Kirill Kondrashin: His Life in Music 0810869748, 9780810869745, 9780810869752

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KIRILL KONDRASHIN HIS LIFE IN MUSIC

Gregor Tassie

Kirill Kondrashin His Life in Music

Gregor Tassie

THE SCARECROW PRESS, INC.

Lanham • Toronto • Plymouth, UK 2010

Published by Scarecrow Press, Inc. A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc. 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706 http://www.scarecrowpress.com Estover Road, Plymouth PL6 7PY, United Kingdom Copyright © 2010 by Gregor Tassie All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Tassie, Gregor, 1953Kirill Kondrashin : his life in music / Gregor Tassie. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references, discography, and index. ISBN 978-0-8108-6974-5 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-8108-6975-2 (ebook) 1. Kondrashin, Kirill, 1914-1981. 2. Conductors (Music)—Soviet Union—Biography. I. Title. ML422.K678.T37 2010 784.2092—dc22 [B] 2009026000

⬁ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American

National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992. Printed in the United States of America

Contents

List of Illustrations

v

Chronology

vii

Introduction

ix

1 The Early Years: 1914–1928

1

2 Universities: 1928–1936: Khaikin and Meyerhold

19

3 Leningrad: 1936–1943: The Maly Theatre

43

4 War: 1941–1943

69

5 The Bolshoi: 1943–1948: Samosud and Pasovsky

85

6 The Bolshoi: 1948–1956: Golovanov’s Swansong

115

7 The Guest Conductor: 1956–1960

147

8 The Moscow Philharmonic: 1962–1966

167

9 Shostakovich: 1962–1975

207

10 The Finale: 1976–1981: The Concertgebouw and Renewal

iii

245

iv

Contents

Discography

287

Bibliography

337

Index

343

About the Author

353

List of Illustrations

All images courtesy of Nolda Broekstra, unless otherwise noted. 1. Kirill Kondrashin conducting the Leningrad Philharmonic, 1974. Pyotr Kondrashin

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

Kondrashin at two years old. Student years, 1936. Pyotr Kondrashin Kondrashin at the Maly Theatre, 1938. Kondrashin, a staff conductor at the Bolshoi theatre, 1943. Kondrashin at home,1943. Pyotr Kondrashin Kondrashin with Emil Gilels in Gorky, 1957. Van Cliburn, President Eisenhower, the impresario Sol Hurok and his wife, Kondrashin, and an interpreter at the White House, 1958. Kondrashin studying a score, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti Kondrashin and Shostakovich at premiere of the Fourth Symphony, December 1961. Pyotr Kondrashin Kondrashin and Shostakovich after premiere of the Fourth Symphony, 1961. Pyotr Kondrashin Rehearsal of the Thirteenth Symphony, December 1962. Pyotr Kondrashin Dmitry Shostakovich, Kondrashin, and Yevgeny Yevtushenko after the premiere of the Thirteenth Symphony, 1962. Pyotr Kondrashin Vitaly Gromadsky and Kondrashin with Dmitry and Maxim Shostakovich, listening to the tape recording of the Thirteenth Symphony. Pyotr Kondrashin

v

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List of Illustrations

18. Kondrashin, 1960. Pyotr Kondrashin 19. Kondrashin, Moshei Vainberg, and Nina Kondrashina in Warsaw, 1962—Vainberg Center. 20. Kondrashin after a concert, 1967. 21. Kondrashin, 1968. 22. Kondrashin and son Pyotr at Melodiya studios, 1974. Pyotr Kondrashin 23. Ekaterina Furtseva and writers Chingiz Aitmatov and Konstantin Simonov, 1971. Yuri Abramochkin, Novosti 24. Nolda Broekstra and Kondrashin at the Conducting Master Classes, August 1978. 25. Kondrashin in New York, 1979. 26. Kondrashin in Linz, 1980. 27. Kondrashin in America, February 1981. 28. The last photograph—Kondrashin with a friend on March 6, 1981 in Amsterdam. 29. Kondrashin’s gravestone in the Netherlands.

Chronology

6 March 1914 Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin is born to a family of musicians in Moscow. 1920

First piano lessons.

1929

Private study with Nikolay Zhilyaev.

1931 Appointment as an assistant conductor at the Moscow Children’s Theatre. Entry into the conducting class of Boris Khaikin at the Moscow State Conservatoire. 1934 Appointment as an assistant at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Music Theatre in Moscow. Conducts the stage premiere of Les Cloches de Corneville by Planquette. 1936 Appointment as an assistant to Boris Khaikin at the Maly Opera and Ballet Theatre in Leningrad. Graduation from the Moscow State Conservatoire. 1938 Award of a diploma at the All-Union Conducting Competition in Moscow. Debut concert with David Oistrakh and the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. 1943 Appointment as a staff conductor at the Bolshoi Theatre. Award of a Stalin Prize for his conducting of Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden. 1946/1947 Collaboration with David Oistrakh in series devoted to the violin concerto, which includes the world premiere of the Violin Concerto by Rakov.

vii

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Chronology

1956 Resignation from the Bolshoi Theatre and enlistment with the Soyuz Concert Agency as a freelance conductor. 1958 Conducts at the first Tchaikovsky Competition and works with the winner Van Cliburn. Tours the United States for a series of concerts with Van Cliburn and meets President Eisenhower. Makes an award-winning recording of Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto. 1960 Appointment as the Chief Conductor of the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. 1961 Conducts the world premiere of the Fourth Symphony by Shostakovich. 1962 Conducts the world premieres of the Thirteenth Symphony by Shostakovich, the Fourth Symphony by Wainberg, and Concerto-Rhapsody for Violin and Orchestra by Khachaturian. 1963 Conducts the world premiere of Naughty Limericks and the orchestral suite Not Love Alone by Rodion Shchedrin. 1964 Conducts the world premiere of Concerto for Violoncello by Levitin, of the Kursk Songs by Sviridov, and the Cantata for the Twentieth Anniversary of the October Revolution by Prokofiev. Conducts the world premiere of the cantata Execution of Stepan Razin by Shostakovich. 1967 Conducts the world premiere of the Second Violin Concerto by Shostakovich and of the Second Symphony by Boris Tchaikovsky, dedicated to Kondrashin. 1968 Debut engagement with the Concertgebouw Orchestra in Amsterdam. 1972 Kondrashin conducts two complete cycles of Shostakovich’s fifteen symphonies with the Moscow Philharmonic. 1973 Conducts the world premiere of the Prefatory Act Universe by Scriabin. 1974 Conducts the world premiere of Theme and Variations by Boris Tchaikovsky. 1974

Death of David Oistrakh.

1975

Death of Shostakovich.

1978

Application for asylum in the Netherlands.

Chronology

ix

1979 Appointment as a permanent conductor with the Concertgebouw Orchestra Amsterdam. 1980 Debut engagement with the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra and appointment as chief conductor for the 1982 concert season. 7 March 1981 Death from a heart attack following a matinee concert in Amsterdam of Mahler’s First Symphony with the North German Radio Symphony Orchestra.

Introduction

Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin was among the last of a golden age of Russian conductors whose musical influence spanned the wealth of music making of the 1930s to 1950s in Russia. This epoch boasted magnificently gifted singers of almost every range and style. These were vocalists who performed at the Bolshoi and Mariinsky Theatres at their height of expression and before the world was blighted by fascism or cold war politics. Few of these singers ever had the opportunity of performing outside of their country. Kondrashin was one of few whose career encompassed Russia’s finest opera company, sharing it with symphonic music by presenting the first performances by his contemporaries: Sergey Prokofiev and Dmitry Shostakovich. Kondrashin was invited to collaborate with some of the 20th century’s greatest soloists: David Oistrakh, Leonid Kogan, Mstislav Rostropovich, Emil Gilels, and Svyatoslav Richter all from his homeland, but also with Isaak Stern, Yehudi Menuhin, Artur Rubinstein, Michelangeli, Van Cliburn, Martha Argerich, and Annie Fischer from the West. No other Russian musician worked as extensively as a conductor of opera, as a symphonic interpreter, and as an accompanist for concertante soloists. His fame arrived with the “thaw” in American–Soviet relations in the mid1950s and his first touring to the United States and other Western countries. This and the widespread release of his gramophone recordings allowed his name to become well known among music lovers worldwide. He quickly gained a reputation as an efficient and relentless rehearser of orchestras, a finely skilled leader at the podium boasting a wide repertoire. His performances were distinguished for their raw passion, fine musicality, and accuracy to the music as written. In particular, Kondrashin won a reputation for introducing the symphonies of Shostakovich and Mahler. xi

xii

Introduction

Nevertheless, apart from the music making, Kondrashin was perceived as a supporter of the system and as a member of the ruling elite. This book will lay to rest such fallacies. Throughout his life Kondrashin attempted at every stage to help and further his fellow man; this could be evident through his valiant organizing work and, indeed, heroism during the weeks prior to the Siege of Leningrad and his management of the Maly Theatre’s evacuation to the Urals. He consistently argued for a more just system of affairs at the Bolshoi Theatre; he tried to improve the lot of his orchestral musicians at the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, appealing to the highest authorities in the land. This campaigning for a more democratic running of affairs gained him enemies in the ruling party, which ultimately led to his being cast out from his homeland. Regardless of the trials and tribulations of his selfless struggle for his musicians, he continued to struggle until ill health forced him to step back and finally attempt to fulfill his principle as a symphonic conductor. There is no doubt that Kondrashin’s exile to the West allowed his expression to flourish in a manner that was no longer possible in the Soviet Union. No longer was he weighed down with his concerns over organization and political problems with his Soviet orchestra. No longer did he “have to look over his shoulder,” and new love in his life allowed him a fresh consciousness both as a human being and artist. Rather than exhibiting a “cold, unemotional” exterior, Kirill Kondrashin was warm, considerate, and genuine in his relations with those whom he trusted and knew. That he was only permitted to live two short years as a conductor in the West—before he could take up his new appointment as chief conductor of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra—underlines how much a tragic loss his early death was to music making. To write a book about Kirill Kondrashin may be considered somewhat trouble free, bearing in mind that he wrote no fewer than four books and many articles and reviews on conducting. However, there are problems of reliability in the book published in 1989: Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni, which purported to be a collection of interviews taken by a Moscow psychiatrist Vladimir Razhnikov and was unfairly inspired by his former spouse. This work contains a multitude of errors, and any quotations used in this volume have been only verified from other sources. However, Kondrashin’s books on Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and on the art of conducting are extremely valuable works and continue that tradition set down by leading musicians as Nikolay Malko and Hermann Scherchen. Kondrashin is acknowledged, after Mravinsky, as the leading and most authoritative interpreter of Shostakovich’s music; however, within that caveat, controversy reigned over much of the Shostakovich canon through the chill of the cold war and still permeates current writing on music during the Soviet

Introduction

xiii

period. Certainly Kondrashin’s importance as a conductor is verified by the continuing release of his recordings and concert performances. The short but rich spell in the West allowed him to attain fulfillment as a musician and reveal his artistry. I am grateful to many, first of all to the staff of the University of Glasgow library, which has one of the finest collections on Soviet history and on Russian music in the United Kingdom. I am also indebted particularly to Tully Potter whose criticism has been carefully noted; to Pyotr Kondrashin; to Nolda Broekstra and her wonderfully kind husband, Willem; to Andrey Zolotov, Jon Tolansky, Irina Medvedeva, Irina Shostakovich, and Dr. Stuart Campbell; and to many other musicians and musicologists who have contributed to this book. I am no less grateful to the editing staff at Rowman and to my editor Renée Camus at Scarecrow Press, Inc., for her invaluable advice, care, and tolerance.

1 The Early Years 1914–1928

The gardens, ponds, and fences, made pure By burning tears, and the whole great span, Creation—are only burst of passion Hoarded in the hearts of men. Pasternak “Definition of Creative Life” 1917

The Kondrashin family’s origins were in serfdom; a poverty-stricken people with neither property nor rights who were tied to the whims of the aristocracy. Their sole existence was under the realm of the lords of the manor. Their well-being depended on the magnanimous nature of the landowner, and fortune beckoned, for Kondrashin’s grandfather was employed in Count Sheremetyev’s orchestra.1 The first child was naturally set to follow his father’s line of work and from his earliest years, remembered playing the violin in the small Volga town where they lived. In 1861, as a consequence of Nikolay I’s reform, serfs were permitted to live and work in the large cities—the Kondrashins moved to Moscow and made their daily bread by playing in numerous café orchestras. Pyotr Kondrashin—eldest of thirteen children—had no formal education and supplemented the family income as a violinist playing with his brothers. He moved to the less popular viola, allowing his kin to play a more accessible instrument and help nurture the Kondrashin folk. The mix of gypsy, German, klezmer, and Russian music offered a colorful kaleidoscope in this halcyon period in the dying years of the Romanov dynasty. It was here at such unconventional venues that the Moscow conductor Serge Koussevitsky recruited his own large professional orchestra in1909.2 Koussevitsky first heard Kondrashin playing in a palm court orchestra and signed him up. Pyotr Kondrashin’s musical gifts were judged exceptional; however, 1

2

Chapter 1

with the places for violins already filled, the young musician played in the viola section.3 It was on the Volga tour of 1913 in which Pyotr Kondrashin met Anna Tamina, one of the most gifted first violins. The opportunities of being closely confined on a river steamer allowed them a better acquaintance with each other, and regardless of Anna being thirteen years younger, it was love at first sight. The couple took their vows upon their return to Moscow, forgoing a church wedding as they were from different religious backgrounds. Anna Tamina’s family had its origins in the Latvian city of Riga; her father had been a wealthy merchant there and left due to the Jewish pogroms in the region. She was a highly talented violinist and found work easily; although, women could not play in the Imperial Court orchestras. Coming from similar beginnings, Koussevitsky was only too happy to employ the young Jewess from the Baltic. Within a year, on March 6, 1914, Anna gave birth to a son, Kirill Petrovich, the only child born to the union. With the outbreak of the Great War in August 1914, Koussevitsky’s orchestra continued to give concerts albeit in grim financial straits. Nevertheless, with the defeats of the Russian army and the collapse of the monarchy in March 1917, the orchestra dissolved as the funding disappeared to foreign banks. The conductor was invited later that year to take over the chief conductorship of the new State Philharmonic Orchestra, based on the former Court Orchestra in Petrograd. In Moscow during the war, Kondrashin, without employment, returned to his former job as a violinist playing in quartets in the city’s restaurants and hotels. The new political regime led to the breaking of age-old barriers, and seeking the greater security of permanent work, Anna Kondrashina enlisted in the Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra—the first woman to play there—in the freshly anointed Soviet capital. Some years later, Pyotr was recruited as a viola player albeit loath to relinquish the more lucrative earnings as a quartet player at the celebrated National Hotel. During the austere Civil War period, in this imposing building opposite the Kremlin, Pyotr Kondrashin played a variety of light music and jazz for string quartet every day from four until five o’clock in the afternoon to an elite clientele drinking coffee and tea. These were the dying days of the old Russia, and Kondrashin’s audiences were often foreign journalists, businessmen and diplomats, and the dispossessed aristocracy awaiting exit visas. As the Bolsheviks became the conquerors in the Civil War, the “old world” atmosphere little by little disappeared, and soon there would be quite dissimilar listeners with the Red Army men and staff of the Soviet government installed just across the square. Nevertheless, the fate of the arts was under threat, for little money could be found to pay artists and staff at the former imperial theaters; the jobs of

The Early Years

3

orchestra members could have been lost should the proposals of Lenin be adopted: having learned from Kamenev that the SNK [Soviet Government] has unanimously approved Lunacharsky’s utterly indecent proposal to preserve the Bolshoi Opera and Ballet, I propose that the Politburo resolve: 1. To instruct the VTsIK [Party Central Committee] Presidium to rescind the SNK resolution. 2. To leave just a few dozen artists from the opera and ballet for Moscow and Petersburg so that their performances (both operas and dancing) can pay for themselves, i.e., eliminate any major expenses for sets and such. 3. From the billions saved in th[is] way. To spend at least half to wipe out illiteracy and for reading rooms. 4. To call Lunacharsky in for five minutes to hear the defendant’s last word and to make clear to him and to all the people’s commissars that introducing and voting on a resolution like that now being rescinded by the TsK henceforth will entail stricter measures on the part of the TsK.4

This document initiated a furious debate at the highest level in which Lunacharsky almost single-handedly defended the theaters from closure, first by keeping them open with a self-financing plan and then later by state sponsorship.5 During this tentative period, Pyotr Kondrashin found employment at Mikhoels’ state-sponsored Jewish Musical Theatre.6 A very adept and industrious musician, Lev Poulver wrote the music performed there; the shows were analogous to fashionable musical genre—of light, jazzy rhythms. Pyotr was so drawn into the idiom and all-consuming activity that he picked up the theatrical jargon, and the young Kirill unknowingly latched on to many Yiddish expressions from his father. Anna Kondrashina’s family had yielded to anti-Semitism in Riga, and she was baptized in an Orthodox church; brought up in the Russian tradition, she was unfamiliar with either Yiddish or Hebrew. If formative spiritual prerequisites proved essential, material needs—or the lack of them—proved crucial in his young years. In the face of the terrible hardships from the Civil War, both parents concerted their efforts on their young son, to best soften the blow of what was going on around them; years later, Kirill evoked memories of war Communism by the want for a stable diet. The family occupied a small three-room flat on Zubovsky Square, adjacent to the Pushkin monument, just off Tverskaya (later renamed Gorky Street). This neighborhood was to be the long-term address for Kondrashin. The hardships of this period meant that Kirill’s parents would leave early in the morning either to rehearse or perform at a concert in return for payment in kind—normally for a bag of potatoes or cans of food—and work in

4

Chapter 1

restaurants provided individual enticements. During the bitterly cold winter months, Kirill’s little cot and his parent’s makeshift bed would be fitted into the small kitchen, so during the long dark nights following late night cooking, everyone could share the warmth. The Kondrashins had a scare when they left little Kirill all day alone—this was during the holiday period before New Year. They had bought a goose, and it was left on the ledge to keep cool. The young boy wanted to taste the rare poultry for himself and crept up to the extension, yet misjudging the height, he cut himself on the window and fortuitously fell back onto his cot where hours later his parents found him in some distress and covered in blood. It was a minor scare—Kirill was not seriously injured—however, it proved as much a moral blow. An old upright piano occupied the corridor of their flat, and it was upon this that the young boy would practice in his long solitary hours, trying to reproduce the sounds that he heard. “I began playing the piano at six years old, and I must say without any passion. Music was to be heard at our home from morning until night: my parents were orchestral musicians, and my mother took in students. At home there was constant discussion on musical themes, but for me music lessons were for some reason resisted. Hence until I was fourteen I studied under threat of the stick. But suddenly I discovered an interest to music and this was in my interest in conducting.”7 The reverberation of music was constant when his parents were home; his father would devote all his time practicing while his mother took in students. Pyotr Kondrashin discovered his son’s natural ear and dutifully began to coach him. Young Kirill tackled the piano so proficiently that his father would recline and listen to the piano playing while Kirill read adventure stories by Jack London—unbeknownst to his father who could not see him playing. When Kirill turned a page of his book, “Kirill, you will be a Volga navvy!” was heard, this was a typical reproach of Kirill’s father who never forgot his own grueling childhood.8 Pyotr Kondrashin, passionate that his son should enjoy a better life than his own, taught his son French and German and arranged private lessons with a Frenchwoman at home—however, Kirill was slothful, and foreign languages and music studies were not taken seriously. An impediment was his affliction with angina from an early age. At the age of five, the boy was ill for more than six months, and Kirill’s constitution was so impaired that he could not regularly attend lessons until he was eleven years old. In the early days of Soviet education, junior and secondary schools were run, the senior level beginning when the pupil reached twelve years of age. Kondrashin’s musical study at home helped him to a degree, yet progress was still thorny, and he transferred from class to class with no great improvement. The sole progression, however, made by the young child was his learning to read music.

The Early Years

5

During this time, Pyotr and Anna both worked permanently at the Bolshoi Orchestra, and young Kirill would often be left with a home helper. “When I studied conducting and tried to create my dictionary of gestures at home, my father would joke with me, ‘Kirill, have you prayed yet today?’ Several times during the day, I would stand in a corner and conduct there by myself, searching for different mannerisms.”9 The paradox was that Pyotr and Anna Kondrashin were dragging their son to all variety of musical events, and this had its down side. If for diverse reasons the early school years were undistinguished, the chap who was to give Kondrashin a lifelong love of music now entered his life. This was Konstantin Mikhailovich Shchedrin.10 Shchedrin taught musical theory and was himself a composer of the late romantic school, analogous to Scriabin, however, renowned more for his coaching than his creativeness. Shchedrin, through his simple and remarkable pedagogical methodology guaranteed that harmony conquered Kirill Kondrashin’s heart and soul once and for all.11 If Shchedrin inspired a love in Kirill Kondrashin for music, the tutor who was to lend him the rock-solid practical foundation was Mariya Andreyevna Shikova. She was a respected pedagogue whose husband, Yaroshevsky, had founded a private musical school in the first months following the 1917 revolution. Shikova encouraged Kirill’s natural gifts after she discerned in her young student a keen aptitude for harmony. She managed to make a fine musician of Kirill, selectively inviting her senior pupils to her home on Zachatyevsky Lane and coaxing them into playing four-hand arrangements and accompanying romances by Rachmaninov and other composers. Musical life in Moscow of the 1920s presented a secondary musical education to the young Kondrashin, and the crème de la crème of these years was the Bolshoi Theatre. On one occasion, Kondrashin was sitting in the loge with artists of the theater watching a presentation of Stravinsky’s ballet Petrushka; so involved did he become with the performance that at the final bars, he collapsed in tears, and the tenor Nikandr Khanaev tried to console him: “But you can see that Petrushka is still alive.” Kirill: “No, no, it was only his ghost—I know the Arab killed him.”12 The closing scene left the child traumatized, and the episode often returned as nightmares. Other significant moments would come when he would sit beside his parents in the orchestra pit. Nikolay Golovanov was conducting Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride, and the orchestra’s loudness muffled the coloratura soprano Elena Stepanova; however, when Antonina Nezhdanova (the conductor’s wife) entered, Golovanov demanded such a delicate pianissimo (which the musicians instantly gave him) that Kirill noticed how critical the conductor can be in creating such a contrast in the quality of sound.13 Ensconced among the orchestral players, Kirill was captivated in observing the maestro’s craft from this perspective.

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In future years, when he was already a mature artist, a somewhat different impression would be left on Kondrashin of Golovanov. Kirill, privileged in these early childhood years to be the offspring of orchestral musicians (and a young pioneer to boot), was permitted to freely enter the theater. He would spend days and nights there breathing the air of the Bolshoi, inculcating a lifelong love for the institution. The adolescent Kondrashin was soon acquainted with almost everyone in the building; many of the singers and dancers became his dearest friends, and he became familiar with the backstage gossip. One of the great personalities was the veteran conductor Vyacheslav Suk. The arts council of the Bolshoi fixed the cast for a premiere of Aïda to be directed by Suk, and when informed that the tenor chosen for Radames was a “heroic” tenor, the veteran exclaimed: “Well if he is a ‘heroic’ tenor, then you can start looking for a ‘heroic’ conductor!” During his conducting of Verdi’s opera, Suk shouted at his “heroic” tenor, so everyone in the auditorium could hear, “You are a fool!” During this phase, at the maestro’s symphony concerts, the septuagenarian Suk had to be assisted to his chair at the rostrum, and at the culmination, raised himself upward—the volume of sound created was something that had to be heard to be believed. “So loud were the climaxes in the Fifth and Sixth symphonies of Tchaikovsky—one felt as if the walls of the Conservatoire would collapse.”14 Suk was from a land boasting a great line of conductors, and his unique interpretations were confirmed many years later when Kondrashin examined the Czech’s intensely expressive score markings. The Bolshoi Theatre possessed several astonishingly fine conductors; Yuri Fayer and Lev Steinberg both originated from the provinces and possessed sophisticated repertoires. Fayer dedicated his work to ballet and directed there for fifty years through the 1960s. Steinberg was acquainted with Anna Kondrashina, and she proposed that he take the young fourteen-year-old Kirill as a student; out of respect for Kondrashina, the veteran invited him to study with him at home on Prince Igor. On arriving for the first lesson, Kirill found four or five young people already there. One of whom—Sergey Delitsev—became a life-long friend (he later taught at the Gnessin Music Institute). Steinberg discussed music with his pupils, showed how to read a score, and demonstrated different conducting techniques. Steinberg had a rigid and very restrained practice, which frustrated Kondrashin’s youthful enthusiasm. This disaffection was influenced by an incident at their opening session; Steinberg asked Kondrashin if he was familiar with Prince Igor—in response, Kirill conducted several bars from the prologue, which evoked the riposte, “Kirochka, you are very talented, but you will never be a conductor— you just don’t have the hands for it.” Addressed in the diminutive, Kirill cried like a small child. Delitsev tried in vain to console him—saying that he

The Early Years

7

was asked to return in a week’s time. Steinberg, regardless of his previous admonishment, now asked him to conduct again. Kondrashin now copied Steinberg’s gestures and mannerisms, to which the old man countered: “Oh, now you are getting better!” After this second sitting, the young Kondrashin was so ashamed that he resolved to forgo Steinberg’s “tuition,” utterly disenchanted by the old maestro’s coaching. Many years later, Kondrashin and Steinberg shared the conducting roster at the Bolshoi, and on every occasion, Steinberg would boast of his associate: “this is my pupil!”15 Since its inception in 1922, both Pyotr and Anna Kondrashin worked in the radical conductor-less orchestra Persimfans (Perfiye Simfonicheskiye Ansemble), formed by the brilliant violinist and teacher Lev Zeitlin. An experiment in artistic democracy, this orchestra reflected the popular aspirations toward democratic art forms—it attempted to depart from the dictatorial regime of a conductor’s imposing his ideas on musicians and also represented an attempt to perfect musical performance. Persimfans gave a weekly concert held on Mondays at the Large Hall of the Conservatoire. The orchestra’s musicians met every morning at nine and practiced for two hours. The young Kirill was taken along to these run-throughs—something that was initially boring to the boy who would run around the large hall prompting unrest. On one occasion, the shrill tenor of Nazary Raysky from the balcony shrieked, “What are you doing here, be quiet or get out!”16 This public remonstration so embarrassed the child that he would sit mutely in the stalls and listen in. The ensemble was unique because Zeitlin declined to use a conductor’s score; all had to study their own parts, However, the sympathetic librarian allowed Kirill the music to follow the composition. Sitting almost invisible to the players, young Kondrashin read through and imagined himself in secret control of the players before him on stage. If the early days of this orchestra were renowned for their novelty, by the late 1920s, the innovation had worn off, and shortcomings began to appear. Pyotr Kondrashin was now a member of its organizing committee, and his son was enlisted to stamp tickets and put up posters. The orchestra’s invitation to the German conductor Otto Klemperer was a roundabout altruistic exercise: “I was obliged to ask myself a serious question: is a conductor really necessary? In the last analysis I remain of the opinion that [he is].” There were inevitably complex pieces that for a good performance, a conductor is essential, particularly regarding rhythm and dynamics, and only a conductor may give the performance the inspiration required. Persimfans as a unique musical institution in the Soviet Union occupied a unique place among the various factions and organizations within the musical community. Advocates of proletarian culture lauded the group’s

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commitment to collectivism in harmonious performance and success in promoting classical music among workers and soldiers. At the same time, the orchestra’s technical achievements and popularity with more traditional audiences won it the respect of such “experts” as Otto Klemperer and Sergei Prokofiev. One of the most striking examples of revolutionary experimentation in the 1920s, the conductorless group presented an intriguing alternative to the basic structural and creative principles of the modern symphony orchestra. Persimfans sought to overcome the “tyranny” of a single individual and thereby empower the orchestra. Musicians bore responsibility not only for the correct technical execution of their individual parts, but for tempo, nuance, and interpretation as well. In what one scholar describes as a “utopia in miniature,” each member developed an appreciation for a musical composition as an organic whole.17

Kondrashin remembered Persimfans many years later in that it achieved much in the education of musicians. “The fruits of its activity is felt amongst us today: the musicians became teachers who helped shape our orchestras and raise new generations.” He pointed at its inherent weakness in that a unified artistic idea was required in performing classical works. “They were at their height in playing contemporary music unknown to the public . . . but when they performed Beethoven or Brahms then it was clear there could not be a uniform conception.”18 Nevertheless, the performances of the conductor-less orchestra led to the drive for a first-rate large symphony orchestra in Moscow. Unlike Leningrad, no professional body existed to give new Soviet composers and music lovers a platform for classical music in the city. A group was set up by Sofil, an AllUnion organization, to improve the situation in Moscow of musical life. The Soviet Philharmonic was led by Nikolay Golovanov, following his dismissal from the Bolshoi Theatre, and promptly attained a high degree of performance: The touring Otto Klemperer commented that “It plays Petrushka as I’ve never heard it played, so earthily (urwüchsig).”19 Despite every effort, Sofil disbanded in 1931; however, with so many unemployed musicians, the authorities found the resources to allow the Moscow Philharmonic to rise from its ashes. At the music school, Kondrashin made important friends with fellow students—the cellist Theodor Gutman and the pianist Erik Grossman. Before his tragic, early death from leukemia, Grossman introduced Kondrashin to many valuable acquaintances of the early student years. Grossman and Kondrashin lived on neighboring streets—Zubovsky Boulevard and Khamovnikov Lane were adjacent to each other. It was at the Grossmans’ that Kirill met the young poet Boris Pasternak for the first time. The great literary figure of the future was not difficult to recognize in “Borya” Pasternak; he listened to Erik’s playing of Chopin, and rather than criticize him harshly—as was the manner in those days—Pasternak analysed his performance with an inherent

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warmth and compassionate voice and with a deep understanding of the music. “I still remember Pasternak’s face, although in later years I was to see many of his portraits. On his deathbed he seemed the same, just a little greyer . . . His face a little ‘horse-like,’ with pulled in flesh, large teeth and very big kind-looking eyes. In him there was a wonderful ability to listen—not only to music, but to his fellow man, which is the mark of a highly intelligent person.”20 At the Grossmans’, Kondrashin became au fait with the acme in literary satire and poetry of the period—a shaping motivation and propitious boon to his creative maturity. The dramatic and often spellbinding attractions of the cinema proved a transitory distraction—to acting and directing—nevertheless, the magnetism of drama and imagery remained a constant. At thirteen years old, Kirill had now set out his stall on becoming a conductor and realized that he would have to master an instrument; conservatoire courses in conducting required study in at least one practical musical discipline. The young Kondrashin drove himself intensively; however, other issues would determine that not all on this earth could be realized through youthful enthusiasm and hard work. In the late 1920s, Soviet education was in a state of flux and compulsory only through the ninth grade; missing out three years, Kondrashin was required to enlist at the Fourth School of People’s Education situated on Maly Znamensky Lane, behind the Pushkin Museum. The head teacher was Natalia Ilyinichna Satz—a woman who had a singular influence on children’s musical education in the USSR.21 This institution, constituted for specially gifted children, was her exclusive notion. There was no holding back in the school’s methods or disciplines—this was for kids who loved a particular subject, music, painting, dancing, or art. Natalia Satz herself was a singularly challenging director; Madame Satz’s uniquely beautiful, energetic, and spruce figure fascinated many who came under her spell. In the years following the school’s foundation, she set up a children’s theatre, the first of its kind in the world. It was initially located on Gorky Street at the Stanislavsky Studio Theatre before a building for its exclusive use was constructed by the Soviet state. Sharing her time with the children’s theater, Satz taught at the school intermittently; nevertheless, she had a dedicated staff all selected by her. The head of music there was the composer Leonid Alexeyevich Polovinkin. “He was the author of several interesting pieces—sonatas, the symphonic Telescopes, several symphonies, and of children’s musicals—Jimmy, Mishka and Govorishka, The Little Negro and the Chimpanzee.”22 Satz believed one should interpret the sound of melody by transposition to dance and movement, very much in the vane of Isadora Duncan. Lessons would be comprised of piano pieces (often by Schumann, Chopin, and Tchaikovsky) to which a pupil would dance in his own interpretation of the melodies. This course was characterized

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“the call of music,” and special dance shoes would be worn and a fusion construed of mime and dance. The focus of Natalia Satz’s artistic credo was to bond harmony with movement—an aesthetic value and art form in itself— and young Kondrashin’s musical culture was significantly influenced by her teaching methodology. When Satz departed, much left with her—distant from her charisma—and no one else could coach as she could. Kondrashin completed his seven-year schooling aware that he wanted to become a professional musician. However, to enter the Conservatoire, another three years would have to be added at a technical school; while studying music in parallel, he entered the Stasov pedagogical institute. There Kirill met up with a young aspiring poet, Zhenya Dolmatovsky, and their friendship was forged by a love for poetry and music.23 Kondrashin and Dolmatovsky became inseparable and would spend many evenings watching and studying the great young actors: Tsarev, Birman, Garin, and Iljinsky, names that became legendary in Soviet theater. The theater producer Vsevolod Meyerhold was already celebrated for his productions of The Forest and The Inspector-General from prerevolutionary days; while only the staging of The Queen of Spades had damaged his reputation. As a student, Kondrashin could sit in a reserved place in the stalls for free at the Second Moscow Art Theatre. Kirill could watch the acting of other stars of the period in Chekhov, Versenyev, and Birman. “Mikhail Chekhov made the biggest impression on me, . . . how he played Khlestakov and the Gorodnichny in the same production! I was unusually fortunate of course for [seeing] such events.”24 However, it was not only the Bolshoi that inspired Kirill’s kinship for the theater but also the physiognomy of Meyerhold became celebrated to many in show business and no less to Kirill Kondrashin. At almost every theatrical performance he would see him, either on stage or close-up—the focus of attention. Many years later Meyerhold’s speeches would come to mind. This long-standing Party member was arrested in 1939—his final resting place a common grave outside Moscow.25 The orchestra of the Bolshoi Theatre presented a monthly concert at the Conservatoire with a guest conductor (the stage of the Bolshoi was acoustically unflattering, and a damping division was erected for these events), and these quickly acquired an extraordinary reputation. A memorable event in 1927 was the return of the young Lev Oborin following his victory at the Chopin Competition. Oborin was accompanied by Albert Coates in the Tchaikovsky B-flat Major Concerto. Through his entire life, as a memento, Kondrashin kept a score with Oborin’s autograph inscribed upon it. A good friend of these times was Viktor Vinogradov who, despite being Kirill’s elder by two years, was not hindered from striking up a close acquaintance; he loved folk songs, singing to Kirill’s piano playing. During

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this interlude, the study course was extended by another year during which the student had to undertake work experience. Rather than undergo this, many left; however, Kondrashin remained, insistent that he would be losing two years of his life if he had to work somewhere wholly unsuited to his vocation. Kondrashin’s powers of persuasion at his interview with the director, Staroselsky, proved successful, and he won his case. Nevertheless, in the Soviet Union of 1930, times were rapidly changing in every aspect of society, and there would unravel a bizarrely different conclusion. A radical transformation in course programming was launched; social studies was now obligatory and taught from the Marxist viewpoint. Students and staff were expected to develop associations with local factories and plants. Nevertheless, this did not always prove arduous: Kondrashin’s work-study was spent at an evening-class teaching children how to play ping-pong. As his final year arrived, Kondrashin reminded Staroselsky of his aspiration to enter the Conservatoire and that he was about to fulfill his work experience term. Staroselsky signed a paper stating that there was no impediment to enrollment at the Conservatoire, only with the proviso that he complete the course. Kondrashin passed his time happily preparing for his musical studies—unaware of the treachery to be unleashed by his mentor. The Soviet Komsomol—the communist youth movement—enjoyed increasing influence in society with an all-embracing authority in schools and colleges. The historian Orlando Figes explains: “Belonging to the Komsomol entailed accepting the orders, rules and ethics of the Communist Party. Members of the Komsomol were supposed to put their loyalty to the Revolution above their loyalty to the family.”27 Life in public meant complete identification with Marxism–Leninism. No longer children, the Party was now their world. This era became one of purging what were considered “bourgeois” elements from schools; the priority in state education was to be given to sons and daughters of the working class and peasantry. Kondrashin was not considered a working class student. “Local party committees conducted extensive purges of the universities, expelling sons and daughters of kulaks, priests, merchants, tsarist officers, and (less frequently) intellectuals and state employees.”27Although this was initially sporadic, Pravda launched an editorial-sanctioned purging of the schools.28 Nevertheless, there was opposition to this from the commissariat of education as exemplified by the deputy commissar of education: “If we educational leaders are going to say yes to all these decisions that the masses demand, and are not going to stand up for our point of view energetically, . . . it is a question of cultural leadership, and our country is uncultured.”29 Distinct from his colleagues, Kondrashin had not enlisted and was duly summoned before the Komsomol. The young man explained that he did not

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intend to become a teacher, and while not disassociating himself entirely, argued that the organization’s role was most useful for those teaching; Kondrashin’s sole aspiration was to be a musician and graduate from the Conservatoire. At this specially prepared meeting, Kondrashin was inexplicably accused both of anti-Semitism and being a mediocre student; at this juncture, Dolmatovsky rose from his seat and called Kondrashin to book, saying everyone wanted to be an educator, and Kondrashin, by his negative response, was letting everyone down. Vinogradov shielded Kondrashin from this attack—claiming that Dolmatovsky was himself against it. Many years later in his memoirs, Dolmatovsky complained that he was reprimanded by the Komsomol secretary who accused him of immaturity and “only joining as a careerist.”30 To take a vote on the matter, the accused were told to leave the room. However, the meeting went on to condemn the two students, declaring them anti-Soviet, expelling them from the institute, and banning them from entering any educational body for two years. It was only on the following day that Staroselsky informed Kondrashin of the judgment. However, fortune was to smile upon Kondrashin from an unexpected angle—one of the teachers, Savchenko, a former decorated Red Army man, defended Kondrashin, saying that his “crimes” were false and it was all “a storm in a teacup.”31 In his youth, Kondrashin was not interested in politics; however, he had been a member of the Young Pioneers at the Bolshoi Theatre and benefited from a well brought up background.32 This all contradicted the fact that his mother was a respected Party member at the theatre (his father was religious and opposed Kirill’s membership in the Pioneers organization). On hearing of Kondrashin’s intent to mount a defense, a compromise was sought by the authorities, and he was called in the director’s office; Staroselsky instructed Kondrashin to continue his studies and “repent” before the Komsomol. Staroselsky possessed the most influence, so the agreement was that if Kondrashin and Vinogradov admitted their faults, then all would be forgiven. At the scheduled gathering, Vinogradov was first to speak and confessed his “guilt” incoherently, followed by the more articulate Kondrashin who pledged to consciously continue his study, adding that he had never tried to cause distress. After this admission of atonement, Staroselsky revealed himself in his true colors. Staroselsky drew the attention of the assembly to both “culprits”: Vinogradov was from a poor workers family, living in some difficulty, while Kondrashin’s parents were from the “intelligentsia” of the Bolshoi Theatre.33 Kondrashin had inculcated students with “bourgeois” ideas from the theater, and, therefore, the most serious measures should be taken. Staroselsky said, “There can be no talk of Kondrashin studying here, to redeem himself he should work at a factory or in a village and then this young man can study

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somewhere else but it is impossible for the time being. We must expel him.”34 The meeting was in uproar with everyone supporting Staroselsky. Upon reaching home, the young Kirill almost collapsed from the emotional shock of being treated in such a despicable manner by the treacherous director. His parents were now distressed, for these were indeed difficult times, and the consequences could end very badly. The affair now took a unexpected turn, for Anna Kondrashina was an active member of the Party and was intent in setting things to rights after Staroselsky’s statement that young Kirill was infecting the institute “with bourgeois influence from the theatre.”35 Staroselsky had now quite overstepped himself because the Bolshoi was under the auspices of the state and ruled by a troika of government leaders—Voroshilov, Yenukidze, and Lunacharsky. Anna Kondrashina took her son’s case to the Party branch at the Bolshoi, and there it was promised that they would “deal with this injustice.” Another means of getting fair dealing for himself was to make an appeal through a lawyer, and this resulted in a court indictment declaring Staroselsky’s statement as fabricated; however, the expulsion was upheld and required that the two students should fulfill a period of community service. With this partial reprieve, at least the most parlous section of the condemnation was removed, and the Kondrashin family was publicly exonerated. It was clear that for the young Kondrashin, only more perseverance would secure his further education. Good fortune arrived in a roundabout way and was to be a significant influence on his future career. Supplementary to the teaching provided by Shchedrin and Shikova was that of the composer Nikolay Sergeyevich Zhilyaev. Anna Kondrashina believed that her child possessed an exceptional talent for music, and extra support was crucial. Zhilyaev guaranteed a theoretical background for the aspiring musician through the last two years of study before entering the Conservatoire. However, the interference by RAPM (Revolutionary Association of Proletarian Musicians) in musical education ensured that almost all composers except Beethoven and Wagner were ignored at music schools and conservatoires. Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninov were denounced as being “decadent,” and the few contemporary composers recognized were Davidenko, Koval, and Dzerzhinsky who were writing mass songs and popular music. In this context, as a leading teacher of composition, Zhilyaev had been condemned as reactionary and sacked by the Moscow Conservatoire prior to its closure and reopening as the Higher School named after Felix Kon. Zhilyaev was a significant figure concerning the late Russian romantics and of the early Soviet era, a close associate of Scriabin and Rachmaninov, and highly regarded by the “new” wave of Russian composers—Shostakovich, Myaskovsky, and Prokofiev. 36

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At their first appointment, Kondrashin asked Zhilyaev to help him enroll at the Conservatoire, only to be warned: “If you want to study with me, let’s start from the beginning. I shall take you through harmony, as for other subjects, we shall simply discuss them.”37 The studies with Zhilyaev took place three times a week, often finishing at one or two o’clock in the morning; Kondrashin would also visit him in between formal “lessons” at his small apartment. “My teacher Nikolay Sergeyevich Zhilyaev considered that conducting was a declining profession because the conductor doesn’t produce sound. There was such a theory that to gain a musical career one needed good muscles (as for the piano, violin and trumpet, etc), otherwise the interpretation cannot be created. Perhaps this is quite true but it seems to me that it related more to those listening on radio or recordings. In regards to physical work, I consider one’s inner ear important.”38 Following entry to the Conservatoire, the grateful student returned to express his gratitude; however, Zhilyaev responded unexpectedly: “Well, we don’t have to study together anymore.” Seeing that his student was disappointed, Zhilyaev explained, “It is not fair to your new teachers at the Conservatoire—I don’t teach there—however if you do want to see me, then please come.”39 Zhilyaev’s crucial influence on Kondrashin was the inculcation of an independent and free-thinking philosophy. Whatever his own opinion, the pupil had to disassemble his own ideas and reconstruct them anew. Students were not to emulate his own outlook or views; Zhilyaev loved Rimsky-Korsakov’s first three operas; however, he claimed that all the later works by the composer depreciated, and he also loathed Glazounov—an aversion shared by Kondrashin. Zhilyaev advised his pupils to forgo the musical gods, preaching that one must always listen to other attitudes. Many leading musicians of the day met at Zhilyaev’s flat including Mikhail Gnessin, Yevgeny Golubev, Nikolay Rakov, and Fabii Vitachek, son of the great violinist. During his Conservatoire years, Kondrashin continued to study with the rebellious professor, spending many an evening in his company. Zhilyaev supported Soviet power—he served as an officer in the White Army—yet had gone over to the Reds under the influence of his colleague Mikhail Tukhachevsky and fought for the Soviets under Tukhachevsky’s command, showing courage in being awarded several distinguished medals.41 Zhilyaev taught Tukhachevsky how to play the violin and musical theory and maintained a close friendship until the last. When Tukhachevsky was arrested and shot in 1937, Kondrashin and his friends advised Zhilyaev to remove the conspicuous portrait of his former pupil; however, Zhilyaev countered: “I don’t believe what they say about him, I know this man, removing his portrait would be a betrayal.” 42

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Nevertheless, Zhilyaev himself was denounced as an enemy of the people, arrested, and dispatched to the camps where he died during the war working as an accountant. It is not known where he met his end, in a place of exile or a labor camp, only that he expired alone in great distress, a victim of the system he had fought for. Zhilyaev knew five foreign languages and was a member of the Geographical Society. His vast library disappeared; many years later Kondrashin was browsing through a second-hand bookshop and discovered an old score with Zhilyaev’s signature. For Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin, the meeting with Zhilyaev in 1929 was the crossing of the Rubicon. It was Zhilyaev who formed Kondrashin’s musical character, molding him into a professional musician. Following the affair at the institute, Kirill had no wish to continue there and started studies with Nikolay Zhilayev, formally applying several months later to the Conservatoire. The rector was Bronislav Pshibyshevsky. Kondrashin presented his documents, asking him directly if he could sit the entry examinations, to which the rector responded, “if you have musical talent, we’ll take you. This document states that you have to study so it all depends on you.”42 There were four places open in the conducting faculty, which attracted fiftythree applicants; the quality was so high that instead of just a quartet of candidates, seven were allowed to enlist, and Kondrashin topped the examination results. Kondrashin failed in Marxism; Pshibyshevsky was magnanimous and removed this from his testimony, opening up the opportunity for Kondrashin to enroll at the Moscow Conservatoire. In spite of winning against the odds to study at the Conservatoire, Kirill Kondrashin regretted the treacherous behavior of Zhenya Dolmatovsky. His one-time friend also abstained from a pedagogical career and afterward entered the State Literary Institute. Despite following quite separate paths, he could not ignore his perfidy. Fate set a course for Kondrashin in which he would cross paths again with his former director. In his fourth year, Kondrashin was obliged to attend Staroselsky’s lectures on dialectical materialism. Meeting in the corridors of the building, they passed by without acknowledging each other; however, it seemed Staroselsky had forgotten what went before because he now declared that “young Kondrashin was a model of the Marxist–Leninist world outlook.” Obviously he had selectively omitted the past or more likely was being politically correct. To bring this episode to its conclusion, years later, just before the war, Kondrashin returned as a professional conductor. Seeing the advertisements outside the Conservatoire bearing Kondrashin’s name, Staroselsky approached his former student affectionately: “Kirochka! My wife and I have both seen your posters and are definitely coming to your concert.” 43 Kondrashin paid no heed to his former adversary—his counter to

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the spinelessness and duplicity of the director—after many years, Kondrashin had completed his moral victory.44

NOTES 1. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 4. 2. V. A. Yusefich, Sergey Koussevitsky tom perviy russkiye gody (Moscow: Yazyki Slavyanskoy Kultury, 2004), 172. 3. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 4. 4. Memorandum by Vladimir Lenin to Molotov, APRF (Archive of the President of the Russian Federation), f.3, op.35, d.4, l.7. Copy. Typewritten. January 12, 1922. 5. Katerina Clark and Evgeny Dobrenko, Soviet Culture and Power: A History in Documents, 1917–1953 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 30–31. 6. Solomon Mikhoels was a great Jewish actor whose rank in society allowed his own theatre. 7. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 3. 8. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 6. 9. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 44. 10. Konstantin Shchedrin was the father of the distinguished composer Rodion Shchedrin who wrote symphonies, concertos, and ballets. 11. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 7. 12. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 24. 13. Antonina Nezhdanova was the prima donna pre- and post-1917 at the Bolshoi Theatre and the long-term spouse of the conductor Nikolay Golovanov. 14. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 26. 15. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 45–46. 16. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 8. 17. Amy Nelson, Music for the Revolution: Musicians and Power in Early Soviet Russia (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), 193. 18. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 6–7. 19. Peter Heyworth, Otto Klemperer: Volume 1, 1885–1933: His Life and Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 313; Otto Klemperer in letter to his wife, March 15, 1929. 20. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 9. 21. Natalya Satz proposed to Sergey Prokofiev that he write a work for children, inspiring the creation of Peter and the Wolf. 22. Tikhon Khrennikov, Tak eto bylo: Tikhon Khrennikov o vremeni i o sebe (Moscow: Muzika, 1994), 25. 23. Dolmatovsky would become a leading writer and poet, writing the texts to several works by Shostakovich.

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24. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 26–27. 25. Meyerhold, London, 1996. 26. Orlando Figes, The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia (London: Allen Lane, 2007), 29. 27. Sheila Fitzpatrick, “Cultural Revolution as Class War,” in The Cultural Front (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 131. 28. “Boyevii zadachi kulturnoy revolutsii,” Pravda, February 5, 1929, 1. 29. V. N. Yakovleva, Narodnoye prosvescheniye, 1929, no. 3–4, 20. 30. E. Dolmatovsky, Bylo: zapiski poeta: novye stranitsy (Moscow: Sov. pisatel, 1982), 28–29. 31. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 17. 32. The Pioneers was an All-Union youth organization similar to the boy scouts and girl guides that aimed to bring up millions of children as faithful young communists. 33. At this time, the Bolshoi had been under some criticism, and the chief conductor, Golovanov, had been sacked for “anti-Semitism.” 34. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 19. 35. V. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 17. 36. Sergey Prokofiev wrote that even on returning to the USSR, he consulted with Zhilyaev on his compositions, as did Myaskovsky and Shostakovich. 37. K. P. Kondrashin, O dirizherskom Iskusstsve, ed. Sophia Mikhailovna Khentova (Leningrad: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1970), 143. 38. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 21. 39. K. P. Kondrashin, O dirizherskom Iskusstsve, 149. 40. Natalia Satz, the founder of a special children’s school and the first children’s theater. Satz was incarcerated in a labor camp following her husband’s arrest in 1937; although, she survived to manage her theater in the postwar period. 41. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 23–24. 42. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 20–21. 43. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 21. 44. V. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 21.

2 Universities: Khaikin and Meyerhold 1928–1936

I want to rush out to the people, Into the crowd and the mania of morning. I could smash it all to smithereens, Bring the world to its knees. Pasternak “Nightglow” 1948

In

September 1931, Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin entered the conducting class of Boris Emmanuilovich Khaikin. Kondrashin’s new mentor was one of the most promising musical figures in the Soviet Union. An enlightened pedagogue, Khaikin was ten years older than Kondrashin; nevertheless, they promptly established a rapport. Following the cultural revolution, a vacuum had been created with the departure of many home-produced conductors; Malko, Koussevitsky, Cherepnin, and Cooper all departed to pursue careers in Europe and America. Despite this gap being filled fleetingly with distinguished foreign guests such as Oskar Fried, Hermann Abendroth, and Otto Klemperer, the young Khaikin made his mark opening up the remarkable music emerging from the two main musical centers and beyond. These men comprised the new Soviet composing school: Khachaturyan from Armenia; Lyatoshinsky from the Ukraine; Kabalevsky, Mossolov, and Shebalin from Moscow; and Gavriil Popov from Rostov, and Shostakovich from Leningrad. Khaikin was born in Minsk in 1904; drawn to conducting from an early age, his parents sent him to the Moscow Conservatoire, studying with Alexander Gëdike, one of the most eminent pedagogues of the piano.1 In 1921, Khaikin was able to enlist quite simply due to the policies of the Soviet government, which empowered the children of the poor to gain a higher education. Khaikin continued with Konstantin Saradzhev—a pupil of Artur Nikisch—in orchestral 19

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studies and, from 1922, in conducting (previously conducting was not on the curriculum) with a semi-amateur ensemble loosely called “Saradzhev’s Orchestra”; student conductors could practice on a regular basis. The orchestra developed to a high level, giving all of Beethoven’s symphonies, apart from the Choral Symphony. In 1928, the first graduates of the conducting faculty left the Moscow Conservatoire; together with Khaikin were Braginsky, Lev Ginzburg, and Timofeyev. Of these, only Khaikin and Ginzburg achieved long-standing careers: Khaikin became a conductor at Stanislavsky’s Opera Theatre; Ginzburg furthered his learning with Hermann Scherchen in Switzerland. In 1931, Saradzhev took Khaikin onto his teaching staff, along with Ginzburg, until 1935 when the veteran was appointed head of the Tbilisi conducting faculty and Stolyarov assumed the head of the department.2 As Kondrashin began his studies, a crisis had developed through the predominance of left-wing groups both at the Conservatoire and at other music institutions. In Leningrad, the rector was replaced with a loyal Party member who had no musical background; in 1929, at the All-Russian Music Conference, “RAPM won a virtual musical monopoly and its simplistic approach and contempt for tradition infected government circles.”3 At the Moscow Conservatoire, the Party activist Boleslav Pshibyshevsky was appointed rector by the commisariat of education in 1929. Following an ultra-leftist ideology, he led major changes in teaching by scrapping courses by which professional musicians were trained; instead, the priority was on training teachers and directors of amateur folklore ensembles. “Laboratory-brigades” were organized by which examinations were abandoned, and students would be assessed through their course work.4 Several professors—Myaskovsky, Zhilyaev, and Glière— left the Conservatoire as a result. The Conservatoire was renamed the High Music School after Felix Kon; however, in September 1931, a collegiate of staff at the ministry of education passed a resolution criticizing the standards at the “Music School.”5 Several months later, in April 1932, the Party Central Committee adopted a decree “On Restructuring Literature and Arts Organizations,” disbanding the leftist groups operating in the arts—PROKOLL (Production Collective of Student Composers of Moscow Conservatoire) and RAPM. Pshibyshevsky was removed, and Stanislav Teofilovich Shatsky appointed in his place.6 This led to a reinstatement of training courses at this and other musical institutions throughout the country. Boris Khaikin (similar to the Leningrad-based Alexander Gauk) dispatched his class to the Large Hall to monitor visiting conductors’ rehearsals and concerts—this form of “tuition” was the most appropriate and fitting schooling for his students. “In my Conservatoire days, . . . students conducted to piano accompaniment, and on only one occasion did some of us have the particular fortune (once in 5 years), to carry through half a concert with the Conservatoire orchestra.”7

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The period of the early 1930s reflected a pinnacle in conducting art and a golden era in performance; among those undertaking engagements in the Soviet capital were some of the finest world conductors—Erich Kleiber, Vaclav Talich, Bruno Walter, and Otto Klemperer. The most successful, Klemperer wrote, “Here in Russia I have had an absolutely fabulous success. The people here have an enthusiasm such as one rarely finds in Germany.”8 The concerts alone by the German Otto Klemperer caused a sensation: “Klemperer’s popularity in Russia is quite extraordinary—[it is] a kind of phenomenon—and has never been surpassed by [that of] any foreign conductor, including even Nikisch . . . There is something downright inflammatory about his manner of treating not only new music but the most venerable of the classics as well.9 Khaikin beguiled several distinguished musicians to give master classes for his fledglings. Notably, the Russian-born Albert Coates coached Kondrashin in a session arranged at the Metropol Hotel in central Moscow. With the maestro sitting at the upright piano, Kondrashin was asked to undertake RimskyKorsakov’s Scheherazade. Coates imparted two quite different approaches: first—to halt the sound of the orchestra as if there is a pause although not indicated in the score, a gesture of the hands showed continuation was impossible, and second—Coates demonstrated his own kunst-stücke, a distinctive style of plasticity in shaping the phrasing. Coates asked Kondrashin to play the prelude to Carmen in two-time, and then in one, and in a measure—after two bars—and then one gesture in four bars. He didn’t just beat the musical line but directed the music itself. Coates sketched an eloquent line through his hands, expressing the musical idea, emphasising the flow of the drama and emotional content. Kondrashin was suitably bemused by Coates’ impressive technique; however, he was less so by his musicianship—there was some naïveté in the Englishman’s manner. Albert Coates was born in St. Petersburg, the son of an English businessman and a Russian aristocrat; he studied with Nikisch and had worked extensively at the Mariinsky Theatre before the revolution, and he conducted almost all the major opera companies worldwide. Coates continued to tour the Soviet Union, imbibing new Russian music and helping to popularize it in the West; he recorded many freshly written pieces by Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Stravinsky, and Glazounov. By the early 1930s, foreign visitors to the Soviet Union could notice improvements in the living conditions of the people; the German conductor Heinz Unger had already toured the Ukraine and Leningrad since 1923: The problem of feeding the population was being solved. The privileges in provisioning were abolished little by little, and in the course of years the wholefood system could be dispensed with altogether. New shops, open day and night

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in the American style, were started in the big cities, where purchases were limited only by the buyer’s salary. The days when I had to bring my own tea and sugar to Russia were forgotten . . . The masses in the streets displayed no better manners than before, and their elbows were as aggressive as ever; nevertheless their appearance was no longer so desperate . . . The streets were now cleaner, and the appearance of the towns had improved. Roads which had long remained torn up were once more paved, and new buildings stood on the sites of ruins.10

Unger discovered that the country was now opening up to “new” musical genres: In hotel restaurants blaring jazz-bands, hitherto banned as “bourgeois,” applied themselves to their art and produced a din that prevented all conversation. This was intended to create what was considered a western atmosphere, and to make the foreign visitor feel happy and at home—which he might almost have done but for the noise. But the native population had their share too. Where empty or boarded-up window-holes gaped from the houses of the old aristocracy along the quays of the Neva, clubs for engineers, scientists and artists had now been installed. So-called “Culture Houses” and “Culture Parks” were established for the working-population, with stages for concerts and plays; also libraries, lecture rooms, and chess clubs. These were only some of the places in which the continual battle for the education of the masses was fought.11

Otto Klemperer was one conductor who had regularly toured in both major centers and wrote to his wife from Moscow, “I have been here for two days and I must say that this city is much more agreeable than Leningrad . . . the people of today fit much better into this architecture than into the ‘aristocratic’ (‘fein’) architecture of Leningrad.”12 During this period, the positions available for Russian conductors were almost entirely limited to the opera and ballet theaters; the Leningrad Philharmonic was conducted by Fritz Stiedry, the Moscow Radio Committee by Georges Sebastyan, the Moscow Philharmonic by Eugéne Sëngar, Leningrad Radio by Heinz Unger, and the Kharkov Philharmonic by Kurt Sanderling. A memorable cycle of master classes on the E Major and Minor Symphonies of Mozart were given by the Hungarian Sebastyan, and his compatriot Sëngar presented a series of talks on piano music. On one occasion, Sebastyan asked Kondrashin to undertake the second movement of a Mozart symphony, and he fulfilled the difficult challenge to the approval of his tutor. Under the auspices of the Conservatoire, an opera studio had been founded on the initiative of Golovanov; it was some time before a suitable venue could be found for productions—initially the Large Hall of the Conservatoire was utilized, the formal concert venue for the city’s symphonic concerts. An area of seating was removed to accommodate orchestra, choir, and so-

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loists. The first operas to be given were Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro and Dargomyszhky’s Rusalka; the former was directed by Melik-Pashayev (a staff conductor at the Bolshoi), while Stolyarov (chief conductor at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Music Theatre) undertook Rusalka. Important roles, however, were taken by the assistant conductors: for the Mozart, a third-year student, Konstantin Ivanov, who was eight years senior to Kondrashin, was entrusted to be the prompter, and Kondrashin, was to ensure vocalists adhered to the written text—an important learning curve for him. There were several casts for each stage work, every group of singers performing different versions—all of which were gleaned by Kondrashin who imbibed the score so much that Figaro became his favorite of all the Da Ponte works. The regular flow of guest conductors and artists to the Soviet Union was dominated in particular by the German school; Fried, Klemperer, and Abendroth toured annually, giving symphonic cycles by Beethoven and Bruckner. By the 1930s, this roster expanded to Weingartner, Kleiber, Knappertsbusch, Talich, Walter, Ansermet, and Scherchen; the soloists Schnabel, Heifetz, Fournier, and Marian Anderson; and many others. The most important impression on the young Kondrashin was the contact with the Beethoven performing tradition. Klemperer was so tall that he didn’t require a conventional podium, and wearing large black horn-rimmed glasses, the impression created was that he soared over the musicians, hypnotizing them with both his eyes and body movements. Klemperer, however, had a short fuse and often lost his temper. “When the first flute made an error, Klemperer caustically observed, ‘It seems as though you’ve never played in Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.’ The flautist gravely nodded assent, whereupon Klemperer yelled, ‘You should be in a waxworks, not an orchestra.’ The flautist quietly replied, ‘Ask the maestro if he knows Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar.’ Klemperer: ‘What’s that?’ Flautist: ‘Tell the maestro that there is a spare place beside me in the waxworks.’”13 Klemperer would not permit one error to spoil the work in hand; “his rehearsals were exciting, just as if a concert, yet lost control.”14 The young Kondrashin found Kleiber’s rehearsals of more fascination; Kleiber had the manner of teacher–storyteller—at that time, many musicians understood German and rehearsed as if the session was the real thing. So much energy and enthusiasm was given that the actual performance was a disappointment. The veteran Oskar Fried demanded total subordination to himself, creating the likeness of a despot at the podium. He often shouted at his players, “look at the baton, the baton is not an organ, look at the baton,” constantly mixing Russian and German phrases.15 Fried used the stick to achieve musical results, while Kleiber combined coaching and charm. Coates always brought interest-

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ing programs, mixing contemporary pieces with the romantics; he premiered Kabalevsky’s Second Symphony, having memorized it by the first rehearsal. Khaikin resolved to place his students in part-time work at theaters all over the city, guaranteeing real learning experience. Kondrashin’s first engagement was at the children’s theater on Sadovsky Lane as assistant to Iosif Naumovich Kovner, who also composed music for the theater. The conductor Otto Klemperer attended several performances there and developed a friendship with the twenty-two-year-old director, Natalia Satz. “Her innovatory productions so impressed him that he later invited her to produce and assist him in productions in Berlin and Buenos Aires.”16 The orchestra was comprised of some thirteen full-time musicians, and Kondrashin was often delegated with the trickiest moments in the score. There was the custom that when someone was absent, “I would transpose his music for a different instrument. Kovner’s pieces were quite eclectic, nevertheless written masterly, well orchestrated for chamber forces. I was happy to work there for three years.” Kondrashin also visited performances at the Stanislavsky Theatre—Khaikin encouraged his students to sit in the orchestra pit, trusting this facilitated learning the conducting art from every perspective. Golovanov was a major influence on all conducting students at the Conservatoire, working with the students’ orchestra in which Kondrashin was enlisted as percussionist. Here he could enjoy a good view of the illustrious maestro’s conducting technique. Nevertheless, performances did not pass without mishap, and on one occasion Kondrashin incurred the wrath of Golovanov. As professor of the orchestral department, Nikolay Golovanov took his task conscientiously despite diverse commitments elsewhere. Students, therefore, participated in the rehearsal process with a mixture of fear and trepidation. The role delegated to Kondrashin was the Grand Casa. At one juncture, the piece performed was Rimsky-Korsakov’s overture to The Legend of Kitezh and the Maiden Fevronia, set for three hours. However, Kondrashin also had a matinee at the children’s theater, which meant he would have to leave early, and asked his colleague to take over at the necessary moment. When the time came for the large drum to be struck—Golovanov looked up and cried: “Again a new face! What is going on, for Gods sake, where has he gone to?” Someone managed to summon up sufficient courage: “He has gone to conduct his own orchestra.” And, “Where is he off to?” Golovanov asked the poor student, who replied, “To the children’s theatre.” Golovanov cried out: “Ah, so is there a gypsy opera now?” (This was an allusion to Kondrashin’s darkly attractive features.) When the full concert came round—at the great culminating point—Golovanov was over the moon at how Kondrashin hit the drum with such force, so much so that he played the prelude as an encore, and Kondrashin resolved that he would play his part more effectively. However,

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at the crucial moment, he lost his grip and completely missed the blow. Following which, Kondrashin hid in shame behind his Grand Casa, anticipating the wrath of the esteemed conductor. Consequently, Kondrashin stayed out of Golovanov’s way for a long time. Stanislavsky had set up an opera studio in the early 1920s, and it was there that the tenors Sobinov and Lemeshev made their career debuts. Vyacheslav Suk—a Bolshoi staff conductor—was invited to be arts director pro tempore and undertake Eugene Onegin. Such was the success of this Tchaikovsky production that Stanislavsky’s former confederate and now adversary, Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, decided to set up his own musical theater; nevertheless, his challenger proved a distinguished commissioner of new talent at a time when the celebrated director’s fortunes were on the wane. NemirovichDanchenko possessed an old-age authority and spent much of his free time abroad playing cards, drinking fine wines, and chasing beautiful women. Initially, Nemirovich-Danchenko introduced operetta and light opera, “he attempted to bring the opera closer to the mass audience and listener . . . they searched for suitable repertoire among the foreign novelties. By the end of the decade, Nemirovich-Danchenko successfully presented de Falla’s La vida breve, Till Eulenspiegel [by Asafyev], and Krenek’s Johnnie spielt auf.”17 More staid fare was introduced progressively while Stanislavsky’s company rose to the challenge, now under Suk’s sway, inviting first-rate conductors in Mikhail Zhukov and Khaikin. However, Stanislavsky’s lack of musical taste was revealed in his Carmen which, by using a quite different libretto, made a mockery of several scenes, despite which proved a sensation with both audiences and critics. There were triumphs, including the first original setting of Boris Godunov and fine productions of The Queen of Spades and Rossini’s Barber of Seville, both of which were directed by Khaikin. The latter’s premiere of 1939 proved, nevertheless, to be the great director’s swan song. The Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre also staged Carmen, making wholesale changes that utilized Mérimée’s original play Carmencita and the Soldier. However, this fresh production, despite its quirkiness, became fashionable. The creation suitably impressed the touring Klemperer who was himself rehearsing Bizet’s opera at the Bolshoi Theatre.18 In this staging, the secondary part of Micaëla was withdrawn and replaced by her mother. La Traviata proved another stylish and innovative conception and upheld the prerevolutionary tradition of singing in the vernacular.19 In 1934, the chief conductor at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre, Grigory Stolyarov, sought a new assistant and solicited Khaikin as to a possible candidate. Kondrashin could have been given work at the Stanislavsky Theatre; however, no opening existed there. At the obligatory audition, Kondrashin’s repeated probing at the tenor attempting the first accelerando in

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Galitsky’s aria from Prince Igor secured the warm approval of NemirovichDanchenko. Following procedure, the young man was obliged to play a part in the orchestra, which he assumed with his inveterate joie de vivre. Therefore, the twenty-year-old Kondrashin was appointed assistant conductor, his first important position. The deal that was struck would allow Stolyarov an opportunity to teach at the Conservatoire in the next academic year. Thus began an auspicious and fascinating period, particularly as the opening task was in Shostakovich’s latest opera. Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk required a very large orchestra, which the theater ensemble had augmented to meet the requirement for triple woodwind, alto-flute, and enlarged percussion. Nemirovich-Danchenko was sympathetic to the Leningrad composer—despite an aversion for modern music—he suggested renaming the opera Katerina Izmailova. The psychology of allowing the heroine a more sympathetic quality was true to Shostakovich’s concept—Leskov’s original novella’s title lent an undeserving parody of the central character. The performances were extraordinarily exciting; Vladimir Kandelaki took Boris and that of Katerina by the magnificent Yulia Preis, the last love of the eighty-year-old NemirovichDanchenko. As Kondrashin’s contract pooled the responsibilities of percussionist and assistant conductor, during performances of Katerina Izmailova, Stolyarov asked his deputy to sort out his section. In the third scene of the opera, Shostakovich creates a moment of eroticism where Sergey embraces Katerina, very persuasively played by the percussion. At bar 24, the bedroom scene culminates through the tam-tam continuously beating a tremolo through 24 measures. Kondrashin instructed his musicians not to wait for the pause but to await his signal; however, disaster struck—at the critical moment, he knocked over the glockenspiel, causing it to disintegrate, resulting in the noise of shattered glass. Kondrashin imagined members of the astonished audience would be looking over at him; instead, he saw Stolyarov’s horrified stare. After this minor catastrophe, the aspiring musician kept out of sight for days to avoid the fury of his chief conductor.20 Grigory Arnoldovich Stolyarov (1892–1963) was born in the Ukrainian seaport of Odessa and conducted at the opera theater in his home town from 1920 until 1929; after which, he worked as chief conductor at the Moscow Musical Theatre named after Nemirovich-Danchenko. Stolyarov was a close friend of Shostakovich and worked with him for several years during the creation of Katerina Izmailova and assisted in his company’s giving the Moscow first night, following close competition between the Leningrad Maly Opera and its chief conductor, Samuil Samosud. The world premiere under Samosud was given on January 22, 1934, just two days before Stolyarov’s opening in the capital.21 Kondrashin’s personal acquaintance with the music of Shostakovich began with this production at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre. For Kondrashin,

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the first sight of the young composer sitting in the middle of the stalls among the general public astonished him, for he looked more like a schoolboy than a mature artist. “He constantly swept his hair back and bowed nervously to people.”22 Kondrashin was still unfamiliar with contemporary Soviet composers; all the same, he was spellbound by the lyricism of Katerina Izmailova. The Shostakovich opera produced difficulty, for during the breaks between scenes, there would be lengthy musical interludes in which the audience would start to gossip, triggering the theater director to announce before each performance that one should respect the composer’s music. Kondrashin held that Shostakovich’s development was not damaged by the 1936 Pravda article—“Sumbur vmesto muziki”—following which the composer simplified his idiom, which only blossomed and matured afterward with the Fifth Symphony. “It is a stage in the development of all art that there are periods of simple and more clear expression in their work, the same can be said of Bartók, Hindemith, Prokofiev and Stravinsky as well as Chagal and Picasso.”23 Nevertheless, the attacks in the media created a hostile atmosphere around the composer’s work; in archive documents recently released, we can read how the powers that be monitored the views of leading members of the intelligentsia: I. Selvinsky (poet): In the West, Shostakovich’s opera has been running with great success for three years. This kind of crude article, which thoroughly discredits Shostakovich, will be judged in the West as a blow to Soviet music. I. Babel (writer): There’s no need to make so much fuss over nothing at all. After all, no one took this seriously. The people are holding their tongues, but deep down they’re having a good chuckle. Budenny cursed me even worse, and we got through it. I’m certain the same will happen with Shostakovich. Y. Olesha (script writer): I am very concerned about the fate of my picture, which is supposed to come out on the screen any day now. My film is many times more left-art than Shostakovich. What if they open fire on me with all their weapons? I don’t understand the two contradictory acts: the adulation of Mayakovsky and the humiliation of Shostakovich. Shostakovich is Mayakovsky in music, he is the plenipotentiary for Soviet music abroad, he is a brilliant man, and a blow against Shostakovich is a calumny for art. If this is a new course, then it will lead to nothing except the authors of this article discrediting themselves. Great art will live despite everything.24

The scandal around Shostakovich’s opera emerged a few weeks following the establishment of the All-Union Committee of Arts, which was to steer the management of cultural affairs on behalf of the regime. Its appointed chairman was a former journalist and diplomat Platon Mikhailovich Kerzhentsev. Lady Macbeth would formalize the authoritative control of the arts and media by the state and prove a stick to beat other offending parties with. On Febru-

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ary 9, 1936, there appeared another piece criticizing Shostakovich’s ballet Limpid Stream, staged at the capital’s premiere venue. Kerzhentsev called a meeting at the Bolshoi to resolve how the company was to deal with the scandal. The agenda was around three questions: “Who is to blame for allowing Lady Macbeth and Limpid Stream on the theatre’s stage?” and “How were these works permitted?” and, finally, “What is to be done?”25 The meetings were closed to the staff; however, details have emerged through archives. Kerzhentsev’s detailed conclusions became the material for the Politburo to further tighten control over the arts. The then chief conductor Golovanov pointed to two objective causes for the failures: “The collective had been left like orphans due to the sacking of the long-standing director Malinovskaya and her replacement by Mutnykh whose sole experience was at the Red Army Museum.” Golovanov spoke directly to the chairman, “When we were looked after by the Government we forgot how to think independently: we were told the repertoire and it would seem this set-up remains to this day . . . The leading people in our country have been doing our thinking for us, however there has lacked any distinctive artistic plan, excepting the recent case, when we are [now] criticised and forbidden to stage Shostakovich. Now the point of view has changed.”26 It would only be another two months before the distinguished chief conductor would be replaced by Samuil Samosud. In his letter to Stalin, Molotov Kerzhentsev wrote, “Golovanov has achieved his position not only for his artistic worth but for strength of character and determination. The leading position of Golovanov has led to a whole number of negative results. In the theater’s artistic work there has reigned a course based on pomposity in opera framed in utmost ornamentation and loudness. As a rule Russian classics dominate the repertoire with little western classics (Mozart and Rossini in part). Work on creating Soviet opera is not only restricted but discarded because of past failures.” The chairman continued to depict Golovanov as favoring “stronger” singers and to aver that artists depended on him as he directed most of the opera repertoire at the theater. He continued, “We need to relieve N. S. Golovanov from his work at the theater. This will relieve the atmosphere. The theatre director comrade Mutnykh . . . categorically demands Golovanov’s sacking.”27 Further, Kerzhentsev suggests as replacements Samosud or Pasovsky: “Both are magnificent conductors and great authorities on our opera culture. But S. A. Samosud is preferable because he is an enthusiast in creating Soviet opera possessing admirable organizational qualities and is very knowledgeable in the musical world and works very well with composers.” Further, the writer considers that Golovanov may be used for symphonic concerts or as a teacher at the Conservatoire, indeed as head of the Stanislavsky Opera or any other opera company in Moscow.28

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Among new works proposed for staging at the Bolshoi Theatre were Shaporin’s Decembrists, Lysenko’s Taras Bulba, Asafyev’s Prisoner of the Caucasus, and Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.29 Kerzhentsev suggested a Georgian opera by Zakhary Paliashvili—Absalom and Eteri. Repertoire at other Soviet companies were discussed; at the Maly Opera and Ballet in Leningrad, Dzerzhinsky’s Virgin Soil Upturned; Voloshinov proposed a work on the defeat of the Japanese in the Far East in 1920–21; Shebalin suggested an opera about a Party leader in the Northern Caucasus; Zhivotov proposed a new piece on the relations between America and Europe during the First World War; and Shostakovich was to work on a new libretto with Osip Brik, a playwright close to the Party.30 Several of these freshly written pieces would become familiar to Kirill Kondrashin in his forthcoming work in the northern capital. It was a paradox that regardless of the Pravda article “Sumbur vmesto Muziki,” the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre continued to stage Katerina Izmailova.31 Everyone understood that the controversy concerned the Bolshoi Theatre’s staging of Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk; no one stipulated that their successful production should close down, and it played in Moscow for many weeks regardless of the blight affecting the composer’s works. Indeed, during January and February of 1936, Moscow theatres staged four different versions of Leskov’s novella, three productions of Shostakovich’s opera, and a dramatized staging at the Theatre of the Revolution produced by Alexey Dikii.32 Kondrashin’s premiere conducting responsibility was the opening of Robert Planquette’s Les Cloches de Corneville, as adapted by Alexander Mossolov, on October 25, 1934. The young avant-garde composer introduced some of his own music quite contrary to Planquette’s style. The entire work was orchestrated in a sort of Rabelaisian-style of primitivism and not very professionally put together. This did not stop the production’s being a triumph for the young man; at the age of just twenty years, he already made his mark in the capital’s musical life. Nemirovich-Danchenko assumed the mantle of preeminence in the Moscow theater, demonstrating himself an assiduous manager in addition to bringing new talent to the fore. The dress rehearsal for Pyotr Williams’ production of Madama Butterfly was graced by an appearance of Nemirovich-Danchenko himself; he came, observed everything, and pronounced his curt approval, “very good,” moving his beard up and down before making his departure. However, he insisted on changes to the lighting to create a quite different atmosphere during the prolonged duet. Every outward show of NemirovichDanchenko created curiosity—even fabricating “ovations” for his company by ganging his free actors together after a performance and applauding as if Stalin was present. His own emergence for a show was stage-managed—he would always wait for the lights to go down, and after the conductor went to

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the rostrum, only then would he move silently to his box with a spotlight on him. Following his entry into the auditorium, everyone knew that the séance could begin. Nemirovich-Danchenko was an extraordinarily elegant character, wearing beautifully tailored suits and well-starched shirts, which Kondrashin would emulate in future years. The director passed away in 1943 at the age of eighty-four. The elderly thespian possessed a phenomenal recall—as illustrated when Kondrashin met him for the first time. During the interval, it was announced that Vladimir Ivanovich would meet up with the ensemble. Like a parade ground, everyone lined up along the long corridor, and the eminent director would pass along, speaking to some and shaking hands with others, at length examining the whole company before making his exit. Later the same evening, Kondrashin bumped into Nemirovich-Danchenko, addressing him, “Good evening Vladimir Ivanovich.” Which earned the admonishment: “Young man, have we not already exchanged pleasantries this evening.”33 Grigory Stolyarov bore a quite contradictory disposition (the esprit de corps extended through three seasons), being self-taught, he wanted in some literacy but was clearly very gifted with fine hands and a memory beyond reproach. He could be very contemptuous of his musicians, and should contretemps arise—his word was their command—there could never be any difference of opinion. Stolyarov was hypersensitive at solecisms made by his musicians; although, as Kondrashin discovered, one could imbibe his conducting technique in studying his handicraft from the pit. Stolyarov was blessed with an excellent enlightenment of the theatre and a finite handling of dramaturgy and knew how to harmonize with Nemirovich-Danchenko’s sine qua non. Stolyarov shared with Golovanov an acute sense of the orchestral pause—a rare quality in conductors. Nevertheless, as Kondrashin realized, Stolyarov was an audacious personality, archetypal of Odessa musical culture. Stolyarov maintained a close friendship with Dmitry Shostakovich and, apart from helping create Katerina Izmailova, much later suggested to the composer a musical for the Moscow Operetta Theatre in 1954, Cheryomushki, which became very popular in the late 1950s with a film version made in 1964.34 In the 1930s, the phenomenon of live radio broadcasts offered concert transmissions daily on a nationwide scale. So much work was generated that there arose the need for two symphony orchestras at Moscow Radio—one led by Georges Sebastyan and another under Alexander Ivanovich Orlov. The veteran Russian maestro possessed a vast operatic and symphonic repertoire and already had ample experience of broadcasting since the early years. There was a legend that shortly before the premiere of Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice at the Bolshoi, the designated conductor took ill, and with half

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an hour left, Orlov, requested to deputize, answered simply, “Alright, I am coming.” Upon arrival, Orlov was asked, “Which Orfeo is on tonight?” Removing his old boots, he just said that all was fine and made directly to the rostrum. The veteran maestro won the admiration and love of his players due to his dismissing the orchestra long before the scheduled end of the rehearsal. Orchestral musicians of those days were very bright, and there was little one had to teach them. Georges Sebastyan came from a quite different mold. The Magyar was beginning his conducting career when he arrived in the Soviet Union—he had worked as a répétiteur in Germany and, being of Jewish origin, was forced to go into exile. His years in the USSR proved somewhat challenging as he masterminded a complete series of Mozart symphonies for Moscow Radio. His direction of Don Giovanni was resplendent; the coloratura soprano Natalia Rozhdestvenskaya was at the peak of her career and interpreted Donna Anna wonderfully. Other soloists included Georgy Abramov and Zakharov who both worked exclusively for radio productions and gave public concerts at the Conservatoire or at the Radio Studios behind the Central Telegraph on Gorky Street. These radio concerts proved extremely popular with audiences of the day. Orlov, on one occasion, conducted Strauss’s Alpine Symphony, in the score of which the trumpet has an important solo part. The principal trumpet of the Radio Orchestra—Pyotr Lyamin—was a magnificent musician; however, he suffered from an outrageous drinking affliction and almost always arrived drunk for rehearsal. When Orlov asked him to play standing up—to project his playing—he categorically refused; nevertheless, he agreed after discussion but only for the concert. Needless to say, the trumpeter arrived for the concert in a worse state than before, and when Lyamin’s big moment arrived, he climbed onto his chair, and standing at his full height, played his instrument to the astonishment of everyone. One can only grant that the man possessed an extraordinary brand of Russian humor. The virtuoso trumpet player progressed to work at the Bolshoi for many seasons and was dismissed at least two dozen times; however, he was always reinstated as much owing to his general popularity as to his virtuosity. On one occasion, Lyamin turned up at the theatre quite inebriated for a performance of The Queen of Spades. The opera has a part that requires an important solo for his instrument— Lyamin was so out of sorts that he couldn’t play a single note and was asked to leave. On making his way home, the intoxicated musician decided to play a trick: entering a bar, he wagered a man to take his horse and cart down to the Bolshoi—guessing the right time for the opera’s conclusion—Lyamin then climbed onto the poor animal and played his trumpet to the amazement of the people coming out of the theater. The melody that Lyamin played was the particular music from Tchaikovsky’s opera!

