Too bad you couldn't dance the anthem, because then the Bolshoi Ballet would have done it. And they would have done a good job, since the orchestration was precise and parade-like, accessible to ballet folk.
Alexandrov, who directed his own chorus, bustled about madly, beside himself with excitement. His entry in the anthem race was a song now called "Anthem of the Bolshevik Party." Stalin liked the song.
Alexandrov, choking with delight and the saliva of a faithful retainer, told me how Stalin had "singled out" the song among others. The Red 259
Army Chorus under the direction of Alexandrov sang it ,for the first time at an official concert. It was before the war. Alexandrov was called up to Stalin's box in the intermission and the leader and teacher ordered them to do the song once more at the end of the concert, for him personally. It was then called "Song About the Party," and Alexandrov and his ensemble performed it in the rhythm of a march. Stalin ordered them to sing it in a slower tempo-like an anthem, Having heard it, he called it "a battleship of a song," and gave it a new name, and it was called "Anthem of the Bolshevik Party" from that moment on.
The audition continued, the composers were anxious. Many came with their wives. Khachaturian brought his and I brought mine. Everyone peered cautiously over at the state box, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Finally the noise on the stage ended, and Khachaturian and I were taken to the box, to see Stalin. We were searched on the way. There was a small antechamber to the box and that's where we were brought. Stalin was in there. I've described him already. I'll be honest and tell you that I felt no fear upon seeing Stalin. I was nervous, of course, but not afraid.
You feel fear when you open the paper and it says that you're an enemy of the people, and there's no way you can clear yourself, no one wants to listen to you, and there's no one to say a word in your defense. You look around and everyone else has the same newspaper, and they're all looking at you in silence, and when you try to say something they turn away. They don't hear you. Now, that's really frightening. I've often had that dream. The most frightening thing of all is that everything has been said and decided, and you don't know why it's been decided that way, and it's useless to argue.
But here what was there to fear ? Nothing had been decided, you could still say something. That's what I was thinking when I saw the chubby man. He was so short that he didn't allow anyone to stand next to him. For instance, next to that stormy petrel of a man Maxim Gorky, Stalin looked ridiculous, like Double Patte and Patachon. *
That's why they were always photographed sitting down.
Stalin stood alone here, as well. Everyone else of high rank was
•Popular silent-film comedy actors, one very tall, one very short.
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crowded together in the back. Besides Khachaturian and me, there were also the two conductors, Alexander Melik-Pashayev, who conducted the orchestra, and Alexandrov, who led the chorus. Why had we been called in? I still don't know. Probably Stalin suddenly felt like having a talk with me, but the conversation didn't flow.
First Stalin made a profound statement on what the national anthem should be like. A commonplace, the typical Stalin truism. It was so uninteresting that I don't even remember it. His intimates agreed, carefully and quietly. For some reason, everyone spoke softly. The atmosphere was appropriate to a sacred rite, and it seemed that a miracle was about to occur-for instance, Stalin would give birth. The expectation of a miracle was on every toady's face. But there was no miracle. If Stalin did give birth, it was only to some unintelligible snippets of thought. It was impossible to keep the "conversation" going. You could either say yes-yes or say nothing. I preferred to be silent. After all, I wasn't going to get into a theoretical discussion on writing anthems. I don't stick my nose into theoretical discussions. I'm no Stalin.
And suddenly the wan conversation took a dangerous turn. Stalin wanted to show that he was well versed in orchestration. Apparently he had been briefed that Alexandrov didn't orchestrate his own song.
He had given it to a professional arranger, something many of the contestants had done. Several dozen anthems had been arranged by one very experienced hand. In that sense Khachaturian and I were in a glowing minority, for we did our own orchestration.
Stalin decided that he couldn't lose in bringing up orchestration with Alexandrov. It was better not to start with us, we were professionals after all, what i( he made a mistake? But using Alexandrov as an example, the leader and teacher could demonstrate his wisdom and sagacity. That's the way Stalin always behaved, and in a sense the conversation on anthems was very typical. It proves that Stalin always prepared carefully for these talks, he prepared his wise pronouncements.
He wasn't too sure that they were adequately wise, these sickly pronouncements, and like a provincial theater director, he prepared an effective entrance for each of them. The provincial director knows his audience. He may confuse Isaak Babel with August Behel, but he also 261
knows that no one will catch him, because the audience is stupid and will buy anything. Stalin was surrounded by coarse, profoundly ignorant people, who read nothing, who were interested in nothing. It was easier for Stalin to make an impression against such a background.
Particularly since he was the director and could determine the course of the conversation. He could change the topic at any moment, he could stop the conversation; in other words, all the cards wei::e in his hands, the deck was stacked. And with that bunch of aces up his sleeve, Stalin still played a rotten game.
Stalin began asking Alexandrov why he had done such a poor arrangement of his song. Alexandrov had expected anything but this-a conversation with Stalin on orchestration. He was pulverized, confused, destroyed. You could see that he was bidding farewell not only to the anthem, but to his career and perhaps to something more. The composer of that "battleship of a song" turned purple and broke out in a sweat. He was a pitiful sight. And it's in moments like that that people reveal themselves. Alexandrov made a base move. In an attempt to defend himself, he blamed the arranger. That was unworthy and low.
The arranger could have lost his head as the result of such a conversation.
I saw that things could end badly; Stalin was interested in Alexandrov's pathetic justifications. It was an unhealthy interest, the interest of a wolf in a lamb. Noticing the interest, Alexandrov began laying it on thicker. The poor arranger was being turned into a saboteur, who had purposely done a bad arrangement of Alexandrov's song.
I couldn't take any more. This vile spectacle could have meant a lot of trouble for the arranger, the man would have died for nothing. I couldn't allow that and said that the arranger in question was an excellent professional and added that it wasn't fair to take him to task.