But I've had to renounce that, like many other things. Doctors talk to me about my body's ills. They examine, prod, and poke me. But I'm sure that my problem is psychological, and that's what torments me.
For some . reason, I'm certain that everyone is staring at me, that they're all whispering and watching me behind my back, and that they're all waiting for me to fall, or at least trip. And that makes me feel that I will trip any second. When the lights go down and the play or music begins, I'm almost happy (if, of course, the play or music isn't rubbish), but as soon as the lights go back up, I'm miserable again, because I'm open to any stranger's gaze.
I'm drawn to people, "I don't think I could live a day without them,"* yet if I were to become invisible, I'd be happier. I think that this is a recent problem, once upon a time I derived more pleasure from appearing in public. Or am I mistaken?
I must note that I always felt bad when I read or heard something derogatory about myself. It was that way when, in Zoshchenko's words, I was young and strong, when my heart beat madly in my chest and all kinds of thoughts raced through my brain. It's that way now, when I've suffered what he called "a complete devaluation of the organism" and it's impossible to tell where my liver and bladder are any more. It doesn't matter, criticism upsets me even though I don't set much store by it, at least as it is represented by the majority of its practitioners.
Mussorgsky disregarded the critics and listened to his inner voice.
(He was right to do so. This is an important example for me-what
•An ironic citation from Prince Eletsky's aria in Tchaikovsky's opera The {bieen of Spades.
Shostakovich sprinkled musical citations from this aria in his penultimate opus-the satiric vocal cycle to words from Dostoevsky's The Possessed.
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Mussorgsky's friends said about his second Gogol opera. I heard something like it about The Nose, that's why I was so interested when I learned Mussorgsky's reaction.) But besides all that, Mussorgsky was truly an intellectually curious man, well educated in his own way. He read history and natural sciences, and astronomy, and literature, of course, both Russian and foreign. In general, as I go over Mussorgsky's character and personality, I'm amazed at how much we have in common. This despite the obvious, striking difference. Of course, it is rather impolite to say wonderful things about oneself (knowing that it will all be published one day), and a few bourgeois citizens are sure to reproach me for it.
But it interests me personally to continue drawing these parallels, and in this instance, I won't deny it, it's pleasant. I'm talking primarily about professional things but also about a few mundane traits, as well. For instance, musical memory. I can't complain about mine and Mussorgsky memorized Wagner's operas on first hearing. He could play Wotan's scene by heart after only one hearing of Siegfried. He was also an excellent pianist, which is not always remembered. In my opinion, that is indispensable for a composer. And it's not contradictory to my conviction that one must compose away from the piano. I think it's clear why. I've always told my students that only mastery of the piano can give you an opportunity to become acquainted with world literature in music. Perhaps that's not as obligatory now, since everyone can afford records and tapes. But still, a composer must master at least one instrument-piano, violin, viola, flute, trombone, it doesn't matter. Even the triangle.
As a pianist, Mussorgsky was compared with Rubinstein. His piano
"bells" are often recalled, and even his enemies admitted that he excelled as an accompanist. He wasn't a purist about it either; he banged away as a young man, not because he needed the money as I did, but just "for company." When he was older, he did marvelous improvisations of humorous scenes-for instance, a young nun playing "A Maiden's Prayer" with great feeling on an untuned piano.
There are many other things I like about him. Mussorgsky understood children, he saw them as "people with their own little world, and not as amusing dolls" -his own words. He appreciated nature, and he was kind to animals, in general to everything living. He 238
couldn't stand the idea of catching a fish on a hook. He suffered whenever any live creature was hurt. And finally there's the question of alcohol, which embarrasses most of our music hisforians in the Soviet Union. It truly is the dark side of the great romposer's life, and they tastefully skirt it, so as not to insult the famous ·genius's memory. I will allow myself to make a heretical suggestion. If the colleagues and musicians around Mussorgsky had had greater respect for wine, he would have drunk less, or at least with greater benefit to himself.
They, too, were what we call drinking citizens, but they were hypocritical about "lemonade," especially Balakirev with his "isn't it time to set our idiot straight?" and so on. That, of course, just depressed Mussorgsky more and he drank even harder. Incidentally, in a certain situation, drink doesn't hurt at all. I'm judging by my own experience.
At a certain period of my life, I was greatly liberated by expanding my knowledge in that fascinating area. It did away with excessive reticence, which was almost a disease with me in my youth. My best friend,• who wasn't one to pass up a drink, realized it. I was acting more like an aesthete by then, bored by higher education. Actually, I was madly shy in front of strangers, probably mostly out of pride. So my friend started an intensive course of liberation, since he found great pleasure in a merry and liberated life himself, even though he worked very hard. For an extended period our drinking bouts were practically a daily occurrence. As they say, artists are probably meant to drink by the State Liquor Authority. It's very cozy drinking before lunch.
What hurts is that Mussorgsky died of it. Things were taking a turn for the better for him in the hospital, which makes me conclude that his organism was worthy of universal admiration and awe. The hospital guards were strictly forbidden to bring any wine into the ward, but he bribed one guard with an astounding sum. The wine brought on paralysis, he cried out loudly twice before dying, and that was all.
I'm also particularly moved by this death because the circumstances are rather similar to the ones surrounding the death of my best friend.
This can't be passed over with complete silence.
I must say that I began thinking about these and other parallels
•Here and below, the reference is to Sollertinsky.