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On another occasion, Lyamin revealed another taste of his brand of Russian humor when he was once again dismissed from the Bolshoi. The director of the theatre at the time was one Ivan Vasilyevich Ekskusovich whose office opposed the communal flat where Lyamin lived. To get his revenge at his nemesis, Lyamin took a prostitute to his place and opened the window so wide that his former boss could not help seeing—he got the young girl to pose suggestively while he played his trumpet thrust through her wide-open legs. Ekskusovich had no option but to watch the immoral scene unfolding before his eyes and that of his staff! Such was the Bolshoi Theatre’s trumpet player of those years! In the Soviet capital, there were three fine orchestras of the 1930s—the two radio orchestras and the Philharmonic (the State Orchestra did not exist until 1936, and the Tchaikovsky Hall was only beginning to be built on the former Meyerhold Theatre). Nikolay Semenovich Golovanov played a major role in concert life of this epoch. Golovanov fashioned a singular unique ambience—sacked by the Bolshoi Theatre in 1928, he was, nonetheless, reinstated after just three years. During this interregnum, he took charge of the Conservatoire symphony orchestra and the Soviet Philharmonic, which he carried through for several seasons. During his absence from the Bolshoi, in an attempt to popularize the audience range and fulfill his design, Golovanov introduced opera in concert with symphony orchestras in the capital. In three seasons with the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre, Kondrashin toured all around the country for as much as six months at a time, curtailing his formal studies at the Conservatoire; however, the genuine learning was at the theater—studying music and how to handle musicians—and the orchestra pit became the university of life for Kondrashin. There is no doubt the affinity with the dramaturgy of theatrical life endowed his conducting and artistic credo with an intense and lifelong influence, an understanding of strict musical values and the dramaturgy of music for the theater and symphonic music. Their voyages encompassed the full European territory from Murmansk in the north to Odessa on the Black Sea in the south. A year-on-year obligation was fulfilled by the New Year sojourn to Leningrad, performing at the Maly Opera and Ballet Theatre on Arts Square. There Kirill Kondrashin directed Madama Butterfly and La Fanciulla de West. The acquaintance with the cultural capital on the Neva was to be a fortuitous prolegomenon, for within the year, he would return to the northern capital. While on an assignment to Leningrad, a propitious encounter took place with the eminent theater producer Vsevolod Meyerhold. This was for the 1934 production of Tchaikovsky’s The Queen of Spades at the Maly Theatre under Samosud. The press critics were exuberant in describing the staging as “one

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of the greatest operatic works that has been brilliantly unlocked [and which] harmonizes with the novel. This reflects an indisputable revolution in musical theatre.”35 Meyerhold had sought to bring Tchaikovsky closer to Pushkin’s concept, and the creation—while terrifically attractive—was considered distant from Tchaikovsky’s own notion. The symbolist poet Alexander Blok claimed in a letter sent to the producer “that his purpose was to shatter right through all the dead stuff—i.e., the personal masks and communal facades which trap behind them life’s vitality and meaningful permanence.”36 One article attempted to marginalize the work’s success as having lacked crowd appeal: “The Queen of Spades enjoyed great success among the artistic community.”37 Many years later, the eminent theater producer Boris Pokrovsky acknowledged Meyerhold’s conception unsound.38 One of the central figures, Yeletsky, didn’t feature in Pushkin’s original poem and did not appear additionally in the Summer Gardens opening scene, and other scenes were radically transformed; nonetheless, the dramatic excitement was inspired, and fine performers surpassed in the principal roles; the outstanding dramatic tenor Kovatsky gave an astonishing characterization in the central role of Herman.39 The director’s management of Kovatsky produced a more refined interpretation in such roles. When the same singer sang in Dzerzhinsky’s Quiet Flows the Don, one could see the difference because Meyerhold had fashioned him into a stronger actor. In his heyday, it was claimed that Meyerhold’s genius could get even a monkey on stage to do his bidding. The first acquaintance with the ubiquitous director was when Khaikin, Smolich (the producer), and Kondrashin visited the director’s apartment at the Evropeiskii Hotel adjacent to the Maly Theatre. As Khaikin and Smolich discussed future productions, Kondrashin looked up at the lofty frame of Meyerhold; it seemed as if sparks came off him. “Meyerhold seemed to produce a grandiose impression, of a unique impulsiveness. This was a man of explosive, unusual energetic force.” Meyerhold constantly discussed new ideas—fresh exciting projects would issue forth from his lips as if a volcano was erupting. Things that appeared impossible, Meyerhold could make feasible. Kondrashin was dumbstruck and simply sat there as silent as a mouse and failed to enter the debate; however, when introduced, Meyerhold encouraged the youthful conductor magnanimously: “‘I have heard all about you, young man, I wish you all the best, there is already a good feeling about you.’”40 Meyerhold and his theatrical milieu would fashion Kondrashin’s esoteric mindset; it would help him to take hold of the vast orchestral canvases of Mahler and Shostakovich. The notion of the grotesque and the irony ubiquitous in this music would be visualised in the mature Kondrashin’s bearing. “[The grotesque is] a deliberate exaggeration and a reconstruction (distortion)

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of nature, unifying objects unconnected neither by nature nor everyday life. The theatre, being a combination of natural, temporal, spatial, and numerical phenomena, is itself outside nature. It finds that these phenomena invariably contradict our everyday experience and that the theatre itself is essentially an example of the grotesque. Arising from the grotesque of a ritual masquerade, the theatre inevitably is destroyed by any given attempt to remove the grotesque—the basis of its existence—from it.41 Kondrashin’s conceptions were synonymous with those of Shostakovich and Meyerhold—an evocation of society’s traumas, its intimate and superficial exposure through music, for creativity in the abstract, veiled within the musical text. The theater producer shared an identity with commedia dell’arte: “Surely the art of man on the stage consists in shredding all traces of environment, carefully choosing a mask, donning a decorative costume, and showing off one’s brilliant tricks to the public—now as a dancer, now as the intriguer at some masquerade, now as the fool of old Italian comedy, now a juggler . . . The theatre of the mask has always been a fairground show, and the idea of acting based on the apotheosis of the mask, gesture and movement is indivisible from the idea of the travelling show.”42 Not for nothing did Meyerhold and Kondrashin share an analogous artistic identity; above a temporal artistic credo was the loftier one of great world art. “The grotesque . . . is the method of synthesising rather than analysing . . . In reducing the riches of the empirical world to a typical unity, stylisation impoverishes life, whereas the grotesque refuses to recognise but one aspect, only the vulgar or only the elevated. It mixes the opposites and by design accents the contradictions.”43 The ideas of contemporary art were important to Kondrashin as with the connection with universal, eternal forms of expression through theater and music. “I accept the world—the whole world with its stupidity, obliqueness, dead and dry colours—only in order to fool this bony witch and make her young again. In the embraces of the Fool and the Buffoon the old world brightens up, becomes young, and its eyes become transparent, depthless.”44 Meyerhold received the epithet of the “Dark Genius,” a phenomenally gifted actor and director who cast a long shadow over Soviet theater and even greater legacy in cinema.45 His stagecraft introduced a kind of drama quite innovative, using masks and puppets, moving scenery, flying and hanging objects, and which almost always used music as a key to the drama itself. “For years Meyerhold had been proclaiming that the real excitement of theatre art was in the concept of the grotesque—i.e., the theatre of masks.”46 Music was a crucial element for Meyerhold in his productions; pianists such as Lev Oborin, Lev Arnstam, and Dmitry Shostakovich often enjoyed a central role: “at his studio, he schooled students in strict spatial and rhythmical discipline, latterly through the seemingly mechanistic system of Biome-

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chanics. Yet this was merely the means to an end, and the end was an evergreater precision of self-expression,”47 Edward Braun described. “It was in the grotesque, the theatre of clowns, that Meyerhold found his true milieu and the natural expression of his world-view . . . Meyerhold rejected the theatre that counterfeited reality in favour of the theatre as an event, a here-and-now happening aimed at shattering the audience’s composure.”48 The director attracted the finest actors, artists, and designers before and after the revolution. Music became “the syntax of a language that is made ever more complex . . . The musical composition . . . serves to establish the relationship between gesture, space, colour, sound, dialogue, light, making a unity of them while still allowing each to maintain its own means of artistic expression.”49 “He stamped the grotesque, the dislocated, the saturnine, satirical grimace on his productions as hallmarks of contemporary civilization.”50 The eminent theater director Sergey Radlov saw The Government Inspector and exclaimed in astonishment, “What is this—Caligari run in slow motion by some lunatic projectionist?”51 Meyerhold involuntarily influenced the new generation of cinematographers in Eisenstein, Yutkevich, Room, Ekk, Trauberg, and, later, Kozintsev. The image of Ivan the Terrible that stares out from Eisenstein’s eponymous film is modeled on the angular features of Meyerhold. “Was not Eisenstein’s film, Ivan the Terrible,—with its unbelievable richness in visual culture, with its special plasticity of the actor’s art, with the enormous amount of, as it seems, inconceivable innovations and solutions for the art of film— was not his film a resurrection of the Meyerholdian heritage, of Meyerhold’s experiences anew and on a new level?”52 Kozintsev said, “It is not that he shattered just the footlights, not only the curtain that he tore down; Meyerhold strove to obliterate the boundary that separates the theatre from life.”53 Shostakovich was commissioned to set the music for Vladimir Mayakovsky’s The Bedbug and performed the solo piano part in the premiere. In 1936, Meyerhold upheld Lady Macbeth when it was severely criticized in the columns of Pravda. The great imagery of Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony expressed the sardonic, bitterly ironic barbs imbibed from Meyerhold’s theater; the great orchestral blocks of sound, as if thrown around an auditorium by 120 orchestral musicians, became a musical world that would engage Kondrashin. The masks, the puppetry, were as one in Shostakovich’s music; The Nose of 1930 and Lady Macbeth of 1934 were as one with Meyerhold—indivisible as art forms yet possessing their own concepts. In these works one witnessed the “reduction of actors to dehumanised puppets”54 Set against Soviet society of the 1930s, this appeared dangerous and almost seditious art. Vsevolod Emilyevitch Meyerhold was arrested in 1939, his theater having been closed two years previously for “reconstruction.”55 Following which, Meyerhold performed under Stanislavsky’s patronage, and Kondrashin, as

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Khaikin’s deputy, digested his creations there. Meyerhold fashioned a masterly realization of Verdi’s Rigoletto. Indifferent to the calumny on the theater designer, Stanislavsky affirmed his support—despite disapproving—notwithstanding his appreciation for the younger man’s exploits (Stanislavsky died before seeing this on stage). In 1939, Meyerhold’s reputation was still in high regard as he was given the job of arranging the festivities on Red Square. He created a novel effect in which the demonstrators approaching the mausoleum released balloons, creating a tremendous, visually impressive display that became the model for future years. Yet, having supervised several rehearsals just a few days before the parade, Meyerhold was arrested. It is claimed that Meyerhold looked out of his prison cell and heard the cries of the marchers and the festival music broadcast on radio loudspeakers and saw, at last, balloons rising into the high blue sky above Red Square. Witnessing the fulfillment of his ideas, he said, “Hurrah, they’ve done it!” Kondrashin’s albeit fleeting social contact with Meyerhold was only the tip of the iceberg, for there were, indeed, other riches in the theatrical life of Moscow and Leningrad. The Moscow Zavadsky theater studio was located in a basement on Sretenka, and innovative productions as forward-looking as Meyerhold’s were being staged at the Vakhtangov Theatre, fashioned by outstanding actors and designers. Ruben Simonov was producing magnificent creations in his own theater. It was here that Kondrashin was bewitched by Dorliak’s acting (brother of the soprano Nina Dorliak who in later years married the pianist Richter) in creating an astonishing interpretation of Rastinjac from de Balzac’s Lost Illusions. Of analogous craft and talent was Simonov’s presentation of Turandot with the masterly thespian Shchukhin in the central role.56 In late 1935, a major Pravda article appeared criticizing the Moscow Arts Theatre, forcing the second theater to close. Stanislavsky, as with Meyerhold, took in many of the sacked actors while the building itself was given over to the Children’s Theatre.57 However, there began the banishment of many of the smaller theaters; the Zavadsky Theatre was dispatched to Rostov on Don where the ensemble performed in a barn-like building, all to great enthusiasm of Rostovites. Tairov’s Kamerny Theatre was likewise dismissed regardless of its presentation of the capital’s finest triumphs including Vishnevsky’s The Optimistic Tragedy. Tairov was too groundbreaking and controversial for the authorities that wanted “realism” and “truthful” productions together with popular musical shows and operettas with its fine in-house orchestra.58 In the second half of 1936 all the theatre’s work as it were packed up. For some time, there reigned a dead creative silence—with the quietness of a graveyard. The head of the theatre administration Boyarsky dedicated this phase to his

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Pravda article of 22 October. Several dramatists were taken into custody: Andrey Babel and Yuri Olesha, Kirshon and Faiko. Afingenov fell into disgrace following his play The Lie, as did Bulgakov following his play Moliére. With enthusiastic haste, the Committee for Arts closed down the finest of the Soviet theater world. The Moscow Second Arts Theatre was shut. The Moscow Drama Theatre (former Fourth Studio of the Arts Theatre) was merged with the Chamber Theatre. The theatre of Andrey Dikii (the former Proletkult Theatre) was merged with the Komsomol Theatre. Dikii himself was moved to Leningrad where he was subsequently arrested. Only after several years in the camps, during the war was he returned to Moscow and made a celebrated line of business as Chief Director of the Maly Theatre. Several Moscow theatres were closed (Simonov’s studio-theatre, Khmelev’s studio-theatre, and the Workers Arts Theatre), others including the Zavadsky Theatre were dispersed to the provinces.59

Moscow theatrical life was virtually reduced to a few companies, the Maly and the Moscow Arts Theatre; the Vakhtangov Theatre was quickly restructured into being the “court theatre” patronized by Stalin. The productions there were witty, and left wing productions were now withdrawn and actors such as Okhlopkov dismissed. The outrages against the Moscow theatres followed swiftly upon the attacks on Shostakovich’s ballets The Bolt, Limpid Stream, and Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. However, we can now study materials from this period which reveal how directors and actors behaved to their own work and that of others which helped shape the quandary of Soviet theatre. Here is a letter from the director of the Moscow Art Theatre to Stalin dated April 26, 1937: Dear Com. Stalin, I am writing this letter not because with its recent work MKhAT has proved that it is the leading theatre of our Union and I want in any way to take advantage of this success for the theatre . . . The most terrible disease for the theatre, which threatened it with catastrophe, was creative inertia. MKhAT’s creative work has manifested itself only in the fact that it has prepared a play once every two years. This was too little, and it was extremely dangerous for the normal, full-blooded life of the theatre . . . I am writing you this letter because, despite everything, I cannot conceal from you a mood of some offence that the theatre’s actors harbour and those abnormalities which from my point of view are hindering the theatre’s work. The main thing that the theatre’s collective talks about, anticipates, and worries about is the matter of an award for the theatre . . . The theatre dreams of going to the Paris Exposition under the title—Order of Lenin Theatre. It seems to me that these are worthy sentiments and good dreams . . . How anyone can survive on this salary, I can’t imagine. I know that from time to time I am forced to sew a suit or pants, to buy boots, to borrow small sums of money, and so forth.60

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Stalin, in a note to Molotov, advised an increase in salaries to 600 rubles and the award of the Order of Lenin. Among the official attacks on the Kamerny Theatre, many colleagues in the theatrical world were more than happy to add their own criticisms: Stanislavsky: the Bolsheviks are brilliant. Everything the Kamerny Theatre does isn’t art. It’s Formalism. It’s pragmatic theatre, it’s Koonen’s theatre. Leonidov (People’s Artist of the USSR): When I read the committee’s resolution, I lay down in bed and threw my feet in the air I was so delighted. They really gave Litovsky, Tairov, and Demian Bedny a good bashing. It’s worse than MKhAT–2. Samosud (Art. Director of the Bolshoi Theatre): The resolution is absolutely correct. The Kamerny Theatre isn’t a theatre. Tairov is a deceiver. The idea of The Bogatyrs production is fallacious. Demian Bedny offered me this play back at the Mikhailovsky Theatre, but I rejected it. Meyerhold: At last they’ve given Tairov the bashing he deserved. I keep a list of Tairov’s banned plays, and The Bogatyrs will be the pearl on the list. Demian did get what he deserved. But the most important thing is that the committee and Boyarsky personally, is to blame for it all. He is persecuting me. As long as there is that kind of leadership on the committee, art will not develop.61

Kondrashin could not comprehend the nature of the attacks on the theatrical world, believing this out of place and that things would soon set themselves right. It was not to be until much later that he himself would be caught up in the desperate machinations of Soviet artistic existence. In this stormy and dark period, little of the pressures of life seemed to threaten Kirill Kondrashin—everything was progressing. In preparing his career, Kondrashin gained plenteous experience, often through adversity—in the desperately difficult years ahead, the steeling of character would lay down the perfect groundwork. In 1936, in a rapidly changing Soviet arts world, Nikolay Golovanov was removed as chief conductor at the Bolshoi, and Samuil Samosud was appointed in his place. The motive was that Stalin was partial to Samosud’s work with the Maly Theatre when they visited the capital, so much so that Stalin personally called him to his loge at the Theatre and was much impressed by the conductor’s views on music and the theater (a special piece devoted to their discussions appeared in the Party press). Samosud returned to Leningrad with a host of government awards while the composer Dzerzhinsky (whose opera And Quiet Flows the Don had proved very successful) was appointed to a professorship at the Conservatoire despite being expelled from there some years previously. The fact was that Stalin had disliked Golovanov’s handling of Dzerzhinsky’s work at the Bolshoi; however, Samosud had touched up many episodes, improving its musicality and dramatic force—hence Samosud’s

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sudden elevation. Boris Khaikin was appointed to the chief conductorship of the Maly Opera and Ballet Theatre in Leningrad. Khaikin took Kondrashin with him as his assistant, instructing him to curtail his Conservatoire studies and resign the position at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre. To fulfill the conducting course, six months later, Professor Goldenweiser moderated Kirill Kondrashin’s graduation—a reading of Madama Butterfly at the Large Hall of the Conservatoire, and, directing this fruitfully, the young aspiring conductor finished in June 1937 as a master of arts.

NOTES 1. Moskovskaya Konservatoriya, Sovetskaya Muzikalnoi Entsiklopediya, chief editor Y.V. Keldysh, T. 3. (Moscow, Sovetskaya Encyclopediya, 1976), 683–687. 2. Moskovskaya Konservatoriya (1866–1966), L.S. Ginzburg, ed. (Moscow: Muzika, 1966), 323. 3. Boris Schwartz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917–1970 (London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1972), 102. 4. L. S. Ginzberg, ed., Moskovskaya Konservatoriya, 323. 5. Khudozhestvennoye obrazovaniye, no. 9–10, 1931, 24. 6. Boris Schwartz, Music and Musical Life, 102. 7. K. P. Kondrashin, “Razmyshleniya o Professii,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974): 56. 8. Otto Klemperer letter to Walter Damrosch, 12 December 1925. 9. Concert review of Klemperer’s tour to the USSR byYevgeny Braudo, Musical Courier (New York), February 11, 1926. 10. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton: The Soviet Memoirs of a Musician (London: The Cresset Press, 1939), 85–86. 11. Heinz Unger, Hammer Sickle and Baton, 87. 12. Peter Heyworth, Otto Klemperer: Volume 1, 1885–1933: His Life and Times (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 313; Otto Klemperer in letter to his wife, March 15, 1929. 13. Lev Ginzburg, Izbrannoye, Dirizhori iOrkestri (Moscow: Muzika, 1968), 76. 14. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 42. 15. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 42. 16. Peter Heyworth, Otto Klemperer, 217. 17. Tikhon Khrennikov, Tak eto bylo: Tikhon Khrennikov o vremeni i o sebe (Moscow: Muzika, 1994), 31. 18. Peter Heyworth, Otto Klemperer, 217. 19. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 34. 20. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 36–37. 21. Dmitry Shostakovich v pis’makh i dokumentakh, Irina Bobikina, ed. (Moscow: Glinka State Central Museum of Musical Culture, 2000), 202.

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22. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 46. 23. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 47. 24. Report from the GUGB NKVD SSSR Secret Political Department. “On responses from writers and art workers to articles in Pravda about the composer D. D. Shostakovich.” [no later than February 11, 1936]. TsA FSB RF, f.3, op.3, d.121, ll.31–38. Original. Typewritten. 25. “Soveschaniye o Sovetskoi opera,” Pravda, March 11, 1936, 6. 26. RGALI, f.262, op.3, d.64, l.3, 4, 4ob., 13–16. 27. This latter section is highlighted by Stalin in the archive document. 28. RTsKhIDNI, f.17, op.163, d.1103, l.144–146. 29. Shaporin’s Decembrists was only staged there in 1953, while Prokofiev’s ballet had to await another decade for a Bolshoi staging. 30. B. Rest, “Devyat sovetskikh oper,” Literaturnaya Gazeta, March 31,1936, 4. 31. Leonid Maximenkov, Sumbur vmesto Muziki: Stalinska kulturnaya revolutsiya 1936–1938 (Moscow: Yuridicheskaya Kniga, 1997), 45–46. 32. Leonid Maximenkov, Sumbur vmesto Muziki, 46. 33. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 38. 34. Dmitry Shostakovich v pis’makh i dokumentakh, 207–8. 35. Review of performance of The Queen of Spades by Fevralsky, “Pikovaya Dama,” Literaturnaya Gazeta, February 10, 1935. 36. F. D. Reeve, trans. and ed., An Anthology of Russian Plays (New York: Vintage, 1963), 2:164; Alexander Blok in a letter to Meyerhold. 37. Yelagin, Temny Genii (New York: Chekhov izdatelstvo, 1955), 352. 38. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper: Besedi Boris Pokrovskogo S Alloi Bogdanovoi (Moscow: Moscow Conservatoire, 2001),128. 39. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 28. 40. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 28. 41. Nikolay Gorchakov, The Theatre in Soviet Russia, trans. E. Lehrman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1957), 69. 42. V. E. Meyerhold, Meyerhold on Theatre, trans. Edward Braun (New York: Hill and Wang, 1969), 127. 43. V. E. Meyerhold, Le Théâtre théâtral, trans. Nina Gourfinkel (Paris: Gallimard, 1963), 105. 44. F. D. Reeve, trans. and ed., An Anthology of Russian Plays (New York: Vintage, 1963), 2:164; Alexander Blok in a letter to Meyerhold. 45. The Dark Genius was the title given Meyerhold by a journalist and used as the title of his book on Meyerhold by Yuri Yelagin. 46. James M. Symons, Meyerhold’s Theatre of the Grotesque: The Post-revolutionary Productions, 1920–1932 (Cambridge, England: Rivers Press Limited, 1973), 123. 47. Eduard Braun, Meyerhold: A Revolution in Theatre (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1995), 311. 48. Eduard Braun, Meyerhold: A Revolution in Theatre, 310. 49. Beatrice Picon-Vallin, Meyerhold (Paris: Editions du CNRS, 1990), 395.

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50. Review by Harold Clurman, “Stage Figures,” The New York Times Book Review, December 2, 1979, 51. 51. Sergey Radlov in Eduard Braun, Meyerhold: A Revolution in Theatre, 312. 52. Leonid Kozlov, “A Hypothetical Dedication,” in Eisenstein Revisited, trans. H. Lovgren (Stockholm, 1987), 92. 53. Grigory Kozintsev, V. Meyerhold: Sobranie sochinenii v 5 tomakh: tom 2 (Leningrad, 1983), 442. 54. Michael Billington, “The Pope of E15,” Review of Joan’s Book, by Joan Littlewood, The Guardian, March 29, 1994. 55. Meyerhold’s theater on Gorky Street was rebuilt as the present Tchaikovsky Concert Hall in 1940. 56. Shchukhin was one of the great thespians of the day; a favorite of Stalin, he played the part of Lenin in several films of the period. 57. During this period there existed four venues under its auspices. 58. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 30–31. 59. Yelagin, Temnyi Genii, 377–78. 60. Excerpt from letter from MKhAT director Arkadiev to Stalin RGASPI, f.17, op.163, d.1147, ll.88–90. Original. Typewritten. April 26, 1937. 61. Report from the GUGB NKVD SSSR Secret Political Department. “On the responses of writers and arts workers to the removal of D. Bedny’s The Bogatyrs from the repertoire.” [No later than November 16, 1936]. TsA FSB, f.3, op.3, d.121, ll.98–107. Copy. Typewritten.

3 Leningrad: The Maly Theatre 1936–1943

Houses in the stern north Are roofed with sky like slates. Remote lairs, you bear the legend: “With this, you will conquer.” Pasternak, Chistopol, 1931.

On January 2, 1937, Kirill Kondrashin arrived in Leningrad together with his teacher—Boris Khaikin, and both were swiftly immersed in the flow of cultural and social life of the country’s northern metropolis. As in recent experience, Khaikin would allow his protégé to make his own significant contribution in broadening the company’s reputation. The Maly was renowned as the experimental workshop for Soviet opera and ballet—complementing the remarkable labor fashioned at its sister company, the Kirov State Opera and Ballet Theatre under Ariy Pasovsky. The circumstances into which Khaikin and his understudy arrived were complex; there was a degree of enmity toward the Muscovites, owing to the residual aura of Samosud’s legacy at the company. They were also considered green; Khaikin was only thirty-three while his assistant was eleven years his younger. The experienced Samuil Samosud had created a testing ground for new Soviet opera. It was a difficult test for Khaikin to step up to, for everyone at the theater looked upon Samosud as an idol; musicals and operetta were not tolerated—the emphasis on scheduling innovative Mozart stagings and experimenting with The Queen of Spades. The challenge was welcomed by the newly incumbent director, and he responded by staging one of the favorite Russian classics: Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsars Bride, which was well received. Khaikin built on this with a

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first opening for Kabalevsky’s Colas Breugnon, staged by the Moscow-based Pimenov, which scored a huge triumph. The Maly Opera and Ballet was formerly the Mikhailovsky Imperial Theatre and occupied the smaller of the two opera and ballet venues in Leningrad and was historically in the shadow of the Kirov, which could stage larger and more impressive productions. The Kirov unsurprisingly attracted the finest artists and performers; in Soviet times, however, the role of experimental opera was forged at the Maly through the dynamic leadership of Samosud who not only conducted but also supervised almost every aspect of a stage work. The Kirov’s head of artistic planning, Ariy Pasovsky, revived a stream of Russian opera: Ivan Susanin, The Tale of Tsar Saltan, and The Enchantress. A new wave of singers—Sophia Preobrazhenskaya, Georgy Nelepp, Mark Reizen, and Pavel Lisitsian—set alight vocal standards in the prewar years. There was a long-standing clash of cultures between the two cities; Leningrad preserved the aristocratic Western influences while Moscow was more Slavic, more emotional and less refined. This dissipated through regular invitations of Moscow directors and conductors to Leningrad and vice versa. The Philharmonic possessed a particular sound quality, noble, academic, and classical while Moscow orchestras were cultivated in “the Golovanov school” of rich sound colors with roots in the deep sonority of choral-singing. In Leningrad, there prevailed Vladimir Dranishnikov—a magnificent conductor and representative of another inclination, a follower of Nikisch, and of Western academicism. He was responsible for glorious productions including Turandot and The Queen of Spades at the Kirov. Nevertheless, Dranishnikov was removed to Kiev where he died suddenly at the rostrum of the Kiev Opera at the youthful age of thirty-seven years. Pasovsky took over, combining the posts of chief conductor and artistic director, in 1937. Dranishnikov had been an energetic maestro, enthusiastic for contemporary works, giving the world premiere of Prokofiev’s Love for Three Oranges in 1928. Yet Dranishnikov’s weakness was that he was so avaricious that he undertook almost all operas at the Kirov—averse to allow anyone else to take the rostrum—be they matinee or evening performances. Few aspiring maestros were granted the opportunity to reveal their potential; regardless of his dazzling triumphs in ballet, the young Mravinsky was permitted only one brand new staging there in the seven years of his tenure. The brilliant Dranishnikov was in charge for magnificent readings of Verdi’s Il Trovatore and Wagner’s Die Meistersinger in nights that were remembered by the musical public for many years afterward.1 As the incoming assistant conductor, Kondrashin now had his own flat in the city, and Kondrashin quickly established good relationships with both singers and orchestra, this proving effortless for Kondrashin—and a

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provident token for the future. The Maly Opera and Ballet possessed another two conductors on the staff: Alexander Mikhailovich Kogan, a veteran from the Mikhailovsky Theatre who could undertake virtually any piece without preparation and Issay Ezrovich Sherman, one of Malko’s favorite pupils. Neither Kogan nor Sherman could find common ground with the new chief, and Sherman left shortly afterward. In his place was appointed Eduard Grikurov, a pupil of Gauk’s Leningrad school. The principal ballet conductor was Pavel Emilyevich Feldt, who would progress to the Kirov Ballet during the war.2 The standard of performance was often very high; however, due to a number of circumstances, it could be lackluster. Several of the company’s productions left with Samosud to the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, and for performances, Samosud engaged many singers from the Leningrad Company. Therefore, for its own stagings, even for premieres, Khaikin could not always call on his best artists. This was the case with Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, Tchaikovsky’s The Queen of Spades, and Dzerzhinsky’s And Quiet Flows the Don. In these circumstances, the company revived its ballet, recruiting the brilliant young choreographer Lavrovsky whose first opening was Fadetta, utilizing music from Delibes’ Sylvia already staged at the Leningrad Ballet School. Pavel Feldt rearranged some of the numbers, and there came to fruition a distinguished ballet production. Boris Fenster—one of the ballet dancers also assisted the choreography. Kondrashin’s acquaintance with this ballet creation came through wholly in auspicious circumstances. Suddenly, only three weeks in situ, Kondrashin was called into Khaikin’s office. It was just after midday; already a matinee of Fadetta was scheduled; Khaikin instructed his rooky, “Go to the orchestra now and start Fadetta.” Kondrashin was stunned: “How can I?” Khaikin advised, “Here is Fenster, Lavrovsky’s assistant; he will help you through it.” Kondrashin wanted some sort of explanation: “What has happened?” Kondrashin was still shocked when informed that Feldt had disappeared on some kind of “unofficial” affair out with the city: “We can’t wait for him any longer, go and begin, and we’ll see how things stand after the first act.” Kirill pleaded: “I can’t do this.” Khaikin consoled him: “Well, well, come on.” Kondrashin had sat in on the ballet rehearsals but had never looked at the score. In a few moments, Fenster took him through the most difficult sections, and Kondrashin assumed the rostrum. “I began to conduct, beside me Fenster began whispering—a little slower here, now quicker, hold the pause.” Some fifteen minutes into the ballet there suddenly appeared the unshaven, bedraggled figure of Feldt. The maverick conductor speedily swept behind Kondrashin’s form and took his place, instantly picking up the music and allowing the young man to repair to Khaikin’s office, who said, “How can you let him take over from you? I commanded you like a soldier to take up your post and you abandoned it

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without my permission! You had to conduct through to the end. Next time you will conduct it.” The confounded Kondrashin had no option but to work again with Fenster and Lavrovsky in directing Fadetta on another day. Later, he would expand his know-how in taking over Asafyev’s The Prisoner of the Caucasus from Feldt on another of his jaunts. The only other ballet that Kondrashin undertook would be Coppelia during the war, and, in general, he found accompanying singers far less problematical.3 The more significant debut for the aspiring Kondrashin would be his conducting of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, which premiered in January 1937. This echoed his success at the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre; the choice of opera would be propitious, for the Moscovite would undertake the piece at several momentous periods in his career. Khaikin had no hesitation in giving Kondrashin charge, and with theater producer Nikolay Goryaninov’s colorful settings, it proved both fortuitous as a stage renewal and blooded his protégé in such an audicious piece. Khaikin was eager to attract other conductors to the theater, continuing Samosud’s tradition, and invited the Austrian Fritz Stiedry for a fresh production of Smetana’s The Bartered Bride. Stiedry had previously undertaken The Marriage of Figaro and was familiar with the orchestra. Stiedry was resident conductor of the Philharmonic Orchestra, specializing in the Austro-German repertoire, and a pupil of Mahler. His work on the Mozart opera was of great interest to Kondrashin who was designated his assistant during this period. He was helped, too, by the Austrian’s protégé, Kurt Sanderling. Stiedry wrote modest corrections to the orchestration, which allowed more freedom to vocal parts. This was attained by marking down quarter notes to octaves and so on. Kondrashin found this quite logical, allowing more rhythm to the phrasing. Each day at the theater, Stiedry would take the score home and reorchestrate through the night and allow preparations to continue. When Stiedry was engaged elsewhere, Kondrashin would take over the rehearsal, directing the work on stage from the piano. Stiedry was able to engender the funny side when necessary, despite assuming a sardonic tone when speaking Russian. There were, nevertheless, some difficult moments: during the final run-throughs for The Bartered Bride, after the interval, it was noticed that the second bassoon was missing. When Stiedry spotted this, he almost lost his temper, but turned to his Russian assistant, and leniently pleaded: “Don’t be angry at him, I let him go earlier. His wife is ill and I know him well. He is a very conscientious person.”4 The Austrian maestro could easily lose his place: “Why do you play so loud?” Stiedry shouted at the brass section, adding, “You are playing so rudely, this isn’t And Quiet Flows the Don. You must play in a grandiose manner.” It was pointed out to Stiedry that this wasn’t the most suitable comparison to be made (the year was 1937);

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nevertheless, Stiedry would again cry out to a negligent bass player, “You are playing so crudely, this isn’t . . .” Here he stumbled, and then someone in the pit maliciously uttered, “Virgin Soil Upturned.” Stiedry recovered and said, “I didn’t say that, I meant to say Wagner, not And Quiet Flows the Don, not Verdi, it’s excellent music.”5 Sometimes after a rehearsal, Stiedry would enter Khaikin’s office, slump into an armchair, and complain of his problems with the musicians. Kondrashin found this quite distressing; the veteran maestro had a charming character, and Kondrashin regretted greatly his leaving later that year. If Stiedry dedicated the greater part of his tenure in the city with the Philharmonic, his work in the theater was to the highest standard musically; the performances all-round were magnificent. If the producer for The Bartered Bride was not up to the same benchmark: Goryaninov had started from humble beginnings as a fireman, studied at a theatrical institute, and began his directorial career at the Maly. Kondrashin found his penchant to be more for resolving organizational problems than artistic ones. Kondrashin and Goryaninov would work closely together on many productions through into the war years. In the summer of 1937, Dmitry Shostakovich composed his Fifth Symphony in D Major. The world premiere was staged at the Leningrad Philharmonic on November 21 in a keenly awaited event by the musical public of the city. Kondrashin attended the concert, which became an event of major importance. “There reigned a hush in the overfilled hall . . . After a lengthy silence, this was the first work unveiled by Shostakovich to the public. The composer was in the hall encircled by a group of friends. After the presentation of the symphony there erupted an ovation of applause and a stormy demonstration of love by Leningraders to their idol. It was impossible to get to the dressing room to congratulate the composer.”6 The success of this first performance would lead to a lifting of the cloud hanging over the composer, and his name would be restored to the leading figures in Soviet music. The figure of Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky dominated musical life in the city; a polyglot, musicologist, lecturer, writer, and public speaker, he was involved with practically every professional musical organization in Leningrad. He possessed an acerbic tongue, and Kondrashin encountered one example of this: “There was a meeting discussing the music by Soloviov-Sedoi’s Taras Bulba in which the literary critic Emma Podkaminer said, ‘You know the orchestration is flawed because when we listened to the score on the piano we had a quite different impression.’ Sollertinsky rose to his feet declaring, ‘The statement by Madame Podkaminer is a little strange, because what she acknowledged could be expressed as follows: it’s odd that such a bad child has turned up because the sperm cell was an excellent one.’”7

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In the 1937–1938 season, Boris Khaikin introduced four new opera productions, expansively exceeding his predecessor’s achievements, staging works by Dmitry Kabalevsky, Ivan Dzerzhinsky, Leon Hodzha-Einatov, and Valery Zhelobinsky—all young composers of the Soviet school. Khaikin recruited fresh blood to the company for performances of the Leningrader Dzerzhinsky’s Virgin Soil Upturned (based on Sholokhov). This enactment was staged concurrently with the Bolshoi in quite contrary stagings, whereas the plus for the Leningrad production was that the Maly resolved the artistic and technical problems, ensuring that its flaws were ironed out long before the premiere. Each and every theater evolved its original stage version—as was his trait, Samosud indulged in cutting-edge experimentation, coming up with fresh ideas to embellish each performance. Dzerzhinsky assumed these innovations and would come up to Leningrad and ask Khaikin do likewise. The Moscow opening night, on October 23, 1937, upstaged the Leningrad premier by one day, and the well-set composer was able to enjoy the luxury of attending both premieres.8 The last of the quartet of contemporary operas presented by Khaikin was The Uprising by Hodzha-Einatov, in a staging by Boris Zon, on June 19, 1938; however, this avant-garde piece proved no succès fou. The incompatibility of its theme, together with insipidly written music—regardless of fine performances by singers and chorus—the opera was unable to secure the attention of either audiences or critics. Following these four audacious attempts to promote contemporary Soviet music, the director bowed to conventional repertoire, entering into direct rivalry with their erstwhile neighbors, thus, accepting the lot of being poor cousins—always lacking the grand stage and prerequisites of the former Mariinsky. Nonetheless, several important triumphs were scored by Khaikin’s company, firstly by the production of Boris Godunov in Musorgsky’s original 1869 edition (containing the Fountains scene and the Kromy finale omitted from the Moscow version). The smaller orchestra, as heard in the refined acoustic of the Maly Theatre’s auditorium, sounded more appropriate to the leaner orchestration. This novel staging was followed by an ingenious Eugene Onegin under the young and pioneering producer Nikolay Smolich. This was acclaimed both by media and listeners as revelatory, and the achievement was also in no little part due to the young singers’ assuming the principal roles—the Maly Theatre’s integrity and brilliance in standard repertoire could justifiably challenge the Kirov’s artistic standards. 9 For several weeks, prior to the 1938 season, Kondrashin was selected as one of the participants in a brand-new venture that would briefly take him away from the Maly’s preparations and allow him a fresh perspective. In September 1938, the Committee of Arts (who now assumed control of administering cultural life under the auspices of the Party and government) arranged the First All-Union Conducting Competition in Moscow. This was the result of

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the manifestation of outstanding new talented musicians emerging through the Soviet education network of music schools and conservatoires. In the past decade, several outstanding young virtuosos had attained high honors at competitions both in and out of the USSR. In Warsaw 1927, Lev Oborin won outright the International Frederick Chopin Piano Competition, and the violinists Boris Goldstein and David Oistrakh had won gold medals at consecutive music contests in Brussels in 1933 and 1935. This all represented a continuation of the gifted Russian violin and piano schools with a surge forth in youthful talent; many hundreds of gifted prodigies were studying at mushrooming music schools and conservatoires throughout the land. The flourish of competitions naturally led to an event to engender a generation of Soviet conductors; this was partly owing to the exodus of the foreign maestros who had been contracted to work with the sixty symphony orchestras now in the USSR. Their departure was much dependent on the unstable relations throughout Europe arising from the advent of fascist governments in Germany, Italy, and Spain. The Large Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire played host to this newfangled event in the musical calendar. At twenty-four years, Kondrashin was the youngest of the fifty participants, and despite his Muscovite origins, he represented Leningrad—each major city of the USSR sending its contribution to the competition. The judges included a mix of conductors, composers, and musicians; the appointed Chairman of the Jury was Samuil Samosud, and serving with him were composers Myaskovsky and Hadzibekov, pianists Neuhaus and Goldenweiser, and conductors Pasovsky and Shteinberg. “In the first stage-selection tourney the participants have to show their ability of working with the orchestra. They are given a one-hour rehearsal which should include works by Bach and a movement from a symphony by Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven or Russian and Soviet composers.”10 Sharing the journey from Leningrad were Yevgeny Alterman, Eduard Grikurov, Alexander Melik-Pashayev, Nikolay Rabinovich, Yevgeny Mravinsky, Karl Eliasberg, Issay Sherman, and Ilya Musin. In all, the northern capital sent ten candidates, more than Moscow (nine competitors), and the remainder represented the length and breadth of the Soviet Union. There were young maestros from Tashkent and Stalinabad from Central Asia; from established centers such as Odessa, Rostov-on-Don, Kiev, and Tbilisi; and cities with no conservatoires such as Kalinin, Voronezh, Voroshilovgrad, and Sverdlovsk. “In a majority of these cities there was little or no traditional musical life and it follows that it would be hardly possible for any conductors to appear there. However some quite small cities have sent representatives to the competition. Thanks to this there [was] a comprehensive picture of the general state of conducting art in [the] country. The competition allow[ed] the possibility of coming to be acquainted with youthful conductors who ha[d] developed in

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the years of Soviet power.”11 There were three rounds—only Alterman from the Leningrad group failed to progress into the next stage—Kondrashin and Grikurov did not move into the final stages; although, Kondrashin did merit enough attention to receive a diploma. This was disappointing given that Kondrashin was rated among the potential laureates. “However, I performed badly in the second round because I selected a piece too familiar to the orchestra and jury, Tchaikovsky’s overture to Hamlet. I had neither sufficient rehearsal time, nor was my schedule properly organized; therefore musical criterion and technique were not up to par.”12 The competition proved both a test bed for young musicians and a showplace for fresh composing talent; the very fact that Shostakovich’s tragic– heroic Fifth Symphony illuminated the final sessions revealed the depth of musical gifts emerging in the country as Neuhaus succinctly wrote, “It follows, that this competition at the same time demonstrates the achievements of Soviet composers in recent years, acquainting listeners with freshly written pieces created by our musicians.”13 Those sanctioned entry into the next round had to collect no less than two-thirds of the votes; this stage involved the obligatory playing of a Soviet piece, a movement from the First, Second, or Third Symphonies of Tchaikovsky, and an orchestral accompaniment for vocalist or instrumentalist. Following two weeks of rigorous competition, the final was whittled down to five conductors: Konstantin Ivanov, Melik-Pashayev, Natan Rakhlin, Mark Paverman, and Mravinsky. The finalists were obliged to choose works by Mozart, Beethoven or Schubert, Glinka, Musorgsky or Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov or Glazounov. There was also to be a violin, cello, or piano concerto and a contemporary Soviet work plus another, which is unpublished, and the score would only be given the performers five days prior to rehearsals. Among those composers chosen were a mixture of established and less well-known names: Myaskovsky, Asafyev, Glière, Shteinberg, Shcherbachev, Starokadomsky, Shostakovich, Khrennikov, Polovinkin, Lyatoshinsky, Revutsky, Dankevich, Zhelobinsky, Savelev, Veprik, Shishov, Khachaturyan, Ivanitsky, and Alexandrov. As it happened, it was the successful performance of two contemporary symphonies that helped Mravinsky assume his mantle of outright winner, namely the Fifth of Shostakovich and the Second of Vissarion Shebalin, no less the passionate interpretation of Tchaikovsky’s Francesca da Rimini Fantasy Overture. “The jury noted the honourable diplomas Eliasberg, Kondrashin and Zhukov, who undoubtedly distinguished the younger generation of Soviet masters.”14 Neuhaus wrote that the younger group of conductors were showing fine qualities of passion, conviction, and energy on the podium, but some lacked musical culture, artistic experience, and maturity. The

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best results were realized in emotional, temperamental works rather than in pieces of classical style with greater thought and wisdom. The readings of Mozart, Haydn, and Bach were least impressive.15 The two weeks of competition were spent throughout with the leading Moscow-based ensemble, the USSR State Symphony Orchestra. It was this ensemble that had assumed the mantle of the former Persimfans—a richly gifted band of virtuosos formed by the leading conductor–pedagogue Alexander Gauk, in 1936, to be the model Soviet symphony orchestra. Among Kondrashin’s competitors were already highly experienced musicians such as Alexander Melik-Pashayev, an Azeri musician who, for more than fifteen years, had been directing opera and symphony orchestras all over the land and had directed a premiere of Verdi’s Aïda at the Bolshoi. The Leningrad-born Yevgeny Mravinsky had worked regularly at the Leningrad Philharmonic and as ballet conductor at the Kirov for seven years, undertaking several premieres of important ballets by Asafyev and enjoying a fine reputation as an interpreter of Tchaikovsky’s work; his greatest triumph was unveiling the Fifth Symphony of Shostakovich in the previous season. The Moscow-based Konstantin Ivanov had worked with Kondrashin at the Conservatoire Opera Studio and possessed a phenomenal natural ability directing Mozart opera without a score. Ivanov was from a poverty stricken family and had started the long and often tortuous road of learning his trade by playing trumpet in a Red Army band. He had so dedicated his life to conducting that he had deprived himself of food rations to buy scores; his opportunity to enter the Moscow Conservatoire came only through a favorable recommendation from the Red Army. Ivanov was a devoted champion of Myaskovsky’s music and offered the Fifth Symphony in his final program.16 The distinguished pedagogue Neyhans wrote, “What we heard in all three stages reveals that we have many talented conductors aspiring to important creative values. These young musicians from our new Soviet intelligentsia are charged by the Party and Government with a magnificent environment permitting the possibility of further development and perfection.”17 Despite the failure to progress into the finals, winning a diploma for Kondrashin was a significant achievement and led to his attaining nationwide celebrity status; both his portrait and biography were published together with laureates in the national press.18 Now he became a star widely known and respected, and, consequently, the door opened for engagements throughout the Soviet Union. The more immediate consequences meant that upon his return to Leningrad, he was offered the position of assistant conductorship to Karl Eliasberg at the Leningrad Radio Committee. His task was to work with the second orchestra (with a minimum staff of thirty musicians) to broadcast concerts for children. Shortly after his arrival in the city, Kondrashin was

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requested to direct the orchestra because of illness befalling the scheduled conductor; this was for a program of contemporary music, including music by young Leningrad composer Ivanishin. “The Symphonietta was complicated with sudden changes in tempo and 5/4 rhythms. Nevertheless I learnt the work within three days and began to rehearse it with the orchestra. It was a favourable debut there and they invited me on a regular basis.”19 The Orchestra of Leningrad Radio was often beset by problems of bureaucracy and bad planning. The German conductor Heinz Unger had worked at the ensemble for four seasons: “I had to deal with five different directors in succession; and it was the same with other cultural institutions. No frank comment was ever made about these changes which were always attended by a great deal of mystery and whispering.”20 Naturally, the regular switch in management caused its repercussions as Unger explains: A new person meant a new policy, and one had to guess what the policy was. How far would it affect the musical department of the Radio Organisation, the repertoire, the number of concerts, the programmes, etc.? . . . For even if a new direction did not always mean a new policy, it did mean that at least one new person had to be won over, and often this meant starting right from the beginning again down to the last technical detail. I considered it a great achievement to be invited by the various directors at short intervals to talk things over, and to criticize freely the musical side of the organisation. It was an excellent custom, and I felt it would help to make my task much easier, if they were really open-minded and willing to listen to suggestions. But I was very soon to learn what a long, uncertain process it was from first making a suggestion, to having it approved, ratified, and finally put into operation.21

Technical problems were a constant for Unger and his musicians; in early broadcasting, the custom of a microphone rehearsal had been standard procedure, and it was only after a year of complaining that his orchestra had a proper run-through using microphones. One other problem was the living conditions of his players: By the kind of response he gets from an orchestra, a conductor can very soon sense the well-being or otherwise of its members. I was not deceived for long by the fine Leningrad food stores, and I could see for myself that a great proportion of the population could not afford to buy from them, and had to work beyond their strength to earn a bare livelihood. As for my musicians, I was dismayed to find that many of them worked at two or three places. From a broadcast rehearsal they would dash off to some theatre or cinema for more rehearsing, and then back again for the broadcast performance, and on somewhere else afterwards—all to earn the few roubles that would keep them alive. These were circumstances which I had not foreseen. How was it possible to build up an or-

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chestra, or to improve the quality of the playing, when the players were always tired to death?22

Unger made attempts with management to boost the musicians’ salaries; however, this was all resolved only by the Central Committee in Moscow. The response was that salaries would only increase through better quality of performance. Unger retorted, “I can’t improve the Radio Orchestra until it is the Radio Orchestra and nothing else.”23 Nonetheless, a scheme to remedy matters was proposed: “The dispute was only resolved through a compromise; a compromise which would never have been gained by the weight of my arguments, but only after a new chief director had been appointed, whose position in the party gave him more authority than his predecessor in his conversations with Moscow.”24 The German maestro had to put up with the issue of break-times during orchestral run-throughs. Unger was accustomed to a twenty-minute interval for a session lasting over two hours; however, the Leningraders insisted on a break every fifty minutes for ten minutes, which was scrupulously adhered to, even if there remained only two pages of score to play. Despite discussing this with the players and following a vote in which they agreed with Unger’s proposal, the whole idea was then thrown out by the Party cell, which enjoyed priority. This interminable dilemma witnessed another upset that occurred when Unger was away on tour. He returned to discover that the hangings and floor coverings in the new studio had been devoured by moths and that six months would elapse before it could be used for broadcast concerts.25 When those concerts took place and the broadcasts were transmitted, Unger was astonished to discover that following the announcer’s crediting of the orchestra, soloists, and conductor that the name of program editor was made. Unger, of course, had submitted the line-up; however, he discovered that as many as five editors would discuss programs while ensconced in their small office. Their function was to arrange programming on a whole number of ethical, educational, and political themes for broadcast to the widest sections of the population, yet none had any real musical knowledge. “There were what were known as ‘thematic concerts,’ dealing with some abstract subject and compiled accordingly, one of these being entitled, I remember, ‘Beethoven and the Music of the French Revolution.’ (Although I conducted this concert myself in a program consisting of Cherubini’s Medea, some Gossec, and Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony—by chance or mistake not the Eroica—I confess that I did not quite grasp the connection between the French Revolution and the works performed.)”26 As a result of inconsistent and erroneous brainwashing, a constant battle endured at Leningrad Radio; nevertheless, the German conductor discovered the enthusiasm of the Radio Orchestra became an example to the Philharmonic. Through Unger’s four-year

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assignment, there were some moments of humor: “The best joke of all concerned my friend Leslie Heward when he visited Leningrad as a guest–conductor. A week before he was due there a man came up to me during a break in the rehearsal and said breathlessly: ‘Heward’s not coming—his wife’s dangerously ill. We’ve just received a telegram.’ ‘Have you got the telegram there?’ In a few minutes he brought it to me. It read: ‘BARTERED BRIDE UNOBTAINABLE HEWARD.’”27 It was obvious that the Russian could not understand the linkage between Smetana’s opera and a mysterious illness. Unger attended a performance at the Opera Studio of Weber’s Der Freischütz, and he heard someone sitting nearby laboriously spell out the composer’s name: “Karl Maria von Weber. Karl and Maria—look, a brother and sister wrote this opera,” he said to his neighbor, who retorted: “Idiot, those are the painters. The music’s by Beethoven.” On another occasion, Unger’s first broadcast was presaged by an exceptionally prolonged introduction by the announcer; after a few bars of the overture to The Marriage of Figaro, Unger noticed the announcer frantically waving at him to stop. Nevertheless, Unger continued until the end, after which his colleague explained that they had forgotten to switch on the microphone, and they would have to start over again! Musical programming had its downturn in that the music of Beethoven was preferred to all other composers: “Now at last he has found his true dwelling-place—the only country where he is really understood and loved: the Soviet Union.” Unger attempted to program Richard Strauss; however, the answer given was: “Strauss is a Fascist composer, and the Central Radio Committee in Moscow has forbidden us to play Fascist music.” However the following week, the Leningrad Philharmonic played Strauss’s Also sprach Zarathustra and broadcast through Leningrad Radio.28 Heinz Unger’s term of work came to an end through a change of policy by the Soviet authorities in the 1937–38 season. As fresh ideas and talent had been welcome in the 1920s, a decade later there reigned an atmosphere of suspicion; the presence of foreign nationals on Soviet soil was an anachronism, and the country had now developed its own artists and conductors who could now take over direction of the country’s sixty professional orchestras. A fresh young generation of conductors could take up the challenge of the new music sweeping the USSR. The director of the children’s section of Leningrad Radio was Vera Rozhdestvenskaya—a former Komsomol worker, who, regardless of any formal education, had proven herself a gifted and able organizer. She had a delightful sympathy and intuition for music and art, and much of the radio station’s popularity was due to her personal initiative. Rozhdestvenskaya was assisted by Lidiya Mikhailovna Kershner who invited Leningrad composers to write for the orchestra and perform in broadcasts for the younger generation either

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as a narrator or playing with the orchestra. Among the most celebrated pieces originating in this process came from one of the city’s most famous musical families. Julia Weisberg, a student of Shteinberg and daughter-in-law of Rimsky-Korsakov, composed The Tale of the Sleeping Tsarevna and the Seven Heroes. This radio opera employed the finest singers of the Kirov Opera, and transmissions were duly broadcast following a full complement of rehearsals. Regrettably, it was not possible to record concerts; therefore, works were frequently repeated. Kondrashin’s orchestra participated in such first-rate presentations, and other obligations included more traditional fare such as Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, just one of many kids’ shows in the immediate prewar era. The music for such performances was often set down by the orchestra’s first violin—Boris Savelev—in his own right a fine composer and the author of several orchestral suites. The success of the orchestra in the broadcasting of innovative programming, indeed, led to a tour to the capital; the origins of which came through Kondrashin’s consultation with one of the up and coming composers—Dmitry Borisovich Kabalevsky. The Comedians had enjoyed a limited success on stage; nonetheless, the conductor was drawn to its attractive and colourful, vibrant music and was assured that it could gain a second life as an orchestral suite. Rozhdestvenskaya was so attracted to this idea that her chef de orchestra was dispatched to see the Moscowbased composer. Kondrashin duly arrived at the composer’s flat, and, rather than raise his one-time disappointment, asked directly, “‘Dmitry Borisovich, do you have anything for us at Leningrad Radio?’ Having giving the matter some thought the composer countered ‘I have the music for The Comedians but its not quite right but I can arrange an orchestral suite.’”29 To compensate for the reduced forces of Kondrashin’s orchestra, Kabalevsky arranged a collection of five pieces, matching the fairy-tale conception of the original stage work. The Leningrad Radio Children’s Orchestra performed it with great success, and the piece became highly popular, played by symphony ensembles across the length and breadth of the country and in the United States—where Koussevitsky and Stokowsky took up The Comedians, winning far-reaching audiences through their recordings. The Leningrad-based Lev Schwartz wrote an orchestral suite for Kondrashin’s ensemble, receiving a lucrative fee. Indeed, the work for the orchestra helped local composers financially, equaling that commissioned for more prestigious orchestras in the city, and extra revenue was generated from repeated broadcast relays. Another Leningrad man who wrote for the ensemble was the very gifted, extraordinary Mikhail Yudin; he boasted a magnificent beard and spent his career writing all sorts of oratorios, cantatas with children’s choir, and large scale ensembles, which earned him the epithet of the “Russian Bach.”

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In his work with the Radio Orchestra, Kondrashin discovered how difficult it could be to work with orchestral musicians: To be frank, I was too self-assured, but all the same I found it problematical to struggle against the traditional low respect from musicians. When it was necessary to repeat a piece and sufficient time remained for this, I became scared to tell the orchestra of this because I knew that they would begin to cough and splutter and someone would say: “Don’t bother maestro everything is alright.” Sometimes when the rehearsal ends with plenty of time to go, there would break out applause, they would strike their bows on the stands—it was their way of saying—“give us another 15 minutes break.” Those with little experience would be taken in by this and let the orchestra go. One has to learn this lesson.30

At the Maly Theatre, a more demanding task beset Kirill Kondrashin in the next season, for the director assigned the young man a brand-new creation of The Pompadours by Andrey Filipovich Paschenko, based on Saltykov-Shchedrin’s witty novel. Paschenko was a skilful composer of the early Soviet era whose reputation was based on a string of symphonies and several works for the stage, mostly set to revolutionary themes. “Paschenko is a composer with a splendid and quite inimitable profile. His opera The Eagles’ Uprising (1925) used the theme of Pugachev, toured twenty-four theaters, and laid a major part in Soviet historic–revolutionary opera. Asafyev regarded this as one of his most remarkable achievements.”31 In 1926, his three-act musical Skomoroshe act and the Tsar Maximilian revealed the influence of Rimsky’s Golden Cockerel and La Sonnenelle and The Wedding by Stravinsky. “Less successful was his third opera, The Black Crevasse, based on the legendary heroic imagery of Chapayev, which quite simply flopped at the box office. A notable place in Paschenko’s repertoire are his seven symphonies, of which the Fifth and Sixth (bearing like Berlioz the titles—Triumphant—Funérale). A complex undertaking confronts the composer in The Pompadours; to strike upon the musical language and colors to portray this satire on a grand scale, along with the overflowing excitement, odium and awful rile.”32 Kondrashin’s newest undertaking was unveiled at the world premiere on October 20, 1939. The libretto was by Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky and Alexander Ivanovsky while the producer Ilya Shlepyanov’s previous work had included Kabalevsky’s hit and miss opus Colas Breugnon. Shlepyanov was among Meyerhold’s most forceful disciples, at one time an artist and then later director of the Theatre of the Revolution.33 Following his mentor’s methodology, Shlepyanov engaged the satirical artist Mikhail Cheremnykh. The staging marvelously realized Saltykov-Shchedrin’s prosaic parody; the production team was duly credited in fathering one of the gems of the prewar era in Leningrad theater. If the staging and design proved the

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key to the opera’s success, it was Paschenko’s music that proved its blind spot: the composer possessed a refined orchestral technique; however, he was given to fall back on the nineteenth century—it was a recitative piece—regardless of which, there were striking moments that could be brought out by an erudite conductor. Nevertheless, weaknesses in the musical text did not hinder a major triumph; the icing on the cake was that the Maly’s brightest young singers transformed The Pompadours into a brilliant showpiece, causing a huge sensation. No less than twenty reviews appeared in the Leningrad media—not one downbeat. This tour de force established Kondrashin at the Maly Theatre and a royal debut, no less, as a professional conductor. Few could sketch a more insightful critique than the witty and often cutting Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky: “The Leningrad Maly Opera Theatre has presented an original, interesting and seriously experimental ingenious conception in the very word of it—a show—in the premier of Andrey Paschenko’s The Pompadours. Paschenko does not have any rivals in creating a satirical opera from Saltykov-Shchedrin. The scenario is based on several chapters from The Pompadours and Pompadouresses and The History of One Town . . . From this evidence, it seems Paschenko has departed from symphonic writing. The Pompadours’ music attempts least of all to have a free role: it bears its heart and soul in the very opening bars.”34 Sollertinsky continued to dissect Paschenko’s new work: In his characterisations of the opera’s leading roles, Paschenko uses different tonal methods; the musical expression of the pompadour, the police inspector, civil servants hark back in some degree to the traditions of Dargomyszhky, Musorgsky, partially to Mavra by Stravinsky and even to Nose by Shostakovich, albeit lacking fantastic hyperbole but bearing the unmistakeable traces of naturalism, particularly in the recitative. This genre of idiosyncratic dialogue, adopts the form of grotesque discourse. It is a pity that the orchestral accompaniment, at times masterly and witty, descends to using the trombone glissando—a style which reached its limit a decade ago. The part of Nadezhda Petrovna Blemánche is expressed by a coquettish, perceptive and charming coloratura, set in a comic depiction by Paschenko. From time to time, the harmonies are overrun by quadrille rhythms and vaudeville couplets. This can be justified; the Offenbachmode in no small part illustrates Saltykov-Shchedrin. We cannot forget that for the inhabitants of Glupov [a pun on the word here means town of fools] Le Belle Helene has been staged in some kind of manége.35

Sollertinsky, despite his mastery of irony, could not, however, fail to give credit: Shlepyanov’s directorial work in actuality can be described in many ways as quite brilliant. The chorus scenes are achieved with extraordinary dynamics and

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temperament and with an acute understanding of the Shchedrin style both in the dress and makeup of the singers. Such naturalistic acting and deliberations by the choristers have not been seen for many years. Rather than playing and singing in ornamentation, the choir acts as a throng of diverse operatic mime actors. It would appear that a great part of the acting success of this show is due to the talented directorial work—there is rhythm in the show—and prescient yet discontinuously, a mimicry and plasticity corresponding to Shchedrin’s hyperbolic style.36

The perspicacious reviewer gives us the first account of Kondrashin’s work at the rostrum: “It follows to put in a good word for the gifted conductor Kirill Kondrashin who masterly managed Paschenko’s problematical score and revealed himself in charge of the general rhythm and pace.” The arbiter, all the same, summed up: “One needs to note the separate shortcomings of the show—the unnecessary although disagreeable want of the critic—there are unsuccessful aspects in The Pompadours. And all the same, one leaves the theatre feeling satisfied. Within the very difficult context of satire, the comic, more accurately tragic–comic facets are unmistakably creatively portrayed. We know that richness of genre is one of the pre-requisites in resolving its main task—the creation of Soviet classic opera. In this—The Pompadours by Paschenko is undoubtedly an auspicious phenomenon.”37 Kondrashin had enough boldness to introduce his own changes to the orchestration—withdrawing irrelevant passages and enhancing the musical development. This gave rise to some resistance; however, Paschenko obsequiously conceded. The influential Sollertinsky fell in love with the staging, praising it to the heavens; however, on other occasions the journalist could be callous as he proved when articulating about a contemporary piece by Zhelobinsky at the Philharmonic: “This is like water spraying Rachmaninov’s night bowl!”38 Regardless of its box office triumph and the succès d’estime—The Pompadours was not taken to Moscow on tour—the wound of Lady Macbeth was still tender, and Khaikin was fearful of putting the ensemble through another misfortune. Hence, only tried and trusted repertoire were taken on the road, something that proved an augury as the outing to the capital earned a host of awards and honors from critics, public, and the government—and Sollertinsky’s satirical whine: “How can you place a wooden spoon beside all these gold medals!”39 With the fresh smell of success and, indeed, public celebrity, Kirill Kondrashin endeavoured to cast a more solid base for his career, enlisting as a candidate member of the Communist Party—a crucial step if he wanted to have a successful profession in Soviet society. Nevertheless, the young man was uneasy by an upbeat social conscience and his endeavours to better the lot of his fellow colleagues—a trait that was to work against him in future

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years. As was the will of the Party, Kondrashin had to pass through a probationary spell of two years prior to acceptance into its ranks, and he was able to have as his two designated referees distinguished figures in Vera Rozhdestvenskaya (of Leningrad Radio) and mentor Boris Khaikin. Nevertheless, the plucky maestro could not pass up criticizing others should he feel unfairly treated. Kondrashin’s disappointment at The Pompadours’ success not being echoed in the capital resulted in petty squabbles at the theater; Kondrashin had suddenly found his feet and believed he’d been held back by his erstwhile teacher. Following the return from the celebrated Moscow tour, at a staff meeting, Kondrashin boldly criticized the decision not to take The Pompadours, which wounded Khaikin greatly. This ostentatious discord almost inevitably cast a shadow on their relationship and represented an exceptionally perilous course during this period; the moment could have led to dismissal or, indeed, at another establishment, to imprisonment. The confrontation reveals the career-driven and still inexperienced conductor’s vanity, avarice, and lack of judgment. Kondrashin could not be inconsiderate of the trust that Boris Khaikin had placed in him through recent seasons. Without countenance from his artistic director, Kondrashin could still be languishing in second-grade orchestras in Moscow; Khaikin had raised him to a lofty position by giving him such a premiere. On the other hand, Kondrashin valued his teacher as a paradigm and savoring his triumph in The Pompadours, felt abandoned by an invidious Khaikin; the aspiring maestro should be indebted because it was his teacher who had offered the opportunities for a career—it was he, Khaikin, who had made the recommendation to the Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre and taken him as his assistant to Leningrad. Khaikin construed that his deputy had, with unnecessary impudence, spoken out of turn. An impartial witness might have added that Khaikin assumed of his protégé: “You’re a traitor and I don’t want anything more to do with you. . . . I don’t even want to talk to you anymore.”40 The breach between the chief conductor and his assistant lasted for some two years, and it was only through the brutality of the war and the privations endured that they were able to restore their camaraderie. In this distressing episode, Kondrashin was acutely troubled by the turn of events, yet enmity did not offer a break in work load; Khaikin could not tolerate their broken relationship hampering the rhythm of the theater. The young man was given performances as before; nothing would interrupt the flow of the Maly Theatre stagecraft. Kondrashin’s raised and unjustified expectations led Khaikin to feel that this was targeted at his responsibility and position, together with a display of childish pride by his protégé. Naturally this abrupt deterioration in contact was all set against the intense stress of social and political life of the late 1930s in the Soviet Union. Khaikin protected his unknowing student from any unpredictable penalty. Kondrashin continued his

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impressive progress as a self-sufficient, gifted conductor in the USSR’s second capital—a great metropolis with the most treasured musical customs. 41 For the young Kondrashin’s life and career, there was the distraction of a speedy love affair and marriage to one of the ballerinas at the Maly Theatre. If the union did not last, it brought much-needed happiness. Other joys were witnessed, during this prewar phase, by his father’s visits to Leningrad. Pyotr Kondrashin was a religious man—he had ensured Kirill was christened and had taken him along to church services in his childhood and was disturbed by his son’s enlisting in the Pioneers organization.42 Being aware of his beliefs, Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin could not fathom how his father could accept that he was in the Party. These thoughts caused him a great deal of anxiety—was it a betrayal of his father and his values? Ultimately, he wrote, “In some manner or form, I want to be useful and it will be easier for me to do this being a member of the Party.” Pyotr Kondrashin’s response deeply stirred his progeny, “My dear son, we are old people, and I cannot judge your action, you know better than we do, I trust that you will be an honourable man in whatever you do, I know that you will do the right thing.”43 It was wholly unexpected that upon Kondrashin’s next visit home, the icon in the Moscow flat had been removed. The head of the family remained true to his values, always attending church; however, he remained silent when both wife and son were communists. An official car was allowed him to be taken to the performance of his son conducting. Kirill found it poignant that his father, who had worked before in a restaurant and in the pit of the Bolshoi, should now enter the director’s suite and sit in the loge at the theater and see his son conducting. As a musician, Pyotr Kondrashin was meticulous and exacting; two or three hours before the performance he would arrive before anyone, his shoes brightly polished and costume immaculately pressed, and practice thoroughly. Even during the interval, he would not leave his place, content only to scrutinize his music. Every day, regardless of the weather, the violinist Kondrashin walked all the way from Zubovsky Square to Sverdlov Square, a distance of several miles. When required to play a solo, as often proved the case in La Bohéme, Pyotr Kondrashin would be tensed up, as if it were his debut. When he visited his son in Leningrad, Kirill always tried to ensure that he enjoyed comfort and care at one of the city’s better hotels. Despite the terrible privations of the period, this proved for the young conductor a mix of dutiful satisfaction and compassion. In December 1938, Kondrashin was invited to give a concert with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. The initiator of this invitation was the violinist David Fyodorovich Oistrakh. The young virtuoso had attended several sessions of the conductors’ competition and, having been impressed, sought

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to develop a relationship with Kondrashin as an accompanist. The anomaly was that it was only in the final stages that accompaniment was scheduled; hence, it was a remarkable judgment for the violinist to make the opportunity available. The engagement in which Kondrashin made his “official” conducting debut featured Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony and the Violin Concerto and established Kondrashin as a valued talent in the capital. Oistrakh, after just one rehearsal, found absolute assurance in Kondrashin, and the collaboration inaugurated the first of many. During the prewar seasons, Kondrashin conducted more regularly in Moscow than with the Leningrad Philharmonic where the Muscovite was still viewed with apprehension. At the Philharmonic, the young Yevgeny Mravinsky was forging a fresh relationship and establishing the company as a peerless virtuoso ensemble. Kirill Kondrashin gave his first performance with the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra eighteen months after his arrival in the city. Those who attended the concert season were among the crème de la crème of concert-goers. Women turned out in beautiful dresses and necklaces, while the men arrived in smart dark suits and turned-up collars and ties. The orchestra was run by the old guard: the concert master—Zavetnovsky, the bassoonist—Vasilyev, and the cellist—Brik (a playwright and administrator and brother of Lilya Brik, wife of the poet Mayakovsky). Kondrashin was given a matinee as his first engagement there: “I can’t remember the whole program, but the last item was Liszt’s Les Préludes, and afterward, the principal bassoon Vasilyev came to me upset, ‘How can you conduct the finale so quickly. It should be a magnificent march, not a gallop.’ At the time, I took his words as a veteran trying to ‘sort out’ a young man.”44 The most profuse anecdotes surrounded the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra: everyone was frightened of conducting them; they had a reputation of destroying even the finest. During the 1920s, the ensemble was led by a group of senior musicians, among whom was Ilya Osipovich Brik, a middleaged man and quite bald. He was celebrated for being a polyglot, and as many foreign conductors came to work with the orchestra, he proved his worth during this period. Brik loathed guest maestros most of all and loved to make his own observations. When one touring maestro was rehearsing, Brik began to generate his particular gestures to his fellow musicians, and they followed his movements. Brik, as an interpreter, would only express his own directions to the orchestra. When a German asked the double basses to play spiccato, Brik told the trombones to perform at full volume! When Brik removed his handkerchief, this represented a sign to follow him, not the conductor. By moving his forehead, Brik was asking the musicians to play a faster tempo; overindulgence by the cellist would be to drum the desk with his bow. Kondrashin suffered several such instances with the Leningrad Philharmonic following

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this scenario. However, there was one affair that upstaged Brik and led to his ultimate downfall. When Mravinsky began working with the Philharmonic—prior to his assuming the conductorship—he was conducting the orchestra, and again Brik removed his handkerchief and in full swing the cellist tried to pass his own instructions to the musicians. Conversely, Mravinsky clasped the cellist’s arm and did not release his grip until the end of the piece—as this happened during a concert—it led to an abrupt close to Brik’s “conducting” line of business. In his more frequent visits to the capital, Kondrashin opened up another fresh artistic relationship of a quite different kind with the doyen of Soviet music—Nikolay Yakovlevich Myaskovsky. The senior composer was now the central figure in musical life in Moscow, as Taneyev was in the pre-1917 era. This musical friendship started when Kirill Kondrashin directed Tchaikovsky’s popular Third Orchestral Suite at the Conservatoire, a triumphant performance and additionally so when Myaskovsky approached him: “My dear, that was so fine, but the tempi in the polonaise upset me. Do you really have to take it so quickly when it should be more graceful?” In his bearing and affability, Myaskovsky reminded him of Boris Pasternak. Kondrashin was so taken aback by the inquiry that he could only respond, “Nikolay Yakovlevich, it is so pleasant to meet you. Would it be possible to visit you?” Myaskovsky replied, “Please, please, come—phone me.” On every occasion he visited Moscow, Kondrashin would make an express point of visiting the composer. The maturing musician found much to admire in his compositions and sought advice and became, in time, a dedicated interpreter, conducting the Sixth and Fifteenth Symphonies at Leningrad Radio. The collaboration was deepened in that on every juncture that Kondrashin would meet Myaskovsky, they would play together on the piano, both his orchestral pieces and those of other composers. “I remember that we played the Franck Symphony [in D minor], I played high notes—he the bass line. We were not so masterly pianists, but we enjoyed this so much. In those days it was quite normal—but today who could believe that a major composer would spend his time in such a way!”45 There always lay on Myaskovsky’s table a pile of orchestral scores, never trusting others to correct his handiwork. There might lie there a brand-new symphony written in a four-hand version, and the two would play for the first time through these works, some of them incomplete, and at the end, there would always be long sessions drinking cups of tea. The composer lived in a small flat in the Arbat with his sister, Valentina Yakovlevna, who shared the role of amanuensis with that of housekeeper. Myaskovsky helped the young man a great deal in his early career, while Kondrashin considered the composer of crystal integrity, restrained emotion-

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ally, reserved, and quietly spoken. It was Myaskovsky who expanded Kondrashin’s ideas and his understanding of the theory of music—in composition there could be no unnecessary sound effects. Often Kondrashin would seek consultation in contemporary music and was always taken aback by Myaskovsky’s extraordinary sophistication and originality of thought. Before a Leningrad performance of Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, Myaskovsky was sounded out on his musical analysis. The composer was a great friend of Prokofiev, carrying on for many years a valuable correspondence, and almost all contemporary composers deferred to him: Glière, Vasilenko, Prokofiev, Khachaturyan, and Shostakovich. Myaskovsky was at the heart of musical events in the capital, constantly attending all presentations—something missed by Zhilyaev, who scorned concerts following the departure of Rachmaninov and Shalyapin. Unlike Myaskovsky, Zhilyaev held that music had exhausted itself and declined to listen to radio or go to performances. Whereas, facilitating many young musicians and composers in their careers, Myaskovsky was the heart and soul of Moscow life. His word was as if gospel. Always following an important event or premiere, people would ask: “What did Nikolay Yakovlevich think?” Myaskovsky did not entertain guests as did Zhilyaev; he would rather devote an entire evening to a solitary visitor. Appointments were always scrupulously set aside. Myaskovsky was among the most popular contemporary Russian composers being performed in the West during this period. Conductors such as Sir Henry Wood, Leopold Stokowski, Bruno Walter, Leonard Stock, and Hermann Scherchen all performed his latest symphonies. Myaskovsky hitherto suffered a decline in performance of his works; there existed a phase when all his new symphonies were performed and then endured neglect, similar to the recognition accorded Taneyev whose compositions were at the focal point of musical life and disappeared from the concert platform following his death in 1916. Kondrashin believed that the conundrum was one of ideas: Taneyev was the continuer of a tradition, he wasn’t an inventor of new music, he was the continuer of a tradition, as was Rachmaninov but of course he possessed more individuality. Taneyev was an epigone of Tchaikovsky, Myaskovsky less so. I wouldn’t even call him an epigone. [Myaskovsky] was a branch in Russian music which has seen its development in Shebalin. To an extent Kabalevsky continues this line. There is a mix of old tradition and of new harmonic methods. The creativity of Myaskovsky is lyrical. It begins very darkly. However one needs to point out that such dark scenes as in the Sixth Symphony still cause grandiose impressions. The Fifteenth Symphony compared to it is bright and lyrical.46

Often, the contemporary composer needs a dedicated performer to bear the mantle of introducing his work, and Myaskovsky lacked the intimate

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collaboration between Shostakovich and Mravinsky. Nevertheless, through several decades, the conductors Alexander Gauk and Nikolay Golovanov were active proponents of his symphonies. The mantle was assumed by Kirill Kondrashin in taking up the responsibility of championing Myaskovsky’s symphonies. It was Kondrashin who, in later years, began making the first recordings; he regularly recorded Myaskovsky’s works for the gramophone and performed them through until the last. It was said his works were “wholly gray, as if painted under a muddy and funereal cloudy sky transfigured to the dark of a moonless black night.”47 Nevertheless, outstanding instrumentalists such as David Oistrakh, Emil Gilels, and Svyatoslav Richter included pieces by Myaskovsky in their repertoire. Kondrashin considered his symphonies and orchestral music a unique branch in Russian music—a link between the composing school of Tchaikovsky and that of the twentieth century of Shostakovich and a guardian of the Russian symphonic tradition. Through several years of close consultation with Myaskovsky, Kondrashin was particularly fond of the Sixth, Fourteenth, Sixteenth, and Twenty-Fifth Symphonies. The Sixteenth was written following the Soviet pilot Chkalov’s circumnavigation of the world and ostensibly dedicated to Soviet aviation; it was an unambiguous piece, impressive for its tapestry of popular song and brilliant colorful orchestration. The composer possessed his own individuality and inimitable hallmark—one could distinguish from the wide-ranging, delicately drawn orchestral passages rather sombre chromatic chords, always beautifully written. Kondrashin assumed that the impasse in popularizing Myaskovsky’s music was in its harmonics: “One needs to draw the music out from the score, sometimes re-orchestrate it, to evoke the warmth in orchestral color and this was the raison d’être few of his works claimed a permanent place in the repertoire and [others] fell into neglect.”48 At the end of the 1930s, Soviet theatres adopted a condition of selfaccountability, and this had a significant, unanticipated consequence, particularly for opera. However, with the outbreak of war in June 1941, all related problems became as if ancient history. Kondrashin liked to tell of an official in Leningrad who, when meeting prestigious guests at his theater, would say, “Please meet my wife,” turning aside, “at one time she lived with Kirov.”49 Nevertheless, the Maly Theatre, through a constrained phase, had to cover its own costs; as a consequence, audiences would not support the classical repertoire, and both the Kirov and the Maly theatres reverted to popular pieces and operetta. Old, successful productions were revived, dusted down and given short runs; among those restaged was Nikolay Mikhailovich Strelnikov’s The Yellow Scarf, boasting a score full of old foxtrots and marches. However, in this and other revivals, the hit and popularity with the public were often due to the wonderful performers, including the comic actor Ros-

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tovtsev. The splendid humorist could make his audiences laugh in any role he played but could not sing a note, which meant Kondrashin had to slow down the tempo, so he could manage to “vocalise.” The Trilby was a melodrama by Alexander Yurasovsky and another restoration (it was also staged at the Bolshoi), in poor taste with eclectic music. Khaikin undertook Strauss’s The Gypsy Baron; nonetheless, this led to a decline in fortunes with the artistic crown in Leningrad held firmly by the Kirov. Early in his career, Kondrashin discovered musicians can evoke the comical side in practically any circumstances. Archetypal of this lighter plane was Boris Emmanuilovich Khaikin; some of the wittiest moments were in his company—Kondrashin’s teacher had the sharpness of a wag and never lost an opportunity to make people laugh. Kondrashin recalled that when Khaikin was conducting the USSR State Symphony Orchestra, the leader of the cello section was one Lev Vladimirovich Berezovsky—a fine musician but eccentric in character and who would attempt to draw him into a quarrel. One day, Boris Khaikin announced that he would let the ensemble away early because Isaac Zhuk had collected some of the first violins to go over difficult passages and would save the orchestra rehearsal time. However, Berezovsky did not come to the run-through on time and, thus, saved himself another half-hour. There was another episode during the popular prewar concerts at Kislovodsk. There were two large open-air concert venues: one, the “upper,” was called the “academic” (being adjacent to the Kursaal), and the “lower” one was in a park. At the “upper” bowl, more serious concerts would take place under Orlov or Khaikin. During the day, at five o’clock, they presented—without rehearsal—short, thirty-minute concerts in the “lower” bowl. To attract the public to these matinees, contests were arranged that were organized by the leader of the Philharmonic Orchestra, Anisim Berlin, a fine player— but no conductor—nevertheless, he took up the challenge enthusiastically. The competition entailed the performance of a mystery work. During the concert, a little-known piece was played and someone from the audience had to guess the name of the composition to win the prize and the right to choose a piece for future performance. Khaikin went along and heard them playing “The Death of Asa” [from Grieg’s Peer Gynt]; one of the locals recognized him and asked what the work was called, to which Khaikin replied wickedly, “City of Kitezh Suite.” The man suddenly jumped up and ran to the jury fully anticipating to win the prize, and Khaikin went off home, chuckling to himself at the poor man’s disappointment at finding he had been cruelly tricked. Another example of Khaikin’s devilish humor was during the Bolshoi’s staging of The Bartered Bride. The part of Jenek was taken by George Nelepp—already past his best—Boris Emmanuilovich famously teased the orchestra: “Nelepp is singing really well, its just a pity that he is already past it for the nuptials.”

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If distinguished maestros could create laughter from the rostrum, then less celebrated conductors could often equal their more gifted colleagues. An example of which was the provincial conductor Pavlov-Arbenin, who uttered unmatched vocabulary during rehearsal, “Clarinet—more water!” and followed up with an added, charming instruction, “Open up the window.” During a performance of Carmen, the horn player suddenly raised his hand, and Pavlov-Arbenin asked: “What is the matter?” “Maestro, excuse me, I have made a mistake.” “I am sorry, but I didn’t hear any mistake.” The horn player clarified, “In the last rehearsal, you asked me to play this section with a violet color. I forgot and played it with a red color.” Leningrad society was deeply proud of their traditions as the hub of the former Russian Empire. Moscow gathered the finest that its towns and cities had in artists, dancers, and singers, but there was an increasing demand on the second city’s resources, and this sharpened the animosity and competition between the two centers. In 1918, the Bolsheviks made Moscow their “temporary” capital because of the threat of the cradle of the revolution being captured by the Whites, yet Moscow retained its status much to the chagrin of Leningraders. This only puffed up the characteristic pride and love for their city’s history and its artistic values. All this became obdurately perceptible to Kondrashin in his daily work at the Maly Theatre and Radio Orchestra.

NOTES 1. S.Y. Levik, Chetvert Veka v Opere, (Moscow: Izkusstvo,1970). 2. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 49. 3. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 50–51. 4. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 52. 5. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 52–53. 6. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi s Shostakovichem,” in Dmitry Shostakovich: stat i i materialy, ed. G. M. Shneerson (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1976), 87. 7. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 54. 8. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 58. 9. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 58–59. 10. Heinrich Neuhaus,“Vsesoyuznaya Konkurs Dirizherov,” Izvestiya, September 10, 1938, 3. 11. Heinrich Neuhaus,“Vsesoyuznaya Konkurs Dirizherov.” 12. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 55. 13. Heinrich Neuhaus,“Vsesoyuznaya Konkurs Dirizherov.” 14. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Pyat Laureatov,” Izvestiya, September 17, 1938, 3.

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15. Heinrich Neuhaus,“Vsesoyuznaya Konkurs Dirizherov.” 16. K. K. Ivanov, Volshebstvo Muziki (Moscow: Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1983), 52. 17. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Pyat Lauratov.” 18. K. P. Kondrashin, O dirizherskom Iskusstsve, ed. Sophia Mikhailovna Khentova (Leningrad: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1970), 6. 19. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 55. 20. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton: The Soviet Memoirs of a Musician (London: The Cresset Press, 1939), 195. 21. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 196. 22. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 197–98. 23. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 198 24. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 198. 25. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 199–200. 26. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 202. 27. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 213. 28. Heinz Unger, Hammer, Sickle and Baton, 230–31. 29. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 56. 30. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 68. 31. Levon Hakobian, Music of the Soviet Age: 1917–1987 (Stockholm: Melos Music Literature, 1998), 101. 32. I. I. Sollertinsky, “An Interesting Show,” Sovetskoye Izkusstvo 86 (November 9, 1939): 87. 33. Ilya Shlepyanov, later renamed the Mayakovsky Theatre. (Shlepyanov went on to work later at the Kirov.) 34. I. I. Sollertinsky, “An Interesting Show,” 89. 35. I. I. Sollertinsky, “An Interesting Show,” 88. 36. I. I. Sollertinsky, “An Interesting Show,” 90. 37. I. I. Sollertinsky, “An Interesting Show,” 91. 38. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 60. 39. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 60. 40. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 60–61. 41. In the future, Khaikin headed the world-famous Kirov Opera and Ballet. 42. The Pioneers were a communist organization aimed at the upbringing of healthy young communists. 43. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 61. 44. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 55. 45. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 63. 46. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 65. 47. B. V. Asafyev, “Myaskovsky kak symphonist,” in Isbranniye Trudi Akademik B. V. Asafyev, t. 1, ed. T. N. Livanova (Moscow: Academia Nauk SSSR, 1952), 16. 48. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 65. 49. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 217–18.

