Julian Barnes - The Noise of Time

It had never happened, of course. Zhdanov had lectured them until their ears bled, but was too clever to let his fat fingers desecrate the keyboard in that way. Even so, the story gained authority with each retelling, until some of those allegedly present had confirmed that, yes, it had happened exactly like that. And part of him wished that this conversation with Power, in which Power had arrogantly chosen its opponents’ weapon, had really taken place. Nevertheless, it swiftly joined the songbook of believable myths circulating at this time. What mattered was not so much whether a particular story was factually true, but rather, what it signified. Though it was also the case that the more a story circulated, the truer it became.

He and Prokofiev had been attacked together, humiliated together, banned together and unbanned together. Yet in his opinion Sergei Sergeyevich never really understood what was going on. He was not a coward, either in his life or his music; but he saw it all — even Zhdanov’s crazed and murderous attacks on the intelligentsia — as a personal problem to which there was, somewhere, a solution. Here was music, and here was his own particular talent; there lay Power, and bureaucracy, and politico-musicological theory. It was just a question of how the accommodation could be made so that he could go on being himself and writing his music. Or, to put it another way: Prokofiev completely failed to see the tragic dimension of what was happening.

One other good thing about the trip to New York: his tail-suit had been a success. It had fitted him very well.

He wondered, as the plane made its descent towards Reykjavik, if he should summon the stewardess and ask for a benzedrine inhaler. It could hardly make any difference now.

It was, he supposed, just possible that Nabokov, in some elaborate way, was being sympathetic to his plight, was trying to explain to the other delegates the true nature of this public masquerade. But if so, he was either a paid stooge or a political imbecile. In order to demonstrate the lack of individual freedom beneath the sun of Stalin’s constitution, he was happy to sacrifice an individual life. Because that was what he was doing: If you don’t want to Jump Thru The Window, why not put your head into this noose I’ve plaited for you? Why not tell the truth and die?

One of the pickets outside the Waldorf Astoria had carried a placard reading SHOSTAKOVICH — WE UNDERSTAND! How little they understood, even those like Nabokov who had lived some little time under Soviet power. And how smugly they would return to their cosy American apartments, happy to have put in a good day’s work for virtue and liberty and world peace. They had no knowledge, and no imagination, these brave Western humanitarians. They came to Russia in eager little gangs, armed with vouchers for hotels and lunches and dinners, each one of them approved by the Soviet state, each keen to meet ‘real Russians’ and find out ‘how they really felt’ and ‘what they really believed’. Which was the last thing they would be told, because you did not need to be paranoid to know that each group would contain an informant, and their guides would also be dutifully reporting back. One such gang had a meeting with Akhmatova and Zoshchenko. This was another of Stalin’s tricks. You have heard that some of our artists are persecuted? Not at all, that is just your government’s propaganda. You wanted to meet Akhmatova and Zoshchenko? Look, here they are — ask them whatever you wish.

And this group of Western humanitarians, already confirmed in their doe-eyed enthusiasm for Stalin, couldn’t think of anything cleverer than to ask Akhmatova what she thought about Chairman Zhdanov’s remarks and the Central Committee’s resolution condemning her. Zhdanov had said that Akhmatova was poisoning the consciousness of Soviet youth with the rotten and putrid spirit of her poetry. Akhmatova got to her feet and replied that she considered both Chairman Zhdanov’s speech and the Central Committee’s resolution to be absolutely correct. And those concerned visitors had gone away clutching their meal vouchers and repeating to one another that the Western view of Soviet Russia was all a malign fantasy; that artists were not only well treated, but allowed to engage in constructive critical exchanges with even the highest echelons of Power. All of which proved how much more greatly the arts were valued in Russia than in their own decadent homelands.

But he was more revolted by the famous Western humanitarians who came to Russia and told its inhabitants they were living in paradise. Malraux, who praised the White Sea Canal without ever mentioning that its constructors were worked to death. Feuchtwanger, who fawned over Stalin and ‘understood’ how the show trials were a necessary part in the development of democracy. The singer Robeson, loud in his applause for political killing. Romain Rolland and Bernard Shaw, who disgusted him the more because they had the temerity to admire his music while ignoring how Power treated him and all other artists. He’d refused to meet Rolland, pretending to be ill. But Shaw was the worse of the two. Hunger in Russia? he had asked rhetorically. Nonsense, I’ve been fed as well as anywhere in the world. And it was he who said, ‘You won’t frighten me with the word “dictator”.’ And so the credulous fool hobnobbed with Stalin and saw nothing. Though why indeed should he be afraid of a dictator? They hadn’t had one in England since the days of Cromwell. He had been forced to send Shaw the score of his Seventh Symphony. He should have added to his signature on its title page the number of peasants who had starved to death while the playwright was gorging himself in Moscow.

Then there were those who understood a little better, who supported you, and yet at the same time were disappointed in you. Who did not grasp the one simple fact about the Soviet Union: that it was impossible to tell the truth here and live. Who imagined they knew how Power operated and wanted you to fight it as they believed they would do in your position. In other words, they wanted your blood. They wanted martyrs to prove the regime’s wickedness. But you were to be the martyr, not them. And how many martyrs would it take to prove that the regime was truly, monstrously, carnivorously evil? More, always more. They wanted the artist to be a gladiator, publicly fighting wild beasts, his blood staining the sand. That’s what they required: in Pasternak’s words, ‘Total death, seriously.’ Well, he would try to disappoint such idealists for as long as possible.

What they didn’t understand, these self-nominated friends, was how similar they were to Power itself: however much you gave, they wanted more.

Everyone had always wanted more from him than he was able to give. Yet all he had ever wanted to give them was music.

If only things were so simple.

In the imaginary conversations he sometimes had with these disappointed supporters, he would begin by explaining one small, basic fact of which they were almost certainly ignorant: that it was impossible in the Soviet Union to buy manuscript paper unless you were a member of the Union of Composers. Did they know that? Of course not. But Dmitri Dmitrievich, they would doubtless reply, if that is the case, surely you can buy blank paper, and with a ruler and pencil make your own? Surely you are not so easily put off practising your art?

Very well, he might reply, then let’s start at the other end of things. If you are declared an enemy of the state, as he had once been, all those around you are tarnished and infected. Your family and friends, of course. But even a conductor who plays, or has played, or suggests playing, a work of yours; the members of a string quartet; the concert hall, be it ever so tiny, that stages your work; the very audience. How often, over the course of his career, had conductors and soloists suddenly become unavailable at the last minute? Sometimes from natural fear or understandable caution, sometimes after a hint from Power. Anyone, from Stalin down to Khrennikov, could stop his work being performed throughout the entire country for as long as they chose. They had already killed his career as a composer of opera. In his early years, many thought — and he had agreed with them — that this was where his best work would be done. But since they murdered Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk , he had not had an opera produced; nor finished any he had begun.