is so easily forgotten. We can’t blame Gromadsky. He wasn’t there, during the
war. Though neither was I – one of the lucky ones, more valuable alive than in
the act of dying. I hope you too were spared from the worst.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> I had
musical duties. I saw things, in Moscow… but I didn’t have to do them.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I thought
we’d looked into the blackest mirror and seen ourselves staring back. But there
it is: “there is no anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> <i>(points to the score) This</i> will change
that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Perhaps.
But to even try I must put so many others at risk.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Every
member of my orchestra is with you. Some are nervous, it’s true. But they trust
you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> That
helps. It does.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Shall we
look over the score?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes. Let’s!
There are one or two issues of balance with which I would very much appreciate
your help.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scene 4:<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The final rehearsal
before that evening’s premiere. DS and YY are in the hall, listening to KK and
the Moscow Philharmonic rehearse the Symphony.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS approaches the
podium.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Is there
still no word from Gromadsky?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> I’m afraid
not. I’d like to run the finale, though…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Assistant:</b> <i>(from offstage)</i> Maestro, urgent call for
you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> This might
be him now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>KK leaves the stage
and takes the phone from the assistant.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Assistant:</b>
It’s the minister – It’s actually him.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Kondrashin
speaking.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Georgi Popov:</b>
This is Georgi Popov. Tell me, Kirill Petrovich: how is your health?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Very good.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GP:</b> Is there
anything that might prevent you from conducting tonight?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> No, I’m in
splendid form!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GP:</b> And you
have a bass soloist?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Yes, a
fine singer.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GP:</b> How
fortunate for you. And after Nechipailo was required elsewhere at such… short
notice. Tell me: Do you have any political doubts in relation to <i>Babi Yar</i>?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> No. I
think it is very timely and relevant.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GP:</b> And in your
expert opinion, could the symphony be performed without the first movement?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> That is
completely out of the question. It would distort the form of the work, and
besides, it is widely known that <i>Babi Yar</i>
is set in the first movement. Missing it would, I can assure you, produce a
quite undesirable reaction.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Another pause.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>GP:</b> Very well.
Do as you see fit.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>GP slams down
phone. KK holds his head in one hand.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Assistant:</b> Is
he cancelling the concert?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Astonishingly,
no. They really know how to tighten the screws, though. Not a word about this
to anyone. And for pity’s sake, don’t mention it to Shostakovich.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>As KK walks back to
the podium, DS calls up to him from the auditorium.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Kirill!
He’s here! Gromadsky’s appeared! He says he’s just come to hear the rehearsal.
He’s no idea what happened with Nechipailo!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Vitali! You
could not have chosen a better moment to appear.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> What’s
happened? Shostakovich was too excited to tell me! Where’s your soloist?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> He has
been transferred to the opera, at short notice, by the Ministry of Culture.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> But surely
he is needed here! Has someone not informed the Ministry of their mistake?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> Oh don’t
worry. They are quite aware. Now, would you feel able to sing the part? Only
one rehearsal, I know.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>VG:</b> Well, since
I’m here, why not!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS and YY return to
their seats in the auditorium.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> That was
uncomfortably close. Are you alright, Dmitri?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> More than
a little shaken. I think I have had my fill of drama. I’m not sure my heart, weak
as it is, can really take any more of it. Still, our trials are small in
comparison with those of the souls we are remembering.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> <i>(From the stage)</i> Dmitri – We are going
to run the symphony from the top when Gromadsky is ready. Do you have any
comments on what we’ve already done?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> <i>(calling across the hall)</i> No, everything
is wonderful, quite wonderful!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>KK:</b> And the
dynamics at the start of the third movement?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Very fine,
my friend, very fine.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Later. The end of
the rehearsal.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Well it’s
out of our hands now. I’m sorry – I’m still perspiring feverishly.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> I thought
it was just me. I wonder if this is what
it’s like when the children leave home?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Not so
different. As ever, one hopes one has done one’s duties correctly. Though I
don’t recall the threat of arrest hanging over my early attempts at parenting.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS struggles to his
feet as they leave the auditorium.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> Can I
offer you my arm?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you,
but no.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS and YY exit to
the foyer.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> Are you
walking home?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Goodness –
no. My legs aren’t up to it. And my nerves are frayed. Our part in the drama is
over, yet still my hands tremble. What a wretched partisan I would have made!
No doubt our forest hideaway would have been given away by the nervous
chattering of my own teeth.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY</b>: I
sometimes think we are partisans for humanity! Though there’s food at home, so
no need to raid some Kulak’s barn!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS doesn’t react.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> Poor taste,
perhaps.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, it’s a
good joke. I just quiver at how little we can do, without their permission.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> They let
us get this far.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> But will
they let the Symphony be heard again? Will they even unlock the hall doors
tonight? They do hold the keys. Our great protest against inhumanity might play
only to a few lighting technicians. I don’t remember it feeling like this when
I was 30.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> There is
risk in what we do. How else did you expect it to feel?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> It didn’t
tug so forcefully on my remaining life. Oh, but this is silly.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> It is?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Yes. I am
here, trembling with fright when you are the one who broke the silence. Without
your bravery, we wouldn’t be here at all.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> Yes, I
suppose so. But you’ve transformed it into something else now, something beyond
my imagination.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Only so
much trilling around your fine words.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> No, I
won’t hear that. I hesitated when you asked for my thoughts, in your apartment.
But only because I wanted to hear it whole before telling you what it meant.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Really?
I’m afraid I took your hesitation to mean something else.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>YY:</b> There’s feeling
in the music that I don’t even know how to express. I can only borrow someone
else’s words to find any comparison. I thought of Prince Andrei, peaceful and
tender and wounded on the field at Austerlitz. “How is it I did not see this
sky before? How happy I am to have discovered it at last!”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> “All is
vanity, all is delusion. There is nothing but stillness, peace.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS lifts his hand
to YY’s arm.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you,
Yevgeny Aleksandrovich. Thank you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="https://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-beneath-dry-earth-part_14.html" target="_blank">On to Part 3.</a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-76265652883181067402021-03-13T10:13:00.006+00:002022-01-17T15:43:48.888+00:00Sleeping Forever Beneath the Dry Earth (Part 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsEU6S-iX2Bw_FcXfxXTUrIxQTfNBcKaE_slQeOfCKjmGMKunA1-_WiAUwJhQyUMFJMlCcIIaMRAV-3UNsrTOdDP_rkYBBJKw-l4wRMU470I9U2C2h3ZufSaLGXjgkAKYhJSNmsz44zo/s547/DSCH+2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="547" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsEU6S-iX2Bw_FcXfxXTUrIxQTfNBcKaE_slQeOfCKjmGMKunA1-_WiAUwJhQyUMFJMlCcIIaMRAV-3UNsrTOdDP_rkYBBJKw-l4wRMU470I9U2C2h3ZufSaLGXjgkAKYhJSNmsz44zo/w400-h313/DSCH+2.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Here's something I finished writing two years ago - the text of my graphic novel about Shostakovich in the 1960s. I don't know if I will ever finish the drawings; life at the moment gives no opportunity to tackle it. The thought of it sitting unread is bad, though, so here it is, if you want to read it. This is the first part of five. There may be typos ahead; there are certainly a few spots I'd like the change. But I'm pleased with it. </p><p>Read it now, because I might change my mind and remove this soon.</p><p>(The pic above is by me, and the pic a little down from here is one of the drawings I've actually done for the first few pages)</p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sleeping Forever
Beneath the Dry Earth<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Part One –
December 30<sup>th</sup> 1961</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene one</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Street scene,
outside DS’s Moscow apartment</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Maxim Shostakovich</b>:
(from within the building) Father, Isaak Glikman’s here with the car.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Inside. We see DS’s
glasses on a table, and Maxim’s distorted image in the lens.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Father?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS puts on his
glasses. He goes to the piano and lifts his hand to the cover of his Fourth
Symphony, which is on the music stand.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: Do you
want me to bring the score?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Mm? No,
thank you Maxim. It’s all still up here. <i>(taps
head)</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS opens the score
and puts his hand to the opening line of music. He picks out a few notes on the
piano.</i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: Father,
Glikman will be starting to panic. The car?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Don’t
worry, I’m coming, though the Fourth Symphony has waited a quarter of a century
so I hardly think another few minutes will matter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21zd0DJKDJaOTqbXlQs1wPe0Vc83WrxFlK4mXocfIprN2CaGL9cFuq3InhTwsqINr5KL42sN1442DXxArXGUaB27YSRkIvnNALGqezVQIl1eKNfqQxyf5eAH4eF_nJBNvtJ5AmNuVmU0/s594/DSCH+1.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="594" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21zd0DJKDJaOTqbXlQs1wPe0Vc83WrxFlK4mXocfIprN2CaGL9cFuq3InhTwsqINr5KL42sN1442DXxArXGUaB27YSRkIvnNALGqezVQIl1eKNfqQxyf5eAH4eF_nJBNvtJ5AmNuVmU0/w400-h291/DSCH+1.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene two</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>At the Great Hall
of the Moscow Conservertoire. DS, Isaak Glikman and Maxim Shostakovich are
entering the hall.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: My
goodness, Isaak Davidovich! So many people. It’s like a public execution.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Isaak Glikman</b>:
Come now. Save the gallows humour for the music. Ah, we’re seated here, I
think.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Good. Just
where everyone can see me. But not too close to the Composer’s Union. Small
mercies, I suppose.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Oh dear. I
think Khrennikov has spotted us. And Apostolov’s with him. Do you think they’ve
been drawn here by lust for the blood of a more talented composer? I’ll head them
off…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: No need.
One may as well take one’s medicine.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Tikhon Khrennikov (head of the Composer's Union) approaches, with Pavel Apostolov (another composer) just behind.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Tikhon Khrennikov</b>:
Ah, Dmitri Dmitrievich! We are all so… impatient to hear this long lost
masterpiece!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: As am I, Tikhon
Nickolayevich! Though I am quite sure it will disappoint…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>TK</b>: I fear so
– we have all made such advances since that time. It is good to be reminded of
this from time to time.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Pavel Apostolov:</b>
Though you could have made the lesson a bit shorter, Dmitri Dmitrievich!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Forgive
us, gentlemen. We must take our seats now. The orchestra is ready to tune.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Aside to DS as Khrennikov
and Apostolov leave:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: It is
remarkable… Khrennikov’s found a follower even more idiotic than himself.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Kirill Kondrashin (the conductor) enters
and the orchestra is seen playing the music.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>One hour later. Full
page view of the hall and audience, with thought and speech bubbles all around:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">What a cacophony!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I feel I’ve aged ten years from the fright!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">That ending. How utterly bleak.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Of course, his music now is much more appropriate to the
times than that.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Why doesn’t Dmitri Dmitrievich write music of such force
and power today?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I feel as though my ears have been assaulted!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Remarkable – like no music I’ve heard before.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">No wonder he pulled it from performance all those years
ago. He’d have been shot!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Now the
torture begins, Isaak. Pray that I don’t fall into the first violins.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS appears on stage
with Kondrashin and the orchestra.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Kondrashin</b>:
Remarkable music, Dmitri Dmitrievich! As fresh as if the ink were still wet on
the page!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Oh no, my
friend. You and your wonderful musicians made up for the many shortcomings.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS bows.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><br /></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 3</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Outside the hall,
IG and MS get into the car. The driver, Mischa, is in the front.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Oh dear, I
think your father has been swamped by admirers. And he so loves admirers.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: Mischa,
could you go and rescue my father, please? Believe me – he would be forever in
your debt.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>When they are alone
in the car:</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: Isaak, I
just cannot believe what I just heard!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> I can.
Imagine what it’s like for an old hand such as me. I never thought I’d hear such
music again.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: I saw the
score, but hearing it is something else! That ending will haunt my dreams, I’m
sure of it. How can he have turned away from that complexity and vision?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Now Maxim,
you know your father had to make difficult choices. In the 30s, we all did…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: I know.
Yes, I know.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: And he did
try. Has he ever told you what happened after Lady Macbeth?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: No, he
doesn’t really speak about the past. My mother told me about the Pravda review…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Yes – he
was at a railway station when he read that. I saw him soon after – he was still
shaking with fright. Maxim, you still have to be careful what you say now, but
friends don’t disappear in the night any more. That review scared us all, but
still he pressed on. Did you know that the Fourth Symphony was rehearsed
several times before they finally convinced him to drop it? He worked on it for
months and months after Lady Macbeth closed and all the time I thought I would
grow grey with worry. I think he still believed that different rules applied in
the concert hall and the opera house. But they didn’t. He never told me all the
details, but I heard he got a visit one afternoon from some men who told him in
no uncertain terms to drop the whole thing. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t got
the hint earlier, but he did eventually.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: I wonder
what we lost, though.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Ha – it’s
much better to be grateful for what we didn’t lose. Speaking of which, here he
comes now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS gets into the
car.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: I thought
I’d never escape! Thank goodness for Mischa – compliments, Mischa! My saviour.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: I’m sorry
– we lost sight of you as we left.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: I’m not
surprised. I was mobbed and I looked for you but without success. Mischa prised
me away from a young man who had a remarkable theory about the Symphony’s
finale representing the vanquishing of the motherland’s enemies! I’m glad to
see the minds of the young as creative as ever.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Did Khrennikov
accost you? I half expected him to goad that fool Apostolov into shrieking
during a quiet part and ruin the recording.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Yes, he
hunted me down. Of course, I agreed with him wholeheartedly that my more recent
music shows admirable restraint in comparison with the formalist excesses of my
earlier works. Naturally, all the other composers agreed too – how perceptive
and generous they are. Mischa, let’s go home. There is a distinct lack of vodka
here.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The car travels
through Moscow.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: Were you
pleased with the performance, father?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Yes, yes!
All very fine.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG: </b>Did it
sound as you remembered it?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Indeed!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A short silence.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Forgive
me. I feel quite overwhelmed by the Symphony. I remember a little of those
rehearsals a quarter of a century ago, and do you remember playing the piece
for Klemperer at the piano?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: I do. I
prefer to not dwell on what has been, though.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS</b>: But father
– think of the possibilities.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Paths not
taken, Maxim. They are closed to us now.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 4</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>The car pulls up
outside DS’s apartment.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: A drink, Isaak
Davidovich?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Seems in
order.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS paces the living
room.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: Maxim, could
you see if there’s anything in the cupboard to drink? </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IG</b>: It’s over
now, Dmitri Dmitrievich. You could at least sit down. What is it?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> My
goodness. Standing on that stage was even worse than usual.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> But it was
a triumph! And much deserved.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Maybe, but
not by me. It says my name on the parts, but that’s music from another
lifetime. Since you mentioned it, yes, I do remember Klemperer. He was so
enthusiastic about the Symphony. It seemed at that moment that anything was
possible.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: Trust me –
it only seemed that way. You look awfully pale.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: They all
looked at me on stage, the great composer of such visionary, wild music. I
looked around for that composer too. He isn’t here anymore.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG</b>: I won’t
hear it!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS</b>: But I’m
serious! What happened to that young man? What have I done in the past 20 years
to equal that?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> …</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> No, you’re
too kind, but I don’t want a list.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Maxim enters with
drinks.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS:</b> Father,
for you…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Hands DS a shot of
vodka</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you… just what I need.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>DS drinks.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Forgive
me, Isaak. Quite enough melodrama for one night.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Quite
alright. A gulf of time and so much else separates us from our younger days. I
feel it too.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS:</b> My
goodness! What a mood has descended.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I felt
like the ghost at my own feast! That music was written by these hands, but with
youth on their side. These days, when I write a slur or even a stem, the line
wobbles as though I’m at sea.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>MS:</b> I think
you’re being rather silly, father. When we heard your 8<sup>th</sup> Quartet,
last year, my friends wouldn’t stop talking about how wonderful and wise it
was.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Wisdom so
often councils <i>against</i>. It never
throws caution to the wind. Anyway,
listen to me! I’m pining for a past we were lucky to outlive. And after
tomorrow, a <i>new</i> year! What a thing.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> 1962… we
are explorers!</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>IG knocks back the
last of his vodka</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I am
sorry… having dragged you back here I find I would rather sleep. Would you stay
here tonight, Isaak? I feel I’d like to know you’re nearby.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Of course.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Thank you.
Maxim, would you mind making up the spare bed up, please?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>Scene 5</b></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>A little later. IG
lying in a dark room. The door opens and lets in a wedge of light.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Isaak…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Yes?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Oh good –
I was worried you might already be asleep.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Not with
the coda of your Fourth Symphony still ringing in my ears.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> What if I
never write anything like that again?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Then you
will be a composer of many remarkable works whose voice will nonetheless
resound down the ages.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> But what
if there were great things to be done, if only I hadn’t been so cowardly?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> To do
great things, first you must live. I would not call that cowardly.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I worry so
often that I will die.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> We will
all die… You do know that?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> But die soon.
There’s still so much to do.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> There is.
And I have no fear of you leaving us anytime soon. But sleep and a little less
vodka will help. Good night Dmitri Dmitrievich.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Good night
Isaak Davidovich.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Quiet for one
panel.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Isaak?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Yes?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> Do you
think I could write a symphony like that now?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> You have
many more wonderful symphonies in you, though I think they will surprise us…
and you.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>DS:</b> I hope so.
In truth, the Fourth seems better than some of my more recent symphonies.
Anyway, good night.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>IG:</b> Good
night.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2021/03/sleeping-forever-beneath-dry-earth-part.html?m=1">Read part 2 here.</a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-83919318583689111042020-11-15T09:43:00.003+00:002020-11-15T09:51:26.244+00:00Who gives a Schmidt?<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiD_UvVOGr8By-1vLD1F2I17w4ZJqxSky7meTOTErsIrcdayPhyJ59Bb7CtXe5qVAysRmD4_TbI9ggNIzqRHf-w_rbYDpKtKTJAAowJW3B3quwLdCyYc26Qp77DRc3MZymwoWqaWVXio//" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="556" data-original-width="948" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiD_UvVOGr8By-1vLD1F2I17w4ZJqxSky7meTOTErsIrcdayPhyJ59Bb7CtXe5qVAysRmD4_TbI9ggNIzqRHf-w_rbYDpKtKTJAAowJW3B3quwLdCyYc26Qp77DRc3MZymwoWqaWVXio/w400-h235/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who cares if it's the right guy? It's all Schmidt anyway</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Classical music gossip blogger Norman
Lebrecht has been laying into Austrian Composer Franz Schmidt (1874-1939) <a href="https://thecritic.co.uk/franz-schmidt-4th-symphony/" target="_blank">in The Critic</a>:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“A former cellist in Mahler’s Vienna Opera
orchestra, Schmidt was an embittered Austrian whose constant resentments
isolated him from the mainstream. In his last year of life, he became an
enthusiastic Nazi. He is regarded by the Vienna Philharmonic as part of their
symphonic heritage and several leading conductors evince enthusiasm for his
four symphonies.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">He goes
on:</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>"I decided to sample
[Berliner Philharmoniker Music Director] Kirill Petrenko’s passion for his 1933
fourth symphony in the hope of achieving enlightenment. To my regret,
enlightenment came there none.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“The symphony is
relentlessly regressive. It opens with a statement that could be mistaken for
early Bruckner, or even Schumann, and it evolves within a restricted sound
jacket, as if Mahler and Strauss never existed. There is a brief swipe of
Mahler six minutes into the first movement, but Schmidt gets over it, settling
into wish-washy swathes of Tristanesque Wagnerisms. I am neither intrigued much
by his monologue nor moved at all. I am not even much annoyed by it. This is
music that is going nowhere. It is, needless to say, dazzlingly played and with
pinpoint precision by the Berlin Philharmonic, but to what end? It’s like
asking a Michelin-starred chef to make you a burger. Hold the pickle.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">To what end? Schmidt composed his dark, sorrowful Fourth
Symphony as a requiem for his dead daughter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Also, the idea that Schmidt was an “enthusiastic Nazi”
isn’t supported by any evidence; in fact, a number of people have gone out of
their way to note that, despite the fact that he once gave a Nazi salute,
Schmidt doesn’t seem to have been particularly interested in the Nazis at all.
Evidence for this comes from the comments of Lebrecht’s own blog; a few weeks
before this derisory review of the new recording of the Fourth Symphony from
the Berliner Philharmoniker, <a href="https://slippedisc.com/2020/09/why-do-they-bother-with-franz-schmidt/" target="_blank">he’d taken a swipe at Deutsche Grammophon for releasing Paavo Jarvi’s new CD set of Schmidt’s 4 symphonies with the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra, repeating the Nazi claim in the process.</a> Below the
line, Georg Tintner’s widow Tanya weighed in, commenting:</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“It is very
dangerous to claim ex cathedra that “this guy was a nazi supporter” when you
really don’t know. I quote from a letter my husband (Georg Tintner) wrote to
another conductor who was about to give a performance of Das Buch mit sieben
Siegeln: ‘You asked me whether Franz Schmidt was a Nazi or not. In difficult
times many things are not either black or white. I try to answer this question
as well as I can. The doctor of Franz Schmidt, who was also a brilliant
violinist, was perhaps his best friend for many years. They played chamber
music together and Dr Adler (I think that was his name) looked after him till he
died. This man was a Jew. I also know that Franz Schmidt helped some of his
Jewish students and friends to get out of Austria. These are the positive
sides. But unfortunately Franz Schmidt wrote a cantata in homage of Hitler. It
is very fortunate that he died before finishing this piece. The Universal
Edition holds the manuscript of the unfinished work and refuses (in my opinion
wisely) to publish it. So what can you say? One thing is clear to me, that he
certainly did not expose himself more incriminatingly than for instance Hans
Pfitzner, whom I also adore.’</i></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Georg Tintner was a renowned Bruckner conductor, born in
Austria in 1917, who fled the country in 1938 because he was Jewish. He hardly
makes Schmidt sound “enthusiastic” about Nazism.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">There’s more, though.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Lebrecht cites the work’s “regressive” language as among
its failings. It’s certainly not avant-garde for its time and could very easily
be described as conservative for 1933, when it was written. <a href="https://youtu.be/w_fjFPhrKjw?t=879" target="_blank">It’s also wonderful</a>, but that’s another point. Does it open “with a statement that could
be mistaken for early Bruckner, or even Schumann”? Absolutely not. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkBiI9P3U_M" target="_blank">The First Symphony, from 1899, does</a>, but the Fourth <a href="https://youtu.be/w_fjFPhrKjw?t=25" target="_blank">begins with a doleful trumpet solo</a>
that could never be mistaken for Bruckner or Schumann.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">So here’s what I think happened. Lebrecht received a copy
of Paavo Jarvi’s new Schmidt cycle, gave it a cursory hate-listen, and then
stuck on the Berliner 4<sup>th</sup> shortly afterwards and snorted at how shit
he thought that was too. Then, when he fired off his review, he got the
symphonies mixed up and didn’t bother to go back and check.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Oh, and the review is headed by a picture of French
composer Florent Schmitt, and Schmidt is spelled “Schmit” in the pull-quote.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Absolute Schmidt-show.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-69313056963090498812020-08-03T15:13:00.005+01:002020-08-03T15:13:45.326+01:00Review: "Some" rather than "The" essential Joe Hisaishi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Decca</span></div>
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<span lang="" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Decca’s
double album of Joe Hisaishi film music isn’t quite as essential as is claimed
on the cover, but contains enough good stuff to justify a listen. The best
comes from a session Hisaishi recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra back
in 2010, not previously released outside Asia. The LSO’s playing is as
sumptuous and tight as you’d expect, with a selection of familiar pieces from Miyazaki
Hayao’s films and some more unusual items, such as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Water Traveler </i>from an unfamiliar 1990s Japanese film about kid samurai. Leader Roman Simovic is luxary casting in the <i>Kiki's Delivery Service</i> violin solos. The LSO’s strings give the heft needed to do justice to Hisaishi’s trademark sound
and sweeping melodies; elsewhere in the collection, which is a hodgepodge of
recordings from lots of sources, the playing is less compelling. Hisaishi himself
plays the piano on many of the tracks, but his hard and rhythmically rigid
playing left me wondering what a more accomplished pianist might make of some
of the ballades. There is, however, plenty for a Hisaishi fan to enjoy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-72454149217547740962020-05-02T10:50:00.000+01:002020-05-02T10:50:28.059+01:00Bach in a time of Coronavirus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What can violinists do when they're stuck at home? Julia Fischer's solution? Call some friends and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_E6oorzk34" target="_blank">record a joint Bach Chaccone</a>, of course. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/julia.fischer.page/videos/240785223826050/" target="_blank">In a Facebook post</a>, she and her colleague explained:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>I had the idea to do a "quarantine version" of Bach's Chaconne together with some other violinists. Here's what Augustin Hadelich says about how it started: "In early April, I was talking to my friend The Official Julia Fischer, and she told me about an idea she had during this quarantine: what if she played the first 8 bars of Bach's Chaconne and then asked friends and colleagues to record the other variations? I immediately jumped on board, and volunteered to compile the videos from everybody, and now the video is ready! Other members of the "cast" include (in order of appearance): Renaud Capuçon, Klaidi Sahatçi, Alexander Sitkovetsky, Nicola Benedetti, Andreas Janke, Daniel Röhn, Lisa Batiashvili, Lena Neudauer, James Ehnes, Stefan Jackiw, Rudens Turku and Vadim Gluzman! (And everyone plays more than once) It was really fun to work on something together, and this video will make for a lovely memory of this strange time in which we are living!"</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Watch the complete performance(s) below:</span></span><br />
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/_eQd95VFpI8/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_eQd95VFpI8?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Main image is a screenshot from the video. Images are used under the principle of "fair use" for the purposes of review and study, and will be removed at the request of the copyright holder(s). Read an extract from my article for The Strad magazine about Shostakovich's violin music, including interviews with Julia Fischer and Vadim Gluzman, <a href="https://www.thestrad.com/playing/julia-fischer-and-vadim-gluzman-on-shostakovichs-violin-sonata/8939.article" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-34598742012117997062019-07-20T14:38:00.001+01:002020-05-22T19:14:02.375+01:00"A society performing their national myth" - Sir David Pountney on his production of Prokofiev's War and Peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WNO War and Peace (Photo: Clive Barda)</td></tr>
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When Welsh National Opera returns to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, this week, they bring with them a real rarity – a production of Prokofiev’s mightiest operatic undertaking, and perhaps his greatest disappointment. Prokofiev conceived of his setting of Tolstoy’s War and Peace as a contribution to the Soviet war effort at a moment, during WW2, when Russians were finding themselves living out a national drama of Tolstoian proportions. Prokofiev’s adaptation grew in scale, from a compressed narrative of 11 scenes – first performed in 1945, one month after the final victory against Germany – to a two-evening epic, which Prokofiev would never see staged in its entirety. A souring political climate in 1947 and 1948, culminating in the infamous denunciation of composers including Shostakovich and Prokofiev, put paid to the composer’s hopes of seeing the opera produced and he died 5 years later – on the same day as Stalin – bitterly regretting its failure.</div>
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Veteran opera director Sir David Pountney first brought War and Peace to WNO in 2018 and it now transfers to London for two special performances. Pountney’s production places the novel’s characters into a Nineteenth Century setting, but has Soviet wartime soldiers and personnel, from Prokofiev’s own day, watching and participating in the action. During the opera’s second half, which focuses on the Napoleonic war episodes, Pountney uses battle scenes from Sergei Bondarchuk’s epic 1960s film, projected behind the set, to evoke the novel’s action and to broaden further the commentary on Russian retelling of War and Peace. </div>
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I spoke to David Pountney ahead of the London performances about his production of the opera, and about his broader experience with Russian culture. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sir David Pountney during rehearsals for WNO's <i>War and Peace</i> (Photo: Jimmy Swindells)</td></tr>
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<b>AM: When did you first come to Russian opera and culture?</b></div>
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DP: Well, I used to go with my parents regularly to the theatre in Oxford and when it came indeed to the opera, my parents actually took part in something called “music camp”, which was basically a way of people taking holidays during the war. They met in this farm house near Newbury and made music, and there was quite a lot of really good musicians there. And I remember, in 1952, they did a performance of Fidelio, for the Coronation, and I vividly remember sitting in an angle of the beam of this barn, and hearing Floristan singing his aria. I also remember the members of orchestra digging the pit, which not many orchestras would do now! Then my parents took me to see Boris Godunov at Covent Garden, I remember, a couple of years later when I was seven or so. So I had plenty of contact with opera from a relatively early age. </div>
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<b>And was it Boris Godunov that sparked an interest in the Russian side of things?</b> </div>
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I’ve no idea. I remember it was a last-minute decision to go and we got a couple of seats in a box above the orchestra, above the brass, which I remember was very exciting. I became a trumpeter, by the way. </div>
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<b>You’ve been associated with a lot of projects related to East-European and Russian music. Did you travel much to the Eastern Bloc before 1991?</b> </div>
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I did. I went to St Petersburg in the 70s – Leningrad as it was, obviously, then – because I was going to do a production of [Tchaikovsky’s] Queen of Spades in Kassel, and I decided that since so many of the locations are actually existing, I thought I’d better go and see these locations. It was a terrible mistake because the stage is nothing about real locations. For one thing, real locations tend not to fit on the stage, like mountains and things like that. I actually directed an opera at the Komische Oper in East Berlin during the 80s, before the Wall came down. And I spent some time in Poland and quite a bit of time in Czechoslovakia, as it then was. So I knew my way around the Eastern Bloc quite well.</div>
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<b>When you came to working on Prokofiev’s War and Peace, how did you make sense of the different versions that exist?</b></div>
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I knew [Scottish musicologist] Rita McAllister, because she and I had worked on [Prokofiev’s] The Gambler together many years ago and I knew that she’d done this reduced “original” version. I thought that since that meant reducing it in some way, that that might make it more performable for us. So I started a conversation with Rita about that, and of course we ended up doing something of a hybrid really, because it turned out that from a purely pragmatic point of view, there were too many good things that weren’t in the original version, like the Ball Scene, for example, and it seemed a pretty dumb idea to do War and Peace without the Ball Scene. So we ended up creating a kind of hybrid version, which I think Rita was not terribly pleased about in the end, because she’d done all this research and wanted something that kept close to her research, but I think it was a practical solution. </div>
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<b>Do you happen to recall any significant portions that didn’t appear in your version? It’s my impression that the Kirov/Mariinsky version runs another 40 or 45 minutes.</b></div>
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Well that’s right – you’d have to look up and compare the versions. There’s a lot of choruses. The Bolshoi version, for example, has a terribly tedious long chorus at the beginning of it - a chorus to the Tsar on his birthday, which is very much better left out. And there are of course innumerable warlike choruses and that kind of thing. I think the version that we got is pretty good. Some people might complain about the “comic” ending, which is the original ending, and of course we slightly had our cake and ate it by giving the Soviet ending as a curtain call, if you remember that.</div>
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<b>Well, it’s so glorious that you can’t not have it – such an incredible tune. </b></div>
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It’s a good tune, yes.</div>
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<b>Yes. Now, in a sense, the opera is a massive compression of the source material – it has to be. What is the effect of going from an enormous novel to a four-hour opera on the characters in it?</b></div>
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Well, I think there is a very considerable degree of simplification, no question. I guess the character who is not entirely simplified, but which it’s most difficult to realise is Pierre. What you don’t get at all are the periods of his fairly grotesque misbehavior, his sort of “hooray-Henry” past history. So you meet Pierre at a point at which he’s already become rather sensitive and complex and the sort of “Boris Johnson” version of Pierre, which you do get in the novel, is missing entirely.</div>
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<b>Do you think the libretto does a good job of compressing the novel?</b></div>
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On the whole, I think it does. As it inevitable for Russians undertaking this exercise, I think they were a little too faithful to the novel. Virtually all of the dialogue is actually taken from the novel. And I think sometimes they’d have been better off writing it themselves. Sometimes the libretto is actually not very clear because they’ve lifted sentences from the novel without the huge background buildup to that sentence that the novel has.</div>
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<b>Were there moments as a director that you felt you had to underscore in a certain way in order to convey the importance of a moment or piece of information?</b></div>
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What is missing, quite badly missing – and I don’t think I was successful or found a way of putting this into the opera – is the way in which Natasha is erotically captivated by Anatole Kuragin. The whole description of her going to the theatre and having Anatole stare at her eyes the whole time, or stare at her tits, basically, is all missing, and so I think you do have a feeling in the opera that you’re not quite clear how it was that one minute she was dancing ecstatically with Prince Andre and then the next minute she’s running off with this cad. It’s unexplained in the opera, I think.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WNO War and Peace: Lauren Michelle as Natasha and Mark Le Brocq as Pierre <br />
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<b>And is it a problem that characters disappear for a long time? Were you aware of that problem when you were working things out?</b></div>
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You mean Andrei? Of course, Natasha disappears totally.</div>
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<b>Yes, and we spend a long time with Kutuzov in the second half – necessarily of course – but I guess that means we’ve left a lot of the characters behind while we’re with the war.</b></div>
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I mean, it is odd that they didn’t somehow deal with what happens to Pierre and Natasha after. It’s not entirely clear in the novel either, but you’re definitely left with a feeling that they’re about to get together.</div>
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<b>And on to this, we have something of a framing device – Tolstoy appears in your production and Pierre assumes his mantel at the very end.</b></div>
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Absolutely.</div>
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<b>When you’re coming up with something like that, do you have to make a careful calculation about how much time you give to an idea like that?</b></div>
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Well, I think in this case you can only see how much time there was. I couldn’t have given any more time to it really – there weren’t opportunities. So it was really a question of whether it was possible to read that idea in the amount of time available.</div>
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<b>You decided to produce it in English rather than Russian – what informs a decision like that?</b></div>
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Actually, very simply, that in the piece you have over 60 named roles, so the idea that you have all these people performing away for over three hours in a fog of incomprehension is a problem. Of course, people are professionals and they learn what is being said to them, and the top principals will obviously put a lot of effort into that, but nonetheless you are hearing something you learned somewhere – “that’s what he’s saying to me in this bar”, rather than actually hearing what he’s saying to you in this bar. So I think there’s an incomparable generation of stage energy and feeling and emotion coming from that fact that everybody understands what everybody’s saying. In an opera that is about collective experience, it would have made it much less intense from the performers’ point of view if they were struggling to remember what they once looked up the chap singing at them was actually saying. I think this is an aspect that is not sufficiently discussed when people are talking about so-called linguistic authenticity.</div>
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<b>But does this need to be decided on a case-by-case basis, rather than a blanket rule one way or another?</b></div>
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Yeah, right. I mean, no one needs to know exactly what’s being said in La Traviata.</div>
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<b>This production needed to fit into a least 4 different theatres. Does that have an effect on the decisions you make about what goes on on the stage?</b></div>
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Yes, obviously. We could only contemplate doing it because we knew we could do it with a smaller group of people because there were fewer of the huge choral numbers. There wouldn’t be dressing room facilities in those theatres for those numbers of people, so you’d have to be hiring porta-cabins, or having them change on a bus or something. So, I mean, there were definitely practical considerations. </div>
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<b>And you made use of some preexisting set as well, from Ian Bell’s In Parenthesis [produced at WNO in 2016]. Was that a similar kind of consideration?</b></div>
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Well, actually, that was more idea-based, because when I was thinking about what this <i>War and Peace</i> would feel like, I had the idea of it of being a sort of collective narrative, as though a society were performing their national myth, rather as we might reenact Dunkirk, or the Battle of Britain, or whatever. In order to achieve that one would need something like a kind of amphitheater, in which the characters could both perform and be an audience, and having thought about that for a short while, I realised that I’d actually got that set in the cupboard. I didn’t need to redo it. </div>
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<b>Some of the press coverage at the time raised an eyebrow at some of the contemporary resonance of an emboldened Russia. Was that something that you thought about, amidst all of these glorifying choruses at the end of the opera, that it could in a sense be Russia in 2018 or 19?</b></div>
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Well, or course, not least because the whole Novichok thing came along quite some time after we’d decided to do it, and also because we were involved with the Russian ambassador in one way or another in an actually unsuccessful attempt to find an oligarch who help fund the enterprise. But of course, we were aware of that and the fact is in the events that inspired this opera, the Soviet Union was our ally. We’d certainly have had a hell-a-lot harder job beating the Germans if the Soviets hadn’t been largely doing it for us. </div>
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<b>In the context of the Russian and Soviet canon, how important do you think this opera is?</b></div>
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I think it inspired Prokofiev to write some of his most eloquent and lyrical music, so it’s sort of inherently a “popular” opera really, once people thought of going to it. I think it responds to the tradition of the artform, particularly as set out by Verdi, as an expression of the state on stage, which has become increasingly rare amongst contemporary operas, which tend to focus on other things. So it’s a kind of grand element in the operatic tradition, and I think it has three or four wonderful characters in it, wonderful operatic characters, quite beautifully realised by Prokofiev. I think it’s very worth keeping in the repertoire.</div>
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<a href="https://www.roh.org.uk/productions/war-and-peace-by-welsh-national-opera" target="_blank"><i>Welsh National Opera's War and Peace will be performed on Tuesday 23rd and Wednesday 24th July 2019 at The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.</i></a></div>
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<i>My thanks to Sir David Pountney for the interview and to Welsh National Opera for the use of the photographs.</i></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-26722121964096193672019-06-17T14:30:00.001+01:002019-06-17T14:30:24.068+01:00100 years since the birth of Galina Ustvolskaya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today marks the centenary of the birth of the composer Galina Ustvlskaya, in Petrograd (now St Petersburg) in 1919. After studying composition with Shostakovich during WW2, she developed one of the most singular voices of Twentieth Century music - a truly distinctive sound at once fragile and brutal. It was my very considerable privilege last year to speak to a number of people who knew her and worked with her, including the film maker Josee Voormans, the pianist and composer Reinbert de Leeuw, the pianist Alexei Lubimov and the violinist Patricia Kopatchinskaja. <a href="https://van-us.atavist.com/the-inner-mountain">You can read a the full article, entitled <i>The Inner Mountain</i>, at Van Magazine.</a><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The image accompanying this post shows Josee Voormans with Galina Ustvolskaya during the filming of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ninHa6TqgqM">Voormans's documentary Scream Into Space</a>, an essential starting point for anyone interested in this remarkable Russian musical figure. The photo is used with kind permission of Josee Voormans.</span></i></div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-1369854290249263232019-05-08T14:54:00.000+01:002019-06-12T09:31:24.015+01:00Read my article on Shostakovich violin music in the current Strad - Interviews with Fischer, Kremer, Gluzman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It began with a fascinating conversation with violinist Vadim Gluzman in Amsterdam, last year. We spoke about Shostakovich's violin music for two hours, ahead of his performance of the Second Violin Concerto with Riccardo Chailly and the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, and you can read some excerpts of that discussion in a feature article in the Mary 2019 issue of The Strad, out now.<br />
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I was then lucky enough to speak with Gidon Kremer and Julia Fischer about their experiences with Shostakovich - in the case of Kremer, his memories of meeting the man himself. It wouldn't have been possible without the generous help of all three superstar soloists, along with Anja Rauschardt and Sonia Simmenauer, who were kind enough to put me in touch with two of my interviewees. It was also made possible by Bryan Rowell of the DSCH Journal, who kindly gave permission for the use of some translations made for the journal, and Elizabeth Wilson, whose own research informed the article also. I'm also grateful to Charlotte Smith at The Strad for her help and encouragement.<br />
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UPDATE: <a href="https://www.thestrad.com/playing/julia-fischer-and-vadim-gluzman-on-shostakovichs-violin-sonata/8939.article">You can read a substantial chunk of the article here. Go on. Treat yourself.</a><br />
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-13068389812139494682019-01-15T15:10:00.000+00:002020-03-01T19:35:12.309+00:00Remembering Rosa Luxemburg 100 years on<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Would Rosa Luxemburg have changed the world? We'll never know, because she was murdered in the act of doing so, 100 years ago, by men who would go on to join the Nazis party, in the midst of an uprising she didn't really believe in.<br />
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She is known to school history students the world over as a leader of the revolutionary Spartacist League, who had a go at emulating the Bolshevik Revolution on the streets of Berlin in January 1919. Apparently, she considered it misconceived from the start, but supported her comrades in their bid to forge a Communist state from the ruins of Kaiser Wilhelm's war-ravaged regime.<br />
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The uprising lasted a few days; the new democratic government turned to paramilitary WW1 veterans for help, and looked on in horror as the men with guns dispensed their own bloody justice. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/jan/09/the-murder-of-rosa-luxemburg-by-klaus-gietinger-review">A book published 20 years ago in Germans and just now in English found that the men who murdered Luxemburg faced little in the way of justice themselves, and found gainful employment in the Nazi state and its post-war successor.</a> <br />
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It seems doubtful that Luxemburg could have made much of a mark on inter-war Germany if she'd lived longer - her's was one of a number of attempts to establish a German workers' state, all of which ended abruptly and brutally. But as I've turned over her image and fate in mind, it's seemed to me that she has stayed with us as a tragic symbol of an era when idealism was cheap, and life cheaper still. Looking back, her end was a bell-weather for a generation of Europeans who wanted a lighter world at the precise moment that others were engaged in shrouding it in darkness.<br />
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Also on my mind on this day is Frederic Rzewski's hour-long piano work <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLGeJ9mrNfU&t=345s"><i>The People United Will Never Be Defeated!</i> (1975)</a>, which puts a Chilean political song through the ringer, for it to emerge after 60 minutes tinged with the pain of experience and sacrifice. The idealism and the terrible cost are all there, just as they are for anyone who cares to glance back at the century that separates us from Rosa Luxemburg.<br />
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-52756521335782431872018-10-02T22:01:00.000+01:002018-10-02T22:01:37.680+01:00Review: An Absorbing Schubert "Great" from Bavaria<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;"><b>Schubert: "Great" Symphony in C</b></span></div>
<span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">Jansons/BRSO</span><br />
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">BR Klassik</span></div>
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<span style="background: white;"><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">Here’s
another live Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra recording that makes you wish
you’d been there. Schubert’s 7</span><sup style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">th</sup><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">, 8</span><sup style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">th</sup><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">, 9</span><sup style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">th</sup><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;"> or
just “Great” Symphony (depending how you count) is given a straight forward but
absorbing performance, very well played, bar an </span><span style="color: #454545;">uncharacteristic</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;"> moment of confusion in
the acceleration</span><span style="color: #454545; font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: inherit;">out of the first
movement’s introduction. Mariss Jansons chooses quick tempi, and it’s a sign of
his good judgment that the fast movements move swiftly by without feeling
hurried along, though the Andante is a little harried. This “Great” is light
and cheery where others are burdened by darker things; it’s more like a massive
escalation of Haydn than a premonition of Bruckner. And if that all sounds like
the point has been missed, it hasn’t. It’s just that they’ve found a different
point in this big box of possibilities.</span></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For regular reviews and blog posts, follow this blog using the bar on the right, or on Twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/devilstrillblog" style="color: #6e66cc; text-decoration-line: none;">@devilstrillblog</a>.</span></i><br />
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-size: 14.85px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read previous record reviews <a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/search/label/CD%20reviews">here</a>.</span></i></div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-51674957235099468362018-09-18T21:57:00.000+01:002018-09-18T22:24:02.760+01:00Stalin's Favourite Stalin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The actor Mikheil Gelovani as Stalin in the film <i>The Fall of Berlin</i> (1950)</td></tr>
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<i>At school, I run a film club, and our most recent film was The Death of Stalin. The text that follows is from my introduction to the movie:</i><br />
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As chance would have it, I was just the other night at
the first performance of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKSkK4BXA_k">Welsh National Opera’s new production of Sergei Prokofiev’sepic opera <i>War and Peace</i>.</a> <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMQfDBYvbe0">War and Peace</a></i> caused Prokofiev no end of
trouble: he had been lured back to the USSR in 1936, after almost two decades
away in Europe, with the promise of artistic freedom and of a position as the
Soviet Union’s leading composer. But in reality he found he was not free at
all, and he spent the last 13 years of his life trying to get his mega-opera
staged in its entirety. He thought he’d hit upon a winner: Tolstoy’s story of
heroic Russian victory against Napoleon seemed totally right for the 1940s,
just when the USSR was taking on Hitler’s army in the greatest war in history.
It was potentially tricky, because the book and the opera commemorated one of
the great triumphs of Tsarist Russia, but history was too important a weapon in
the propaganda war to be ignored entirely. The audience could forget about the
Tsar and instead focus on the great military hero of 1812, General Kutuzov, and
make the obvious connection with their leader and teacher, Joseph Stalin. The Soviet
government, though changed its mind very often about what was acceptable and
what was not, and Prokofiev’s opera never quite made the cut. A second, much
sadder occurrence of chance was that Prokofiev and Stalin died on the same day
in 1953. Apparently, there were no flowers at Prokofiev’s memorial, because
they had all been taken for Stalin’s funeral. But Stalin had, after all, spent
two decades terrorising the Soviet people, liquidating millions of them in his
slave labour camps and deliberate famines. Even in death, the fear lived on. No
one was brave enough to steal so much as a rose from Stalin to offer to a mere
composer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s difficult for us now to imagine how powerful Stalin
was, or what it would have been like to live under his rule. One well-known
musician, who grew up in those days, told me that it is simply not possible for
westerners to understand. You cannot imagine, he said. In the 1930s, Stalin had
terrorised his population with arbitrary executions and deportations to
Siberia. It didn’t really matter who died; Stalin wanted to eliminate his opponents,
but he worked out that you could just kill anyone and the effect was the same.
City authorities were instructed to round up and kill so-many thousands of
people, regardless of their identity. If you introduced enough fear into
people’s minds, they just stayed in line. Husbands or wives would be taken in
the night by the secret police, and at work the next day, the remaining partner
would have to make sure they smiled. To shed a tear for your disappeared spouse
was to cry for an enemy of the people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Terror was only one tool of the tyrant, however. Stalin
controlled all information. Had you visited Moscow in the middle of the last
century, you would have seen giant banners of the gods of Communism: Marx,
Lenin and Joseph himself. The food on your table was put there by Stalin. The
wage in your pocket, the school where you studied; thank you, Stalin. He may as
well have been the sun in the sky. The films in the cinema celebrated all the
wonderful things about Soviet life. They told you that Stalin had brought order
to the chaos of Tsarist Russia. They told you that Stalin had led the nation
against the greatest evil in history, and won. They didn’t have to tell you
this; they showed you. More than one actor played Stalin on screen, but he had
a favourite. Mikheil Gelovani was so good at it that he wasn’t allowed to play
anyone else. Once you’ve played a god, you don’t act the part of mere mortals.
European history was rewritten for the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-hZam8dXHU">epic propaganda film <i>The Fall of Berlin</i> in 1950</a>, which shows
the saintly Stalin (dressed in white) leading the good fight while his supposed
allies scheme and plot. It’s actually a lot like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMQfDBYvbe0">Prokofiev’s <i>War and Peace</i>, which the composer was still fiddling with at the time</a>, though it was Shostakovich who got to write
the music for the film. There’s a love story, the lovers are separated by war,
and then Stalin leads his Soviet people to victory. At the end of the film,
<a href="https://youtu.be/1AHUQ1QRVn4?t=4086">Gelovani’s Stalin flies into Berlin to give a speech to the Russian victors</a>. It
didn’t happen, but Stalin liked the scene so much that he regretted not having
done it for real. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A lot of people smile in <i>The Fall of Berlin</i>, but the smiles were only for the camera. When
the film was released, Stalin was in the middle of unleashing a fresh wave of
terror, which culminated in the supposed Doctor’s Plot, a fake conspiracy which
was used to purge Jews from the medical profession. All of this was carried out
by Stalin’s right-hand man and secret police chief, Lavrenti Beria, who in his
spare time liked to cruise round Moscow in his limousine in the small hours and
pick up young ladies to drug, rape and bury in the garden. But the terror and
fear and executions finally did it for Stalin. When he fell ill, in 1953, it
took hours before anyone was brave enough to enter his bedroom. There weren’t
any doctors left; they were all in prison. And without the boss to tell them
what to do, his deputies ran around frantically, suspicious of each other and
trying to stay alive. It would have been funny had it not been so awful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There’s a fine line, though, between funny and awful.
Armando Iannucci saw as much in Fabien Nury and Thierry Robin’s graphic novel <i>La mort de Staline</i>, and he’s made it
into a funny and horrible film. If, at the end, you wonder how much of it is
true, the answer is: the broad strokes. They’ve compressed the timeframe; what appears
to take days in reality took longer. We don’t really know all the details, and
that suits the storytellers just fine. It works as a comedy, because the way in
which people behave in awful situations is often so absurd. Not everyone saw
the funny side – one leading historian wrote a rather po-faced article,
counting the historical errors and referring to the film as “Carry On Up the
Kremlin”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason Issacs in The Death of Stalin</td></tr>
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But the joke really fell flat in Moscow, where <i>The Death of Stalin</i> has the dubious
honour of being the first film to be banned since the Soviet Union collapsed in
1991. Public figures called the film “vile, repugnant and insulting”, and
although the banning was partly an attempt by the Russian government to put behind
it an embarrassing episode involving the release of <i>Paddington 2</i>, it was also clear that the film did not fit a
particular version of history which Putin’s government is keen to impose. Like
General Kutuzov before him, Stalin is a figure who suits the aspirations of the
current leader of Russia. In Stalin, if you ignore the killings and the
torture, rests the image of strong leader who, if you tell the story right,
united the Soviet state behind the single purpose of defeating fascism. Stalin
was not the only person who could cherry-pick from history. And so, the Russian
film industry is very busy producing sumptuous films which glorify the Second
World War and the heroism of the Russians who fought in it. A notable example
is <i>Panfilov’s 28 Men</i>, a 2016 war film
telling the story of a group of Russian soldiers who held out against
overwhelming German forces during the Battle of Moscow in 1941. At the time,
the Soviet newspaper Pravda carried a report detailing the noble self-sacrifice
of the troops; the problem was, it was only partly true. It happened over 70
years ago, but when the distance between the legend and the reality was brought
up recently, the Russian culture minister retorted angrily that the story was
“a sacred legend that shouldn’t be interfered with. People that do that are
filthy scum.”</div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, it’s easy to point out the holes in
other people’s national myths. We certainly could ask where all the successful
British films are that properly interrogate the complex legacy of colonialism.
And it is true that Putin is no Stalin. There are no untold millions
languishing in secret prison camps in Russia today. There aren’t long lists of
names being issued by the Kremlin for immediate liquidation, though here in
Wiltshire, we know they’re dabbling. But Putin’s government demonstrates the
familiar irritation that authoritarians usually show for those who fail to
treat the useful bits of history with the required respect. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #363636; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Image(s) are used under the principle of fair use for the purposes of review and study and will be removed at the request of the copyright holder(s).</span></span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-72012504638893471372018-08-31T13:36:00.000+01:002018-08-31T13:40:27.432+01:00Review: Mariss Jansons's extraordinary Bruckner 8<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Bruckner: Symphony No. 8</b></div>
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Jansons/BRSO</div>
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BR Klassik</div>
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I had thought Bruckner a closed book to me; all that
repetition, all that alienating monumentalism. This, though, is a record to
challenge prejudices. Mariss Jansons and the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra have
produced an extraordinary, flowing performance, filled with the kind of playing
and thinking needed to make sense of this vast symphony. It’s all beautifully
recorded – only the concluding applause gives away that this is a concert
performance. Bruckner fans are talking about this as one for the ages; it’s certainly
one to convince the cautious and sceptical.<br />
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<i>For regular reviews and blog posts, follow this blog using the bar on the right, or on Twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/devilstrillblog">@devilstrillblog</a>.</i></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-77731809958095398402018-07-16T13:53:00.000+01:002018-12-10T21:14:01.868+00:00Five Glimpses of Gennady Rozhdestvensky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>In memory of Gennady Rozhdestvensky (1931-2018), who died one month ago today.</i></div>
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<a href="https://youtu.be/rFV4w66BvPM?t=165">Gennady Rozhdestvensky is watching a student closely.</a> The
young conductor in the loose suit clasps the air, and maestro’s onto him. “What
was that gesture with your left hand?” he snaps. “To stop” says the student,
apologetically. “Stop what? A draft? What’s the point of stopping those who
aren’t playing?” Movement is an anathema to Rozhdestvensky’s conducting. Not
show; barely moving can become a show, as he spends a lifetime demonstrating.
But a grand arc of the arms, when a turn of the head or a shrug of the
shoulders will make the point? A waste. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon his death, this June, his friend Gerard
McBurney tells the BBC about the habits of Rozhdestvensky’s craft. “He had an
extraordinary gift for conducting the way musicians want conductors to work –
without words. He never talked about the music. He just did everything through
his eyes, his eyebrows, his smile, and his hands and his baton.” And if the
movement tells all, why spend the afternoon labouring the point? “He didn’t
rehearse much and they were all really delighted because they’d knock off early
and go home,” says long-time Rozhdestvensky-watcher David Nice, of the
conductor’s BBC Symphony Orchestra years. “They loved him for that. What he
brought to the actual performance though was something completely different and
inspirational, which hadn’t ever happened in the rehearsal.” His musical
appetite is voracious. Have you ever heard a Russian orchestra play a Vaughan
Williams symphony? Rozhdestvensky recorded them all. A shark must keep moving
through the water in order to breathe, but no more than that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gennady Rozhdestvensky is old before his time. He is
barely twenty years of age, but his hair is thinning, almost gone. He leads the
Bolshoi in a performance of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Nutcracker</i> and from this moment on, he will be a conductor of ballet. Where
others will scorn it as menial stickwork, he will take the great scores of the
ballet repertoire to his heart; he will blow the dust from their covers and
dance them with his hands. In the dying days of the Soviet Union, the youthful ballets
of his friend Shostakovich come down from the shelf and move once more: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Golden Age</i>; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bolt</i>; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Limpid Stream</i>.
Bright jewels from days of possibility, before the scales fell and terror
enveloped all. Rozhdestvensky bears witness to most of the Soviet era, but not
its beginning. His father was there, with the Red Army, putting down the
sailors’ revolt at Kronstadt, near Petrograd, in 1921. His father, Nikolai
Anosov, a conductor. Mikhail Tukhachevsky led the forces of the Bolsheviks that
day, leaving 10,000 rebel bodies strewn across the wreckage and the winter ice.
Tukhachevksy, the patron of Shostakovich during his ballet days. Tukhachevsky,
the name no one dared speak after he was swallowed by Stalin’s purge. Time
passes and the fear recedes, but never completely. The young man learns the
choreography of professional and political survival, but from a comfortable
distance, they’ll ask, as though it were really that simple: “but he wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i> the communists, surely?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://csosoundsandstories.org/wp-content/uploads/russian_trio.jpg">He crouches, in conference, with his greatest compatriots</a>. The Royal Festival Hall, London, 1960. Mstislav Rostropovich with
his cello and Shostakovich talking around what he really means. “Good! Very
good! But could it be a little quieter?” Two years later, Rozhdestvensky will
bring to the West an earthquake, on paper, in the form of Shostakovich’s
long-dormant Fourth Symphony, put away in more difficult times. And every time
he brings a Soviet orchestra as news of Red culture, Rozhdestvensky will enter
into battle with the bureaucracy, with the swamp of officialdom that doesn’t
know, and doesn’t care, and has its instructions, comrade. Much later, he
recalls, for Bruno Monsaingeon’s film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Red Baton</i>, going to an official’s office and being informed that 10% of his
orchestra would not be authorised to travel abroad. Which 10%? Well, that’s to
be decided later. The list, when it arrives, pulls 9 wind players and 3
strings. “You knew you had to plan replacements!” hisses the official.
Rozhdestvensky continues: <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes”, I said, “But how can I
explain it? There are nine woodwinds and three strings, but you see, these
people play different songs. Those with bows play one song, and those with
whistles play other songs. Put them all together and you get a symphony. The
bows can maybe be replaced because they basically all do the same thing. As for
the others, I can’t replace them. How can we wave the flag of Soviet art if
songs are missing from the symphony?” His eyes popped out as if he’d discovered
America. He’d obviously never heard an orchestra. Six months later, another
tour, another 12 musicians banned from traveling. But this time it was nine
strings and three woodwinds! I went back to the same functionary. He was
flabbergasted. “What’s wrong now? We hardly touched the whistles! Only three.
We have to eliminate people, that’s our job!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gennady Rozhdestvensky is surrounded by books. In a
century in which knowledge has burned so easily, he has treasured it, acquiring
so many volumes that he needs a second apartment to house them all. He emerges
from his reading, and he sparkles. “Imagine an amalgam of Sir Thomas Beecham,
Peter Ustinov and Isaiah Berlin,” recalls his agent, Robert Slotover, for the
BBC. “An hour with Gennady Nikolaevich is like a year at university”, comments the
writer Viktor Borovsky. He is sage, but elusive. “He was a bit teasy and
whimsical”, says David Nice of interviewing Rozhdestvensky in the 1990s. “You
thought you’d got very little, but when you played it back you’d got quite a
lot, because he tended to express himself aphoristically.” But he is vulnerable
and ever-so-easily bruised. One afternoon, he sits in his dressing room at the
venue of a west-European orchestra with whom he has had an occasional
association, and notices that his name is not mentioned in the ensemble’s brief
biography. Rage and accusations follow. And this is not the only such outburst.
His face so often settles into a knowing smile, but sometimes the play and the
lightness will fall away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old order is gone; the new one is not so very
different. <a href="https://www.gettyimages.co.uk/pictures/gennady-rozhdestvensky-942039#russias-president-vladimir-putin-awards-moscow-state-tchaikovsky-picture-id687887890">Vladimir Putin reaches out to grasp the hand of the beaming maestro</a>,
the People’s Artist of the USSR, Hero of Socialist Labour and, in 2017, recipient
of the Order of Merit to the Fatherland (1<sup>st</sup> Class).
Rozhdestvensky’s walking stick leaves the ground as he turns to the cameras,
hand-in-hand with his president. A month later, he is in the German town of
Gohrisch, leading the Dresden Staatskapelle in a last performance of symphonies
by Shostakovich. There are nerves. Mistakes are made, some very large. But
something remarkable happens during the 15<sup>th</sup> Symphony,
Shostakovich’s enigmatic valediction to the form. Where it can seem light and
flippant, the Dresedeners and their octogenarian time traveller draw from it
solemnity and grim conviction. The chilly air of a tomb inhabits this
performance, and it proceeds slowly – very slowly indeed – as though the man on
the podium, a man nearing the end of a long life, is looking back to his friend
whose own life was not nearly long enough, but who lives still for as long as
the notes are ringing. Eventually, the stick goes down, and there’s only quiet.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The top image shows <span style="text-align: center;">Gennady Rozhdestvensky conducting the Dresden Staatskapelle at the 2017 International Shostakovich Days festival in Gohrisch. Image(s) are used under the principle of fair use for the purposes of review and study and will be removed at the request of the copyright holder(s). My thanks for David Nice for his help preparing this piece and to Gerard McBurney and Robert Slotover for giving their permission to quote their tributes to Gennady Rozhdestvesnky.</span></span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-23724760207089543982018-06-21T14:15:00.002+01:002018-06-21T14:15:52.764+01:00Violinist and Auschwitz survivor Helena Dunicz-Niwińska has died, aged 102<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helena Dunicz-Niwińska in 1964 (Photo: PWM)</td></tr>
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I'm saddened to hear of the passing of Helena Dunicz-Niwińska, at the age of 102, in Krakow. She was born in Vienna in 1915, and grew up in the then-Polish city of Lwow, where she studied as a violinist. Helena was arrested in 1943 by German occupying forces and deported, with her mother, to Auschwitz. There, her musical abilities saved her from brutal slave labour; instead, she was recruited for one of the camp orchestras, led by Gustav Mahler's niece, Alma Rosé. Rosé was a demanding conductor, but Helena came to understand that her high standards helped keep her and others useful to the Nazi authorities and, crucially, alive. Helena survived the march to Ravensbruck camp in Germany and, after liberation in 1945, settled in Krakow, where she went on to work for the Polish Music Publishers (PWM). She only came to write about her experiences in 2013, and<a href="http://auschwitz.org/en/author/helena-dunicz-niwinska/one-of-the-girls-in-the-band-the-memoirs-of-a-violinist-from-birkenau,208.html#2"> they are related in a book published by the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum.</a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helena meeting Pope Francis at Auschwitz in 2016</td></tr>
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I first discovered her story during a visit to Auschwitz in 2016, and<a href="http://devilstrillblog.blogspot.com/2016/02/music-and-sunlight-at-auschwitz.html"> I wrote a blog about it soon after.</a> I reproduce a portion of that blog here:<br />
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<i>I have a chance this time to visit the bookshop, which reveals the admirable continuing efforts of the State Museum to shine the light of scholarship onto areas still offering fresh perspectives. For obvious reasons, I’m drawn to a recent publication by Helena Dunicz Niwińska called One of the Girls in the Band: The Memoirs of a Violinist from Birkenau. Helena only published these memoirs in 2014, at age 99, and given that she saw the camp through adult eyes (she was 28 when sent to Brikenau in 1943), her account of Auschwitz’s strictures and realities is a particularly direct and prosaic. There’s also the sense of a story being set straight: Helena refers to a few previous published accounts of musical life at Birkenau that fell short of real veracity.</i><br />
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<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/db/a8/08/dba8081c90fc481a498d29b913375407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/db/a8/08/dba8081c90fc481a498d29b913375407.jpg" width="268" /></a><i>Helena’s account also reveals an undimmed admiration for Alma Rosé, the niece of Gustav Mahler and director of the women’s orchestra (one of a number of ensembles at Birkenau). Rosé did not survive Auschwitz, succumbing to a sudden illness in April 1944, but Helena paints a portrait of a hugely accomplished musician for whom the highest musical standards in the most degrading conditions were a matter of dignity and survival. Rosé worked tirelessly on arrangements of music for the orchestra’s motley assortment of instruments (including lots of violins, mandolins and guitars, but few bass instruments), though much of that work is lost to time, living only in the memories of the few remaining witnesses to this ray of light in a hell on Earth.</i><br />
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<i>I’m an inveterate botherer of tour guides, and as we wend our way through Birkenau, our expert guide Renata tells me about her friend Helena’s book. I admit to having bought it earlier in the day, given my interest in all things violin. “Well”, she says, “I have something for you”. At the end of the tour, Renata retrieves from her car one of a few remaining discs made recently featuring a reconstruction of music arranged by Alma and pieced together again from Helena’s memory. It’s Chopin’s Etude Op10/3. As a Pole, Chopin’s music was forbidden, but this piece was played only in rehearsal for the enjoyment of the musicians. Rosé’s instrumental ingenuity is here, in the careful use of violins and mandolins and the voice soaring above the bass-light texture. It must have seemed like a warm bath of memory and humanity to those who heard it, a momentary relief from fetid reality. And on this crisp sunny February afternoon, it’s another fleeting connection to the individuals who came to this place and, in most cases, did not leave.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Helena Dunicz Niwińska (1915-2018) died on June 12th. Any images used here fall under "fair use" and are reproduced for the purposes of review and study. They will be removed at the request of the copyright holder(s).</span></div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-36822580848249047262018-06-16T14:46:00.000+01:002018-06-16T14:52:36.917+01:00Gennadi Rozhdestvensky, great Russian conductor, is gone.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dmitri Shostakovich, Mstislav Rostropovich and Gennadi Rozhdestvensky <br />
at London's Royal Festival Hall in 1960</td></tr>
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Today feels like the end of an era. It was announced that, after a long illness, the great Russian conductor Gennadi Rozhdestvesnky died this morning. He was born in 1931 and was one of the last remaining and active musicians to have had a substantial career in the Soviet period. He was particularly associated with the music of Shostakovich, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h57rD1wb0oE">whose early opera The Nose he revived in 1974</a>. His association with Shostakovich actually began in the 1950s, and he became a champion of the 4th Symphony when it was finally premiered in 1961 - although Kirill Kondrashin conducted the first performance, Rozhdestvensky brought the piece to the west, in 1962.<br />
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He was also a great promoter of contemporary music in the later Soviet period, and worked hard to secure a performance of his friend Alfred Schnittke's radical First Symphony in the 1970s. He had a particular passion for English music and even recorded a complete cycle of Vaughan Williams's symphonies.<br />
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With his passing, we lose one of the last links to a remarkable, difficult and fascinating part of music history. He worked until his last months, and everyone who loves Russian music must hold him dear.</div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-88780501304655491712018-05-01T14:00:00.005+01:002018-05-01T14:00:36.756+01:00My Teacher, Tony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My teacher, Tony Ward, has died. I think it’s fair to say he changed my life. I was always a curious child (yes), but Tony’s A Level Politics lessons opened my eyes to worlds of thought that were totally unknown to me. He taught me about human nature, and the idea that you could argue about what exactly it was. He taught me that it was possible to imagine the world operating in a completely different way to the way it does. In all of this, he expounded these world views (all of them) with the conviction of a believer. What would it be like to have an anarchist in the room? Or a socialist? Or even a fascist? Tony made these things living ideas, and opened us to the exciting and troubling possibilities that followed from this.<br />
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Tony was one of those teachers who didn’t condescend to his pupils. He spoke to us as though we were on his level. He had left school at 16 with no qualifications, but had pursued education thereafter with a special appetite. He took my interest in music seriously and would listen to my latest enthusiasms with interest. He understood that the spark of curiosity and interest in young people is where all the really valuable thinking comes from, and for that I will forever be grateful. <br />
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I am a teacher now, but he didn’t know that. Like many of us, I thought of him fondly but never quite got around to dropping him a line and telling him that. His partner, Chris, was my History teacher, and <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/education/2018/apr/30/tony-ward-obituary">an obituary has been posted on the Guardian website by Tim</a>, my English teacher. It reminds me that we should get on and thank our teachers for what they probably don’t know they did.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The header picture is from the Guardian obit, and he's looking as much like Lenin as I remember. I do not own the copyright for this picture and it will be removed at the request of the copyright holder/s.</span></div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-17577760254369700202018-04-21T20:17:00.000+01:002018-04-21T23:54:23.614+01:00Music in the age of YouTube<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have a certain wariness of just recycling classical PR. The decision to make this blog contactable by email means I receive a lot of press releases, and I'm often left wondering what exactly the senders of these things imagine I'm going to do with them. But the stuff that some organisations put out as "PR" does transcend the bland norm, and some London orchestras are getting pretty good at using YouTube to spread the message and offer something genuinely interesting.<br />
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The Philharmonia is one such group whose marketing department have come up with things that are actually worth watching, including the lovely video from Pekka Kuusisto, talking about the indefatigable Vladimiar Ashkenazy. I must own up to a special fondness for both these men, who came to my local concert hall when I was sixteen and gave one of those concerts that propels you towards a life-long infatuation with this wonderful thing called music. I can also concur with Kuusisto's assessment of him, that he's "a really cool dude". It's been my pleasure to have met Ashkenazy a few times, and I can only say that, in his case, "never meet your heroes" is a piece of advice I was happy to have ignored.</div>
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There's a lot more to watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCKzx92ZqX1PKYTC-FC-CZRQ">on the Philharmonia YouTube page</a>. They're showing the way on this. </div>
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In addition, if you can, do watch the <a href="https://lso.co.uk/whats-on/live-streamed-concerts.html">London Symphony Orchestra's live stream on Sunday April 22nd (7.30 BST) - Simon Rattle conducting Tippett and Mahler.</a> Free. And live. What an age we live in.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Header picture screencapped from the Philharmonia's linked video. Images used are done so in line with "fair use" and will be removed at the request of the copyright holder(s).</span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-13451516373598170222018-03-27T22:23:00.001+01:002018-03-27T22:23:06.310+01:00Prokofiev for Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I’ve been enjoying a new release from pianists Martha Argerich and Sergei Babayan entitled Prokofiev for Two, made up of arrangements for two pianos by Babayan. There’s familiar numbers from Romeo and Juliet, but also some real rarities, including incidental music to Eugene Onegin, The Queen of Spades and Hamlet. I must admit that, to my shame, I hadn’t realised that Prokofiev had written music for these plays; before hearing them, I had to check that these weren’t some Tchaikovsky arrangements thrown in for good measure. Best of all is a waltz from Prokofiev’s opera War and Peace which, rather excitingly, is to be staged by Welsh National Opera in the autumn.<br />
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The internets led me then to the next in Doremi’s series of Argerich recital releases, pairing her with violinist Ruggiero Ricci, in a concert given in Leningrad in 1961. I’ve been listening to the second recital (Doremi released a previous one already), the highlight of which a blistering account of the Franck Violin Sonata, much better than some rather relentless solo Bach from Ricci at the recital’s start. There is, for a Soviet music fan, an added thrill in imagining who might have been in the audience that night.<br />
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-26683647397502861002018-03-15T10:50:00.001+00:002018-03-15T10:51:50.333+00:00Sign Of The Times<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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They never did correct his name. I'm starting to wonder if the problem really is that <a href="http://www.overgrownpath.com/2017/10/classical-musics-biggest-problem-is.html">no one cares</a>.<br />
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-88103612443799392352018-02-21T22:52:00.001+00:002018-02-21T22:56:31.716+00:00"My Teacher Played Me Commie Music!"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I <a href="https://jessicamusic.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/beautiful-music-for-bad-people-guest.html">wrote a little guest post for Jessica Duchen's Classical Music Blog</a> about how I introduced my students to Prokofiev, via Joe Stalin. Here's a taste:<br />
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<i>I try to smuggle a little music into my lessons. Students studying Napoleon heard snatches of Beethoven’s Eroica and the story that went with it. Recently, with a GCSE class investigating culture and politics in Stalin’s USSR, I used interview footage featuring the great Russian conductor Gennadi Rozhdestvensky, recounting the way in which, during the Soviet period, books themselves were altered as officials and artists feel in and out of favour. But I had an ulterior motive: the interview, from Bruno Monsaingeon’s documentary The Red Baton, plays with clips of Sergei Prokofiev’s choral ode to Stalin, Zdravitsa (“A Toast” or “Hail to Stalin”). It’s beautiful, sweeping stuff.</i><br />
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<a href="https://jessicamusic.blogspot.co.uk/2018/02/beautiful-music-for-bad-people-guest.html">Read the whole lot here.</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Any copyrighted material is included as "fair use" for critical analysis only, and will be removed at the request of copyright owner(s).</span></div>
Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-47172089617392897022017-12-17T11:01:00.000+00:002017-12-17T11:01:37.953+00:00One turn of the dial: Grigori Kozintsev on filming good and evil<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It so happens that, by itself, the
activity of a people – its selfless devotion to duty, its bravery – can be
evaluated only when the goal to that activity is known. Sometimes the artist
need not be explicit about the goals; the audience will perceive the action of
the screen as though it were tuned in on a definite wave length of spiritual
activity by an associative force, tuned in on a conditional reflex of attitudes
toward good and evil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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During the Second World War,
William Wyler directed his <i>Memphis Belle</i>.
The film contains shots of a bomb run by flying fortresses, the life of the
pilots, their military work, the return to base under fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The chronicle is filmed as entertainment:
it shows the characters of the pilots, their mutual relations, tastes, customs.
Their tastes are not demanding. A picture is painted on the side of an
airplane: a bathing beauty sticks out her rear end. Returning from a run
(mortal danger and the bravery of the crew is indicated; there are quite a few
seriously wounded), the pilots slap the Memphis Belle on her behind; it’s a
custom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In this case, neither the drawing
itself nor the conduct of the men is in any way attractive of itself. Wyler
does not show the enemy: bombings are filmed from the plane (little squares for
objectives, the smoke of explosions, shell craters). But the audience sees the
movie as though tuned in on a certain wave length: hatred for fascism is
already a conditioned reflex.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The American fly-boys, their
bravery, and even their joke about the girl in the bathing suit, all seem
attractive, profoundly human.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now let us imagine this film in
its entirety as taking place in Korea. Just as any turn, however insignificant,
of the radio dial will tune in another station, so here everything becomes
different and the interpretation makes an about-face. The men are murderers;
their life is coarse. And the bawd in the bathing suit becomes a symbol: here
are the ideals and the culture in the name of which these thugs have flown
across an ocean in order to annihilate a people fighting for their freedom and
human dignity.</div>
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From the notes of Grigori Kozintsev, made during the
filming of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XWbGN0zmlw&t=1616s">his 1964 adaptation of Hamlet</a> (with music by Dmitri Shostakovich), published in his book <i>Shakespeare: Time and Conscience</i>, which
was translated by Joyce Vining in 1966.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4540977209436721467.post-55234268769608465092017-12-15T19:58:00.000+00:002017-12-17T12:34:31.986+00:00Galina Ivanovna's Nun<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KPnYuI2fdg2iivBTj4tScXhDtAtWYjTG3rrnNw-2UiNqrN4ss6M0ut7-pxsiNwjFRm-1kU6nIk9yyIG5gaSkuowMBOODaQVsvgUc17dyNB4qJE7iuiqT2yhl67_Di7nBA2sGT-jnI30/s1600/galina+ustvolskaya.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="540" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KPnYuI2fdg2iivBTj4tScXhDtAtWYjTG3rrnNw-2UiNqrN4ss6M0ut7-pxsiNwjFRm-1kU6nIk9yyIG5gaSkuowMBOODaQVsvgUc17dyNB4qJE7iuiqT2yhl67_Di7nBA2sGT-jnI30/s400/galina+ustvolskaya.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galina Ustvolskaya, seen in the Dutch TV documentary <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ninHa6TqgqM&t=5s">Scream Into Space</a></td></tr>
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For many years I worked in a music library. I know how
many years passed there, but I couldn’t now divide the time and say what
belonged to which of the years. Libraries are places where time collects and
where ideas go to rest, but time and thought stand strangely still between the
shelves. Libraries have cycles and habits, and they go on until one day, they
stop.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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An elderly, sprightly lady used to breeze through the
gate and give a brief but sincere “hello”, and a “hope you’ve a lovely holiday”
or the like as she left. These all passed between us as though we’d done the
introductions long before, but in truth, I barely knew who she was, only that
she was a rare exception, a library regular from outside our institution. At
Christmas, she’d bring a box of biscuits and card, left with her usual economy.
A smile, a few words, and gone again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sister Andre sort of came with the library”, the
Librarian told me. “She’s been coming for years. She’s a nun. She’s researching
something.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I think more years passed before I asked what it was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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-<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Dullaghan”, she said, in a way that sounded right and
compact in her Irish brogue. “D-U-L-L-A…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Got it”, I said, finding her record and issuing her
books. Sr Andre Dullaghan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What did she do up in the reading room, I asked? She was
working on her book, she replied, on the Russian composer Galina Ustvolskaya. I
knew the name, a little of the reputation, though I didn’t know the sound of
the music. Strange and intense, I’d heard. A recluse, who’d not long ago died.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then, from the little nun to whom I’d nodded and
smiled for years, came the story of the time she’d made it into the world of
Galina Ivanovna Ustvolskaya, a tiny world sealed shut to all but a select few.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Galina Ivanovna lived in a nondescript apartment in St
Petersburg. If one knew anything of her, it was that she’d been a pupil of
Shostakovich. He’d even, it was said, proposed marriage. She declined, and
later in life, she vehemently denied his musical influence and his personal
friendship. Shostakovich “killed my best feelings”, she wrote.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In her later years, she cultivated the myth of her own
singularity. Scholarly study of her music was forbidden. Early works were
struck from her catalogue. Just a handful of musicians could perform her music
to her exacting standards. She admitted no influences, no antecedents. She
belonged to no tradition. And she’d withdrawn from the world, to that tiny flat
that she shared with her husband. No one saw her. One did not visit Ustvolskaya.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some time, in the 1980s, perhaps, Sr Andre had fallen
under the spell of the music. In the pounding of Ustvolskaya’s brutally
expressive, rhythmically single-minded symphonies and sonatas, Sr Andre had
seen God, a raw and blinding image of Him that spoke intensely to her faith. A
visit to St Petersburg, in 1993, gave her the chance to discover more than was then
possible from the trickle of information reaching the West. She found scholars
and musicians eager to share their knowledge of Ustvolskaya’s work, but
speaking with the composer was out of the question.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Further visits followed, and the quest to learn more
became a doctoral thesis. Finally, in 1997, at the suggestion of a mutual
acquaintance, Sr Andre took a risk and phoned Galina Ivanovna’s home number,
a few days shy of the composer’s 78<sup>th</sup> birthday. She answered. Galina
Ivanovna didn’t throw down the phone, but rather, spoke with Sr Andre warmly.
News of Sr Andre’s passion for her music, and of her research visits to St
Petersburg, must by then have reached her, even within her little fortress. Was
this a way in? Sr Andre sensed that it might be, if she proceeded with
care. A few days later, she phoned again.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I do not wish to see you”, said Sr Andre, “but at
5:30 I will ring your doorbell and leave you a present.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Immediately: “There’s no need to.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sr Andre, though, had prepared. “I have already
bought your present.” Chocolate-covered prunes – Galina Ivanovna’s favourite.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was a pause – a long pause.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What time did you say you’d call?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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That evening, Sr Andre arrived at the apartment, at
the appointed time. She rang the bell, not expecting any response. But the door
opened, and there stood Galina Ivanovna, dressed beautifully. She offered
Sr Andre a warm embrace, and invited her into the apartment. They spoke for
a while, and the composer asked this question: “Why do you love my music so
much?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I love your music”, replied Sr Andre, “because every
note touches my soul.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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-<o:p></o:p></div>
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She told me this story as I sat behind our library’s
broad wooden issue desk. I read later that Galina Ivanovna referred to Sr
Andre as “the nun”. And here she was - Galina Ivanovna’s nun - telling me of this
precious meeting. I was at one remove from the most mysterious of the Soviet
Union’s visionary musicians.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I stored it away in my mind. Years passed, I changed
career, and eventually I set to writing something about Ustvolskaya. I knew who
to contact first. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had expected the routine to continue, even without me,
and for Sr Andre to be regularly climbing the stairs to the reading room,
to be reviewing her notes and shaping her manuscript at the big sloping table
on the first floor. But she wasn’t; she isn’t. News came back from a colleague
that she had passed away in 2015, eight years after and ten years the junior of
her beloved Galina Ivanovna.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know what became of her work. The book she was
shaping will never be finished. Perhaps the notes and the thoughts they hold
rest somewhere, in a box or on a shelf of some little library, waiting for
someone to pick up the threads and continue the work.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cm2DBGHWW6pmiSOrTEDfMHA_SOA3ECFZ_r6Z9t_JF7C7Ir0tAl9g-yyodexxeizkO-aemd0N7SPHvZHDkMPvTuWhGnUNAGC1__r2Dd7GAXbPihdjApCfdHuKn-aQinwdi95gUA_0_mU/s1600/sister+andre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="392" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cm2DBGHWW6pmiSOrTEDfMHA_SOA3ECFZ_r6Z9t_JF7C7Ir0tAl9g-yyodexxeizkO-aemd0N7SPHvZHDkMPvTuWhGnUNAGC1__r2Dd7GAXbPihdjApCfdHuKn-aQinwdi95gUA_0_mU/s320/sister+andre.jpg" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sr Andre Dullaghan</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The details of Sr Andre's meeting with Galina Ustvolskaya are related in the introduction to her doctoral thesis, <i>Galina Ustvolskaya: Her Heritage and Her Voice</i> (City Universtiy London, 2000) and are much the same as they were told to me by Sr Andre herself. Images used on this page fall under fair use and are intended to aid study and review. They will be removed upon request by the copyright holders. </span></div>
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Andrew Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13621999760260602982noreply@blogger.com2