4 War 1941–1943

A blow, another blow. A race of notes. And then, there, like a sick eagle Stretched on its thermal, turning, Returning, Chopin’s sad theme. Pasternak “Ballade” 1930

Since 1939, the nonaggression pact with Germany provided shelter for the Soviet people from war in Europe—nonetheless, the announcement of the German attack on June 22, 1941, came as a shock. The consequences of the invasion on the Western borders bore greater threat to the city of Leningrad than any immediate danger to the capital. The Baltic republics adjacent were occupied with great speed by the Nazi blitzkrieg, and following a short three summer weeks, only a short distance of forty miles remained before the city’s approaches and the border with Estonia. At the outbreak of war, the Maly Theatre was in the throes of its close of season, and Kondrashin was conducting Rimsky-Korsakov’s May Night; the breaking news bore its immediate consequences for only some dozen or so people were present in the auditorium. Three days later, on June 25, the company terminated its performances and prepared for the mobilization for war. The initial response to the invasion was enlistment by many of the theater’s staff into the Red Army, air force, and navy. “I didn’t fight. Although in the first days I went to the army recruitment offices and was ready to go to the front. Regardless that the invasion was so sudden, in Leningrad, one didn’t sense any panic.”1 Yet before Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin spontaneously joined up and duly expected immediate dispatch to the front line. However, theater personnel were spared service in the armed forces—the authorities 69

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were keen to utilize their faculties in other ways. The theater’s workers occupied themselves making camouflage nets to disguise the city’s buildings from enemy aircraft. This task was allocated to the chorus and singers working on stage. Alternately, staff were delegated to dig trenches and defensive obstacles outside and around the Maly Theatre; Kondrashin, together with his musicians, used up several days digging trenches in the gardens of Arts Square situated between the Russian Museum and Philharmonic Hall. The defense preparations extended for a fortnight before the city fathers sent a large group from the Maly Theatre on trench-digging assignments to the western outskirts. In the beginning, Kondrashin and his men dug antitank traps at Obukhova, five miles to the west of Leningrad; after which, they were dispatched by train to more distant environs of the region. There, in the middle of nowhere, Kondrashin witnessed a scene of a great, unorganized mass of humanity comprising housewives, factory workers, and musicians. Everyone had been unloaded like cattle from wagons and marched off into the open countryside. The Red Army officer in command discovered no digging implements were available and phoned his superior in Leningrad. Seeing that little or nothing was organized, to seek a place of refuge, Kondrashin went on a reconnaissance of the hamlet. Some tools, insufficient for several thousand folk, were discovered in a hut, and as it was a very warm evening, people began seeking a place to bed down for the night. The required shovels only arrived the next day by which time another setback arose because there was no water supply—only one bucket of water was available for one hundred souls. Kondrashin took a group of men to plot for water wells and sought out accommodation in surrounding villages. This spot, far beyond the city, was to be their home for a week, digging fortifications and trenches; after which, they returned home for respite and then were dispatched to another village on the outer perimeters. From the radio bulletins and the weary soldiers appearing every day, it was clear that the sources of life and contact with the rest of the country were being rapidly squeezed tight by the advancing Nazi armies. Kondrashin’s demonstration of courage, responsibility, and organizational prowess resulted in his appointment as commander of a volunteer’s detachment, and he was dispatched to Luga—seventy miles to the south of Leningrad—already a frontline battle zone. En route, the detachment halted just ten miles short of their destination at a village called Tolmachevo. Due to the rapidly deteriorating situation, Kondrashin now had accountability for some eleven thousand men and women and was required to march them twelve miles to a spot just four miles from the German lines—a highly dangerous task under constant threat of bombing and shelling. To protect himself from the sun, Kondrashin wore headgear more suited to the tropics,

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which earned him the epithet of “Panama.” Happily, the musicians were equipped with costumes from And Quiet Flows the Don, which protected them well against the dampness and cold of the northern summer nights. Without mishap, Kondrashin’s workers traversed the distance through the night, safely reaching their objective. The defensive fortifications near Luga were found by Kondrashin’s force to be unfavorable and widespread over a vast area; the front line was adjacent and suffering daily shelling and overflights. For the first few days, German aircraft flew over and waggled their wings—the Russians expected bombs to fall on them—however, the reconnaissance planes only presaged fresh attacks. In the first short weeks of the war, Kondrashin’s theater group had developed into a very effective and capable detachment and was proficient in finding superior “sludge” for their defense fortifications. The conductor did not avoid digging trenches with his colleagues—they constructed trenches and antitank defensive pits three meters in width and two meters deep. Kondrashin, with 120 of the Maly staff, on one occasion was ordered to take his party three miles distant to build ditches. Upon arriving there, they found it difficult to find accommodation; however, there was a NKVD (Narodny Komitet Vnutennykh Del, state committee for internal affairs) children’s camp on the far side of the lake. At the site entrance, there stood a guard who, fulfilling his orders, refused them entry; following debate and entreaties, particularly from the women, the poor sentinel conceded they could occupy the large mansion, yet there remained the problem of bedding. It was now August, and already nights were quite chilly, and everyone needed something to sleep on. From somewhere there appeared mattresses, yet these were still not adequate. Regardless of these difficult circumstances, the men and women were endlessly full of good spirits, and the indefatigable Leningrad humor came to the fore. One example of the funny side was when Kondrashin discovered a man, deep in a hole, busily involved in something mysterious. “What are you doing down there?” Kondrashin asked and heard the response: “We are giving the Germans a reply with this!” The volunteer brandished a great dummy with a placard on which was emblazoned: “The Maly Theatre proudly presents for Ribbentrop’s arse!” The spectacle revealed the comical, dry humor of Leningrad folk, and with the enemy troops just a few miles away and the whole country committed to a desperate battle, this sense of wit allowed some sort of reprieve from the suffering around them. During this period, as Kondrashin’s men and women were burrowing defensive fortifications, the military situation became increasingly more desperate. The Germans had surrounded them on several occasions with paratroops dropping behind their lines, cutting off the Russian communications. In each

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instance, the attackers were wiped out effectively; nevertheless, the brigades had to make do with limited food rations and often had little or nothing to eat for several days—subsisting only on hot water—yet nothing remained but to fulfill their tasks. In this predicament, Kondrashin was delegated to bring back a lorry load of food provisions and, using a nocturnal interval when the road was free, coped in reaching Leningrad safely. In the city, the potato harvest had been delivered, and at both private and state markets, speculators were making vast profits from those attempting to stock up for the winter. Ballerinas and Komsomol members who had remained at the Maly helped the erstwhile conductor, and in the course of one day, enough necessities were acquired, so he could return the following night. On their journey, Kondrashin and his driver had a lucky break. Making all possible speed—the road had been bombed several times, and their truck had to constantly negotiate filled-in craters—once their route was blocked by a herd of cows, quite oblivious to the war; no progress could be made at all. During this interval, German bombers roared overhead and struck a target farther south; their lorry recommenced the journey, and shortly, they passed a terrible scene of destruction. The aircraft had struck a village, destroying almost all the houses; practically everything was consumed in flames. Seemingly, Kondrashin’s food-packed vehicle had been saved—if it were not for the cattle on the highway, they too would have fallen under German bombs. Kondrashin’s brigade worked on their fortifications through three weeks, adopting a regime with a work cycle lasting fifty-minute periods followed by ten minute breaks. During these intervals, singers would invariably strike up a song, often patriotic, or simply a folk melody, all of which bonded the men and women together despite the nearby conflagration. Farmers in the fields watched and listened to the city-dwellers, who had brought their food and provisions with them from the great city to the north. The farm workers even felt a unity of purpose with these “outsiders” from Leningrad. Sometimes, the interval extended for a protracted twenty-five minutes—an impromptu concert offered up for all who could hear this fête champêtre. The military situation had become increasingly threatening; more German parachutists forced the Leningrad highway to be closed off, and the army command now asked Kondrashin to get together ten or twelve reliable Party and Komsomol members to attempt a break out from the tightening noose of encirclement. On their first sortie, Kondrashin’s brigade managed to liquidate a parachute group that had been dropped nearby, yet food supplies remained critical. On another expedition, they discovered a small hamlet nearby where they purchased the entire remaining livestock. A cook was found who managed to produce a rarely fine soup, among other delights; however, the concoction often led to musicians disappearing into the bushes, and other

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unfortunates fell sick, having consumed the “broth.” Here, the days and nights passed easily as some kind of normality returned. Out of the blue, the tuba player Mnatskanyan announced, “They’ve summoned us to Leningrad. They’re preparing to evacuate the theatre tomorrow.”2 Kondrashin was initially disappointed as their task had by no means been completed and resolved to request an extension of their stay until the job was done. He went to the military headquarters and declared that they couldn’t possibly leave until their mission had been finished. He was instructed, however, that the evacuation order would have to be fulfilled. Kondrashin simply replied that he would disobey and remain with his brigade. “Put your party-card on the table then,” the major abruptly responded. Kondrashin was informed bluntly that the plight of the defensive structures were of lesser importance because the Germans had broken through in the north, and the fate of the city now remained in the balance, whatever happened at the Luga positions. Kondrashin removed his theater detachment to Tolmachevo to catch a train to Leningrad. Upon arrival in the depths of night, they were in luck finding a steaming locomotive and its empty coaches ready to leave—not a soul was to be found—everyone embarked on the carriages, and miraculously, in two short hours, they reached Leningrad safe and sound, arriving there at seven thirty in the morning. There, at the Maly, everyone was preparing for departure—set for eleven o’clock—the following day they were to leave for the east. At home, Kondrashin discovered his family already packed and waiting. His wife, together with mother-in-law and aunt, wanted to take an old man—a neighbor who was reluctant to leave yet whose chances of survival were slim. On the next morning, they all arrived at the Moscow Station where a multitude waited their leave-taking; before them stood the steaming train, consisting of four first-class carriages for management and soloists, and the rest were six simple goods-wagons with cots fitted. In the middle of the column were another twelve coaches, which were allocated to families of a Red Navy marine regiment still encircled at Hanka on the Baltic and whose wives and children had been evacuated from under the guns of the Germans. The time of departure came and went without any hint of moving out. During the seemingly eternal delay, there appeared the figure of Meskheteli—an official from the Committee for Arts, a personage who Kondrashin believed only caused trouble wherever he went. However, the bureaucrat attempted to clarify the evacuation procedures. As an anecdote or not, Meskheteli was “mistaken” for a musician, and Kondrashin savagely interrogated him when he began inspecting the wagons. “Don’t you realise who I am?” the former Moscow NKVD man exclaimed. “Sure I do,” replied the conductor, “you’re a tuba-player.” Although the entire company was being evacuated, orders had come merely to evacuate the musicians and dancers, while all their

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decorations and stage scenery—for the moment—stayed behind with ancillary staff. The city was now almost under total siege, and only the small railway junction of Mga lay before the Germans and total encirclement of Leningrad. Axis troops had been involved in heavy fighting, on all fronts, from the north, west, and south, and only when the lines were secure could they leave. The Maly was to depart in a column, together with that of the Kirov Theatre and the Conservatoire, and these three giant train processions waited for departure. At four in the afternoon, on August 22, word had come through that German paratroops had been thrown back from the railway line, and it was now safe for the trains to move off. The troika of traveling ensembles plied a similar route until they reached Kazan on the giant Volga River, from whence the Conservatoire took a southerly path to the Central Asian city of Tashkent. Whereas the two opera and ballet companies continued on their two-week journey eastward, the Maly turned off to Chkalov in the Southern Urals, while their fellow artists from the Kirov traveled northward to the large industrial conurbation of Molotov in the Central Urals mountain range. It would be a long three years before the Maly Theatre could return to their home on the Neva. Many adventures and interesting episodes came en route for Kondrashin and his colleagues. At unscheduled stops, however long, it seemed as if the whole train disembarked and disappeared into the trees and bushes; however, there was one group who never left its temporary domicile—this was the Robinsons. Twenty-one people made up this family unit, who were all elderly and faint-hearted; their possessions were wrapped in cases and bags, and they never lost sight of them. A chemical toilet was specially installed for them in their wagon. One bel esprit scrawled with a crayon on their carriage, “Carriage-closet—no air—one zone for the Robinsons.” Kondrashin was designated supervisor of this giant refugee train and became responsible for every conceivable problem during their grueling evacuation; scorning the first-class facilities, he took his family and lived with his musicians at the rear of the train. At each station, he organized purchases of food for the company as well as maintained contact with the outside world. “We travelled for fifteen days and nights; the railways at the time were quite overloaded.”3 The length of the convoy caused difficulty, having to withdraw into a siding when an oncoming procession met it headlong. All the while, along this main-line, there would pass right-of-way troop trains traveling westward and other carriages going to sanctuary in the east, transporting the wounded. Throughout, many a dilemma would materialize for the rapidly maturing conductor.

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Kondrashin was endlessly subject to complaints that his musicians could not sleep—there was no fresh air in the wagons. Ultimately, the Robinsons’ makeshift toilet was removed, and the family had to use the same public “facility” as everyone else. One of the problems involved in the perennial stops was that the train would suddenly move out, often leaving people behind. These unfortunates would later catch up with the Conservatoire; such was their existence on this procession of humanity seeking salvation far off in the east from Nazi bombing and destruction. At long last, the train arrived in Chkalov—previously the city bore the name of Orenburg—and already many refugees had arrived there, overcrowding resources. They had completed the journey from Leningrad—from the window to Europe to the city known in Tsarist times as the gateway to Asia. The metropolis built in 1743 on the Ural River was a fortress immortalized by Pushkin’s novella The Captain’s Daughter, which was based on Pugachev’s Cossack rebellion during the reign of Catherine the Great. In this provincial town were situated many of the country’s armaments industries as were several educational institutes, including a university and medical college. Cultural life centered on the drama theater, puppet theater, and musical theater. The Maly was temporarily accommodated using the facility of the musical theater, a small building normally seating 300 with a stage quite unsatisfactory for the company’s productions. The local company had been dispatched to another township and had taken everything with them, down to the doorknobs; not even a light bulb was left for the Leningraders. In actuality, it served as their accommodation upon arrival there. Kondrashin, with his colleague Tarasenko, went to see what could be done to improve their lot; however, the conundrum seemed just the tip of the iceberg, for the municipality was inundated with refugees from all over the country on every train arrival. Kondrashin encountered a host of gossip and negative rumours; malicious anti-Semitic talk circulated that “Russians were fighting to save the Jews.” The orchestra employed many Jews, and a majority had volunteered to serve in the Red Army; therefore, the malicious campaign was, more than ever, damaging. Their ministrations achieved success as they received the necessary authorization to accommodate their people; ça va sans dire, local citizens were obliged to take in lodgers. Orders given had to be adhered to in this harsh war-time period with penalty of arrest and imprisonment. Another task beset the two men to find adequate housing for the senior staff; at first, a hotel sufficed, yet its meager facilities of just fifteen rooms were already filled to capacity—following which, a facility belonging to the local Party organization was made available. This comprised a school of eleven classrooms of generous proportions and reasonable height whereas many families

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were allocated; there was, at least, sanitation and heating for them—regrettably, this was not available for everyone. The school was two miles from the theater, and during the upcoming winter, it would be a hazardous trek to negotiate through Siberian winds and snowstorms, and this was where Kondrashin finally settled his own family. However, Kondrashin’s problems only continued following their accommodation in the Urals city, and among his assignments to set to rights were the toilet facilities. This was a task gifted by the local Party organization and facilitated by some musicians spending more get-up-and-go than usual. Several illustrious “plumbers” hurriedly developed supplementary skills to that of playing in the orchestra. Nonetheless, the Maly survived—food rations were nominal—there was only irregular heating, and everyone endured the most arduous livelihood and working conditions. Theater staff who had valuable possessions from Leningrad bartered them on the free market just to eat normally. Food was expensive; a kilo of potatoes cost 70–80 rubles, with a month’s salary being 200–300 rubles. The problem of provisions would be an unrelenting challenge for the next three seasons. As soon as the company had settled down in the city, they began to present performances. “Our repertoire very quickly expanded; we revived Eugene Onegin, The Tsar’s Bride, May Night, Cherevichki, The Bartered Bride, Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet, La Traviata, Rigoletto, Tosca, Coppelia and Chulaki’s The Tale of the Priest and his Assistant Balda.”4 To make up for absent scenery, canvases and paint were acquired locally, and decorations provided improvised stage props and backcloths. The stage was tiny with just three feet of a backdrop and little facility for full shows, yet the indefatigability of the Leningraders managed to patch together extraordinarily fine productions. The director of the theater, Tarasenko, was proving wholly incompetent in the difficult, testing war-time conditions. It was eventually resolved that the Party branch would have to deal with this, and both Kondrashin and Khaikin were sent to Moscow to raise the matter with the Committee of Arts as well as for equipping the theater in evacuation. The second assistant conductor, Eduard Grikurov, was left behind to undertake performances. Upon arrival in the capital, in September 1941, the two men discovered what a difference there existed between the well-organized defense preparations and evacuation of the Leningraders and the total panic and organization existing in Moscow. A town on the western approaches, Mozhaisk had been lost to the Nazis, and a mass exodus was underway in the Soviet capital. The first port of call for Kondrashin and Khaikin was Khrapchenko at the Committee for Arts who bluntly informed them: “We cannot simply give you another theatre director, Boris Emanuellovich, you will be the new director, and as for Tarasenko,

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he didn’t even recognise the inspector Meskheteli as he was in such a fright upon evacuation.”5 This simple administrative decision was the imperative for Khrapchenko— not the business of the theater—and this created a strong impression on the two men. During the few days in Moscow, Kondrashin managed to procure food rations for his family back in the Urals and for his colleagues there. Kondrashin’s mother passed on winter clothing; this was their first meeting since the death of his father during the summer. Upon their return to Chkalov, Khaikin assumed the functions of director, and Tarasenko was summarily dispatched to serve in the army—somewhat of a disgrace after holding such an important position. During the Great Patriotic War, someone in high rank, being found incompetent, was viewed as lèse-majesté, and a posting to the front was almost a death sentence. Kondrashin returned to Moscow in mid-October to see the Committee for Arts regarding further business matters, yet upon arrival there, on October 12, he found that the administration had been dispersed outside of the capital. Kondrashin went to the Bolshoi Theatre for some news and discovered that all ensembles and theaters were being displaced—the situation being sufficiently serious—the Bolshoi was being dispatched, with almost all government departments, to Kuibyshev on the Volga. The fate of other ensembles followed a similar pattern; the Moscow Arts Theatre was sent to Saratov, sharing the town’s hospitality with the Conservatoire, and to Penza. It was made clear that to avoid any unpleasant consequences, Kondrashin would have to leave, together with the Bolshoi, to the Volga town and, from there, make his own way to Chkalov. At six o’clock the same evening, Kondrashin left for the Kazansky Station for embarkation. Taking the metro from Revolution Square, he traversed the few short stops to Komsomolskaya Square; three great railway terminals are located there, and coming up onto the huge square, Kondrashin witnessed, in the gathering dusk, a vast unmoving multitude of people. The Kazansky, Yaroslavsky, and Leningradsky stations serviced the eastern, northern, and western points of the country. It was the Kazansky that was the focal point for the majority seeking to leave the capital. Day by day, this area had been full of soldiers and civilians, all carrying everything they could possibly take with them. It was a terrible sight, old and young women, aged men, and soldiers and sailors, now together with hundreds from the Bolshoi Theatre’s staff, set to travel east. The meager police forces could do little to control the crowds seeking to gain access to the platforms for departure. Indeed, the role of commanding the exits from the city was now the charge of special NKVD troops, who sought to hold back the mass of people, and they fulfilled it with little mercy. It was

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these same detachments of specially trained troops who were now shooting panic-stricken people on the outskirts of Moscow and instructed to shoot deserters on sight. On this evening, almost all departures had been canceled until the following day, except for two special trains. The convoys of coaches and wagons—one scheduled to Saratov and the other to Kuibyshev—were reserved for staff from the Conservatoire and Bolshoi Theatre and the Union of Composers. Those with appropriate travel permits were admitted to the huge waiting hall where relative calm reigned for those guaranteed departure. Everyone waited patiently for the gates to be opened, allowing access to the platforms. There, among many of those gathered, Kondrashin espied the up and coming composer Tikhon Khrennikov busily organizing matters for his family; there, too, was Dmitry Kabalevsky, already a confidant of Kondrashin. Kondrashin espied the small figure of Dmitry Shostakovich with his two young children and his wife, Nina, struggling with several suitcases. There, accompanying him, was his friend and fellow composer Aram Khachaturyan with his other half, the composer Nina Makarova, together with a collection of their most precious belongings. Shostakovich was set for the Volga port of Kuibyshev, planning from there to travel on to Novosibirsk to join his friend Sollertinsky, who was evacuated there with the Leningrad Philharmonic. After it seemed an eternity, station guards unlocked the great doors, and a mass of humanity rushed onto the steaming platforms. Kondrashin had great difficulty in getting access onto the platform itself, yet he was lucky, for the door was defective, and suddenly, he, together with the crowd, burst through onto the platform, in a scene like water breaking the dam in a flood. The Kazansky Station is among the largest railway stations in the world and comprises a vast territory, and there was no indication as to which train was which and where one should go. Eventually, Kondrashin found his colleagues from the Maly, with their equipment, bound for Chkalov. There, too, he met Khrapchenko, who simply told him to jump on; it didn’t matter any more. On a carriage, everyone was ensconced as best they could—there was no way back—on the platform remained a huge throng still on the lookout for a vacant seat. Shostakovich and his family were all in the parallel condition of an entire people desperately trying to find salvation from the onset of war. Aram Khachaturyan was terribly upset by the loss of his suitcase containing his medical prescriptions, something he complained of throughout his journey. Almost as soon as everyone embarked onto the carriages, the train began to move off; accordingly, Kondrashin found himself evacuated for the second time in as many months. The journey took some seven days, and with each compartment—eleven souls were crammed into apartments designed to accommodate six—shifts were arranged to sleep on the beds fitted. At sched-

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uled stops en route, Kondrashin noticed the forlorn figure of Shostakovich coming out to seek water and provisions for his family. Unlike his evacuation from Leningrad during the summer, the Bolshoi Theatre’s departure was well organized and, after another few days, arrived at Kazan, where Kondrashin parted and took a train farther east to Chkalov where he arrived a week later with Boris Khaikin, now firmly in control. “Here [in Chkalov] were located defence industry plants, and educational institutes evacuated from the western regions of the country . . . There too was the local intelligentsia, quite substantial, one must add that there had never been an opera theatre nevertheless it was always full. I often looked out at the faces in the audience. They included soldiers on leave from the front, both young and old; many wounded just released from hospital. Despite the difficult atmosphere we felt that the theatre was necessary to everyone and that our work was useful and important.”6 The setting proved the platform for new productions supporting the country’s war effort and fight to defeat the Nazis. “As one family, we lived with several Leningrad composers; Soloviov-Sedoi, Dzerzhinsky, Chulaki, and Voloshinov.”7 Viktor Voloshinov began to write an opera on the basis of a story published in a local Urals paper. The libretto was entitled “Stronger than Death,” about a girl’s heroic exploits in saving a partisan from the Germans. A pupil of Shcherbachev, Voloshinov was well endowed in writing attractive music but lacked appropriate orchestration skills and duly turned for assistance to Kondrashin, and slowly, step by step, the two musicians collaborated to complete this patriotic opera. Members of the orchestra were enlisted by Kondrashin to copy the parts, and shortly afterward, it went into full production. Stronger than Death was eclectic and possessed a fine dramatic edge. Another freshly written opera was Kalinka by the Moscow-based Mikhail Cheremukhin—also based on a contemporary theme—despite a less appealing score, it endeavoured to lift up spirits and was well received. Boris Khaikin conducted the opera’s premiere, with Kondrashin taking over the work following his mentor’s sudden departure to Moscow. Kondrashin found it strange that another conductor would give the first performance of his partcreation, yet this was Kondrashin’s faux pas—a different conductor would treat the stage piece more dispassionately.8 A phenomenon of these days was the deliberation by musicians to freelance, prevalent in peace-time Leningrad; the players were able to boost their earning capacity at a variety of musical events across the city and beyond. Orchestra members would arrange concerts at factories or farms to earn extra fees, with little or no concern for the daily work of the theater, frequently putting the Maly’s own productions in jeopardy. At one performance, at the rostrum, Kondrashin discovered most of the orchestral places vacant

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as they had vanished to give a concert elsewhere. During the celebrations for the Revolution and the New Year, these “commercial” artists fixed up a series of evening and matinee events. Ilya Zakharevich—a middle-of-the road singer—acted as “impresario” and was able to live like a lord during these desperate times. For his organizational skill, Kondrashin had been selected as deputy of the Maly Theatre’s Party cell and resolved to put an end to this fraudulent “music making.” On November 6—the eve of the partying—Zakharevich had arranged no less than seven gigs, taking part himself in every one. Kondrashin was so infuriated that he berated him before the whole company, “My dear man, have you quite lost your mind. You are representing our theatre at these events—have you so little respect for us?” The humiliated Zakharevich conceded, “Alright, alright, if they invite us again we will refuse.”9 The public degradation was, on this occasion, enough to forgo handing the matter into the hands of the police. Life was difficult for staff bearing the severe living and weather conditions in the Urals, and some respite arrived in the invitation to entertain troops at the front. The opening was enthusiastically welcomed by all those selected to take part; the concert brigade offered some excitement away from the dreary existence in Chkalov. Five or six brigades from the company performed for frontline troops during the three years of the Maly’s sojourn in Chkalov. The expedition involved an intensive, stressful six to eight weeks frontline touring—their audiences of troops, aircrews, sailors, and hospital patients listened to them with hope and expectation. Those who eagerly listened on makeshift platforms were frontline soldiers about to enter combat. At each location, two or three daily performances were given, allowing listeners to forget their down-to-earth concerns and fortify their enthusiasm and spirit. The concert brigades inevitably encountered many dangerous situations; in some areas, the front line changed dramatically, not always to the Red Army’s advantage, and came under hostile fire frequently. Kondrashin participated in almost all these missions, usually traveling with a group consisting of a soprano, baritone, ballerina, and a locally based drama actor and theater clown. Kirill Kondrashin himself wrote transcriptions to violin pieces played by Livschitz and Zamorin with Kondrashin playing the piano part. On several occasions, en route to an engagement, they would find themselves diving into trenches to avoid hostile shellfire and sporadic enemy fighter aircraft. Kondrashin recalled a dangerous circumstance, in May 1942, when he found himself in the middle of German artillery bombardment, “The brigade was giving a concert in an open field with women, old men and children watching and unexpectedly a huge explosion missed the stage by just a few dozen metres. Thankfully, no one was injured.”10 Their journey encompassed parts of the Western front, recently liberated from the Germans.

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This was to the south of Borovsk near Mozhaisk and Volokomansk. Here Kondrashin could see the destroyed and abandoned Nazi tanks and field cannon lying by the roadside. He noticed old, discarded gramophones with records, curiously of Soviet songs with “sehr gut” written on them in German. Later that year, Kondrashin again experienced the German gun barrage and the terrible rushing sound of the flying shell, the bright flash of the explosion, and the zigzag of exploding shrapnel, some fragments falling quite close by. Thankfully, no one from their group was hit, and everyone returned safely to Chkalov in December. In Chkalov, Khaikin had now masterminded a very lively series of theatrical and musical events in the city. Monthly symphonic concerts were arranged with these being shared by the three conductors; Khaikin also invited virtuosos from the Bolshoi, situated relatively close by, to make the journey east for orchestral concerts. Fifteen different productions were given each season in exile, and Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony was performed shortly after its world premiere in Kuibyshev. “We quickly copied the parts and performed it seven times in Chkalov and twice on tour to Orsk. This was an event for everyone and for me particularly. The composer could not be present and I had to learn the work alone.”11 In return, with the Bolshoi Theatre, in October 1942, Kondrashin received an invitation to conduct the Bolshoi Theatre orchestra in a concert of Shostakovich’s First Symphony and Shebalin’s freshly written Violin Concerto. Arriving in Kuibyshev a few days before the engagement, Kondrashin discovered a quite different quality of life to that in Chkalov—it was like a second capital—the Moscow intelligentsia had congregated around the exiled drama theaters and, together with the Bolshoi, were giving a string of delightful classical opera and ballet. In Kuibyshev, Kondrashin also stumbled on privileged food rationing and, in his hotel, could eat as much as he wished and to the finest prewar standards.12 Kondrashin’s debut with the Bolshoi Theatre orchestra at the Palace of Culture proved an auspicious one; in particular, the conductor was no less apprehensive because Shostakovich himself was present. Nevertheless, the concert almost ended in mishap, for upon reaching the rostrum in the second half, he found the score of the symphony missing, and he had no choice but to conduct from memory. Following the performance of his First Symphony, the composer congratulated Kondrashin: “You conducted magnificently. If it wasn’t for a cold, I would kiss and embrace you!”13 There was an instant rapport between the conductor and composer; however, their next encounter would not be for several years. As a souvenir of his stay, Kondrashin took home a kilo of real coffee, itself a fantastic delicacy even in peace-time Soviet life.

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In Chkalov, both elation and sorrow surrounded their performances; not always could the company attract suitable audiences; hence, the directors decided to attract the public by selling beer at the theater buffet. However, the plan had its downside and led to speculation; artists would come one hour before and pour the beer into great vessels that they would then sell at the local market to boost their meager wages. The brew sold at the theater would attract graduates from the local air academy who would buy up the tickets; however, in the first half, the auditorium would be half empty—many remained at the bar; while in the second half, the trainee pilots would sleep ensconced in their seats, snoring to the chagrin of all around them. On another occasion, Khaikin and Kondrashin took their orchestra to the nearby city of Orsk to perform several concerts, including Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony. Kondrashin was obliged to put in plain words the significance of the new patriotic piece to the audience before the performance. There had never been a tradition of such orchestral evenings, and the venture was very much an innovation for the local public and a novel experience for Kondrashin to express his ideas directly before his conducting. In December 1942, out of the blue, Khaikin was summoned to Moscow for a meeting of the Committee of Arts (now based again in the capital). Just three days after Khaikin’s leaving, Kondrashin received a command calling him to join his chief there. For the life of him, the young man could not fathom the reason for his sudden directive—could something mysterious have happened to the chief conductor? Kondrashin’s worries for his superior proved misplaced as another urgent missive arrived from Khaikin himself, reinforcing the necessity for Kondrashin’s presence. Khaikin had recommended his deputy for a position at the country’s foremost musical institution. “Kirill Petrovich had to quickly strengthen the conducting roster of the Bolshoi Theatre.”14 It was several days later that Kondrashin met with his mentor at the National Hotel in central Moscow and discovered that Khrapchenko sought Kondrashin to work at the Bolshoi Theatre. The surprise was that there was still a functioning Bolshoi Theatre left in Moscow; a number of the company’s artists had remained behind, including distinguished singers as Lemeshev and Barsova, and a series of performances was arranged at one of the Moscow theater. Mikhail Gabovich had been appointed director to augment this new opening, and the Committee of Arts was now appointing leading positions to carry through a season until the full Bolshoi could return in peacetime. Gabovich’s background was in the ballet company; immediately, upon the outbreak of war, he had joined the Red Army, fighting valiantly on the front line and had been recalled and was now proving himself an exceptionally capable organizer.15 Samuil Samosud had also gathered together many of the orchestral musicians still in the city

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to give concerts, notably the Moscow premiere of Shostakovich’s Leningrad Symphony at the Hall of Columns in March that year. Artists were returning home of their own accord, for the Germans had been thrown back from the gates of the city, and following the brilliant success of the Stalingrad battle, it looked as if the course of the war had changed in the favor of the Allies. At the Bolshoi, several conductors had already begun work—former orchestral musicians with little experience with training an orchestra, Semen Sakharov and Aleksandr Chugunov were responsible for opera and Aleksandr Tseitlin for ballet. To reinforce the conducting roster, Kondrashin would be accountable for both opera and ballet. Arriving at the Bolshoi, at the set time, on a dull winter’s day, the young musician was kept waiting in the director’s anteroom. There he encountered a chap, impatiently pacing up and down. It was a paradox that rather than being “rivals” with the stranger, Kondrashin was to share many years of labor with this unfamiliar figure; the tall, slim young man was another fresh appointment—the Stalin Prize winner—Boris Alexandrovich Pokrovsky. Years later, Pokrovsky recalled, “I had been waiting for over an hour quite assured that the director and the artistic director were locked inside chatting. I awaited an important meeting because I was artistic director of the Gorky Opera, producer of many outstanding shows, they write about me and had a Government telegram in my pocket and simply instructed to wait, . . . I looked and espied there standing in the corner a person somehow familiar to me—well turned-out with a bowtie. Yes, I could recollect his portrait from the pre-war papers. He carried himself without any airs, but seemed very self-righteous and one thought—aha—and he only got the third prize!”16 Before this Leningrad celebrity, Pokrovsky felt himself a dull provincial. Stylish in his dress, Kondrashin made the producer uncomfortable; however, Pokrovsky was the first to be allowed access to Samosud and already felt himself more significant. However, Samosud met the young conductor coldly—they had not come across each other since the conducting competition and without prejudice. Samosud, as chief conductor, always deferred disagreeable negotiations to his artistic director, the soprano Valeriya Barsova, yet he would tell her exactly what to say and how to say it. Initially, Kondrashin found Samosud to be an intimidating figure—a figurehead—Kondrashin was told, “My dear man, go back to Chkalov, finish your business there, after which we shall decide what you’re going to do here.”17 Thus, Kirill Kondrashin returned to the Urals—to settle affairs—he resigned formally from his conducting responsibilities and prepared for the new, momentous stage in his career; he could hardly have expected that such a piece of good fortune could have awaited him at this austere juncture. However, there remained some unpleasant business to overcome: Kondrashin’s first marriage to a ballerina of the Maly Theatre had broken down through

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the endless, stressful events of recent years, and in this brief interlude, they quickly divorced. Therefore, Kirill Kondrashin left the Maly Theatre with mixed feelings, sorrow at much that he had seen and witnessed, together with the company; there remained a strong bond with the musicians and in his debut certified position and medium for his first artistic triumphs as a professional conductor. A fresh beginning beckoned for the young maestro that would soon place him at the center of the country’s musical life.

NOTES 1. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” Sovetskaya Muzika 5 (May 1975): 88. 2. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 74. 3. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” 90. 4. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” 90. 5. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 82–83. 6. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” 91. 7. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,”90. 8. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 80. 9. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 79–80. 10. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 81–82. 11. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” 92. 12. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 84–85. 13. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 85. 14. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” 92. 15. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 86–87. 16. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygnut iz Bolshovo Teatra (Moscow: ART, 1992), 15. 17. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 87.

5 The Bolshoi: Samosud and Pasovsky 1943–1948

Entering into the new world, I know There are people and tasks to perform, That probably there is a path to paradise Open to all who walk in evil ways. Pasternak “Nightglow” 1948

During the Romanov dynasty, the Mariinsky Theatre had occupied center stage as the preeminent opera and ballet company, with Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre playing second fiddle. In 1918, the demise of the Mariinsky had been delivered through Petrograd’s being replaced as capital by Moscow, and, consequently, the Bolshoi assumed flagship status in Soviet high culture. The conductor Nikolay Golovanov proclaimed the institution the “Russian national theatre” representing “the entire Russian classical heritage.”1 This prominence gained even greater importance with the progression to the Soviet leadership of Iosif Stalin. No other person, before or since, has matched Stalin’s spell over Russian art: the General Secretary was en famille with every appointment and took pleasure in attending all important premieres. “Stalin entered the history [of the Bolshoi Theatre] as its freeholder. Two theatres occupied his concern—the Moscow Arts Theatre and the Bolshoi Theatre. They represented a façade for the social system he created, exalting its potency. Stalin gave particular attention to opera, pompous and lucratively decorated.”2 However, Lenin—the founder of Soviet power—had a dissimilar estimation of the Bolshoi, “It is inappropriate to maintain at great expense such a resplendent theatre when we don’t have the means to equip village schools.” If the state made gains in time, Lenin, nevertheless, valued its integrity, 85

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“One can’t deny that this is a piece of purely mercantile culture.”3 The Bolshoi Theatre adhered to a Western European tradition, yet things had changed following the arrival of Samuil Samosud in 1936, an appointment determined by Stalin.4 In the prewar seasons, there emerged a cult of the singer, encouraged by the chief conductor, who allowed the whole production to be predisposed to the vocalist. Historians of the theater would recognize this peculiarity from the phenomenon of the prima donna, exemplified by the legendary Adelina Patti, “She would not come to rehearsals only appearing at the first performance, indeed this was enshrined in Madame Patti’s contract. The public are under the impression that the closest intimacies are contracted between vocalists in consequence of their appearing constantly together in the same works. Under the new system, by which the prima donna stipulates that she shall not be called upon to appear at any rehearsal, the possible source of excessive friendship ceases to exist. It now frequently happens that the prima donna is not even personally acquainted with the singers who are to take part with her in the same opera.”5 At the moment of Kondrashin’s appointment, the greater part of the Bolshoi was in Kuibyshev; the war continued far beyond the gates of Moscow, with a small production group at the branch theater. At the hub of activity was Samuil Samosud: “The crucial factor was that Chief Conductor Samosud remained and worked on. He was a phenomenal personality! He loved us, probably because we too adored his paradoxical, eternally youthful talent.”6 Economizing on war-time energy resources, performances took place during daylight hours, and due to air raids, night hours were dedicated to rehearsals and discussions on future activity and productions. The young director Boris Alexandrovich Pokrovsky was appointed at the same time as Kondrashin; Pokrovsky had scored nationwide prominence with his triumphant staging of Alexander Serov’s Judith at the Gorky Opera and Ballet Theatre, which was nominated for the Stalin Prize. Many years later, Pokrovsky would recall the experience of working under Samosud:7 If Samosud took part in one of these debates, it was a real joy—a genuine education and pleasure! It was like a master class listening to him. With his outré sense of irony, Samosud ravaged old-fashioned artistic concepts, ending our school-day perceptions of theatrical life and conducting, destroying preconceived ideas of opera and the stage. Our respect and affection for him became paramount; it seemed to us then that we were liberated, in turn of which we became better artists for the rest of our lives. In those days we lived in hardship, eating sandwiches when we could. The debates at the theatre, about music, about our work, were as if a seminar to our artistic conscience. In the dialectic there were no ill-considered words, reckless phrases, people spoke without any qualms—that is with sincerity.8

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Freshly appointed as a staff conductor, Kondrashin was given an office in the rat-infested building previously occupied by the former director, Ivan Vasilyevich Ekskusovich, using the very same room that had witnessed the infamous scene involving the trumpeter Lyamin [see chapter 3]. There were some twelve or fifteen administration rooms there, the rest being communal flats. At the first opportunity, Kondrashin dutifully approached Samosud with an inquiry as to what works he should prepare; however, he was met with a chilly response: “Well, just you go to the performances and we’ll see what we can fit in.” The crestfallen Kondrashin thus occupied the loge of the theater, taking in the repertoire, and weeks passed without work. Kondrashin again pleaded with Samosud: “Samuil Abramovich, what should I prepare for performance?” and was rebuked: “What can I say? We are staging Tosca, Rigoletto, Ivan Susanin, and The Queen of Spades. You will conduct what you are given.”9 It was clear that Khrapchenko, without consulting Samosud, had appointed Kondrashin over the head of the chief conductor, as if the young man was selected through his Party membership. Consequently, the imperious Samosud did his utmost to ignore Khaikin’s protégé. Pokrovsky experienced an ennobling baptism, for his first rehearsal was attended by the finest singers in the land: “Ivan Kozlovsky, Sergey Lemeshev, Alexander Pirogov, Mark Reizen, Valeriya Barsova (then artistic director), Maxim Mikhailov, and Panteilemon Nortsov—all stars before whom, sitting in the gallery, one had shouted bravo and cried for an encore and now I was in charge of them.”10 During this interregnum, Kondrashin spent much of his day-by-day activities seeking permission to live in the capital. At the beginning of 1943, Moscow was no longer a frontline city; bolstered by a reliable air defense, bombing raids, therefore, were scarce; even so, tension was at the maximum—all the main stations and thoroughfares were constantly in movement with troops and war materiel moving westward and to the south. A curfew was strictly in force, and streets and avenues were under control of the security forces. Anyone without the necessary documents was taken into custody. A degree of normality was prescient; people who had gone into hiding in the countryside now returned, and theaters, restaurants, and clubs were beginning to reopen. Notwithstanding, the food supply was much superior in Moscow than in other regions.11 Concerts and theater performances began at six o’clock to finish before the ten o’clock clampdown. Because Kondrashin lacked Moscow residency, for some two weeks, he had to rely on the food brought with him from Chkalov. In the Urals, a fine quality suit for two hundred rubles helped him acquire provisions from the free market; in addition, he made do with a special permit from the Bolshoi, allowing periodic use of the Aragvy restaurant. This elite

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Georgian eatery catered to high state employees. The experiences visiting this exclusive place in the heart of the city turned out to be fascinating; the clientele included some of the most esteemed figures of Moscow’s artistic life—the distinguished pianist and one-time colleague of Lev Tolstoy, Alexander Goldenweiser, and Rachmaninov’s boyhood friend, Alexander Gëdike. Kondrashin met them regularly, for every day at three o’clock in the afternoon they would stand in turn, receiving four courses for a few kopecks. Gëdike collected the leftovers from other customers at the Aragvy, so he could return home to feed his thirteen domestic cats and the birds. It was a local legend that the city’s sparrows flew to his flat to be fed these scraps. Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin’s problems were not confined to waiting for the necessary papers. With no engagements at the Bolshoi, it seemed a penance seeking sustenance from any quarter and subsisting on one square meal a day. Everything changed overnight when he received the essential food coupons and residence permit. Through the stress of recent months, the once youthful twenty-nine-year-old had started smoking heavily; for this, he had also vouchers, yet still there was no work. One source of hope was offered through the first months of 1943; life was more reassuring encouraged by the firework salutes illuminating the night sky in celebration of the liberation of Russia’s big cities. Step by step, the sobriety of this transitory existence determined Kondrashin’s realization that he would have to wait his opportunity. This period proved providential, however, as the enforced interregnum allowed Kondrashin to absorb artistic life in the Soviet capital. Kirill Petrovich enjoyed warm memories of the prewar Bolshoi and of the stellar musicians there, such as Vyacheslav Suk, Nikolay Golovanov, and Ariy Pasovsky and the singers, Vasily Petrov, Antonina Nezhdanova, and Leonid Sobinov. During the 1940s, Mark Reizen, Sergey Lemeshev, Maria Maksakova, Nadezhda Obukhova, Vera Stepanova, Ksenia Dzerzhinskaya, Alexander Pirogov, and Ivan Kozlovsky were at the height of expression. The lyric tenors Kozlovsky and Lemeshev were just beginning their famous rivalry on stage. Kondrashin was astounded by the stunning interpretation of Onegin by the young Panteleimon Nortsov. This magnificent baritone served many years at the theater yet never sought glory—his life was spent peacefully, collecting paintings, which at his death were donated to the Tretyakov Art Gallery. An enigmatic source of the theater’s success was that each production had its dedicated conductor—and they were great conductors who knew the work intrinsically and trained both singers and chorus, working intimately with set design and production. Despite the comings and goings of Golovanov (he was appointed and dismissed three times), his influence remained a constant. The Bolshoi was at its peak; Kondrashin recalled the staging of Prokofiev’s The Love for Three Oranges in

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which Alexander Pirogov, Antonina Nezhdanova, Elena Stepanova, Yelena Katulskaya, and Ivan Kozlovsky all sang under Golovanov, with brilliant staging by Alexey Dikii (from the Moscow Arts Theatre). Nadezhda Shtange was a magnificent mezzo-soprano. Yet, there was an academicism in singing poles apart from the Leningrad school. In those times, vocalists would give as much as five or six performances in a week, three by agreement and, perhaps, another two or three because of the illness of another soloist. Samuil Abramovich Samosud was a unique personality, both for his extraordinary musicianship and blessed with rare insight. “Samosud gave all his indefatigable energy, huge experience and knowledge to staging operas by Soviet composers.”12 His reorientation of the theater became in time its Achilles’ heel—he was ultimately dismissed because he allowed his singers to compete against each other in endless intrigues for premieres and status. In 1939, a host of awards and honors had been presented to individual artists at the Bolshoi Theatre, and this system of titles and privileges created an almost false sense of artistic values. During this era, letters and correspondence were filtered through the NKVD, who would offer their own opinions to the secret political department: The Government’s published resolution on the awarding of the Order of Lenin to the USSR State Academic Theatre as well as orders and titles to many workers has evoked general enthusiasm. The following statements have been recorded: Golovanov, Honoured Figure of the Arts: “I’m amazed at receiving the Order of the Red Banner of Labour. I’m afraid it was a mistake, that they confused me with Golovin, who is not on the list of recipients. If no mistake was made, then I look on this award as the very highest of the whole collective, for I had been feeling out of favour.” . . . Melik-Pashayev, a conductor at GABT [the State Academic Bolshoi Theatre], Honoured Figure of the Arts: “There are no bounds to my happiness. I cannot convey my delight. I am also happy because Nebolsin (a conductor at the Bolshoi) received a lesser one than mine.” . . . Lepeshinskaya, ballet soloist at the Bolshoi Theatre: “I’m very happy. I’m only twenty-one and I’ve already received such a high award. This could only happen in the USSR.” Maksakova, Honoured Artist of the Republic: “I’m deeply touched at receiving the Order of the Red Banner of Labour, but at the same time I’m amazed at why they didn’t award me the title of People’s Artist, as they did Khanaev, who has only been on stage for ten years, while I’ve been on it for seventeen.” . . . Golovin, Honoured Artist of the Republic: “They didn’t give me anything. I’m absolutely dead. Evidently they don’t trust me politically. I’m afraid that repressive measures are going to be taken against me for statements that have been interpreted as praise of Trotsky. Despite the insult, I’m going to try to

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work wonderfully well and show what I’m capable of. I’m going to get myself an order.”13

Samuil Abramovich Samosud was close to Stalin, and the cult of the hero became insipid within the working regime of the Bolshoi—a phenomenon that prevailed also at the Moscow Arts Theatre. When Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin had enough of living on sandwiches, thoughts came to him about returning to the Maly Theatre when Samosud suddenly asked, “Well what opera shall we begin with?” Kondrashin countered with scarcely veiled irony, “You know best, Samuil Abramovich!” “What would you like to conduct?” “I like Tosca very much.” “That’s fine, Chugunov conducts Tosca abysmally, and how many rehearsals will you need?” Somewhat relieved at this change in fortune, Kondrashin assumed, “Two sessions with the singers and chorus plus two general rehearsals.” For the first sitting, Samosud came in to observe Kondrashin at work. At the interval, he approached his new assistant: “My dear man, you are a magnificent conductor! And I thought that they had appointed you simply because of your Party membership!”14 The affair had something in common with the situation caused when Samosud was appointed over Golovanov. Pokrovsky described the circumstances: Everyone said this could not be allowed. To overthrow Golovanov who was born in the Bolshoi—this is unjust! They organised a boycott. Alexander Stepanovich Pirogov told me that they organised a meeting of singers on Bryusov Lane where a famous singer lived.15 Everyone agreed that we don’t know this conductor, we don’t want him, we told the directorate about this, the director was frightened and said that you should speak to him yourselves. The singers agreed and on the following day, there was a rehearsal of Tchaikovsky’s Iolanta and Alexander Pirogov agreed to demonstrate to Samosud that he was not needed at the theatre. This was Samosud’s very first rehearsal. “Sasha, tomorrow is the day, you must show that the Bolshoi does not recognize Samosud. They’ll hear about it and remove him. We’ll all come to the session and sit around the auditorium. Sasha, when Samosud asks you to sing, tell him that his tempi don’t suit you and that he makes you nervous, show him that he isn’t your man—that he’s an outsider here. He’ll order you—squabble and bully him around. Conductors don’t like being bossed about. It’ll cause a scandal. We’ll be there and support you. They’ll all hear about it in the Kremlin and we’ll show them any conductor but Samosud.” Pirogov said, “No problem boys—don’t worry about it. I’ll show Samosud what for. What a terrible name—Samosud!”16 Everyone said, “Samosud over Golovanov—That’s what Stalin has done to the theatre.” The rehearsal began

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with everyone on the edge of their seat. Samosud conducted the orchestra, the players responded to him although they too didn’t take kindly to him, Pirogov now had to start singing, there passed five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes and the session closed with neither scandal nor uproar. Pirogov was in ecstasy, Samosud was overjoyed, the orchestra applauded the chief, and everyone surrounded the conductor congratulating him. Pirogov returned to his friends on Bryusov Lane, “Well, Sasha, you didn’t say a word, you supped up to Samosud.” But the bass countered, “He communicates with God himself. He is a real artist, a real artist fit for the Bolshoi!” Everyone soon realised that there was no other to compare with Samosud; no one was better than he.17

All those who worked with Samosud loved him. Pokrovsky, who collaborated with him on War and Peace years later, loved to tell a funny episode: when the conductor arrived for the evening sessions, he said, “How are things, let’s start the session all over again.” He loved to rehearse; he had just woken up, and everyone was tired and inquired, “What is going wrong here?” Pokrovsky explained the problems on stage; Samosud then said, “Let’s go through it with the orchestra in the morning, we’ll do it together and see how we can make improvements.” On the next day, when Samosud began conducting the orchestra, everyone responded to him, and the work suddenly came to life. Samosud managed, through his direction, to achieve success. “Such conductors are very rare in this world.”18 Golovanov lacked the intuition for the stage, and the correlation of scenery, acting, and music was incomparable to the artistry of Samosud. “Samosud was a miracle in the life of Pokrovsky, and he appeared as if in a dream. At home the conductor was bon vivant, cheerful and light-hearted, telling jokes and making fun of his colleagues but never maliciously.” No one could attain such a pianissimo as could Samosud, not even Karajan; in an orchestra of a hundred musicians, you could hear each and every instrument yet all together, in harmony. It was difficult to describe; everything came from him as he sat at the rostrum and calmly directed the complete performance, the complete show. He conducted not only the orchestra but also the entire ensemble, singers, and chorus on stage.19 The staff conductor, Alexander Melik-Pashayev, considered Samosud the quintessence of professionalism and high musical culture: “Samosud’s conducting manner was always firm and reserved; everything that was necessary could be expressed in his energetic, vivid and luminous facial movements evoking the spirit of a true performer. Everyone there was conscious of the unseen volatility from the conducting rostrum, bewitched by his immense creative charisma.”20 Following Kondrashin’s first session, Samosud looked upon his new assistant with different eyes; the young man became his protégé. When the main ensemble of the Bolshoi returned, Samosud would give as much choice

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of repertoire to Kondrashin. The secondary building of the Bolshoi was given over to operetta and eventually turned into a drama theater.21 Kondrashin waited for his moment, and despite Sergey Lemeshev’s wanting him to conduct Rigoletto, this took second place to a new production of Tchaikovsky’s Cherevichki. The work was unfamiliar, and no one wanted to perform in this staging; hence, Kondrashin took the responsibility on himself. Samosud worked with him as he would his first deputy, ensuring that any problems were suitably ironed out. The premiere was a great success; all his singers performed well, and the orchestra was magnificent. The concertmaster of the violoncellos was the marvelous Svyatoslav Knushevitsky, and the leader of the viola section was Mikhail Terian, all superlative musicians and virtuosos in their own rights. The autumn of 1943 marked the return of regular concert performances by the USSR State Symphony Orchestra and the Philharmonic; the repertoire was limited to Russian and Soviet music with Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt, and Brahms representing Western classical music. Conducting opportunities were offered to Kirill Kondrashin in several of these; although, the majority were given by Alexander Gauk, Nikolay Golovanov, and Alexander Orlov. “At the end of 1943, I was fortunate to hear the opening talk given by Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky before a performance of Brahms’ First Symphony.22 Most of all one was struck by the timbre of his voice—spiky, and as if throatily, . . . In the following minutes one was captivated by the fireworks of his imagery, judgments and dynamic thought: ‘The Brahms symphony begins at such a level of intensity that it seems as if you are inside of a loudspeaker at the height of tension.’ Kondrashin was pleasantly surprised by my associations with this concert and Sollertinsky’s words.”23 During this period, however, forces were already gathering to remove the chief conductor; many of the singers that he himself had developed in recent seasons were now motivated against him and initiated a campaign through the Party and the omnipotent Committee of Arts. Samosud himself carried on as always, using the same direct and diplomatic tactics with each and every singer, refusing to make compromises. His benchmark was always: “If you don’t want to sing—then don’t bother!”24 During this period, there were no triumphs with modern Soviet opera; the classics were the only guarantee of stage success. Considering Samosud’s enthusiasm for contemporary work, there were evidently no interesting pieces to restore former prewar glory. The repertoire of the Bolshoi had become constricted; there had ensued a wide-ranging series of revivals from the 1930s. Nonetheless, equally William Tell and Ivan Susanin were performed and later withdrawn. Samosud considered Rimsky-Korsakov’s orchestration of Boris Godunov and Shostakovich’s new version—the intonation was quite different, designed

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that singers would have to re-learn their parts—and this caused disruption among vocalists. Samosud himself prepared Kabalevsky’s In the Fire during this period, yet this was performed only several times and withdrawn the following year. The composer accepted responsibility for its failure. Kondrashin, however, believed its lack of success owed to the mediocre libretto by Cesar Solodar, a military historian. Samosud spent an eternity on Kabalevsky’s creation, constantly finding fresh nuances in the music and experimenting exhaustively. Regardless of these ten-hour sessions, inconsiderate that singers and orchestra were fatigued, Samosud demanded systematic groundwork. This was his modus operandi: meticulous and cutting hard to the bone, he extracted the maximum out of his players, probing to the depths of the work. Therefore, the first opera to be staged for the new season, on September 19, 1943, was Kabalevsky’s Moscow at the Gates [its first title], produced by Mikhail Gabovich and Pavel Markov with sets by Boris Volkhov. The principal roles were taken by Sofia Panova as Elena and Dmitry Golovin as the Commissar, and other secondary singers took the comprimario roles. The opus is based on the 1941 battle for Moscow—regardless of praise from the media at this response to recent events, it was performed only eleven times and made its final appearance on April 11.25 Highlights from the third scene had been performed as part of the November celebrations on November 7, 1942. Mikhail Gabovich described the intensive production process: “I remember the sleepless nights that we worked on the opera’s scenes and variations of the libretto, the extraordinarily multifaceted scenes, which reflected the heroism of fresh battles. Kabalevsky worked like a demon, wherever, in the theatre, at home or in car. It was a real achievement to bring it off.”26 Kondrashin was promptly offered a brand-new production of RimskyKorsakov’s The Snow Maiden. The up and coming Kondrashin took the work from under the nose of Vassily Nebolsin, who had conducted the opera many times and long considered it his property. Nevertheless, Samosud revealed his conviction in the youthful staff conductor and sustained his loyalty. The veteran Nebolsin was not satisfied with this fresh development and turned to the Party and the Committee of Arts to make the case that he had being deposed by an upstart from the provinces. The forceful Samosud stood by his decision, defending his protégé, and Kondrashin accordingly conducted The Snow Maiden. The premiere took place on October 1, 1943. The young debutante Irina Maslennikova sang the principal role quite brilliantly; the expert Sergey Lemeshev, as only he could, portrayed the character of Berendey; Maxim Mikhailov played the part of Father Frost; and Maria Maksakova was Spring. During the preparation period, Nebolsin refused to surrender his conducting score of the opera, and when ultimately enforced to do so, Kondrashin

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discovered there Suk’s markings and was able to learn much from the veteran Czech’s felicitous reading of the composer’s text and how a conductor could delineate his personal conception. He was able to compare the diverse interpretation of the same piece with the manuscript written through by Golovanov and Pasovsky, the latter having upheld the original markings.27 The Snow Maiden united Kondrashin with Pokrovsky and the young Leningrad designer Vladimir Dmitryev. In their project, Pokrovsky discovered something quite novel from past experiences in Gorky: “One could speak openly with artists—but never about one’s doubts. Meeting with Kondrashin returned to me one’s right to argue candidly, defending one’s views.” Camaraderie was shared with Dmitryev: I valued and respected him and was a little shy, feeling his reciprocal sensitivity engendering anxiety. Kondrashin was more strong-willed and sincere. We looked at [Dmitryev’s] sketches for The Snow Maiden. I held myself back, attempting as the director to be reserved—sensing the emotional mood. It was impossible to enquire Dmitryev about anything, it was not for discussion. However Kirill was audacious. “Tell me Volodya”—addressing him in a familiar tone—“In your mind’s eye how do you see The Snow Maiden thawing?” Silence reigned. Vladimir Vladimirovich mumbled, “Ouch, the devil, does she really have to melt?” Kirill was full of life—at last he had managed to get something out of Dmitryev—something quite gratuitous. Pokrovsky however asked why be so familiar in addressing Dmitryev, “What is so strange in having such trouble with people? We are all working on the same job.” Pokrovsky countered, “But he worked with Meyerhold, with Stanislavsky, and Nemirovich-Danchenko” “So what? What about you? Don’t lower yourself!”28

Some weeks following the premiere, in December 1943, Maslennikova was again scheduled to sing in The Snow Maiden, yet that morning she complained that she couldn’t appear due to a sudden affliction. There was no prepared double, and the administration wanted to cancel; nevertheless, Nikolay Kramarev, leader of the orchestra said there was another singer, Yelizaveta Bobrovskaya, who had taken the part before and might be able to substitute. Kondrashin auditioned her and decided that she would be suitable—already in her prime—Bobrovskaya still had a youthful enough figure for the role. Thus, everyone was ready to begin the rehearsal when suddenly Maslennikova appeared saying that she could now take part (she had learned that a replacement had been found and now wanted her place back). Kondrashin, however, told her that it would be Bobrovskaya who would sing that night, not Maslennikova. At four o’clock in the afternoon, a cordon was erected around the Bolshoi and very thorough checks of those entering the building were conducted, which could mean only one thing—a state leader, almost certainly Stalin,

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was coming. Security guards appeared everywhere; even in the orchestra pit, men in dark suits and glum faces sat watching every movement the musicians made. When he took his place at the rostrum, Kondrashin noticed that Stalin was in his box with the Czech leader Benes (who had arrived to sign an important cooperation agreement). As soon as Bobrovskaya saw Stalin in the loge, her voice quivered, yet she managed to hold on; however, disappointingly, she made no strong impression. It was the conductor, however, who made the mark on the Soviet leader. Four or five days passed, and it was announced that Ariy Pasovsky had replaced Samuil Samosud as chief conductor.29 The importance of the removed chief conductor is underscored by Pokrovsky: “The Stalin Prize is a victory for the Bolshoi Theatre and this when the main corpus remained in Kuibyshev. Yet the mainstay in their work was that Samosud was behind them, sharing their work, we spent whole days with him, he taught us how to work, with funny anecdotes and interesting stories, startling ironic dialogues, sometimes critical, sometimes very positive of the theatre. This was a man of unusual talents who allowed himself a trouble-free existence; he loved to be with us, to work with others, with the young people of the theatre. Sometimes we came into the theatre just to be close to him, to talk to him and hear his comments. That is the way it was.”30 Kondrashin had started his work at the Maly Theatre, following the appointment of Samosud to the Bolshoi in 1936. Samosud was considered a musician of noble artistic opinion; a master of color in orchestral sound, possessing a sense of theater and dramaturgy, yet Kondrashin sensed in him something of the dilettante. There is a grain of truth in this; as he had no formal training at any conservatoire, Samuil Samosud’s beloved instrument was the violoncello, and he studied with the great Pablo Casals before the Great War and later with Eduard Colonne in Brussels, yet he could not sit and study a score at home, more content to learn the piece at the rehearsal. He had to endlessly prepare his productions because he could not swot up the music. Samosud would rather use the orchestra for experimentation on the work in hand. Some eighty rehearsals sometimes would be used by Samosud to achieve a standard of performance; a similar number would also be used by his successor, Pasovsky, yet the latter could achieve greater results with something fresh gained from each session. Nevertheless, Samosud could realize effects in sound and balance that hardly seemed possible; in the fourth scene of The Queen of Spades, he created a timbre, a hardly perceptible and uncanny resonance, like tremulous zephyrs. Kondrashin could not recall any other conductor achieving a comparable value in sound.31 Among the criticisms of Samosud was his lack of transparency and imprecision in performance; he would say: “Well if the singer is tired, we’ll still make it in the last section with him.”32 Samosud’s shortcomings had a

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major influence on the falling apart of the Bolshoi Theatre, spoiling many fine artists both technically and artistically; at least, the orchestra sustained its own high standards albeit the chorus declined under Samosud, singing often out of tune. Nevertheless, many believed that he was a paradigm as a conductor: One of the assistant conductors Melik-Pashayev wrote, “Samuil Abramovich always was and remains for me the most attractive example of a producer–conductor following the artistic principles which I try to follow in my conducting activity.”33 Following his departure at the end of 1943, Samosud worked at the Stanislavsky Theatre and produced the world premiere of Prokofiev’s War and Peace, albeit in a concert version with numerous cuts. Boris Khaikin wrote that Samosud’s “dream to work at a more experimental theatre in spirit . . . was at last fulfilled.”34 It was there that Samosud gained a second breath of life—the theater being fresh and open to experiment, something the Bolshoi was never suitable for.35 The revival of great Russian operatic repertoire allowed the magnificence of the Bolshoi’s vocal talent to reveal itself in its fullest glory under Pasovsky; however, it seemed that conductors would fall to the whim of the singer, and, indeed, this factor was to undermine Kondrashin’s fate there: “The singers of the 1940s and 1950s who performed in our productions became famous celebrities, real stars, winning many honours including the prestigious Kremlin concerts. They, as it were, determined the fate of the producers and conductors with whom they worked and as Pasovsky, Samosud and Golovanov were dismissed from the Bolshoi, then Kondrashin had every right to quit when he decided the moment right and not get sacked at the caprice of a famous singer.”36 Following the brilliant success of The Snow Maiden, Kondrashin was entrusted with Puccini’s Tosca, with his production team including Nikolay Dombrovsky and Leonid Fedorov. The premiere took place on April 12, 1944. With the war fought far away on the Western frontiers, in September, the main body of the Bolshoi Theatre returned following restoration of the building (a bomb had exploded damaging part of the structure) to its former glory. However, there came a paradox because all those productions that had won government awards were withdrawn from the repertoire quite simply because none of the “stars” wanted to perform in them—there was no motivation to staging them. Therefore, splendid stagings of Rossini’s William Tell and the ballet The Red Sails were dropped. By this time, several “great” singers had been pensioned off or were already approaching their final seasons—neither Reizen nor Pirogov sang for several years—Shpiller and Kruglikova appeared infrequently. Other stagings of this period included Prince Igor, undertaken by MelikPashayev, The Tsar’s Bride by Lev Shteinberg, The Barber of Seville by

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Nebolsin and Eugene Onegin by Melik-Pashayev. Pasovsky’s first charge was Ivan Susanin on January 10, 1945, while three months later, Kondrashin’s third operatic undertaking was Verdi’s Rigoletto, which premiered days before the taking of Berlin by Soviet troops on April 28, 1945. The first major production postwar was Musorgsky’s Boris Godunov, given by Alexander Melik-Pashayev on June 20, 1946. Vocalists during this curtailed epoch would be more disciplined and enjoyed longer careers; Katulskaya sang until her old age, as did Khanaev, Lemeshev, and Kozlovsky. There also was a collegiality in the three conductors; Suk, regarded as the senior, with the mantle passing—following his death in 1933—to Pasovsky and Golovanov. In the 1930s and 1940s, erudite maestros in Steinberg, Nebolsin, and Fayer could transform ordinary musical material into brilliant theatrical pieces. Kondrashin recalled Vasilenko’s Children of the Sun, exiguous music, yet transformed magnificently by Alexander Pirogov and Glavira Zhukovskaya; Almas by Spendiarov; and The Queen of Spades, under Suk, proved memorable productions of the day. The normal work load for USSR People’s Artists was seven performances in a month; however, this could be restricted to as little as two or three in a four-week spell. The singers regarded themselves unnecessary for rehearsals and would rather practice at home, deeming themselves more valuable than the performance itself and refusing to acquiesce to the conductor’s demands. Samosud had turned the struggle for premieres into a marketplace. In the immediate prewar period, Samosud had staged Boris Godunov in Shostakovich’s orchestration, alternating two great basses in Mark Reizen and Alexander Pirogov. Reizen possessed an exceptional bass with a great dramatic edge while Pirogov’s clear and restrained voice, colorful and temperamental articulation, proved well matched to the role of Boris. There were two Pirogovs—brothers and equally fine voices—when Alexander was unwell, then Alexey Pirogov-Oksky would substitute. Samosud decided to resolve the selection dilemma for Boris Godunov inimitably by summoning Reizen: “Mark Osipovich, you should of course sing Boris, but you do know that Pirogov will also play Boris. Why lower yourself into competing with him? I have resolved that you should sing Salieri and that you will prepare with Lemeshev for the premiere of Mozart and Salieri; let this be a secret between us. I will send an accompanist to your flat so nobody will know about it.” The noble Reizen replied with satisfaction: “That’s fine; I will sing with pleasure.” The Bolshoi, in a short period, therefore, lost two great interpreters of Boris; just before the war, the Bolshoi boasted a star cluster of magnificent singers in Pirogov, Lemeshev, Kozlovsky, Reizen, Maksakova, Vera Davydova, Natalya Shpiller, and Kruglikova, all at their peak, yet they descended into petty trading between each other for the best roles.

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Thus, leading soloists took part in fewer performances, and many opera parts were given by artists of the second category—always prepared to sing on stage in whatever roles were assigned them. When Wagner’s Die Walküre was directed by Sergey Eisenstein, neither Pirogov nor Reizen sang, their parts given to Sergey Gotseridze and Dmitry Mchedeli, singers of middling resources. Reizen should have presented the role of the Wanderer—his interpretation of “Leb Wohl” in concert was out of this world. New young singers were recruited from Leningrad and other cities, among whom were Georgy Nelepp, Leokadiya Maslennikova, and Veronika Borisenko: the tenor, Nelepp, was an amazing vocalist with an extensive tessitura and a wonderful appetite for work. Nevertheless, on one occasion, Nelepp turned up at the theater, asking Kondrashin, “Kirill, I am really tired today—can I sing at half-voice?” To which Kondrashin replied, “Of course, George, you have the right.” However, the vocalist, through intuition began at his full range—singing at half-voice was unnatural for him, almost unethical. Nelepp, however, burned himself out, dying unusually young in 1953. The Leningrad-trained man possessed an unusually fresh timbre and was an excellent artist. On the roster, together with the matchless vocalists, there were also several fine tenors such as Alexey Serov, Solomon Khromchenko, and Anatoly Orfenov. Kirill Kondrashin would chat with his colleague Boris Pokrovsky: “In years to come people will talk of how they remember singers as Obukhova and others, but do you think future generations will reminiscence about Serov?”37 The star chamber rivalry at the theater led to circumstances that if a first category singer canceled due to illness, then he or she would have to be replaced by an artist of similar standing; a second rank singer would not be acceptable and vice versa. This system led to a decline in standards and endless bickering—if an artist of the lesser standard gave a premiere and then dropped out, a People’s Artist considered this as demotion, regardless of the role or opera. It was a constant struggle by the administration and conductors to avoid “bloodshed.” There were, however, singers who never descended to such behavior; the bass Maxim Mikhailov lacked formal training and studied for the priesthood in his youth. In 1946, when Kondrashin made a recording of The Snow Maiden, Mikhailov sang the part of Father Frost, and tired from the exhausting sessions, he would take out a cucumber to keep his voice fresh—he could reach quite diverse ranges of dynamics with this wonderful bass voice. He was also a great temperament in ensemble singing—always possessing high spirits and enthusiasm, helping to pull the collective through the trickiest numbers. Mikhailov was a favorite of Stalin’s and would be frequently invited to visit his dacha at Kuntsevo. Their acquaintance began in 1938 when he was

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invited to a government banquet in the Kremlin. Suddenly, a colonel asked Mikhailov to attend the leading table where the Soviet leader was seated; there was a vacant seat beside him, and Stalin wanted to toast the new singers of the Bolshoi Theatre. Mikhailov confessed that he was a little embarrassed because he was a former priest, and it might reflect badly for him. Stalin, however, responded, “Don’t worry, we know all about your background!” Mikhailov was an eccentric, bizarre personality; he kept a cow, pigs, and other animals at his home on the western fringes of the city, not far from Stalin’s dacha. At two o’clock in the middle of the night, a phone call would come from the Kremlin: “Comrade Maksim Dormidonovich, a car is on its way to pick you up, can you be ready in ten minutes?” Aware what it was for, in a few moments he was fully dressed and waiting for Stalin’s chauffeur, then was driven to Stalin’s dacha. There the Soviet leader would be seated, standing before him a bottle of Georgian “Khvanchkara.” Stalin said, “Well let’s have a drink Maksim.” Yet few words would be exchanged; for as much as four or five hours the two would sit there, quietly drinking the wonderfully aromatic, deep red wine until, at last, Stalin announced: “Well we’ve had a good time, thank you, my driver will take you back.”38 It appeared that it was Mikhailov’s quintessential charisma that allowed the elderly Soviet leader tranquillity and harmony—far from the stresses of the postwar years. During this phase, there prevailed a wave of pathological campaigns against different bands in Soviet society; Stalin personally possessed a suspicion of being poisoned. Stalin was frightened of being left alone, and Mikhailov’s presence in the middle of the night allowed him both relaxation and spiritual comfort. Others in Mikhailov’s position could easily have attempted to solicit some kind of help or assistance from the generalissimo, yet the vocalist would never cringe to gain any privileges for himself. Mikhailov’s interpretation of Susanin at the Bolshoi was an astonishing tour de force; his characterization was spellbinding. Mikhailov was never among those who consumed the specially prepared sandwiches of caviar and butter offered to all singers at the Bolshoi Theatre, so popular were these little bonuses for artists that people traded them on the black market! The latest chief conductor, Ariy Pasovsky, was a fascinating, albeit imposing, figure; Kondrashin became acquainted with his new head in Leningrad when Pasovsky was director at the Kirov Theatre. It was there that he trained many fine vocalists, including the magnificent Georgy Nelepp, who had previously been an amateur; Pasovsky taught him everything that he knew. The Odessa-born maestro also prepared Kashevarov and Fraidkov and brought the best out in them. They were not individually great singers, yet Pasovsky transformed them into fine artists blending well into the ensemble. Pasovsky, for Kondrashin, was the paradigm—a figure able to judge the psychology of

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musicians and derive the maximum from them, able to draw out the very best in whatever predicament. He would return to the original, forsaking revision by previous maestros, relentless in his work regime, the perfect epitome of professionalism. Pasovsky began preparations for a brand-new production with individual workouts with soloists, then in ensemble and orchestral runthroughs through to the dress rehearsal, always searching for something original—never repeating—all of which took a colossal cycle of effort.39 At the beginning of his tenure, Stalin, interested in what the repertoire of the Bolshoi would be in coming months, summoned Pasovsky. The new chief conductor informed the generalissimo, “We are considering The Enchantress. It is a very good opera by Tchaikovsky but not so popular. It’s a wonderful work but quite fortuitously forgotten.” Pasovsky carried through a modus operandi that had worked successfully at the Kirov. Stalin asked, “What about Eugene Onegin—is it performed in Moscow?” “No, it isn’t on just now.” “What about The Queen of Spades?” “No, it’s not on either.” Stalin then said, “It seems to me that it would be best to start with Eugene Onegin, The Queen of Spades, and then follow with The Enchantress.” Thus, Stalin informed Pasovsky how the season should develop, and no one at the Bolshoi thought first of this relatively simple formula!40 Everyone realized the public importance of his or her work: the Bolshoi was Moscow, and Moscow was the Soviet Union. Everything at the Bolshoi had to be right; all must be as clockwork—if something didn’t work properly, it was a bad opera and withdrawn under whatever pretext. One of Pasovsky’s prerequisites was to employ a shorthand secretary to document the sessions, something of a wonder that no one else before had made a transcript of an opera production. On reflection, Kondrashin, found them to be quite revealing and, to some extent, witty: “Rhythm is inner pulsation.” “Music is the living process of the human spirit.” “To find beauty, one must search within one self.” “To play in rhythm is to express.” “To feel the hand of time but not be a slave to rhythm.” “A rehearsal with nothing new learnt is detrimental.” These records were made during an incredible 120 rehearsals of Boris Godunov. The contradiction was that Pasovsky’s feeling for the emotion of music had little or nothing in common with what was happening on stage. The director could do whatever he liked as long as the music was right, contrary to Samosud’s credo. Pasovsky possessed an authority in which, at the rostrum, everyone submitted to his will; he had a natural gift of attaining the respect of his musicians. Yet, there were exceptions, and neither Pirogov nor Reizen wanted to sing his Boris because he demanded everyone attend rehearsals; this they

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refused to do, and, of course, Pasovsky removed them. The aggrieved vocalists complained to Voroshilov, and an outcry ensued as to why a People’s Artist was “forbidden” from singing Boris. However, Pasovsky was successful in building a fine artistic relationship with Mikhailov, who could assume Boris—nonetheless, the paradox was that it was this production of Boris Godunov that resulted in Pasovsky’s ultimate dismissal. In the year of victory over Nazi Germany—1945—six months were devoted to the selection of a new Soviet national anthem. Initially, there was a competition in the Union of Composers, yet everyone knew that Stalin himself preferred Alexander Vasilyevich Alexandrov’s “Hymn of the Bolsheviks,” calling it “a very successful song.” The text, written by Sergey Mikhailkov and El-Registan, matched the rhythm of the music.41 However, for the selection process itself, almost all participating composers, including Prokofiev and Shostakovich, tried to write something similar to this mantra so beloved of the Soviet leader. In all, some two hundred disparate hymns were composed, and all of which were heard by the jury at the Bolshoi Theatre. Ultimately, some fifteen or so were selected for a final round from which the winner would be chosen. The ultimate list included those by Prokofiev, Khachaturyan, Shostakovich, and Alexandrov. In the finals, the orchestra of the Bolshoi was directed by Melik-Pashayev. Several were already scored for full orchestra while Alexandrov’s had been orchestrated by Knushevitsky, the cello principal in the orchestra. At the final stage, Stalin summoned a group of senior composers for consultations; following the performance of all the hymns, Stalin invited the leading competitors to his suite—including Prokofiev, Khachaturyan, Shostakovich, and Alexandrov. Prokofiev was unwell and did not attend. The entire Politburo occupied the government loge—with the orchestra assembled on stage—before this select audience, the sole spectators being the NKVD bodyguard. The unusual circumstances led to confusion over who should enter Stalin’s box first—partly out of respect and in trepidation. Alexandrov nudged Shostakovich to enter first. Stalin was standing in the center with the Politburo standing submissively to the side. Shostakovich, with an incredible photographic memory, began saying “Hello” to each and every member of the Politburo, enumerating their Christian and patronymic names, fifteen in all, a chore in itself. Having observed this manifestation, Stalin invited the musicians to take a seat at his table. Smoking his perennial pipe, strolling up and down, Stalin turned to those seated and standing behind them, “Well comrades, before deciding which is most suitable of all the hymns that have been heard by us, we want to ask your advice. It seems to us the greatness of the land of Soviets is best of all characterized by the anthem of Professor . . .”—absent-mindedly nodding in Alexandrov’s direction.

