Julian Barnes - The Noise of Time

He then patronisingly explained to Americans how the Soviet music system was superior to any other on the face of the earth. This many orchestras, military bands, folk groups, choirs — proof of the active use of music in furthering the development of society. So, for instance, the peoples of Soviet Middle Asia and the Soviet Far East had in recent years thrown off the last remnants of the colonial status their cultures had been accorded under Tsarism. Uzbeks and Tajiks, together with other peoples of the far-flung Soviet Union, were benefitting from an unprecedented level and scope of musical development. At this juncture, he made a special point of assailing Mister Hanson Baldwin, military editor of the New York Times , for having written disparagingly of the populations of Soviet Asia in a recent article which naturally he had neither read nor heard of.

Such developments, he went on, inevitably led to a greater closeness and understanding between the People, the Party and the Soviet composer. If the composer must lead and inspire the People, then the People, through the Party, must also lead and inspire the composer. A spirit of active, constructive criticism existed, so that a composer might be warned if he was slipping into errors of petty subjectivity and introspective individualism, of formalism or cosmopolitanism; if — in short — he was losing touch with the People. He himself had not been without fault in this matter. He had departed from the true path of a Soviet composer, from big themes and contemporary images. He had lost contact with the masses and sought to please only a narrow stratum of sophisticated musicians. But the People could not remain indifferent to such straying, and so he had received public criticism which had directed him back to the proper road. It was a failure for which he had apologised and was now apologising again. He would seek to do better in the future.

So far, so banal — at least, he hoped it was to American ears. Another necessary confession of sins, even if at an exotic location. But then his eye skipped ahead and his mind froze. He saw in the text the name of the century’s greatest composer, and an American accent marching towards it. First came a general condemnation of all musicians who believed in the doctrine of art for art’s sake, rather than art for the sake of the masses; an attitude which had led to well-known perversions of music. The outstanding example of such perversion, he heard himself say, was the work of Igor Stravinsky, who had betrayed his native land and severed himself from his people by joining the clique of reactionary modern musicians. In exile, the composer had displayed moral barrenness, as was openly shown in his nihilistic writings, where he dismissed the masses as ‘a quantitative term which has never entered my considerations’, and openly boasted that ‘My music does not express anything realistic.’ He had thus confirmed the very meaninglessness and absence of content of his creations.

The supposed author of these words sat there motionless and unreacting, while inside he felt awash with shame and self-contempt. Why had he not seen this coming? He might have been able to change it, insert some modifications — if only into the Russian text as he read it out. He had foolishly imagined that his public indifference to his own speech would indicate a moral neutrality. That was as stupid as it was naive. He felt stunned, and could barely concentrate as his American voice turned its attention to Prokofiev. Sergei Sergeyevich had also recently strayed from the party line, and was in great danger of relapsing into formalism if he failed to heed the directives of the Central Committee. But whereas Stravinsky was a lost cause, Prokofiev might, if he were watchful, yet find great creative success by following the correct path.

He proceeded to a summing-up in which ardent hopes for world peace were combined with ignorant bigotry about music, for which he again received enormous applause. It was practically a Soviet ovation. There were some harmless questions from the floor, which he negotiated with the help of his translator and a friendly adviser who suddenly appeared beside his other ear. But then he saw a tweed-jacketed figure rise to his feet. This time not in the front row, but in a position from which the audience could see and hear the interrogation that now followed.

Mister Nicolas Nabokov began by explaining, with suave offensiveness, that he quite understood that the composer was here in an official capacity, and that the opinions expressed in his speech had been those of a delegate from Stalin’s regime. But he wanted to pose some questions to him not as a delegate but rather as a composer — from one composer to another, as it were.

‘Do you subscribe to the wholesale and bilious condemnation of Western music as daily expounded in the Soviet press and by the Soviet government?’

He felt the adviser’s presence at his ear, but had no need of him. He knew what to answer because there was no choice. He had been led through the maze to the final room, the one containing no food as a reward, merely a trapdoor beneath his paws. And so, in a muttered monotone, he replied,

‘Yes, I personally subscribe to those opinions.’

‘Do you personally subscribe to the banning of Western music in Soviet concert halls?’

This allowed him a little more room for manoeuvre, and he replied,

‘If music is good, it will be played.’

‘Do you personally subscribe to the banning from Soviet concert halls of the works of Hindemith, Schoenberg and Stravinsky?’

Now he felt the sweat begin to drip behind his ears. As he took a little time with the translator, he thought briefly of the Marshal gripping his pen.

‘Yes, I personally subscribe to such actions.’

‘And do you personally subscribe to the views expressed in your speech today about the music of Stravinsky?’

‘Yes, I personally subscribe to such views.’

‘And do you personally subscribe to the views expressed about your music and that of other composers by Minister Zhdanov?’

Zhdanov, who had persecuted him since 1936, who had banned him and derided him and threatened him, who had compared his music to that of a road drill and a mobile gas chamber.

‘Yes, I personally subscribe to the views expressed by Chairman Zhdanov.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nabokov, looking around the hall as if expecting applause. ‘All is now perfectly clear.’

There was a story about Zhdanov much repeated in Moscow and Leningrad: the story of the music lesson. Gogol would have approved it; indeed, might even have written it. After the Central Committee’s Decree of 1948, Zhdanov had instructed the country’s leading composers to assemble at his ministry. In some versions, it was just himself and Prokofiev; in others, the whole slew of sinners and bandits. They were shown into a large room; on a platform stood a dais, and beside it a piano. There were no refreshments: no vodka to take the edge off one’s fear, no sandwiches to quieten the stomach. They were kept waiting for some while. Then Zhdanov appeared with a pair of junior officials. He went to the dais and gazed down at the wreckers and saboteurs of Soviet music. He lectured them once again on their wickedness, delusion and vanity. He explained how, if they did not mend their ways, their game of clever ingenuity might end very badly. And then, just at the point where he had the composers shitting themselves, he produced a coup de théâtre . He went to the piano and gave them a masterclass. This — he thumped away discordantly, making the keys quack and grunt — was decadent, formalist music. And this — he played a soupy neo-romantic air, which in a film might accompany some previously haughty girl at last acknowledging her love — this was the graceful, realistic music of the kind the People craved and the Party demanded. He stood up, gave a mocking half-bow, and dismissed them with the back of his hand. The nation’s composers had filed out, some promising to do better, others hanging their heads in shame.