The Ministry of Culture had organized this audition. Oh, he’d slaved; he’d prepared; he’d eliminated many a measure which might be construed as erotic, let alone anti-Soviet; here was the revised libretto, definitive now, tamed and trimmed like a bathing beauty’s bikini line, perfect indeed, which is to say, one note forward and ten notes back, everything better and more joyous; so his persecutors grinned like crocodiles right there in his apartment (number 87, 37-45 Mozhaiskoye Shosse), when he seated himself at what he called the other piano and played the opera through by memory, thinking to himself: He who has ears will hear.
Afterward, Comrade Kabalevsky remarked: In spite of a few pretty passages, and I certainly don’t wish to demean you as a musician, my dear Mitya, it’s still an apology for a debauched murderess!
Comrade Luria was also there, and he gave off a stink of burning. Stroking his beard, he contented himself by reminding us all that even the émigré Martynov had summed up Shostakovich’s opus as a warning of harmful deviation.
Yes, to be sure, my dear friends, because I myself am nothing but a, you know.
And you seriously intended to compose an entire cycle of these so-called “feminist operas,” Dmitri Dmitriyevich?
I’m afraid so, he whispered triumphantly. When you, er, buy little boys in ancient China they’re little hands; little girls are just cocoons. Which makes me feel…
What a disgusting piece of nonsense!
Comrade Khubov inserted the third dagger, saying: The real point is that the “Muddle Instead of Music” article in Pravda has never been retracted. Therefore, it’s still in force.
In a rage, Glikman shouted at them: But Stalin is dead!
That’s as may be, Isaak Davidovich. But, when all’s said and done, Comrade Stalin remains a genius. He was the head of the Party at that time. And it’s just not done to go against the Party. Don’t you agree, Mitya?
Correct, correct, correct! cried Shostakovich in a trembling voice. It’s just a question of—I mean, I’ve evidently failed to overcome my age-old errors!
Ah. Well, I’m glad you see that much. Keep toeing the line, Mitya, and we’ll do what we can. Maybe in another ten years the time will be right. As for you, Isaak Davidovich, speaking as your colleague, if not quite your friend, I’d advise you to be very, very careful. Needless to say, nobody’s remarks will go beyond this room. All the same, don’t you see that your misguided counteroffensive could actually hurt Mitya?
Don’t worry, don’t worry, whispered Shostakovich. I’d like to thank you all for your helpful criticisms…
Mitya, don’t take this so much to heart! Nobody’s calling you an enemy of the people yet! Just calm down and remember that we’re only interested in your good—
Thank you for that, Comrade Khubov. Thank you, thank you!
And now for a technical question. Don’t worry, Comrade Alexandrov; it won’t be too technical. What I want to know, Mitya, is this: What key is this opera in?
Well, I—
I want you to know that this morning we all listened to your music to “The Fall of Berlin.” Parts of that movie are dated now, obviously, but in my opinion what you did there is your best work.
Thank you, thank you!
It’s what the Americans would call feel-good music, if you follow me, Mitya. It sends us out into the world with a song that we can whistle! In essence, we begin in a major key, then after some dramatic strife, in the course of which we win our victory against international Fascism, we return to the tonic, the harmonic base. We’re back in that same major key, following the correct line. What key is that, by the way?
In fact—
Never mind. Mitya, you obviously understand the concept of the tonic, and in this case you succeed almost as well as Blanter or even Khrennikov.
(Shostakovich ducked and smiled his gratitude, twiddling his fingers as frantically as Scarlatti.)
Unfortunately, this opera of yours lacks a tonic. It’s lost its way. It ventures out behind enemy lines and gets cut off.
Comrade Kabalevsky, you’ve exposed the, the, how should I say, central error of my career. I’m only a… Lost, that’s exactly it. You’ve not only exposed me, you’ve, um, lighted the way ahead with a searchlight. You see, I lost the tonic in 1935 or thereabouts. Maybe it was 1934, or 1936. It was… Do you believe that each composer’s soul (well, I don’t mean soul, which is, is, let’s say personality, a word more suited to our, so to speak, modern Soviet epoch) is best suited to working in a certain key, or, or, even…? My tonic must have been D minor, which sometimes reminds me of the maples and limes of the Summer Garden, because I… But then I, um, misplaced it.
What nonsense!
You see, I’m confused. I confess to that. At least it wasn’t malicious. I’m, I’m, there’s something wrong. And “Lady Macbeth merely reflects…
What I can’t imagine is how your poor wife must have felt when you dedicated this obscene trash to her.
She was actually my, so to speak, fiancée at the time, Comrade Alexandrov—
But you did dedicate it to her?
Unfortunately I did; that can’t be washed away, but Nina always had a very healthy proletarian sense. She never liked it—
Where is Nina right now, by the way?
She—
It says right here that you claimed that your opera was about love. Is that true?
It’s about, I, I, how love could have been if the world weren’t full of vile things…
Which vile things exactly?
Uh, Hitlerism for instance.
Don’t get smart with us, Mitya! When you signed off on that lump of formalist drivel, the Fascists hadn’t invaded yet.
Well, then, let’s say proto-Hitlerism. Because of course, the Reichstag fire and all that, you know, Dmitroff’s trial… And you’re absolutely right; I see now that “Lady Macbeth” is and always will be nothing but a disgusting muddle; thank you for helping me to see that—
They kept talking; their skull-jaws moved; but all he could hear was his own Rat Theme reiterating itself louder and louder.