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Alexandrov had taught Kondrashin solfeggio at the Conservatoire and since had become a leading figure in military band music and was one of the founders of the Soviet Armed Forces Song and Dance Ensemble. By the end of the war, he had become a highly influential figure in artistic circles and a close friend of the Soviet leader. His beloved song, “Hymn of the Bolsheviks,” had first been called “The Holy War.” Here in the loge, Alexandrov sat thinking to himself that everything was fine and that his song would be the national anthem of the Soviet Union. However, Stalin had not finished speaking, adding to the composer’s horror, addressing Alexandrov: “I would just like to say Professor that the orchestration is not very good.” It was true that there were weaknesses in his instrumentation, and its tonality was imprecise. Alexandrov had no recourse but to confess, “Yes, you are quite right, Iosif Vissarionovich, you are quite right, I didn’t have enough time and gave it to Knushevitsky to orchestrate and he did a bad job with it.” At this moment Shostakovich interrupted Alexandrov, “Alexander Vasilyevich! Be quiet! Aren’t you ashamed? How can anyone answer for your work but yourself, how can you criticise someone who isn’t here and who is your subordinate in army rank? Be quiet!” Following this outburst, there was a long pause. In Stalin’s presence, someone interrupting another in conversation was unprecedented—no one knew quite what to say. Everyone froze or looked downward and glanced nervously at each other, while Alexandrov’s face assumed a white mask, expecting the worst both for himself and his creativity. Indeed, it was Stalin who broke the chilling silence, “Ah well Professor, it hasn’t turned out very well.” Shostakovich was now questioned by the generalissimo as to what his opinion was, and the chivalrous composer conceded, “I agree with everyone—it’s an excellent anthem, yes, yes.”—repeating the last words was always a sign of uneasy emphasis by Shostakovich. The discussion was closed, and afterward the score given to Rogal-Levitsky to reorchestrate. Outside the room, Aram Khachaturyan—a long-time friend—asked Shostakovich why he had spoken so vehemently before Stalin; Shostakovich was not their favorite, and he was risking much after the condemnations of 1936. “I had to speak out and defend Knushevitsky. I don’t doubt that on the very next day Knushevitsky would be under threat of being arrested.”42 At the meeting, the conductor Melik-Pashayev had audaciously raised the matter of financing the orchestra, to which the Soviet leader responded that this was an excellent ensemble and then asked, “How much do they earn a month?” The conductor answered that the principals earn 1,200 rubles a month. Stalin complained that this was too little: “They should receive 6,000—what do you think Vyacheslav Mikhailovich?” he asked, addressing Molotov, who protested, “Wouldn’t that be excessive?” Stalin demurred, “Well we’ll think about it.” However, on the following day, it was announced

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that levels of pay for the orchestra would be from two to five thousand rubles a month; conductors would earn from six to nine thousand monthly. This salary scale remained in operation until the last years of Soviet power.43 The fees of leading singers in the case of Barsova, Reizen, Kozlovsky, and Lemeshev were on a par with an orchestral principal. That rating could not last for very long; however, within six months, leading singers and ballerinas salaries were raised to seven thousand rubles a month. This led to a chain of salary increases; Mravinsky, Golovanov, and Ivanov received raised salaries as did those at another four large symphony orchestras.44 Through his successful work on The Snow Maiden, Kondrashin had gained the eye of Stalin and was now regularly invited to undertake government gala concerts. This major state and Party event was the fruit of much sweat and toil at the Bolshoi; precision had to be structured as far as both program content and the performers’ reliability, all honed down to colorful effect and correctness. The evenings commemorated public holidays: May Day, the November celebrations, Stalin’s birthday, International Women’s Day, and the New Year. To ensure success, officials had to judge the mood and whims of the aging Soviet leader. The slightest mistake could earn his wrath and the consequent disappearance of an artist or, indeed, the organizers. For instance, when Maksakova sang the fashionable Russian folk song “Over the Fields,” it was clear that he liked it, as he did Davydova’s arioso from The Maid of Orleans. When such acts won favor, they would become omnipresent. The selection was invariably of the song and dance variety, patriotic and upbeat, encompassing a traditional first half of academic performances; after which, variety and light music would complete the evening. These concerts were prepared thoroughly, and during which, the Bolshoi Theatre effectively curtailed its activities. An extraordinary incident occurred when, after several years of conducting such performances, a fine young singer, Yevgeniya Smolenskaya, was chosen to sing just one aria from an opera by Tchaikovsky. The control commission, however, preferred a popular ballad. Thus, they rehearsed the piece on the eve of the concert, yet going on stage, Kondrashin and the orchestra found quite different music before them—the original aria by Tchaikovsky. The poor soprano on stage had no option but to sing the Tchaikovsky, so, having whispered to his principals to play by memory, Kondrashin conducted—anything else would have led to great embarrassment; factually, no one seemed to notice. Ruben Vartanyan was the “impresario” for these events, yet he exceeded his ambition by trying to bribe his son into the finals of a prestigious conducting competition—for which, he paid dearly. He was severely criticized by the Party and sacked, ignominiously suffering a heart attack in the process. It was paradoxical that these elaborate spectaculars presented both the best and worst of Soviet performing art. Sometimes circus clowns would appear in

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the finale, or the crimson curtains would open to reveal the Alexandrov Red Army Ensemble for one or two patriotic choruses. So incongruous were these shows that soloists would not even bother singing, just miming the words. On one occasion, Shostakovich was requested to orchestrate popular songs “Warshavyanka,” “Comrades, Bravely to Your Feet,” “Song of the Motherland,” and others written by Dunayevsky. These involved four soloists and mixed choir with interludes between each piece. The composer was not present for the rehearsals, and they started without him; the conductor on duty was Konstantin Ivanov, accompanying Natalya Shpiller, Georgy Nelepp, Yelizaveta Antonova, and Mark Reizen, who sang out of sync with his partners. Ivanov pulled the bass up abruptly, “Mark Osipovich, please sing as in the text.” However, Reizen countered “Don’t teach me how to sing!” Nevertheless, Ivanov persisted, “Dunayevsky wrote it so, please sing as written.” Reizen angrily retorted, “Don’t teach me. Who are you? I am a People’s Artist of the USSR and you are just a young conductor.” Ivanov exploded, “Yes you are a People’s Artist, and you’re shit!” Hearing these words, Reizen picked up his chair and was about to throw it at poor Ivanov until Nelepp restrained him. Reizen said that he would not sing under Ivanov again which meant that Kondrashin replaced Ivanov. Kondrashin could not save the situation from becoming an unfortunate performance, which led to the prominent Party hack, Scherbakov, in the government loge complaining that Shostakovich had ruined such fine songs by his meddling.45 During Pasovsky’s tenure, Kondrashin and Pokrovsky worked on Anatoly Alexandrov’s opera Bella, based on Lermontov’s romantic novella A Hero of Our Time. This premiere was given in the second theater, on November 29, 1946, and starred leading artists Shpiller and Kruglikova, who shared the heroine’s part, and soloists of the first rank took the comprimario roles—Pavel Lisitsian played Kazbich; Sergey Krasovsky played Maxim Maximytch; and Alexandra Scherbakova took Dukhanschitsa on the first night. Every singer counted on either Kondrashin or Pokrovsky in the production, and this enmity led to some bizarre moments; however, the two friends laughed it off. The staging suffered partly through the music and the settings: A prominent review questioned what were considered shortcomings in the production. “I would have preferred Alexandrov’s music to offer more scope, more movement for both singers and dancers.”46 Another eleven performances were given until it was withdrawn on May 11, 1947. Not withstanding Dmitryev’s unrecognized efforts on Bella, the problem lay wholly in Alexandrov’s lackluster composition. Pasovsky came in to listen to the general rehearsal and cried out for all to hear: “This is pathetic music, there is no freedom for a singer to sing, the score is symphonic, there is nothing for the soloist, and the orchestral music is all over the place, what

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can one do about it?”47 That was Pasovsky’s final word, and nothing could save it from ignominious failure. An important relationship, concurrent with that enjoyed with Pokrovsky, was the collaboration with the theatrical designer, Vladimir Dmitryev; following the first success with The Snow Maiden during the war, the rapport between them developed. The Leningrad man was au courant with Sollertinsky and Shostakovich and shared a love for the music of Berg, Bruckner, Mahler, and Krenek. Subsequent to their partnership on Bella, the association continued with Smetana’s The Bartered Bride and Serov’s The Force of Evil. The incongruity was in that Dmitryev’s artistic talents were instinctive—a rare visionary in the theater. Through several postwar seasons, a strong kinship integrated Kondrashin, Pokrovsky, and Dmitryev; each evening, they would sit up to two or three at night, discussing future projects. Dmitryev would sketch his prosaic plans while his colleagues laughed and joked at their irrationality, ultimately breaking up and making their own way home in the early hours. On one occasion, following the dispatch of his work to Ufa, far off in the Urals, Dmitryev was asked, “Vladimir Vladimirovich, have you read the script of this play?” Dmitryev responded, “No, I haven’t but the designs are quite impressive, don’t you think?” The artistic teamwork came to a sudden end when Dmitryev died of a heart attack at the peak of his creative power, at an age of only forty-eight. His artistic genius decorated innumerable triumphs at the Kirov, Moscow Arts Theatre, Bolshoi, Maly Theatre, and venues across the length and breadth of the country, in more than three hundred different productions. Dmitryev possessed an ironic sense of humor; joking to his friends, saying, “Don’t touch me when I am gone.” Another typical anecdote was: “An alcoholic is someone who drinks vodka, sometimes there comes a time when he feels like drinking, yet a drunkard drinks and eats at the same time!” Ariy Pasovsky’s period of tenure at the Bolshoi Theatre was star-crossed; he only undertook one and a half operas there. If Ivan Susanin scored a triumph, the new Boris required approval by several government commissions, and gangs of musicologists would discuss one or other facet before granting consent. The first audition was undertaken by Khrapchenko from the Committee of Arts; Khrapchenko was no musician but a literary scholar and, nonetheless, someone who Kondrashin thought well of. Khrapchenko possessed the flair of judging Stalin’s whims and what he wished for in a theater production, which proved to be old-fashioned and traditional.48 The endless debates revolved around scenery, decorations, and whether the Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed be recreated on stage. Finally, Stalin came to see for himself. Almost inevitably, there appeared a major article in Pravda stating that the opera could not be staged without the Kromy scene and that Boris’s

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death as a finale was ignoble. For these “mistakes,” Pasovsky was ultimately removed as artistic director and chief conductor. In Pokrovsky’s new Eugene Onegin, the role of Gremin was taken by Ivan Petrov and then shared with Pirogov, agreeing with both singers that Reizen would also sing the part, so no clashes could arise. In the rehearsal, Reizen refused to enter the left-sided door on to stage, insisting he come through the central entrance; he was told that the choir would make him look out of place, eventually conceding to go out the left-sided access. Similar caprices arose over which chair he would sit on. The affair developed into farce—at the end of which, stagehands penciled “Reizen’s Chair” on the prominent stage prop.49 The means by which Mark Reizen appeared at the Bolshoi were wholly due to the whim of the Soviet leader. Stalin heard his singing during a weeklong Festival of Leningrad Music in the capital before the war and personally invited Reizen to the Bolshoi. Reizen naively questioned the leader: “Comrade Stalin, what about my family, and flat back in Leningrad? I will require permission from the theatre.” Stalin replied, “Don’t worry about it, and don’t worry about a flat in Moscow. You will have everything necessary for your work.”50 Kondrashin and Pokrovsky were given Alexander Serov’s late-romantic The Force of Evil. This was acting upon a proposal by academician Boris Asafyev, the foremost musicologist from Leningrad. Kondrashin’s first glance at the score took him aback: it was written as if by a layman—in actuality, following the composer’s death, the work was disastrously completed by his widow. It would be inconceivable that either Pirogov or Reizen could sing the complex key part of Yeremka and, indeed, both declined; however, a savior was discovered in a brilliant young singer from Sverdlovsk—Ivan Petrov. Ultimately, it would be Petrov who would assume the role made famous by Shalyapin some fifty years before. Conversely, with such an insipid orchestral score, both Kondrashin and Pokrovsky had to undertake a new-fangled performing edition. Kondrashin himself wrote out fresh vocal parts for the leading singers; another “assistant” appeared in Boris Asafyev. He rewrote the libretto and put right errors in the music. They made the work closer to Alexander Ostrovsky’s play Don’t Live as You Want To, upon which the opera is based; it had been influenced by the Russian naturalist “lubok” movement yet, for its time, seemed quite out of place. Boris Pokrovsky recalled the association with Asafyev: The Force of Evil was almost impossible to stage—it had a very bad printed edition—so we turned to Asafyev, who treated us like his own children. We ate heartily with him, who being an academician enjoyed special rations, and it soon turned out that we went there to eat as much as to discuss music. He was in his element because young people came to [see] him. His wife and sister seemed

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to dream about us coming to sample their meat pies. We were really starving in those days, so we consumed as much as we could. There was always a third person present—one of his students, a student who later taught at the Leningrad Conservatoire—so we sat there in his flat just opposite the Bolshoi [Asafyev was a consultant of the theatre]. He reminisced about Shalyapin, Rimsky-Korsakov, about the former Mariinsky, all so interesting, invoking Rimsky-Korsakov; he made him seem alive, with his beard, and his facial characteristics, making him like a friend of ours. This helped us beyond words. Asafyev edited the score and dramatization of this completely new version; this was a labour of love directing a Russian opera, lacking any revolutionary motives, simply a Russian work, nothing else. Together with Kondrashin, we staged The Force of Evil, taking the best young singers and it became a success, a real triumph . . . Now the theatre had to take note of Pokrovsky and Kondrashin.51

The greatest conundrum before this production was the opera’s concluding Fifth Act. However, with the opening rehearsals, there remained so many flaws that orchestral musicians became tetchy: “The first Four Acts are Serov’s—and the Fifth is Shit.” Boris Asafyev persistently improved the musical text, so when the stage premiere was given, the performance actually was very successful despite weaknesses in the music. Natalya Sokolova magnificently sang the leading part as did Alexander Hesson who took the tenor role. The most remarkable aspects of the opera were in the beautiful, festive scene of Maslennitsa [Russian spring festival], surprisingly anticipating Stravinsky’s Petrushka, which was composed thirty years later!52 Kondrashin ultimately judged Serov as an ambiguous figure: “Some of his music is revelatory, unusually so, despite much of the music being dark, there are many instances of clear genius.” Dmitryev created marvelous scenery and decorations, evocative of a Russian religious holiday atmosphere, producing a breathtaking picture shot through with bright primary colors. The premiere opened on May 13, 1947, the first new opera production in four months, and became the succès fou of the season.53 The Force of Evil caused a tremendous impression on both critics and the Moscow public; actors from the Moscow Arts Theatre came to see Ostrovsky’s conception transformed. The first to be delighted with this creation was Khrapchenko himself, and he immediately proposed moving it to the main building of the theater, so Stalin could see it (the Soviet leader rarely visited the branch theater). Yet, it could only be programmed for 1948 and had to wait until the ultimate honor could be awarded to the project team—that of the Stalin Prize. Such was the furor that Leningraders traveled through to see the show. This triumph established Pokrovsky, Dmitryev, and Kondrashin as a formidable artistic partnership, for their work was flourishing and winning recognition; following the flawed Bella, they had succeeded with a brilliant

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follow-up in The Force of Evil and their third venture—soon to be staged— The Bartered Bride, which would also merit a Stalin Prize. It now seemed these young men—one stage designer, a producer, and a conductor—could do anything at the Bolshoi, epitomizing the highest artistic standards. Kondrashin’s relationship with Pokrovsky was unique, but they were quite different people. Kirill was neat as a new pin, whereas I was the opposite. Kirill was a great ladies man . . . who conducted in his free time54 . . . Together we staged Halka [Moniusko] using new texts indeed we made a musical edition, technically a new score with deference to Poland. Then we staged [with Melik-Pashayev] Erkel’s opera Bank Ban in deference to Hungary. At that time, there appeared new republics with whom we became friendly and it was considered necessary that such friendship should be in actions not words. Therefore, we staged their finest operas, each of which had parallels with Ivan Susanin. It was a political gesture, but in reality, the Bolshoi made productions with the most cherished music of their countries; Erkel, Smetana, Moniusko. Kirill loved to work on the texts of these works. He enjoyed a wonderful collaboration with Mikhailkov.55

Out with the Bolshoi Theatre, Samosud invited Boris Pokrovsky to prepare the premiere of Prokofiev’s War and Peace, and almost immediately, the composer handed the piano score to him. The producer studied the movements for Natasha and asked the composer if this was all. Sergey Sergeyevivich [Prokofiev] laughed “I can see that he’s from the Bolshoi Theatre! They only want waltzes, polonaises and krakowiaks.” Pokrovsky countered saying, “I won’t put it on without a waltz. Tolstoy set a waltz in this scene and that’s how it should be. I will not do it otherwise. It is irrational without a waltz!” Pokrovsky returned to Moscow. Three days later, Pokrovsky got a package with several pages of music. He opened it and sensed that here was what he wanted. Samosud played the music through and exclaimed, “It’s a magnificent waltz!”56 Some good tidings arrived for Kondrashin with the news that his old friend Nikolay Nikitovich Goryaninov, a former producer at the Maly Theatre, was appointed as deputy to Khrapchenko. Now the staff conductor had a strong and influential ally at the Committee of Arts. The year was 1947, and the main production scheduled at the Bolshoi Theatre to celebrate thirty years of Soviet power was to be Vano Muradeli’s new stage work. The opera was entitled The Extraordinary Commissar, based on the Bolshevik revolutionary takeover of the Caucasus, yet the title was changed and used different producers for each of the three acts. The Extraordinary Commissar had

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already been performed in Tbilisi, Donetsk, and elsewhere and was well set for its Moscow opening. Alexey Ivanov performed the main part brilliantly; the music was in itself orthodox and traditionally written, yet the dilemma was that Ordzhonikidze, Stalin’s old ally and comrade (he had committed suicide in the 1930s), was given too prominent a role. The Extraordinary Commissar, which ultimately caused such ignominy, went through several producers and was ultimately renamed The Great Friendship, modifying those scenes involving characterizations of former political leaders in Kirov and Ordzhonikidze. Conductors came and went; the final choice fell on Alexander Melik-Pashayev. Although singers remained constant, scenes were cut or restored, and the whole affair assumed a kaleidoscopic nature, lacking either cohesion or an integral plot. The entire project was a disaster waiting to happen, and when Stalin ultimately appeared at one of the previews, all hell broke loose. A declamatory article appeared in Pravda, and a special meeting of the Central Committee was summoned. Andrey Zhdanov, Politboro member responsible for culture, spoke on the need to make music more beautiful and attractive so as to be understood better by the people. The resolution adopted by the meeting was discussed at the theater, with artists being both colorful and aggressive in language, while others only tried to make a name for themselves by agreeing with everything that was said by Zhdanov. A host of leading composers, including Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Myaskovsky, and Khachaturyan, were castigated and lost their professorships at the Moscow Conservatoire. The most significant consequences for the Bolshoi were that panic ensued among artists as to who would or wouldn’t get their Stalin Prizes. The greatest corollary was that little Soviet opera would be staged there because few composers wanted to risk fresh censure in contemporary repertoire. The producer of The Great Friendship was Leonid Vasilyevich Baratov, who did a reasonable job of work; however, representatives from Stary Ploschad [Party headquarters] arrived to judge it—they never knew what they had to say or what they had to do—they were cheerless souls. They were only aware that they should put the brakes on it or forgo permission for its performance; on what basis, no one really knew. It was resolved that Baratov was past it for this piece, and Pokrovsky was appointed to take charge. He staged it as well as his predecessor—nothing fundamental could be changed to improve it as an artistic work. “Any director is naïve if he thinks he can save a failed opera that possesses no real musical dramaturgy, no true exciting climaxes. Nature enlightens that one must do the best whatever the material given. Ordzhonikidze, the baritone—Alexey Petrovich Ivanov, played the main hero. It was said that upon hearing Ivanov singing Stalin exclaimed

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‘Ah, how brave he is!’ Everyone believed the failure was due to the political roles depicting Ordzhonikidze and Kirov; nothing however could be further from the truth because the music itself was poor and the subject material so nondescript and quite unworthy of such a major production.”57 All of Prokofiev’s stage works disappeared as his music was considered formalist; he was accused as among the apologists of modernism. As the musicologist Andronikov wrote, “The music of Prokofiev, Shebalin, Shostakovich, and Myaskovsky lit the flames. Prokofiev fell into difficult times through lack of work.”58 Apart from the Conservatoire, other educational institutions incurred repressions; as a consequence of the anti-cosmopolitanism campaign, the Gnessin Music Institute received commands and notices from higher bodies to fire various members of staff, the most distinguished being the composer and teacher Mikhail Gnessin. “Yelena Fabianovna Gnessina felt how differently her relations changed with the Committee of Arts. She discovered the intimidating reports and slanderous letters given against her and Mikhail Fabianovich.”59 Sadly, there was no other course but to release her brother from his teaching duties so as to avoid a worse fate. With the sudden withdrawal of The Great Friendship from the Bolshoi, after occupying the stage for several months, the revised Bolshoi Theatre schedule designated that Serov’s The Force of Evil was now to be staged there. Goryaninov, following his own viewing of The Force of Evil, met with Kondrashin and Pokrovsky at the Bolshoi to discuss the staging. He expressed himself a supporter of the production, but it looked a whole lot better on the smaller stage of the branch theater; on the enormous stage of the Bolshoi Theatre it would look less impressive. In the second scene set in the merchant’s house, everything is lush and colorful, yet later in the second act’s tavern scene, the Russian peasant is portrayed as a drunken worker (this was Goryaninov speaking after hearing Zhdanov’s speech about presenting the Russian people as intelligent and good-looking). The Maslennitsa scene did not come off so well, “Here Pokrovsky spoke in defence and Bondarenko interrupted him to stop an argument . . . Eventually the director conceded ‘We’ll make the changes necessary, don’t worry about it.’”60 The Force of Evil was revamped to accommodate the bigger stage area, complying with Goryaninov’s conception. Pokrovsky’s insistence on not touching the Maslennitsa scene was respected. Nevertheless, the omnipotent Committee of Arts castrated the production so as to mollify Stalin and attain the prestigious government decree. Kondrashin and Pokrovsky’s The Force of Evil incongruently assumed center stage at the Bolshoi Theatre and attracted packed houses throughout this black period of Soviet music. Serov’s opera was nominated for the Stalin prize (proposed by the now distraught Khrapchenko); no announcement was

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issued, however, and no one knew what his or her fate held. However, the shock waves of the Party resolution swept the arts world; Khrapchenko was removed overnight as was the director of the Bolshoi. The theater director, Bondarenko, was also sacked, and in his place was appointed Solodovnikov, whose previous function was as an assistant to Khrapchenko and who had originally suggested The Force of Evil to the Bolshoi. Solodovnikov was more than a proficient theatrical worker, intelligent and righteous, probably the finest ever incumbent in the post, an astute organizer, cultured and diplomatic enough to negotiate a way through any conflict. In the new regime, many changes were made to the structure of the Bolshoi; the number of performances increased to the point that both theaters were being used constantly, with some ten fresh productions introduced through a short period. At last, correcting past mistakes, for the third and final time, Golovanov assumed the artistic directorship in addition to his conducting responsibilities. One of Solodovnikov’s first tasks was to restore the belligerents Pirogov and Reizen to the theatre roster; earlier, they simply received their salaries and kept quiet—now they began singing again albeit in lesser operas. On its revival, the Stalin Prize Committee auditioned Serov’s opera in its entirety. Following lengthy debates by the forty members, nine people agreed to award it the second rank decoration, one voted for the first rank honor, and thirty voted against giving any prize. Yet this was not the final matter, several weeks passed without any public announcement. Kondrashin and his colleagues believed that nothing would be granted; usually the prizes were always declared in February, and it was now springtime. However, on one fine Sunday morning in late April, the director phoned Kondrashin to tell him that they were switching the ballet scheduled that evening for Serov’s work. Kondrashin was to come and personally conduct for Stalin who had finally resolved to see it himself. The performance began; the curtains opened; everything went well as hoped, but at the end, the conductor could only see that Stalin had left the auditorium without having said a word to anyone. The following day it was announced that the Bolshoi production of Serov’s opera The Force of Evil had won the Stalin prize first rank, the sole winner of the award that year. The voting by the commission had not influenced anyone, and Stalin had determined as he saw fit. Some years later, Stalin came to hear the opus once more—by this time he trusted no one and sat in his box completely alone. On this occasion, Borisenko could not sing, and her replacement’s lack of charisma led the management to have concerns that Stalin would be upset. Kondrashin heard that at the end of the fourth act, Stalin called in Solodovnikov. Stalin said that he was well pleased by the performance—believing it a democratic

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progression in music and remarking on the fine young singers in the performance. His complaints were not on the musical aspect but on its staging. He said that the merchant’s house was remarkable, more like the residence of the intelligentsia. “I remember how merchants lived, I spent a few nights in them myself, and I remember what they were like.”61 The production crew resolved that they could settle this flaw in the production quickly enough. The Bolshoi had long since become the court theater where Stalin used to make actors and singers juggle, playing one off against the other. The theater director during Pasovsky’s short reign was Kalishyan—in reality, the “director” was his deputy Leontyev. This was a brilliantly talented organizer, very wise and possessing that rare gift of keeping everyone happy at the same time. Later, he acted as the “impresario” for prestigious Kremlin concerts—without Leontyev, nothing happened at the Bolshoi. When Bondarenko replaced Kalishyan, Leontyev remained; still, everything went through him. The year 1948, a year of calamity for Soviet music, was paradoxically of great and unexpected success for Kirill Kondrashin. In time, the makeover in Soviet music and society would itself beckon him to make the foremost development in his career.

NOTES 1. Nikolay Golovanov, RGALI, f. 962, op.3, d.64, l.2, ob. 2. Anton Antonov-Ovseenko, Teatr Iosifa Stalina (Moscow: Gregory-Page, 1995), 131. 3. V. I. Lenin, A. V. Lunacharsky: vospominanie i vpechatlenie (Moscow: Sovetskaya Rossia, 1968), 195. 4. Samosud came to the attention of the Soviet leader when he directed a series of performances in Moscow at the Maly Theatre, and their discussion on opera was published in the central press and followed by the appointment to the chief conductorship of the Bolshoi. 5. Colonel James Henry Mapleson, The Mapleson Memoirs: The Career of an Operatic Impresario, 1858–1888 (London: Remington and Company, 1888; London: Putnam, 1966), 235. 6. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper: Besedi Boris Pokrovskogo S Alloi Bogdanovoi (Moscow: Moscow Conservatoire, 2001), 19. 7. Boris Pokrovsky, RansheiTeper, 42–43. 8. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper, 20–21. 9. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 88. 10. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper, 44. 11. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 88–89.

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12. A. Sh. Melik-Pashayev, “Vdokhnovenny muzikant,” Sovetsky Artist (May 15, 1964). 13. Special report from the GUGB NKVD SSSR Secret Political Department “On the reaction of the artists of the Bolshoi Theatre to the awarding of orders and the bestowing of honorary titles,” RGASPI, f.17, op.163, d.1151, ll.110–115.Original. Typewritten. June 3, 1937. 14. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 98. 15. This conversation took place at the flat of Antonina Nezhdanova, wife of the former chief conductor, Nikolay Golovanov. 16. Samosud means self-judgment. 17. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 46–47. 18. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 47–48. 19. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 49. 20. A. Sh. Melik-Pashayev, “Vdokhnovenny muzikant.” 21. In the 1960s, the second theater became the Palace of Congresses. 22. This was a performance given by Yevgeny Mravinsky at the Great Hall of the Conservatoire. 23. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, (Ann Arbor, MI: Ermitage, 1983), 39. 24. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 101. 25. V. I. Zarubin, Bolshoi Teatr: pervii postanovki oper na russkoi stene 1825– 1993 (Moscow, Ellis Lak, 1994), 191–92. 26. V. I. Zarubin, Bolshoi Teatr, 190; as told by M. Gabovich. 27. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 100–1. 28. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut iz Bolshovo Teatra (Moscow: ART, 1992), 24–25. 29. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 102. 30. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 220–22. 31. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 102. 32. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 105. 33. A. Sh. Melik-Pashayev, “Vdokhnovenny muzikant.” 34. Boris Khaikin, “Kak my rabotali,” Sovetskaya Muzika 5 (May 1975): 92. 35. Samosud later revived the Moscow Philharmonic and organized a symphony orchestra at Moscow Radio, specializing in opera, undertaking once more War and Peace and, notably, Die Meistersingers. However, the auxiliary Radio Orchestra was broken up in 1953 due to lack of funding. The Philharmonic took in the musicians, creating a second orchestra under their auspices, as happened at Mravinsky’s Philharmonic in Leningrad. In his late years, Samosud once again raised the wherewithal for an opera symphonic orchestra and set up a series of performances in the capital, revealing his fresh ideas for operatic production. To the end of the veteran conductor’s life, Kondrashin kept in touch, often taking him tapes of recordings that he made, including Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony. 36. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 25–28. 37. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 95. 38. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 97.

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39. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 106–7. 40. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 67–68. 41. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 119. 42. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 121–22. 43. Author. 44. The orchestras were the Kirov Opera and Ballet Theatre, the Large Symphony of Soviet Radio, and the Ukrainian State Opera and Ballet. 45. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 127–28. 46. K. Kuznetsov, “Neskolko zamechanii k postanovke operi Bela,” Sovetsky Artist No.10 (October 1946), 5. 47. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 110. 48. In later years, Khrapchenko became a leading authority on Gogol, writing numerous works on literature of the early nineteenth century and was elected to the Academy of Sciences. 49. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 111–12. 50. Anton Antonov-Ovseenko, Teatr Iosifa Stalina, 137. 51. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 220–22. 52. It is known that the young Stravinsky was familiar with the opera, having heard his father sing the opera at the Mariinsky Theatre. 53. V. I. Zarubin, Bolshoi Teatr, 252. 54. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 222–23. 55. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 223. 56. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 284–85. 57. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 67. 58. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 143. 59. Margarita Rittikh, O nastavnike i druge: Yelena Fabianovna Gnessina (Moscow: Praktika, 2003), 41. 60. B. A. Pokrovsky, Ranshe i Teper, 68. 61. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 116.

6 The Bolshoi: Golovanov’s Swansong 1948–1956

The few who went to the heart of things And laid the laws of life before the world Were crucified or else consumed by fire, As you were, I think, already told Goethe Faust

The appointment of Nikolay Semenovich Golovanov as chief conductor proved inauspicious for Kondrashin as it followed upon the successful The Force of Evil. The engagement of the veteran maestro both heralded a late golden era and a restoration for the company. No one at the theater could equal Golovanov’s seasoned mastery of both orchestra and the singers at his disposal; petty rivalry was, at last, swept away, allowing opera to triumph. When Golovanov emphasized repertoire in the Russian nationalist school, he ingeniously arranged the work for his staff conductors. Nevertheless, for some, there were exceptions; Golovanov had no little antipathy for Kondrashin’s activity in the Communist Party cell and begrudged him his recent accomplishments. Nikolay Golovanov had a history of disputes with the authorities yet possessed like no other—an aura of personality. In 1929, Golovanov had been dismissed as chief conductor, earning the anger of Stalin who wrote to the then director: “Golovanovschina [the Golovanov affair] is an anti-Soviet disorder. It doesn’t follow that Golovanov himself can’t change, that he cannot relinquish his own errors, and that he must be followed and smeared, so that as a result of such smears, we’ll make him go abroad.”1 This is the text of a letter from Stalin to a journalist. An example of the veteran maestro’s lack of enthusiasm for the regime was when he was commissioned to orchestrate and record the communist anthem “The Internationale”; the Party paper, Pravda, 115

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commentated that the reworking “suffers from obvious disrespect to the great hymn of the international proletariat.”2 Golovanov was of the old guard, from prerevolutionary times, devoutly religious, and the zeal of a much younger man placed him at a disadvantage. In the wake of his success, Kondrashin was appointed deputy secretary of the Party organization at the Bolshoi, an unenviable position in the new regime at the theater. Not withstanding his prowess in several fine productions, Kondrashin earned distrust from the chief conductor who feared his young rival both as a proponent of officialdom and as a young “beau.” Golovanov had his own favorites at the Kremlin in Marshal Voroshilov, and now, Kondrashin could be at the center of a struggle for influence. Nikolay Golovanov’s final period at the Bolshoi Theatre proved both momentous and celebrated—marking the end of a historical phase and a watershed between the last remnants of the pre-1917 Bolshoi and the “new” Soviet opera. The change in generations marked the close of a “golden age” of singing at the Bolshoi Theatre—never to return. Golovanov was a phenomenon who possessed both an inopportune artistic disposition and a detrimental sophistication. Most of his solid work was assured, conducting triumphant performances; nevertheless, there was sometimes unveiled bizarre and cheap experimentation—often exaggerating the music at too slow or too fast a pace. Golovanov loved to add double basses or extra woodwind to certain works in trying to add extra effects; also he would include harps or percussion instruments absent from the score. He romanticized the scoring and did not always match the composer’s conception, least of all in Russian works. “When one thinks of the performing model of Nikolay Semenovich Golovanov, there emerges the monumental imagery of Vasnetsov’s Bogatyri (The Heroes), the all-powerful giants of Russian fairytale epics.”3 However, in a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Golovanov added a tuba quite out of character with its idiom. He was accused of making Ravel sound more like Ravel—increasing the bass in the orchestra. For any concert, Golovanov never used less than ten double basses, and more would often be added. This almost inevitably led to anecdotes among musicians about his alterations, “playing as if Ravel’s mother would play it.”4 However, to his credit, Golovanov would enrich the sound world and dynamics of a work. Kondrashin heard this for himself in a production of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Sadko, in April 1949, where he introduced a celesta and glockenspiel, writing in flageolets and selecting different tempi. This neglected opera became at once exhilarating and colorful; Kondrashin discovered in Golovanov’s inventive effect on orchestral shading and energy a fresh means of musical expression. One of Golovanov’s great revivals, following upon his Boris of 1948, was the brilliant 1950 production of Khovanschina: he unveiled a grossly ignored and misunderstood opus by discarding

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Rimsky-Korsakov’s nondescript orchestration. Golovanov restored Musorgsky’s original writing, penciling quite different instruments into the score, improving it beyond recognition. The old master improved the dramaturgy by altering diverse tempi. Golovanov always found the golden key in Russian music, sensing the essence and artistic core of a work, opening it out for his audiences in a multicolored sonic tapestry. Regardless of the transition from forte to fortissimo and exaggerating nuances, its timbre and musical culminations never failed to create a shattering impression. The leading soprano Natalya Shpiller gave a fine judgment of the maestro: “Undoubtedly, apart from his musical talent, Golovanov possessed huge knowledge and extensive sophistication. He brilliantly controlled the working methods of orchestra, chorus, and soloists; from the smallest detail he knew the most intricate technicalities in building an operatic performance. Being an authority on painting and a fine judge of dramaturgy, Golovanov always led the production of the Bolshoi and through his energy astonished everyone. His plans were clearly thought-out down to the finest degree and he fulfilled it with outstanding conviction.”5 There were many illustrious tales vis-à-vis Golovanov; Kondrashin discovered an ambiguous characteristic in the veteran maestro. In his everyday life, Nikolay Semenovich could be the most enchanting, charming human being, loving to joke, high spirited, adoring, good company; however, upon ascending the rostrum, the conductor Golovanov became a quite different person. His behavior was akin to that of a wild animal; countering with fierce anger and bitterness to the slightest imprecision by his musicians. Each and every musician knew that the most terrible consequence would be due if they made the least mistake or error. “Any negligent soloists, who hadn’t practiced and were unprepared, Golovanov mercilessly threw them out; he would never tolerate any indifference or lackadaisical attitudes.”6 During preparations for Sadko, Golovanov admonished the principal cello Adamov: “What chord was that you played? The devil take you!” Commanding the cello section: “Take this b major chord at c sharp on four strings—sforzando!” Adamov played sforzando—but instead produced a squeaking sound, which only caused laughter. With this turn, the conductor became angry: “Young man—how long have you worked in the orchestra? You don’t know how to play at all. Devil take you!” Throughout the rehearsal, Golovanov shouted at the poor cellist, adding the extra insult, “Aha and your wife can’t sing either!” [Adamov’s spouse was a singer at the Bolshoi] No offence was too little for the veteran conductor. Golovanov’s derisory etiquette in working with musicians did not deter him from concertizing all over the Soviet Union. The maestro was constantly in demand; as part of a tradition of Byelorussian weekly arts festivals, both

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Nezhdanova and Golovanov were invited to give concerts in Minsk. There they were assigned a large suite of rooms taking up the entire floor of a hotel. However, they were so modest that they didn’t use them, sharing just one room! Before the war, the cello principal of the Bolshoi, Svyatoslav Knushevitsky, accompanied the pair on a concert tour to the Caucasus holiday resorts, Nezhdanova singing to Golovanov’s accompaniment (he was an impeccable pianist). When playing Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninov romances, following the concluding chord, Golovanov loved to add “pri-pum,” Nezhdanova complained, “Kolya, it’s really not written here.” Nikolay Semenovich countered, “Ah you know, they’ll forgive me!” On tour, in the summer resort of Kislovodsk, Knushevitsky noticed how they would check their accounts every evening. The party would sit in the restaurant, and Golovanov would announce “Well, Antonina Vasilyevna, let’s tot up for today. This is what lunch cost, here you asked for flowers”—“Nikolay Semenovich, but you gave me the flowers!” The discourteous spouse retorted, “What give you flowers? No, I think you must account for them!” Similar to little children, the couple were quite unaware of how they should behave in public. Circumspect to the smallest degree, Golovanov was always his own man, and there was good reason for his penny pinching: he collected paintings—sometimes bought at quite extortionate prices. He had wonderful artifacts in their apartment; among them were famous canvases from the nineteenth century, including the finest works by Russian painters—Kramskoy, Nesterov, and Ivanov. He also acquired old bibles, possessing five rare copies of The Apocalypse in different printings; there were a vast collection of icons, all of his money going on this hoarding of priceless treasures. There were no children in the marriage; Nezhdanova died in 1950, and upon his own death three years later, everything was left to his spinster sister, who had dedicated her life to Nikolay Semenovich, and in turn, the art collection was given to the state. The paintings were, unfortunately, scattered among different galleries, and the flat close to the Conservatoire was transformed into a branch of the Glinka Museum of Music.7 Golovanov, nevertheless, had a malignant “recreation” in his appropriation of scores; should music fall into his hands, there was absolutely no chance of getting them back. Some time later, when he was asked to prepare a performance of Rachmaninov’s The Bells, Kondrashin discovered that Golovanov had the conductor’s score on loan from the Bolshoi Theatre library. Kondrashin approached him for use of the copy: “Nikolay Semenovich, I have just a poor edition, it’s very difficult to read such small text, can you loan me your print?” The veteran conductor responded hopefully, “I’ll have a look out for it.” However, just a few days later, Golovanov reported, “No, sorry I can’t find it.” However, much later, visiting Golovanov on a separate matter, Kondrashin noticed the

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score lying in the most conspicuous place on his desk! There were thousands of manuscripts, all with his famous correction markings in red or blue pencil. The penciling was so deeply etched on the paper, it was quite impossible to remove—they were there for eternity. He never allowed anyone else to make changes to the orchestral parts—painstakingly doing it all himself; if Golovanov desired a change during rehearsal, for instance in the horns, he would ask the players to come to him afterward, and they would note down the alterations together.8 When Nezhdanova and Golovanov were on tour in Minsk, the conductor was ensconced in his hotel room whilst Pokrovsky was arranging the orchestra on stage. Pokrovsky went to collect him: “Nikolay Semenovich, please come to the orchestra—they all know you are here.” There came the reply, “Well, well, they do play well without me.” Pokrovsky insisted on his meeting the players, and the reluctant Golovanov eventually accepted the invitation. The famous maestro approached the rostrum and suddenly went crimson with rage as he saw the young professional conductor Tatyana Kolomaitseva preparing the musicians.9 He asked the youngster, “What are you playing?” Kolomaitseva responded, “I am conducting as written in the score.” Golovanov said, “That’s nothing of the sort.” Kolomaitseva showed Golovanov the text, “Here it is written—piano.” The old maestro exploded: “What piano? An instrument is here, it’s shameful even to discuss it!” The affronted Kolomaitseva countered, “It’s not the conductor’s fault.” On the other hand, Golovanov could be quite cruel, “A conductor, a conductor and a woman to boot!” It seemed to Golovanov that he knew the music better than anyone.10 Not withstanding Golovanov’s influence, the age was led by singers; conductors had long since become secondary figures—subject to a predisposition for “boorish” vocalists imagining themselves as “stars.” Alexander MelikPashayev described the situation: “At the theatre (we were not the only theatre in such a position), a majority of singers would categorize opera conductors such: X is a good conductor—he lets us sing, or Y is a bad conductor, it’s really difficult with him, he won’t let us sing.”11 In this atmosphere of scandal and discord, the winners (not without help from politicians) were almost always the “dilettante-singers.” Samuil Samosud showed Pokrovsky his dismissal notice typed on tissue as thin as cigarette paper. The reasons given were inappropriate repertoire, inadequate work with young people; following four seasons at the Bolshoi, a similar order was issued to Ariy Pasovsky, and after five years in charge, Golovanov got the sack. Kondrashin looked at things realistically and was want to fashion his own departure without enduring such indignity. Future conductors at the theatre, Yevgeny Svetlanov and Gennady Rozhdestvensky, would follow a similar course.12 “To constantly

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maintain a high work profile was not simple. In those difficult years there was a repressed atmosphere in the country of fear and expectations of worse to come. After the post-war optimism nothing remained. People as in the late 1930s, were closed and oppressed—everyone reserved their words to avoid harsh consequences.”13 Golovanov’s replacement as chief conductor was the brilliantly gifted Armenian, Alexander Samuilovich Melik-Pashayev. The new incumbent, as an eighteen-year-old, had given his debut at the Tbilisi State Opera, in 1923, with Dolidze’s Leila. Following studies at the Leningrad Conservatoire under Nikolay Malko and Alexander Gauk, Melik-Pashayev got his Bolshoi Theatre initiation directing Verdi’s Aïda in June 1931 and made such an impression that he was immediately appointed to the conducting roster. If Golovanov and Pasovsky had won their glories with the romantic Russian operatic repertoire, it was Western music and contemporary stage works that would place MelikPashayev in the firmament of great Bolshoi conductors.14 The scandal in 1948 around The Great Friendship was a bizarre experience in Kondrashin’s life; quite unaffected by the sharp criticism of the opera, Kondrashin was unscathed, and several short months later, there came the triumphant staging of Bedrich Smetana’s The Bartered Bride. Once again, Pokrovsky and Kondrashin found a major task before them; as with Serov’s magnum opus, their former glittering success was as nothing, for the musical matter with which Kondrashin and Pokrovsky now had to work on left much to be desired.15 Kondrashin commissioned a completely new text as the antiquated original score was restricted to pitiable lackluster repeats. “We asked Sergey Mikhailkov to revise the libretto for us; Mikhailkov was a very talented writer—always holding his nose to the wind—skilful in grasping the mood of the day and much in demand.”16 The opus slowly gelled as Kondrashin and Mikhailkov would spend every evening ensconced in the composition; the conductor would carefully play a chord, to which appropriate prose was set down, often fantasizing in the process of developing a remarkable, new setting. In due course, The Bartered Bride emerged fresh and revitalized. The premiere was given by Kondrashin on October 20, 1948. The Bolshoi’s The Bartered Bride convinced many that this was Smetana’s masterpiece—charming with extraordinary sensation in its passion, combining a breathtaking synthesis in dramatic musical performance, and possessing superlative singers in Irina Maslennikova, Nikolay Shegolkov, and Georgy Nelepp. “One of the most memorable events of my early youth was sitting in the Bolshoi hearing this astonishing production of The Bartered Bride which owed much to Kondrashin’s brilliant conducting.”17 The staging won the ultimate accolade from Czech speakers—that the Bolshoi version was a great improvement

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upon the original. Recognition of the success achieved was that the work was set down in a gramophone recording, Kondrashin’s second such project following The Snow Maiden. In 1950, Kondrashin accepted an invitation from his mentor, Khaikin, to assist him at the conducting faculty of the Moscow Conservatoire (this was through Khaikin’s growing commitments as chief conductor at the Kirov Theatre); however, there he was beset with a struggle. Coaching the art of directing an orchestra is quite different from any other faculty of learning—one can train students in playing the violin or piano, but there could be no guarantee of acquiring the ability to conduct through a variety of hand gestures. One has to impart authority, not simply express an influence over one’s musicians; among his first students were Gennady Provatorov, Igor Pertsev, and Valentin Kataev.18 Pertsev never did make it, but the other two lay down successful careers; Kondrashin worked with them for three years—after which, he found it difficult to sustain a focus. The magnetism of innovative repertoire and meeting fresh challenges on tour was more tempting than the thought of coaching the new generation of conductors.19 Kondrashin later described a problem he endured with one of his assistants: He knew the work well enough but through lack of experience he still is “floating” and feels this himself. He said to me, “Kirill Petrovich, I can’t get the tempo that I need.” “Well try it again.” “I am shy . . .” and I shout at him, “What right have you to be bashful? You need to be sure in yourself, whatever happens so you can get it right. If you need to then excuse yourself and ask the musicians to play it again. I am not so sure it’s right. You will get sympathy from them at least by asking them for help. But the musicians must be aware that you are doing everything necessary and nothing is left to chance.” On one occasion he let the orchestra go with 30 minutes left excusing himself by saying, “I see that they are tired and are not so interested . . .”—“but this can’t be the reason for letting them leave in your own time. Are you sure that you are getting results with them?”—“But tomorrow I am playing with them again . . .”—“But today you gave up half an hour to them. The thing is not in giving up your time, but that they have applauded you and was satisfied, thinking themselves: ‘He doesn’t have anything to say to us so he’s letting us away early.’ Such matters reflect poorly on the conductor’s authority. Musicians are experienced and welleducated people particularly when together as a group, it is impossible to make such mistakes.”20

Kondrashin’s pedagogical gift was in training orchestral musicians and realizing innovative collaborations. Kondrashin’s innate demand for perfection was frustrated in his being unable to always give his best to students. Nonetheless, Kirill Petrovich would return to take classes in later years.21

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Solodovnikov, from the Committee of Arts, was appointed general director of the Bolshoi Theatre. One of the new incumbent’s first tasks was to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the celebrated Moscow Art Theatre. Shortly afterward, Kondrashin and Pokrovsky were summoned into the director’s office—there Solodovnikov sat ensconced at his desk with head bowed as if ignoring them and suddenly began playing with his lower lip and muttered in a labored and measured tone, “Boris Alexandrovich and Kirill Petrovich—you know the jubilee of the Moscow Art Theatre is soon approaching and we need to prepare a celebratory concert with singers, choir and orchestra. Please prepare something ceremonial and appropriate.” The pair proffered with their charge and, unwilling to disappoint, reverted to past practice—an arrangement of popular arias sung by fashionable artists and involving the unfailing Mikhailkov to compose the congratulatory greetings. Kondrashin suggested “The Varyag Guest” arioso from Sadko, performed by Reizen, using the words: If I served in MKHAT I would not think of a salary, I would already be a People’s Artist, I would already have a Gong.22

Mikhailkov, however, devised the following: If the dear maidens, Knew all, We have in the capital, A wonderful palace of blue birds, Which has lived for fifty years?

Kondrashin much preferred the latter setting. Yet, another scheme would be for Kozlovsky and Lemeshev to croon the famous aria from Eugene Onegin, “I love you, Olga,” to Olga Leopardovna Chekhova—the long-term director of the theater. The proposal was for the celebratory evening to open with a polonaise, followed by Golovanov and Nezhdanova walking on stage followed by senior actors and actresses of the theater accompanied by Glinka’s stirring chorus “Glory!” Kondrashin himself would direct soloists, orchestra, and chorus, all as expected, pompous but quite correct. Kondrashin and Pokrovsky’s plan won tacit agreement from the director. Naturally, the framework of the concert led to animosity among different vocalists—portentously, everyone wanted to participate. Tactfully, Mark Reizen asked if he could use a lorgnette in place of spectacles. Alexander Pirogov—his rival—sarcastically commented, “Shalyapin always used a lor-

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gnette,” and Reizen conceded, “No, no, then in that case I will simply wear a monocle.” The final conundrum was left between the invidious tenors Lemeshev and Kozlovsky, who were summoned, both enthusiastic, Kozlovsky “Of course, although I have sung this role for thirty years, it will be stimulating to be taught innovative wording.” Kondrashin said that he would accentuate the first part. “I love you” would be sung by Kozlovsky, and Lemeshev would sing “I love you, Olga.” The arioso goes on: “We shall always be in love,” and ends: “We shall go where there is always a cherry orchard.” The two vocalists would alternate their parts. Lemeshev was given his transcript and informed the initial rehearsal would be in three days. Kondrashin was familiar with Kozlovsky’s idiosyncrasies, the first being that he was incessantly twenty minutes late; on this occasion, he came with a peculiar bound leather satchel and wearing an eccentric headpiece. Unlike his counterpart, Kozlovsky was recalcitrant to combine forces and disturbed that he was not referred to in advance. Kondrashin told him directly, “Ivan Semenovich, we are making allowances for you, of course if you wish to change anything, either in the text or anything else . . . The director has agreed on everything and consulted senior artists.” The tenor responded, “Yes, I know, it is obvious we were not consulted; we are given orders and told to do this or that . . . OK that’s fine.” Kozlovsky affirmed on his way out, agreeing to return for rehearsal. For the scheduled rehearsal, in the choir room, all went as planned, everyone singing their parts to a piano accompaniment; the session ended with Lemeshev and Kozlovsky. The former arrived timely while, customarily, Kozlovsky was twenty minutes late. Long before Kozlovsky’s entrance, Lemeshev began to get edgy. Kozlovsky behaved with decorum, never losing his temper, always apologizing for any mistakes and his belatedness. The accompanist began, and suddenly Kozlovsky interrupted, “Just a moment, I will sing both the first and second phrases.” “Ivan Semenovich, you should sing after each other, that is how Lemeshev understands the arrangement.” “Alright, let’s do it that way.” The piano chords begin to reverberate, yet Kozlovsky remained completely mute. “You know that I would much rather sing the second section, can Sergey Yakovlevich sing the first part?” Consent was given, and the music started once more, and both sang one and the same opening. “So who will sing the beginning?” Lemeshev is getting nervous: “Ivan Semenovich, tell me what you want to do. I will concede, but just tell me precisely without changing your mind.” It was obvious he wanted to intone the first phrase, “OK, I will sing the first words.” The accompanist began, and Kozlovsky remained silent.

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“Ivan Semenovich, what is up?” “Well maybe he should sing instead of me.” Boris Pokrovsky who had been quietly sitting in a corner now barked, “Ivan Semenovich, understand please that we have two famous Lenskys who have never performed on the same stage together. For the Moscow Art Theatre jubilee and for Olga Chekhova personally surely Kozlovsky can be replaced by someone else?” “You know that it isn’t our fault that we don’t perform together. I really want to sing with Sergey Yakovlevich in the concert.” “Which concert do you have in mind?” “I wanted to perform at the Hall of Columns benefit night. It’s all my own idea, I shall sing Sinodal’s arioso [from Rubinstein’s The Demon], and Utesov’s Jazz Band will play an arrangement of the Song of the Indian Guest after which Sergey Yakovlevich will . . .” Kondrashin noticed Lemeshev’s face going white with anger. “Excuse me that I cannot do.” “But really, with all my heart . . .” Kondrashin was now intolerant, addressing Kozlovsky, “Let’s finish this, Ivan Semenovich—which phrase will you sing?” Kozlovsky answered that he would sing the second. Once more the music begins, and now Lemeshev says, “It’s already ten o’clock, tomorrow I have to sing as Sinodal. You can work out who will do what, I am leaving.” Kondrashin tried to stop Lemeshev, and suddenly Pokrovsky called Kozlovsky, “Aha, now I know why you want to give the second verse, it’s because you want to add Leopardovna after Olga.” Kozlovsky face crimsoned, “How did you guess?” Lemeshev declared that if Kozlovsky did not refrain from playing jokes, he would withdraw, demanding the decision the following day as he now wanted to prepare for tomorrow’s performance. Kozlovsky replied, “Hah, when I am so excited you can see that Sergey Yakovlevich is becoming capricious.” To resolve the predicament, Kondrashin, Pokrovsky, Kozlovsky, and Solodovnikov conferred together. Kondrashin curtly inquired Solodovnikov for his counsel, adding that he felt Lemeshev was in the right, which drew an outburst from Kozlovsky, “Well no one asks us veterans to deliberate such matters, as it happens I have more interesting proposals elsewhere.” “And what could that be?” “You know,” Kozlovsky leaned forward excitedly, “I have an idea that I shall sit in a Russian red shirt together with a gypsy band and on my knees sing a romance to Olga Chekhova.”

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“That is very good, but this is the Bolshoi, not a Variety Show, don’t belittle us all, please accept Kondrashin and Pokrovsky’s proposal.” “Ah I knew it would turn out like this—just like any other ideas that I have—alright, I give up.” Solodovnikov, naturally, delegated to his conductor the problem of who sings first. “Well, I’ll think about this.” Downstairs in the hall, the discussion continued for another two hours until Kozlovsky promised to sing the opening phrase. With no additional problems, the jubilee concert went ahead and recorded on film for millions to witness. Few watching the silver screen could ever have imagined how childlike these two remarkable singers could behave. If Kondrashin failed to form a bond with the two illustrious tenors, there was, however, one distinguished singer at the Bolshoi with whom he did develop a relationship—the bass Maxim Mikhailov. The veteran vocalist first came to the conductor’s attention when he found him still at the theater long after everyone had departed and studying his part. One of the greatest roles interpreted by the vocalist was the central part in Glinka’s Ivan Susanin: “Mikhailov astounded everyone in the role of Susanin, not only for his huge voice and great courage, but for the surprising simplicity and realism with which he opened up the character of the popular hero.”23 During the evacuation from Moscow in October 1941, instead of traveling by train as almost everyone did, Mikhailov pooled a car with Kozlovsky to the Volga town of Kuibyshev. Their route traversed the major city of Gorky to board a riverboat, and upon arrival there in the depths of night, Mikhailov suggested they go immediately to a hotel; instead, Kozlovsky insisted on visiting the local theater. Getting there and finding it empty, the performance having long since ended, at last the administrator appeared who organized a buffet in the late hours and until the early morning sat chatting and joking. At last Kozlovsky said to his companion, “Well Maximushka, it’s about time to go isn’t it?” They made their way to the locked entrance, and their host insisted that they could only leave through the stage exit. “What, I cannot go through such a door!” Kozlovsky demanded that they find the key that had apparently been taken home by one of the staff. Kozlovsky asked them to take their car and find the lady so she could open it—Kozlovsky could not leave in such a manner. Nevertheless, the key-holder couldn’t be found, and Kozlovsky had no alternative but to egress like anyone else, and coming around to the main entry, the tenor attempted to open it as if everything he had been told was fiction.24 Kozlovsky was a supreme being of the theater, and Kondrashin observed just how he discharged his obligation at a Kremlin concert. He performed an aria, and following the applause, duly made his exit; however, before reaching the door halted momentarily, he slowly recovered his steps, waited for the

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applause to stop, raised an arm as if beckoning more acclamation, and waiting and waiting for the adulation to halt, finally he bowed down low as if taking in all the handclapping that only he could muster. At last, he would sing an encore to the wholesome delight of the enraptured audience. No one else knew quite how to milk the public as did Ivan Semenovich Kozlovsky.25 There was diffidence by contemporary composers to write for the stage following 1948, and no freshly written operas were staged there for three seasons. Kondrashin and Pokrovsky were both summoned by Kliment Voroshilov, who had taken Zhdanov’s portfolio for cultural affairs. There, the veteran Marshal bellowed, “What are you doing as young communists? Why can’t you do modern Soviet opera? All the theatres are putting on Soviet work, everyone apart from you!” Kondrashin, being a Party man, dutifully responded that few quality works were coming through, to no avail; they were suitably admonished in Red Army style and dispatched back to the Bolshoi. Afterward, Kirill Petrovich conceded, “Listen, we’ll really have to do something. Let’s find an opus to put on.” The twosome discussed the problem with Solodovnikov, thinking of composers who could be approached—naturally, Prokofiev and Shostakovich, for the time being, were too hot to handle. Out of the blue, a new opus by the Ukrainian Herman Zhukovsky appeared. Zhukovsky’s opera was based on a novel by Elizar Maltsev. With All One’s Heart is about an officer returning home after the war seeking employment on a collective farm, yet it is his wife who has to retrain him, and a family conflict arises, which is resolved only at the finale. Zhukovsky’s With All One’s Heart was approved by the Union of Composers and the stage conception entrusted to Pokrovsky and Kondrashin. The work had already made a celebrated debut at the Saratov Opera Company: “The opera is a remarkable work of Soviet opera music which portrays our kolkhoz countryside in the period of post-war construction. The opera’s author found expressive musical characteristics for its heroes—the foremost people of socialist agriculture.”26 So successful was With All One’s Heart that it was awarded the Stalin Prize long before it was offered to the Bolshoi. Regardless of the award, the arts media criticized it for being “short of mastery, a fact which is made evident both in the weakness of the vocal characterizations and in the melodic poverty of the recitatives”27 Nevertheless, the opera was lauded for its choral writing and for its sympathetic treatment of a contemporary theme. Herman Zhukovsky’s music was full of engaging melody and possessed genuine dramatic potential. The author of the libretto was one of the composer’s progeny, and it had to be translated from Ukrainian into Russian by the poet Alexander Kovalenko. Nonetheless, the score contained technical difficulties in the vocal writing, and mistakes appeared in the printed text. If it were to prove a success at the Bolshoi, much hard work would be needed to

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transform both libretto and scoring for the larger stage. Kondrashin recalled “Kovalenko and I sat together trying to transform the lines into a presentable version; alas my colleagues lacked Mikhailkov’s fantasy and imagination.”28 On the other hand, an engaging story line emerged, and shortly afterwards rehearsals began. The vocal sessions duly began with the company’s reserve string; Natalya Sokolova, the tenor Grigory Bolshakov, and Pyotr Selivanov were all excellent vocalists; however, Sokolova, despite her fine soprano, lacked the charisma that could guarantee a triumph. Kondrashin opined that vocally the cast of With All One’s Heart could not be bettered. By the opening dress rehearsal, a new resolution on agriculture from the Central Committee was published—to comply with the thin-skinned politics of the hour—alterations would now have to be made to the libretto. Fortunately, both the composer and librettist remained in the capital, and an additional scene was added to comply with the freshly written proclamation. Nevertheless, superfluous policy shortcomings were discovered; Kovalenko withdrew altogether, and Kondrashin and Pokrovsky were left to formulate more suitable prose—a process consummated by all four, including Solodovnikov and the composer sitting through the night pouring through Pravda, trying to find the most appropriate phraseology. During the ultimate preparation phase, the Party suggested that the production team should visit a collective farm in the Ukraine to best capture the politically correct tone. During their brief trip to the Ukrainian kolkhoz, walking through the fields, Pokrovsky and Kondrashin were approached by a young sixteen-year-old girl who offered assistance; Kondrashin was a youthful thirty-six and ashamed to be placated by his age from such a maiden. The group from the theater was told fairy tales by the chairman of the farm, and upon returning to Moscow, more revisions to the text were inserted. Nevertheless, the preparation continued for some six months with endless changes and new scenes being added and withdrawn. At last, everything was primed, and the full dress rehearsal was duly attended by Stalin, who did not say a word to anyone on leaving; this portentously signaled trouble. The following day, an article appeared in Pravda. The scandal very nearly echoed the 1948 fiasco. One had to have some material dealing with Lenin and Stalin and with building communism. Zhukovsky’s opera staging portrayed collective farms decorated with portraits of Stalin, squares with statues of the Soviet leader. Nothing was portrayed falsely, that is how it was, just underlined throughout. The critique in Pravda was actually written by Kabalevsky, and it was implicit that the writer had never set eyes on the opera’s production, fulfilling directions to slate the opus at all costs. However, this was the only negative review that appeared, nothing else; no one was summoned and given a

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dressing down. Pokrovsky recalled, “There was no slanderous campaign, just a despicable piece denouncing it for being ‘unrealistic’ about Soviet villages and farms. Yet everything was shown as it is in the countryside—with Stalin portraits and red banners . . . Socialist realism is socialist realism.”29 The main brunt of criticism fell upon Zhukovsky for “pedantic” music (not a bar was formalist), and Kovalenko was condemned for lack of professionalism and poor selection of texts (which was admissible). Yet, the fullest attacks fell upon the staging itself; thus, the names appearing in the press condemnation included Zhukovsky, Pokrovsky, and Kovalenko but not that of Kondrashin. The Stalin Prize awarded previously was revoked.30 The conductor was informed by NKVD sources that the initial version contained Kondrashin’s name, yet for some reason, Stalin himself crossed it out. Nevertheless, Kondrashin did not escape the nerve-racking theater conference that followed, during which, Golovanov rose from his chair reproaching, “Soviet composers are not working as they should be, leaders may come and go, yet we still play Chopin!” Golovanov, of course, was celebrated for his sharp and bitter critiques, complaining that such humiliation never happened in tsarist times. Kondrashin was criticized, along with everyone connected with the forsaken opera, and ultimately With All One’s Heart was withdrawn. Kondrashin was deeply offended by the denunciation yet was compliant. The whole affair ended the career of the director Solodovnikov, and just a few days following his sacking, he collapsed on the street, breaking a leg, and could not work for a long period. The disgraced man made a successful career, in time, as editor of Theatre magazine. “He was a fine manager and knew how best to meet the diverse interests of the company’s artists and resolve both problems and conflicts of interest bearing himself always as a diplomat, possessing tact and a courteous etiquette.”31 The choirmaster, Alexander Ivanovich Anisimov, replaced Solodovnikov— the new head was a loyal Party man who had previously been in charge of the Red Army and Navy Song and Dance Ensemble. Soon after his arrival at the theatre, Golovanov’s orchestra was remonstrated for being too loud, and when the maestro left the rostrum, Anisimov instructed, “Please make the brass quieter.” Golovanov was later rehearsing Khovanschina, and the horn player, Valery Polekh, who had just started working at the Bolshoi, was mystified at Golovanov’s directions that made one gesture for the director’s box and still demanded from his horns, “Louder, louder!”32 The resolution on the opera With All One’s Heart was published in the year marking the 175th anniversary of the Bolshoi Theatre. Kondrashin was bemused at how often they altered the dates; in 1925, it celebrated its 125th birthday; although, the 1776 birth date is authoritative. The 1951 “jubilee” year was commemorated with a host of awards from the government, yet the

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paradox was that it all passed without any significant artistic triumph. Nevertheless, following some ten years service, Kondrashin’s contribution was valued highly enough to receive the title of Honored Artist of the Republic. This was no true reward as a creative crisis had arisen for Kondrashin; following the fiasco of With All One’s Heart, no fresh productions were scheduled; stagings of The Barber of Seville and Aïda were undertaken by Grigorov and Melik-Pashayev respectively, and months passed by, but little enthusiasm could be gained in repeating old repertoire. Nevertheless, fresh opportunities beckoned; in 1952, Kirill Kondrashin received a commission to record Shostakovich’s First Symphony in F Minor—the same piece performed by him with the Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra during the war and that had been highly praised by the composer. “A decisive development took place when they suggested the First Symphony by Shostakovich . . . I conscientiously studied the score and attempted to understand the logic of its form which was particularly complicated in the ending coda. When I heard a recording by some other conductor, it seemed quite different both in tempi and character. I thought greatly about my interpretation of the classics: perhaps if I hadn’t listened to these works before then I would have conducted so much differently.”33 Kondrashin did not consider, apart from the devastating criticism, that the Pravda article of 1936 and the 1948 denunciations had a negative effect on the composer, believing Shostakovich, nevertheless, continued to pursue his own course, simplifying his language only for works such as Song of the Forests and the operetta Moscow Cheryomushki. In March 1953, the Soviet leader Iosif Stalin passed away at his Kuntsevo dacha near Moscow. For several days, the country was thrown into a state of mourning; although Kondrashin was present, his name was not among those invited to conduct at the state funeral. The incongruity was that Kondrashin was a committed Party member and, indeed, a supporter of the regime— proud to call himself a Stalinist—the difficulties of the 1930s and 1940s had largely passed him by; no one from his close circle of intimate friends or relatives suffered from the repressions. Kondrashin believed wholeheartedly in the Party and the system; when the war began, everyone was caught up in patriotism and trust, and belief in Stalin was only fortified by his personal encounters with the generalissimo. The respected war-time poet Simonov wrote in a poem: The heart bleeds . . . Our own, our dear one! Holding your head in its arms, The nation weeps for You.34

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Kondrashin took fondly to approval from the man who had been a friend of Lenin and leader of the Soviet Union for three decades. Like many Soviet citizens who had experienced the bitter war years, Kondrashin had revered Stalin; the first time doubts entered Kondrashin’s psyche was with the Show Trials of 1936.35 Neither did Kondrashin buy the shameful story of the Doctors’ Plot of 1952, believing it the work of fiction; supposing that some ninety-nine percent of the population believed and, indeed, worshipped Stalin, few actually knew about the tyranny. While each experienced solitary events, still less were familiar with the magnitude of the catastrophe. Later, in the postwar era, the arrests of those who fell into German captivity during the war and languished in Soviet jails became public knowledge. Kondrashin’s feelings were analogous to a leading figure held in favor by the regime. The writer Konstantin Simonov: “There was a time when, although I had some doubts, I loved Stalin. But today, knowing all the things that I know about him, I do not and cannot love him any more. If I had known then what I know now, I would not have loved him then.”36 Nonetheless, the campaign against cosmopolitanism stirred concern in Kondrashin’s mind, believing there was no call for such inhumanity. If people laid the blame against anyone, the guilt could be at Beria’s door; Stalin almost always arrived at the Bolshoi alone, and virtually never received anyone, only talking to secretaries by telephone and limiting access to Beria and a few officials. Gossip spread that when the Soviet leader collapsed, the domestics were reluctant to approach his locked room for a full day. In 1944, the distinguished pianist Maria Yudina gave a broadcast with Moscow Radio of Mozart’s A Major Piano Concerto No. 23, which, by chance, was heard by Iosif Stalin. Believing this to be a gramophone recording, the statesman ordered a pressing. His secretary, unaware that this was a live broadcast, issued the instruction to the head of Moscow Radio who then ordered the orchestra, conductor, and soloist back into the studios to set down the opus during the night. The deed was done readily so that on the following day, a freshly made record could be delivered to the Kremlin. Yudina, however, added a note to the generalissimo, saying that she would pray for his dark soul. Strangely, nothing untoward happened to the pianist, and it was her disc that was found on the leader’s gramophone when he was discovered dying nine years later.37 Stalin’s attitude to the arts was based on a seminary education, and he was old-fashioned. He would only acknowledge renowned art forms—music that was melodic and enjoyable and understandable to the common man. It was perfectly consistent in this that much of Prokofiev and Shostakovich’s creativity could never be accepted. Even the traditionalist composer Muradeli was considered formalist and excessive, a supposition hardly acceptable in the music world. “The affair around The Force of Evil was typical of Stalin’s

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attitude; one had the impression reading the notes of the meeting that almost everything was changed around to suit his opinion, some facts may have been correct, nevertheless Stalin ensured that at the Bolshoi we lived well enough, guaranteeing good living conditions for everyone working there.”38 If Kondrashin was unaffected by the trials, some did suffer at the theater: “There was the case of the tenor Ivan Zhadan who performed in captivity for the Nazis during the war and was later arrested as a traitor.39 Another was Dmitry Golovin, a baritone who was arrested in the prewar years; a remarkable artist possessing a beautiful voice reminiscent of Tito Ruffo—when he sang the chandeliers would ring in the auditorium. Another vocalist who disappeared was Korovina yet she was not as celebrated.”40 On two separate occasions Kondrashin was awarded the prestigious Stalin Prize—following the press announcement, he would receive a postcard requesting his bank account details.41 The system of payment was such that if a production won an award, then the producer—Boris Pokrovsky—would receive a third of the prize, that is, 30,000 rubles, with the remainder being distributed among the other artists. Then, in three to four weeks, one would receive an invitation to the Kremlin for the awards ceremony. The Chairman of the Stalin Prize Committee, the renowned poet Nikolay Tikhonov, presented Kondrashin with a brilliant solid gold medal. However, following the passing of the Soviet leader, the Stalin Prize was substituted by the State Prize, whereby Kondrashin was obliged to surrender his decorations. Dutifully following his summons, Kondrashin went to the music department of the Committee of Art where a middle-aged lady looked up her list for the entry against Kondrashin’s name, ticked them off, removed the two gleaming medallions, and handed the conductor a pair of small, less impressive pieces of cheaply made metal, uttering with little decorum, “Next, please,” and Kondrashin obligingly moved on.42 On reflection, Kondrashin thought it would have been best not to surrender his medals; in any case, he had lost the wish to sport his Stalin Prizes.43 The issue of honors and titles was a celebrated topic among the artistic community; a memorable occurrence involved Lemeshev and Kozlovsky. The former bore the more common title of Merited Artist while Kozlovsky was a People’s Artist, a rare distinction; only Nezhdanova, among vocalists, was so honored before the war. Not surprisingly, to boost patriotism during the conflict, earlier standards were forsaken, and a multitude of awards granted; nevertheless, Lemeshev received only the Award of Merit—as if his supreme artistry was held against him by the powers that be. However, it was Lemeshev who proved the most popular, giving more concerts all over the country and held in greater admiration by the public than was Kozlovsky. The whole honors system was stringently sustained as award winners would enjoy

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enhanced pension rights, and before retirement, one could live on the benefits of such a structure; hence, few objected. One other passing in 1953 had a bearing on life at the Bolshoi Theatre; in August, Nikolay Semenovich Golovanov died following a short illness at the relatively early age of sixty-one years. This came just a few months following his dismissal from the company as chief conductor—the aftermath of a critically acclaimed production of Boris Godunov, the seminal Russian operatic masterpiece for the maestro. Kondrashin’s way out of his own personal crisis came through a return to the Russian classics—the momentum being in Tchaikovsky’s late romantic Iolanta and, later, in 1954, by a new staging of Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden, which followed Rossini’s The Barber of Seville (February 20). Pokrovsky and Kondrashin introduced pioneering ideas for Rimsky-Korsakov’s masterpiece, engaging Vadim Ryndin, a young, enterprising designer from the prestigious Mayakovsky Drama Theatre. Kondrashin now looked upon the old score with different eyes, discovering music unnoticed before and picking up threads from the old maestro Golovanov’s amended passages. Paradoxically, The Snow Maiden proved his first artistic failure; Kondrashin, with a different cast, could not repeat the former triumph. The central role of Lelya was taken by Varvara Gagarina; during the rehearsal, Kondrashin asked her to sing the arioso Zemlyanochka, yagodka with a cappella and accompanying cor anglais. It gave the impression of forced singing and a “white” sound against a choral setting. Gagarina could not perform the arioso precisely, and only in the final run-through could she manage to reach the correct notes. There remained concern that she would not be able to reproduce it at the first night. Veteran singers nagged her, saying that one should listen to Kondrashin about how to create a “white” sound; how can one sing so when trained to sing bel canto? At the premiere, on December 30, 1954, Gagarina failed to reach the true tessitura.44 If Gagarina disappointed, two singers did distinguish themselves; the principal role of Kupava was shared between Irina Maslennikova and Galina Vishnevskaya. Pokrovsky believed Kupava to be the heroine of the opera; The Snow Maiden is a vision—an idyllic picture—while Kupava is a real-life character, and in actuality, Mizgir represents her bête noire. When she remonstrates with Berendey, Kupava reveals herself as a true full-blooded woman, and it is ambiguous as to why Mizgir is in love with the snow maiden and not Kupava. The young Vishnevskaya gave a brilliant interpretation with her singing of the arioso; at the end of the second act, the arioso—postyli ty, postyli chelovek—brought tears to one’s eyes; the audience pitied the poor girl. The Bolshoi employed enough performers for three orchestras, yet few conductors could get their “favored” orchestral musicians on an opera night.

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Kondrashin was constantly distracted by the constant changes in the playing staff before him; one day, he had the top soloists, and the next evening they would be absent, with less gifted replacements in their place. Only the long-serving ballet specialist, Yuri Fayer, enjoyed a stable ensemble for his productions while Melik-Pashayev and Golovanov had had to put up with different players. A different group would turn up for the premiere from those who played in the dress rehearsals. This unsurprisingly disconcerted the conductor’s creativity in performance. This intolerable state of affairs was reflected in the press; unlike previous articles by politically motivated composers, on this occasion, the invective issued from a prominent musician within the Bolshoi. The trumpet soloist, Timofey Dokshitser—a Party man and finely-honed in public life—proposed in the widely circulated Soviet Artist an arrangement of three permanent staff ensembles, sharing the theater’s repertoire, to permit two orchestras always being available throughout an opera production. Accordingly, for the most important works at the Bolshoi, no distress would be caused. However, this led to disquiet within the orchestral community, simply because they would be compulsorily regimented and could no longer play where and when they wanted. In short, a higher standard of control by production staff was engendered; during an artistic malaise, Kondrashin fully supported Dokshitser’s overture as coming at exactly the right time.45 The situation that brought about the artistic failure of The Snow Maiden led Kondrashin to think about seeking fresh pastures. Problems continued with vocalists; Kondrashin stipulated that they sing at full voice during rehearsals; senior singers would only perform at half cock, whereas the younger generation refused to sing flat out. This resulted in arguments and bitterness on both sides, and invariably ended only in embarrassing defeat for the conductor. Another matter for concern was that, like Pasovsky, Kondrashin demanded thorough rehearsal before each performance, regardless, yet this quickly dissolved into fiasco as soloists either did not turn up or would protect their voice for the evening. A favored singer of the period—the distinguished baritone Konstantin Ognivtsev—would either stay away or submit a doctor’s certificate. When Ognivtsev was publicized on posters and then could not sing through “illness,” his rival, Yevgeny Ivanov, declined, upset that he was being asked only to deputize. Kondrashin’s insistence that his singers perform at full voice led to unfavorable consequences, for the artistic council listed several singers such as Nikandr Khanaev and Vitaly Kilchevsky, who considered Ognivtsev’s grievance. Khanaev responded, “We’ll talk to Kirill Petrovich, they will perceive your predicament and he’ll soon come round.” 46 Ultimately, Kondrashin had to concede, being left ignominious before an open meeting of the orchestra,

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chorus, and soloists. At all state theaters, during this period, one would make one’s own annotations on a particular stage performance; if most producers and directors were inclined to commend artists, on the other hand, Kondrashin gave his opinions freely and honestly, recording frankly that certain vocalists performed under par. This growing creative torment reinforced Kondrashin’s desire to open up his conducting work elsewhere. Following the war, the authorities resolved that, to better serve the state, everyone at the Bolshoi Theatre had to undergo a course in studies of Marxism– Leninism, all at the highest level. A “university” at the Central House of Cultural Workers was established whereby all and sundry were required to attend. Venerable People’s Artists sat like schoolchildren at desks, with drooping eyelids, listening to lecturers from the Party school. Everyone recognized that the course would bestow some benefit to his or her work record. There were, however, some hilarious episodes; the great bass Reizen was asked, “Mark Osipovich, do you know the difference between the bourgeois and socialist revolutions?” The vocalist responded with excitement, “Bourgeois, socialist . . . I’ve twigged it—ask my fellow citizen.”47 The distinguished conductor Vasily Vasilyevich Nebolsin was a devotedly religious person, quite distant from the theories of Marxism, and his behavior at the lectures often descended into uproar. At the theater, before going on the rostrum, he always crossed himself, repeating this before each act. Kondrashin, indeed, lived in the same building as Nebolsin, on a different floor, the third, and a car would collect both Kondrashin and Nebolsin for performances, and in passing the nearby Pushkin statue, the veteran maestro made the sign of the cross, not in deference to the poet, but in remembrance of the great Cathedral that had once stood on that spot. It was extraordinary that Nebolsin took a great interest in Marxism– Leninism—everyone endeavored to give the correct answers—however, Skaterishnikov’s lectures fascinated him. The veteran conductor sat directly before the tutor, taking copious notes; on one occasion, Skaterishnikov asked the maestro if he had the short course, to which Nebolsin replied, he always kept it close by and that he adored it no less.48 The lecturer inquired, “What do you think is the most important philosophy in Goethe’s Faust?” Nebolsin at once countered, “The sale of one’s spirit,” and quiet laughter rose throughout the room. The courses continued for two years until everyone finally undertook their exams. Nebolsin was a contradictory figure, recherché, from the old school, au fait, and possessing uniquely fine hands. There were precious few conductors who could work on any opera—with little or no preparation—and still attain maximum results. However, he lacked the artistic creativity and ingenuity beholden to a great maestro. Proud that he could conduct Tsar Saltan or The Snow Maiden as did Pasovsky or Golovanov, all this was

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comparable; many considered that he was incapable of generating great passion in a work. Nebolsin was also a composer and always added one of his own suites or overtures in orchestral concerts, as was the case with a suite written during evacuation in Kuibyshev, entitled From Darkness to Light, which suffered the mischievousness of his musicians. In these years, it was difficult to discuss openly everyday problems in general; Boris Pokrovsky shared with Kondrashin many of the crises in production meetings and at home through long evenings. Decades later, he portrayed their debates: “How can you suddenly address people by their full name, and by thou?” “Why everyone?” “And who not?” “Well, for example, Shosta . . .” “Shostakovich.” Kirill was always a dynamic and openly committed person. Kondrashin told Pokrovsky, “I tell you as a responsible member of the Party, as a Communist!” Pokrovsky was non-Party and was sure that if he asked Kondrashin to recommend him to enlist, then Kondrashin would have refused. He stood on the side of justice and party principles. Sometimes his eyes became quite similar to glass, without emotion and cold—almost unapproachable—but not for long—one had to wait a few minutes and he would already be laughing and joking. Nevertheless, being a dedicated Party member, Melik-Pashayev and Golovanov feared him. Kirill never held anything back, unremitting in his views; he wanted to understand everyone, in debate he admitted his mistakes, immediately confessing to his faults. He was never afraid of admitting his errors before others, he was not inflexible, but would audaciously be down for Pasovsky and Golovanov and even his card chum Nelepp—not maliciously—but to tell the truth as he saw it. Perhaps he was a little dogmatic—he epitomized the honorable Party man.

Pokrovsky recalled that on one occasion, Kondrashin refused to accept a singer who everyone wanted at the theatre—only he Kondrashin refused to have her at the Bolshoi, she tried to use every trick she could, but he would not turn against his better judgment—everyone opposed Kondrashin but he would not yield to employing her at the theatre. Kondrashin loved each stage success, whether it be a singer’s performance, a well-decorated scene, or a new talented discovery. It was a pleasure to rehearse with him; he brought life to the sessions and hope for a successful ending. He was drawn to drama and sought the secrets of stagecraft. It was difficult to comprehend why he suddenly left the Bolshoi—it was clear that the artistic potential became more distant.

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Now more and more conductors worked with Pokrovsky. “His interest in the stage was reduced by the dearth of gifted productions and frustrated by the conduct of singers at the theatre.”49 Kirill Kondrashin sought to make his break with the Bolshoi Theatre, “In concert life Kondrashin was drawn to Shostakovich and Mahler; in the theatre it was the same thing all the time, the repertoire, the singers who were indifferent who was conducting, ‘as long as they were not drowned out’ was their main concern. They [the singers] did not aspire to artistic success; they did not take seriously the conductor’s asking them to consider the role they were singing. Kondrashin remembered well the fiasco of such a wonderful coaching conductor as Ariy Pasovsky. What a mysterious judgment!”50 If the Bolshoi was increasingly becoming a less attractive obligation, Kondrashin was by now forging a career out with the theater, developing the skills for fresh repertoire. Kondrashin was already a respected accompanist appearing on the Moscow concert stage—notably to the touring Isaac Stern and resident virtuosos David Oistrakh and Svyatoslav Richter. The series of great violin concertos launched at the Moscow Philharmonic in the 1946–47 season featured several highly prolific collaborations with Oistrakh, and were recorded for posterity. According to his son Igor, they met up frequently, discussing music, and Kondrashin discovered the violin concertos of Sir Edward Elgar and William Walton. They also made recordings together. I have already told you how, with the desire to show me the difficulties of playing the violin and performing a concert in front of “eyes,” father took me to a night recording with Kondrashin conducting. Their studio work had already begun in the days when recordings were still made on soft wax records. When I began to perform concerts these days were fortunately over, but father told me how difficult it was to maintain the inner connection since the wax disc only ran for four or five minutes. If the musicians or sound editor had some criticism during the recording, one had to stop, whether one liked it or not, until a new quantity of wax had been warmed up. Father recorded in this way with Kondrashin Lalo’s Symphony Espagnole amongst other compositions. If you listen to the record—the recording was superbly successful—you don’t even guess at the difficulties the artists had to overcome at the time.51

The growing demand for Kondrashin as a partner also had its downside, for he could never fully reveal his own personality through solely concerto work. Many years later, Kondrashin explained something of the problems in accompanying the concertante repertoire: Everything in this depends on the soloist and one is obliged to defer to him. If one is speaking about performing the exposition in a traditional concert, then I

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know how the soloist will play, and must correspondingly play the orchestral introduction (in his phrasing, tempi and so on). If you have one’s own relationship to the music, but is out with the soloist’s conception, all the same you must defer to him. Here the conductor has to hide his individuality and assist the orchestral musician performing to a foreign will. If you meet with a soloist of great class, this will bring joy, if not then it will be torture, but it is impossible to forget that the name of the soloist depends on his interpretation and one must assist him.52

In these performances, Kondrashin revealed a unique ability to offer an artistic partnership with the soloist—a capacity to allow his partner the opportunity to display their virtuosity as well as revealing his conducting prowess at the rostrum. In opera, it was the most dreadful experience when singers would ask the conductor to follow their singing; Kondrashin was put out that he was little more than the means by which the soloist performs to the highest level—the phenomenon of the symphonic orchestral concert eluded him and his own artistic identity. In August 1950, opportunities to work away from the travails of the theater came with an invitation to conduct two of the German Democratic Republic’s best orchestras. The occasion was the 200th anniversary of J. S. Bach’s birth; a large delegation traveled from the Soviet Union, including Shostakovich, Khrennikov, and the pianists Maria Yudina, Tatyana Nikolayeva, and Pavel Serebryakov. Kondrashin was appointed to undertake the final concert with the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra. In a performance of the Concerto for Three Pianos and Orchestra, Yudina injured her finger and could not play, leaving the part to be taken by Dmitry Shostakovich. On the evening before the performance, Shostakovich approached Kondrashin asking him, “Kirill Petrovich, I made a mistake in my solo at the rehearsal and am quite nervous. Can you let Pavlyusha Serebryakov play both inventions, both his and mine. Really the audience won’t notice who is playing because the pianos are turned round.” The conductor had no recourse but to agree to this change. However, in the recital, Serebryakov played Shostakovich’s part brilliantly but completely fluffed his own invention. Following the performances, Kondrashin noticed the composer standing nervously in the wings wiping his glasses: “What is the matter, Dmitry Dmitrevich?” “What a terrible error, I am so sorry.” “But it’s not your fault.” “How can it not be my fault! I let my colleague down because he had to worry about two solos, and the public won’t know that he tried to help me.”53 Kondrashin also worked with the esteemed Dresden Staatskapelle during this visit, which was the first in a long-standing association with the Saxon ensemble. Kondrashin’s first program there comprised of Franck’s Symphony

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in D Minor, and the orchestra created a major impression on the Russian maestro with the timbre of their playing and found it unusual that the principal woodwind changed places in each half of the concert and wanted to know which work they would be practicing so that the appropriate players could be available. At the first session, the oboe player could not understand how to repeat a phrase that Kondrashin wanted—the theme is repeated on the strings with matching phrasing—Kondrashin explained the point to him, yet the mistake was repeated and once again, the same outcome. Kondrashin stopped the orchestra, asking the musician to try the section until he achieved the required sound. At the next run-through, Kondrashin noticed a quite different oboist sitting in the section, and the conductor repeated his instructions, and during the break Kondrashin, curious as to why there would be a different player, questioned the administrator. Herr Treder responded by saying that they had replaced the oboist themselves and that for an orchestra of 120 musicians, it is embarrassing when that member cannot obey the requests of the visiting conductor. “We have punished him but he won’t suffer financially—it will be a knock to his confidence.” The prestige of the Staatskapelle was essential to the musicians.54 The experiences of working with such prestigious ensembles allowed Kondrashin the certainty that the working environment at the Bolshoi Theatre could be much more improved if he found work elsewhere. Nevertheless, despite every effort to change matters, after a while, everything went back to a ritualistic modus operandi. One of the most celebrated conductors at the Bolshoi was the head of the ballet department: Yuri Fayer. There were many humorous moments in the career of Yuri Fyodorovich Fayer; he was not renowned for his lively tongue but liked repartee. Sometimes, he would mutter something to himself; there would then break out a racket in the orchestra; some would start talking to their friends, and others would read a newspaper or would start playing something else. Fayer lost his temper, “You have no respect for me at all!” He threw down his baton, marched off, leaving the malignant musicians behind. Following one of these episodes, a general meeting was called; everyone was requested by the Party committee to be on their best behavior but forgot to tell Fayer about this. Seeing the musicians waiting in complete silence, he did not know what to do; he waited for his players to start gossiping as usual. There remained complete calm in the auditorium, and eventually, Fayer picked up his baton and said, “Second Act” and began to conduct; everyone played as normal and played well. After a while, he paused and everyone stopped, waiting for his comments. However, he waited and uttered, “Once again!” They played the section once more and stopped again; now, Fayer waited for them to start talking—still peace reigned—now Fayer lost his patience, “Stop acting like fools!” Following this, everyone returned to their custom of chitchat during rehearsal.55

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The leader of the cello section, Lev Berezovsky, was celebrated for marking his 35th anniversary three times in the space of two years. The cellist was a very fine musician and played Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations marvelously and enjoyed a wide repertoire; on one occasion, he had to get his instrument repaired and did not have a spare one for his celebratory concert and asked his colleague, Svyatoslav Knushevitsky, to loan him his own cello. The veteran allowed his Guarneri; however, Berezovsky was so tense that during the performance he played the second variation before the first. Everyone pretended not to notice the mistake; nevertheless, Knushevitsky at the break approached him, “Lev—that was simply magnificent! Only I forgot to tip you off that there is no first variation on this instrument.”56 The constant departure of musicians from the orchestra and the unprincipled behavior of singers presented Kondrashin with a predicament. There was, too, the rise of a new young generation of conductors, led by Yevgeny Svetlanov and Gennady Rozhdestvensky, who both had parents at the theater and who had set their children out for artistic careers there. In late December 1955, Svetlanov made a brilliant debut directing the classic Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride.57 The onset of a bright conducting generation became decisive in Kondrashin’s seeking a career outside the theater. Kondrashin’s long standing colleague Boris Pokrovsky expanded on their working relationship: My creative friendship with Kondrashin was in every way a happy one. There were public successes at the Bolshoi Theatre in those years. All the operas that we did The Force of Evil, The Bartered Bride, Bella, Halka and The Snowmaiden defined a touchstone in the post-war art of the theatre. It also allowed the best conditions for the appearance of the creative potential of two comparatively youthful, but experienced artistic leaders of stage performance who complemented each other. Good conductors always trusted me; with Kondrashin we were bound not only by creative interests but the need to show off to the Bolshoi and everyone around that we had a right to achieve a special place at the theatre. Our creative energy overcame harmful practice and inertia from the period of the war’s outbreak and later in evacuation. Youth was to our advantage, [we represented] a new generation of artists, creating stage shows and operas still little known to the public. We were on a forward march!

However, such a fellowship for Kondrashin had reached its zenith, losing its allure and was now run of the mill. As Pokrovsky expains: The conclusion was that our maturity slowed and ritual took over—our creative union softened up. Kirill got bored—no longer was it interesting [for him] to regularly conduct Rigoletto or Tosca—some one else’s productions and starring unfamiliar and indifferent singers. This was the main reason for his departure

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from the theatre. The symphonic repertoire for Kondrashin was new and interesting for someone who possessed immense artistic professionalism and an affinity with contemporary life fused with great passion. At the Bolshoi, it had already become difficult to make changes. I understood Kirill’s ambitions, but having no alternative, I remained to serve the perpetually grand Cathedral of the Bolshoi Theatre. However my creative dissatisfaction matured gradually into a new-fangled, and quite diverse direction—the creation of a new theatre.58

It was unheard of for a staff conductor to walk away from the Bolshoi—this was not favored as a career development, as the veteran Samuil Samosud advised, “My dear Kondrashin, I hear that you are leaving the Bolshoi but don’t you know that people only leave there when they die or are arrested.”59 Nevertheless, he had determined to go; no one pushed him, but there was a moment of hesitancy when the new chief conductor, Melik-Pashayev, reproached him, asking what he could want more from a performance than he had already achieved. Kondrashin countered that he wanted to direct Sadko in the same manner and style as did Golovanov, unlike Nebolsin. He wanted to continue the spirit of Golovanov, bringing fresh life to the opera. “OK, then you will conduct Sadko in the New Year!”60 This was a considerable compliment to Kondrashin as Melik-Pashayev regarded this work with Boris Godunov and Khovanschina as Golovanov’s masterpieces, “brilliantly strengthened his glory as the finest interpreter of Russian classical opera.”61 This made Kondrashin hang off his decision; however, the news that Kondrashin would undertake Sadko led Nebolsin to petition the Party that Kondrashin could not take over “his” production, and ultimately, the veteran was given the engagement. Kondrashin was squeezed out, despite Melik-Pashayev’s promise. This was the last straw. In his final months at the theater, Kondrashin initialed a letter of protest to Khrushchev about the scandalous situation at the Bolshoi: The editors of the popular newspaper Sovetsky Artist of the USSR Bolshoi Theatre have received a collective article, signed by the soloist of the opera USSR People’s Artist G. M. Nelepp, the conductor RSFSR People’s Artist B. E. Khaikin and the RSFSR Merited Artist K. P. Kondrashin. The article reflects the opinions of the collective, that for unknown reasons, there continues to withhold the award of honours to distinguished artists who are long since deserving of such honours, while several young artists, not having suitable merits in art and social work are already receiving such awards. This gives birth to unnecessary gossip against the Theatre directors and the USSR Ministry of Culture. The authors of the article are communists and staunchly demand the publication of this article in the media. As much as honours awards for artists are given by the Supreme Soviet, we request permission to publish or not this article. Signed S. Zvyagina—editor in charge, soloist of the Bolshoi Ballet Theatre

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This letter, dated April 2, 1956, was sent to Khrushchev’s office; however, it was dealt with there by Dmitry Shepilov, in charge of culture at the Central Committee, who then passed it on to the cultural department on April 4, back again to Shepilov two days later, passed on to the culture department, who returned it to Shepilov on April 17, whence it was passed on to the archives of the CPSU.62 The article, “Let’s talk about Honours,” was never published. Initially, Kondrashin sought a position at the State Symphony Orchestra, applying directly to Belotserkovsky. The atmosphere at the State Orchestra was very difficult; at every meeting of its artistic council, criticism of unprofessional conduct and stale repertoire was leveled at Konstantin Ivanov the chief conductor. Ivanov was of Kondrashin’s generation, an acknowledged People’s Artist, with a valuable network of contacts; however, Ivanov appealed to the Party, who backed him. Kondrashin regarded Ivanov as a loyal and sincere man who treasured his fellow musicians; however, there was a vacancy for the assistant conductorship of the State Orchestra, and it was this that Kondrashin hoped for. “If you had only come to me three days ago then you could have had the job, however we have already agreed to appoint Anosov.” In his previous appointment at Moscow Radio, the Muscovite Nikolay Anosov had acquired valuable experience during the war. If he lacked artistry and interpretative skills, he could train and work his musicians hard through a diverse repertoire. Like Ivanov, Anosov also enjoyed good connections, being married to the distinguished soprano of the Bolshoi Theatre, Natalya Rozhdestvenskaya, and their son, Gennady, was already studying conducting at the Conservatoire. “No one hounded him out, but he was leaving on his own terms . . . as he departed the Bolshoi Theatre, he got [in time] a symphony orchestra which provided him with an international reputation. He began to travel abroad frequently, and always with success. His home was open, luring all sorts of company, and he just loved to be a good host. He was very sociable (especially with women!). He enjoyed his family, children, and the public image.”63 Therefore, the decision to find a fresh line of business was intrinsic in Kondrashin’s search for integrity and fulfillment, against disenchantment with theatrical life, which now expressed itself through several unpleasant scenes with Pokrovsky: He was a real man with a social conscience, bearing his objectivity, believing in his principles, and who was afraid of criticizing me for my lack of collective morality! He got his fulfillment from combating hypocrisy! And suddenly he saw it before him . . . He met it just as soon as he defended it previously. He cried, “You are out of order!” angry at the corruption which swept the country. Years later the debate continued. Our conversation took place in his grand office at the Philharmonic drinking Scotch. I was worried about the next production,

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about different scenes whilst he paced the room perplexed and throwing back whisky as freely as drinking homemade vodka. “I worry about your corrupting apathy to what is going on!” Pokrovsky rejoined, “It would be better for you to think how best you can get to play the Fourth Symphony [by Shostakovich].” Kondrashin responded “I’ll do it all the same; by the way he is coming to see me about it. You understand, that it’s devious, shady and all the same a veto on Shostakovich!” “Take in music. Your social sense of right and wrong will do you no good.” Pokrovsky tried to pacify Kondrashin’s anxiety. We were like chalk and cheese, Kondrashin and I.64

The rebuff suffered at the State Orchestra led Kondrashin to seek, as an alternative, to join the Gastrolburoconcert organization. This was a combination of the State Concert Agency, Soyuz-Concert, and the agencies responsible for Moscow and Russian concert affairs. Some two hundred people worked there in a vast body arranging hundreds of concerts of different genre. In 1956, problems in active concert work in the motherland were highlighted in the media, “They do not give enough attention to serious concert work. Concerts of an academic nature are often limited because of the ‘stale’ tastes of the leaders of philharmonic societies in different areas of the country . . . The listener in the provinces loses out because of the dry rations handed out by Gastrolburo.”65 It was clear that Gastrolburo would have to up its operations if it was to avoid scrutiny by the authorities, and appointing such an experienced and able musician as Kondrashin represented a major step forward. An important factor for Kondrashin was that the bureau had management over foreign touring—the general director, Kislevsky, was blessed with vast experience and favored a working regime whereby decisions would be taken there rather than being transferred through diverse party organizations. Initially, Kondrashin approached Kislevsky with the request for a guarantee of at least three concerts every month, to which came the response that much more could be offered. The fees from these engagements would match his monthly income at the Bolshoi, and Kondrashin would get traveling expenses far away from Moscow. Having agreed terms, Kondrashin handed his resignation to the newly incumbent director, Mikhail Chulaki; however, he discovered that leaving the Bolshoi was no simple matter—nothing changed—his salary continued to be paid, and his name remained on the conducting roster. Time elapsed until Kondrashin demanded a response: “Mikhail Ivanovich, I asked to leave the theatre three months ago and with the season ending now, I want to make my future plans.” Chulaki countered, “That is clear however you will have to approach Mikhailov at the Ministry. I cannot resolve this matter.” Mikhail Ivanovich Mikhailov was an old Komsomol worker with whom Kondrashin had become acquainted during the youth festivals in Budapest and Prague.

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They were au courant, beneficially Mikhailov was now Minister of Culture (in 1953, the Committee of Arts was upgraded to the Ministry of Culture). Kondrashin phoned Mikhailov and met incredulity and little sympathy. “Do you really want to leave the Bolshoi Theatre? Have you really thought it through?” the Minister mediated. Hearing Kondrashin’s firm resolve, Mikhailov, ultimately, gave his reluctant approval. An announcement was made declaring that Kondrashin was leaving the Bolshoi of his own accord and, hence, Kirill Petrovich went to the Ministry to apply for the appointment at Gastrolburo. Here he was met by a shaken official, the director Tselikovsky uttered, “What are you doing, my dear friend? Have you lost your senses? Don’t you want to stay at the Bolshoi; do you really want to lose the exclusive Government concerts?”66 Kondrashin replied that his mind was made up and now simply wanted to work as a freelance conductor. At long last, the contracts were drawn up, duly initialed, and stamped. Following twenty years of work in the theater, at last, a new stone had been turned and fresh exciting times beckoned for Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin.

NOTES 1. I. V. Stalin, letter “Answer to Bill-Belotserkovsky,” Works (Moscow: Gozpolitizdat, 1953), 11:327, 368. 2. D. Malynin, “Muzika na patefonnoy plastinke,” Pravda, February 22, 1936, 4. 3. A. Sh. Melik-Pasheyev, “Moguchy Talant, K 70-letiyu so dnya rozhedeniya N. S. Golovanova,” Sovetsky Artist (January 25, 1961), 3. 4. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989),128–29. 5. Natalya Shpiller, “Radost Nezabyvaemykh Vstrech,” Sovetskaya Muzika 3 (1976): 58–59. 6. A. Sh. Melik-Pasheyev, “Moguchy Talant.” 7. This was due to a proposal of Kondrashin’s that a music center of his life work should be preserved in his name. A museum is kept at his former home. 8. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 128–29. 9. Tatyana Mikhailovna Kolomaitseva (1914–) was the first professional woman conductor in the USSR and gave several important premieres including the first staging of Taneyev’s Orestiya in 1963. 10. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 130–31. 11. A. Sh. Melik-Pasheyev, “Moguchy Talant.” 12. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper: Besedi Boris Pokrovskogo S Alloi Bogdanovoi (Moscow: Moscow Conservatoire, 2001), 28–29. 13. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, (Ann Arbor, MI: Ermitage, 1983), 67.

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14. V. Kukharsky, “Vdokhnovenny muzikant, blestyashii artist,” in A. Sh. MelikPashayev vospominaniya statyi materiali (Moscow: Muzika, 1976), 7. 15. The texts for the Maly Theatre prewar production had been lost during the war. 16. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 136. 17. Andrey Zolotov, interview with the author, July 2006. 18. Gennady Provatorov worked at a number of Soviet opera and ballet companies, including the Maly Opera in Leningrad, Odessa Opera and Ballet, Kuibyshev Philharmonic, and Moscow Experimental Opera. Valentin Kataev worked at Minsk Philharmonic where he directed a famous performance of Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony in 1963. 19. Russkaya Muzika I XX bek, M. Aranovsky, ed. (Moscow: Gosudarstvenniye Institute Izkusstvo pri Ministerstvo Kultury Rossiskovo Federatsii, 1997), 792. 20. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 69–70. 21. Moskovskaya Konservatoriya (1866–1966), L. Ginzburg, ed. (Moscow: Muzika, 1966). 22. MKHAT is the shortened meaning for Moscow Khudozhestvenniy Arts Theatre. 23. E. Grosheva, “Obnovlennaya Klassika,” Sovetskaya Muzika 3 (1976): 28. 24. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 141–42. 25. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 142. 26. Lebedev to Molotov, RGASPI, f.17, op.133, d.307, ll.35–43, herell.35, 41, February 14, 1951. 27. T. Livanova, “Neoplachennyi dolg,” Opera, 1951, 14–16. 28. K.P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 143–44. 29. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper, 71–73. 30. Fadeyev to Molotov, RGASPI, f.17, op.119, d.336, ll.179, 8 May 1951. 31. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 144–45. 32. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 146. 33. K.P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 5. 34. Konstantin Simonov, Glazami cheloveka moego pokoleniia (Moscow: Kniga, 1990), 229. 35. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 149–50. 36. Konstantin Simonov, RGALI, f. 1814, op.9, d.11, ll.1–21; op.8, d.58, l.98. 37. Maria Veniamovna Yudina, Vy Spasetes cherez muziku (Moscow: Classica 21, 2005), 286. 38. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 150–51. 39. Ivan Zhadan, born in 1902, was a Merited Artist of the Russian Federation and gave premieres of principally Russian operatic roles; he gave his last performance at the Bolshoi in 1941. 40. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 151. 41. K. P. Kondrashin won his first Stalin Prize for The Snow Maiden and The Force of Evil. 42. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 151.

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43. It was the custom for all bearers of such awards to wear them on public occasions. 44. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 146–48. 45. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 147–48. 46. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 149. 47. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 154. 48. This refers to The Short Course of the History of the CPSU, the main political reference during the late 1930–1950s. 49. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut iz Bolshovo Teatra (Moscow: ART, 1992), 25–26. 50. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut, 26. 51. Igor Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh (London: Cassell, 1977), 226. 52. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 97. 53. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi s Shostakovichem,” in Dmitry Shostakovich: stat i i materialy, ed. G. M. Shneerson (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1976), 88–89. 54. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 221–22. 55. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 211–12. 56. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 213. 57. V. I. Zarubin, Bolshoi Teatr: pervii postanovki oper na russkoi sztene 1825– 1993 (Moscow: Ellis Lak, 1994), 225. 58. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut, 18–19. 59. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 156. 60. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 156. 61. A. Sh. Melik-Pasheyev, “Moguchy Talant.” 62. Zapiska redaktsii gazeti Sovetsky Artist N. S. Kruschevu s prosboi reshit vopros o publikatsii statii artistov Bolshovo teatra Soyuza SSR, Archiv apparata Tsk KPSS, f.5. on.36 D.20. L.76–80, April 2, 1956. 63. B. Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut, 13. 64. B. Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut, 11–12. 65. “Sezon minuvshiye I nastupayuschii,” Sovetskaya Muzika 9 (September 1956): 111. 66. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 159.

7 The Guest Conductor 1956–1960

Was it that I wanted life a little sweeter? No, it wasn’t that. It was only this; I had to break out of the crystal ball Where deeds were dreams and dreams were deeds Pasternak Second Birth 1931

In the summer months of 1953, a fresh gust of air swept through Soviet life; a new regime was in charge, and changes enveloped everyday being. In the arts, newfangled verve was given to literature, cinema, theater, and music. The writer Ilya Ehrenburg evoked it as a “thaw” in aesthetics; freedoms surfaced, with ideas discussed openly in the press, and innovative topics allowed circulation without restrictions. In the musical sphere, an augury unfolded in performances of Shostakovich’s latest symphonic work—the Tenth—its epic and philosophical character epitomizing this age of release from recent agonies. The visits of artists from the West in the personages of Pierre Monteux, Sir Adrian Boult, and Igor Markevitch with orchestras from West Germany, the United States, and Great Britain offered fresh opportunities in cultural exchange. This had the effect of a new broom sweeping through old cobwebs. The discovery of the latest music had its own consequences; the compositions of the composers Pierre Boulez, Messaien, and Schoenberg revisited controversies of the 1920s when RAPM condemned Western art for its harmful influence. The Boston Symphony Orchestra became the first ensemble from the West to visit Moscow—there being no little irony as Koussevitsky had directed it for twenty-five years. “The outstanding integrity in orchestral discipline—with rare exceptions—of potency in virtuosity, distinction in sound 147

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and technique, expression of intonation and the elevated mastery of each performer brought joy to the audience.”1 The Soviet musical press paid much attention to this American super orchestra; detail was devoted to the manner of performance and the expression by each musician and section of the orchestra. “There is great significance in the stability of the company by the unrelenting high requirement for the excellence in play of every individual member. The regime of the orchestra’s work is constant with a three-hour rehearsal four times a week and then three concerts.” The distinguished musicologist Lev Ginzburg noted, “Such a harmony in performance as that felt by listeners between Charles Munch and his orchestra has not been witnessed for many years.”2 The concerts given by the London Philharmonic introduced Soviet audiences to works by Walton, Vaughan Williams, Holst, and Malcolm Arnold. Otherwise, Moscow critics praised the Londoners “fine professionalism, integrity, flexible sound, and bright detailed nuancing.” Special attention was paid by the press to the solo flute and cor anglais and the brass—albeit the strings were found to be inferior to those of the Boston Symphony.3 Kondrashin articulated that the standard of playing of the Boston Symphony exceeded the best Soviet counterparts, and much still remained to be done to attain a likewise level of performance.4 During thirteen seasons at the Bolshoi, Kondrashin received frequent invitations to guest conduct at the USSR State Symphony, the Moscow State Symphony, and the Moscow State Philharmonic Orchestras. Due to longterm restrictions (experienced artists could not be arbitrarily axed without the sanction of the ruling Party), the two latter ensembles had been in parlous state, having on their books a mixture of elderly, inexperienced, and maladroit musicians. Lucrative premieres in the capital, invariably, were the preserve of the State Symphony and Large Radio Symphony Orchestras and where composers were assured of an equally first-rate interpretation and presentation under Ivanov and Gauk respectively. To match its Leningrad counterpart, the Moscow Philharmonic needed a gifted artistic leader; the marvelously naturallytalented Natan Rakhlin had worked there without attaining success. The following incumbent was the great Samuil Samosud—albeit his period of office was blighted by poor health. There were notable moments; in 1956, Samosud restored Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony for the first time in a decade: “The interpretation of the Eighth Symphony is a glorious yet complex and tricky charge. We are still in the process of creating traditions of performing such truly innovative music. We are searching for the means of true reading of fresh symphonic works and operas by leading musical performers in our time. S. Samosud really does belong to this type of outstanding musicians. He has an unbending love to the creativity of great ideas and feelings.”5 De-

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spite a moving performance of this vast score, Samosud failed to inspire his musicians to give of their best, for the review made several pointed criticisms of the playing: “Unfortunately, the orchestra were not at the required level: there were places of inaccurate entries, departures in ensemble, and wrong notes in solo parts.” Regardless of these shortcomings, the critic praised Samosud and the Moscow Philharmonic for their restitution of Shostakovich’s Eighth Symphony.6 Kondrashin’s most frequent engagements were at the State Orchestra whose chief conductor, Konstantin Ivanov, had proved less nomadic than other maestros and whose strength lay firmly in the classical and romantic repertoire, preferring (not unlike Mravinsky in Leningrad) to impart the grand philosophical argument through the symphonic genre. Ivanov found it difficult to develop an affinity with larger-than-life soloists. On the contrary, Kondrashin, from the beginning of his concert career, had gained swift recognition as an outstanding accompanist and was engaged to fulfill specific appointments, not least owing to David Oistrakh’s network of contacts. 7 The first of Kondrashin’s conducting engagements there was in 1946 and involved the most distinguished soloists of the day: Yakov Soroker, Oistrakh’s biographer described “I was witness to an unusual rehearsal of the Brahms Double Concerto: the conductor K. Kondrashin entered David Oistrakh’s class to hear the soloists—Oistrakh and Svyatoslav Knushevitsky—in association with their forthcoming concert. Knushevitsky, however, didn’t appear so David Oistrakh (accompanied on the piano) played the whole concerto, with surprising ease and with the astuteness to drop down from the violin part to that of the cello and back again . . . everyone present was stunned including Kondrashin who exclaimed ‘Well now we can do without the cello player!’”8 Due to the predomination of opera in his professional career, Kondrashin’s symphonic repertoire was insufficient; nevertheless, it was offset by his developing and honing discriminating accompaniment gifts in the orchestra pit and concert platform. Paradoxically, invitations for concertante employment slowed down the young conductor’s aspiration to attain an expansive repertoire, recurrently by directing unfamiliar work and involuntarily tagging along. One other major disadvantage for Kondrashin was the want of coaching orchestral musicians—the Bolshoi had not charged him with this responsibility. At the theater he enjoyed an unlimited period of work to master the orchestral score, and at a symphony orchestra this possibility was restricted, where only two or three rehearsals allowed. At the Bolshoi Theatre, the mission of training the orchestra was tackled invariably by Golovanov, Pasovsky and Melik-Pashayev. On one occasion, at Moscow Radio, Kondrashin was chastised when the trumpet player, Yudin, called out, “Kirill Petrovich, why are you rushing the music through so quickly? Go and train the section

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which has the problems—for the rest of us—there is no difficulty, you don’t need to make all of us go through it all again!” Despite this embarrassment, Kondrashin knew the brass player had spotted a chink in his armor. Now he recognized that to get results he would have to begin a learning curve in structuring a rehearsal session.9 The modus operandi of the symphony orchestra was like chalk and cheese to that prevailing in the theater. There was one composer with whom Kondrashin had long developed an affinity; Nikolay Myaskovsky’s music had often featured in his concerts, and on January 4, 1956, he gave a reading of the Fifteenth Symphony at the Large Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire. The evening became a celebrated event in the capital’s musical calendar as was noted in Sovetskaya Muzika: “Following twenty years since its first appearance, the conductor K. Kondrashin and the USSR State Symphony Orchestra performed the wonderful Fifteenth Symphony to a public audience in the capital.” The reviewer went on to comment that the work is “appreciated by many for its optimism and lyrical emotions.”10 This concert was an essential factor in the conductor’s development and in his recognition as a figure in contemporary music as much as it was in restoring the composer’s music following the denunciations of 1948. In electing to open his new career as a guest conductor, there was the additional concern of traveling far from home; the pianist Dmitry Paperno described the lifestyle: “In March 1956 I went on a tour to cities of the Far East and ended up in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. The oppressive feelings of loneliness, homesickness, and the nine-hour time difference from Moscow, became par for the course.”11 The opportunities for sightseeing were not always satisfying: “The first impressions of Chita, an old merchant’s city disappointed me. This was the last months before the appearance of the TU-104 passenger jet, and I flew on an ancient IL-14 [turboprop] which took an eternity frequently changing passengers with a multitude of landings. I walked along darkened, empty streets to the ancient wooden building of the Philharmonic, or to be more precise, the local concert agency. It seemed to me as if the last culture in this god forsaken town was a hundred years ago when the Decembrists lived here.”12 The constant traveling to dozens of small and large cities with little distinguishing features became the norm, and Kondrashin would attain a feel for the routine: “Everything worked out—In the late 1950s we played on average 60–70 concerts a season. The endless change of towns, concert halls, orchestras, audiences and friendships . . . These were not the worst times for concert life in this country. There remained mature administrators who listened to the opinions of local concert agencies. The most erudite managers in several cities understood the need to publicize classical music and often arranged loss-making concerts if they knew they could cover their losses through big popular music shows. Such people existed in Omsk, Tomsk,

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Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk, Sverdlovsk, Chernovtsy, Sochi, Ryazan, and Riga.”13 Kondrashin’s principal experience with an orchestra out with the Bolshoi was in being summoned by Mikhailov at the Committee of Arts to select players for the Soviet musical contingent to the World Youth Festival in Budapest in 1949. The youthful players originated from the Bolshoi itself and from the Moscow Conservatoire Students’ Orchestra to form a hearty company of forty-eight musicians. The future generation of Soviet orchestral music was in his hands; the eight first violins were exceptionally talented—players who would dominate orchestral playing in future decades: Eduard Grach, Lev Sobelevsky, and Nelli Shkolnikova. The woodwinds were all of premier potential; Alexey Korneyev, Boris Neklyudov, and Kirill Nikonchuk went on to earn places in the country’s best orchestras—the latter two notably starring in Mravinsky’s Leningrad Philharmonic of the 1950s and 1960s. Altogether, the sound and musicality, combined with youthful enthusiasm, produced a magnificent ensemble.14 Three different programs were prepared for the festival; the principal works, Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings, RimskyKorsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol, and Lyadov’s Eight Russian Songs, were primed through some three months spent in daily rehearsal sessions. The expertise in training the orchestra was to cast a long shadow—Kondrashin was starting an extended relationship with many players. The established bond with the Festival Orchestra ensured a mutual attachment of trust and belief. Consequently, the Soviet Youth Orchestra’s concerts in Hungary were triumphant; being awarded the Grand Prize, however, upon their return, the ensemble was disbanded. The strong roots of musicianship led to a petition to Belotserkovsky at the Committee of Arts to maintain the band and guarantee a minimum of four annual engagements. Everyone was prepared to forgo fees—just the assurance of stimulating work—hence, the Youth Orchestra sustained its existence for several more years. In truth, the orchestra operated under the auspices of the Bolshoi Theatre as most of its musicians were employed there. The Youth Orchestra developed an extensive repertoire, collaborating with distinguished artists—Emil Gilels, Leonid Kogan, and Svyatoslav Richter—making famous recordings of piano concertos by Glazounov and Rimsky-Korsakov (with Richter). The company consistently embraced a distinguished constituent of freshness and enthusiasm and the desire of the young players to learn and work, bonding a collective spirit—con amore.15 The Soviet Youth Orchestra was the first attempt by Kondrashin to achieve an individual artistic authority, allowing him both confidence and selfbelief, which benefited him in seasons ahead to build his own professional orchestra. Due to the flow of musicians joining other ensembles—season by season—the band slowly broke up, frustrated by disparate programming as much as a deficiency of financing. One bel esprit said this was the only band

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in the world that practiced in smoking suits and performed in civilian dress. Youth orchestras played in conventional clothes as they do to this day. The exacting routine of maintaining a regime of rehearsals, individual practices, and learning repertoire, along with artistic planning, was impossible, in those days, to maintain without financial support. If major creative contacts were born with the Youth Orchestra, other significant partnerships were engendered on touring out with the USSR. During the war, when Kondrashin was exiled with the Maly Theatre in Chkalov, among the many refugees domiciled there were the Rostropovich family. The cellist Leopold Witoldovich Rostropovich’s son Mstislav, then just fourteenyears-old, was already playing both the cello and piano brilliantly, composing poetry and music and full of life. Kondrashin recalled a trio that played before performances of the theater in the foyer; Sofia Grikurov (wife of his fellow conductor), Nikolay Faktorovich (the leader of the orchestra), and Leopold Rostropovich all played for their daily bread. In 1950, Kondrashin shared a journey with Rostropovich to Prague—already graduated now from the Conservatoire—and embarked on his first competition (where he shared the first prize with Daniel Shafran) at the Prague Spring Festival. The young Slava already possessed the charisma to hold the attention of both musicians and audience. At a reception held at the Soviet Embassy, Mstislav proposed a toast about how diplomats and musicians share the same need always to show tact and have their notes ready at all times. Isaac Stern’s arrival in the mid-1950s illustrated how the modern violin could sound in a quite different way. He played Haydn with an individual vibrato and the Tchaikovsky with a somewhat different tone. Stern played Brahms similar to Heifetz but in corollary with accompanying alluring shades. For instance, in the Finale, there is an octave, a larger-than-life sextet, which emerges as an octave F minor–D-sharp–to E. By means of this quartertone accent, Stern unlocked the sextet. This is a quite monotonous sound, and when it develops into an octave, one feels some anxiety; nevertheless, it brings repose. The sense of artificial interpretation is intriguingly vigorous. Kondrashin empathized that—excepting the vibrato—the bow was held quite differently from other violinists: “David Oistrakh played the same way and always with the same manner but in different musical styles, in another fashion, whereas Kogan was quite like the Heifetz school and so consequently was Stern.” Nonetheless, Kondrashin could not compare the American with any other musician: “Perhaps as a young artist Oleg Kagan played in dissimilar styles; Spivakov was also impulsive, passionate and inculcated Heifetz’s style of playing.”16 Although they met often, Stern was a most important stimulation for Kondrashin—their first collaboration was in 1956, with the State Orchestra,

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which was then in poor form, and the conductor failed to secure a worthy partnership. An admonishment for Kondrashin appeared in the form of a major critical article in Sovetskaya Kultura, which claimed that the Mendelssohn concerto would have been better performed without a conductor as the State Orchestra played well behind the soloist. This negative feedback was only part of the dilemma for Kondrashin in bearing the guilt—additionally, experiencing the disappointment of the American violinist. The paths of the musicians were to cross three years later when Kondrashin worked with Stern at the Prague Spring Festival. Prior to their meeting, Stern took the opportunity of dropping in on Kondrashin’s concert with the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra. The program included Ravel’s La Valse, and the performance so pleased the American that he went to see the Soviet maestro afterward, and in Russian style, kissed Kondrashin on both cheeks, “How did I get the wrong idea about you before? You are some conductor! You feel the music so well and you really did it with this orchestra. They don’t play like that for everyone.”17 This led to an important relationship that enjoyed collaborations worldwide for another two decades. The year of 1958 was for Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin his annus mirabilis. The transformations that had swept through Soviet life, bringing fresh exchanges with the West, allowed an impetus for the country’s art to establish a platform for its musical success. The inaugural Tchaikovsky Piano Competition was intended by the Soviet government to showcase Soviet culture and present the finer gifts for the fresh young talent nurtured at the country’s music schools and conservatoires. The world had already discovered celebrated masters in Lev Oborin, David Oistrakh, Emil Gilels, and Svyatoslav Richter. The Moscow event was scheduled to launch the international careers of new Soviet stars onto the concert circuit. At least, that was the plan. The major sensation was the performances and outstanding victory of a young musician from Texas. “There could be no doubt that the First Prize should be awarded to Van Cliburn. This pianist astonished with his colossal majesty of keyboard tricks, freedom, astonishing creative imagination which separates him from the rest of the competitors.”18 So immense was his success that Heinrich Neuhaus (the eminent tutor of Richter and Gilels) wrote that the American’s performances were the most phenomenal [musical] events since the October Revolution, eclipsing [the performances of] such masters as Schnabel, Cortot, Rubinstein, and Petri. No other pianist has won such universal adoration and received such high praise as Van Cliburn.19 In the tailwind of this new discovery, Kirill Kondrashin considered Van Cliburn uniquely privileged; he indulged in the benevolent atmosphere, which allowed him to give both his maximum and unleash his potential and pull off the supreme prize. “He has the psychology of a fourteen year-old

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boy” was how Svyatoslav Richter described the Texan pianist; to which Neuhaus added, “And thank God.” Neuhaus discovered an engaging charm in the young man: “I believe that owing to his naïveté—naïveté with a capital letter—there is a parallel with many great artists in particular Goëthe, Tolstoy, Schubert, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, and Rachmaninov.” The eminent pedagogue expanded, “Such a distinction is at hand in this major talent . . . One may add those qualities obvious to the naked eye, manifestly heard in his playing: expression, sincerity, flamboyant pianistic mastery, controlled power and also a delicate and sensitive sound, which may mature, not having attained its limit.” Neuhaus claimed Cliburn was the most outstanding successor to Rachmaninov.20 For other critics, Van Cliburn is most remembered for his debut on Russian soil and the cold, snowy spring of 1958. The Leningrad-based columnist Leonid Gaakel commented: “Everyone talked about ‘the wild young American,’ crowds were going crazy just waiting their turn for tickets to hear him.”21 It is considered that Kondrashin’s accompaniment at the rostrum helped Van Cliburn attain the maximum in expression that other conductors such as Khaikin or Ivanov lacked. There was a rapport of unique empathy bonding the two musicians—an extraordinary degree of unity and understanding—Kondrashin confessed to being drawn by the Texan’s charm and charisma so much so that the conductor naturally matched his warmth and passion; a single session was simply enough to be au courant. This is regardless of the fact that Cliburn’s old-fashioned bravura was alien to Kondrashin; nevertheless, his expertise as a concertante conductor found a mutual kinship in the American: “The liberated playing of diverse tempi and the sound achieved by him was quite remarkable particularly in Rachmaninov or Tchaikovsky yet when one hears him playing Schumann or Brahms, one finds that he departs from the ideas of the composer, this happened on several occasions, . . . and a departure from the Russian style proved ominous for Cliburn.”22 Dmitry Paperno attended the final concert: The hall met Cliburn very warmly with prolonged applause. When at last he sat down, there was an extraordinary calm as if foretelling something special. The short, quiet entry by the orchestra (Moscow Philharmonic under Kondrashin)—I thought—isn’t it a little slow??? And then the piano began to sing the immortal first theme of Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto. There are few works in musical literature where such entries on the piano from the very first notes take the auditorium by storm with its disarming clarity, entrusting with its timbres, . . . and everything that followed reached out to the hearts of the Moscow public. Later people spoke of a kind of psychosis from the homogeneous response which captivated everyone in the hall . . . I recall being quite touched seeing a middle-aged woman take a handkerchief to her eyes at the culmination of the first theme. So much has been spoken about this evening, both at the time and

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much later. I can only say that this was some kind of discovery of the startling sensitivity of timing in Cliburn’s playing. It was not so much in the more quicker tempi against normal tempi but in the prolonged music intonated in delicate intensity with natural and sharp phrasing. Only a very few pianists possess this elevated and so humane art, which is consummate in all components of piano playing (the Russians Gilels and Ashkenazy, the Englishman Clifford Curzon, the Italian Michelangeli and the Romanian Radu Lupu). Goldenweiser said following the third round that this was the “most lucid piano gift since Rachmaninov” and in conversation with Lev Oborin commented that “he is in communion with God.”23

However not everyone was convinced by Van Cliburn; some of the Texan’s limitations were exposed in The London Times: “Two days after Van Cliburn returned as a conquering hero from the USSR to his native America in 1958, he gave a performance of Rachmaninov’s Third Concerto in D minor with the Symphony of the Air under Kirill Kondrashin in Carnegie Hall.” The writer then went on to find fault with the American’s technique, “The weakness of the performance lies in the licence Van Cliburn allows himself in matters of rubato and changes in tempo, which really does weaken an already none too taut argument.” Nevertheless, positive words could be expressed for the recording, “Few concert performances have the perfection of studio acoustics and balance, yet there is always an electrifying spontaneity in the general atmosphere by way of compensation.”24 Following his homecoming to America, Van Cliburn was so happy with his musical partnership with the Moscow maestro that he affirmed that on his next visit to the USSR, he would play only with Kondrashin. On this return to Moscow, in 1962, the American played familiar repertoire by Brahms and Schumann; however, Kondrashin tried to persuade him to adopt a more academic and solid approach; nonetheless, Cliburn lost his self-control, becoming upset, and it seemed that Kondrashin had transgressed by advising him how to interpret such composers. “In his performances there was much of interest, much to like and move one (although one was surprised and even disappointed by some eccentric playing in the role of soloist and conductor in Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto); and all the same, one is not afraid to declare that for us the artist remains the Van Cliburn of 1958.”25 Regardless of this dissension, their rapport on platform could not change; Van Cliburn would not alter his style in any form or manner, and neither would he take other council. Some years passed before they met up once more, and Kondrashin inquired, “Why do you play only two works in concert? In America there are two hundred orchestras and it will take up a lot of time to tour all of them but what else are you going to play afterwards?” Van Cliburn responded, saying, “A new generation will grow up and they too will want to

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hear me play Rachmaninov and Tchaikovsky.” Kondrashin was disappointed, “You will earn enough money and you can go abroad, you can even come to the Soviet Union . . . —just sit in on rehearsals, go to concerts, listen to opera and assimilate musical life, identify with true academicism, your music needs this.” Nevertheless, the American was unyielding: “No, Kirill you don’t understand that if I don’t play in the States someone else will take my place and no one will want to hear me anymore.”26 The consequences led to Van Cliburn lingering in America; he used everything that he had learned, nothing more, and dried up. This was disheartening to the Russian maestro, for he recognised that the Texan had phenomenal powers of playing, possessing quite matchless expression at the keyboard. Soviet musical critics wrote that the soloist’s great talent was in his communicability and sincerity in concert, “The ability and searching of an artist to speak with his public summons up the traditions of Rachmaninov, Rubinstein, and Hoffman.”27 Van Cliburn once confided with Kondrashin that he had started studying the Brahms Second Concerto with Bruno Walter, traveling to Los Angeles especially to research with the maestro. Kondrashin was not surprised to learn that Van Cliburn would not acknowledge Walter’s guidance.28 Travel to foreign countries that had started to the Prague Spring Festival in 1948 followed a year later to Budapest and other socialist states—Poland, Bulgaria, and North Korea. The trip to the Far Eastern country came like a breath of fresh air; however, if the new, unfamiliar surroundings were bracing, he had a difficult task in which the Russian maestro was scheduled— through six weeks—to train an orchestra from scratch. In the realization of training his musicians for Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony, Kondrashin was left full of admiration for the Koreans’ musicality and diligence. Of course, as usual, the Ministry of Culture in Moscow had committed a blunder as the Koreans had booked Kondrashin for three months, yet the conductor had other commitments and could stay in Pyongyang no longer than six weeks. The Koreans required a minimum of two orchestral programs for the brand new ensemble; Kondrashin in situ promised to organize at least three programs of symphonic music, demanding two full rehearsals daily and that no meetings should be sanctioned to upset the working rhythm. This was agreed; nevertheless, Kondrashin noticed that at break times, his poor musicians had to tolerate political assembly. Notwithstanding the prerequisites of time, the collective effort achieved results. Kondrashin suffered problems with the complicated language—some key Korean words and expressions were handled so that at least his understudies could understand what he was trying to say—and by means of Italian, they slogged through the scores, including the recently composed Prokofiev Seventh Symphony, and a host of small or-

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chestral pieces, which the Koreans played exceedingly well. Condensing the sessions into this constrained spell proved quite exhausting, working every day through six long sapping hours yet deriving satisfaction, for the young Koreans possessed both remarkable industry and love for their craft, bearing a youthful enthusiasm, astonishing as there was neither a school of playing nor a tradition for Western symphonic music.29 Years later, Kondrashin assessed some of the problems incurred by the touring conductor: It is impossible to work without touring and one’s performing art constantly develops, and so as to not steam in one’s own juice the conductor must be on familiar terms with different collectives, to know how to analyze their potentialities, and to learn from them. And to know an orchestra is to stand before them at the rostrum. Even touring concerts by visiting ensembles does not reveal their full possibilities from all aspects. (They bring several programmes worked out by them endlessly). It is useful for orchestras to invite different conductors. They become more skilled, their technique expands, and there the maturity of musicians develops. For the conductor this sharpening of his abilities is an examination, and whether he can attain from different sets of musicians some fresh quality. When a conductor works with his own ensemble, he doesn’t need to say certain things developed over many years. At a new orchestra he has to quickly understand these principles.30

Through appearances in Europe and by his recordings, Kondrashin won a reputation as a talented and gifted conductor; at the Prague Spring Festival, musicians came from all over the world, and Kondrashin’s European debut earned engagements both in Britain and America. Later, in the United States, Kondrashin discovered that his name was known through LPs released there in the early 1950s through such licensing firms as Monarch, Odeon, Everest, and Saga. On one occasion, the pianist Dmitry Paperno shared a flight from Moscow to Prague, and during chatter through the two-hour journey, it was clear that this life was enjoyable to the conductor: “I don’t know how it happened, this might be a hobby for someone, for another hard work,” and then he laughed saying, “Ah, how good it has worked out for me!”31 The pianist Dmitry Paperno lived next door to Kondrashin on Karetny Lane, and music was not their only connection: “In the course of several years at least every fortnight he gathered some friends and card games would often extend into the small hours. After the first session, about eleven o’clock, delicious sandwiches, and some agreeable drinks would appear on the table—the finest way to relax after nervous tension. Not surprisingly, these late suppers took place in the midst of amusing conversation. About two o’clock we all arose from our seats and hoped to settle up our scores, however through lowered eyes Kirill pleaded: ‘Now boys, let’s play another.’”32 The long-standing

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friend and colleague Dmitry Paperno draws another picture of the aspiring maestro Kirill Kondrashin: Kondrashin was content with the success and popularity which the first Tchaikovsky Competition had brought him and the performances with Van Cliburn. He was the first Soviet civilian to be met by the American President (Van Cliburn secured Eisenhower’s invitation to the White House). Coming back from the USA Kondrashin, with childish delight, showed us his American recording from the series “Great Performers.” . . . Until this time he didn’t always get on with the bosses and a number of singers at the Bolshoi where he had worked for many years. One can’t avoid saying that it wasn’t easy to get on the right terms with him, he could be both cavalier and vitriolic. In his early years, the outstanding musician and all-powerful A. M. Pasovsky when he was director of the theatre settled scores with Kondrashin’s amour-propre (the celebrated violinist Zhuk for many years concert master of the Bolshoi theatre orchestra said that he witnessed several demoralising scenes for the young Kirill). Perhaps this imposed its mark on Kondrashin’s character. Nevertheless our relations were at all times amicable. The one and only thing which angered him was when—quite out of order—I pointed out to him how easy the work of conductor is to that of an instrumentalist. “You don’t depend on your own appearance with shaking, velvety fingers . . . others play for you, you have the score before you, and if a gifted, strong-willed musician has an acquired technique—he can be a good professional conductor and wouldn’t have to spend all his wretched days occupied with his accursed instrument.” Now I understand that not all is so simple (Richter is only one of failed attempts by distinguished musicians to conduct); stage nerves, “fear of failure” is ever present. All the same, Rimsky-Korsakov said many years ago: “Conducting belongs to the dark arts.” One cannot say that Kondrashin was a warm and open person, he was incongruous, intelligent, and quite cynical—one is not trying to be negative towards him, this is a feature of our generation, of those who grew up in Stalin’s era of fear, lies and lawlessness. Against this some of his behaviour appears poignant: that he helped to give a career in conducting to his former students; Gennady Provatorov and Igor Pertsev; at the end of the 1970s, already an exile, he secured work for the violinist Viktor Liberman, Lev Markis, and Rosa Fain. At the end of 1958, just a few days following the birth of my first daughter Masha, I suddenly heard his voice on the line, “Mitya, this is Kirill, I want to congratulate you on your daughter’s birth!” This was unusually touching from him, because of the gap in our ages—he was fifteen years older than me—he would always be Kirill Petrovich. Regardless of our friendship, we only played together once; this was Tchaikovsky’s Second Concerto at the Tchaikovsky Hall in 1960. His conducting technique was very authoritative, his manner was quite clear, accurate, yet restrained which made his style sometimes dry, not powerful enough (Rachmaninov’s Third Symphony).33

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One of Kondrashin’s collaborations was witnessed by the composer Dmitry Shostakovich; the occasion was an evening devoted to showcase concertos performed by Leonid Kogan: “Kogan is a brilliant representative of the glorious cache of Soviet performing art. In this concert he played the violin concertos of Mozart (in G major), Beethoven and Brahms . . . The USSR State Symphony Orchestra performed magnificently under the direction of K. Kondrashin. The conductor and orchestra took part in this concert by Kogan as a marvellous, pure and equal partner in ensemble. K. Kondrashin performed the whole programme wonderfully. One particularly wishes to highlight the beginning of the second movement of the Brahms Concerto, where the oboe solo was magnificently played.”34 Kogan was partnered once more by Kondrashin and the Philharmonia Orchestra in the Brahms Concerto at London’s Royal Festival Hall, which was set down by Columbia Records. Kondrashin first visited the United Kingdom in 1958, in the wake of Van Cliburn’s victory; the success, of which, led to more engagements arranged through Goskonzert. In February 1959, he conducted the London Philharmonic Orchestra: “Mr Kondrashin is plainly a scrupulous and dynamic conductor with a good command of an orchestra. His sense of rhythm is impressive, too, in lilting music; but in an extended movement, the Elegy which opens Tchaikovsky’s G major orchestral suite, he allowed tensions to sag dangerously in the development section.” The writer questioned how well Kondrashin would be in directing symphonic works; nonetheless, the writer hoped for a quick return, “for he has admirable powers of communicating a lively and serious view of music. His account of the Serenade for Strings was robust and expressive and, as in the suite, his expressive rubato was idiomatically applied, so that the effect warmed the heart but never fell into exaggeration.”35 The first concerts were under the auspices of the English impresario Victor Hochhauser, who specialized in bringing the best of talent from the USSR to Britain. Kirill Kondrashin was fortunate in that he was being allowed to travel outside the Soviet Union with his third wife, Nina Leonidovna. This was a rare privilege for artists and usually a trade off for services rendered, mixed with a heightened degree of trust. However, not all “loyal” musicians were so treated; the distinguished Emil Gilels and Leonid Kogan were never permitted to be accompanied by their spouses, regardless of their long-standing Party membership.36 From its early days, the whole issue of foreign travel had been an incommodious problem for the Soviet authorities, as recently released documents testify: “Of late there have again been frequent instances of intercession by various artistic circles—individuals and entire theatres— concerning permission to travel abroad . . . Based on its prior experience,

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the VChK (Cheka) categorically protests this. So far, not a single released individual (for instance, Kusevitsky, Gzovskaia, Gaidarov, Balmont) has come back, and some—Balmont in particular—are waging a malicious campaign against us. This show of weakness on our part represents a thoroughly unjustified misappropriation of our cultural treasures and only strengthens our enemies’ ranks.”37 Regardless of many changes in the status quo, some matters did improve but only for a limited few. Kondrashin became a yearly visitor to the British Isles, invariably spending a week with one of the major London ensembles. In 1961, the Russian maestro undertook familiar Western repertoire, the principle work being Mendelssohn’s Fourth Symphony—“Italian.” “Mr Kondrashin conducted with immense vitality, a fair measure of elegance, but no soulful meandering over any kind of detail.” The writer complimented the orchestra’s admirable precision, “stimulated by Mr Kondrashin’s own high tension. He does not use a baton, yet his movements are so incisive that few players could mistake his intentions or lag behind him.”38 Kondrashin learned that the Soviet overseas trading company, Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga, traded a kilometer of recorded tapes for seven rubles, which equaled, in sound value, two symphonies. Having received a nominal fee from Moscow Radio for the original broadcast performances, this was regarded by the Russian as outright exploitation; nonetheless, the covert advantage was that record sales helped to establish his name as a reputable orchestral conductor working with soloists as Oistrakh, Richter, and Gilels and in charge of Bolshoi Theatre productions. Inevitably, this prestige led to his celebrity status among the most prominent Soviet conductors: Gauk, Golovanov, Ivanov, and Mravinsky.39 The conditions, at the time, for work in the States were very favorable for the Soviet conductor; Kondrashin was allowed to keep fifty percent of the agreed fee, and the impresario met the accommodation expenses. For two weeks in Chicago, plus another fortnight in New York, the conductor earned, together with the two recordings made for RCA America, some nine thousand dollars, an enormous amount for those years. For the discs, Kondrashin was given six sessions of three hours each, and if more time were taken, then part of the fee would be reduced. Musicians loved these sittings because they each accrued four dollars per hour—twenty-four dollars daily, multiplied by six. With American prices of the day, one could enjoy a substantial meal for just a dollar. The recordings began with the Tchaikovsky Concerto—the soloist divided from the orchestra by a curtain, preventing Kondrashin from seeing the artist. On this occasion, Van Cliburn was not in any sort of form and became quite hysterical; he managed through into the first session and after listening

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to the tapes, hammered his fists on the keyboard and impishly marched off. The musicians went off quite happy at this outcome; regardless, they would be paid, yet Kondrashin sat in the listening room wondering how they were going to get through the two concertos. Little time remained as the next day, Kondrashin was scheduled to return home; on the morning of the last recording take, Columbia Artists phoned: “You know Van Cliburn is ill and thinks nothing can be done at the studio and has asked to finish the sessions at Carnegie Hall. We have booked the auditorium and hope that this will allow you both to complete the Tchaikovsky Concerto, I shall need to go with you to collect your fees from the tax inspector.” It happened that the taxes had been taken off that paid for travel and accommodation, and thus, Kondrashin could receive more than he considered; however, he was still concerned at the circumstances of the final recording. This, in itself, was worth fifteen hundred dollars. Kondrashin was told that he would get the money in any case because it wasn’t his fault if the taping was incomplete. Naturally, Kondrashin wanted to spend some of the cash prior to his return. Kondrashin went to a car dealer, and using most of his fees, bought a Czech Skoda automobile. However, returning to his hotel, Kondrashin was shocked to be presented with the unpaid bill. Kondrashin turned to his impresario, who had figured that if Chicago had paid these accounts, then the record company should meet the New York expenditure, and ultimately Judd was left to settle Kondrashin’s expenses. Kondrashin was bemused by the contrast between the magnanimous behavior of American agencies and that reigning in the Soviet Union. At Goskonzert, officials would argue about fifteen cents spent on telephone calls and demand Kondrashin meet them out of his own pocket.40 The Skoda was to be dispatched directly from Prague, and he could pay the remainder through his bank account—he need only pay thirteen hundred. Two months elapsed—no automobile appeared, so he contacted the company who informed him that their contract had lapsed, and they could no longer supply the vehicle and would reimburse his money. In response to this sorry tale, the maestro conceded that he would collect his credit on his next trip to New York. Once again in the States, Kondrashin bought another car—a Continental—attracted by seeing it in the shop window. However, on another occasion his fee was delayed, and the agency requested they transfer the money to Moscow; Kondrashin learned how to demand his payment by stating firmly that if his fees were withheld then he would speak to the press; within five minutes, Kondrashin received a check for his American engagements. For him, this was another lesson in dealings in the West.41 In future years, Kondrashin would have many more opportunities to make his living by guest conducting; the greatest challenge, however, would be to take his own orchestra to the West and make known his true conducting talents.

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The long-playing record of the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto in B-flat Minor became the biggest sales success in the history of recording; more than one million copies were sold worldwide.42 Despite the exertions with Van Cliburn, Kondrashin considered the American pianist a principled, bighearted, and very able personality. He knew how to judge the people with whom he worked and could pick out nous and speciousness in those he encountered and those who appreciated help when given. Conversely, the Texan did not take criticism lightly and was rigid in his interests, reading little and quite dispassionate to the fine arts. Van Cliburn focused on the romantics, while opera, symphonic, and piano repertoire had little charm for him. He was drawn to that which was closest in his own field, and opening out his range was unrealistic. Van Cliburn was magnanimous and wanted to give Kondrashin an automobile; unsurprisingly, the bond became very close—the conductor, nevertheless, became frustrated that this splendid talent could not open up his gifts and widen his artistry. Only he could be held accountable and was indeed reproached by his own teacher. Yet, Cliburn rejected further study with her or anyone else. “You know Kirill the press will really condemn me if they find out that I am studying again.” Kondrashin responded that there was nothing wrong in genuine criticism, “Kirill, you really don’t know what it is like to live here.”43 Kondrashin was genuinely concerned for his American colleague, for he didn’t see his name on European concert tours, and Van Cliburn confined himself to his two beloved Russian concertos, Rachmaninov’s Second and Tchaikovsky’s First. Sometimes he might play the Grieg Concerto, at full power and as always exciting. On a later concert, in 1972, Kondrashin played the Tchaikovsky Concerto again with Van Cliburn, and it seemed as if this was for the first time, managing to draw incredible excitement from the music, as if his whole life depended on it. Following directly upon engagements in Chicago with Van Cliburn in the autumn of 1958—an out of the ordinary opening for the Moscow maestro came his way when he revisited the city; Kondrashin’s task was to replace an Italian conductor and direct Puccini’s Madama Butterfly at the Lyric Opera. As fate would have it, his U.S. operatic debut revisited his graduation piece at the Conservatoire of thirty years before and curiously would be the first and last occasion he conducted it. The engagement was during the company’s seven week season—there being only two permanent opera companies in the States at the time, the Metropolitan and New York City. In Chicago, the chorus prepared all year while the orchestra was selected from different ensembles in the area and soloists invited from all over the world. This Madama Butterfly production featured Renata Tebaldi and Giuseppe Di Stefano as soloists, both of whom were at the height of their powers.

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Kondrashin admired them for their intense professionalism and artistic integrity—each knowing his or her parts inside out and truthful to the great Puccini tradition. The rehearsals had already begun for Verdi’s Falstaff by the time of Kondrashin’s arrival; the great Italian’s “swansong” work was to precede the verismo opera in this short Chicago season. This unexpected opportunity allowed the Muscovite to observe the great Italian maestro Tullio Serafin at the rostrum. Tebaldi sang quite magnificently in the central part of Madam Ford, and afterward, Kondrashin asked the impresario, Carol Fox, to introduce him to the Italian soprano; however, Tebaldi declined to speak with anyone—Kondrashin understood that she had been upset at working with an unfamiliar Russian conductor in one of her favorite operas. Kondrashin was troubled and supposed that the Italian prima donna was afraid that the “Russian bear” would impose his will. Conversely, Fox attempted to relieve the Russian: “We all need to find a common language with Tebaldi.”44 Kondrashin suggested meeting the Italian soprano with concertmaster and interpreter being present. “To avoid any tomfoolery we will study the part together, to find harmony.” Eventually, to ensure all matters could be resolved, five people were present as neither Tebaldi nor Kondrashin could speak good English. Their first encounter took place following the general run-through for Falstaff (in which Tebaldi, quite astonishingly, sang at full voice). Kondrashin resolved not to be passive; he fully expected the prima donna to stride in, utter a few words, and exact that Kondrashin fall into line. When Madame Tebaldi made her entrance, she was accompanied by a posse of pressmen and photographers who remained in situ throughout, expecting the volatile Italian to tear strips off the ill-fated Soviet, creating an international embarassment for tomorrow morning’s papers. To avoid a scandal, Kondrashin ignored the press melee, strode across to the piano, and began to play, and amazingly for the watching paparazzi, Tebaldi joined in at full voice. Naturally, as the session progressed, Kondrashin attempted to gain extra pace and limited his inclination to fast tempi. Kondrashin mentioned this to Tebaldi, and she assented to try other parts of the opera, yielding to Kondrashin’s direction. The sitting went on for two hours, all the time at maximum force, reaching the highest notes, repeating several points for emphasis, and finally ending in complete accord. “Love at first sight” was how the pressmen christened this notable meeting of minds. The episode was described in full in the local media—at last the ice was broken—a triumph for the Soviet to discover en rapport with this world famous singer. The performances were noted for Kondrashin’s desire to push and raise the tempi in the second night; as before Tebaldi followed Kondrashin’s guide—a remarkable consent of judgment by the Italian. Kondrashin asked her afterward if she

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agreed with the faster tempo, “Yes, I noticed this and went with you because it seemed satisfying. This harmony is so essential in art and quite extraordinary between conductor and soloist.” The 1958 Chicago production of Madama Butterfly was acclaimed as a major triumph and secured the conductor’s growing reputation in the United States. At last, Kondrashin could escape from his unfortunate association as Van Cliburn’s accompanist.45 The Lyric Opera performances were followed by a cycle of concerts with the NBC Symphony Orchestra in New York, the first ensemble that Kondrashin had worked with five months before. Despite the departure of many virtuosos since Toscanini’s death, the band was still playing at a superior standard. Kondrashin once more achieved sympathetic rapport with the players—so much so that the administration offered the post of conductor to the Russian. Kondrashin, naturally, waved their request on to the Ministry in Moscow. Of course, nothing more was heard of the invitation. Following their sessions, to underpin their liaison in Chicago, an ecstatic Tebaldi, together with Cliburn, went together to the Astoria restaurant in New York and, in effervescent humor, sang with the musicians; Van Cliburn changed his flight tickets for Detroit just to savor the occasion. It was a famous spectacle and, ultimately, the pianist had to depart on the last flight out of New York. The cult of Van Cliburn took place in an incredible atmosphere in the USSR; he was worshipped, and the manner of his dress and style of playing were adored and copied by young people. He was presented with all sorts of trophies and gifts. On one occasion, Steinway’s arranged an exhibition of the offerings given the American pianist in the USSR; Soviet youth were excited by the Texan virtuoso and charged in droves to his concerts. A new wave of audiences came; regrettably, few continued their “interest” in classical music, but he became an icon of the day—a symbol of this brief “thaw” in U.S.–Soviet relations. If the first part of Ilya Ehrenburg’s novel The Thaw heralded fresh hope, the sequel, published three years later, proved an anti-climax after all the hopes and expectations raised.46

NOTES 1. L. Ginzburg, “Zametki o Bostonskom Orkestre,” Sovetskaya Muzika 11 (November 1956): 112. 2. L. Ginzburg, “Zametki o Bostonskom Orkestre,” 112–13. 3. M. Sabinina, “Na Konzertakh Londonskovo Orchestra,” Sovetskaya Muzika 12 (December 1956): 94–95. 4. “Pursuing the U.S. Ideal,” Time, October 29, 1965. 5. L. Lebedinsky, “Proizvedeniye D. Shostakovicha,” Sovetskaya Muzika 12 (December 1956): 98.

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6. L. Lebedinsky, “Proizvedeniye D. Shostakovicha,” 98. 7. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 159–60. 8. Yakov Soroker, David Oistrakh, (Jerusalem: Tarbut, 1981), 77. 9. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 159. 10. G. Shantyr, “Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya N. Myaskovskovo,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1956): 132. 11. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, (Ann Arbor, MI: Ermitage, 1983), 90–91. 12. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 91. 13. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 91. 14. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 160. 15. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 160–61. 16. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 206. 17. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 205–6 18. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Moi Vpechatleniya,” Sovetskaya Kultura 6 (1958), 3. 19. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Van Cliburn,” Sovetskaya Kultura 80 (July 7, 1960), 5. 20. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Van Cliburn.” 21. Leonid Gaakel, “Iz Nablyudenii nad Konzertnoy Zhisnyu Leningrada 5–60 godakh,” in Muzika I Muzikanty Leningrad (Leningrad: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1972), 128. 22. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 162. 23. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 100–1. 24. “Rachmaninov—By Himself and by Van Cliburn,” The Times, November 7,1959. 25. Leonid Gaakel, “Iz Nablyudenii,” 128. 26. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 162. 27. Leonid Gaakel, “Iz Nablyudenii,” 129. 28. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 162–63. 29. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 163. 30. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 57–58. 31. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 96. 32. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 96. 33. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, 96–98. 34. Dmitry Shostakovich, “Talantlivy Artist,” GSMMK, f.32, ed.khr. 2077. Original. The article published in Pravda, April 29, 1959, contained numerous cuts and changes. 35. Concert review, anonymous, A music critic, The Times, February 27, 1959. 36. Nadezhda Kozhevnikova, “Drugaya Zhizn?” Sovetskaya Kultura 17 (April 27, 1991): 6. 37. Memorandum from VChK Chairman F. E. Dzerzhinsky to the TsK RKP, APRF, f.3, op.35, d.35, l.3. Original. Typewritten. April 19, 1921. 38. “Great vitality of Mr. Kondrashin: No Baton for Russian,” The Times, February 6, 1961. 39. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 163–64.

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40. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 166–69. 41. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 170–71. 42. “Tchaikovsky for the Million,” The Times, December 29, 1961. 43. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 169–70. 44. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 165. 45. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 165–66. 46. Walter Z. Laqueur and George Lichtheim, ed., The Soviet Cultural Scene 1956–1957 (New York: Atlantic Books, 1958), 3.

Kirill Kondrashin conducting the Leningrad Philharmonic, 1974. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin at two years old. Nolda Broekstra

Student years, 1936. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin at the Maly Theatre, 1938. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin, a staff conductor at the Bolshoi theatre, 1943. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin at home,1943. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin with Emil Gilels in Gorky, 1957. Nolda Broekstra

Van Cliburn, President Eisenhower, the impresario Sol Hurok and his wife, Kondrashin, and an interpreter at the White House, 1958. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin studying a score, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti

Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti

Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti

Rehearsal with USSR SSO, 1959. David Sholomonovich, Novosti

Kondrashin and Shostakovich at premiere of the Fourth Symphony, December 1961. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin and Shostakovich after premiere of the Fourth Symphony, 1961. Pyotr Kondrashin

Rehearsal of the Thirteenth Symphony, December 1962. Pyotr Kondrashin

Dmitry Shostakovich, Kondrashin, and Yevgeny Yevtushenko after the premiere of the Thirteenth Symphony, 1962. Pyotr Kondrashin

Vitaly Gromadsky and Kondrashin with Dmitry and Maxim Shostakovich, listening to the tape recording of the Thirteenth Symphony. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin, 1960. Pyotr Kondrashin

Kondrashin, Moshei Vainberg, and Nina Kondrashina in Warsaw, 1962—Vainberg Center. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin after a concert, 1967. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin, 1963. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin and son Pyotr at Melodiya studios, 1974. Pyotr Kondrashin

Ekaterina Furtseva and writers Chingiz Aitmatov and Konstantin Simonov, 1971. Yuri Abramochkin, Novosti

Nolda Broekstra and Kondrashin at the Kondrashin Conducting Master classes, August 1978. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin in New York, 1979. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin in Linz, 1980. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin in America, February 1981. Nolda Broekstra

The last photograph—Kondrashin with a friend on March 6, 1981 in Amsterdam. Nolda Broekstra

Kondrashin’s gravestone in the Netherlands. Nolda Broekstra

8 The Moscow Philharmonic 1962–1966

Let me escape the commonplace. Let darkness adorn me in wallow and ice. Let morning flush me out of the reeds. Take aim. It’s all over. Fire as I fly. Pasternak Second Birth 1928

In two short years since leaving the Bolshoi Theatre, Kirill Kondrashin had become a familiar name on concert bills across the length and breadth of the Soviet Union. To music lovers all over the country, his dynamic and exciting conducting was cherished along with recognized conductors as Alexander Gauk, Natan Rakhlin, Konstantin Ivanov, and Yevgeny Mravinsky. The expansion in Kondrashin’s career proved important both in intensifying the orchestral repertoire as well as continuing valuable partnerships with soloists of dissimilar musical intensity. In spite of the diversity in standards and milieu, few orchestras left the aspiring maestro indifferent—Kondrashin found the hard, tough grind equally motivating and beneficial, stimulated by the exhilarating sense of triumph in getting that extra dimension from his players. Four rehearsals were sufficient to attain his desired adjustments, but if he could get eight run-throughs, then an even greater effect could be realized. In the Soviet Union, only the Leningrad Philharmonic would allocate such time in preparation for a concert. Since the 1930s, Mravinsky had enforced a rigid routine, ensuring that players prepare for at least an hour in sectional rehearsals before the general run-through, which, if necessary, could extend to as many as eight sessions, even for works as well known as Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony.1

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Through this extensive, undulating learning curve, away from the Bolshoi Theatre, Kondrashin modified his judgment of former colleagues and particularly of Golovanov. When Kondrashin began working on Sadko, one of the maestro’s favorite operas, in studying Golovanov’s markings, the younger man quickly changed his view, in particular, of the veteran’s approach to dramaturgy; Kondrashin discovered that Golovanov’s modifications were both balanced and truthful to the spirit of the score. Pasovsky’s conducting was of a different manner, one of incongruity and unpredictability. His performances were achieved through monumental effort; Pasovsky’s paradigm was the Italian Arturo Toscanini who aspired and managed to draw every possible drop of music from his players and still remain dissatisfied. Precision and discipline were his byword, never interfering in the music, attempting only in drawing shades of color and effects from the text and consistently beguiling fantastic results.2 If Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin had found a fresh sense of purpose away from the overwhelming Bolshoi Theatre, a particular challenge remained to attain the chief conductorship of a symphony orchestra. This progression was partially realized by the invitation to conduct the Philharmonic Orchestra in Gorky. The Muscovite was drawn to the Volga city through the passion of the orchestra’s director—one Lazar Mikhailovich Gelfont. Here was a man after his own kind, a hard-working and ambitious master, who wanted to raise his stewardship to a higher level. Gelfont was no musician but an old and tested Komsomol hand; like his comrade Moshei Grinberg, he had served in the arts business for thirty years. If Grinberg enjoyed full governmental status, Gelfont had been secretary of the Gorky city Party organization—that was until the campaign against cosmopolitanism and his demotion to administrating musical ensembles in 1953. Belotserkovsky—akin to a fairy angel—ensured, at the Committee of Arts, that such gifted managers did not quite lose everything and continued in meaningful occupations. Grinberg was expelled from the Party in 1939, arraigned of a host of “crimes.” Fortune followed, for he was found innocent, reinstated, and returned to work. Belotserkovsky took him under his wing at the Committee of Arts, and Grinberg won both esteem and respect through his upcoming career. The Bolshoi Theatre also carried out its own purge: the leader of the first violins, Isaac Zhuk—a veteran for twenty years—was now asked to take his pension; this was also offered to another violinist—Matkovsky—despite his being far from pensioner’s status. This may have been what the Party desired, but it was unclear why certain musicians were singled out—a few were sacked, others ignored, and some praised. There was no transparency—if it was not as ghastly as the 1930s, nevertheless, there prevailed an atmosphere of fear. Against better logic, Belotserkovsky recruited both Zhuk and Gurevitch to the State Orchestra.3

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Kondrashin was over the moon for his colleague’s courage in ignoring judgment of dissimilar parties as well as safeguarding the preeminence of the State Orchestra. The city of Gorky was a vast industrial conurbation with several million inhabitants, a crucial center for the armaments industry and a major port on the Volga. Here, a secure reputation could be developed; Gelfont was a legitimate enthusiast for his new charge and primed as many opportunities to raise the standing of his orchestra. The most colorful of which was an extended concert tour down the Volga, reminiscent of Serge Koussevitzky’s voyages of four decades past. The key to ensuring maximum success was inviting Kondrashin and Emil Gilels; Gelfont suggested that, in preparation, Kondrashin rehearse the orchestra every month for a full two weeks. Kondrashin worked constantly with the orchestral sections and pushed their standards up, recruiting young players in the process, allowing the quality of playing to considerably improve. With the arrival of Gilels, there was already great expectation. The pianist brought his piano technician—Georgy Bogino—who had his own unambiguous knowledge on the sound and timbre of instruments. He was always trying to improve and perfect the sound of any instrument and one evening suggested, “Kirill Petrovich, there is an old piano in the buffet, I shall tune it and check out every brass-player for his dynamic scale.”4 The daily orchestral sound tests astonished the conductor. The effect was so positive that by the first engagement, the Gorky Philharmonic sounded perfectly in harmony; the playing was remarkable for its color, breadth, and power. The tour lasted a month and the Gorky Philharmonic’s standards improved amazingly and so much that the concert performances encouraged Kondrashin’s self-belief that he was now ready to work full-time with his own orchestra. The Korean experience and the 1958 Tchaikovsky Piano Competition led to a deputation from the Moscow Philharmonic, formally asking Kondrashin to accept the position of chief conductor. The Moscow Philharmonic enjoyed one of the most celebrated histories of any Russian orchestra. Formed in the nineteenth century by aristocrats and businessmen, the Philharmonic fostered an important role in popularizing classical music in the early years of Soviet power, with many fine conductors associated with it; famously, Klemperer conducted the Philharmonic in a series of concerts, and the celebrated Hungarians Eugéne Sëngar and George Sebastyan directed it before leaving the Soviet Union in 1937 due to the sudden ban on foreign specialists. At the outbreak of war, in 1941, the Philharmonic was disbanded, and its players, united with those of the State Orchestra, and the musicians, under the stewardship of Natan Rakhlin, spent the early part of the war touring through the east of the country, Kazan, the Urals, Central Asia, and Siberia.5 In early 1943, the ensemble returned to Moscow

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as the State Orchestra; the identity of the Philharmonic was lost until 1951 when the authorities reconstituted the orchestra as part of the Philharmonic Society with the newly built Tchaikovsky Concert Hall as its base. The venue was originally constructed as the home for Meyerhold’s theater. Holding vast cavernous dimensions, the acoustics were more akin to a cathedral than that of the familiar Conservatoire Hall. Nevertheless, Kondrashin had second thoughts; the Philharmonic retained many elderly players while, in comparison, the State Orchestra attracted the finest young graduates due to an enhanced pay structure and superior concerts. It was now more difficult to get rid of deficient or elderly players due to a “new regime” at each establishment whereby personnel matters had to be processed through the Party.6 Kondrashin was determined to honor his contract with Gastrolburo and would linger for the more correct moment. Many of his successful engagements with the preeminent State Orchestra led to contracts for commercial recordings, which allowed the conductor to make his own selection of repertoire. In February 1959, Kondrashin made the first recording of Myaskovsky’s Sixth Symphony together with the State Symphony Orchestra and the remarkable Yurlov State Choir. Regrettably, the taping could only be produced using monophonic equipment; Kondrashin much wanted to make a better-quality setting; the work is regarded as Myaskovsky’s chef d’oeuvre and the premiere “Soviet” symphony.7 The recording eventually became available in 1994 and was warmly received by the reviewer who compared it against two other competitors who fell far from “approaching the fire, the expressive ebb and flow, or the sheer dramatic sweep of Kondrashin . . . This is a musically self-sufficient symphonic drama of aspiration, yearning, frustration and wistfulness, all held in a tense state of becoming by a squared-off but masterly Wagnerian chromaticism and lit from time to time by moments of immensely touching poetic inwardness.”8 Kondrashin hoped that this would initiate a series of the symphonic cycle, yet this ambition would be frustrated, for only the Fifteenth and a stereo version of the Sixth would be released. In the last days of the year, Kondrashin traveled with the State Orchestra to America as assistant to Konstantin Konstantinovich Ivanov—the long-standing director. This marked the debut tour of the United States by a Soviet orchestra and offered a major cultural exchange with the New York Philharmonic, which had visited the USSR in August that year. Nevertheless, on this voyage, Kondrashin was hurt that his own reviews (which were favorable) were concealed from his envious superior. “Ivanov’s conducting was below par in Tchaikovsky’s Third Orchestral Suite; his physiognomy on stage was distressing to watch, an unnatural hair style together with an almost hysterical facial expression, so much posing, surely the music was more important than this.”9

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Ivanov’s musicians attributed this to the critical New York press that found fault with the middle-of-the-road repertoire brought to America. However, it was only later that it became clear that it was the impresario, Sol Hurok, who had chosen the dedication to Tchaikovsky at the Carnegie Hall concerts.10 Kondrashin studied his colleague Koustantin Ivanov in a reading of the rarely performed Tchaikovsky Second Piano Concerto (which has a duet for violin and cello); Zhuk played the violin solo magnificently; however, the stand-in cellist was so inept that the performance ended in fiasco and was panned by the media. Kirill Kondrashin was infuriated, particularly by the fact that, in Moscow, Ivanov would attain better results by changing artists simply for one engagement: “For instance, they took Granit from the Philharmonic rehearsing for three days prior to the tour however he stayed at home . . . yet was scheduled to play a solo part!”11 For his own engagements, Kondrashin insisted on using a quite different cello player, yet the director demanded that the leader of the section play. Kondrashin’s line of attack was that either his chosen cellist plays or he would not conduct at all. This scandalous situation upset everyone, no less so Kondrashin’s nerves, and detracted much from the otherwise successful visit. Judging from audience reception, the friendly response of the public, and accrued revenue, the debut concert tour of North America was, nevertheless, triumphant, and its upbeat quality was duly reported back in the capital, none more so than that of Kondrashin’s contribution. Upon his return, Belotserkovsky once more offered him the Philharmonic. On this occasion, the proposal proved acceptable. However, due to outstanding engagements, it would be several months before he could assume the appointment, and the first meeting with his new charges took place at the Black Sea retreat of Sochi in the summer of 1960. During this period, the orchestra undertook tours of the resorts of the Caucasus and the South. Kondrashin expressed his artistic ethics at the very first rehearsal: initially, on sound production, “horns with no vibrato and strings play without heavy vibrato, including a nuancing in diminuendo and prestissimo, more than at the crescendo, there must be greater distinction between forte and fortissimo, the percussion should not force their sound and everyone should get the picture why.” Kondrashin did not propose any specific process, simply asking his musicians to give more effort than they think possible, and results would be evident through time—those who can satisfy the fresh approach and those who cannot. Kondrashin recommended that for future concerts, a working group would discuss both rehearsals and performance and formal minutes be available for all to read.12 The portent on orchestral playing was amazing, immaculate discipline in ensemble and tone; it became a genuine orchestra. Each and every player was anxious, for if any lack of discipline occurred—late coming, absenteeism, or sharp backchat—sackcloth and ashes would await the poor soul. In the first

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season, this became modus operandi; as the improvement in sound quality was realized, penalties were restrained, but the section leaders experienced mediocre ratings, bringing up the rear in their potential, few worthy enough to take part in important solos; there came the time to remove substandard musicians. Thankfully, this was completed without systemized bloodletting, some leaving of their own accord; however, one principal—Madatov—was clearly deficient, both in clarity of expression and focus. He would not practice individually, and was subjected to quite dreadful ridicule by the conductor in front of everyone. “I think, Kirill, that it is difficult for you to work with me and have put you in an unenviable position, I shall leave with no bad feelings.”13 Madatov took up a teaching position in Gorky and then moved to Dudarova’s Moscow Symphony Orchestra but lost his position there shortly afterward. The conundrum for Kondrashin was that he was capable but incompatible for orchestral work; nevertheless, he possessed a great sense of humor and pleasant character. Several musicians were sanctioned to reach their pension age, albeit the annuity was just 150 rubles, compared with that at the Bolshoi of 500 rubles. An important benefit to the new chief conductor was that he was able to retain several very gifted musicians against competition from leading orchestras. The flautist Albert Hoffman, for example, lacked a permit to live in Moscow city and had to spend night after night with friends; Mravinsky invited Hoffman to Leningrad, offering a flat and a monthly salary of 460 rubles. Kondrashin could only offer accommodation; nevertheless, the flute player loyally stayed put. The trombonist—Kryuchkov—was equally consummate in talent and sought by several orchestras, yet he remained at the Philharmonic on just 150 rubles a month, as did the magnificent timpanist Galayan. Kondrashin explained his philosophy in that, “The conductor is leader of the orchestra and is required to deal with a multitude of organisational problems; arranging activities for musicians, maintaining discipline (individual discussions or debating defendants with public organs), defending the orchestra’s interests in the complex life of the Philharmonic. One cannot forget that the conductor has his image, as a pedagogue in a college, and has an influence on all his musicians. Civil conduct, a possession of broad interests apart from music, passion to art, well mannered (it is a disgrace to be late for rehearsal!) and indeed elegance in dress code. The conductor must constantly bear this in mind and otherwise cannot influence his ensemble.”14 Kondrashin’s ensemble elevated its artistic levels against other contenders in the capital, undertaking unfamiliar repertoire, including Mahler symphonies and introducing new music by Soviet composers. In the summer of 1961, Kondrashin accompanied the Russian pianist Svyatoslav Richter on his London debut; the four concerts were given with

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the London Symphony Orchestra and included works by Chopin, Dvorak, and Liszt. In The Times, the reviewer opined that the premium music making was in the evening devoted to Liszt: “Richter saved his most authoritative, if not his finest, playing.”15 The opening for Richter’s genius, however, was part of an agreement that allowed contemporary Soviet music to be programmed in the same concerts; this did not always achieve the most fruitful results: “The orchestra and conductor, who throughout matched Mr Richter’s musicianship with a corporate one of their own that was suavely less impressive, also contributed the first performance in Britain of Mr Alexei Nikolayev’s Symphony No. 1 in C—a turgid, bombastic, sentimental and academic piece that this writer has no wish ever to hear again.”16 If some were not taken by the latest exposé to current Soviet composition, the Richter–Kondrashin partnership led to the Dutch record company Philips setting up a recording of both the Liszt piano concertos with the London Symphony Orchestra, which would become acclaimed as the best modern records of these popular concertante pieces. However, the experience was a testing occasion as Kondrashin explains, “Richter demanded six ‘sessions,’ that is eighteen hours. I along with the producer considered that we needed no more than three ‘sessions’ as everything had been worked out before. But we required not just all six, but another two ‘sessions’! Richter did thirteen variants (in total) of the First Concerto and fourteen of the Second. An enemy of the editor, he agreed . . . with one edit in the Second Concerto. ‘It’s really very good!’ everyone cried out—‘It’s really good’ the pianist answered—–‘But it could be so much better.’”17 The issue of the recording received rapturous acclaim, “RF [Roger Fiske] went overboard, . . . and I am perfectly prepared to go overboard with him!” The writer justified his enthusiasm, “Kondrashin and Richter are in perfect accord, while their inspiration sweeps the LSO to its most enthusiastic playing. The extraordinary thing, yet it shouldn’t be extraordinary, is that here are two artists who get their success largely by sticking exactly to what Liszt wrote . . . They have absorbed the scores absolutely afresh.”18 Kondrashin discussed some years later the interesting conceptions in performing the Liszt Piano Concertos with different soloists: “For example in the first intonations of the E major Concerto by Liszt, Gilels and I both heard something satanic, Mephistophelian with a descending chromatic coda; Richter said however: ‘But here I look through a breathtaking aperture and see the entry of the Roman gladiators amid a baying multitude.’ These are diametrically different conceptions. Yet the imagery is very convincing and in accord following this phrase actually it is possible to hear baying cries. And the conductor has to consent and must concur with a different idea, momentarily submitting to such a reading.”19

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Among the Soviet composers whose works were taken up by Kondrashin during this period was the Polish-born composer Moisei Vainberg. Kondrashin gave the world premieres of several of his symphonies. All of these were immediately set down by Melodiya, including a fine setting of the Violin Concerto with Leonid Kogan as soloist. Vainberg was fortunate in being performed by the most gifted musicians in the USSR: “Regarding the role of the performer, certainly if one knows that he is waiting for your music, it does help motivate one. I have written works commissioned by L. Kogan, D. Oistrakh, M. Rostropovich, and D. Shafran. If I didn’t enjoy the friendship of R. Barshay, there probably would not have appeared my string symphonies. I worked on the Fourth, Fifth, Sixth and Eighth Symphonies aware that they would be performed by K. Kondrashin. I thank fate that during my career I have met genuinely wonderful interpreters.”20 Other composers who were given their first performances were the Moscow-based Boris Chaykovsky and Rodion Shchedrin. In 1962, Kondrashin premiered Vainberg’s Fourth and Fifth Symphonies (the latter was dedicated to Kondrashin), Khachaturyan’s Concerto–Rhapsody for Violin and Orchestra (with Leonid Kogan as soloist), and Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony. In 1964, Kondrashin gave the premieres, together with Mstislav Rostropovich, of cello concertos by Babadjanyan and Levitin, Georgy Sviridov’s oratorio “Kursk Songs,” and Shostakovich’s The Execution of Stepan Razin. The regular openings of contemporary Soviet music gave additional prestige to the Moscow Philharmonic during this formative phase in their development. The music of Stravinsky attracted Kondrashin throughout his career; however, many of his works had been rarely performed in the Soviet Union; only a small number of musicians performed his pieces in concert, including Mravinsky, Richter, and Maria Yudina. I didn’t have an attraction to the late Stravinsky, anything latter than the Symphony in Three Movements I didn’t conduct. However I love very much The Rite of Spring and Petrushka. It would seem that the Rite of Spring is such a noisy piece but I see in it endless lyricism. Here I try to restrain the timpani and heighten the poetry. I imagine to myself the aroma of nature awakening from the melting snows and [hearing] the songs of birdlife. It is as if one can sense the smell of the earth warmed by the sun’s rays. I have the same approach to an association with The Rite of Spring as to any other classical composition. I see no other way of finding a rapport with music.21

Kondrashin first encountered Stravinsky in 1962 when the composer made his historic return to his homeland. During the composer’s preparation with the USSR State Symphony Orchestra, Kondrashin sat in on his rehearsals, which were supervised by his assistant, Robert Craft, who, throughout, discussed

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continually with Stravinsky the proceedings in the auditorium. Among the host of composers, musicians, and musicologists present were Konstantin Ivanov and Grigory Shneerson. Kondrashin waited for a moment when Stravinsky would stop the orchestra and say something. “Craft proved to be an appallingly weak conductor—the orchestra found it difficult to understand him.” Later Stravinsky conducted Petrushka with Kondrashin’s Philharmonic and magnanimously complimented the ensemble, claiming it had greater precision in performance [than the State Orchestra]. “The Ministry of Culture arranged a reception at the National Hotel where the distinguished Russian was staying; Shostakovich was present, as were Khachaturyan and the Minister of Culture Ekaterina Furtseva together with their partners and another eight or ten people. Madame Furtseva was in very good form, acting as the perfect hostess, with a magnificent coiffure and exchanging repartee with her guests.”22 The Minister of Culture was an eye-catching woman of prodigious character who believed in ideals, unlike many of her comrades. This would make her subject of gossip; nevertheless, she would lead her office with considerable charm. “Ekaterina Furtseva could be captivating, very charming when caught in the right mood. The Minister asked Stravinsky directly why people thought him as being anti-Soviet, “‘Everything they write is a lie. If American newspapers wrote about his views of the Soviet Union it was all lies. I won’t allow my country to be criticized. If I want to pass judgment on it, then I will do so myself when at home.’”23 Kondrashin found this to be an extraordinarily shrewd response. However, the esteemed composer did not find it difficult to criticize Shostakovich’s music, while in exile mocking the Fifth Symphony for its “bad taste, mental infirmity and complete disorientation in the recognition of the fundamentals of life.”24 Kondrashin’s second encounter with the great composer took place when he was directing Stravinsky’s own ballets, Pulcinella and Petrushka, at concerts in New York as part of the Stravinsky Festival in 1966. Igor Fyodorovich arrived for the second half and complimented the Muscovite, kissing him in the Russian tradition and saying, “You sense the pauses in the music wonderfully.”25 These few words were intensely pleasing to the conductor, so much so that he framed the composer’s autographed score as a treasure of the occasion. Kondrashin acquired a high opinion of the American Lorin Maazel when he visited the USSR in 1963, undertaking magnificent renditions of Schubert’s Unfinished and of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony. His treatment of Mahler, in particular, created a sensation with the Moscow public long before it became a popular work—he directed this complex piece superbly with the State Orchestra (then in a crisis situation) and managed to elevate the level higher through his performances. Kondrashin met the thirty-year-old

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Maazel (who was accompanied by his wife and little daughter) and found him extraordinarily somber and heartfelt. The American conductor revealed himself to Kondrashin as possessing noble musical elegance, graciousness, and cordiality.26 Kondrashin had taken an interest in Mahler’s symphonies ever since hearing the great cycles of the composer’s music performed in Leningrad during the 1930s. In an interview, he expressed his consideration on different readings of Mahler’s First Symphony: There is a very important problem finding a cohesive linear thread, particularly in protracted works. Mahler and Shostakovich are very complex in this because they are great masters of the culmination. Take, for example the finale of Mahler’s First Symphony. It is considered that it is long and cuts would be justified. Even such a fine Mahler conductor as Kletzki made cuts in the coda. I recognize at first the finale seemed prolonged. However I was not convinced about this. I often considered this movement and when it came round to perform the symphony, one tried to imagine the final integrally. Now I judge that it is unusually logical . . . There is a very great, developed coda in the finale. Its material appears earlier, in the middle part (seven lofty horns), but there comes a crash and re-emergence of thematic material from the first movement. In the coda the sound develops (there are added a fourth trumpet and fourth trombone). It is clear at the first appearance of the substance the tempo doesn’t have to be restrained to allow this passage sufficient importance. Then the second appearance of the theme, at the end, with a more reserved forceful tempo underlines the beginning of the new fragment and prepares the development of all the material in the flow of the grandiose coda.27

Kondrashin explained how he prepared a work for performance; regardless of the nature of the piece, he would play it through on the piano or, at least, study it at length. Then he would leave it aside for a short period before returning for a more detailed examination of the score, “attempting to grasp all its details.” He would repeat this process before gaining a wide-ranging notion. Following this stage I develop a detailed analysis of the composition, after which an idea can be grasped of its psychological nature. At this point, I would make specific markings at precise positions, noting the development of phrases, and marking major beats (metrotechtonics).When I have finished this procedure, then I consider that the score has been scrutinized. The sole task remaining is to work out a conception which is only feasible by knowing the text in detail. Here there starts a running through the pages building an impression of the form and tempi which had been previously assessed. Before I mark the places where the sound value must be calculated—regardless of the composer’s fortissimo—this

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is not yet the main culmination. I score out the caesura between sections or search for different means if the transfer to another tempo is incorrect.28

In discussing the possibilities of making changes to the composer’s score, Kondrashin considered that there are a dearth of markings in many works and sometimes too many. Extremes are always a danger in such situations. It is implausible not to change anything in the score; this is regarding tempi markings and gradations, specifically unwarranted speeds and the lack of dynamic phrasing. It is inadvisable to follow blindly the composer’s markings without grasping its inner logic. Let’s say that in Mahler there are the most comprehensive tempi markings. If one follows them uncritically, then one can quite simply get lost. Here he writes etwas langsamer. But what does this “quite slow” mean? Speaking plainly this is for conductors of mediocre standard. A good conductor understands himself where one needs to cut the tempo. Mahler insures himself here; however this raises another problem which is when the score falls into the hands of a tradesman, the markings are followed perversely because they are followed blindly. I also found myself slavishly following Mahler’s indications, without an inner conception, and one executes them to the highest degree than is necessary and something quite different in the end results.29

The tape recorder proved an invaluable ally of the conductor, and Kondrashin was no foe of the new technology and its usefulness to the professional in the understanding of music. It is very useful as a corrector, particularly in checking the integrality of a work. One can recognize if, following a performance, everything worked out as one anticipated. If one asks a friend or a competent musician to tell you of their impression then the machine is more reliable. Concerning one’s self-control at the rostrum, then it may be mistaken when the question of acoustics and quality of sound can be authoritative . . . For instance, conducting Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, I felt a profound weight from it, and at the time of the concert was satisfied that in checking everything appeared lighter than before thought. Here the tape-recorder can render invaluable assistance—it helps to bring the performance to a maximum correlation of one’s intentions. Hearing the work from aside you may objectively recreate one’s conception and bring it through into the next performance.30

In conducting technique, Kondrashin believed that each bona fide conductor must find the plasticity in expressing music, natural to himself and comprehensible to any orchestra.

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I can arrive in a country where I do not speak the language but am not afraid that I will be misunderstood. It is quite another factor in one’s own satisfaction of technique. After many years of experience, I recognize that periodically conductors go through crises of their own plasticity when there is a feeling that one doesn’t conduct with sufficient clarity. There comes imprecision in gesture, and this is instantly picked up by the orchestra and on one’s own well-being. You begin to work out a gesticulation at home, to search for fresh mannerisms and as so often the smallest thing will quickly change everything: whether it is a different way of holding the baton, or perhaps a new upbeat of the hand or from the elbow. Gradually you once more acquire the necessary confidence. But through time one requires again to perfect one’s mannerisms, from which one has to reflect on one’s technique otherwise it will go stale in comparison to its ideal progression. Really the task which is before one and the orchestra constantly widens in scope and may be realized only through complete methodological release.31

The question of contact with the orchestra was regarded as a particular form of contact with the musicians: I would call this means of communication—hypnosis. In any account, science has not so far adequately researched enough this happening and hasn’t proposed a suitable name for it. When a conductor hears that they are not playing as well as he thought, it is said that his theory has not succeeded. When you give the downbeat to the solo clarinet, the conductor must correctly imagine what color of sound there must be, with what attack, what force the musician must play and how the phrasing must be; the soloist reads this in his eyes. Have you examined when a superior conductor comes to an orchestra for one or two concerts, he can radically change the sound? Many conductors from Berlioz to Furtwangler have tried to answer why this happens. I believe that more often the idea is in the force of willpower, which he addresses the orchestra and in reaction to the conductor there is a definitive sound effect. When I discuss with young conductors, first of all, I underline that they must be convinced of the line that they are taking and must want to hear what is most desired when there will be a crucial consequence.32

At the beginning of 1963, a major Festival of Russian Music was announced in the British press, which would be centered around the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra and many of the finest soloists: David and Igor Oistrakh, Vladimir Ashkenazy, Zara Dolukhanova, Yakov Fliyer, and Daniil Shafran in programs of Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovich, and the contemporary Vainberg and Khrennikov (the Fifth and First Symphonies respectively). The first visit by Kondrashin and his orchestra to Britain produced a singular reaction not dissimilar to that experienced by a distinguished Austrian maestro many years before: “My ‘tourist’ observations . . . afforded me an emotional approach to the grandiose conservatism of the English char-

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acter . . . I suppose that this conservatism is one of the great nation’s sources of strength.”33 Nevertheless, Kondrashin and his colleagues were welcomed as other Russian musicians had been, with awe and mystery at the musicians’ prowess and the unusual repertoire that they brought with them. The tour had been arranged between Goskonzert and the London-based impresario Victor Hochhauser, who had already toured several groundbreaking Soviet ensembles, notably the Bolshoi Ballet and the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra. Hochhauser explained, “All the money went to Goskonzert, we had no control over the money and payments whatsoever, although Kondrashin received a moderate size of the fee. He probably got 30%, about a thousand pounds. I gave him benefits, he brought his wife over, and for example, I paid her fare. At the time, he was a Category One artist as were Oistrakh, Mravinsky, and Rozhdestvensky.”34 The Muscovites visited, apart from London, Manchester, Wolverhampton, and Huddersfield. The Free Trade Hall in Manchester was a celebrated venue for the Hallé Orchestra of Sir John Barbirolli. His “twenty first season, 1963–4, began with a visit on 25 September by the Moscow Philharmonic, conducted by Kirill Kondrashin, who gave the first Manchester performance of Shostakovich’s 8th Symphony. Igor and David Oistrakh were soloists in Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante, David playing the viola.”35 At the end of this debut U.K. concert visit, Kondrashin gave an in-depth interview to a correspondent of The Times. “Mr Kyrill Kondrashin, briefly at leisure during the busy visit of the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, proved in conversation to be a musician of deep and thoughtful convictions.” The Russian was found to be both friendly, strong in character, “and possessed of unmistakeable authority, he dealt briskly and effectively with the questions about his orchestra’s organization, structure and methods to turn to the more abstract (and perhaps more stimulating) discussion of the general problems of modern music and its place in life.” Kondrashin was happy to concede that the Leningrad Philharmonic and their conductor Mravinsky to be supreme in the USSR. “The most complicated score we have played,” said Mr Kondrashin “is Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. We had nine days of rehearsal devoted exclusively to that one work.” Speaking of his musicians: “Most of the players are young, and are full of enthusiasm and loyalty because they are young.” What English audiences find unusual in the orchestra’s playing of familiar works, Mr Kondrashin believes, is not something traditionally Russian. “No musician,” he says, “would have the boldness to say he represented tradition; he tries to make music according to his own understanding. I have been conductor for three years, and obviously a conductor requires his own style and tries to give his own style to the orchestra.” The Russian maestro went on to discuss the music: “The Russian classics,” he declared, “are known the world over so we have played only one symphony by

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Tchaikovsky, and 1812 just as we have included in the programme the Jupiter Symphony by Mozart and one piece by Ravel. We could have played works by Hindemith and Stravinsky, just as we could have played works by Beethoven and Brahms but in the programmes available it seemed more interesting for the public to hear, and perhaps get acquainted with contemporary Russian works.” The points raised by English critics, he said fully, will be remembered and analysed deeply. “Perhaps we shall change because of them; perhaps that will be necessary.” If the London critics caused Mr Kondrashin a “little distress,” London audiences, he commented, had been marvellous. “It is interesting that in the Festival Hall the conductor faces some of his audience; I am used to feeling contact with the audience only through my back, but it seems that some of the most enthusiastic members of the audience—not necessarily the noisiest in applause but the most attentive—have been in front of me. It has been interesting to glance at them as they look at me.” Kondrashin’s impression is that English audiences are more conservative than those in Russia, where tastes have changed a good deal in the past 10 years and where, dodecaphony apart, modern music is very popular. “Bartók, Hindemith, early and middle Stravinsky all command enthusiastic audiences, as does Britten whose works ‘are highly esteemed.’”

The Times writer continued that the orchestra also plays music by Elgar, Walton, and Vaughan Williams. “In Russia recently, as in England, Mahler has become a popular composer. I take Mahler as an example of what is new in the arts,” Kondrashin remarked. “In his own days, Strauss and others were the revolutionaries; his works were not new in harmony and their form was conservative, but few composers since his death have avoided his influence, we cannot judge a work just from the point of view of its originality alone. We can all think of another composer who brought nothing new in harmony and forms but is indisputably great to us all—Schubert. I should like to talk about extremes in the arts. My view is that the world is in the greatest cul-de-sac but will quickly escape, and the arts will return to their realistic channel. The arts,” he continued, “do not exist to show how the atom was split but to show the sentiments of human beings—love, hate, patriotism and so on; these are familiar to all and they last for many thousands of years, but advanced modern music cannot reflect them. It is interesting to see how each great modern composer passes through these extremes, but at the moments of his greatest work writes realistically. We can speak of these in relation to Bartók and Hindemith, who in their early years went the same way and wrote extreme, complicated works but, as they developed, began to write more clearly.”36

Halfway through the visit, a reception was held following a Festival Hall concert with some of Britain’s finest musicians in attendance; Yehudi

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Menuhin and the conductors Norman Del Mar, Alexander Gibson, and Antal Doráti were amongst those invited by the GB-USSR Association’s vice-chairman Christopher Mayhew.37 The twelve concerts by the orchestra met with enthusiasm both by the music-loving public and the press. Several evenings were set to meet the demand for audiences to hear some of the magnificent soloists and to reveal new Soviet music. Kondrashin unveiled Vainberg’s Fifth Symphony in F in its first western performance and dating from 1962. “The symphony is basically optimistic in mood . . . and much of its material develops in such a way as from the sombre and repressed to the forceful and triumphant dash befitting a symphony whose message . . . concerns a people who move towards revolutionary actions.” The critic continued to compliment it as having something akin to Shostakovich and of Mahlerian irony. “The scale and manner is epic, the symphony though is clear and direct, and by no means lacking in cogency, and there are moments (indeed, stretches) of eloquence as well of excitement. What one missed was real distinctiveness, and real distinction, in the actual musical ideas.”38 One of the two concerts at the Royal Albert Hall drew many thousands, for three of the greatest violinists were on stage—the two Oistrakhs, David and Igor, and Yehudi Menuhin. “The ensemble was also unshakeable thanks to Mr. Kondrashin’s highly charged rhythmic vitality, here the perfect match for Vivaldi’s own.”39 On another evening, more orchestral fireworks were on show. The more popular Russian pieces were given; Tchaikovsky was represented by the Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor, in which Fliyer was soloist, and the redoubtable 1812 Overture, in which the Moscow Philharmonic was joined by the band of the Coldstream Guards. There were no cannon or rifle-shots but a grand blaze of tone when the Russian Orthodox chant is triumphant. The concert was notable also in that Kondrashin gave the London public the Soviet version whereby Bozhe khrani is replaced by the Soviet national anthem. The Times writer commented: “Poor Tchaikovsky never thought of, though no doubt it sounds well enough to those who have not heard the old tune thunder out in the bars. Would it still corrupt good Russians, or even Westerners, to hear what the composer wrote?” Kondrashin took the occasion to unleash another modern Soviet work to his audience. “The last of the Soviet novelties, Shchedrin’s Limerick, turned out to be much the more enjoyable . . . bright-spirited, extremely amusing music and that it pays homage to the spirit of the nonsense poems which we associate with Edward Lear.” The piece is a sort of perpetuum mobile, involving a number of brilliant and original orchestral effects, some jazzy tunes and off-beat rhythmic patterns, and a curious, perhaps unwitting, kinship with Malcolm Arnold at his most uproarious and reckless. The Times, nevertheless, went on to praise this “as deft and original as this is most welcome, more so than

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Karajev’s three symphonic portraits from The Seven Beauties which sounded no more than pleasantly reminiscent of other and better Russian music.”40 However, not all the critics were pleased; an anonymous writer at The Times summed up the Moscow Philharmonic’s short season in London: “It is not only quantity that makes a feast, and when all was done it was still possible to feel musically rather undernourished. This, it must be said at once, had little to do with the orchestra’s technical qualities, about which there has been so much disagreement both in and out of print.” Continuing to comment that Kondrashin’s ensemble were not “in the first international flight the Moscow Philharmonic have a consistent corporate style and maintain a very decent level of accomplishment.” The writer made a two-sided attack on the standards of the Royal Festival Hall. “If their tone-colour seems rather harsh it must be remembered that they are used to performing in more flattering acoustical surroundings than those of the Festival Hall.” The Times put the problems of the Philharmonic’s sound quality at the door of their conductor: “There is little lyrical refinement about their playing . . . Dispensing with a baton, he gives the impression of being forced to exaggerate the rhythmic precision of his hand-movement, and the result at times has a touch of puppetry about it. His techniques and approach, especially in quick movements, all too often result in metronomic rigidity without a trace of the underlying rhythmic ground-swell that permits some conductors to use rubato without destroying the continuity of their argument.”41 More criticism arrived from the pen of Edmund Tracey who disliked both the playing standard and the new repertoire brought from Moscow: “I did not care for the two concerts I heard in the Festival Hall: a hard-toned, driving energy seemed to me to be their principal distinguishing feature and they had none of the elegant sense of shape, the passionate clarity that made the concerts of the Leningrad Philharmonic so memorable when they visited us a few years ago.” Tracey described the Mozart Jupiter as being, “neat and trim enough on the surface, but quite lacking in mind and heart.” More criticism was penned on Rachmaninov’s Second Concerto, “They smudged and coarsened the accompaniment.” In the final item on the program of Mirzoyan’s Symphony for Strings and Timpani, he wrote, “an inanely blustering contrivance which made a great parade of saying nothing at all.” A performance of Prokofiev’s Sinfonia Concertante was dismissed, “so uninteresting.”42 Kondrashin’s musicians were not the first to fall foul of London critics, and few could face another engagement there following a negative review; nevertheless, this tour was deemed a success, and there would be many more concerts on British soil for both orchestra and their principal conductor. Major visits in coming seasons would include to the United States, most of the major European countries, and Japan. The Moscow Philharmonic toured

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the Far East for the first time in April 1967, taking a repertoire as impressive as that taken to the United States two seasons before. The concerts included Mahler’s vast Ninth Symphony, Shostakovich’s Sixth and Eighth Symphonies, both violin concertos with David and Igor Oistrakh performing, Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique, the violin concerto, and a group of delightful miniatures by Liadov, Kalinnikov, Balakirev, and Musorgsky, and also, they played a piece by a Japanese composer Akutagawa in one of their Tokyo concerts. Several of the concerts were broadcast and subsequently issued on record by NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corporation). Few of the celebrated musicians with whom Kondrashin enjoyed the opportunity of working were more esteemed than Artur Rubinstein. The soloist’s legendary status and brilliance at the keyboard was already familiar to the conductor through his recordings, which were long available in the Soviet Union. Rubinstein was already eighty years old when they first met; however, Kondrashin was up to date that the legendary pianist suppressed his true age; in any case, he boasted a shock of white hair and was fluent in several languages, including Russian. Like all artists of a certain pedigree, Rubinstein’s poise was touched by charisma, and he was incessantly prepared to gossip about music. When the Polish-born artist played Chopin, it was with simplicity and effortlessness and the truthful characterization of Chopin playing. Kondrashin discovered there was little egotism in his nature—no rubato was affected at the keyboard and each and every note performed with a grace and nobility in expression. Kondrashin first accompanied Rubinstein when he toured the Soviet Union, in 1962, and later in Paris. The latter occasion was in November 1963, following the assassination of Kennedy; everyone rose in respect and, afterward, they played Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto. The entire evening was bound with a grandeur and solemnity unique to such an event. The first tour by Kondrashin’s orchestra to the “New World,” took place two years after Mravinsky’s Leningrad Philharmonic; inevitably, the Muscovites would be compared against their northern neighbors: U.S. audiences last week had an opportunity to hear how successful Kondrashin has been, as the 112-member Moscow Philharmonic launched its first tour of the U.S. with a series of concerts in Manhattan’s Carnegie Hall. Consensus: an uneven but promising orchestra of international rank. The Moscow brass and woodwinds were bright and full-throated, but the strings sounded thin and oddly colourless. Though sometimes lacking in subtlety and balance, the orchestra played with great exuberance and a kind of healthy sentimentality. The tall, imposing Kondrashin, who does not use a baton, in the belief that the face can convey more than the arms, smiled and scowled like a silent-movie hero, occasionally punctuated climaxes with gestures as sudden and menacing as a karate

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chop. Compared with Russia’s other two major orchestras, both of which have previously toured the U.S., the Moscow Philharmonic proved itself superior to the heavily romantic Moscow State Orchestra but lacking the versatility and polish of the Leningrad Philharmonic.43

The two-week visit met with enthusiastic audiences for whom the Philharmonic performed a mix of Russian romantic works and contemporary Soviet pieces. In discussion with music journalists, Kondrashin was questioned as to the modern music played by his musicians and responded, saying they were interested in Poulenc, Hindemith, Bartók, and Mahler but rejected music of the Second Viennese school, “‘Nyet! This is not music. This is noise.’” Kondrashin admired American orchestras for their happy blend of “‘German discipline and a French kind of freedom.’” The media reported that Kondrashin was a proud Communist, and decried the financial dependency of American orchestras on the “‘voluntary sacrifices of millionaires,’” whose sole concern was their own “‘satisfaction and public advertisement.’” On the other hand, Kondrashin told the reporters, Americans are “‘warm-hearted, broadminded and businesslike—just like Russians.’”44 The visit to the United States was presaged by a second tour of the United Kingdom, revisiting many of the venues of two seasons before. On this occasion, the press were not so kind. “The Moscow Philharmonic were consistent only in being disappointing, both in their playing and interpretations under Kondrashin. Not an iota of Slavic passion in Brahms 3 (Royal Festival Hall, 8 Oct); instead it was delicate and chamber-music-like, almost effete.” The terminology used by Stanley Sadie seem a little uncompromising, indeed, describing David Oistrakh as “that most masculine of violinists.” At another concert at the Royal Albert Hall, Sadie criticized both Oistrakh and Rostropovich in their rendition of Brahms’ Double Concerto as being “a half-cock performance.” The following appeared to denigrate the orchestra and its conductor: “Kondrashin’s reading of the Pathetic [sic] Symphony was so artificial and melodramatic that one began to feel a touch of national pride—for clearly Tchaikovsky is an English invention, misunderstood by these foreigners.”45 The Italian maestro Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli was “like chalk and cheese to Rubinstein; one more ostensibly romantic and even glorious, whilst being a compassionate intellectual.”46 Whereas, the Italian maestro was “akin to stone but acted as if in meditation—like a noble sage.” Kondrashin’s engagements with Michelangeli were confined to just two works; the Beethoven Fifth Concerto and Franck’s Symphonic Variations. In the Moscow concerts, according to the reviews, one heard for the first time such “articulation of tone, coupled with a crystal clear range of chromatic expression, and triple notes and quarter notes not heard before!” Neuhaus found it difficult to express in a few words how Michelangeli captured the listener’s attention: “Perfection,

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harmony unified—in the complete conception of the music, in technique, in sound, in the slightest detail and integrally.”47 The Italian master’s means of expression were utterly transparent, lucid in enunciation and recreated with fragile sensitivity. Michelangeli’s “principles of music—time—sound are mastered and executed to its maxim.”48 Neuhaus regarded the Italian pianist as one of the great artists of the century. Kondrashin was astonished at the Italian’s ritualistic preparations; in the morning rehearsal, Michelangeli would be taxing and impatient, knowing precisely what he wanted; if one fulfilled what he sought after, there would be no more problems; frequently, it is the soloist who proves to be the hindrance. They would demand more tutti or ask for a repeat and complain if the violins were not playing correctly. “This is the way that Emil Gilels played at the beginning of his career by imposing his own character on the concert,” which was unable to get along with Kondrashin. The conductor discovered that only Richter, among contemporary pianists, shared the same degree of meticulousness as Michelangeli. Once the whole concerto comes together at the run-through for Michelangeli, then there is no reason to revisit it; the pianist has already attained assurance in his partner. Nevertheless, some hours prior to their concert, Kondrashin found the Italian maestro trying once more to find the elusive note. He persisted and at last, having found the required opening, little time was left for him to return to the hotel and change for the evening concert. Kondrashin waited and waited until the last possible moment; Michelangeli returned and then played like only a god can. This craving to discover perfection is a singular gift; Kondrashin found this equaled only in Rostropovich and Richter. “One has the impression that he is creating the music as it is played, one feels part of a musical conception.”49 Kondrashin recalled that, before a concert, Svyatoslav Richter would meander around the city streets arriving back with just a few minutes to go; this could be in Moscow or strolling along the coastline in Riga—he was reluctant to connect with people and could find himself only in solitude. It was quite different on the concert platform “Richter can be a grand hypnotist. His magnetic influence on the public is utterly astounding. I can name only a few [artists] who can have such an effect on an audience (Michelangeli most of all). Several times I witnessed at Richter’s concerts an instant consciousness with the audience. People didn’t doubt in him and they in turn became his disciples.”50 Michelangeli “had to be confident in the gradation of timbre, the power required—there was nothing Italian or light-hearted in his playing. Michelangeli would cancel many concerts because he felt in the wrong form of mind and would trigger off considerable penalties. It was said that his reputation suffered from the effect of cancellations yet was a slave to his own conscience—when he played, then it had to be performed exquisitely—not

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lifeless. His performances were perpetually seamless; judged always to the last degree and ideally in character and rhythm. When Michelangeli makes modifications to a work this was only through the most far-reaching analysis.”51 Khachaturyan invited Michelangeli and Kondrashin home for a meal, and the Italian sat most of the evening serene and passive. To draw the pianist out, Khachaturyan asked, “What do you dream of most of all?” to which he responded, “I would like to open a little restaurant. I love to cook and prepare different cuisine. If I had enough money, then I would buy a little house in the country with a room containing just four tables and wait there upon my guests.” Michelangeli was asked, “Would you just invite your friends?” and the maestro said smiling, “I have no friends.”52 Away from the celebrity circuit, reviving music by his country’s composers continued to prove an integral part of Kondrashin’s work with the Philharmonic. In 1966, Moshei Grinberg suggested yet another neglected score to Kondrashin; this was the unperformed Cantata for the Twentieth Anniversary of the October Revolution written by Sergey Prokofiev in 1937. It was significant that Grinberg himself had a unique part in the work’s history: Prokofiev’s cantata is for me a great novelty, a creative achievement inspired by his civil duty. The work is astonishing in its unusual freshness and the scale of its concept. One also feels some sort of naïveté mixed with poster art. But how sincerely the composer opens out the words of V. I. Lenin’s What is to be Done—“We pass in a closely knit group along a difficult path, holding our hands tightly.” Or take the other example [from] Philosophers where the voices slowly rise from whispers to freely sung works by Marx about philosophers which “in only diverse images explained the world during the time when the world needs to be remade.” I am the sole living witness to the audition of this cantata given in the summer of 1937 for P. M. Kerzhentsev (First Chair of the All-Union Committee for Arts). I remember how Platon Mikhailovich said “How can you Sergey Sergeyevich really take such texts which belong to the people and put them next to such forsaken music?” One has to add that Prokofiev vocalized very poorly although at the piano he played magnificently. Next to him were A. V. Gauk and B. E. Guzman. There were no copies of the music available. Therefore the criticism was fully accepted by the composer and as a result the work lay unperformed for 28 years! We performed the work several times in Moscow, toured it to Latvia and it was well received everywhere. I heard how the audience exchanged comments “I never thought Feuerbach’s Thesis could be sung and that it would prove to be so memorable.”53

In the same year as the Prokofiev cantata, Kondrashin undertook the Russian premiere of Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem. The work had connotations as the composer had written the soprano part for Galina Vishnevskaya; however, she could not give the first performance in Coventry due to insurmountable

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difficulties with the Soviet authorities. The opening in the capital, therefore, assumed significant magnitude, particularly accounting for Britten’s sympathy for Russian music and culture and his amity with Dmitry Shostakovich. The concert at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, therefore, became an auspicious musical event. However, long before the first chords rang out, major problems emerged with the translations of the Owen texts. Three dissimilar translations were prepared, and not one suited the music; ultimately, three versions were used by different forces in the performance—by the soloists, children’s choir, and mixed choir. Naturally, this all lent a regrettable accent to this foremost artistic showcase. Of course, the critics had a field day, “wholly disappointing lack of correlation with the musical score, particularly for the baritone V. Otdelinov in his solo ‘Dies irae.’” Nevertheless, “G. Vishnevskaya gave a magnificent characterization of the music . . . The orchestras, chamber and symphony played to their maximum potential.” The writer concluded, however, that Kirill Kondrashin conducted the Moscow concerts, “with great panache and power.”54 Kondrashin’s thoughts on other conductors were restricted to recordings and on infrequent occasions, hearing touring orchestras at home. Kondrashin never made Karajan’s acquaintance but admired the beautiful sound produced by his orchestra; however, he was intolerant of the manner and style on the podium. “This was like a shaman on stage and the posing seemed so hollow—in rehearsal however everything was primed to the last detail—the orchestra yielded to his style and the analysis was to a certain extent logical.”55 Kondrashin possessed a higher opinion of Leopold Stokowski; their encounter came in 1966 when the veteran was conducting the New York Stadium Orchestra in Beethoven’s Second Symphony and his own orchestration of Musorgsky’s Pictures from an Exhibition. Arriving late for the session, Stokowski was very gracious uttering, “suppe nach den probe.” Kondrashin had to decline as he had his own rehearsal to attend to; nevertheless, he promised that he would come to the concert. “Stokowski directed the overture to Weber’s Oberon magnificently. The old maestro conducted without baton and imparted a wonderful authority on the podium through detached gestures of his hands; it was enough just to drop one hand and the musicians instantly stopped playing. Stokowski would articulate his desires in a soft voice, state in which bars he wanted changes and instantly set off again. In reality he only repeated sections where any slip occurred.” Kondrashin believed Stokowski was a fantastic conductor and regretted the widespread view, at the time, that he was only a great conductor of bad music. “The orchestral suites based on Wagner’s operatic music portray their true spirit; they are magnificent and precisely realize Wagner’s great works in concert form.” Stokowski’s

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Beethoven was recreated in the spirit of the era with the living rhythm of the contemporary period. Kondrashin reinforced his judgment listening to Stokowski’s takes on Oberon and the Beethoven Second; however, it was the interpretation of Musorgsky, in particular, that overwhelmed; the orchestration was in Ravel’s style but different and quite out of sorts with the original—the cuts were barbarous and quite illogical, generating, in Kondrashin’s view, dilettante interference with Musorgsky’s music and forcing him to have second thoughts on Stokowski’s musical personality.56 There was a third encounter with Stokowski, on this occasion at his New York home. The occasion was a gathering of major celebrities from a crosssection of American show business, and Kondrashin was invited with his friend, the Soviet conductor, Yuri Temirkanov. The Russian enjoyed his têteà-tête with the veteran maestro, exchanging views in German. It appeared to Kondrashin that Stokowski was very interested in the Soviet Union; however, he kept looking anxiously from side to side. Stokowski had a trying family life, having been married four times; there was a seventeen-year-old son from one marriage, whom he rarely met with, and the party was apparently one of those infrequent occasions. In touch with the times, Stokowski junior appeared in a hippy form of dress and was nauseatingly conceited. Stokowski fussed over his offspring, allowing himself to bring drinks over to him, which he then declined, ordering a quite different beverage as if to create an upset for his father. Kondrashin and Temirkanov left with a feeling of distaste having been eyewitnesses to this sad scene.57 On a tour to the west coast of the United States, Kirill Kondrashin had the opportunity of meeting the legendary virtuoso: Jascha Heifetz. Kondrashin could remember his famous return to Russia in 1934 and, particularly, the generation of musicians who attended his concerts. “Heifetz traumatized his listeners with his astonishing technique, power and virtuosity. Jascha Heifetz played three concertos . . . the Brahms, Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn, however in the latter pair, his rather dynamic vibrato seemed inappropriate, particularly in the Mendelssohn, nevertheless acted as a major influence on young violinists particularly on Leonid Kogan who later embraced a similar, forceful, passionate style of expression.” When Heifetz played the finale of the Brahms Concerto, “his octaves sounded louder than the violins in the orchestra put together—the degree of technical control was awesome.”58 The conductor charged with Heifetz’s concerts was the highly regarded Alexander Ivanovich Orlov; he encompassed an extraordinary repertoire and was a fine and erudite accompanist. Prior to the first rehearsal, to discuss the works, he visited the famous violinist at the Metropol Hotel. There he was greeted by Heifetz’s aide who expressed his regrets that the maestro was indisposed and proceeded to show Orlov the parts

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where he wanted to give most expression. Kondrashin, accompanying his colleague Orlov, considered this reprehensible behavior by Heifetz.59 Kondrashin’s encounter three decades later was arranged through Gregor Pyatigorsky. They met at the cellist’s home in Los Angeles where the sole tongue spoken was Russian; English was forbidden in a house richly decorated with icons and paintings of Slavic landscapes. Kondrashin was also reacquainted there with the pianist Byron Janis; however, Heifetz did not speak a word all night, bearing himself very petulantly. Finally, the violinist drove off in his RollsRoyce, leaving only a disheartening sentiment with the Muscovite. Contrary to his émigré friend, Pyatigorsky personified himself as a bona fide Russian, engrossing and witty tête-à-tête, illuminating in reminiscing about the composer–violinist–conductor Georges Enesco. According to Pyatigorsky: “In his final years, the Romanian musician ambled with a bent back, constantly looking down at the ground and unable without great difficulty to raise his eyes.” Pyatigorsky was very tall, “I don’t know what to do—he wants to chat with me, should I bend down so that he can see my eyes—it was difficult so I bent down double.” Pyatigorsky recounted with a sharp wit, not without expressing affection for the Romanian artist. For Kondrashin, it was a lasting source for regret that the expatriate cellist never did play with him.60 Kondrashin continued to actively set down recordings for Melodiya—the state recording company, including collaborations with David Oistrakh, Emil Gilels, Mstislav Rostropovich, Yevgeny Mogilevsky, and Leonid Kogan; however, his own interpretations were released of Shostakovich’s First Symphony and other pieces. An issue of Prokofiev’s D Major Concerto, recorded with Oistrakh and the Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra, was warmly praised, “Kirill Kondrashin offers some most responsive and poetic orchestral support . . . Kondrashin secures some sensitive phrasing.”61 Another performance, on this occasion with Rosa Fain, of Ysaye’s Ecstasy, evoked “great eloquence and feeling . . . I admired the pianissimo tone both she and the Moscow Philharmonic under Kirill Kondrashin bring to it.”62 A dynamic work set down was that of Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite: “The Moscow Philharmonic acquit themselves well: the unison passage for strings (rapid staccato triplets) near the beginning of the second movement is brought off with a power and discipline that put most of our orchestras to shame.”63 The Liszt piano concertos had been set down with Byron Janis and the Moscow Philharmonic in Moscow, a year prior to the famous Richter settings, in a famous release from the American Mercury record company. “Janis and the Russians then simply whip everything into frenzy. The finale of the First Concerto is particularly impressive. Climax is built upon climax in what seem to me perfect proportions, so that the final statement really is as overpowering as Liszt obviously hoped it would be.”64

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One of the most distinguished settings was of Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances. In responding to a query from a correspondent that the greater part of the composition had been written in Russia, Kondrashin said categorically that it would have been impossible for Rachmaninov to have composed such a piece before traveling to America. “The idea of the work could have been conceived in Russia however it could only have been set down in the conditions in which the composer lived across the Atlantic.” The conductor explained his hypothesis by continuing: It is well known that Rachmaninov wanted to name the three movements— Morning, Midday, and Evening. This cannot relate to a suite of dances and their development as an integral form, because they can be better titled as Night. This is the feelings of a disturbed man during a sleepless night. When he rests, all the agonies of hypnosis are mercilessly evaluated . . . It is characteristic of all one’s nostalgic compositions and the programme of the Symphonic Dances compares in a way to Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra. This is also a refrain from America, and the long lost motherland to the America of machines and automatons. Machine-like dryness is counter to Russian song, the span of the mother earth. The opening rises from a monotonous and repetitive grain: the birth of thought from a wide awake intellect. Fragments appear from intonations of the first theme. Then a contemplative tranquillity is suddenly broken by sharp chords. It is as if one has switched on a saw, which with devilish power is striking at one’s head . . . Sometimes there cry pitiful human voices on clarinet and oboe but are drowned out in an uninterrupted, hammering forte. Following a pause, there enters the middle section which brings us to Russia . . . It is as if memories do not come at once, only gradually. And when everything leads to the appearance of the main theme on the saxophone—you are already in Russia. We hear Russian voices, akin to folk lore, with the characteristic breath of Russian song. Perhaps no other composer, apart from Rachmaninov, can come close to this. Each performer brings his own to this by inconsistent tempi (it is impossible to play this uniformly), and by phrasing. This nostalgia is continuously scored by the composer, sometimes not, by the fading out of the sound through prolonged notes archetypal for Russian folk song. The whole of the middle section contains one frame of mind. This is the theme of Russia, of Russian nature, of everything that surrounded Rachmaninov from childhood. Slowly the theme dies away. The three last bars are as if a fading poignant recollection. After bar 17 there sounds a bass-clarinet which returns us to programmed subject matter. The clarinets singing repeats the voices of the first sharp chords, the low tuba with the double-bassoon plus timpani and cymbals are a sudden reawakening from the past. Hysteria all but reigns with the return of the celebratory perfunctory opening, after which there returns a Russian song-like theme. The musicologist Svetlana Vinogradova has said that this may be compared to the psychological outline of the song “Farewell, my joy, my life” which was made famous by Shalyapin’s recording. This is in my opinion spot on. This

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is really the main theme from the First Symphony by Rachmaninov, the most problematic performance for him, and the lack of success of which led to a prolonged crisis. And far from roots, even the most painful past memories can ring out brightly as they are linked with lost youth and his maternal home. It is remarkable that Rachmaninov could not expect that this melody would become famous as his own signature tune. The score of the First Symphony was destroyed by him in 1895 and only two years after his death was restored from the preserved orchestral parts. At bar 28 we return to the rhythmic essence. Many conductors using the previous meno mosso adopt the former tempo. I don’t agree with this. Rachmaninov did not indicate a change in tempo, but naturally the appearance of this song-like theme calls for restraint, and at this measured pace the movement must conclude because the return of the opening rhythm and intonation of the main theme do not bear an oppressive character. They are perhaps like the hurting to which man is accustomed. This is within, but always the mood is the same—“Farewell, joy, my life!” The third movement is for me the most fascinating. I conduct some of the thematic material differently from that normally done. The essence being that the motif “Dies irae” is present in almost all Rachmaninov’s life and throughout almost all his works. This theme always bears an evil, negative character with Rachmaninov as do other composers who utilise this idea. To understand my conception, it is essential to underline that this theme is used in several pieces written in Russia. For Rachmaninov it is associated with his earlier inspiration, but here is presented in two aspects—positive and negative. The opening is in a sharp chord and then a voice of frustration. One awakes in the morning and suddenly you remember something unpleasant. This is accompanied by shuddering. Another few seconds you come to yourself and are fully in power of one’s self. It is mocking, beating, convulsing: the venomous cheeping of bassoons, the short spasms of phrasing on the cellos, the outburst of the whole orchestra offer an echo, as if a funereal toll from afar. And there begins a carnival on all sides of automatons—dancing, syncopating rhythms, unsightly changing all the time in size. The voices of “Dies irae” are given in distorted form. Sometimes there appear horrifying intonations, before bar 61, on clarinets and bassoons. This represents some kind of attempt at confrontation. Yet everything is mercilessly suppressed. The new variation of the theme arrives on the flute and xylophone. All this reaches a culmination before bar 70, and it would appear that already no one can resist. But the noise abates. The glowering voices begin to enter the central section, again built around the modified “Dies irae.” Here is where it seems to me that here “Dies irae” is no longer negative. Here it symbolises the lost motherland. I underline that although Rachmaninov several times uses this theme negatively, here it is “the spirit of motherland” recollecting a land far-off, yet his own . . . In two parts of the American edition there are the inscription Alleluia (at measure 2 of 99 bar and measure 2 at 100 bar). I take this as lamentation for lost hope—interrupted by the triumphant voices of the orchestra . . . The last toll of the bell is so true; here man realises that he will be buried on

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foreign soil . . . Of course this is an integrated work. Everything here is in the confrontation with reality and to what has left him . . . The Symphonic Dances were written not long before his death. After this he did not write anything else. All the American compositions by Rachmaninov are nostalgic: Three Russian Choruses, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, the Third Symphony, however the Symphonic Dances are his farewell . . . How can one entitle this composition best? A symphony? No, it is far from that in form. Neither is it an orchestral suite because all the movements occupy a similar mood. Perhaps one could inscribe on the score “Here you expect something, but get something quite different . . .” Something incongruous like: The Dances of Death.65

Kondrashin’s debut in Italy was with the Naples “Scarlatti” Orchestra, a chamber group of just forty-two musicians, the standard was very high and comprised of mostly young players, and this, naturally, created a favorable impression. There was also a very fine orchestra at Turin Radio led by Mario Rossi— yet this was a long time ago—the standard has declined remarkably since. Kondrashin’s next visit there was to the Orchestra of Santa Cecilia, quite a fine ensemble with archetypal, enlightened musicianship, and it was possible for Kondrashin to work with them in difficult programs of Shostakovich’s Eighth and Tchaikovsky’s Third Orchestral Suite. Palermo was the next concert on his itinerary, and despite the reputation of opera in the city, it possessed a very poor orchestra. The Teatra Massimo possessed a larger auditorium than Moscow’s Bolshoi and equaled in stage dimensions the famous Teatra Colon in Argentina, and naturally, everyone was proud of this musical colossus. However, the musicians played disappointingly and gossiped constantly during the sessions, despite their apparent enthusiasm. The Muscovite had to constantly harangue his players, “Why do you play so sloppily.” This appeal to their musicality rang out constantly during the rehearsals, and they would respond, “You go to San Carlo in Napoli and see what Italian discipline is really like.” Kondrashin had heard that, despite the fame of the theater and musicians in Naples, their respect was not so satisfying. Upon arrival in the Mediterranean seaport, Kondrashin found the standards were indeed meager. Kondrashin had nine rehearsal sessions in a week to prepare Shostakovich’s Ninth Symphony, Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances, and several small works, and the orchestra looked crestfallen by these hard-hitting pieces and played atrociously. During the sessions for the Rachmaninov, Kondrashin noticed that the oboe player was making alarming facial expressions and playing wildly out of tune. “You are not right at all!” Kondrashin cried out. “No, I am playing properly.” “OK, play it again.” Once more he was incorrect. Kondrashin argued, “You are supposed to play in b minor but you are playing b flat major.” Now

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someone began giggling. Kondrashin again said that he was wrong, to which the oboist stood up and demonstrably walked out. Kondrashin ignored this and continued the run-through without him. At the break, Kondrashin asked the director what had happened and got the excuses, “Malato, malato,” that he was unwell. “But will he be here tomorrow?” The manager agreed that all would be fine. “I will not rehearse with the principal oboe.” The director replied, “How can you do this, we all like you.” “No, no, I can see that it is quite useless working with you.” Kondrashin picked up his overcoat and demonstratively walked out through the orchestra who were waiting for the next session. On the following day, Kondrashin returned and noticed the iniquitous oboist busily practicing, and a hundred people were now ensconced in the auditorium. The intendant himself was present and ensured that he was introduced to Kondrashin. It was so quiet that one could hear a penny drop—everyone was ready for another run-through of the Rachmaninov. The concert itself went very well, and even the guilty oboist matched the occasion, playing excellently; at the end, there was a great ovation and, ultimately, to mark their gratitude, an orchestral representative thanked the Russian for his work with them.66 Kondrashin’s next engagement was in the French city of Strasbourg where, following the first rehearsal, the director asked his opinion of his orchestra, “It is very pleasant that discipline is more akin to the German manner than the Latin” and recalled his experiences at San Carlo. His host asked his opinion of the oboe player, and Kondrashin explained his struggle with him. “You know that you were risking a great deal. The oboist is head of the local mafia.” Kondrashin was perplexed. “Last year, I was directing recordings at the San Carlo with some very fine singers and the engineer refused to work there because he didn’t want to fall out with the oboist. The manager feared getting a knife in his back.” Kondrashin asked how it all ended. “The oboe player asked to be excused for illness only promising to pay the fee.” The director explained there was also such an orchestra in Spain that doesn’t know how to play, but that the main criteria is that they don’t want to. “Life is dictated there by the siesta and they sleep all afternoon and rehearsals begin only at ten o’clock in the evening and go on until one o’clock in the morning. Musicians think only about what they will be doing after one o’clock. Kondrashin went there with little enthusiasm; however, the Prado, Escurial, and the Toledo helped to relieve his affliction. These foreign expeditions were seen as a form of reward for the work he gave at home and throughout the country, not for ostensibly being one of the best Soviet conductors. In coming years, a more rigid pattern of touring would be established, but for a brief period, concerts abroad were a natural

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extension and development of his craft. More and more, he would have to justify them by giving more tours throughout the USSR. On one occasion, Pokrovsky holidayed in Karlovy Vary with Yevgeny Mravinsky and attempted to entice the Leningrad maestro back into opera. “And allow some vocalist to spoil the music?” retorted Mravinsky. Because of the musical and vocal standards of the artists and their rights over conductors Kondrashin left the theatre. He was pressurized out of working at the Bolshoi. The next step for him was symphonic music . . . The aspiration to be independent and to be objective only met with dissatisfaction. He became an authority, popular and this always leads to suspicion . . . Kirill was always hospitable, and loved good company. We used to meet in the little flat . . . already the second most fashionable. Before it used to be just sandwiches brought from the theatre, now it was quite different affair, the best dishes, a beautiful table, wine of different countries. The guests would include Shostakovich, young conductors who are now leading figures and quite famous. Kirill changed; on the one-side earnings and honours and on the other continued suspicion as if being a moralistic communist. So much was his own opinion, and self-belief. “Where does this unhealthy interest to Shostakovich’s recent works and the attraction to modern art come from?—Doesn’t his success in the West strike you as being suspicious?” In his orchestra there were people who liked to talk in such a manner. These opinions were cultivated by the system. Be quiet, calm down, don’t quarrel, conduct, make your music but don’t cause conflict, don’t overstep yourself!

“We have found out your Kondrashin” was the statement made to Pokrovsky at the Party office in the hope that he would follow up with some unfortunate remark. In these times, there was a commonly expressed threat, “You’re a communist; put your party card on the table!” Where would an expelled party man go in those days? Nowhere, it meant a death sentence. Kirill was nervous, angry, upset, “the restrictions, corruption, aggressive bureaucracy, lost ideals, behaviour of Party officials, deception . . .” Kondrashin, quietly sitting on his comfortable lounge, expressed all these words used normally by journalists to his old friend. I never noticed in him any disappointment in the ideals of communism. This was not just because he had a family in the Soviet Union, as far as I am aware, abroad he never said anything against the political system. Kirill became a suspected man and accordingly became reserved, he didn’t hold back his energy in public and it seemed that he did not accept my politically passive views.67

The everyday problems that existed in his homeland gave concern to Kondrashin; however, with his quickly changing dynamic of touring, little time could be afforded to resolve them in his and the musicians’ favor. A friend of many years, Dmitry Paperno noticed the difficulties that the Moscow Philhar-

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monic’s chief conductor was going through. “By this time, the situation in the orchestra had become difficult—several musicians didn’t return from foreign concert tours, for which the blame was left at the artistic director . . . Also there emerged personal problems. Kondrashin suffered two heart attacks and was recurrently in a state of nervous stress. The invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 caused him a severe blow.”68 Kondrashin did little to hide his distress at the events in Prague, a city close to his heart and where he had cultivated many happy friendships. If some orchestras in the Soviet Union could test his patience, Kirill Kondrashin had little trepidation for the standard of the foreign ensembles he was invited to work with which were—with few exceptions—of the highest international standing. Nevertheless, Soviet ensembles touring the West were received favorably; however, there was a curious caveat. “In America there is a trend particularly for our orchestras at symphony concerts. There comes an audience which pays ridiculous amounts of money and demonstrates their jewellery and fur coats in these beautiful halls. This public applauds enthusiastically but I am convinced that they would applaud bad music and bad performances. This is understandable if you pay for art then at all costs show that you are satisfied, any other way you show that you have been conned and no businessman behaves so.”69 An important aspect was the interrelations with the audience in the auditorium, “This is the power over the public. There is a feeling which tells you that one has made contact with the listeners or not. If you sense an intense stillness behind you there is contact and you are happy and sense that you have conquered not only the musicians but also the public.”70 Kondrashin often worked with soloists with whom he was unfamiliar and with unknown repertoire; however, he accepted these as fresh challenges, offering him a new opportunity. Recently I conducted for the first time the Cello Concerto by Hindemith; this was with the Concertgebouw Orchestra and their concertmaster. I had learned the score and not previously been aware of it, before the first rehearsal I had worked through it with the soloist and acquired his conception of the piece. Naturally I made my own suggestions but in general agreed with his view as he had developed his relationship with it over many months and I had only theoretically studied it . . . Accompaniment demands a specialized conducting manner. I call it the technique of following in the rear. In the majority of cases, the orchestra follows behind the soloist. Why is this so? Really it is as if the orchestra and soloists play with the conductor. The reason is in the peculiarities of sound relationship to the orchestra: it is so that regardless of any demands to play, the orchestra must stay just behind. In the orchestral performance this is almost unnoticeable . . . The soloist must play by himself, apart from several key moments (ritenuto, at the beginning of the introduction, etc.). The sound

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production of the soloist is more active than the orchestral musicians—he is first in interpreting. . . In other words, the accompanist bears a passive beginning, psychologically moving his musicians to some belatedness. Apart from this, for purely acoustical reasons, if the orchestral musician believes that he is playing with the soloist, then for the public he is already in his wake.71

Of all the major orchestras, Kondrashin considered that three or four distinguished themselves; the Dresden Staatskapelle, the Concertgebouw Amsterdam, and the Berlin and Vienna Philharmonics. “At first there was some humbleness facing them but this disappeared within a few moments of work. If the musicians understand what you are trying to do and know how to realize these ideas, then there is an instant mutual understanding. Now I have attained the maturity when such modesty is no longer present. Now I have self-assurance and even perhaps some kind of hearty passion, endeavoring not only to get the musicians under me but to mesmerize them. It is particularly pleasant to offer them something new, when one is talking about their own music.”72 Kondrashin expressed his opinion on his physical and mental predisposition prior to a concert, the famous Russian conductor Yevgeny Mravinsky admitted that he was terribly nervous immediately before his concerts, was this also a factor for Kondrashin? I am nervous both for myself and my orchestra, and have in mind real nerves not fear. This is especially the creative condition at the concert, when it is certainly at the highest intensity rather than at rehearsal. However, regrettably it doesn’t always happen that way. At the run-through should one feel that the right condition hasn’t been attained, then you have to bring yourself to the psychological level, making comparisons with your musicians (not only in musical terms but every-day life) so as to create the right mood. Yet this is possible only at the rehearsals, at the concert you depend not only on the artistic sense but from physical condition (when it allows). Albeit something unexpected happens when you arrive at the hall tired and someone starts talking about upsetting administrative problems. One thinks to oneself: “Today it is going to be terrible.” And then the music brings you to yourself again, then there comes the greatest happiness. After the concert one is ready to share these joys even with the person who has brought unhappiness to you and make him as happy as you are. Yet sometimes it can work in reverse—you go to a concert with raised expectations and sense that you will show everyone how good the music is. You go on stage; and begin to allow something to get to you. Suddenly you understand that this is just false and empty, following the performance one feels complete worthlessness.73

He considered British orchestras of similar level, but playing was wholly dependent on who their conductor was; Pierre Boulez could take an orchestra and transform it into a first class ensemble simply through his interpretation

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of Debussy. Through a variable repertoire, Bernard Haitink raised the London Philharmonic to a peak, regardless that the orchestra was deficient in some areas. “When one has engagements with orchestras in Zurich or Hamburg, Copenhagen or Stockholm, all of a very high standard; the Achilles heel are the strings. There seems to be a catastrophic dearth of good string players—one can see many musicians from Romania, Hungary, and Poland who play there and are paid through inter-governmental agreements and return on holiday back to their homelands whilst paying commission to them in taxes. One must also point out that the Japanese are first class.” Thirteen Japanese were employed at the Concertgebouw during Kondrashin’s tenure; in most orchestras, one can notice one or two working, yet these are restricted to string players, not to brass instrumentalists. In Japan they are taught to play string instruments from earliest childhood and broadcast on special TV programs.74 I must say that in general all orchestras of the world possess a particular ability to adapt to a new conductor. And yet all conductors are different, with their particular mannerisms and habits, each has a varying manual technique and based on accepted principles of conducting; different artistic requirements, different relationships to each concert (some see it as a possibility to show something that was not there in the rehearsal, others recreate a situation as at the run-through, etc.). The entire complex of conducting technique, and in this case, hypnotic power is aimed at bringing the orchestra closer to oneself as quickly as possible. Without unity of ideas, there cannot be a qualitative performance and there cannot be any real music.75

London had become a frequent location for the Russian maestro; however, by the 1970s, as elsewhere in the Western world, concert halls, every now and then, became the scene for political demonstrations. One such occurrence happened at a Royal Philharmonic concert in the Festival Hall. Regrettably, the throwing of leaflets among the audience had its desired result: “Don Giovanni might as well have been Donna Diana, I suspect, for all the concentrated attention it drew from the audience, and for the drama it generated in the orchestral playing.” For the main work of the evening, “Kondrashin’s Eroica was something less, than that, a meticulous but lightweight performance. Quick tempos did not, of course, necessarily weaken the impact of Beethoven. Yet it must be admitted that, despite his exact reading of the composer’s dynamics and notwithstanding much playing, Kondrashin never quite succeeded in making the symphony count for all it should. In this respect the Funeral March was notably diffuse.”76 The following season, the Russian returned for a performance of Verdi’s Requiem Mass; once more the venue was the Royal Festival Hall, “Kondrashin last night kept the pulse strong, and [he] was a fine disciplinarian. But he sounded less easily to

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convey intensity through flexible expansiveness of phrasing, and equally to communicate the music’s spiritual incandescence.”77 Kondrashin made many recordings of standard classical works, and when he listened again to them, he did not always find everything to his liking, “Some ten years ago I made a recording of The Bells [by Rachmaninov], which I was very happy with. However recently I prepared a new performance of The Bells and once more studied the score and then listened to this record. I became quite upset that I had made this recording, although I liked it being produced with complete authority, at the time I couldn’t have done any better. The problem was that now I would interpret it quite differently.”78 Against the consummate successes on concert platform and record studio, there unraveled a long-standing squabble over increasing the remuneration of the Philharmonic staff, particularly following their first international tours. Between the management of the Philharmonic, there was no end to the correspondence between the director Moshei Grinberg and Nikita Khrushchev and the Soviet leader’s successor Alexey Kosygin. On each and every occasion, Kondrashin would be reminded that the government abided by the 1962 pay scales and would not change them as an element of the current five-year plan.79 The Philharmonic were outside the orbit of the top strata of state-supported ensembles (circumstances that dated from Stalin’s epoch), and no degree of imaginative aptitude would change the matter. Another opportunity arose in 1962 during Van Cliburn’s return visit; Khrushchev was present at this concert, and later, Kondrashin, together with the American pianist, attended the governmental loge. Gathered there were the leading members of the Presidium: Kirilenko, Mikoyan, Furtseva, and Kosygin. Kondrashin observed that Nikita Khrushchev was in a jovial mood and was in his cups, telling jokes about playing the harmonica as a boy and how his father beat him if he performed badly. Kondrashin was horror-struck by the leader’s coarse, bawdry behavior, particularly by Khrushchev’s addressing Anastas Mikoyan, a hero of the revolution, “Well, come on Anastas, you are the toast master here, give us a speech.” Khrushchev treated his Politburo colleagues discourteously and brusquely, at times pulling the pipe from Mikoyan’s lips and shouting at Furtseva, the only woman present, to shut up.80 It was no surprise to Kondrashin that the aging dictator was shortly afterward replaced by the more restrained, chivalrous stature of Leonid Brezhnev. Having attained no progress, Kondrashin’s orchestra were indebted to having influential friends in taking up their case; Shostakovich (now a member of parliament and secretary of the Russian composers union) wrote personally to the government and met Kosygin, the then prime minister. In addition, Tikhon Khrennikov (a personal friend of the Soviet statesman81) applied his own skills of diplomacy; nothing, however, could be settled, for there remained a brick wall of obduracy. How-

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ever, figuring that the new first secretary would be less disposed to financial matters in the new-fangled triumvirate, Kondrashin decided to approach the freshly appointed prime minister, Alexey Kosygin, taking the opportunity of sitting next to him, “Alexey Nikolaeyevich, Shostakovich wrote you a letter regarding our orchestra. Now you have heard them playing tonight, you can judge for yourself the high standard of performance.” Kosygin replied, “I am for this proposal, but you will have to ask Brezhnev—without his approval—I can do nothing.”82 As Brezhnev rarely attended concerts and stayed out of circulation, this proved almost impossible; another two years passed until Shostakovich met Kosygin and was told that there was simply no money in the coffers. The whole question of improved salaries embraced that of several other ensembles of the same category, namely the second Philharmonic in Leningrad and the Kiev Philharmonic, “If you get this increase, then the others will petition for the same.”83 The negotiations extended so long that a whole volume could be compiled; indeed, the minister of culture, Furtseva, raised the matter constantly, so much so that Kosygin would pointedly avoid her at meetings. She would outburst, “What about Kondrashin’s orchestra? When are you going to do something?” Furtseva genuinely attempted to upgrade the rank and standing of the Philharmonic; however, the snub to Shostakovich was an unfeigned kick in the teeth, especially coming from the head of the government, Alexey Kosygin. It was at this time that Kondrashin regretted not waiting for his chance at the State Orchestra where there was always a more lucrative guarantee of high fees.84 The musicians of the State Orchestra had indeed contrived to appoint Kondrashin as their chief conductor but this was only in the first months of his work at the Philharmonic, and morally, he could not forgo his latest charge. It was to be another four seasons before a raise could be agreed, by which time the Philharmonic had toured some fifty countries. The bizarre circumstances of this boost in salaries came in the aftermath of a brief, challenging tour by the Philharmonic to Scandinavia. The orchestra left Finland by ferry, bound for Stockholm, and there was an evening engagement the following day and a night journey by train to Malmo. A terrible blunder emerged at the seaport, for the Swedish impresario had not booked any accommodation. For Kondrashin, it was all one—they arrive in the morning and leave by night. The musicians, strictly speaking, did not require lodgings; they could instead stroll around the city and browse the shops. Kondrashin, nevertheless, created a frightful uproar—he demanded that the players must rest for the concert, and eventually, following debate, five or six rooms were arranged, so artists could leave their luggage, change, and wash up. As it transpired, this proved more expensive than it would have been booking the whole hotel. In the evening, the orchestra members were exhausted but, nevertheless, played to

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the height of their powers. There the story ends; however, international diplomacy came into play because a month later, Kosygin visited Sweden, and his host congratulated his counterpart for the magnificent music making of the Moscow Philharmonic, praising Kondrashin’s men and women as great ambassadors of the Soviet Union. The gambit worked, and upon his return to Moscow, Kosygin reviewed all the documents and signed three letters for Furtseva, the committee for labor sanctioning an increase in salaries for the Philharmonic. The minimum income was to be set between 150 and 300 rubles a month, with the highest category of 200 and 500 rubles. The minister of finances, Garbuzov, signed the resolution, and the deed was done and approved, all within a few days of Kosygin’s return from Stockholm.85 Owing to this ironic quirk of fate, Kondrashin’s orchestra found themselves getting almost double increases in wages. This, in itself, acted as a snowballing effect with the “elite” ensembles and led to a cumulative predicament; yet, the musicians were now at ease with their lot and could not attain the same category—a knock-on affect transpired for the Philharmonic. The progress in maturity, both in gaining audiences and important work, led to serious apprehension at the other Moscow-based ensembles, notably at the State Orchestra. The Moscow Philharmonic was becoming the center of musical life in the capital—Ivanov conceded nothing—the State Orchestra, nevertheless, remained like an immovable mass. Leading composers of the moment—Rodion Shchedrin, Georgy Sviridov, Moshei Vainberg, and Boris Chaykovsky—now brought their compositions to Kondrashin. The disappearance of fresh and interesting repertoire led to an atmosphere of discontent at the State Orchestra, and soon an upsurge of dissent erupted against the veteran maestro! Konstantin Ivanov was prompted to resign as chief conductor by the orchestra, yet this only resulted in confrontation with the ministry of culture (until there appeared the figure of Svetlanov, who was still resident at the Bolshoi and entreated Ivanov to stay). Kondrashin would not forsake his ensemble, and until a suitable alternative emerged, the State Orchestra had to be content with the status quo. Notwithstanding, this sanguinary appearance of “competition” led Ivanov to undertake highly innovative concerts of Scriabin’s Prometheus, pioneering color projection in concert—something never before attempted and unfulfilled in the composer’s own lifetime. Ivanov followed this audacious enterprise by giving the Moscow premiere of Shostakovich’s Twelfth Symphony at the opening of the 22nd Congress of the CPSU (Communist Party of the Soviet Union) in October 1961. These projects raised the standards of the USSR State Symphony, receiving worthy praise from the media. More enterprising evenings and concert tours unraveled at the State Symphony with a renewal and matching the newly thriving literary and theatrical life.

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For the old hand, the rivalry would only eventuate in Konstantin Ivanov’s tragic downfall. Yevgeny Fyodorovich Svetlanov was a prodigiously gifted musician, deeprooted in the music-making tradition; his mother was a distinguished soprano at the Bolshoi, and he made his debut as a six-year-old, playing the infant to his real-life mother as Cio Cio San in Puccini’s Madama Butterfly. He studied composition, piano, and conducting at the Moscow Conservatoire and made his professional debut in 1953 and, shortly afterward, was appointed at the Bolshoi, advancing to the chief conductorship in 1964, casting off the veteran Alexander Melik-Pashayev. Svetlanov, for all his musical genius, was fiercely ambitious and utilized every channel to secure his preeminence in Russian music. He attended meetings with the minister of culture about resolving the artistic and personnel problems at the State Orchestra and allowed himself to be nominated as Ivanov’s successor without concerning himself about the incumbent’s fate. Supported by the Party Committee at the State Orchestra, Svetlanov assumed the chief conductorship in 1966. Following this unceremonious dismissal, nothing remained for Ivanov, apart from ignominious oblivion. For several years, he was ignored by the major orchestras in the capital, restricted to guest conducting provincial and amateur orchestras until 1971 when he entered the Gnessin Institute as a student studying composition with Nikolay Peiko and wrote several colorful pieces for large symphony orchestra. Ivanov made a comeback, directing the Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra in diverse repertoire, including his own traditionalist pieces written for capacious forces of mixed and children’s choirs and soloists. He never returned to the State Orchestra and celebrated his seventieth birthday with a jubilee concert with the Moscow Radio Symphony, making several recordings of his own works for Melodiya. Ivanov wrote a highly interesting autobiography shortly before his early death in 1984. When Svetlanov took over the State Orchestra, there came a transformation in standards, both in performance and repertoire, generating a period when the two ensembles were almost equal in standing. Svetlanov raised his new orchestra to the peak and secured higher remuneration, rewarding both conditions and recordings for his players.86 The USSR State Symphony Orchestra, under Svetlanov, through its virtuoso performances, exciting repertoire, foreign touring, and prestigious recordings, dominated Moscow concert life until the end of the Soviet era. The problem of salaries and the opening vistas for the privileged State Orchestra with Svetlanov at the helm, now apparently in favor with those that mattered in the government, developed into fresh misfortune at the Philharmonic. Some of Kondrashin’s more gifted musicians began to leave for Leningrad or for the Bolshoi Theatre. There was a constant rivalry between

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the conductors and orchestras of the capital, and Svetlanov consciously signed up players from under Kondrashin’s nose, offering enhanced regime of wages, rest-homes, superior concerts and recordings, aided by Furtseva at the ministry of culture, who now gave preference to the State Orchestra as long-standing representatives of Soviet culture. Kondrashin’s work was obstructed as soon as auditions beckoned at the State Orchestra; several musicians had disappeared on foreign tours, which led to disciplinary measures and to Kondrashin trailing in his attitude to building an orchestra and maintaining a consistently high artistic level.87 Once again, Shostakovich turned to the prime minister, Alexey Kosygin; together with Oistrakh, he wrote: In the spring of this year, on your instructions, a plan was drawn up regarding the increase in salaries for the Moscow Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra as from 1 June 1968. Everything was agreed in advance and signed off by comrades Volkhov and Garbuzov [Garbuzov was minister for finance between 1960–85]. A final decision, it appears, could not result in the timescale for acceptable reasons. You must be aware that the continued activity and indeed the fate of the orchestra depends from the speedy positive outcome of this problem because the level of payments in the symphony orchestra of the Moscow Philharmonic set at a level almost twenty years ago, at the present time is situated in a miserable situation contradictory to its high status which the orchestra has achieved as a result of huge artistic progress. It would be disappointing, if this ensemble which has attained so much recognition and popularity all over the world began to fall apart. We ask you to find the possibilities to now settle the outstanding resolution of this matter.88

At the end of his tether, Kondrashin asked for help from the ministry to avoid the incessant bleeding of his staff amid the constant battle with other orchestras for the best players.89 Kirill Kondrashin had achieved much with his Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, raising the playing standards and widening the repertoire in modern Soviet music, in constant demand for recordings and foreign touring; the apogee had been attained; however, future seasons would reveal only a decline—the crisis in Soviet arts policy would intensify and witness a transformation in the conductor’s fortune.

NOTES 1. Valentin Stadler, interview with author, January 2002. 2. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 172. 3. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 173. 4. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 174.

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5. K. K. Ivanov, Volshebstvo Muziki (Moscow: Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1983), 61–62. 6. Valentin Stadler, interview with author, January 2002. 7. Nikolay Golovanov gave the world premiere with the Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra in 1924. 8. D. J. Fanning, The Gramophone, October 1994, 112. 9. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 175. 10. K. K. Ivanov, Volshebstvo Muziki, 86–87. 11. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 175–76. 12. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 176–77. 13. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 77. 14. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 10. 15. “Mr. Richter reveals Liszt’s Greatness,” The Times, July 19, 1961. 16. “Mr. Richter brings Dvorak Concerto Vividly to Life,” The Times, September 19, 1961. 17. K. P. Kondrashin, “Yavleniye Unikalnoye,” Sovetskaya Muzika 7 (July 1975): 57–58. 18. Trevor Harvey, The Gramophone, February 1975, 1492. 19. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 100. 20. M. S. Vainberg, “Chestnost, pravdivost, polnaya otdacha,” Sovetskaya Muzika 9 (September 1988): 24–25. 21. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 106. 22. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 207. 23. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 207–8. 24. Igor Stravinsky, Poetics of Music in the Form of Six Lessons, trans. Arthur Knodel and Ingolf Dahl (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1970), 153. 25. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 208. 26. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 210. 27. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 24–25. 28. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 25. 29. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 29. 30. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 42. 31. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 43–44. 32. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 54–55. 33. Bruno Walter, Theme and Variations: An Autobiography, trans. James A. Galston (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1947), 199. 34. Victor Hochhauser, interview with author, July 4, 2008. 35. Michael Kennedy, The Hallé, 1858–1983: A History of the Orchestra (Dover, NH: Manchester University Press, 1982), 104. 36. “Russian View of Concerts, Critics, and Composers,” The Times, October 8, 1963. 37. Concert review, anonymous, The Times, September 23, 1963. 38. Concert review “Mr. David Oistrakh’s Mastery,” The Times, September 23, 1963.

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39. Concert review “Three Great Violinists Join Forces,” The Times, September 30, 1963. 40. Concert review “1812 with a Red Ending,” The Times, September 30, 1963. 41. Concert review “Russian Lack of Lyrical Refinement,” The Times, September 24, 1963. 42. Concert review, Edmund Tracey, “Moscow Philharmonic,” The Musical Times (November 1963), 802. 43. “Pursuing the U.S. Ideal,” Time, October 29, 1965. 44. “Pursuing the U.S. Ideal,” Time, October 29, 1965. 45. Stanley Sadie, “Concerts and Recitals,” The Musical Times 12 (December 1965): 955. 46. Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli visited the USSR first in May 1964 for a series of six solo recitals and two with orchestra under Kondrashin. The repertoire included works by Scarlatti, Bach-Busoni, Beethoven, Debussy, and Chopin. 47. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Blesk talanta,” Izvestiya 129 (May 30, 1964), 5. 48. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Blesk talanta, 5.” 49. Heinrich Neuhaus, “Blesk talanta, 5.” 50. K. P. Kondrashin, “Yavleniye Unikalnoye,” 58. 51. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 202–3. 52. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 204. 53. Moshei Grinberg, “Redaktsionniye besedi,” Sovetskaya Muzika 1 (January 1968): 20–21. 54. A. Skulsky, “Voeenii Rekviem Brittena,” Sovetskaya Muzika 9 (September1966): 103. 55. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina, Razmyshleniye o Professii,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974), 50–51. 56. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 209. 57. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 209–10. 58. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 204. 59. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 204–5. 60. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 205. 61. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, November 1976, 792. 62. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, September 1976, 423. 63. Jeremy Noble, The Gramophone, May 1975, 1968. 64. J. N. Moore, The Gramophone, April 1973, 1921. 65. K. P. Kondrashin, “Rachmaninov Symphonicheskiye Tantsii,” in Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 133–46. 66. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 225–27. 67. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut iz Bolshovo Teatra (Moscow: ART, 1992), 31–33. 68. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, (Ann Arbor, MI: Ermitage, 1983), 98. 69. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 94. 70. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 94. 71. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 97–98.

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72. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 76. 73. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 89–90. 74. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 220. 75. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 91. 76. Concert review by Stephen Walsh, The Times, 1973. 77. Concert review by Joan Chissel, The Times, April 15, 1974. 78. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 68. 79. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 178. 80. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 178. 81. T. N. Khrennikov, Tak eto bylo: Tikhon Khrennikov o vremeni i o sebe (Moscow: Muzika, 1994), 158–59. 82. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 178–79. 83. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 179. 84. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 179. 85. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 179–80. 86. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 178. 87. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 180. 88. Letter by D. D. Shostakovich and D. F. Oistrakh to A. N. Kosygin, GCMMK, f.32, ed.khr.367, 1968. 89. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 180–81.

9 Shostakovich 1962–1975

The heart unlocks itself again. I will hear you, Moscow, Crawling, smoking, growing, building, Will hear and put it into words. Pasternak Safe Conduct 1932

Since 1937, Yevgeny Mravinsky had given the world premieres for many of Dmitry Shostakovich’s major symphonic works with the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra. Indeed, all the first symphonic pieces by the composer from 1926 were premiered in the northern capital. The custom was broken only during the war, with the Seventh Symphony being performed in Kuibyshev by Samosud. The adjusting of custodianship toward the capital arrived when the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra unveiled the long-lost Fourth Symphony in C Minor. Shostakovich’s music had fallen under a cloud, albeit briefly, in 1936, following criticism of his stage works and later, in 1948, as part of the witch hunt against a host of leading Soviet artists. During a spell, most of the symphonic works were proscribed, including the great Eighth Symphony, “a great tragic ballade of our terrible times, an epic and anguished song expressing the boundless ordeals of a human heart.”1 Remarkably, the Eighth was not performed again until 1956.2 The brief “thaw” in cultural life in the mid-1950s led to the reappearance of Shostakovich’s work on the concert platform. This was greatly assisted by the resolute source of strength given by leading musicians such as Mravinsky, Svyatoslav Richter, Mstislav Rostropovich, and David Oistrakh, with premieres of the Tenth Symphony, Violin Concerto, and Cello Concerto. In 1957, Shostakovich unveiled his Eleventh Symphony, 207

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The Year 1905, cast to the first Russian Revolution, which instantly gained success with audiences and the authorities. This was furthered in 1961 when the freshly composed Twelfth Symphony, The Year 1917, was dedicated to the founder of Soviet power, Vladimir Lenin, and directed by Mravinsky. The latter works earned the author the reputation of being as much “court composer” as the leading musician of his generation. There was cheerlessness among the “smart set” in Soviet life, for it appeared Shostakovich had been tamed by the powers that be as he had now enlisted in the ruling Communist Party.3 The composer’s works of the 1940s and early 1950s had become as if the voice of reason and protest—like a contemporary soothsayer judging the surrounding evils and offering a call to compassion and peace through his music. During the war, Boris Asafyev described Shostakovich’s creativity: “One hundred years following the presentation of the genius Glinka, and the closing words of the peasant-hero Susanin, Shostakovich again reminds people of the suffering of a great human heart as the wellspring of courage.”4 The Violin Concerto, Tenth Symphony, Romances on Jewish Poetry, and the Seventh and Eighth String Quartets were a plea for sanity, as much the works of a master musician. The message was total in the language used by Shostakovich and implicit where inhumanity reigned. The deterioration of international relations bore its consequences in restricting Western audiences to new-fangled Soviet music; time as an arbiter and a changed atmosphere would be necessary before Shostakovich’s work could be universally accepted. If the twist to popular “poster” art proved only transitory, a landmark would be set down connecting original interpreters and unique musical texts. On this ground, Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin would prove an unswerving collaborator. Boris Pokrovsky reminisces: When a person travels abroad, he brings something back—new feelings, impressions. He [Kondrashin] travelled. For some reason, I didn’t travel. No one called me up, but he was invited for separate concerts, going there just for a few days. He wasn’t over the moon from his trips and looked upon it all as a normal part of life. There were pluses and minuses in it for him. He was angered at not being allowed to conduct Shostakovich, even being a communist three times over, this was so silly . . . why was it banned? How can it be so? For instance Shostakovich asked Kondrashin to conduct his Eighth Symphony, it could only be life-time happiness for the conductor and yet I told him it was banned, as simple as that.5

With the “Lenin” symphony and joining the CPSU, Shostakovich was recognized as the leading composer in the land, having, at long last, made his peace with the ruling regime. This issue was another building block in the restoration of several forgotten works to the concert platform—most notably,

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of the opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk in a revised version at the Stanislavsky Opera Theatre under Kondrashin’s pupil—Gennady Provatorov. Kondrashin met the composer more frequently at concerts or at the Union of Composers, always finding Shostakovich mannered and selfless, on the other hand, tense and nervy. On one occasion, Shostakovich inscribed on a program for the conductor’s mother the touching words, “With best wishes to you and your talented son!”6 Nevertheless, throughout the 1950s, the relationship never developed further than shared esteem. The Fourth Symphony in C Minor had a troubled history; in 1936, Fritz Stiedry had prepared the huge orchestral work with the Leningrad Philharmonic. The Austrian maestro abandoned the piece following hostility by the orchestra to the score and their reluctance to play a work so soon after the scandal of Lady Macbeth. Kondrashin recalled the circumstances that Stiedry had problems asking his musicians, “Is it f sharp here?” to which the composer consented. He shook his shoulders, and there sounded both F-sharp and F minor in the orchestra. In general, no one could grasp the symphony at the run-through, and the adjustments in situ improved nothing. In the aftermath of the criticism of Lady Macbeth, the players had little enthusiasm for the work.7 Almost certainly on the advice of the musicologist and close friend Ivan Ivanovich Sollertinsky, Shostakovich withdrew it. Nothing more was heard until the lifting of the siege of the city in 1944 when the musicologist Lev Avtomyan, working at the Music Fund, construed a score for two pianos from the parts—despite the poor condition. It was from this text that a fresh performance could be made. Kondrashin recalls the background to the premiere of the Fourth: “Up until this time, [I had conducted] apart from the First and Fifth Symphonies . . . only the Ninth Symphony, Song of the Forests, and several short pieces such as the Festive Overture. There had not been the opportunity of working with the majority of great, philosophical compositions by Dmitry Dmitrevich. Therefore I was very happy when the Artistic Director of the Moscow Philharmonic in the person of M. A. Grinberg suggested that I become acquainted with the Fourth Symphony by Shostakovich and whether it was worthwhile or not to resurrect it and if I would take this up. Dmitry Dmitrevich was still as yet unaware of this intention.”8 Naturally, Kondrashin accepted the challenge happily. “Not aware of the orchestration, with minimum indications for tempi and nuances in the [piano] arrangement, it was difficult to fully visualize this work; however one could clearly judge both its structure and significance.”9 The composer’s score had disappeared, and Boris Shalman had restored the Fourth Symphony based on the orchestral notes at the Leningrad Philharmonic library archive. Grinberg sent his chief conductor to consult with the composer. “This was just after I had conducted the Third Symphony by Mahler following a long interval [in Moscow

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performances]. Shostakovich was a great admirer of Mahler and was very pleased with the performance and it was for this that Moisei Abramovich had suggested to me the premiere of the Fourth Symphony.”10 Kondrashin was met very cordially by Shostakovich who told him: “‘So many years have passed; I have forgotten a great deal, and the score is lost. Leave this arrangement with me; I’ll have a look at it, come back the day after tomorrow and we’ll decide if it is worthwhile to play this work or if it’s necessary to rewrite it.’ Two days passed and I appeared at the appointed time and handing me the piano score, he said: ‘It’s possible to perform it. I am phoning Leningrad and they will send you the score. It won’t be necessary to rework it. There is something in this music which is precious to me now.’” Kondrashin consulted on several occasions with Shostakovich on questions of some of the markings and tempo changes. Kondrashin, however, found the final movement both complex and multifaceted, “I recognize it as a May Day demonstration, picturing a picture of people celebrating. As if before a funeral, a celebratory event is being enacted, then there is an outburst like an explosion before the march begins, followed by an extended fugue in which the structure is symmetrical through 24 bars, each theme having an identical motif.”11 Kondrashin remained in a dilemma, and on one occasion, the conductor asked in trepidation, “‘Don’t you think that there is too extended a fugato at the beginning of the third movement? Won’t it be difficult for the public to listen to such a prolonged and monotonous episode?’ Shostakovich somewhat perturbed replied: ‘Let them take it, let them take it.’ Now I understood how mistaken was my proposal to cut this fugato which follows a long build-up to the culmination of a festive carnival.”12 In the rehearsals for the first performance, the composer sat in on all the sessions. “Usually he would never interrupt the conductor’s work but would write his comments on a cigarette packet so as to express them at the end of a movement. They rarely touched on tempi or psychological aspects. In distinction from other [composers], Dmitry Dmitrevich, considered his music may have dissimilar readings and would not insist on a particular interpretation. It is possible this is due to his courtesy and his not wanting to bind a performer to an already defined different idea.”13 The Fourth Symphony scored an instant success with audiences; the music is shattering, like a great mammoth being thrust around the concert platform by 120 musicians. The premiere became the major event in the Moscow arts scene; uniquely, the cover of the weekly Nedelya was devoted to large portraits of Kondrashin and Shostakovich. Its editor Andrey Zolotov describes: “The revival of this long-forgotten work was a significant occurrence in Soviet music of the time, together with the reappearance of the composer’s neglected opera on the Moscow stage; it was a celebration of this composer in our

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life.”14 The freshly publicized work, like its illustrious predecessors, toured the world’s orchestras. Conductors competed to gain the performing rights; in Philadelphia, Eugene Ormandy enthusiastically played it shortly after the Moscow premiere; another champion of Shostakovich in America, Leopold Stokowski performed it in New York; and the Fourth was given its U.K. premiere by Gennady Rozhdestvensky at the 1962 Edinburgh International Festival, which was dedicated to Shostakovich’s music. In September, Kondrashin’s Moscow Philharmonic performed the Fourth at the Royal Festival Hall in London: “Its brimming musical invention, displayed with stout discipline but maximum intensity, demands playing of the highest virtuosity and, under Mr Kondrashin, obtained it. If one had any doubts about the accomplishment of the orchestra, in any of its departments or as a single instrument (and one had), this performance dispelled them.” The anonymous correspondent tried to make analogies with English cuisine: “Afterwards one could call it a glorious plum pudding, but in the moment (however extended) of performance Mr. Kondrashin and his olympically athletic players communicated only the richness and exciting flavour of the plums. What invention Shostakovich poured into this symphony, and what marvellous music it makes!”15 A few short weeks following the premiere, the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, under their chief conductor, set down the debut recording. By the time of its issue, Ormandy’s version had already hit the shops; however, reviewers preferred the Muscovite’s. “Kondrashin’s orchestra produces a much wider range of colour and dynamics than does the Philadelphia Orchestra. The strings give real pianissimo tone and can withdraw to a whisper when required: the passage beginning at fig. 32 is a good instance of their lyrical intensity while the haunting chords in the harp and later the celesté sound all the more effective for being recessed into the wider perspective of the sound picture.” The writer from the prestigious Gramophone continued, “The wind have an acid thick quality that lends edge to the texture and the brass have splendid bite. Kondrashin captures the rapid changes of mood in the two outer movements and seems to have a stronger feeling for the wilder, volatile temperament of the first as well as the unremitting despair of the coda of the third. Whereas the gallop in the finale has knife-edge brilliance and virtuosity in the Philadelphia performance, it acquires a frenzied discomforting intensity in the Kondrashin. In short the Kondrashin has an intensely Russian character with the kind of colour and richness of detail that one finds in a writer like Gorki.” The writer Robert Layton concluded, “The new Kondrashin is the one to have . . . Kondrashin penetrates more deeply into its imaginative world.”16 As was the custom with the composer’s favored interpreters—the Beethoven Quartet, David Oistrakh, and Yevgeny Mravinsky—there initiated an intimate

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relationship between Kondrashin and Shostakovich, meeting each other socially at home; auspiciously, there would be auditions of freshly written pieces. The most important of these would come in October 1962; Kondrashin was summoned by the composer to listen to his latest large-scale work. Upon entering the flat, the conductor found several of Shostakovich’s closest friends present—Aram Khachaturyan, Moshei Vainberg, Revol Bunin, some eight or ten people in all. Shostakovich explained initially that he had written a symphonic cycle in five parts based on poems by Yevtushenko, here calling it a symphony, believing that it integrated a specific notion. Following this preamble, Shostakovich proceeded to play through the score on the piano, singing the words himself, reading the poems before each movement. Nothing was said during the hour-long session until the music stopped, and the spell of tranquil silence was broken by Aram Khachaturyan who uttered with tears running down on his face, “Mitya! It’s extraordinary!” There then followed questions as to who should sing the solo part—no one doubted Mravinsky would present the premiere—Shostakovich explained that he would listen to advice as to who could sing the music. However, five days following this evening the composer phoned, “Kirill Petrovich, if you like my symphony and have nothing against it, I want to ask you to give the first performance.”17 Kondrashin was astonished, fully expecting that the customary honor would be Leningrad’s favor; nevertheless, he answered that this would be a great privilege, forgetting in the moment to ask why Mravinsky was not to be in charge. The conversation then passed to the practicalities of arranging a soloist; Kondrashin proposed the Bolshoi soloist Ivan Petrov; cautious of opera soloists’ idiosyncrasies, he had second thoughts. “I’m afraid that a five-movement work might be too much for Petrov.” Kondrashin, as an alternative, suggested Nechipailo, another vocalist from the same stable, a young singer who had recently assumed the parts of Ruslan and Prince Igor in operas by Glinka and Borodin. The Leningrader Viktor Nechipailo was an admirable musician, possessing a fine baritone bass. Shostakovich responded, “I trust you completely. I don’t know him, but please, speak to him about it.” Moshei Grinberg advised Kondrashin to find a reserve in case anything went awry; a young singer from the Philharmonic Society was found—Vitaly Gromadsky—a former sailor with a strong bass voice, musical and industrious. Kondrashin decided to learn the symphony with both singers simultaneously. The conductor also suggested that Shostakovich listen to both of them—both singing to Shostakovich’s playing—and was granted approval. It was the reserve soloist who first raised any hint of controversy when Gromadsky fearlessly suggested, “Dmitry Dmitrevich, don’t you think that there may be consequences arising from the first movement?” This was expressed at a time when diplomacy between Israel and the Soviet Union had entered into

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a period of strain. However, Shostakovich dismissed the unease, “What consequences can there be? We are only talking about what is really going on around us.” Gromadsky, however, responded, “Where is the anti-Semitism? We don’t have anything of the kind!” Shostakovich, however, quashed his remark, “There is, there is anti-Semitism! And we need to end it now!”18 The words erupted from the composer, the theme being deep-seated within him through many years. Kondrashin believed he could perceive the echo of Jewish melodies in much of the composer’s music, both chamber and symphonic, since the early 1930s. The enigma was Shostakovich had no Jewish blood or upbringing, but he had a conscience of protest against manifestations of racism, injustice, and anti-Semitism. The most significant reflections were expressed in the song cycle From Jewish Poetry and the First Violin Concerto, both from 1948, and the Eighth String Quartet of 1960.19 In December 1962, the orchestral run-throughs duly began at the Philharmonic, and gossip circulated that Mravinsky had returned Shostakovich his score, which had caused animosity in the composer’s heart. Mravinsky had, however, difficulties in his personal life with his young wife having been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and an immediate major tour to North America. Regardless of long term friendship, Mravinsky could not express these worries to the composer, only saying that he could not perform it in this calendar year, only later.20 It was only after this phone call that Shostakovich offered the conductor the first opening.21 For Mravinsky, a premiere of the new opus could only take place in 1963, yet Shostakovich was anxious for an earlier performance. Nonetheless, a scandal began to develop around the Thirteenth Symphony— as Vitaly Gromadsky had incongruously suggested—around the extended opening movement, “Babi Yar.” Among the Moscow “smart set,” in restaurants and cafes and at theaters and concerts, there were endless discussions about the newly composed work. These debates were echoed simultaneously at late night meetings at the Party offices on Stary Ploschad and at the ministry of culture. The polemics were initiated in 1961 with the publication in the Writers Union journal, Novy Mir, of Yevtushenko’s poem “Babi Yar.” As it became known that Shostakovich had written a major opus based on Yevtushenko’s texts, there appeared in the Party paper, Literaturnaya Gazeta, a piece that criticized the poet for his seemingly prejudiced view of events during wartime occupied Kiev. Yevtushenko was incriminated for writing that only Jews had been shot and that he had excluded the fact that many Ukrainians, Russians, and people of different nationalities had also lost their lives there. There was censure for misrepresenting the role of the Russian people and that the Jewish question had been taken out of all proportion to reality. This was amplified now that the country’s finest composer had written a choral-cantata

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using the “Babi Yar” verses. The degree of interest, indeed concern, from both sides of rational society escalated to an unparalleled scale. Kondrashin had never experienced any form of political pressure, and in rehearsing this new piece with his orchestra, there surfaced an awareness of some form of consequences by performing the freshly written symphoniccantata. Nechipailo learned his part and sang well, and the first performance was scheduled at the Large Hall of the Conservatoire for the end of the year, an event of such importance that state television and radio was scheduled to broadcast it in a live transmission. Nevertheless, the omnipotence of the government and Party leadership cast its spell; when Nikita Khrushchev held a meeting with Soviet intelligentsia on December 17, on the eve of the world premiere, it was clear that the first frosts had literally bitten into the Moscow winter. Shostakovich attended the assembly, during which Khrushchev criticized artists on the Jewish question and had to be held back by his son-in-law when he departed from the prepared text. The tone of hostility in Soviet society to controversial “new” art was as if set in stone, and the Party was now letting it be known that no one in public life could avoid not to be careful. Hence, the whole mood changed for the Thirteenth’s premiere. On the morning of the concert, Nechipailo called Kondrashin, crying off that he had lost his voice; the conductor advised that he try taking some pills but to no avail; the bass canceled. Kondrashin’s immediate thoughts were that the singer was a coward, not so much for the political consequences but for his vocal chords, well aware that any musician could muster enough courage to get through a debut; however, under such a spotlight, the vocalist was more than frightened of ruining his reputation. The general rehearsal was already set for that day, and everyone was in place except the soloist. Gromadsky had been present at all the previous sessions and mysteriously could not be found. Immediately, a frantic search was under way to find him. Gromadsky lived far on the outskirts, and unhappily, there was no phone at his flat. The circumstances opening up were now potentially perfidious as a host of officials from the ministry of culture and composers union were waiting in the auditorium. The composer was sitting there, too, looking pale and nervous, but portentously, no one approached from the ministry. Some twenty minutes of inactivity passed before Shostakovich approached Kondrashin and pleaded that if there was no soloist and if he, too, was ill, then they should postpone. From somewhere, the instruction was given to remove the television cameras from the hall. It was at this juncture that Gromadsky turned up miraculously, to everyone’s relief, and almost at once they began their work. Following the first session (during which the television equipment was noisily taken away), Kondrashin was asked to take an important call from the deputy minister of culture of the Russian Federation, Popov, who asked how

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preparations were going. Kondrashin responded that everything was well, only that the reserve singer would now perform. The minister asked, “Don’t you have any qualms about the opening movement?” Kondrashin countered that he had no difficulty with it. “Aha . . . and how are you feeling yourself?” The conductor replied that he didn’t feel better—after which, Popov requested for the symphony to be played without the contentious “Babi Yar.” In response, Kondrashin declared, “Alexey Ivanovich, the symphony is written as an integral work and if we remove one section then we cannot play it at all, if we take out this part, then we would only exaggerate the atmosphere already around this work and this would be quite unnecessary for everyone.” Popov at last conceded distressfully, “Well, you know best” and hung up. The conductor duly returned to the podium and continued the rehearsal of the Thirteenth Symphony. In the final hours before the scheduled start, armed soldiers and policemen, specially drafted in for any disturbances, controlled the immediate streets surrounding the Conservatoire, making a diligent check of all those having tickets for the concert. Few performances before or since have possessed such an electric atmosphere, so much so that following the great first movement, there was an outburst of applause. To curb any further demonstration, Kondrashin abruptly halted the clapping with a gesture to the audience, keenly aware this would only add to the scandalous ambience surrounding the work. It was fascinating to see the effect of this music on the audience—at the end, everyone got to their feet including those from the Ministry and Central Committee. Vartanyan, the head of musical affairs at the Party, to avoid the embarrassment of his colleagues, just pretended to clap his hands.22 There was an overwhelming response to the premiere, both in the arts fraternity and among the general public; Kondrashin believed the greatest polemic was around the “Fears” and “Careers” movements, which touched contentious issues in Soviet life of the past epoch and the corruption and hypocrisy of the present. Yevtushenko wrote, “The audience experienced something rare: for fifty minutes they wept and laughed and smiled and grew pensive . . . What astonished me first of all . . . was that if I . . . had suddenly developed an ear, that would be the music I would have written. Moreover, Shostakovich’s reading of my poetry was so exact in intonation and sense that it felt as if he had been inside me when I was writing the poem and he had composed the music as the lines were born.”23 Nevertheless, not surprisingly, it was the “Babi Yar” opening section that caused the most debate, both inside and outside the country. An anonymous piece complained that the work “is the denigration of our life, its mistaken, distorted portrayal.”24 The Thirteenth Symphony, it seemed, was bound to stir argument wherever and whenever it was heard. Both the first two performances (the second performance, with

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unchanged performers, followed on December 20) were taped by the Conservatoire archive department, which was standard procedure for all premieres at the Large Hall. Yevtushenko, in response, conceded to the vilification by changing the text in four stanzas of his poem. Following the first two performances, Yevtushenko rewrote two passages without confiding with the composer. Following publication in Literaturnaya Gazeta, Shostakovich called Kondrashin: “What can I do, Yevtushenko has not acted in the best manner, he has written a new variation and hasn’t said a word about it to me despite this being our collaboration. I can’t write another version.” Kondrashin responded, “Dmitry Dmitrevich, they have already phoned me asking me how you are going to rewrite the first movement.” Kukharsky, from the cultural department of the Central Committee, had requested changes; however, Shostakovich refused to make concessions. Against his better judgment, Kondrashin pleaded to compromise and save the work from banishment, “We need to perform it. Let’s take some parts of the text from your old version and change them.” Shostakovich tried to be conciliatory, “I don’t know, I’ll think about it.”25 Kondrashin believed that by fitting in Yevtushenko’s obligatory revision was the only way out, given the circumstances. Should the status quo prevail, Shostakovich’s symphony would fall into neglect. On the following day, Kondrashin was phoned by Shostakovich, “I have found eight lines which can be altered.” Kondrashin traveled at once to the composer’s flat, and looking at the revised phrases, despite everything, it seemed an improvement, “each who is shot here, each Jew is shot here,” lost its sharpness along with, “I, Jesus Christ walk in Egypt,” and “I am a Jew,” replaced by, “here Russians and Ukrainians lie” lost effect. Gromadsky learned the new sentences, and it was performed in this manner at the third and fourth performances in February 1963.26 With the revised version of the symphony, there could be no bans or proscriptions.27 Regardless, both the poet and composer were seen as losing the credibility they had won with the original performance; the affair revealed the levels of open anti-Semitism that prevailed in the Soviet Union, both in official circles and among parts of society. Several years later, when Kondrashin was in the West, he acquired a pirate recording of the second version.28 The bootleg copy was released in the United States, which caused negative critical opinion, “Naivety of illustrative effect, . . . the actual musical material is not distinguished enough to sustain a scheme for a full 56 minutes.” Edward Greenfield, however, concluded, “The performance, not immaculately precise, is obviously dedicated.”29 The record sold in large quantities, and the score remained unpublished in Moscow for several years. Despite countless requests to Goskonzert and the ministry of culture, Ormandy only got a negative response, and to lance the

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boil, in 1965, the Ministry resolved to make a studio recording, booking a different soloist—Artur Eizen from the Bolshoi. At the outset, the symphony’s original version was performed in Leningrad, and shortly afterward, the amended score for Melodiya. However, another take of the original edition was also recorded during the three days of sessions.30 It was this revised Thirteenth Symphony that was published, at last, in 1968, and Shostakovich phoned Kondrashin, asking him to check the tempi markings according to his metronome; somehow the composer lacked assurance in his own writing. The conductor verified them according to the text, and everything appeared in order. Shostakovich said, “Kirill Petrovich, I ask you to look at the last movement, the second violins at the entry, have a modulation, d–e minor–f—[there is] such indescribable beauty.” Kondrashin recalled how he spoke about his own music. Kondrashin confirmed this passage and agreed, noting how conscientious the composer was for the precise articulation of each note and ever concerned for precision in performance.31 The studio recording of the final, corrected version with Artur Eizen was released only in 1971 by Melodiya, and on this occasion received more positive appraisals, “Kondrashin’s reading of the Thirteenth has a marvellous, dark intensity and thrilling choral singing to commend it. In sheer expressive power it makes a greater impact than Ormandy’s.”32 Nevertheless, it was the original version that was to gain preeminence in seasons to come. Slowly and gradually, the Thirteenth Symphony began to gain more performances, both in and outside the Soviet Union; Yuri Temirkanov played it in Leningrad as part of a subscription series and met with opposition from the cultural department of the city Party committee. Temirkanov demanded to meet the official in charge, who duly asked him to “choose other symphonies such as the Fifth, Eighth or Tenth.” Temirkanov responded, saying that this was not a topic for discussion and asked what he had against the Thirteenth. The official said nothing; then the conductor said that he would play it as planned.33 Nevertheless, the consequence was the work was partially banned; only committed conductors would undertake the symphony in exceptional circumstances. Following performances of the Thirteenth Symphony, there was a revival of the composer’s long forgotten opera Katerina Izmailova at the Stanislavsky– Nemirovich–Danchenko Theatre in January 1963; a success, more stagings opened in Riga, Vienna, London, Zagreb, Ruse, Kiev, and Kazan within a short period. This all inspired new compositions to flow forth in a rich phase of composition from Shostakovich. There was the film score to Kozintsev’s magnificent Hamlet, three string quartets, the Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh as well as sketches for an opera And Quiet Flows the Don based on Sholokhov’s epic novel. If the last came to nothing, one idea that did come to fruition was

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another work based on Yevtushenko. In September 1964, Shostakovich wrote to his friend Isaac Glikman, “When I wrote the 13th Symphony, I was in almost total agreement with every word of the poet. In The Execution of Stepan Razin there are several lines which I dislike, and it is as if I am polemicising with these verses.”34 The Execution of Stepan Razin, a vocal-symphonic poem for bass, mixed chorus, and orchestra, op. 119, went through only after similar problems with the authorities. Due to the risky game played out by Yevtushenko following the “Babi Yar” episode, everything surrounding the poet raised an aura of suspicion from the ministry of culture. The Execution of Stepan Razin originated as a chapter from the “Bratsk GES” poem printed in the mass circulation youth literary magazine Yunost in the spring of 1964. Following completion of the opus, Shostakovich phoned Kondrashin. “Kirill Petrovich, I have composed something, please do come and hear it.” Following the audition, the composer asked Kondrashin to prepare the new piece. “Nechipailo let us down the first time, let’s ask Petrov once again, he is here just now and it’s not so big a work for him.” The Bolshoi soloist agreed; however, Gromadsky was on stand-by once more. Despite his previous spirited singing, Petrov was problematical, however—he saved his voice for shows arranged by the Bolshoi Theatre and would only sing at half his range in rehearsal. In addition, he only appeared at two of the five sessions and went away early from one, complaining his daughter had a birthday party. On the other hand, Gromadsky attended all the rehearsals and was present when Petrov phoned at the final session to say that he was ill but would be OK for the concert. Henceforth, Kondrashin descended into the hall and told Shostakovich that he thought his reserve should take over. “Gromadsky may be not so solid in voice but the one who sings at the final run-through should sing tonight.” Shostakovich agreed. However, advisors from the Party and Ministry were hanging around, suggesting changes be made. However, Kondrashin asked everyone to be resolute; the premiere must go ahead as planned. “Of course, of course, it can only be cancelled if there is no one to sing.”35 Apart from vocalist selection, a predicament arose during the preparations for The Execution of Stepan Razin; Kondrashin’s Moscow Philharmonic rehearsed the cantata without any difficulty until they approached the finale. The orchestration seemed problematical and almost impracticable to realizes; the conductor could not hold himself back, addressing Shostakovich, “It seems to me these four bars are irrelevant. What do you think?” “Alright, try playing it through without them after the interval.” Kondrashin played it through, missing out the thorny section, and Shostakovich, sitting in the hall, nodded, saying: “Yes, it’s alright.” Kondrashin scored through the offending measures, and the players repeated the phrase

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as many as four times. Ultimately Shostakovich said, “I am grateful to you for pointing this out. Really it is quite impossible to play, it is my unforgivable mistake.”36 The changes were incorporated in the published score later. Shostakovich, as always, was self-critical and bore the guilt upon his own shoulders. The premiere, on December 28, 1964, went extraordinarily well; Gromadsky sang magnificently, matched by the Russian Republic Capella Choir, and collectively, the Philharmonic contrived a superlative performance; in this instance, there were no repercussions—as with the unfortunate Thirteenth—and the political problems appeared to have dissipated. Quite simply, the Party decided that the Thirteenth was not “their” music and an exception to the rule, rather than a new turn.37 The Leningrad composer Sergey Slonimsky wrote that the piece was firmly in the traditions of Russian folk drama and of Musorgsky.38 Although, it took another four years before the cantata was accorded the prestigious State Prize. Shortly afterward, recordings were made that earned praise upon their Western release, “[it is] difficult to imagine more persuasive exponents . . . who play with tremendous brilliance and attack . . . Kirill Kondrashin secures playing of enormous virtuosity from the Moscow orchestra and the result is splendidly exhilarating.”39 The Thirteenth Symphony was featured in the opening concert of the 1965 season, together with Brahms’ Third Symphony. The leading journal, Sovetskaya Muzika, covered the event: Wonderful pages in Moscow musical life have been written through the concerts of the Moscow State Philharmonic Orchestra who have returned from long tours to Britain, USA, Canada and Mexico! We shall concentrate on two of their concerts. Listening to the unusually poetic albeit short in length Third Symphony by Brahms one would like to say that here is a work which has all the potential to become a repertoire piece and beloved by the widest audiences! This symphony is played rarely . . . There are so many outstanding works which don’t appear in our concert programmes. Kondrashin and the orchestra were triumphant. The warmth of the song-like passages were portrayed with such sincerity. The contrast between the intimate lyricism and dramatic force were achieved particularly well in the finale. The Thirteenth Symphony by D. Shostakovich has already been performed several times in Moscow. Everything here in it is extraordinary. This is a vocal-symphonic cycle. It is possible to make an analogy with Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde but Shostakovich has a quite different conception. And the performing forces are different . . . Kondrashin, it can be said, has lived with this new work by Shostakovich; as a performer, he has deeply worked himself into its core and transmits the composer’s conception in all its entirety and multi-facets (the conductor interprets the Fourth Symphony as intensely, astutely with excellent understanding of the composer’s intention of the same composer). It is impossible not to point out the integral performance

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of the ensemble, the harmony of the timbre of the different orchestral groups and precision of the nuances. However there should have been some tempering of the bells (quite important in the relationship of the main tone colours in the symphony). The bass chorus sang very well (Chorus-master—A. Yurlov). The soloist V. Gromadsky furnished much exertion in performing a difficult and extraordinarily responsible part. But here is the problem: a significant part of the text doesn’t reach the audience (why is it that the chorus can be heard and not the soloist). And the text is not available in programme notes.40

In 1966, Kirill Kondrashin was appointed chairman of the jury for the third All-Union Conducting Competition held in the capital. Of course, the first event of this nature had given openings in the past to a splendid new generation of conductors, among whom were Mravinsky, Rakhlin, Melik-Pashayev, Ivanov, and, of course, Kondrashin. All the prize-winners had proved outstanding conductors and raised the levels of musical performance. The second contest, held in Leningrad in 1946, had produced as its winners: Matsov, Yansons, Guzman, and Dudarova. Perhaps this group of laureates had not proved as distinguished; some twenty years had passed before another event could be arranged. Certainly, the fresh crop of aspirants gave hope that orchestras would have worthy directors at the rostrum in the near future. Among the participants were Yuri Temirkanov, Dmitry Kitaenko, Yuri Simonov, and Maxim Shostakovich. A mixture of conductors, musicologists, and composers made up the highly representative jury: Nikolay Rabinovich, Eduard Grikurov, Raisa Glezer, and Kara Karayev. The competition was successful, with the winners making their mark on Soviet music within a short period. Simonov became chief conductor of the Bolshoi Theatre, whereas Temirkanov was appointed to the conductorship of the Kirov Opera and Ballet. However, Kondrashin had problems with the candidature of Maxim Shostakovich; there were three rounds, and Maxim easily progressed into the second group, yet Kondrashin could not visualize the composer’s son getting through to the final phase. Young Maxim was not worthy of a place in the last six candidates. This caused me many sleepless nights and I had to decide what to do. If one were an ordinary jury member, then only my vote would be necessary, or remained silent in discussions. But as chairman, I had to express my opinion. Having discussed the matter with some colleagues, they all shared my point of view: Maxim with his family name will regardless make a career for himself. He doesn’t need a prize. But here he is taking the place of someone more worthy at this time. He is weaker than many others. All the same I resolved to speak to other jurists, in particular to Kara Karayev. This is what he said: “Kirill Petrovich, you are quite right. But I worship Dmitry Dmitrevich. I know

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how he agonizes for Maxim and I can’t raise my hand against and therefore I can’t support you.” At the final meeting we resolved the prize-winners. It was a twenty-five ballot system; to progress one had to get no less than twenty votes. I spoke for and against the contenders. Someone supported me; however Kara Karayev opposed me, as did several others. Ultimately Maxim came through but only in sixth place. The following day, I approached Dmitry Dmitrevich because he would already know all about it. “Dmitry Dmitrevich, I have to speak to you about Maxim.” He met me as if unaware of the voting and controlled himself very well. “I spoke in such a way [against your son] and want to be the first to tell you about it.” Dmitry Dmitrevich became restless and it appeared as if the conversation embarrassed him. “Kirill Petrovich, I am very grateful to you for coming and telling me directly. I value this very much but disagree. Perhaps only Mansurov is better than Maxim. Of all of those who performed, he is the most sound.” Kondrashin was unaware if the composer was present at all the sessions, perhaps only when his son conducted. Shostakovich nevertheless pleaded: “In any case, I ask you to help Maxim, with consultations, as a peer, and as a friend.” The conductor was sincerely moved by Shostakovich’s deep feelings for his son, and assumed that he would now become an even closer associate of his family circle. Shostakovich as a rule would phone Kondrashin every three weeks. “Kirill Petrovich, how are you?” Kondrashin answered in the positive, Shostakovich replied, “Everything is fine with me too, thank you and goodbye.” He offered me these heartfelt small tokens of affection. Only Dmitry Dmitrevich could behave in such a way. But after our conversation, he would phone me every day and this went on for a month, because he didn’t want me to be upset with him. He was such a great human spirit. A great man. He valued the fact that I had my own opinion and that I was straight with him. I regularly visited him; he invited me himself, and complained about various matters. On one occasion, we sat on his veranda: “I don’t know what to do about my hands. I can’t use them anymore. When I am writing, I have to hold my right hand with the left, the pen jumps and my legs are no use. My memory is still alright, my heart is better, my stomach is fine, and the eyes are OK but my hands . . .” On one occasion when his works was performed at the Large Hall of the Conservatoire, he was taken to the third floor by a special lift, from which, with great difficulty, he managed to climb the twelve steps, moving terribly slowly to the artists’ room where afterwards in a chair, he said, “If the piece is successful, don’t be angry if I don’t go on stage, only to the door. It’s so hard for me. On stage everyone will look and feel sorry for me, that I cannot tolerate.”41

One more major premiere was secured when Kondrashin was to accompany David Oistrakh in the composer’s Second Violin Concerto in 1967. The work was written to commemorate the violinist’s sixtieth birthday; however, somehow the dates were extraordinarily mixed up. Maxim, who was now beginning his conducting career, aspired to give the first performance; in late May 1967, Shostakovich wrote to Oistrakh, “I have finished a new violin

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concerto. I wrote it thinking of you. I phoned you many times, but no-one was at home . . . If you don’t have anything against it, then it would be a great happiness for me. And if you play it, then my happiness will be indescribable, like a fairytale. If you don’t mind, I would like to dedicate the concerto to you.”42 In a further letter, the composer made an unusual request of Oistrakh, “My son Maxim wants very much to conduct the premiere of this concerto. I told him that the decision lies with you. If you agree to play the concerto with him, let it be that way. If, on the other hand, you don’t want to, then so be it. In any case, I would like you to talk to Maxim seriously on this subject that is if you have the time. In any case, one needs to explain to Maxim that the premiere of a new work is a responsible business.”43 It appears that the great violinist did not attempt to dissuade the composer’s son; instead, nothing was mentioned at all. A couple of weeks later, Shostakovich wrote once more to Oistrakh, It was a great joy to learn that you already know the first and second movements by heart. Your corrections will, of course, be acceptable. In the first instance, without doubt (6th bar after [measure] 32). Regarding the 6th bar after [measure] 33 I would prefer the variation B, if the variation A is very difficult. On meeting you, we can resolve this together. In any case, the variation B is better than variation C. Your letter upset me. Beginning from 2 October, you are spending so much time on me. Here [the violin concerto] and two concerts, the 2nd violoncello, and the 10th symphony [conducted by Oistrakh], and the Blok [poems]. Of course, I would much prefer that the first performance is with you and K. P. Kondrashin. Let Maxim grow up a bit. So that he isn’t angry with me, I shall tell him that you want to play the first time with K. P. Kondrashin because you have a long-term creative relationship and so on.44

Kondrashin indeed enjoyed a fruitful affiliation with Oistrakh; however, this new concerto was to prove their most responsible partnership as the conductor explained: We had many meetings beforehand with each other, with the composer, and in the orchestral rehearsals with him being present. I remember that we could not agree on the tempo in the finale. Handing the score to Oistrakh, Dmitry Dmitrevich said that he imagined the tempo as being not too fast. David Fyodorovich possessed an incredible technique and could play fast passages quickly but the finale was motoric, and it seemed that his pace was too much. Oistrakh constantly asked me to hold him back. What does this mean—hold him back? The soloist will be ahead and one will restrain him all the time demonstrating this to the public? We discovered points of support where one can follow the other: “Here I shall hold you back—you play with me, and at this point I will follow you.” Thus we played the concerto two or three times in rehearsal and the finale

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became nonetheless faster than we wished. In parallel we made a tape recording of the concerto. We became convinced that having listened to the tape we had made an unworkable reading. All the time we were especially interrupting each other’s playing. And when we rehearsed again, we decided to surrender to our first conception—to play quickly. We then questioned Shostakovich about the tempo for the finale and we heard: “But I didn’t notice any difference.” But we knew the difference! It appeared that we wasted our time trying to break each other’s tempi. After which we conceded that everything sounded normally and this corresponded with his markings. In general to search for speeds without an inner conviction always brings one to change the tempo from that written. This often happens when the performer is immature and lacks a conception of the work.45

The first performance of the new Shostakovich concerto took place at the Moscow resort village of Bolshevo on September 13; this was to iron out any problems prior to the forthcoming “official” world premiere in Moscow on September 26, 1967. The question of the composer using twelve-note notation is curious. In rehearsals, Kondrashin and Oistrakh questioned Shostakovich about this; however, he refused to acknowledge it, “What do you think, I played it on the piano just to repeat the one note, or what?”46 The first two performances were given with Kondrashin and the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, and a few days later, Yevgeny Svetlanov performed the work with the USSR State Symphony on October 3. Maxim Shostakovich got the opportunity to give the Leningrad opening of the Second Violin Concerto with David Oistrakh and the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra on March 3, 1968.47 Shortly afterward, Melodiya set down what was to become the definitive recording of the new Shostakovich concerto. “The Moscow orchestra play well and Kondrashin proves a sensitive accompanist.”48 By this time, the Soviet state record company had resolved to capture the whole cycle of Shostakovich symphonies under Kondrashin’s direction and together with the newly written piece, was coupled with Kondrashin’s take on the Sixth. Mr. Kondrashin’s performance has a full-blooded intensity to commend it, and he successfully communicates its dark atmosphere. His initial tempo is too fast (the marking is quaver 74) and he moves the music on with greater despatch than either Gauk or Reiner, not to mention Sir Adrian Boult who gives the most measured reading of the movement on record. The disadvantage is that when Kondrashin comes to the b minor restatement (fig. 29) he is not able to make much of the contrast that Shostakovich asks for (he quickens the pace to crotchet 44) . . . Perhaps Mr Kondrashin has consulted the composer who has had second thoughts on this point but this apart, he certainly keeps a firm grip on the movement. The scherzo and finale are done with splendid panache and with as

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much feeling for their sad resonances as had Reiner. The scherzo in particular has great delicacy of feeling and its coda has overtones of nostalgia that are most affecting. Kondrashin’s reading takes 26 minutes 20 seconds considerably less than his rivals, but as I have indicated, tempo apart, there is much to admire.49

Needless to say, other reviewers thought differently, “I found the consistently fast tempi of Kondrashin unsympathetic, though this is such a great example of Shostakovich power of symphonic argument that its mastery survives even this treatment.”50 Another fresh recording was a collaboration, with the younger Leonid Kogan, of the First Violin Concerto. “A most compelling account of one of Shostakovich’s greatest works . . . The faster Passacaglia for which Kogan and Kondrashin elect enables the work to be accommodated in just over 33 minutes which offers few problems given the present-day length of sides.”51 On one occasion, Kondrashin related Dmitry Dmitrevich Shostakovich’s approach to the rehearsal process: “He almost never made any suggestions to the performer. I often noticed that he was quite detached to the relation of interpretation but most keen regarding the sound balance. He never interrupted a rehearsal but recorded his comments on a cigarette packet. Once I approached him in the interval so as to find his opinion. ‘You know Kirill Petrovich, it’s very difficult to work with you. I am noting something down and you are already playing it this way.’ It appears that we have the same view of orchestral balance. But here the questions of tempi were not questioned. When you ask him about tempi, he would say: ‘It can be so and also that way, but the way you play it is convincing.’”52 In the spring of 1969, Kondrashin was invited, with his wife Nina, to hear the first rendition of the Fourteenth Symphony; there sat Rudolf Barshay, who was asked to premiere it with his Moscow Chamber Orchestra. It was difficult for him to play because of the illness affecting his hands. All along with that he sang the words softly, I would even say, with a child-like voice, so that to acquire an impression of the work one had to study the score. However a whole number of lyrical moments (The Suicide, The Death of a Poet, and Delvig, Delvig), created an intense impression. It was perceptible that this work was particularly dear to Dmitry Dmitrevich. After the performance, during our taking tea, he incidentally said that he had not slept for several nights having given up the written manuscript for copying. “All the time, I try to remember whether I can resurrect the composition if they suddenly lose the original . . .” In May the first open rehearsal took place at the Chamber Hall of the Conservatoire. The singers were M. Miroshnikova and E. Vladimirov and R. Barshay conducted the Moscow Chamber Orchestra. Of course it was packed to the rafters. Before the opening Dmitry Dmitrevich himself spoke that with this composition he is polemicising with death as if leaving earth’s worries

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for a transition to a “better world”: “We remember, for example, the death of Boris Godunov. When Boris dies the music enters some mood of tranquillity. We remember Verdi’s Otello: when the entire tragedy ends with the death of Desdemona and Othello, there also echoes an extraordinary serenity. We remember Aïda when the tragic death of the heroes is illuminated by such light music . . . One thinks that the very same happens with our contemporaries, we say, in such an outstanding British composer like Benjamin Britten in his War Requiem. All this probably comes from different kinds of religious ideas which edify that living can be perhaps awful but when you die, everything will be fine and complete peacefulness waits . . . However it seems to me that in my symphony I follow the path of the great Russian composer Musorgsky. His cycle Songs and Dances of Death, perhaps not entirely, but The Field Marshal is a great protestation against death, a reminder that life must be spent honourably, with dignity, responsibly, without ever committing foul deeds. Because, alas, scientists still do not think about immortality. This awaits us all and therefore I do not see anything good at the end of our life.”53

Pavel Ivanovich Apostolov suffered a heart attack during the final rehearsal; he collapsed outside and passed away several weeks afterward. He was one of the few remaining old guard who had been responsible for the 1948 scandal. Kondrashin considered the passing of Apostolov as something of a grotesque settling of scores; for decades this man had hounded Shostakovich, and now, at last, justice had somehow caught up with him.54 The Moscow Philharmonic had become a frequent touring ensemble to many of Europe’s finest concert halls by the 1970s. The most auspicious venues were those in the fashionable cities of Austria, home to the great composers Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mahler, and Bruckner. Kondrashin was ambivalent to the Viennese, having given several concerts through a short period of time. At the Musicverein, with the Moscow Philharmonic, Kondrashin conducted Mahler’s Ninth Symphony and received the gold medal from the Vienna Mahler Society. On another occasion, Kondrashin was asked to conduct Mahler’s First Symphony; however, he was reluctant to once again visit the city just for Mahler and asked to play Arvo Pärt’s Perpetuum Mobile and Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto with Zhuk as soloist, followed in the second half by Bartók’s Music for Strings, Percussion and Celeste and Ravel’s Rhapsodie Espagnole. This was out of the ordinary; in its precursor in Bratislava, the program attained great success, enjoying a festival-like atmosphere. However, in Vienna, making just one change, replacing the Bartók with Hindemith, Kondrashin sensed discomfort in the auditorium; he glanced round at his audience who stared with disinterest, quite disenchanted. The problem was not in the performance but in the unfamiliar music; even the Ravel received little enthusiasm from the listeners. As an encore, they played Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and, conversely, won a wonderful

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reaction; nonetheless, Kondrashin was frustrated, for he had prepared such an eclectic program and to no avail. What was the matter—could only Viennese music achieve true contact with their audiences? However, the concert was to be repeated in Vienna, which led to a sleepless night for the Moscow maestro; at seven in the morning, Kondrashin phoned his manager and told him that instead of the Bartók, they would play Mahler and himself phoned the Musicverein explaining the change in program to an astonished director, all because of a phony infirmity to the celesta player. An announcement was made on local radio of the alteration, and before the concert began, the impresario appeared with a rather wicked smile, revealing that he knew better than Kondrashin how fickle the Viennese music lovers can be. On leaving Vienna, Kondrashin was swayed that in some centers of the world, music may have its ups and downs in musical fashion, but in the Austrian capital, so much classical and romantic music is performed that “modern” composers, as Bartók, can find it supremely difficult to win audiences over. At the Mahler concert, listeners stood in the passageway, entranced by the music making; perhaps the burden for Kondrashin was that they did not understand their public until it was too late, nor could they comprehend what they truly sought after.55 Kondrashin’s public conscience was visible when he signed a letter of protest to the American president Richard Nixon, protesting about the sentence given to the black activist Angela Davis in 1971, a gesture that he shared with Shostakovich, Khachaturyan, and David Oistrakh.56 The problems that the Russian maestro incurred with some European orchestras did not revisit him when touring North America. Following his first visits in 1958, he became a regular visitor to all the major orchestras. On one occasion, following an engagement with the Cleveland Orchestra, Kondrashin was handed an envelope that contained the message: Kirill Petrovich, I am Boris Khalip who worked with your mother at the Bolshoi, as a Jew emigrated from the Soviet Union—unlike you—I could not disguise my Jewish background. At that time, I was aware of your mother’s maiden name Weisberg [Tamina], niece of the famous doctor Weisberg from a very old Jewish family. He was doctor at the first city hospital and looked after Krupskaya; whilst thankfully to your Party membership you have become one of the Soviet elite and live much better than most others and have the opportunity of traveling abroad and serve the system loyally. I could not do this and hence live in the United States. I have two cars and a beautiful flat with five rooms and if your mother is still alive give her my best wishes as she always was interested in my affairs.

Kondrashin was well aware of Khalip from his mother’s stories back home. The whole family was known to the conductor; there was even an

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expression, don’t “podkhalipovat”—that is—don’t be like Khalip. The letter ended with the words addressed to Kondrashin, “I am a correspondent of New Russian Word in which I want to print your reviews and articles.” Soon afterward, Kondrashin received a copy of the Russian émigré newspaper, containing a review of Tretyakov’s performance. However, the article ended, “Music lovers were denied the opportunity of meeting the violinist after the concert and those readers should not be disappointed for Kirill Kondrashin would soon return and that he was always open to meeting music lovers at his concerts. It seems that he has permission to do so.” It was obvious that a specific attack was been made against Kondrashin and what he was thought to represent. Kondrashin did not respond to Khalip’s letter. Soon another item appeared entitled “The Trusted Conductor.” This upset Kondrashin more because it tried to cast a veil over the maestro’s successful concert while casting a feeling of distrust to the Muscovite for his membership of the Party and for the privileges he enjoyed, also claiming his style was academic, that he had cold expressive eyes and a sweet communicative smile while having an distasteful appearance. This was a calculated personal attack on Kondrashin and a means of retribution at his mother following years of bitterness—a settling of accounts. Khalip also wrote in his letter that he now conducted himself and was going to interpret Brahms in a way that Kondrashin could never perform it and regretting that he would not be able to come and hear for himself. The Muscovite maestro anticipated a more extended attack on him, as had become the norm in North America against other Soviet artists; however, nothing more happened. Sometimes, a bomb threat would be announced, and everyone would have to exit, thus spoiling the concert for everyone, and demonstrators would haggle with musicians at the stage door. Notwithstanding these moments, Kondrashin was surprised at the kindness and hospitality with which he was met in the American continent.57 In 1963, Kondrashin became more relaxed with Rostropovich when they played together Richard Strauss’s Don Quixote—the conductor was surprised by the uncommon visual fantasy offered by the cellist. Rostropovich could evoke the beginning—in musical imagery—of the notion perceived by the composer. Naturally, the experience was shared; Kondrashin and Rostropovich created suitable pretexts to help the musicians get inside the score. Several evenings were spent at home discussing—in the process, forming a harmonious partnership. Shortly afterward, Rostropovich was appointed to a professorship at the Conservatoire and fashioned a revolution in cello playing, dramatically expanding the repertoire for the instrument. At the string faculty, he transformed the pitch of double-basses back to their natural sound;

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for many years in Russia, they had played on instruments tuned a tone higher than the standard concert pitch. The first string—A—is set to sound more exquisitely and more akin to the cello. But when they come to the orchestra, everyone was tuned by their ears, taught by the notes before them, and the intonation was identical. Regardless of the fierce hostility of many teachers, Rostropovich ensured that the double basses were set at the natural tone balance as elsewhere. The most eccentric characteristic of Rostropovich was when he began conducting, and he expected Kondrashin to chaperon him. Both Kondrashin and Rostropovich enjoyed an extended stay in the city of Gorky, participating in a triennial music festival. “We were there in 1972 when Rostropovich and I were both engaged to conduct their orchestra . . . He conducted very clumsily—albeit with the right temperament and authority.”58 The cellist practiced in a bizarre style; Kondrashin tried to pick up every word he was saying from his seat in the hall. Rostropovich clearly expressed the precise meaning of each phrase. For instance, in the finale of Prokofiev’s Fifth Symphony where there is tension in the strings at the start of the coda, they generate the effect of clamor and bustle against which a melody is expressed on the woodwind and brass. There then comes a pause when the strings have to energetically play higher in unison. However he might try, Rostropovich could not attain the desired effect and suggested, “Imagine please a communal kitchen where there are eight gas rings, each is roaring at full blast and there is a terrible noise. Suddenly someone cries they are selling salmon outside! Everyone runs away downstairs to the shop.” Everyone in the orchestra chuckled. But when the musicians approached the precise point in the score, Rostropovich shouted, “Salmon is on sale!” and the musicians, astonishingly, produced the necessary sound.59 Kondrashin recalled Rostropovich’s take on Tchaikovsky’s First Orchestral Suite. “There is in the third movement of this piece a very charming melody played on the cellos. Here Rostropovich did not quite achieve the desired effect and suggested, ‘Imagine if this music was played by an amateur doctor who has just returned home after a busy day. He has had ten prostrations and eight biopsies and now wants to have a rest. He sits down and begins to play on the cello but he can’t get the right notes nevertheless feels marvelously content. Like him you are also playing falsely but you don’t seem to be getting any pleasure from it.’”60 Rostropovich was the coordinator of the Gorky Festival, and to celebrate its tenth anniversary, a gala concert was arranged with two different conductors sharing the evening with Rostropovich himself as the soloist. In the first part, Israel Guzman conducted Britten’s Four Sea Interludes, followed by Rostropovich playing Dvorak’s Concerto and, in the second half, Shostakovich’s Tenth

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Symphony under Kondrashin. The tickets were all gone long beforehand, but for some reason, the general rehearsal was arranged at the Krasnaya Sormova factory situated some twenty kilometers from the city. Guzman was, at this time, involved with an actress from the Riga Drama Theatre, which was touring to the city. The lady in question had a performance the following evening and could not visit the concert and asked to accompany them. Guzman, naturally, was quite content with this arrangement. Upon arrival there, no one was present—the hall was deserted—just two dozen were waiting. They went upstairs to prepare, and Guzman slipped into his costume, and Rostropovich began tuning his cello. Guzman asked his girlfriend to turn around while he changed, suddenly the cellist cried raucously, “O my God! What a body! What a handsome majesty, it’s impossible to express. Listen, I pray you, don’t forget. Let’s look at you a bit closer, the proportions are not so distinguished, perhaps something between David Michelangelo and David Oistrakh.” Everyone fell about in laughter—Guzman was left looking like a poor sheep. Rostropovich was also in magnificent form at the concert, following which a spokesperson from the factory presented the cellist with a colossal volume about the plant with an inscription on the first page: “To Professor Mstislav Rostropovich—laureate of the Lenin Prize, from the workers of Sormovo.” The cellist took away his prize yet, on leaving, discarded the volume. On the following day, Guzman approached the cello player asking him for two rubles and eighty-seven kopecks. “Are you playing a game, old man?” “Pay me two rubles eighty-seven kopecks, you know what is up.” Rostropovich agreed to give him the money. The cellist gave him a threeruble note and was given thirteen kopecks in return, after which Guzman gave him the “lost” volume—Rostropovich roared and then gave him it back, having added after the signature—“with a reminder about your debts.”61 David Oistrakh was a quite different character. If humor for Khaikin was droll and tongue-in-cheek, Rostropovich’s wit was in playing people against each other; Oistrakh’s jesting was pleasant and warm and never hurt a soul. Oistrakh’s great weakness was a passion for cakes, and regardless of his large girth, he would eat heaps of them—his wife, Tamara, would get quite upset that he never ate so much at home. Sometimes, he would be asked, “Why are you eating cakes—surely they’re bad for you?” Oistrakh responded, “Cakes that are bad for you don’t exist.” Kondrashin recollected an occasion when they played the Brahms Concerto together at the Large Hall of the Conservatoire; the concert went well, and afterward, it was repeated at Zhukova, a small town outside Moscow. Oistrakh’s car broke down, and he asked Kondrashin to drive him there—during the drive, the violinist asked if he really wanted to conduct the concert.

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“What do you think—of course not.” “I don’t want to either—it’s terrible, my mood is like a free-thinking Don Juan who is returning home to fulfill his duties.”62 Oistrakh remembered how Aram Khachaturyan was at all times capricious; he always wanted something extra from a performance. At rehearsal, he would sometimes halt the orchestra and ask whether the person on the second desk is playing with vibrato in pizzicato. Oistrakh said, “I no longer play the Khachaturyan Concerto when he sits in the audience. But when he conducts then there is no problem. It’s enjoyable because he is so afraid of making a mistake!” Oistrakh told Kondrashin, on one occasion at the Prague Spring Festival of 1949, that the head of the Soviet delegation was one Nikolay Koloshin (a deputy to Khrapchenko). The group consisted of praiseworthy musicians, Rostropovich, Kondrashin, Ivanov, Shafran, and Oistrakh. One of the scheduled highlights was a recital by Jacques Thibaud, which was keenly anticipated by Oistrakh. The concert hall buzzed with atmosphere and noisy conversation in the minutes before the performance. The Soviet mission were given complimentary tickets; it happened that Koloshin was sitting next to Oistrakh; as the evening began with an overture by Fibich directed by the fifty-year-old Karol Shein, the official commented to Oistrakh that he looked much younger than his years. When Thibaud came on stage, mid-way through his playing, Koloshin turned to Oistrakh, “You know, I think that you play this better, you have a better temperament.” The Soviet violinist countered, “What sort of temperament can there be—this is a romance.” Koloshin responded, “Don’t you say? You have a healthier body movement than he has.” Kondrashin always found a particular satisfaction from working with top class musicians—one could derive so much, the fees are greater, regardless that rehearsal was limited; Kondrashin was unaccustomed to constraints in time. One could realize a return in just one run-through; however, the Moscow maestro’s forte was in schooling musicians, inculcating them to discover the music anew, arriving at different nuances and colors. In artistic interpretation, Kondrashin acknowledged that there were better and more gifted exponents than himself; the Muscovite could only realize the supreme interpretation when everything fell into place. Sometimes, these circumstances arose only when working with the best and when the opportunity arose. During Kondrashin’s appointment as guest conductor at the Concertgebouw, programming was planned three years ahead, and he would spend two fortnight-long periods annually in Amsterdam. This arrangement was initiated in 1968 between Goskonzert and the Concertgebouw. The series of recordings devoted to the Shostakovich symphonies reached a high point with the release of the Eighth in C Minor—one of the compos-

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er’s most important works. In contrast to the Mravinsky monaural setting, which suffered limited distribution, the stereo LP was the “first generally distributed commercial recording in the West” and made a huge impression on collectors. “Both performance and recording are extremely fine and no admirer of the composer should hesitate in investigating it . . . The work is one of great importance in Shostakovich’s development and Kondrashin’s account of it is both powerful and convincing.” The Gramophone reviewer expanded, “Kondrashin’s tempi are admirably spacious. His first movement is marginally faster than Mravinsky’s though the orchestral playing is highly sensitive and often very brilliant. Indeed in the two faster movements there is little to choose between the two conductors in matters of tempi and it is only in the passacaglia itself that Kondrashin is a good deal quicker.” Nevertheless the writer found that the Muscovites were not outplayed. “Those who know Mravinsky’s reading will note that Kondrashin’s trumpeter in the Toccata does not quite match the élan and virtuosity of the Leningrad player and although the strings of the Moscow orchestra play with rapt intensity those of the Leningrad always surprise by the quality of the tone they produce below pp.”63 Another reviewer considered that no other interpreter could echo the dark, frantic blaze of Kondrashin . . . Its opening gestures have tremendous fire and attack, and the conductor holds the first movement together in a taut arc of protest, eschewing to some extent the spiritual desolation self-consciously striven for by subsequent rivals. Once again, there is no danger of torpor, though several commentators have felt that depths remain unplumbed. The second movement is superbly pointed; the third makes a genuinely violent impression . . . Kondrashin was at one with the composer in discussing his oeuvre in terms of concrete, often, no doubt, dissenting images, and yet he never makes the mistake of dwelling on illustrative detail at the expense of symphonic momentum. The colours may be poster-paint brash but the line is drawn with complete security.64

One other great orchestral canvas unveiled by Kondrashin’s Moscow Philharmonic and the Melodiya recording team was the Eleventh Symphony The Year 1905. “Detail, of course, is much more clearly defined in this than in earlier symphonies and the winds are particularly well observed.” The writer continued, “one feels that greater excitement and conviction at the build-up (fig. 111) which can so easily sound bombastic.” Further high praise maintained that: “The playing of the Moscow Philharmonic is vital and welldisciplined and in the midst of much that is admirable it may seem curmudgeonly to dwell on points of detail that fall short of the ideal . . . There are

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other instances of want of attention to detail.”65 Kondrashin in a discussion about the symphony commented: One has to point out that revolutionary melodies were of long-standing significance to Shostakovich. This is revealed in many of his works. Such rhythms and songs, it would appear were strongly connected with his youth. I remember my youth, marches on demonstrations and the songs which were constantly in our lives. They came at a time when we were greedy for impressions in life and to possess a particularly important value in our lives. For a composer they are of even greater consequence. It is regrettable that some musicians relate to the Eleventh Symphony sceptically saying that it is too much like poster-art. But this is really an artistic picture. And the shooting? It is impossible to be tranquil when there is cause for tears.66

In the early 1970s, the early symphonic works were set down of Shostakovich’s coupling of the First and Third Symphonies. “It is expertly played . . . but Kondrashin is not averse to underlining expressive points (the passage beginning at fig. 18 is a good example) and the slow movement is not free from sentimentality in his hands . . . its poetry seems to elude these artists and matters are not helped by somewhat insensitive oboe playing in the opening theme and less than perfect intonation in bar 12.”67 To celebrate the sixty-fifth birthday of the composer, Kondrashin programmed a complete cycle of the symphonies of Shostakovich spread through two concert seasons. Dmitry Dmitrevich was present at almost all the concerts, regardless of his sick condition. Before each concert, he would say the following to me: “Kirill Petrovich, if the symphony is successful and you want me to take a bow, please don’t be angry if I don’t go on stage and only come to the front. It’s difficult for me to go up steps, everyone will stare at me and I cannot stand that.” The cycle enjoyed great success. It was a joy to see the Large Hall of the Conservatoire overfilled with young people, with a public greedy to listen to this profound music. I could not but remember when even the Sixth Symphony was considered too complicated, never mind the Eighth. How our audiences have developed, and how great a part has Shostakovich’s creativity proved in all this!68

Judging from another recording, it appeared that the conductor’s powers were more successfully rewarded in the large-scale works. Of the Leningrad Symphony, Arnold Whittal wrote, Kondrashin is splendid at big moments like this [in the first movement], since he never gets bogged down in the midst of incidental details in which the work abounds, and rarely loses his way in the elastically extendable phrases of its

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many, amply proportioned, narrative themes; he comes closest to aimlessness, as does the composer, in the long flute melody (at fig. 112) of the third movement. There is a sense in which Kondrashin is a volatile rather than truly responsive interpreter of the work, but such a tendency is no bad thing; for example, in the middle section of the first movement, where the composer’s anguished attempt to capture the essence of futile, mindless violence in music now sounds more appropriate to Chaplin’s The Great Dictator than to the real thing.69

Robert Layton—a more congenial critic to the conductor’s work—wrote of the Twelfth Symphony The Year 1917, “Kondrashin secures good ensemble and attack; dynamic markings are scrupulously observed—to excellent effect as in the pianissimo string and wind writing.”70 (at fig. 66) Following the world premiere of the Fifteenth Symphony in 1972, Kondrashin was among the first to perform it with his Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra in the 1972–73 season. The latest major symphonic work by Shostakovich and the first purely orchestral symphony for eleven years puzzled many listeners by its strange usage of quotations from both his music and that of other composers. Some years later, Kondrashin explained his thoughts on the Fifteenth. “It seems to me autobiographical. This is the story of a man and his long-ago struggles through life and his thoughts on the future.” He found common ground with Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances and Bartók’s Concerto for Orchestra, not only for being the last major orchestral works by these composers but also for dealing with a correlation to their own fates. “This is the wise, somewhat world-weary outlook of a man who has traversed through a protracted life experience, enduring difficulties and remaining true to his views as an artist and calmly looking at the future. If one looks at the symphony and specifically at its movements, then each of them reflect specific periods in his maturing as an artist, with different stages in his development as a human being, his ideas and feeling, born through life’s conflicts.”71 The citation of a theme from Rossini’s William Tell, in Kondrashin’s view, outlines Shostakovich’s first clear impressions in childhood: “When we first go to the opera or to a concert, this leaves a long-lasting impression for all one’s life. This theme is a model of accessibility; you hear it once and never forget it. For Shostakovich, this tune from William Tell is born from the rhythmic material organically written in his own music.” There had developed a style of “collage” in contemporary Soviet music; Boris Chaykovsky in his Second Symphony quoted music from classical composers yet in a different rhythmic construction. Shchedrin, in his ballet Anna Karenina, used a collection of music from Tchaikovsky’s works in a quite contradictory manner to the romantic composer’s style. However, Shostakovich, Kondrashin argued, introduced the theme from Rossini as a leitmotif. The entire opening movement includes music that is bright and

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jolly, humoresques; the solo bass plays in the character of Till Eulenspiegel, like a company of friends strolling along in a cheerful mood. However in the second movement, [there] is much disparity, here a middle-aged man reflects about death. Almost everyone at some period in his life (and not only in old age) contemplates this. Thoughts come to him that life may suddenly be interrupted and come to an end. This is in my opinion the essence of the second movement. There is here an interesting example of the psychological justification by Shostakovich of using serial technique. It starts with a crystal clear f major choral on the brass. This is reminiscent of a funeral lament, weeping for the dead. There then enters a solo cello which plays a concentrated, poignant monologue. There follows drifting through twelve-notes, dodecaphony is characterised by a lack of tonal key and we do not know what will follow. Here I imagine someone in a dark room who is searching for an exit. He doesn’t know his surroundings (perhaps there are steps?), feeling with his arms and legs in the darkness as if suspecting something is about to happen . . . Then there is apparently some kind of glow at the end which he follows and there enters into a new world. The man has thought about death and begins to think what the future beholds. There enters tonality and there is a way out, light comes, yet then the cello continues its weeping, reality encircles us and night ends the uncertainty at the end.72

Kondrashin believed this developed naturally in his composition, unconsciously; however, in the Fifteenth he thought this usage was deliberate. “These chords I consider as a spot appearing on a wall, like some kind of fatal premonition—‘mene, tekel, peres.’ If the cello has reached a kind of frontier through dodecaphony, hope arrives that the violin idiom will bring one to iniquitous uncertainty; however the violin once again returns one to tonality and there enters the heartbreaking intonation on the flute.”73 Kondrashin recognized themes from the famous revolutionary song Warshavyanka on the trombone and threads from songs used in the Eleventh Symphony, which bring this movement to its culmination. This ending is a protest before the arrival of death, but man has understood its inevitability and has made his peace with it, there then begins a choral on strings which is the final lament and the entry of the celesté and vibraphone are akin to a parting with life. As if in reminiscence, the rhythm of funeral speeches are beat out on the timpani and on unexpected spiky oboes before we transfer to the third movement. Here, in my opinion lurks evil imagery; wicked dance rhythms. The psychological mood is evocative of Richard Strauss’s Ein Heldenleben and is written deliberately humorously, anecdotally, but here it is grotesque and a terrible grotesque. The entire third movement carries a spirit of aggressive motion. The rhythm is always in tension, constant changes, and sharp turns in dynamics from fortissimo to pianissimo in the second theme; the

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solo on the violin in the third theme also bears the nature of intimidating sniggering and the tense beat of the high tam-tam transfers the idea. Continuously anxiety is present. The trumpet fanfares celebrate evil and following which there enter the percussion. A fresh theme arrives accompanied by the pounding of the percussion—at first on wood-block, side-drum and castanets, the second on the glockenspiel, triangle and celesta. The alternate use of two sets of instruments carries the temperament of sound and we cannot realize the psychological meaning. But at the end of the symphony when there enters a peaceful conclusion, these timbres return and then we can understand their function . . . The last movement begins with a quite unforeseen fragment from Wagner. The theme of fate and the rhythm on the timpani are the [Siegfried] funeral march from Götterdammerung. We expect an analogous repetition of the psychological content from the slow movement—life has come to an end and there enter thoughts of past life. But no! The theme of fate sounds for a third time (on the horns), and there a new theme is born on the violins. The first three notes are from Tristan. From this there develops the absolutely original principal theme and Russian in character and most importantly—a bright theme. The composer’s marking of Allegretto can be mistaken for an overly fast tempo . . . I think this is mistaken. This is serene and somnolent music. I see here the twinkling eyes of a middleaged man who looks warmly on his surroundings, through a haze, through past storms. This represents wise and sagacious maturity. It is interesting that in the middle section, there is bound the theme of fate, and the composer halts the accompaniment . . . This inclusion of the terrible Wagnerian intonation allows a different meaning: the theme of fate has been rethought, inexorable doom is overcome and no longer threatens . . . At bar 119 . . . there appear some kind of malevolent “droplets.” This is a premonition of dreadful revelations (short chords on the brass always herald evil). But the oboe continues to develop the main theme: the terrible memories are passing . . . Why does there suddenly appear, on first hearing, a dance-like, skipping episode? I could not understand the logic for the change of the mood through such a short span in time (only 6 bars). Finally, I decided that this cannot be anything more than skipping. This is also reflecting on the past through age-old eyes. The psychology for instance is if one remembers in The Queen of Spades when the Countess recalls her youth, there rings out a citation from Grétry. The theme by Grétry is in the major key; however Tchaikovsky is in the minor and is played slowly. It is a genial transformation . . . Here I think this is the same: this is remembrance of the skipping of ones youth, united with feelings of regret for present-day illness. Therefore it is very important here that the woodwind don’t play a sharp staccato and on no account quicken the tempo and allow an episode of a cheerful character . . . Now the movement transfers to the timpani and they maintain the beat and give birth to a renewed theme of fate which here sounds threatening. There now begins a new fragment—long favoured by Shostakovich—a passacaglia with a theme expressed on the basses—pizzicato. The atmosphere is guarded and threatening: This passacaglia, as I understand, return us to the most terrible events of the past. Undoubtedly, one has in mind the war because there sounds

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a familiar subject. This is the transitional motif from the march in the Seventh Symphony. Gradually this acquires counterpoint, slowly there enters the whole orchestra.74

Throughout the movement, there occurs changes of atmosphere each little by little, reviving past times with reappearances of the motif from Tristan. Only now may we review the psychological purpose of these dialogues in the third movement—this is the perception of life by the artist and his response to “external irritants.” However if this kind of secret “personal” pain from injury lies in the background, there is something more important: the binding counterpoint of percussion timbre—this designed by reviewing past events, the constantly pulsating thoughts of its creator . . . Then there are the memories of childhood (piccolo and celesté). They are a little melancholic and progress in an even rhythmic expression without hints of dance. This is like the troubled memories in old age of one’s youth. And together there is the pulse of military actions; the timpani continue to beat their rhythm. This is the significant things in the life of a man—they are always present. The last outburst is at the end. The tam-tam unrepentantly and brusquely with its tremolo, the wooden box hit out forte—this does not beatify creative activity. And there then comes enlightenment: the movement concludes, there hangs in this fifth A–E—we don’t know in the major or minor because the xylophone with its theme places from C-sharp and C natural. And at last, the last “drop”: C sharp on the celesté, glockenspiel and triangle. All in the major key! This is the purity and light which are both present in the Fourth and Eighth Symphonies. Here is what I remember this symphony for and for me this great work is one of the masterpieces by this composer.75

In response to a question about the opening movement, Kondrashin underlined: “It is joyous of life and motoric; the melodies are short and accessible. But it is not as simple as that . . . When the flute plays its theme, the harmony in pizzicato is very complicated. There are then the simultaneous polyrhythm and polytonality at bars 28 and 48. Yes and the theme is a half-note minor. Nevertheless, the music is acceptable and easy to identify with . . . In this there is grand novelty: what is difficult appears simple—as Boris Pasternak said ‘heresy is the unseen simplicity.’”76 In September 1972, Kondrashin toured the Fifteenth Symphony to the southern republic of Azerbaijan. In Baku, the composer himself attended the concert, and the new work scored a great triumph with the public. However, the orchestra was set to perform at a newly built oil-town called Sumgait, which had not enjoyed a reputation for classical concerts. The Baku program was to be repeated: Rimsky-Korsakov’s suite from The Legend of the City of Kitezh, Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations, and the Fifteenth. The difficul-

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ties in such musical programming became apparent when the administration asked if they could change the program upon the Moscow Philharmonic’s arrival. “Shostakovich is too difficult. The public are not ready for this.” Kondrashin asked if the concert was advertised, and hearing that the program had already been publicized, he told the director, “How can we disappoint those who come to the concert? You show that you don’t trust the public. We’ll leave the program as it is but I shall speak about the music before it begins.” Kondrashin expressed his thoughts about the compositions and asked the listeners to think about the different quotations and images that appear during the Fifteenth and whether they agree or not about the meaning of the work. “In general I tried to prepare the auditorium for engaged listening . . . I did not anticipate such an intense response. The reaction at the end was excellent. One understood that my words had reached its desired purpose. During the whole 45 minutes duration I sensed the public were following the development of the ideas. The listeners were grateful that they became familiar with genuine art. We discussed with them as if with people who could understand the most complex things. That is as it should be to popularise [music] from heart to heart.”77 The setting down of all fifteen symphonies was concluded by the composer’s death in 1975. The issuing by Melodiya and releases through international licensing allowed for a fuller judgment of the composer’s achievement, with no little exploit made by Kondrashin and his dedicated musicians. Few, if any, conductors have matched this monumental set of symphonic works: “All these performances, it goes without saying, are thoroughly idiomatic in accent and color . . . Kondrashin is a Shostakovich interpreter of proven instinct with a natural feeling for the brooding atmosphere and vast canvasses these symphonies inhabit.”78 It is remarkable that, despite many recordings being set down since the composer’s death and amid the growing recognition of Shostakovich’s music, they remain Kirill Kondrashin’s supreme testament in recorded sound. Kirill Kondrashin was touring in the Baltic republics when the news came through that Shostakovich had passed away: “I was in Riga . . . It was Sunday, August 10, and the concert was to begin with Glinka’s Kamarinskaya, Gideon Kremer [was soloist] for the Sibelius Concerto, ending with the Shostakovich Tenth Symphony. That morning I was rehearsing when a musician, Marina Smirnova approached me: ‘Kirill Petrovich, can I have a word?’ Kondrashin asked, ‘What’s happened?’ ‘They say Petrov [secretary of the Leningrad Composers Union branch] was called from Leningrad to say that Dmitry Dmitrevich has died.’”79 It transpired that the death had occurred on Saturday evening. Kondrashin immediately halted the run-through and demanded that a call be made to the ministry of culture for details of

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the funeral arrangements and on how one should conduct the evening’s engagement. “Shostakovich was dead, are we to play Kamarinskaya?”80 There was no response from Moscow, it being a Sunday, only confirmation of the composer’s death. Kondrashin decided that it would be inappropriate for the bright, exciting orchestral piece by Glinka and that he himself should make an announcement before the start. That evening there was a full house and elevated spirits, no one suspected what had happened; some in the orchestra knew, while others only guessed what was up. Kondrashin went on stage, raised his arms: “‘Dear comrades! I have bad tidings. With regret I must inform you that yesterday evening, at seven o’clock, one of the great composers of modern times—Dmitry Dmitrevich Shostakovich deceased.’ There was a gasp in the auditorium, I waited for a moment and said, ‘I hope that you understand that on this day we will not play Kamarinskaya.’” The orchestra then performed the Sibelius concerto, “It was performed so tragically, everyone played magnificently.” Before the beginning of the symphony by Shostakovich, Kondrashin spoke once more, “Dear comrades! I would ask you to refrain from applauding at the end.” The Moscow Philharmonic played the Tenth from first to last, and in the end, following the final bars, there reigned an eerie stillness, and little by little everyone stood up and slowly began to leave the hall.81 On Monday, there was still no news in the media; only on August 12 did an obituary appear in the newspapers. “Together with Andrey Petrov, we flew to Moscow for the funeral, the Philharmonic helped get us tickets, yet [we] only arrived on the morning of the funeral itself, and from eleven o’clock the coffin was in place in the Large Hall of the Conservatoire, entry was restricted until mid-day. We arrived late, however it was mostly empty.” Shostakovich’s death had been at the height of the holiday season; not a single orchestra remained; many leading figures in the arts were on vacation. For the memorial service, his widow, Irina Antonovna requested that tapes of his music be played, particularly the “Death of a Poet” and, in conclusion, “Death All Powerful” from the Fourteenth Symphony. In addition, excerpts from the Fifth Symphony and the “Passacaglia” from the Eighth were relayed from loudspeakers. Kondrashin took his place in the guard of honor, together with Kabalevsky. Outside the Conservatoire, many hundreds stood in the heat, waiting to pay their last respects. Kondrashin looked down at Shostakovich, He had changed greatly, of course, if one approached the coffin from the foot, there sat his close relatives and friends; about twelve rows. There too were Khachaturyan, Vainberg, and Boris Chaykovsky. On the left were several unfilled

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rows, nearby was a microphone prepared for the farewell orations. At last the public were granted entry; I must admit that I didn’t expect such an onslaught of people. It was the height of summer, many folk were on vacation. Old women came, made the cross over Shostakovich, bent low before him, there appeared some elderly men. One grey-bearded old man approached with a stick and was held back by security. He dropped to his knees and bowed near to the ground. One other mourner, who looked Jewish was restrained, however he pushed the guard aside, and stood close to the coffin. He stood staring at the late composer’s face for fully three minutes; made a Jewish sign of leave-taking and departed. The flood of mourners passed through for another two hours, still many more wished to pay their respects, however were turned away. The official ceremony then began; I sat in the front row next to the close relatives together with Kabalevsky, and Khaikin. The Minister of Culture Milentyev asked us to move away, something we refused to do, the space was for those who sympathised with the composer not those of the nomenclatura. The speeches were in the main abhorrent to me, only the words of Sviridov seemed genuine and sincere, who wept during his monologue, Shchedrin spoke well and the only person to mention the traumas that Shostakovich had endured during his life. Other speakers said that all in Shostakovich’s life was prosperous and good. Khachaturyan was asked to move out of the way so a film crew should cover the event; however declined . . . Everyone went out to the cemetery, there were about two thousand there, and he was buried next to his first wife—a coincidence of fate. It was just fortune that there remained an empty plot. Following the funeral, Irina Antonovna and Maxim invited me to go out to their dacha. There were about eighty people. Revol Bunin said, “Here are the sincere friends of Dmitry Dmitrevich.” The leave-taking was very moving; previously I always regarded such wakes as unpleasant, for being on the most part happy after such a sad event. But here I felt some sort of release, and everything became a little easier inside . . . Thus ended the life of Dmitry Dmitrevich; a virtuous pure soul. Incidentally, there is something characteristic of him because when I was standing in the row of honour next to his coffin, I noticed on his altogether changed features a nuance of anguish, then later from the other side, discerned a quite different face, there was a sardonic smirk quite unlike Shostakovich. One had the impression that he was listening and laughing at the speeches before him. I mentioned this to the nearest person, Dmitry Borisovich Kabalevsky. He answered that he shared the same notion. In the West, it was said that the criticism spoiled him, and that he began to write on commission. I disagree wholly with this. Each and every great composer is absolved at the end of their lives. Bartók was forgiven as was Hindemith, never mind Prokofiev. For Shostakovich this was logical, really it is heresy to be a “great” person, and for Shostakovich too. They say that he kept the censure in his pocket; however Shostakovich scorned this, and asked forgiveness in words but in reality got his own back.82

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Kondrashin loved the Eleventh Symphony; however, he regarded the Twelfth as formalistic, akin to poster art. Nevertheless, There is a great opening theme in the first movement. This is also Shostakovich. It is the language of Shostakovich. The perfection of form; it is actually difficult to discuss them. Unfortunately because of the censure, we lost some great operas which were never written by Shostakovich. His two stage works reflect wholly divergent trends, yet both are astonishing. He was a dramatist. However I can say that he never considered himself indebted to the bureaucrats, “He listened but never imbibed.” He did his own thing. He composed for the desk-drawer, and a little for money, he could not be different as an artist. During the difficult time of 1948 when he had few commissions, he met one of his colleagues who asked him: “Dmitry Dmitrevich, what are you writing just now?”—“Just now I am composing for the cinema. Its unpleasant to do this; I advise you to do this only in extreme poverty, in extreme poverty.” Shostakovich always emphasised something by repeating it.83

My mournful soul, you, sorrowing For all my friends around, You have become the burial fault Of all those hounded down Devoting to their memory A verse, embalming them, In torment, broken, lovingly Lamenting over them, In this our mean and selfish time, For conscience and for quest You stand—a columbarium To lay their souls to rest84

A great humanitarian in music and patriot to his homeland, a friend and ally for the Moscow conductor, the death of Shostakovich brought an era in Soviet music to a close; already, major changes heralded a new entity and world for Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin.

NOTES 1. B. V. Asafyev, Vosmaya simfoniya Shostakovicha (Moscow: Moskovskaya Filarmoniya, 1945), 8.

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2. In 1956, following a break of eight years, Samuil Samosud performed the Eighth Symphony with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. 3. Levon Hakobian, Music of the Soviet Age: 1917–1987 (Stockholm: Melos Music Literature, 1998), 230–1. 4. B. V. Asafyev, Vosmaya simfoniya Shostakovicha, 7. 5. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper: Besedi Boris Pokrovskogo S Alloi Bogdanovoi (Moscow: Moscow Conservatoire, 2001), 225. 6. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 182. 7. Alexander Vasilyevich Gauk: Memoiri, izbranniye statii, vospominaniya, L. P. Gauk, R.V. Glezer, and Y. I. Milstein comp. (Moscow: Muzika, 1975), 125. 8. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi s Shostakovichem,” in Dmitry Shostakovich: stat i i materialy, ed. G. M. Shneerson (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1976), 89–90. 9. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi,” 90. 10. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 183. 11. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 183. 12. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi,” 90. 13. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi,” 91. 14. Andrey Zolotov, interview with the author, July 2006. 15. Concert review “Waiting for the Grand Unison G,” The Times, September 20, 1963. 16. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, October 1971, 637. 17. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 184. 18. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 185. 19. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 186. 20. A. M. Vavilina-Mravinskaya, interview with the author, 2001. 21. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 186. 22. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 187–88. 23. Y. Yevtushenko, “Genius is Beyond Genre: Dmitry Shostakovich (1976– 1988),” in Fatal Half Measures: The Culture of Democracy in the Soviet Union, Antonia W. Bouis, ed. and trans. (Boston: Little Brown, 1991), 294–95. 24. “Vyrazhat pomysli sovremmenikov,” Sovetskaya Kultura (December 25, 1962): 3. 25. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 189. 26. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 190. 27. In fact, the first performance in Leningrad directed by Blazhkov used the former texts; however, the work suffered an unhappy fate—it was rarely performed in its homeland until the mid-1980s. 28. The record was issued on the Everest label in 1967. 29. Edward Greenfield, The Gramophone, November 1967, 262–63. 30. This is the account verified by Pyotr Kondrashin. 31. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 190–91. 32. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, December 1975, 1052–53.

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33. Yuri Temirkanov, BBC interview, 1994. 34. Glikman, I. Pisma k Drugu (Moscow: DSCH, 1993), 196. 35. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 192. 36. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 184. 37. Andrey Zolotov, interview with author, October 2001. 38. Sergey Slonimsky, “Pobeda Stenki Razina,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1965): 20–24. 39. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, January 1969, 1006–7. 40. L. Danilevich, “Nachalo konzertnovo sesona,” Sovetskaya Muzika 12 (December 1965): 103–4. 41. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 195–96. 42. D. D. Shostakovich to D. F. Oistrakh, GSMMK, f.385, ed.khr. 485, May 20, 1967. 43. D. D. Shostakovich to D. F. Oistrakh, GSMMK, f.385, ed.khr. 487, July 2, 1967. 44. D. D. Shostakovich to D. F. Oistrakh, GSMMK, f.385, ed.khr. 488, July 15, 1967. 45. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 102. 46. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” in Mir Dirizhera (Leningrad: Muzika, 1976), 152. 47. Dmitry Shostakovich v pis’makh i dokumentakh, Irina Bobikina, ed. (Moscow: Glinka State Central Museum of Musical Culture, 2000), 346. 48. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, March 1969, 1292–93. 49. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, March 1969, 1292–93. 50. Edward Greenfield, The Gramophone, October 1970, 597. 51. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, July 1970, 175–76. 52. K. P. Kondrashin, Mir Dirizhera, 53. 53. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi,” 95–96. 54. V. G. Razhnikov Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 193–94. 55. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 229–31. 56. “Angela Davis charges called a sham,” The Times, January 8, 1971. 57. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 227–28. 58. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 215. 59. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 216. 60. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 216. 61. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 216–17. 62. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 217–18. 63. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, June 1969, 45–45. 64. David Gutman, The Gramophone, January 1995, 37. 65. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, September 1974, 517. 66. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 161–62. 67. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, February 1975, 1499–1500. 68. K. P. Kondrashin, “Moy vstrechi,” 94–95. 69. Arnold Whittal, The Gramophone, (February 1978), 1410. 70. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, August 1978, 340–41.

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71. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 147–48. 72. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,”149–52. 73. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 153. 74. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 153–58. 75. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 160–61. 76. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 161. 77. K. P. Kondrashin, “Shostakovich Pyatnadtsaya Simfoniya,” 162–63. 78. Robert Layton, The Gramophone, February 1975, 1499–1500. 79. Andrey Petrov was the secretary of the Leningrad Composers Union and was on vacation in Riga at the time. 80. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 197. 81. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 197. 82. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 200. 83. V. G. Razhnikov, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet, 200–201. 84. Boris Pasternak, Soul: When it Clears Up, 1956, translated by Sergey Roy, compiled by Evgeny Pasternak (Moscow: Raduga, 1991).

10 The Finale: The Concertgebouw and Renewal 1976–1981

Safe journey. Safe journey. Our ties And desires live under different roofs. Like a plant set straight by sunlight, You’ll see the whole world differently. Pasternak 1931

Some months before the passing of Shostakovich, two people departed their life on this earth that had played a central place in Kirill Kondrashin’s life. In October 1974, the great violinist David Oistrakh died suddenly in his sleep at the Park Hotel in Amsterdam. This came as an immense shock to Kondrashin, for their partnership and personal friendship had been the longest standing of all. The relationship began with their performance of the Mendelssohn Concerto in 1938. “The sincerity of the musical feeling, the fluency and grace which were essential for the performance of the Mendelssohn Concert,” were Oistrakh’s own words about Kondrashin.1 There was a mutual respect through the music making as Kondrashin himself described, “I heard Oistrakh during my days as a student, I was studying at the Moscow Conservatory and didn’t miss the opportunity of attending one of his performances . . . Oistrakh has in many respects contributed to my development as a musician.”2 In recalling the first concert together, Kondrashin said, “I was so excited that I wasn’t able to judge my performance objectively. However David Fyodorovich immediately conquered my heart with his obliging kindness: he assisted me in the very best way in the finale of the Mendelssohn Concerto which is extremely difficult for the conductor.” Kondrashin went on to describe the violinist’s constant search for perfection, “He was never satisfied with what he had achieved. Interpretations which he performed today didn’t 245

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satisfy him tomorrow for this or that reason. He played Mendelssohn’s Concerto quite differently after the war than at the time of our first acquaintance. The same is true of the Brahms and Beethoven concertos which he played with a much livelier tempo in 1946 than in the last years of his life.”3 On one occasion, Oistrakh traveled with Kondrashin’s Moscow Philharmonic on their first American tour, and in transferring from the States into Canada, there was an unexpected delay at customs to allow the instruments into the country. Despite every effort, the orchestra only arrived at Burlington at eleven o’clock; nevertheless, the audience waited several hours. “The friendly mood of the audience was wonderful: the orchestra played as if there was no stress and was totally refreshed. David Oistrakh played the same way: fresh and with tremendous dash. The overwhelming majority of the orchestra was relatively young, whilst David Fyodorovich had passed his sixtieth year.”4 The concert included Shostakovich’s Ninth, La Valse by Ravel, and the Brahms Concerto. During the last years, David Oistrakh complained about being overweight and always had a hearty appetite; following a New York engagement, Kondrashin asked Oistrakh if he would like to have something to eat, to which the violinist replied, “Under no circumstances, don’t dare tempt me.” Kondrashin visited the nearby delicatessen and recognized there in front of him the well known figure of David Fyodorovich. The violinist was filling his basket full of delicacies. “Do you know, Kirill, I couldn’t resist the temptation.” Kondrashin suspected, upon reflection, that this was not the first. “There was no doubt that Dodik had known the way to this shop for some time.” Oistrakh was assisted to develop another career by Kondrashin. “Kondrashin played an important part in my development as a conductor and was very helpful with advice . . . I got to know Kondrashin’s great talents as a teacher.”5 Regardless of his conducting some of the finest Soviet and world orchestras, the closest relationship was with the Moscow Philharmonic, including their chamber ensemble led by Valentin Zhuk. “I was frequently present at Oistrakh’s rehearsals as conductor; I had always been of the opinion that playing under his baton was extremely useful for the orchestra, particularly for the strings. His comments to the strings were remarkably tactful and unobtrusive. He rarely interfered in details but when he said something, his words were precise and in spite of being laconic he changed the sound of the orchestra substantially. This was only natural: there was nobody among us with such an insatiable desire to analyse the process of his own performance and to perfect it perpetually.”6 The artistic partnership ended in a performance of the Brahms Concerto in Kiev a few weeks before Oistrakh’s death. That Brahms featured in their last concert together was fitting because both musicians had a lifelong affinity with the composer’s music. Kondrashin heard the news of his friend’s

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passing when conducting in Monte Carlo. In a letter to Oistrakh’s widow, Kondrashin wrote, I was of course quite unable to stand at the rostrum and continue the rehearsal. We tried to send you a telegram in Amsterdam. But the post office workers went on strike just at this moment so that my telegram was returned undelivered . . . You may remember that I recently said in the Tchaikovsky Hall that you are obliged to survive David because he couldn’t live without you . . . How terrible to imagine that everything happened so quickly: I now blame myself terribly for these words. May God prevent one from being such a prophet! Dear Tamara! . . . I would only like to say to you that you should pool all your strength and preserve everything as completely as possible, everything that is connected with Dodik’s life and work. Go through his archives, I am sure that it will be important for many books which will be written about him. May this help you now to fill your life, which you devoted to him, with a new work and new meaning. This is your holy duty because this is also done for him.7

The news of the great Soviet violinist’s passing brought distress to many, including the minister of culture, Yekaterina Furtseva. Within a day, however, she too would be dead, having taken her own life. In the 1960s, few people in the Soviet arts world had such consequence as did Madame Furtseva, and she gained respect from both friends and foes alike. Furtseva was born in Vychy-Volozhek, the birthplace of Koussevitsky, in 1934 into a poor workers family; a devoted member of the Komsomol, she worked at a Moscow factory during the war and entered the Institute of Chemical Technology, becoming secretary of the Party committee there. Her fortitude and ability earned a fulltime position as secretary of the central Moscow Frunzenskaya District. During the Khrushchev years, she supported the Soviet leader in the inner-Party struggle between adherents of the Stalin “cult” and became a member of the Presidium, which assumed the functions of the Politburo of Stalin’s period, one of the few women to occupy such a high position. In 1960, Furtseva was appointed as minister of culture. Having no background in cultural affairs, Furtseva was apprehensive of meeting and dealing with writers, painters, and musicians. It is claimed that Furtseva’s private telephone conversation criticizing Khrushchev was listened to by the security services, and as a result, she was “demoted” to being minister of culture, having expected to assume a more important role in the ruling elite. She suffered from suspicion by the intelligencia as a Party hack and oblivious to the arts; however, at the first meeting, she was met with an ovation.8 More than any other Government figure, Furtseva enjoyed the trust and understanding from the arts world and was able to find a common thread in her deliberations, attempting to soften Party policy by compromising on

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many difficult issues. “She arranged meetings in an unusual manner; at first, bureaucrats would express their opinions followed by representatives from the arts and finally she would sum up. In this way, she would not displease her colleagues and at the same time allow dramatists and directors their say, allowing the curtain to be drawn apart as it were.”9 In this, Furtseva would defend the point of view of a particular theater and take issue with government departments on financing, as she did with the Moscow Philharmonic. In a dispute with the Party secretary for propaganda, Alla Petrovna Shaposhnikova, Furtseva simply cut her off, “Alla Petrovna, I shall take this problem on myself.” On other occasions, Furtseva would get on the phone and tell a theater director to go ahead, “It’s OK, you can do the play.” One could go to Furtseva and speak openly about problems in the arts world. At the beginning of her tenure, Furtseva could be naive in speaking to a group of theatrical workers, “You know that today I visited a factory where a woman was given the Order of Lenin for thirty years work without any conflicts at work. You hear no conflicts! This is what you should be writing about in your plays. But you want to write about some kind of disputes or strikes, What for?”10 This endearing simplicity evoked sympathy, and she would come to understand the problems of the arts world closely in her fourteen years in power. I can only express good about Furtseva. Furtseva was a charming intelligent woman. She was very clever, humane and understood the arts world wonderfully. She was quite out of place in those years. I can’t understand how she got on [in the Party leadership]; her portraits were carried aloft on May Day. She had a strange nature. I had such an impractical character: as soon as someone looked upon me with anger, I would write to the Minister of Culture. “Dear Yekaterina Alexeyevna! I am informing you that on such a date, I am resigning as Chief Director of the Bolshoi Theatre, and as you like, prefer to remain as a producer . . .” Furtseva responded, “How can you, Boris Alexandrovich! How can you do this? You Pokrovsky leave the Bolshoi Theatre? I certainly cannot do anything but pass this onto the Moscow Party to discuss . . . Borechka (using the intimate form of address), I won’t go to the theatre if you are not there.” This was the sort of person she was. An astonishing personality! She really passed on my letter to the Party and there was a meeting about it and I was requested to stay.11

Furtseva died on October 24, hours after hearing of the passing of Oistrakh in Holland, she was found in her office in tears saying, “What a pity for Oistrakh, David Fyodorovich was such a wonderful person.” On that day, Furtseva had an argument with Party leader Brezhnev regarding the switch in dates for celebrating the jubilee of the Maly Theatre and that of the Moscow Automobile Plant. Brezhnev ordered that the latter take central position at a gala in the Bolshoi. Furtseva asked what would be done with the

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many foreign guests who had arrived to celebrate the Moscow drama theater. Instead, Brezhnev, in front of witnesses, expressed his concern over alleged excesses by Furtseva at official functions. Angry at the evidence shown to her, Furtseva then joined her husband at a function in the Vietnamese Embassy that evening; however, she left early, saying she was unwell; on her way home, she stopped off at her office, leaving a message that she would not be at work on the 25th. From her home, she was concerned enough to phone a friend to advise that on the following day, “Lyuda, you are driving by yourself, please take care.” Discovering that she was alone, Zykina asked if she wanted her to come to her home. Furtseva replied, “No, no, I am going to bed.” This was their last conversation.12 She then took an overdose and was found dead at one o’clock in the morning by her distraught husband. The official statement was that she had died of a heart attack. At the funeral, the Party leaders Suslov, Kirilenko, and Mazurov paid their respects before her burial at the Novodevichy Cemetery. Furtseva’s friend Ludmila Zykina sang a funeral chant at the grave. Zykina, in her memoirs, recalled that Furtseva on one occasion met with Marshal Zhukov at the hospital when visiting her husband and said how sorry she was at having to criticize Zhukov at a recent Party meeting, “Georgy Konstantinovich, forgive me, I acted very badly towards you and am trying to repay my guilt.” Zhukov replied, “Katya, this is just nonsense, I don’t even remember it.” On another day, the singer was advised to complain about her low fees for concerts and wrote to the then head of Moskonzert. Furtseva asked Zykina, “Why didn’t you come to me about it?” Zykina answered, “But this would have been tactless.” In 1964, Rostropovich was in hospital and required particular medical treatment; Furtseva ensured that the cellist was treated properly and took the time to visit him in hospital. She also paid hospital visits to other artists as Zykina recalls, “On one occasion she turned to me to accompany her visiting the famous artists A. Tarasova and G. Ots.”13 “I will go of course, but will it be right?” “Of course, it will be alright.” “One needs flowers.” Furtseva answered, “I have them already.” Nevertheless, the minister could be tricky as Zykina learned when she said that she wanted to buy a new Peugeot automobile. Furtseva argued that she should buy a Soviet-made Volga instead. “I don’t want to see you in a foreign-made car. You are a Russian woman, a Russian singer. Don’t let the Russians down. It’s better to buy another Volga.” Zykina observed the minister’s treatment of appellants in her office and how she found a way in which a dispute could be resolved. “The Minister knew how to listen. I know that when Yuly Borisov played a film part as a Soviet ambassador, that he modelled his part on studying Furtseva,

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copying her mannerisms and gesticulation. She was a beautiful woman, and constantly looked after herself. She played tennis, jogged and did gymnastics. She constantly berated me, saying, ‘A singer of your standing must be slimmer!’ . . . She always had a beautiful coiffure. Changing her dress from a working meeting to that for a banquet and always looked perfect, she had great taste.”14 Nevertheless, gossip had it that Furtseva drank too much at receptions and much else besides; however, she held office for fourteen years, something that underlines that hearsay does not always prove truthful; rather, around every successful figure, there circulate people who are only too happy to bring someone down through whispering. Furtseva overcame adversity by winning over many in the arts through her diplomatic tact and understanding, regardless of a difficult and harsh background. No other minister of culture was responsible for so many new libraries, concert halls, and theaters, including construction of the Mossovet Theatre and Taganka Theatre. At her funeral, Yevtushenko said, “If it were not for the energy of Yekaterina Alexeyevna, the song of my poem ‘Do the Russians want war?’ would never have seen the light.”15 There was a major uplift of culture in the 1960s through to the 1970s, during which, Furtseva made a decisive contribution. Following her death, cultural life went into a regression, which would only be ended with perestroika a decade later. Her long-time friend Zykina writes that the “Party hindered her in many ways. The pressure of the Party elite, their demands and requirements to attain forced submission made her powerless. But all the same, she didn’t give in and found the means to resist, standing by her views.”16 The passing of Furtseva and her replacement by a grey Party functionary would escalate the process of alteration already gnawing at Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin’s career in the Soviet Union. Since the early 1970s, Kondrashin had actively participated in television, radio, and other media; in 1970, he authored a book on conducting and regularly presented seminars on Tchaikovsky’s symphonies and conducting art for students around the country. The maestro played host à la Bernstein on television programs such as Journey to the Land of the Symphony, in which he introduced listeners to the essence of his artistic talent and how the symphony was created through the rehearsal process.17 Kondrashin became an authoritative commentator on the development of music in the Soviet Union. Often, his observations could be controversial; this in an era where the press was still strictly controlled, a decade before the advent of glasnost. Kondrashin took a bold and distinctly patriarchal view on latter-day musical life: Goskonzert manages to despatch three of our leading symphony orchestras abroad at the same time (including the two Moscow orchestras attached to the

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Philharmonic). With such planning, there arises concern for the subscription series and concert-goer. In arranging touring, one should learn from the example of Western companies (I have in mind a plan for two years in advance) although our concert life is driven by different stimuli. It seems to me that there has to be some sort of breathing space for our orchestras . . . TV and radio can play a colossal role in popularising classical music; however this form of media can never replace live performing art. Marketing remains a weak point in Moscow; the capital develops so much yet only 200–250 posters are produced for symphony concerts, which can never cope with covering the city’s vast housing districts adequately. Posters must be seen and impress one suitably so that people are attracted to concerts. In my concert programmes, prominence is given to Russian classics and to Soviet music, but evenings of contemporary music are often marginalised. The administration arranging concerts and the Union of Composers seem to contradict each other with present-day composers losing out. There can only be one solution—for the Composers Union to create its own symphony orchestra which would operate on a non-commercial basis, and be an experimental base for new compositions, only then can there be a solid foundation for Philharmonic concerts.

Kondrashin suggested concert forums in which performers would discuss music with audiences; talks should be based, not on the history of the music, but on its substance, to open up artistic form and the ideas behind the interpretation. The pride of the Soviet cultural system, music competitions were not only under question but also devalued. There are so many laureates unworthy of the name; the whole system needs to be reformed. I am convinced students should not take part in international competitions. This would end the trait of students being pushed into such events by jurors. One should allow young musicians to develop normally, and the right to take part in international events will be when they are fully prepared and able to show their individuality. One of the biggest problems in concert life is the lack of financial support. Unfortunately the halls are too often dedicated to popular music genre. One should strive for summer concert venues such as those in Dzintarska [Armenia] or Palanga [Latvia], which are much less expensive for rental; it’s surprising that there isn’t one in Moscow.18

Kondrashin’s comments were published in a journal funded jointly by the Ministry of Culture and the Composers Union and proved contentious to many in the Soviet elite; few could argue, however, that Kondrashin was not being transparent and his scheme wholly compelling for the country’s musical life. Rather than take on board these proposals, he became an outcast and, ultimately, downgraded by the authorities. The essence was not that the veteran maestro might be correct but that these criticisms should have been made by them and not by the maverick conductor. This and the long-standing

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disputes over status and salary scales for the Philharmonic brought his position there to a head. In April 1974, Sovetskaya Muzika marked Kondrashin’s sixtieth birthday with two major pieces devoted to his career. In the first, an interview, the conductor commented: I would separate my creative path into four stages, all differing in length . . . The first was characterised by a need to readily, as best as one could, make the work accessible, with appropriate precision, fulfilling the nuances made by the composer. I believed a conductor’s worth was by the least number of rehearsals needed for a concert. It didn’t matter so much about the quality. Whatever difficulties there might be, it was always best to perform it quickly and as professionally as possible. This phase lasted only 5–6 years. The second stage, in parallel with the first, lasted about 15 years, if not more. The essence was to significantly expand my repertoire. Those works once directed no longer interested me. My ambition was to grasp the world of music but as yet untroubled with its profundity or matter. The third term was following twenty years and came at the half-way point in my career. This reflected all one’s conducting up to that point. When returning to a particular piece, I was ashamed at not having grasped its essence and at missing so much. This was the point of my maturity. At last the fourth spell relates to the past decade and is concentrated on conducting technique, the desire to put my performing expression with the orchestra that I am working with at a given moment.19

Kondrashin reflected on Russian composers: I was attracted to Prokofiev and Stravinsky certainly for their complex writing; national colours expressed through a prism of contemporary text. In searching for my own style; there overlapped . . . a fascination to the music of Mahler and Shostakovich. These two composers are similar in their means of creativity and in the present day represent living, symphonic music in its pure form. This attraction has not lessened with the years and I believe will never leave me. At present, . . . I am returning to Mozart and Beethoven which [music] I have performed rarely in recent years. In the past, I always treated them with caution. For the first time in thirty seven years I have directed Beethoven’s Ninth. It is surprising that young conductors aspire to perform Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the first movement of which, in my opinion, even for the most gifted conductor, is the hardest nut to crack . . . Or perhaps with Mozart, the ostentatious elegy and brightness is naturally a mask behind which there can be distinguished a tragic suffering. Take the entry to the Prague symphony. At first glance, its heroic beginning anticipates the Jupiter. There lurk malicious feelings throughout this music, terrible things; one does not know which way to turn, a wrong step and one can descend into the abyss. In Haydn’s works we discover a mature dramaturgy which we do not find in early Beethoven. But at

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what cost is this humour and what is most important in the extraordinary fame of this music!20

Kondrashin was asked about the relationship between the performing and interpreting aspects in conducting and to what extent is improvisation realized in concert. “I would break this into two characteristics. Speaking of this relationship in conducting, it is impossible to forgo the visual spectacle. The figure of the conductor, his gestures, face, and mimicry must be natural, helping both performers and listeners take in the music. For this the conductor needs to express himself. The focus of invention is critical. The performer playing the music must forget about everything gone before and recreate the effects of novelty and surprise; as if one is playing it for the first time through fresh harmony and melodic changes. They have to be played and acted out in reality.”21 In response to a question on the present-day level of performance among orchestras, “There is an evolution by which many orchestras have declined in standards because many of the old masters have left us. The younger generation are restricted by the number of rehearsals . . . per programme. When I went to London, I was told that only two rehearsals would be necessary for a Beethoven concert because they know the music well enough. What does this mean? They know the notes, but actually play the music superficially. One has to show what is beyond the notes.”22 Kondrashin expanded on this theme: Beethoven is the litmus test for any conductor. For some years our orchestras were directed by several foreign maestros—Oskar Fried, Fritz Stiedry, Otto Klemperer, Erich Kleiber, and Eugéne Sëngar. It is no accident that Beethoven traditions are in our musicians’ blood. All the conductors of my generation when they were students attended the rehearsals imbibing the practice of the Austrian–German tradition. Today in the West Beethoven is performed quite poorly; I say this based on my own experiences. More so, even such an extra class orchestra like the Boston Symphony under Charles Munch which toured in 1956 the Eroica Symphony was not beyond reproach from the view of the composer’s own markings. I am assured that the Soviet school of conducting continues to survive. The victories of our youth in Rome and in West Berlin underline this and that they are as warranted as those of our instrumentalists.In regard to the tradition of performing the classics, these remain alive generally with the finest orchestras of the USSR and USA.23

Kondrashin recollected his memory of Prokofiev’s playing: I remember Prokofiev playing many times. How dry and clumsily he performed his own pieces! I had the impression that he was unemotional in his own lyricism; he suppressed himself behind the toccatas, motoric rhythms, wit and buoyancy. He always played the third variation of his Third Concerto very fast

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and loud. I thought that he was trying to thump out this variation. Yet in this music today one can find the wonderful poetry of a southern evening which at the composer’s tempo is impossible to play. In regard to the new type of performer, I consider there are different types as there are diverse levels of talent. Take for example both of my favourites Alexey Lyubimov and Elissa Virsaladze. One possesses a more reserved passion in which the intellect predominates but how tenderly Lyubimov plays Mozart. In his Mozart, as in Beethoven, each little note is performed with such extraordinary ease; it is bizarre to say he is dispassionate. Elisso Virsaladze on the other hand is romantic and unrestrained, with emotional expression at the maximum.

Kondrashin recalled that for many years he had neglected Tchaikovsky: “He was played so much that I no longer possessed the appropriate fantasy to unearth something fresh, character of my own, without duplicating others. Now there has come the time for a revival of Tchaikovsky. The raison d’être being the music’s countless and dissimilar characteristics. This is so inadequate in many composers.”24 Kondrashin’s orchestral discipline was analyzed: “When the conductor works with an orchestral section, he will not allow other sections to relax or lose concentration. Instructions addressed to one group apply to everyone. Hence the directions given to the violins are for instance taken up by the basses when a musical phrase is picked up. Naturally the tension leads to fatigue however Kondrashin prefers to release this after an hour of rehearsal of Mahler or Shostakovich by diverting away to a ‘lighter’ musical work.” Vladimir Razhnikov commented that a significant aspect of Kondrashin’s orchestral discipline was in performing the meticulous relationship between sections where each nuance is correlated with explicit psychosomatic material, where there are diminuendo and immeasurable shadings of sforzando. One could hear the immense construction of sound in the transition passage from “Scherzo” to “Finale” in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony or in the prolonged build-up to the crescendo in Rachmaninov’s Symphonic Dances or in the articulated angry outbursts and the pianissimo in Shostakovich’s First Symphony. Kondrashin’s ambiguous instructions could initially flummox his musicians: “Study first the markings, and then the notes.” Kondrashin would accept superficial “beauty” from rational development neither in annotations nor phrasing. This doesn’t mean overlooking the composers’ diminutive markings—on the contrary—the conductor is exact in observing them. “The nuances . . . are played as written,” he states categorically, and in reality, it is rare for such a fantastic pianissimo, which musicians jokingly call “our own.” “Our own” may be a balance in sound, the accuracy in rhythmic phrasing, or the unity of strings. For Kondrashin, nothing is trivial; he is concerned where the violins play pizzicato or when the horns take breath.25

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Wolfgang Gieron, a violinist with the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, recalls Kondrashin’s approach to Beethoven, “We . . . did the Eighth Symphony by Beethoven with him, on this occasion; it was to replace another conductor, André Previn. He did it very precisely, in Beethoven it was surprising and he wanted a big difference in the dynamics in a section of the fourth movement, where there is a big crescendo, he wanted in place of subito—a pianissimo, the violins couldn’t play it as he wished, it was just impossible for them but what they created in sound values satisfied him. He was just interested in creating a contrast in the dynamics at this episode.” A Russian conducting Beethoven with a German orchestra inevitably created problems, “The Beethoven was not good, too much technique and not enough music, there were no great lines, or the right sound. We were not convinced by his Beethoven. It needed stronger accents, at the 3rd bar, Beethoven didn’t write these notes, some people in the orchestra complained that Beethoven didn’t write these notes, there was conflict. He played it in a classical way, forgetting the romantic.”26 If Madame Furtseva had been an ally for Kondrashin and the Philharmonic, the fresh custodian of the ministry—nicknamed “Lieutenant Kizhe” by inner circles—now proved an obstacle. In a response to the indifferent progress of his orchestra, Kondrashin offered to resign as chief conductor of the Moscow Philharmonic if no increase was made in payments. Sorrowfully, the former became reality; the state called his bluff and cast the chief conductor into the status of nonentity, similar to the fate of Kondrashin’s colleague Konstantin Ivanov a decade before. It was announced that he had submitted his request for retirement on health grounds; surprisingly quickly for Soviet administrative circles, this was granted in December 1975. It was a long-standing practice at the Bolshoi that conductors were discarded when no longer required. The traditions of the Bolshoi Theatre were no longer exclusive in Soviet society. Kondrashin became a non-person—as in Ivanov’s case—retired from public life. The quintessence of the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra’s problems was that, in artistic terms, Kondrashin had progressed further as a conductor than had the orchestra; there was no longer an ensemble of virtuosos as in the 1960s; slowly, standards had declined. Fresh, young aspirants to Kondrashin’s position were circling to take his job as soon as the authorities deemed appropriate. If state and Party regarded the USSR State Symphony as the preeminent ensemble in the capital, then they were satisfied that the Philharmonic remain a second-ranking orchestra. The long-term administrator, Mitrofan Belotserkovsky, was pensioned off; the ministry of culture were tired of persistent requests for financial assistance and for better conditions.

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They preferred a place-man who would serve their own purposes and not those of the Philharmonic. Kondrashin was not invited to the celebrations of the Philharmonic’s anniversary season in 1976; he had to buy his own tickets for the gala event, and in the program, he discovered his name mentioned only as the conductor between 1960 and 1975. The plaudits were for the new incumbent, Dmitry Kitaenko, who had never been in charge of a large symphony orchestra before. Not dissimilar to some of his colleagues, Kirill Kondrashin became an internal émigré; his name was not mentioned anywhere, the circle of engagements limited to Leningrad, Tbilisi, and Gorky. These were based on long-standing loyalty proffered by Mravinsky, Israel Guzman, and Jansug Kakhidze—three of the most independent and venerated musicians in the land. It proved impossible to make any progress with work with the Moscow orchestras; at the State Orchestra, the Party loyalist, Yevgeny Svetlanov, begrudged any rival conductors working with his virtuosos. At Moscow Radio, following the removal of Rozhdestvensky at the Large Symphony Orchestra, Kondrashin was a popular candidate to assume the vacant position; however, the chairman of the State Radio Committee, Lapin, dismissed any attempts to appoint Kondrashin as the new chief conductor, regardless of a recent, fine recording of Brahms’ Third Symphony. The new artistic director, formerly of the Radio and TV Folk Instruments Orchestra, Vladimir Fedoseyev, was reluctant to allow access to the veteran maestro. At his former beloved Philharmonic, Kitaenko would not tolerate contact, anxious of unfavorable comparisons. For Kondrashin, the doors now appeared to be closed. This was a particularly difficult period for leading Soviet musicians; Mstislav Rostropovich and his wife Galina Vishnevskaya left the USSR on a two-year sabbatical (sanctioned earlier by Furtseva who hoped that reconciliation would develop), and the conductor Gennady Rozhdestvensky left the Radio and TV Symphony Orchestra. These were all major figures, recognized internationally for their musicianship, and could not be dismissed without the Soviet Union losing credibility as a country that claimed to promote great music and art. There were people who attempted to restore the status quo to Soviet culture.27 Kondrashin had attained the appropriate reverence deserved of such a distinguished musician; the regime attempted to save face by making opportunities available. A letter of November 23, 1976, from the ministry of culture to the Central Committee noted: “The widening of teaching [the art of] conducting of high standard at higher institutions is being hindered by the mistaken system of honouring academic degrees. This is being carried out formally and with great delays. Therefore the awarding of a Professorship to the People’s Artist G. Rozhdestvensky has been under review for two years and only confirmed in October this year. More than three years has been

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spent on resolving the Professorship of USSR People’s Artist K. Kondrashin who apart from huge conducting experience has scientific works on the art of conducting.” The document went on to state that great attention was devoted to guest conducting within the country. This was regarded as “educational” activity. Hence, the number of these concert tours against foreign touring was regarded as disproportionate. Therefore, only after an extensive tour in the USSR, could one meet the criteria for a prestigious foreign contract. Discussions have been held with several leading artists, including the USSR People’s Artists E. Mravinsky, E. Svetlanov, K. Kondrashin and G. Rozhdestvensky. Further it was noted that serious concern was given to “a position for permanent conducting work by Comrade Kondrashin” and his dictum of a creative burden as if questioning his trustworthiness for leaving for the West. “Comrade Kondrashin is actively involved in teaching at the Moscow Conservatoire. Apart from lessons with student conductors, he is preparing in this academic year an extensive programme of concerts with the students’ orchestra. Comrade Kondrashin is seriously interested in increasing concerts within the country. The schedule of engagements abroad has been set out for 1977, during which he will carry out seminars with young conductors and other students. For reinforcement of the permanent work of Comrade Kondrashin’s conducting, he is to be approved as a conductor of the Moscow Philharmonic for a guaranteed period. It has also been agreed with Comrade Kondrashin on a new production at the USSR Bolshoi Theatre, the nature of which and dates of which will be settled at a later time.”28

Through this arrangement Kondrashin did return to conduct the Philharmonic; however, other opportunities were never realized, left to gather dust in the Party archive. Kondrashin suffered the fate of an artist unwanted in his own homeland, “I go to conduct in the West and it is like a festival or holiday, the press and media seek interviews and write articles about me and yet when I am here not a single review appears with my name. In the West . . . reviews appear the day after the concert!”29 One of the last concerts as a Soviet citizen for Kondrashin was with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra at the South Bank; considerable praise came from The Times correspondent William Mann who reviewed what was unusual repertoire for Eastern European musicians. Gidon Kremer playing the Elgar violin concerto, the writer initially commented on the surprises produced: “with some spurt of virtuosity, where expressive lingering was expected, or with an unusual tempo (the middle movement was set quite fast, but it is marked Andante, crotchet 52, and Kondrashin was not far out). Generally it was a grand, strongly felt and idiomatic account of a great and lovable violin concerto.”30

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In the previous season, the Russian maestro had directed the same orchestra in Shostakovich’s Sixth Symphony in B Major. “Indeed, the extended opening Largo, like some vast, desolate Russian landscape, is as striking as any the composer ever wrote. Mr Kondrashin, seeking intensity, kept it on the move, yet in so doing reduced its musical stature. As for the central Allegro and concluding Presto, he rushed both off their feet.”31 This was the first in a series of engagements at the same venue and featuring Prokofiev’s Third Symphony, which posed a dilemma. Joan Chissel complained music lovers found the piece difficult to swallow and even more problematical for the musicians to perform: “So all praise to Kirill Kondrashin and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra for taking up the challenge last night . . . and for putting it across so stirringly. There was no attempt to play down the dissonance. Yet Mr Kondrashin was outstandingly clever in avoiding thickness of sound. Careful balances ensured that nothing thematic was ever lost.” Chissel complimented Kondrashin’s handling of the symphony’s “often underestimated lyricism, and not only in obvious places like the convent-inspired slow movement and the rocking trio section of the spooky Scherzo.” In the following evening, a week later, Kondrashin, differently from the Prokofiev, “in his Shostakovich (no. 6) on Sunday, he drove nothing too hard—his timing was the exact 33 minutes specified in the score. [For the Prokofiev Third] In fact characterisation was vivid enough to make it impossible to forget for a minute the sinister opera from which it was quarried, despite the composer’s pretence that it was an abstract symphony.”32 The British musician Jon Tolansky worked under Kondrashin’s direction in 1973 when he was hired by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (RPO) and found the first instance both exciting and apprehensive: “I had heard the outstanding discipline, precision and rhythmic strength of many of his recorded performances and although I had never played for him, I was aware of his formidable reputation as a meticulous and demanding rehearser.” Several Russian maestros had established a fear amongst English orchestral players through past visits. Already at the beginning, “there was an immediate atmosphere of tension. I remember so well how he began that first rehearsal, taking the Second Symphony of Rachmaninov. From the start he had the bearing of a commander whose severe but alert eyes seemed to be fixed on everyone all the time. At once, he conveyed an intensely hushed impression in the opening bars.” Tolansky was struck by the fact that the Russian did not use a baton, “His movements were small but very rhythmic, expressive and detailed. Like most of the finest conductors he was by no means a metronomic time beater and he indicated phrases, shapes and nuances rather than predictable time signatures. Some found his movements difficult to follow at first; but soon most of them understood exactly what he wanted.”33 Kondrashin explained details

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in style in good English and was able to achieve a first-rate rapport with the RPO. In Shostakovich’s First Violin Concerto, Kondrashin asked his players for the absolute remoteness of sound and utmost precision in ensemble to convey the first movement’s desolate brooding atmosphere. In the second movement, he took the pace at a very fast tempo, asking for accompanying chords and motives to be played as shortly as possible, like sharp, painful stabs of a needle. Whereas, in the romantic Rachmaninov Second Symphony, Kondrashin sought to achieve a mixture of clarity, color, and passionate warmth. He explained the need to understand the macabre overtones in the fugue that explodes in the middle of the second movement—taking much trouble to obtain very pointed playing with strong contrasts, bouncing accents yet subtle nuances. Tolansky discovered that at the concert, Kondrashin produced panache, excitement, and discipline and gave the orchestra more freedom and spontaneity than in rehearsal. Kondrashin was found to be “a controlling taskmaster of a now bygone age of authoritarian conductors; and I found him forbidding, though mostly he was courteous.”34 Following several decades of work as a professional conductor, Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin was considered a suitable candidate to be awarded the honorable title “People’s Artist of the USSR.” The initial impetus for this measure went back to February 1969; Viktor Grishin, secretary of the Moscow City CPSU signed a resolution: “We support the actions of the Ministry of Culture and the Sverdlovsk CPSU district to award the distinguished honour of USSR People’s Artist to comrade Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin—a People’s Artist of the RSFSR, artistic director and chief conductor of the Moscow State Philharmonic for great merit in development of Soviet musical art and outstanding professional mastery.” We learn that later, in October, the department of culture of the CPSU Central Committee approved this motion, to which the proposal arrived at the desk of the minister of culture, Ekaterina Furtseva. Madame Furtseva approved the document and dispatched it for authorization to the CPSU Central Committee. It was at this stage that problems emerged. The response from the highest authority in the land stated flatly: “The department for culture of the CC of the CPSU considers the general question of awarding comrade K. P. Kondrashin with the honourous title of USSR People’s Artist be considered at a later date. The Moscow City Committee is in accord. Head of the cultural department CC of the CPSU V. Shauro.” The date of the signature is June 12, 1970. It took some two years for this matter to be dealt with; however, it would be another two years before the conductor would be awarded this distinguished honor. This had its own influence on Kondrashin making up his mind.35 This chain of events seemed to be based on something with Kondrashin’s artistic qualities as conductor; in considering the manner in which writers,

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artists, musicians, and others had been treated, it would appear that the powers that be were disturbed in some form or fashion. Most certainly, the ongoing dispute regarding salaries and status for the Philharmonic had become a long-standing thorn in the government’s side. However, it was a deeper issue that caused the reason for Kondrashin’s fall from grace; the events in 1968 in Czechoslovakia had greatly upset him, and he made no secret of the fact among friends and colleagues. Considering that his views were nothing uncommon in the Moscow arts world at the time, this could not have posed as much of a nuisance to the authorities; nevertheless, his publicly expressed opinions on how the music world should be rearranged according to his pattern caused no little consternation at the cultural department of the CPSU. There was also additional information on his views, which were almost certainly transmitted to the security services by friends and relatives close to the conductor. As we know from the files kept on public figures during the early years of Soviet power (which have now become public knowledge), it would be unusual if such documents were not kept on Kondrashin by the KGB and that some of this information would be based on those closest to him. Nina Leonidovna Kondrashina was a constant companion on his touring outside the USSR, and one can surmise that she will have been asked to make verbal reports about her travels. If not, then it would be highly unlikely that the security services would regularly authorize her exit visas to travel with her husband, particularly in that she had no professional background or knowledge of languages. It was a rarity for couples to leave the Soviet Union on such a regular basis (for up to ninety days a year); considering that she was no practical help to her husband, one can only recognize that her constant chaperoning served other purposes from assisting his work on tour. Even for loyal Party members, such as Emil Gilels and Leonid Kogan, spouses were not normally permitted travel with their husbands on tour. From other reports of the period, it was common those artists would be accompanied on tour abroad and that intelligence be made to the security services on return home. Often, these would be made by Party members in the orchestra or extended touring group.36 With Mravinsky’s Leningrad Philharmonic, several “tourists” would travel with the ensemble, do little or nothing but pay visits to shops, and report on anything untoward such as overeager contacts between musicians and the local populace. In the Kondrashin household, the sons had avoided military service, and Nina Leonidovna had her own business affairs. Her own behavior caused many to criticize her moralistic values, “In the 1970s, Nina Leonidovna treated her husband with total lack of respect, she behaved shockingly, she maligned him in public, it

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was disgraceful to watch her behaviour, yet I am not aware if Kirill Petrovich knew about it, everyone tried to hide it from him.”37 Until the files become public, we will not be able to verify that Nina Leonidovna Kondrashina betrayed her husband to the security services; however, her treatment of her husband in the last months and her letters to her husband following his breach with his homeland allow us to take a view that she did not always act in her husband’s best interests but more to suit her own personal values. We know that she did try to convince the authorities to send her back to try and ensnare her husband back to the Soviet Union. “Her best friend in the Netherlands was a KGB operative, Galina Stein.”38 Her son Sergey, months later in a family quarrel, denounced Nina for making Kondrashin leave his family. Nonetheless, there emerged other motives to restrain his career outside the Soviet Union. In 1976, Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin was diagnosed with nervous spasms as a result of stress. Kondrashin also suffered from a heart condition—neurosis in the aorta—and prior to each tour, Kremlin doctors examined Kondrashin, and permission to travel abroad had to be certified by the Academy of Sciences. Nevertheless, there was another cause for adjustments in the life of Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin, for there came into his life a young woman who would dramatically transform his future. In September 1975, Kondrashin took the Moscow Philharmonic on tour to the Netherlands together with his assistant Vasily Sinaisky. Part of the tour involved several radio concerts, which were arranged by the Dutch broadcasting service in Hilversum. All three concerts were broadcast from Rotterdam and from the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. One of the series was a long-standing subscriptions series run by the distinguished broadcaster/impresario Hans Kerkhoff. This affable Dutchman had arranged these cycles of orchestral music for some thirty years and, owing to his enterprise, was able to attract such conductors as Toscanini to Holland to work as well as discover fresh new talent in the young Riccardo Muti. The concert, on Sunday, September 14, included Mahler’s First Symphony, which was undertaken by Kondrashin. On Friday, Kerkhoff introduced Kondrashin to his new young assistant, Nolda Broekstra. Before the Saturday concert, Kondrashin was served tea and refreshments by Kerkhoff’s protégé, “When I took it into them I noticed how he was looking at me and noticed that he liked me.” Following the Mahler performance, Nolda Broekstra went to congratulate Kondrashin on his performance and bumped into a colleague, Leo Samama, who wanted an autograph from the Russian. Instead of only giving his signature to Samama, Kondrashin made a great show of returning the pen given by Broekstra “to the young lady.” The following day, everyone remarked how much Kondrashin liked Nolda Broekstra, “I said no, but other people said this as well.” Two months later, Kondrashin returned

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to Amsterdam for a fortnight of engagements with the Concertgebouw. The program centered on Brahms’ Second and Prokofiev’s Third Symphonies. Once again, Broekstra would be working as an assistant, recording the radio concert. “During the concert, he would come and take his coffee where we were sitting, he looked at me all the time, I was shocked by our eye’s meeting, it was a coup de foudre. After the concert, he said ‘I am always in good spirits when I look at you’ and put his arm round me in the company of the concertmaster Hermann Krebbers and I felt as if I was his wife . . . I was upset and went home thinking that I was in love with this man.” The Soviet conductor was scheduled to tour Holland again and reappeared in February 1976. On this occasion, Kondrashin asked Kerkhoff about his “charming assistant.” Kerkhoff replied that she was at the studio and that she would be at the Wednesday concert in Amsterdam. “I met Kirill in the corridor by chance and Kirill asked me for my home phone number which I gave him at the interval. He phoned me the next day asking to meet.” They met the next day at a small eatery in a quiet square between the Hotel Americaine and the old Opera House. “It was dangerous in this liaison and we didn’t tell anyone. He was the love of my life. It was impossible in this relationship. After 4 or 5 days I got a letter from him in Denmark.” Further correspondence was assisted by Broekstra’s boss, Kerkhoff, who advised that letters could be sent to her office in Utrecht while letters could be dispatched to contacts in New York when Kondrashin was in the United States. Not only were the two lovers concealing their relationship from Kondrashin’s wife and the KGB, but the young Dutchwoman was married to a musicologist in Hilversum. Nolda Broekstra was born into a musical family in 1944; her father was a professional pianist and teacher, and her mother worked as a speech therapist. From an early age, she loved to sing, having a beautiful soprano and hoped to fulfill her dream as a singer. At the age of 12 years, she entered the local gymnasium and later took private singing lessons. Following which, she continued her love for music and musicology at Hilversum University, studying with the distinguished soprano Jo Vincent, ultimately discovering that “her voice was not good enough for a professional career.” Following this disappointment, Nolda concentrated on musicology; for her dissertation, she went to Vienna to study Bruckner manuscripts and, at last, completed her studies. At the university, she married a fellow musicology scholar and began working at Hilversum Radio as a program editor in August 1975. The romance between Nolda Broekstra and the Russian conductor swept the Dutchwoman off her feet. “We tried to be always together, for me, I couldn’t live anymore without him. He was thirty years older and a grandfather, I couldn’t speak his language and he couldn’t speak English very well. When Kirill was in America he wrote me how happy he was and that he

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hoped to meet in Stockholm in May when he would be alone.” For her, it was a problem to find the financing and time to go there, albeit a short journey by air. Help arrived from her father, and a tale of subterfuge disguised the cause of her short sojourn from both husband and colleagues. “As soon as my husband went away, within half an hour I went off to Schipol, then we were together for three days.” The concerts there included Tchaikovsky’s Third Orchestral Suite. “The Elegy became our music afterwards; he said that the Elegy is you. At that time we had such a nice time and we were so happy. I knew that this was my husband. He said, ‘If I was younger, I would leave my country for you. I am too old; we don’t speak the same language . . . It is impossible to be with you, but I love you, I love you as I never loved anyone in my life.’ That is what he said. And then he went away.” When Nolda Broekstra arrived home on Friday, her husband was already waiting for her. Following an argument, Nolda admitted her relationship with Kondrashin. However, the couple agreed to maintain their marriage, and he would allow his wife to meet with the Russian with the proviso that she always return home. “I got a phone call from Kirill the next day and a few days later a letter from Stockholm. He wrote, ‘I have to return to my country which I hate.’ He had crossed it out but I could still read it. He wrote that he loved me and that this gave him the reason to be alive.” Now Nolda Broekstra took upon herself the task of learning Russian; to her aid came several Russian exiled musicians in the form of Rostislav Dubinsky, Lyuba Edlina, and Mark and Natasha Lubotsky. “After 4 or 5 weeks I could already speak Russian . . . they were astonished at my progress. My pronunciation was very good . . . They were a little afraid and joked that I was a spy.” However, in the autumn, there came disappointment in that Kondrashin sent her a cold letter, “We had an agreement, if something was urgent, we would talk about interviews with him on the radio. Well, he wrote me a letter that he couldn’t continue the interviews with me because he didn’t have the time and his health wasn’t good enough . . . That was it. I was so shocked.” Nonetheless, the valiant Dutchwoman continued to learn Russian and then wrote in Kondrashin’s mother tongue to Moscow insisting that the “interviews should continue and that I was very ill.” Kondrashin believed that because he received a letter written in Russian, she had told someone about their friendship and now suspected her motives. His response was to “stop the interviews and he didn’t want to see me anymore. He thought I had told somebody and I was completely smashed.” Nevertheless, another series of engagements unfolded again at the regular guest concerts at the Concertgebouw in November 1976. Nolda Broekstra took her place in the loge above the stage, looking down upon the hall behind the orchestra. Here she could see the response of Kondrashin when he took

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the rostrum. “Kirill started to rehearse, he didn’t see me, then after some time he looked up and saw me. I could tell that he loves me. Afterward, Kondrashin met with her in the loge, and she greeted him in Russian. “Do you understand I can speak Russian.” Kirill said “Hullo” in English. “Really, do you really understand, why did you do this?” in Russian. “I did it because I love you.” Kondrashin was taken aback, “Listen I wanted to finish everything with you but because you have learned Russian, I am old, you are young, but now I cannot finish it, I can’t not see you anymore.” Nolda Broekstra explained that it is better to see each other sometimes but not to end the relationship. Further meetings would take place not only in Holland every six months but also on other occasions when the Russian was on tour alone in Germany or Switzerland. In 1978, there would be a jubilee for the radio broadcast concert series from Hilversum, and Kerkhoff suggested Kondrashin as the possible host for a series of conducting master classes during the summer. Nolda Broekstra was asked to contact Kondrashin when he was touring in France; the Russian naturally was happy to agree on the condition that she is his personal interpreter. However, the Dutchwoman had to learn English, which would be the main working language for the master classes. Broekstra set a task for herself by translating Kondrashin’s book on the Tchaikovsky symphonies into English. In the spring of 1978, both Nolda and Kirill Kondrashin met up in Switzerland for a fortnight, “We rented a car and went to the mountains, it was so harmonious, we knew this is our life. I asked Kirill ‘Why do you accept what Goskonzert does?’ Kirill said later that this question stayed with him inside, all the time.” The agreement between Goskonzert and the Concertgebouw meant that ninety percent of the fees from his engagements would be taken in cash and by hand, after each series of concerts by Kondrashin, to the Soviet Embassy in The Hague. That is only 600 guilders would be earned by Kondrashin for each concert given there. The entire affair was humiliating for the already distinguished Soviet musician. During the series of master classes in August 1978, Broekstra hired a villa for a two-week spell together before Nina Kondrashina arrived from Moscow. “He would always leave the hotel early and go separately to the studio. Then I would pick him up and on this particular day he asked me to pick him up at this point in front of the hotel at the traffic lights and he said Nina is looking at us. She was watching us from the window. Subconsciously he wanted her to see us and find out . . . Subsequently, Nina was at the studio waiting for Kirill and questioned him, Kirill said that we loved each other and this had been [going on] for two and half years, he was as blunt as that.” Later, in a bitter quarrel at the hotel, Nina Leonidovna demanded that the affair come to an end; however, Kondrashin subsequently told Broekstra the

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affair was over that he can only conduct when he was with her, but that if he had to make a choice between Nolda and the children, he would have to choose the children. Following this dramatic turnaround, Nolda Broekstra could not work anymore and stayed at home for several days, leaving the master classes in a limbo. She waited for Kondrashin’s call, but it didn’t come, so ultimately, she made the call. “He said that he was a prisoner, that Nina is watching over him all the time. I phoned Anton de Beer the head of the Netherlands Broadcasting Service and explained my situation. He told me to be like a rock. ‘If you love him, you must fight and show what you are to him.’” Broekstra went into the radio studios and found de Beer and Kerkhoff waiting for her anxiously. “We went in. Kirill was there sitting like an old man over the desk, Nina was sitting in the gallery and my boss said to Nina, ‘How are you, nice to see you,’ de Beer said to Kirill, ‘here is your interpreter.’ He saw me and blossomed, uttering, ‘Thank god you are here.’” During the sessions, de Beer told Broekstra not to look at Nina’s eyes because she would try to put her off. For the next week, the cycle of master classes, lectures, and orchestral sessions unfolded, and at the final concert, a reception was hosted by Anton de Beer. There gathered in the artists’ room together, in a group, were Kondrashin, Nolda Broekstra, Kerkhoff, and de Beer. Nina Kondrashina could not gain access to the circle and grew jealous and angry at her treatment. She noticed that the discussion was coming to an end and brusquely pulled her husband away and told him that it was time to go home. There was no farewell, and after two days, they returned to Moscow. Broekstra soon received a letter from Nina Kondrashina, which was both insulting and abusive. “I showed the letter to de Beer and he said ‘Congratulations’ because when a woman writes like this, she has already lost. I was completely out of it.”39 In November 1978, Kirill Kondrashin returned for a scheduled series of engagements with the Concertgebouw Orchestra; on this occasion, Nina Leonidovna accompanied her husband. Nolda Broekstra did not attend the first rehearsals but handed her boss Hans Kerkhoff a copy of the letter that she had received from Mrs. Kondrashina, and Kerkhoff approached Kondrashin, proffering his wife’s letter to Nolda; however, he refused to take it, “I have to tell you it’s all over, I don’t want to read the letter.” During the fortnight of rehearsals and concerts, Nina Leonidovna monitored every movement made by her husband, and noticing that Nolda Broekstra was absent, she became more relaxed. The final concert was on December 2 at the Hague, and their departure was scheduled for the following Monday. “On Friday November 24, Hans asked me if Kirill had phoned me last night. ‘Why in the middle of the night Kirill phoned asking about you. He

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phoned asking how you are, he said to tell Nolda that he didn’t mean it. He said ‘I really love her. I have no connection with the letter that Nina had written to her.’” The Russian conductor asked when he might see her again; however, Kerkhoff told him that he wouldn’t see her anymore. “I wrote a letter of farewell and sent it to his friend George who knew about our relationship. I asked George to give this to Kirill at the Thursday evening concert. Then I got a call from George who was at the railway station and said that Kirill was standing next to him and had promised Nina not to contact Broekstra. The following day, Sunday November 2, at 8:30 a.m., there was a phone call; my husband didn’t want me to take the call. I took the phone, ‘Hello, it’s me, how are you?’ ‘I’m bad.’ ‘I’m also bad, and can you come?’” They agreed to meet at their traditional rendezvous outside the Van Gogh Museum near the Concertgebouw. “I thought it was to say goodbye, I picked him up and we went to the motel where we always met. ‘You know we cannot meet anymore.’” Kondrashin understood at last that the Dutchwoman was now prepared to sacrifice her love for him by giving him up. It was now that he finally understood how deep her feelings were for him and that he had to make a decision whether to end the relationship or not. ‘I have to write a letter to Nina, I have to break with her after 24 years, she always depressed me, and we never had a common language. I don’t want to end up like Oistrakh. He told me that the whole of his life had been for nothing. Take me to the police station, tell me only one thing. Will you stay with me until I die, I will be a difficult person, when I am ill, will you be with me?’” Before taking Kondrashin to the police, Nolda Broekstra phoned Piet Heuwekemeijer, the chief executive of Nederlands Radio. “I said to him that I have someone next to me who you know very well and who has decided not to go back to his country. ‘Who is that, not Kondrashin?’ He told me to bring him in the car to his home; there Kirill said that he wanted to stay in the West, ‘Moscow was not home for me anymore. My wife is in the hotel and I have a letter for her. Please call the police station and give her the letter.’” Heuwekemeijer took the Russian to the police station in central Amsterdam where they registered his appeal for asylum in the Netherlands. Nolda went home and packed her things ready for a new beginning. That night Kondrashin spent locked inside a cell, writing letters to his sons and one for his wife, explaining his decision. It was the most traumatic night of his long life. Nina Kondrashina, upon getting the letter at the Okura Hotel, contacted Galina Stein, a KGB operative in Amsterdam, and they traveled across the city to see her husband in an attempt to persuade him to join her on the Moscow-bound flight. However, Kondrashin refused to see his wife, adamant that there was no longer any point in meeting with

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her. Nina attempted to draw upon the support of the Concertgebouw Orchestra by contacting Dolf van Dantzig and Hein van Royen. At the station, they met with the conductor and tried to talk him into returning to his homeland. The security official who attended the meeting “felt ashamed for his country” when he heard this pathetic entreaty by the orchestra officials. Kondrashin, nevertheless, was determined that his mind was made up. The following day, Kondrashin was removed to the house of a Hungarian woman who had helped accommodate other refugees from the Soviet Union. This was a temporary “safe house” until a more secure domicile was obtained for the exiled conductor. “My father drove me to the address. They wouldn’t follow the car as they only knew my car’s number. Kirill said ‘when I saw you I had been so miserable and then when I saw you, it was like the sun coming out.’ From that moment we were never apart. I was his support. Two days later we were transferred to another address in Leidenhorp, and then after some weeks we moved to another safe haven in Rotterdam. Nobody knew we were there, however Kirill had to wear sunglasses and a hat to disguise his identity.’”40 There was no right time for Kondrashin to make his choice that would not incur repercussions for his children. His argument was on the freedom of art in a socialist country, and with the political system itself. Shalyapin and Koussevitsky had given their best years in an environment of freedom after leaving the Soviet Union; now, he believed that he could give his mature gifts and art in an uncontrolled environment. Few could argue with the remorseful tone, perhaps only sympathy for Kondrashin, mixed with surprise, all my life I attempted to serve my country and never sought it harm. The declaration underlined the intensity of dissatisfaction among the artistic community in the world’s leading socialist system.41 The bright, cheerful, elegant, striking man in a bowtie had been a nervous, tired, bitter, and frustrated soul. It was natural that his fears about musicians’ salaries and conditions and orchestral touring had met with so many impediments. The orchestra, which had been a joy, was now a burden to Kondrashin. Pokrovsky told him “You are—if truth be told—really unwell.” Kondrashin retorted, “Do you really think they are concerned about me? They are more worried about the cost of my hospital treatment in the West.” Boris Pokrovsky considered, just as he left the Bolshoi Theatre twenty years before, Kondrashin had no better option than to depart the USSR. He had the absolute right to do this, but lacked the freedom for expressing his creative energies . . . and as he supposed his artistic aspirations were leading him. There are great artists who are wholly satisfied that . . . no one troubles them whilst danger is far off. Kondrashin’s talent was correlated with a dynamic impulse to help his fellow man. His creativity, the art itself demanded shared

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association, and this is where we differed . . . We were both firm in our beliefs, not always getting it right, but were always friends. His musical gifts were all embracing. He really knew how to bring a work to creation. Here is where opera helped, and he loved opera because of its musical-dramaturgical structure. He approached music critically without any eccentric jargon. It seemed to me that he was encouraged by the ambience in Shostakovich’s Fourth, that it had been anti-establishment for so long and that its appearance was fraught by authority . . . Seeing a young talented conductor, he did his utmost so he could work and be heard. His own conducting was clear, precise, expressive in gesture, and open; unconsciously his methodology was taken up by many of his younger colleagues. Kondrashin did not try to discover anything novel either in technique, self-indulgence on the rostrum or to show off definitive, original readings. He was no scholarly artist, never interested in new music for the sake of it, never losing interest in the standard repertoire. Life was a living process for him and visa versa. For someone like Kondrashin, leaving one’s country was to shorten one’s path, not having reached the closing point in time . . . There is a thread linking an artist with his spiritual creativity, the source of his birth and art. Is it possible to break this thread? No. In 1917 Shalyapin was thrown out of the Mariinsky for getting his colleagues to work too much! There will come a time when we regret our losses, but we don’t want to remember that we ourselves are to blame for this. We don’t like to learn from our errors. Kondrashin’s destiny is one of several. It is our fate.42

The unexpected request to settle in Holland came as a surprise to the management of the Concertgebouw Orchestra; their association through Goskonzert guaranteed a monopoly of artists from the Soviet Union in the Benelux countries, and they feared that this long-term contract would founder, and future engagements be stopped. The officials could not know, however, that the Soviet ministry of culture very much needed income from their performers touring in the West. The Concertgebouw contributed significantly to Goskonzert revenues; conversely, it was the Moscow agency that felt that they could now lose greatly, more than anything, forfeited by the Dutch orchestra.43 The Concertgebouw promoted a valuable series of chamber recitals all apart from prestigious orchestral concerts and cherished as among the finest concert promoters in Western Europe. Soviet musicians would expect additional dates elsewhere in the extensive Benelux region, following engagements in Amsterdam. Contrary to other impresarios, there was no history of boycotts on Soviet artists during previous political controversy. Such celebrated musical figures as David Oistrakh, Svyatoslav Richter, and the Borodin Quartet had been regular visitors to the distinguished venue, offering enlightenment for benevolent audiences.44 In the Soviet Union, the reaction was unambiguous; the conductor fell into greater neglect, his recordings removed from the shelves (although few

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remained) and shared an almost celebrated status, with Nureyev, Ashkenazy, Rostropovich, and Vishnevskaya, of being a non-person. Among colleagues and friends, there were conflicting perspectives; some believed it a mistake, that he could still revive his career in the country; in addition, he had put his children in extremely hazardous positions. On the other hand, many supported his option as the only correct one, that he had to emigrate to fulfill his potential, and only in the West was this possible. “Kondrashin, undoubtedly, was right, his action was heroic and he was a martyr, a fighter for human rights.”45 The television journalist Andrey Zolotov was unequivocal, “I believe that his decision was a great error, despite all the disadvantages in losing his orchestra and concerts, there were people here who wanted to help and soon he would have got new positions. To this day, I still believe this was a grave fault of judgement.”46 Pokrovsky remembered: “We were real friends. He considered me as a producer without whom he didn’t want to conduct and I always wanted him to perform my stagings. There was never a rehearsal which he missed. They told me that over in Holland, when Kirill Petrovich lived there, he reminisced about our rehearsals together. He always told people that Pokrovsky said this or said that. He loved it when I did something new, he remembered this and he had a modern outlook on life.”47 In exile, Kondrashin vowed not to say anything detrimental so as to protect his children; neither would he become part of anti-Soviet campaigns.48 A phone call was made to the long-standing impresario, Victor Hochhauser, in London, “Kirill phoned me first to tell me about his defection.”49 Hochhauser was no concert agent, however, and swiftly advice was given. Jasper Parrott and Terry Harrison flew from London and spent several days switching his engagements scheduled through Goskonzert with orchestras and promoters worldwide. At Leidendorp, Kondrashin began preparing for his concert with the Concertgebouw scheduled for March as part of the former contract with Goskonzert. The other engagements arranged between December and the winter months were all canceled by the conductor’s new agents. Harrison and Parrott were one of the leading London agencies who also looked after several former Soviet musicians, including Vladimir Ashkenazy and Rostislav Dubinsky. “It was a good combination and Terry loved Kirill like a father. Kirill trusted Terry, they made a plan. Kirill was very unsure if he could make his money in the West, as a good conductor.”50 The Concertgebouw Orchestra resolved to make the émigré Russian a permanent conductor with a regular agreed number of concerts annually. Through ten years of mutual collaboration with Kondrashin, the orchestra had discovered how good the Russian really was, “His starting point was an extreme pianissimo. The word ‘softer’ was continuously on his lips. Sometimes we hardly made any sound at all and yet he would say

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‘softer; it is still too loud.’ And he got what he wanted.”51 The very manner of how Kondrashin built an orchestra and developed its sound quality and expression were highlighted by the long-standing chief conductor of the Concertgebouw, Bernard Haitink, “When I have been away for a few weeks I know whether a good or a bad conductor has stood before the orchestra. I remember one time I came back and started to work on Ravel’s Daphnis et Cloe. The orchestra was meticulous, unbelievably transparent, it was almost too beautiful and too timid. And why? Kondrashin had been working with them for four weeks. He was a precise man, discriminating and sensitive, who preferred a very muted sound.”52 The arrangement between Harrison and Kondrashin was that ninety percent would remain in the conductor’s favor, and in the meantime, he would have an advance on his future fees to meet living costs until things settled down. The maestro had a bank account in Amsterdam, which he would never touch, determined to preserve this for his children in Moscow. Instead of working with second-class orchestras, Harrison would now work with higher-rated ensembles and thus attain better fees than before. “In one concert he got 12,000 francs, an enormous amount of money for him.”53 Harrison was determined that the first engagement should be with “his” orchestra, the Concertgebouw, it was important because it should be with the best orchestra. The first program featured Beethoven’s Eroica and the Second Symphony in E Major by Sibelius. That this was the first public appearance for the émigré Russian meant much media interest, and it was decided that Nolda Broekstra should not be present. Harrison bore the brunt of the Dutch press who were desperate to get coverage of the conductor and his girlfriend. A week before the performance, the two moved into a new rented flat near the Vondel Park in the center of Amsterdam. “I see Kirill in this house . . . sitting at the piano playing the score [of the Sibelius Second Symphony] . . . this was full of suffering, darkness and coincided with his feelings at this time.”54 Following his first engagements as a free man, Kondrashin wrote to his eldest son: My dear Petya! Thank you very much for your greetings which reached me. This was during the most difficult period of my existence after everything which has happened and this helped me a great deal, the more so because it was the first warm words coming from one of my relatives. Now my life has entered a pattern. I have started giving concerts after a 3 month break. Now I am on tour in the FRG. The most difficult thing has been, apart from moral depression which is so terrible to describe, avoiding contacts with the press, and making any political statements. This has been managed—the concert reviews were all professional (and very positive) and without any hints at the reasons for my decision.55

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The sons from the union with Nina, Andrey and Sergey, had both finished their studies, one at college, the other Moscow University; of course, they lost the opportunity to travel abroad, but little untoward happened apart from the speculation of life for their father in the West. However, there would be unpleasant meetings in which they would be asked to denounce their father, an action which they refused. The eldest son, from Kirill’s second marriage with the ballerina Larissa Sadovskaya, Pyotr, worked as a producer at the state record studios, Melodiya, and witnessed his own father’s recordings demagnetized; however, he was able to save many of them thanks to cooperation by his colleagues, and to others turning a blind eye. Kondrashin wrote to his sons, as he did to Nina, about life and work. Many of his letters were of traveling details, as always detailed with schedules and concert programs around the world. In a word, it was like a festival for him, a permanent guest conductor.56 There was a marked contrast in the correspondence between Kondrashin and his wife; the letters from Kondrashin to his former spouse were now friendly and polite; however, there was coldness in those from Nina to her husband of twenty-four years. They were short and to the point; in the first, she points to how “the official organs looked upon his behaviour,” while in others she asks for money to be dispatched to her account, at one time asking for 50,000 dollars and for the release to her name of all his possessions in Moscow. Until she could be guaranteed financial security, she refused a divorce; however, she then gave consent; although, a long time would pass before any proceedings could begin, one of the obstacles being the disappearance of documents from the family home on Karetny Lane. The date set for divorce proceedings was March 10, 1981, in a Dutch courtroom, however, in time, the date would prove superfluous.57 Further conducting assignments continued in Düsseldorf, in Germany, and then in May, Kondrashin traveled to Israel for some four weeks of concerts. “The first person he met at the airport was Naum Fruman who had defected from Kirill’s orchestra in Argentina and who had caused a lot of trouble for Kirill when he returned to Moscow. ‘Kirill Petrovich, I never thought that you would come and follow me here!’ They embraced warmly and cried in each other’s arms. It was so nice and touched him. When we arrived at the orchestra everyone stood up and applauded him.”58 Some twenty-six musicians in the Israel Philharmonic spoke Russian, and it was almost like being back in Moscow and able to rehearse in Russian. There followed concerts in Lausanne and then to America in July where he met with an old friend, the pianist Dmitry Paperno.

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Kondrashin, with great authority, conducted [Tchaikovsky’s Fifth] Symphony magnificently—one of the most moving performances in my memory. The ovation was sincere and prolonged. My wife and I went to see him back stage, when it came to our turn we embraced and remained silent for a few moments . . . then he introduced us to his wife Nolda, a pleasant young Dutch woman who cared for him with both pride and admiration. I gave him my telephone number and asked to meet us the next evening. Kirill Petrovich phoned the next morning . . . I went to him at the Drake Hotel. Kondrashin was as always elegant . . . At home for a moment alone, I could well imagine what a huge step he had made . . . Kirill just waved his hand: “Ah, Mitya, don’t speak to me about it.” . . . Remembering Karetny Lane from the past, Kirill Petrovich regretted that he no longer had enough time for card games, [nor for] the old friends and the sharp-witted amusement . . . as chess was for Oistrakh, so card-playing was an essential element of Kondrashin’s life, a necessary mode of existence following fears and anxiety. Kondrashin didn’t feel any bitterness to former colleagues who had poisoned his last years at home. He spoke with sympathy about Gennady Rozhdestvensky and for his intelligent and firm manner in dealing with Soviet bureaucrats. This warm and nostalgic evening was to be our last meeting. In December we exchanged New Year’s greetings.59

Following the American tour, the couple went for a short holiday in Switzerland where they stayed at a rest home in the mountains, the past residence of Willem Mengelberg, former chief of the Concertgebouw Orchestra. This refreshing vacation in the Alps was followed by rehearsals with the Junge Deutsche Philharmonie in Berlin and a tour of towns in West Germany. In the autumn weeks, there was a re-acquaintance with Kristian Zimerman in concerts with The Residentie Orchestra and a tour to the Lausanne Festival with the Concertgebouw, in which Zimerman played the two Brahms Concertos. In December 1979, an old friend, the violinist and teacher, Rosa Fain, emigrated to the West with her husband. Kondrashin went especially to Vienna to welcome the newly exiled musician. Several days were spent in the city, showing his long-standing friend his favorite restaurants and places of interest. The relief of meeting an old friend was doubly so because Rosa Fain could tell Kondrashin how his family were living back in Moscow. For the first time, the conductor discovered how his wife behaved behind his back and what she said about him in the Soviet Union. This came as a revelation and also as some relief to the Russian because he had believed that his wife had been trustworthy and virtuous; however, this transpired as a lie.60 The depression and doubt that had afflicted Kondrashin ever since his defection now lifted and allowed some freedom to his inner being. Rosa Fain was helped to attain employment as a teacher of violin at the Essen Hochschule by Kondrashin through a colleague there; later she moved to teach at Düsseldorf where Hermann Krebbers, concertmaster of the Concertgebouw, was

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a professor. The closeness of Amsterdam and the German city meant that they could meet regularly, almost every fortnight; it was an unusually close friendship. In November 1979, Kondrashin and his partner began seeking a permanent home in Amsterdam; they settled on a quiet and cosy first floor flat on 155 Beethovenstraat, where they moved in January 1980. At last, the couple had their own home furnished by themselves and now with his new scores and former records brought, in stages, from the USSR. In the first weeks of 1980, there followed tour after tour, in January a series of engagements and recording with the NHK Symphony Orchestra of Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kizhe Suite and Brahms’ Second Symphony. Back in Europe, there beckoned recordings with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra of Dvorak’s Ninth, New World, Symphony and the Beethoven Violin Concerto with Kyung-wha Chung. The first concerts with this prestigious ensemble cast doubt in Kondrashin’s mind as to how he should approach the rehearsals with them. “Kirill was warned that the orchestra is very strict . . . they were very irritating. After two days Kirill made a decision, I will make them play my way and if they don’t go my way, then I shall never come here again. He went there to conduct the Jupiter symphony by Mozart. Do you understand? It was like going into the lions den! He kept stopping them and making remarks, after the second rehearsal, musicians came up to him and said, ‘Thank you so much, you make us play the Jupiter symphony a different way. It is very interesting.’” It was after this first concert that the Beethoven setting was made with Decca, and he developed a good artistic relationship with the producer, Christopher Raeburn. “It was a big success; he gained a lot of self-belief by making them play his way.”61 The disc became highly rated by the musical press and became a best seller, one of the most acclaimed settings; although, The Gramophone was initially reluctant to approve: “This is too careful by half,” was the verdict from Trevor Harvey.62 Later, critics appeared to put the blame on the Russian: “The conductor Kirill Kondrashin was largely responsible for any feeling of squareness.”63 A favorably received recording was that of Dvorak’s New World. “Kondrashin’s tendency to understate the music, at the very start of the first movement the tension is low with little sense of expectancy, and those who expect a marked slowing for the second subject will find Kondrashin’s view—though eminently justifiable—sounding perfunctory . . . a genial rather than a dramatic reading.”64 This setting on Decca with the glorious Vienna Philharmonic, nevertheless, became a best seller and recommended choice. At the beginning of 1980, Kondrashin was invited to become one of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra’s guest conductors; the initial engagement in this new relationship was to accompany Martha Argerich in Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto on February 7. The other works in the

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program were Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter Festival Overture and Cesar Franck’s D Major Symphony. Wolfgang Gieron, one of the members of the violin section, remembers: For us in the orchestra, he was a strange personality, we were not accustomed to someone from the East, and we were used to conductors like our former Rafael Kubelik. Kondrashin had a great heart, like Bernstein, we never had any conductors from Russia before. We had the impression that he had no humour, but he was a great worker, he always tried to convince the orchestra with certain things in Shostakovich and which we didn’t know before, he always tried to convince us with all his knowledge, we were not used to such a conductor. If a player didn’t play correctly, he would get him to repeat the phrase again and again until it was correct. This he did as many as ten times with one player. At the end of the Franck Symphony concert—it was fantastic. For the B minor Concerto we had only two rehearsals, it was really great, it was a pleasure to accompany Martha Argerich who was then one of the finest young musicians, so much so that we asked for another rehearsal. Kondrashin was really surprised at the orchestra’s request. He said, “I have played this concerto over one thousand times and I really hate it but if you want I will do it again.” This impressed us a great deal.65

Following positive responses from both the public, press, and the orchestral musicians, Kondrashin was offered five pairs of concerts in the next Munich season and another two through orchestral touring in Bavaria. In an interview with a local newspaper, the Russian maestro said that his symphonic repertoire was founded on Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Mahler, and Shostakovich.66 Kirill Kondrashin continued making recordings, largely for the PolyGram group of Decca and Philips. The first was of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade with the Concertgebouw first violin, Hermann Krebbers, taking the difficult solo role: “A Russian conductor noted for the vigour and Slavic intensity of his approach to music from his homeland. After the narrative violins opening dialogue Kondrashin is careful to pick up the narrative not too forcefully but he builds towards the movement’s climax with a splendid orchestral sweep. The adrenalin runs freely but the orchestral personality prevents any feeling of agreement and the sound is as richly spacious as it is brilliant . . . Without taking unusually fast tempi Kondrashin sweeps the listener away with a reading of irresistibly impulsive excitement reaching a climax at the moment of the shipwreck.”67 The musicologist Tully Potter recalls: Kondrashin had such a degree of control over the players, but not in a nasty sense: he got the players to play, something which must have been quite difficult as he didn’t always use a baton. When listening to his recordings, you

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can almost sense him conducting before you—the slow movement of Dvorak’s New World Symphony is one of those places where I see his hands shaping the phrases. He was an extraordinary accompanist to soloists, the best of his time. Ormandy was another great accompanist, but he was a smoother character whose interpretations were quite anodyne. Kondrashin was a great conductor in his own right. It is quite uncommon for an accompanist to have such a strong personality. It doesn’t make a difference who the soloist is; I can sense the same frisson of excitement with the two Oistrakhs in Mozart, Kogan in Brahms, Gilels in Prokofiev or Mogilevsky in Rachmaninov. He could show his personality and allow the soloist to show their personality equally.68

Kondrashin changed as an artist when he settled in the West; he became warmer, more passionate, and much bolder in his conducting. “The people who knew him before said that he had changed so much. Before he was always very closed and an occasionally harsh person. When you got to know him, he was very warm and open-hearted but he was not so very open. He had always to look over his shoulder; he lived in this Soviet complex, now he was so liberated.”69 Previously, he had sometimes been criticized for being too measured, frosty, and rigid; in a free working atmosphere, music opened up for Kondrashin the conductor and interpreter. His son Pyotr noticed this when he listened to the recordings of his late years: “One listens and it seems that it is a different person.”70 In another letter home, Kondrashin could still be emotional and private in his heartfelt thoughts: Everything is fine for me personally, but of course, thoughts of the children left “there” come to me constantly. It’s very hurting that you can’t come here even for a while just to see you. There remains hope for some kind of changes (anything can happen!). One thing that I can tell you quite sincerely—I feel it myself and everyone else has noticed a new stage in my conducting, more profound, and more expressive. It’s possible that this is the result of moral experiences, on one side, and a sensation of strengthening—on the other, but so or differently, if I am allowed to be active for a few more years, then you won’t be embarrassed by my name, and I will prove the idea of my actions: I am no longer known in the USSR.71

For more than two decades, Kondrashin had enjoyed an active schedule in the United Kingdom, in April 1980, “After an absence of nearly twenty years Kyrill Kondrashin returned to the London Philharmonic last night and wasted little time in imposing a distinctive style on the orchestra.” The English critic Paul Griffiths discovered that the concert proved exceptional, in the first part, the French pianist Jean-Bernard Pommier’s reading of the Ravel G Major Concerto was quite uncommon, “Spare and quick, the work was presented almost as if in dissection. It was denuded of its glamour,

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except in those few passages where the dance-band memories refused to be dislodged, and the suave, glossy surface was pared away to reveal macabre, disconcerting and even malevolent shadows that I have never before encountered in this piece at such intensity.” The writer continued to draw his readers’ attention to the manner with which the émigré Russian was able to bring out of his players. “Startling effect was largely due to Mr. Kondrashin’s way of holding back the strings, bringing out inner wind detail that normally goes unnoticed and, even at these fast tempos, allowing room for little fragments of twisted melody or dry percussion rattle to resound.” Following the Ravel work, another major French orchestral piece took up the second half—Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, and Griffiths found the magical spell cast in the first half, continued: “Mr. Kondrashin [had] further opportunity to display his taste for nightmare shapes. In the first movement his firmly manipulated but unpredictable rhythms carried a burden of feverish fantasy, and he was able to keep a strong line through the vagaries of Berlioz’s orchestration.” The Russian left a devastating impression with his listeners. “Most vivid, even horrifying, however, was his handling of the execution march, with black implacable trumpets, and a victim stoutly defending himself in the strings, I quaked.”72 A remarkable concert of a familiar work was unveiled by the maestro at London’s Festival Hall; the reviewer reminded his readers that for some two decades, listeners have acquired an admiration for the Russian maestro, but that this was generally based on Russian works, “I, for one, did not associate him with the Viennese classics until Friday night when Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony” was undertaken. “Kondrashin, authoritatively but undidactibly, reminded us that, grand as it is in stature and dimensions, it is still a classical symphony from the start of the nineteenth century, within for an orchestra of its period, not for that of Wagner 60 years later.” The writer described how the conductor “drew a firm, muscular lean range of sound . . . with plenty of clean soft music and a quite modest level of forte. In the first movement, the first two chords certainly compelled attention, but in the manner of a coachman’s whip-crack rather than the starter’s pistol in a running race . . . Pulse and tension were kept light during the exposition (not repeated), then gradually gathered weight, without adipose tissue during the development.” William Mann continued to favorably describe Kondrashin’s effect on this great work. “The Funeral March and Scherzo similarly made a big but not noisy effect. Only in the Adagio variation of the finale did Kondrashin allow heaven to be stormed, after careful preparation for the climatic moment: then he could not resist following the Weingartner tradition which puts all three horns (and the bumper-up) on to the Prometheus tune.” Mann reported that Kondrashin’s interpretation was effected “with a love and understanding that

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transcended conventional reverence, let alone for effect. The result not only showed Beethoven as heir to Haydn and Mozart, but paradoxically made the Eroica seem even more original and momentous.”73 Kondrashin recollected his own memories: “When I arrived in London, they convinced me that one need no more than two rehearsals for a Beethoven programme because the orchestra knows it well enough. What does this mean? They know the notes, but actually don’t play properly as the music is written. And what about what is behind the notes?”74 In August 1980, Kondrashin traveled with the Concertgebouw Orchestra to Mexico with Bernard Haitink. It turned out that Haitink and Kirill got on very, very well, Kirill had an influence over him, he was not jealous at all . . . We went to Mexico by plane and the first seats at the front were for the conductors. Behind at the back the orchestra were sitting. Bernard Haitink was sitting there not talking to anybody with headphones on and studying a score. Kirill went back to the orchestra and played cards and was always losing. He always lost, but he was passionate about cards. The orchestra looked, Kondrashin is sitting with us and Haitink is sitting up there. The great Kondrashin was sitting and laughing with them and they all came round to look at him. They discovered that this harsh man, they were often afraid of him, was actually human, and you could laugh with him.

Later, on tour in Mexico, Kondrashin insisted on traveling with the players in their coach rather than accompany Haitink in a car to the concert hall, “When the musicians saw Kirill going on their bus, they were amazed, during this trip the whole orchestra discovered him as so different. They showed how happy he was. They told me they never saw him laughing so; they didn’t know him like that.”75 It was in the summer of 1980 that the first signs of a heart problem emerged since his defection. “We were in Linz; he had the first illness, pains in the chest and difficulty breathing. I put a pillow under his back; this was the first time that I thought something was wrong.” Later in Amsterdam and following a brief illness, a cardiogram was taken and the couple were informed that Kondrashin had suffered a mild heart attack. “This was a shock that influenza could be like a heart attack. He had blue lips and felt like it was a flu but it was a heart problem which we didn’t recognise at the time.” Kondrashin was told to take it easy and be more careful. “Kirill wouldn’t take a rest, and so we went to America, to Philadelphia in October.”76 After several Goskonzert tours to second-rank orchestras, I am delighted to have success with the very top ones—those like the Vienna Philharmonic or the Philadelphia. I have signed a contract for the chief conductorship of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra beginning from the 1982/83 season, but

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already will be appearing regularly now. This is in prestige and quality second only to Karajan’s [Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra] in the FRG, and were led recently by Rafael Kubelik, and for two years they have been assiduously searching for another chief. I am very happy with this request: this is recognition and the opportunity to make recordings and films for TV with the best of my repertoire—radio offers great potential . . . I am editing my book on conducting and hope to publish it in Germany or Britain. I have begun teaching in Holland and there is lots of demand but I travel so much that this has to be limited to consultations and attending seminars. Here this is accepted as in other countries—my best period for teaching is August 1981 in Holland. My rehearsals in Holland and Germany are attended by many young student-conductors and professionals; I have satisfaction working with them. Be assured please that even just a little bit of news from you will help me and I will very much hope for them.77

In late 1980, Kondrashin was appointed chief conductor of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Wolfgang Gieron and his fellow musicians were taken aback by the announcement. “The management of the Bavarian Radio Symphony selected Kondrashin as his replacement [for Kubelik] without telling us in the orchestra. This was a big surprise for us because we didn’t like him despite having great respect for him. We didn’t believe this appointment however the management explained why they appointed Kondrashin. They said that the kind of work required that Kondrashin was good for the orchestra; Kubelik didn’t work with the orchestra, whereas Kondrashin could do this and raise the orchestra to a higher level.” The appointment was made following a long search as Gieron explains, “Bernard Haitink recommended Kondrashin as a great conductor who would do everything necessary for the orchestra. He said that you will be surprised by him but he will bring it to a new higher level and it is really true. He doesn’t have to be friendly—he must be a good worker.”78 An unscheduled concert arose in December 1980, when Kondrashin stood in for the indisposed André Previn at the Herkulessaal in Munich. The program included Shostakovich’s Thirteenth Symphony, a unique coincidence as Kondrashin had directed the premiere on the identical date twenty-five years before! However, this posed troublesome as he had also to coach the Munich Male-Voice Choir the correct pronunciation for the original Russian texts. The soloist was the English bass John Shirley-Quirk, and the whole event was broadcast on Bavarian Radio and a recording subsequently issued by Philips. The bass singer regretted that he did not have more opportunities for future cooperation with the Russian conductor, “I found him very easy to work with. He said after five minutes of rehearsal, ‘Please call me Kirill,’ and that impressed me. He knew what he wanted and

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got it, very gently, through his hands—though he spoke very good English and German.”79 The decision to install the Russian as the new artistic director and chief conductor came after the concerts earlier that year. “By the Shostakovich Thirteenth they already knew. He was very happy about that. He would be able to build his own orchestra. The playing was very good. They were full of plans.”80 Kondrashin planned to buy a small flat in Munich; however, Amsterdam would remain his base. At this time, Kondrashin was preparing new repertoire; he was studying Bruckner’s Sixth Symphony before looking at other major works by this composer. He was reluctant to conduct the Mahler symphonies at the Concertgebouw, regarding this as being Bernard Haitink’s remit; this was only played outside the city or, on one occasion, when Kondrashin undertook the Seventh Symphony by Mahler in Amsterdam. The constant traveling, the waiting for visas at consulates around Western Europe, would have had its effect but not apparently on Kirill Petrovich Kondrashin. “I have to tell you he was so strong, so vital, I was tired from the travelling but he said that he felt thirty years younger, he didn’t feel it. He never felt so well in his life. In Moscow there was so much tension and only when he was at the rostrum did he feel well. When he was here people didn’t believe their eyes . . . For Kirill it was like a feast, he was invited by the best orchestras, he could do what he wanted. He was so happy.”81 New Year’s Eve was celebrated with Rosa Fain and her husband in the Swiss Alps. In January, there were concerts in Baden-Baden and Coblenz with the North German Symphony Orchestra (NDRSO) of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony. For this, they traveled in Nolda’s small Toyota; however, when in Germany, they were informed that someone had broken into their flat; Nolda Broekstra had to make a sudden return by car. Kondrashin went on to Hamburg with the orchestra, and from there, Nolda met up with her partner before making the transatlantic flight to Washington. The veteran conductor felt as if he was really at home when he heard that he had been burgled. “Kirill was very proud that they have robbed our house, he felt himself really Dutch!” After the New Year break, there were concerts in London, Geneva, and Coblenz, again. In January, he directed Tchaikovsky’s last symphony at London’s Royal Festival Hall with the London Philharmonic Orchestra; on this occasion; the reviewer was less than gracious; nevertheless, he was able to write that the performance “was a good solid one and, in parts, highly effective. Rhythms were sufficiently taut to prevent the meandering between episodes that can sometimes befall the work in more self-indulgent hands. The five-crotchet pulse of the second movement breaks out of the common-time strait-jacket; Mr. Kondrashin picked up his cue and gave us a lilting, finely modulated account.” Barry Millington complained that “there was a vital ingredient lacking. I missed the feeling that

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there was any power or any emotion, or anything at all, behind the notes we were hearing.”82 At the beginning of February, they traveled out once more to the United States for a tour lasting some four weeks, which was scheduled to include Toronto. The tour was arduous and long, “I asked him to cancel the concert in Canada as afterwards he had to immediately start rehearsals with the Concertgebouw. The concert in Toronto would have been on 7 March . . . I asked him to cancel, he said ‘No I won’t.’ ‘Please Kirill you are doing too much,’ ‘OK, I will do it for you, but I don’t like it.’”83 Kondrashin and his partner returned to Amsterdam from Chicago on March 2, suffering from jet lag. At home, Kondrashin could not sleep due to builders disturbing his day-time sleep due to renovations in the flat above them. For two days, they removed to a nearby hotel; however, for Kirill’s birthday, on Wednesday, March 4, they returned to Beethovenstraat. The NDRSO was on tour in Paris, and in their final concert there, Klaus Tennstedt directed a performance of Mahler’s First Symphony, which was less than favorably received by the Parisian public. Rather than traveling on with the orchestra to Amsterdam for their last engagement on tour, the German conductor elected to remain in the French capital, saying that he was unwell. There was, however, no other conductor with the ensemble, and this caused no little difficulty upon their arrival at Schipol airport on Friday, March 7. On Friday, at 155 Beethovenstraat, a birthday party was underway for a dozen guests invited for the conductor’s sixty-seventh birthday. There were several exiled Russians, including Lev Markiz, Mark Lubotsky, and Rosa Fain, and musicians from the Concertgebouw Orchestra present. The party ended in the early hours of Saturday morning with Kirill Petrovich making his own farewell to each and every guest. At eleven o’clock, a phone call rang out. Kondrashin took the phone and heard the worried voice of the NDRSO manager asking if he could conduct a performance that afternoon of Mahler’s First Symphony and Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony. “Kirill said that he hadn’t rehearsed with them and couldn’t do it. And then the phone rang again. Kirill was in the shower and I was there. It was a former colleague [at the radio] who asked ‘please can you persuade him to do it because the concert is recorded and we don’t know what to do.’ I said that ‘I’ll try.’ I went to Kirill and said ‘listen perhaps you can try it, if you don’t, they don’t know what to do.’ ‘You know I have just cancelled some concerts but I didn’t like it, for me, I never did it, but I will do it . . . I will go and try only the Mahler.’” It was arranged that the concertmaster took direction of the Prokofiev piece; a rehearsal would be possible from two o’clock until three, when the first part of the concert would begin. The Mahler symphony was scheduled to start at four o’clock.

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He dressed up and sat at the table reading the First Symphony by Mahler. I sat there and looked at his face and sometimes he would look across at me, he had a pale color, he looked very ill. I asked, “Kirill how are you?” “No, I am fine; I need just a drop of cognac, that’s enough for me.” So we went by car and we stopped at the traffic lights, He told me, “There is nothing wrong between us and nothing false.” The last private words that he spoke to me . . . At the hall, he said [to the orchestra] I will rehearse with you the most important steps which are very important for me and as for the rest just follow me. He took out the points which were very tricky and he did rehearse very thoroughly, with the cellos and the brass; the last part, he did differently from normal . . . He stopped at quarter to three and we went home. Rosa’s husband Sam Weinstein drove us to the concert . . . It started a little awkwardly, everyone was a little nervous, the first movement was extraordinary, one sensed that everyone was searching, then something happened and I looked at Kirill and he was quite transparent, I don’t know how to say it, but it was as if a light was shining from inside . . . It was like a struggle between good and evil, I was sitting there with a chill in my spine, I heard what was going on, and it was so exciting.

The final culmination of Mahler’s First Symphony was followed with a roar, an explosion of applause from the public. “He went up and down the stairs like a young man. Then he sat in the conductor’s room collapsed like a heavy bag, he couldn’t move anymore.” Kondrashin had to stay at the hall until 5:30 when his next rehearsal was scheduled for a concert. “My colleagues came in with a bottle of cognac to celebrate. ‘Thank you very much and to your health.’ He couldn’t speak anymore.” Everyone celebrated including the porter; all but Kondrashin who couldn’t touch a drop. During the interregnum, Nolda noticed that Kirill Petrovich was sitting next to her staring into a far off corner “as if he was miles and miles away.” When Kondrashin got home, after a short run-through, he was completely wet through. If I had known I would have gone to the hospital. Nolda insisted that he see a doctor however Kondrashin shrugged it off only asking for rest. However he allowed her to massage him. Sitting on the great couch, he sat with eyes closed as if dozing, Nolda could not look at him without feeling anxiety. He refused to eat anything preferring to rest, eventually he went into the bedroom. In this spell Nolda drove Markiz to the station, upon her return, the phone rang; it was David Geringas (a cellist) for Kirill. I called him to the phone, he could hardly walk over, and he sat there and after the call told me if anyone phones just say that I’m not here. Of course he went to sleep, and then I heard him in the bathroom. “Kirill, what is up with you?’” “You know, I’m not well,” “Let’s go to the hospital,” “OK, lets go.”

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Kirill Kondrashin raised himself as if to go out; however, he collapsed in Nolda’s arms. Professor Durer was phoned for help, however, he declined suggesting that only an ambulance should be summoned. “I went to Kirill, he was unconscious, I held him in my arms, Rosa massaged his feet, the ambulance came at eleven o’clock, they saw him and asked how long he has been like this. ‘He is lying here for twenty minutes,’ ‘well, he died ten minutes ago.’” Later, Markiz discovered that his watch had stopped at 10:50 pm.84 The first people to be contacted that night were the violinist Mark Lubotsky and conductor Lev Markiz who had only left a short time before. At midnight, the great American violinist Isaak Stern phoned with his condolences. The Concertgebouw management arranged the funeral, and the casket with the body of Kirill Kondrashin was given a leave-taking from the concert hall on Thursday, March 11. The orchestra, under Neemi Jarvi, played Adagietto from Mahler’s Fifth. “On Thursday I made myself beautiful as I did when I needed to fight, to show who I am. I put on the clothes he liked most, I didn’t cry, nothing. They wanted to cry but when people saw me, they stopped. They didn’t dare. There were lots of people, hundreds. I don’t remember, I can remember only the traffic police, and the car with the coffin, I was in the second car, we went to Westerveld cemetery 32 kilometres from Amsterdam . . . And then afterwards I arranged in my home a wake, there was Haitink, many from the orchestra and we drank vodka.”85 Boris Pokrovsky, one of Kondrashin’s greatest friends and colleagues recalled: “He conducted his last concert in Amsterdam recognized as a conductor of the highest class and when I arrived at the theatre, I saw his portrait in the foyer. He died there and is buried there. I told you about our first meeting, now my last meeting with him was at his grave. I went to his grave. Musicians and conductors told me how they buried him and about the ceremony. It was a great event; many, many people were there. He was very well-known; a huge number of people paid respects at his grave, so many it was impossible to get there by car.”86 Following his passing, the memory of Kirill Kondrashin was immortalized by the setting up of a foundation that sponsored a series of master-classes and conducting competitions in Amsterdam. These attracted many fine young musicians and were broadcast on Netherlands television and radio. Philips issued an extensive cycle on CD of his broadcast concerts with the Concertgebouw, dating to his debut in 1968. During the last years of Soviet power, a book of interviews collected by a speculative former colleague, Vladimir Razhnikov, was published in Moscow, which in the spirit of glasnost became unreliable. In 1989, Dutch television produced a major documentary about Kondrashin, and a similar project was made by the Russian television program Kultura in 2004. Kirill Kondrashin’s family has developed in different ways; his eldest

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son, Pyotr, works as a highly successful independent record producer in Russia; another son Sergey works currently in Moscow; however, the youngest son, Andrey, died in 2004. His former wife, Nina Leonidovna lives quietly at the family home on Karetny Lane, while the grandchildren continue the family tradition. Kirill is a banker working in London, while Pyotr is a professional cellist, working with the Large Symphony Orchestra of Moscow Radio and has given concerts in the Netherlands. Nolda did not marry again until 1998 and presently lives happily in Holland with her husband. She continues to help the Kondrashin Foundation Trust. The name of Kondrashin has continued to be regarded as among the finest interpreters of symphonic music, particularly of Mahler and of his fellow countryman Shostakovich. He was one of the greatest accompanists in concertante works and a magnificent orchestral trainer and teacher. That recordings continue to be issued worldwide verifies the simple fact that Kondrashin was one of the last of an outstanding generation of Russian conducting; together with Golovanov, Pasovsky, Samosud, Gauk, Mravinsky, Ivanov, and Melik-Pashayev. Kirill Kondrashin was a great conductor, whose influence lives on today in the exciting young Russian conductors of the twenty-first century.

NOTES 1. Igor Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh (London: Cassell, 1977), 225. 2. Igor Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 225. 3. K. P. Kondrashin,David Oistrakh:Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 226. 4. Igor Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 227. 5. David Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 228. 6. K. P. Kondrashin, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 228. 7. Igor Oistrakh, David Oistrakh: Conversations with Igor Oistrakh, 228. Kondrashin’s letter to Oistrakh’s widow Tamara. 8. S. Aleshin, “Teatr vremeni-Iosifa, Nikity I Leni,”Ogonek 28 (May 2001): 54. 9. S. Aleshin, “Teatr vremeni-Iosifa, Nikity I Leni,” 54. 10. S. Aleshin, “Teatr vremeni-Iosifa, Nikity I Leni,” 54. 11. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper: Besedi Boris Pokrovskogo S Alloi Bogdanovoi (Moscow: Moscow Conservatoire, 2001), 53–54. 12. Ludmila Zykina, Techet moya Volga (Moscow: Novosti, 1998), 111. 13. Alla Tarasova and Georgy Ots were distinguished actress and vocalist respectively. 14. Ludmila Zykina, Techet moya Volga, 110–11. 15. Ludmila Zykina, Techet moya Volga, 104. 16. Ludmila Zykina, Techet moya Volga, 105.

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17. V. Razhnikov and V. Uritsky, “Vysokaya Missiya Dirizhera,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974): 63. 18. K. P. Kondrashin, “Muzika iYeyo Zhizn v Narode,” Sovetskaya Muzika 3 (March 1974), 61–62. 19. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina, Razmyshleniye o Professii,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974), 50–51. 20. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina,” 51. 21. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina,” 54. 22. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina,” 55. 23. This refers to the competition winners of international conducting competitions, namely Mariss Jansons, Vassily Sinaisky, and Yuri Temirkanov. 24. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina,” 51. 25. V. Razhnikov and V. Uritsky. “Vysokaya Missiya Dirizhera,” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974): 59–62. 26. Wolfgang Gieron, interview with the author, November 18, 2008. 27. Andrey Zolotov, interview with the author, October 2001. 28. A. Bogdanova, Muzika iVlast (Moscow, Naslediye, 1995), 320–22. 29. K. P. Kondrashin, Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni (Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989), 234–35. 30. Concert review by William Mann, The Times, January 30, 1978. 31. Concert review by Joan Chissel, The Times, May 9, 1977. 32. Concert review by Joan Chissel, The Times, May 11, 1977. 33. Jon Tolansky, “Kyrill Kondrashin: A Player’s Memoir,” Classical Record Collector, Spring 2002, 12. 34. Jon Tolansky, “Kyrill Kondrashin: A Player’s Memoir,” 12. 35. A. Bogdanova, Muzika iVlast, 347–48. 36. Larissa Volkhova, interview with the author, October 2001. 37. Andrey Zolotov, interview with the author, July 2006. 38. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, June 2008. Private report by a member of the Dutch security services to Broekstra. 39. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, February 2009. 40. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, February 2009. 41. K. P. Kondrashin, “Pochemu Ya Ostalsya,” private collection of Nolda Broekstra. 42. Boris Pokrovsky, Kogda vygonyayut iz Bolshovo Teatra (Moscow: ART, 1992), 31–41. 43. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, September, 2001. 44. The Concertgebouw Hall and the Concertgebouw Orchestra are two separate entities; one is a promoter of musical events and the other is the orchestra which uses the hall after which it takes its name—author. 45. Nadezhda Kozhevnikova, “Drugaya Zhizn?” Sovetskaya Kultura 17 (April 27, 1991): 6. 46. Andrey Zolotov, interview with author, July 2006. 47. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper, 227. 48. Nadezhda Kozhevnikova, “Drugaya Zhizn?” 6.

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49. Victor Hochhauser, interview with the author, July 4, 2008. 50. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 51. Hermann Krebbers,“Kirill Kondrashjin 1914–1981,” Preludium, March 1986, 7. 52. Bernard Haitink, “De Maestro,” Haagse Post, December 18, 1983, 39. 53. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 54. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 55. K. P. Kondrashin, letter to son Pyotr Kondrashin, March 21, 1979. 56. Nadezhda Kozhevnikova, “Drugaya Zhizn?” 6. 57. K. P. Kondrashin, Nolda Broekstra personal archive, Leusden, the Netherlands. 58. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 59. Dmitry Paperno, Zapiski moskovskogo pianista, (Ann Arbor, MI: Ermitage, 1983), 177–78. 60. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 61. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 62. Trevor Harvey, The Gramophone, (August 1980), 214. 63. Edward Greenfield, The Gramophone, (September 1980), 331. 64. Edward Greenfield, The Gramophone, (July 1980), 136. 65. Wolfgang Gieron, interview with the author, November 18, 2008. 66. Munchner Merkur, December 17, 1980. 67. Ivan March, The Gramophone, (November 1980), 677. 68. Tully Potter, interview with the author, July 16, 2008. 69. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 70. Nadezhda Kozhevnikova, “Drugaya Zhizn?” 6. 71. K. P. Kondrashin, letter from Kondrashin to his wife, July 22, 1979. Nolda Broekstra archive. 72. Concert review by Paul Griffith, The Times, April 18, 1980. 73. Concert review by William Mann, “Fresh View of Eroica,” The Times, June 2, 1980. 74. K. P. Kondrashin, “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina,” 55. 75. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 76. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 77. K. P. Kondrashin, letter from Kondrashin to his wife, December 12, 1980. 78. Wolfgang Gieron, interview with the author, November 18, 2008. 79. Peter Quantrill, “Babi Yar’s Memorial,” Classic Record Collector, Spring 2002, 20. 80. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 81. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 82. Concert review by Barry Millington, The Times, January 30, 1981. 83. Nolda Broekstra, interview with the author, March 2009. 84. The watch miraculously started working normally the following day. 85. The Westerveld cemetery is the only one which allows everlasting burial rights in Amsterdam. 86. Boris Pokrovsky, Ranshe iTeper, 225–27.

Discography

Yasushi Akutagawa (1925–1989) “Presto” from Triptyques for String Orchestra. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. Arno Babadjanian (1921–1983) Concerto for Violoncello (1959). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, March 13, 1964. CD: Russian Disc. J. S. Bach (1685–1750) Brandenburg Concerto no. 5 in D Major, BWV 1050. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano; Yelizaveta Gilels (1919–2008), violin; and Nikolai Kharkovsky, flute. N.p., 1948. LP: CCCP D 1432/33; Melodiya ND 1432/33; Colosseum CRLP 250. CD: Doremi DHR-7747 (published 1999). Concerto for Violin, BWV 1041. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 18, 1967. CD: Altus ALT047.

287

288

Discography

Concerto for Two Violins and Strings, BWV 1043. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974) and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violins. N.p., March 19, 1967. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10039. Mily Balakirev (1837–1910) Islamey (arr. Balakirev). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. London, Royal Festival Hall, October 8, 1965. [Origin: BBC archive]. Symphony no. 1 in C Minor (1897). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, January 1961. LP: Melodiya; RCA Victor. CD: Melodiya MELCD 1000957. Samuel Barber (1910–1981) Concerto for Violin, op. 14. Orchestre National de France. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, May 13, 1980. [Origin: French radio archive]. Béla Bartók (1881–1945) Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, Sz.106 (1936). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1974. CD: Melodiya MELCD 1001063; Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). Piano Concerto no. 1. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. N.p., 1974. CD: Melodiya MELCD 1001063. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) Concerto for Piano no. 1 in C Major, op. 15 (1796). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, May 8, 1962. CD: Russian Disc 11 041 (published 1994).

Discography

289

Concerto for Piano no. 3 in C Minor, op. 37 (1802). [1] Radio Moscow Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Location unknown, 1947. LP: Melodiya D 01193/94, ND 01193/94; Ricordi OCL 16275; Period SPL 601. CD: Doremi DHR-7747 (published 1999). [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, [May 8, 1962?]. CD: Russian Disc 11 041 (published 1994). [3] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. N.p., [February 1968?]. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10079 (published 1997). Concerto for Piano no. 5 in E-flat Major, op. 73 (1811). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Tchaikovsky Competition, Moscow, April 1958. DVD: VAI 4452. [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Rudolf Kerer (1923–), piano. N.p., 1963. LP: Melodiya D 11883. Concerto for Violin in D Major, op. 61. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Marina Kozolupova (1918–1978), violin. N.p., 1949. CD: Multisonic 31 0268-2. [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, November 3, 1962. LP: Everest SDBR 3343. CD: Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. XII. [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Royal Festival Hall, London, October 10, 1965. CD: BBC Legends BBCL41272. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Royal Festival Hall, London, October 8, 1968. [Origin: BBC archive]. [5] Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra with Kyung-wha Chung (1948–), violin. Sofiensaal, Vienna, September 17–20, 1979. LP: Decca SXDL 7508; London LDR 10010. CD: Decca 100 Classiques 452 629-2; Double Decca 452 325-2 (published 1996); Decca Ovation 425 035-2 (published 1991); Decca 400 048-2.

290

Discography

“First movement: Allegro” from Triple Concerto in C Major, op. 56 (1804). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin; Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello; Svyatoslav Richter (1915– 1997), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire Moscow, January 5, 1970. CD: EMI Rostropovich: The Russian Years: 1950–1974 CDZM 5 72016 2 (13 CD); EMI 72294 (selection). VHS: EMI 491301. Romance for Violin no. 1 in G Major, op. 40 (1799). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., March 15, 1948. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10015/60001; Lys LYS 491-494; Urania 233 (published 2003); Doremi D. Oistrakh Collection, Vol. 4 DHR-7714. [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, May 10, 1964. CD: Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. XII 36. Romance for Violin no. 2 in F Major, op. 50. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947. LP: Melodiya D 07587/8; Melodiya D 026327/8. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00219; Lys LYS 491-494; Urania 233 (published 2003); Doremi D. Oistrakh Collection, Vol. 4 DHR-7714. Rondo for Piano in B-flat Major, WoO 6. Moscow Youth Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, 1962. CD: Music and Arts Concert Performances and Broadcasts, 1958–1976 CD775. Symphony no. 3 in E-flat Major, “Eroica,” op. 55 (1804). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, March 11, 1979. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 9 438 277-2 (published 1993); Philips Early Years 438 524-2 (4 CD). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Symphony no. 4 in B-flat Major, op. 60 (1806). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1964. LP: Melodiya/Seraphim. CD: Melodiya MELCD 1001007.

Discography

291

Symphony no. 8 in F Major, op. 93 (1812). [1] Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Ravina, August 9, 1966. CD: CSO Vol. 17 9120. [Origin: WFMT-FM archive]. [2] Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Hercules Saal, Munich, 1980, n.d. [Origin: Radio Bavarian archive]. Hector Berlioz (1803–1869) Three excerpts from Romeo and Juliet. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 14, 1974. CD: Tahra TAH 501-502 (published 2003). [Origin: NPS radio archive]. Alexander Borodin (1833–1887) “Konchakovna’s Cavatina” from Prince Igor. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Veronika Borisenko, (1918–), mezzosoprano. N.p., [1950?]. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 17089, 17090. Symphony no. 2 in B Minor, “Epic,” op. 5 (1876). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, June 6, 1980. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 12 438 280-2 (published 1993). Johannes Brahms (1833–1897) Concerto for Piano no. 1 in D Minor, op. 15. Lucerne Festival Orchestra with Krystian Zimerman (1956–), piano. Lucerne, August 18, 1979. [Origin: radio archive]. Concerto for Piano no. 2 in B-flat Major, op. 83 (1878–81). [1] Czech Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Prague, May 23, 1950. CD: Urania SP 4213 (published 2003); Multisonic 31 0335-2, 31 0020-2. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Conservatoire, Moscow, 1972. CD: RCA Victor Red Seal 09026 62695 2 (published 1994). DVD: VAI 4453.

292

Discography

Concerto for Violin in D Major, op. 77 (1878). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1949. CD: Lys LYS 491-494. [2] USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1950/52. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) D 0857/58. LP: Melodiya D 0857/78; Chant du Monde LDA 8106 (25cm); LDXSP 1512; Saga XID-5231; Vox 514.400E; Vanguard 6018. CD: BMG/Melodiya David Oistrakh Edition, Vol. 2 34179-2 (published 1997), 40710-2; Melodiya SUCD 10 00212; Chant du Monde LDC 278 942; