I was saved that way by working "with" Mussorgsky several times and I could name a few other times when working with the composition of someone else refreshed and relaxed me. For instance, I did a new orchestration of the First Cello Concerto by the young and extraordinarily talented Boris Tishchenko* and gave the score to him on his birthday. I don't think he was terribly pleased, but the work gave me nothing but benefit and pleasure.
When Pasternak translated Htzmlet or Faust it must have enriched him, but he also translated third-rate and completely unknown poets, a huge number of Georgian poets. This was a way-one way-to please Stalin. The same thing was happening to Akhmatova. They both suf-
•Boris lvanovich Tishchenko (b. 1 939), composer, Shostakovich's favorite student. He is extremely prolific and his works arc widely pcrt'ormcd in the Soviet Union.
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f ered, of course, and talked about it rather frequently. But my composer friends were always happy and satisfied. Things were going well for them, no one bothered them, and they feared less and less. It seemed that they would flourish for eternity. But alas, nothing is eternal on this earth, and even their strange happiness came to an end.
A new generation of national composers grew up. These young people were educated at our best conservatories and they were talented and ambitious-two elements that give the fastest chemical reaction.
They had to make it themselves, and the sacred oaks, hung with orders and medals, were in their way. In most cases, there was no romance between the patriarchs and the young, the contrast in education was too great. At first the young composers from the national republics imitated Prokofiev, Khachaturian, me. Later, Bartok and Stravinsky.
They studied whatever Western scores they could get their hands on.
Not particularly avant-garde, but still . . . And as a result, they came to a conclusion: they had to seek their own paths, or they wouldn't get ahead. And then they remembered their own native music; not the songs that were always on the radio and television, but the real folk music-still not reworked, and unmutilated.
Until that time everyone used the anthologies of folk songs made by folklorists thirty, forty, and even fifty years earlier. They were considered the best and most literate recordings, and perhaps they were-for their time. But the young people were beginning to have doubts, so they started looking for real folk singers, and there weren't many left.
But there were a few and those few had even secretly found students, young ones. I suppose it is true that folk culture can't be completely eradicated after all. It will go on living underground-or at least smoldering, like a weak flame, waiting for better times.
And the young composers saw an amazing picture, one they were seeing for the first time. They saw that what was passing as ''folk"
and "national" was sheer falsification. They tried to raise a hue and cry and in some places things reached the level of fights and even brawls. But they achieved only partial success. The sacred oaks stirred, the sacred rocks, covered with moss and medals, moved, and so did our old friends the professionals from Moscow and Leningrad, who had been living such a cozy life in their marvelous houses, planning on reaping the rich- harvest forever.
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Life in the fresh air, on the periphery, far from the worries and pollution of the capital, had been good for them. They were in wonderful health and were ready to work. They had no plans to stop putting out newer and newer "national" operas, ballets, and cantatas for all the holidays and festivities, which kept increasing in number. It was so good, and you could even creep into the history of music-not world music, but local music, and if not as a composer, then as co-coi;nposer.
And suddenly their positions, their glorious historic past and future, were threatened. How unfair.
This was the first time that I saw my friends in a glum mood. They were very philosophical about it, they sighed and spoke of human ingratitude. They said that these savages would have remained savages if not for their enlightened help and support, and that the local bosses still ate lamb with their hands, which they wiped on their robes, and that they were scoundrels and polygamists.
But this period of pure unclouded reflection didn't last long, because their positions were crumbling on all fronts. Maybe this really wasn't so, maybe they just imagined it was. But the children of the Rimsky
Korsakov school, allied with the local sacred oaks, moved into counterattack.
The oaks were pushed in front, moving awesomely and jangling their medals. It was an impressive sight, let me tell you. And in their hands they carried denunciations and complaints, written by the coauthors, of course. They were quite professional in that area too.
Rimsky-Korsakov would spin in his grave from shame. The complaints held that a serious threat hung over our state, and that the threat was coming from the.young natsmen, who were conspirators because their interest in folk music and art was only a cover. Actually, they were interested in a return of bourgeois nationalism, and hiding it under their interest in national art, those young people were planning to secede from our great and mighty lands. Such hostile actions must be stopped immediately and the rebels must be hit hard.
The complaints were sent to the most varying offices, from the Composers' Union on up. I don't know what was in the ones that went higher, but I did read some of those addressed to the Union. My advice wasn't sought, of course, but I did get to see the complaints. I did what I could to help the young people.
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Of course, no one cared what I thought, but actually the whole business ended rather well, in that no one was shot or jailed or deprived of his means of support-as far as I know. I may be wrong about the last part, and then again, I'm speaking only of composers. Let someone else report on writers or cinematographers.
The decision made on these matters was indescribably, superhumanly wise. A decisive blow fell on bourgeois nationalism, with "discussions" and meetings in the appropriate offices. They discussed, they accused. The formula, as Ilf and Petrov joked, was a familiar one; just fill in the blanks: "In response to . . . we, Herculeans, as one . . . " In general, the young people were categorically forbidden "to make attempts on the life of sacred things." The sacred oaks could continue to grow in freedom from danger. The swamp was tranquil. Nothing floated up to the surface, not a single reputation suffered, and no dirty linen was aired.
The situation did change somewhat-every national culture divided into two parts. One was the old, in which everything was false, a fake: the names, the reputations, the list of works. The other part, whatever you might say about it, was authentic. The music might have been good or average or even very bad, but it was not false. It was written by the people whose names were on the title pages of the scores. And it was the real composer who came out for a bow after the performance, not a figurehead. So some progress was made.