•Andrei Alexandrovich Zhdanov (1 896- 1 948), Communist Party leader. The term "Zhdanovisrn" is well known in the West. It refers to the harsh regimentation of literature and art in postwar Russia. It is not clear whether or not Zhdanov was merely carrying out Stalin's orders in his "aesthetic" pronouncements, but as a result of them Zhdanov acquired so much prominence that Stalin began envying him. It is now thought that Stalin had Zhdanov killed and then cast blame for his death on the Jewish doctors.
tAnna Andreyevna Akhmatova (Gorenko; 1 889-1 966), poet. She maintained her popularity from prerevolutionary years until her death, despite extremely formidable pressures against her.
All kinds of tactics (short of arrest and physical extermination) were used on Akhmatova: total literary ostracism; a vicious and insulting campaign in the official press; and the exile and murder of people close to her. A great part of Akhmatova's legacy, including her poem Requiem, about the "great terror," has still not been published in the Soviet Union. Shostakovich and Akhmatova had many creative bonds, and this connection was particularly strong in the late years.
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speeches about works of genius by composers I couldn't stand. And so on. But nevertheless, the Composers' Union put me down as a monk too. Yet despite our appearance in cartoons in similar garb, Yudina and I couldn't always find a common language.
I remember I had a lot of problems when I was young-I dried up as a composer, and I had no money, and I was sick. In general, I had a very gloomy outlook on life. And Yudina suggested, "Let's go see the bishop, he'll help. He'll definitely help. He helps everyone." And I thought, All right, let her take me to the bishop, maybe he will help.
We got there. A rather well-fed, good-looking tnan sat before me, and a bunch of women were making a spectacle of themselves in front of him, throwing themselves at his hand to kiss it. There was a bottleneck near his hand, each of the ladies wanted to be first. I looked and saw that Yudina was in ecstasy, and I thought, No, I won't kiss his hand for anything. And I didn't.
The bishop gave me a rather sympathetic look, but I didn't give a damn about his sympathy. He didn't help me at all.
Nikolayev's other favorite student was Vladimir Sofronitsky, whom Nikolayev called Vovochka. Nikolayev adored him and this is how their lessons went. Vovochka would play Schumann's Symphonic Etudes in class. Nikolayev would say, "Marvelous, Vovochka! Next time prepare Liszt's sonata, please."
A cult sprang up around Sofronitsky almost immediately. Meyerhold dedicated one of his finest productions to him, The Queen of Spades. Sofronitsky's reputation grew constantly and his popularity peaked just before his untimely death. But I don't think that Sofronitsky's life was a very happy one; it had everything in it-alcohol, drugs, complicated involvements and relationships. He might drink a bottle of cognac before a performance and collapse; the concert would be canceled, of course. Sofronitsky never toured abroad, although I think he did go to Warsaw once and once to France. In 1 945 Stalin ordered Sofronitsky to go to Potsdam for the conference. They dressed him in a military uniform and took him there. When he came back he said nothing about it; I don't think many people know about the trip.
But once Sofronitsky showed me how President Truman played the piano.
Sofronitsky was like Yudina in that you never knew what to expect from him. In 1 921 they were graduating from the Conservatory and 57
both were playing Liszt's B Minor Sonata. Their recitals were a sensation, all of Petrograd was there. Suddenly Nikolayev came out on stage and said, "Student Sofronitsky is ill and begs your indulgence." I was rather surprised. Sofronitsky played brilliantly, as was expected, but after the examination I went up to Nikolayev and asked what that was all about. If you're sick, don't play. And if you do play, then why announce that you're sick. For sympathy?
Nikolayev told me, I remember, that Sofronitsky went on with a high fever. To tell the truth, I don't set much store by that.
Sofronitsky and I played together several times, performing Nikolayev's Variations for Two Pianos. Nikolayev thought himself a composer but he really didn't have much basis for thinking this. We played the Variations and laughed to ourselves. We laughed, but we played.
Sofronitsky liked to tell this story about Glazunov. A messenger rushed up to him: Hurry to Glazunov's, he has to see you urgently.
Sofronitsky dropped what he was doing and raced to Glazunov's house. He got there, was taken in to see Glazunov, who was napping in his armchair, his head lolling on his fat stomach.
Silence. Glazunov opened one eye and stared at Sofronitsky for a long time and then, his tongue moving slowly, asked, "Tell me, please, do you like the Hammerklavier?" Sofronitsky replied readily that of course, he liked it very much. Glazunov was silent for a long time. Sofronitsky stood and waited until Glazunov muttered softly, "You know, I can't stand that sonata." And went back to sleep.
Things like that happened to me too. You could say that I'm a student of Glazunov's. In my day Glazunov taught only chamber music at the Conservatory and naturally I studied with him. He had his own style of teaching, which would have looked bizarre to a stranger.
We went to his office on the first floor. Bulky Glazunov sat at his desk and we played. He never interrupted. We finished the piece (perhaps it was a Schubert trio) and Glazunov muttered to himself, without rising from his desk, quietly and briefly. It was hard to tell exactly what he was saying and most of the time we didn't know.
The trouble was that I was at the piano and my friends were next to me. Glazunov remained at his desk, that is, at a considerable distance from us. He never stood up or came closer and he spoke so soft-58
ly. It seemed wrong to ask him to repeat himself and it also seemed wrong to move closer to him. It was a strange situation.
So we would repeat the work from beginning to end, guessing at changes. There was never any objection to our initiative. After the repeat performance Glazunov gave another speech, even softer and even shorter, after which we left.
At first I was extremely put out by this method of instruction, and particularly surprised by the fact that Glazunov never left his desk and came over to us, not even to glance once at the music. But with time I worked out the secret of his strange behavior.
This is what I noticed. During the lessons Glazunov sometimes leaned over with a grunt toward his large director's desk, remained in that position for some time, and then straightened out with some difficulty.
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Interested, I increased my observations of our beloved director's actions and came to this conclusion: Glazunov really did resemble a large baby, as so many people liked to say. Because a baby is always reaching for a nipple and so was Glazunov. But there was an essential difference. And the difference was that first of all, Glazunov used a special tube instead of a nipple, a rubber tube if my observations were correct, and second, instead of milk he was sipping alcohol.
These are not my conjectures, these are facts that I determined and confirmed through repeated observation. Without this fortification, Glazunov was incapable of giving the lesson. That's why he never rose from his desk and that's why his instructions to the class grew more indistinct and shorter.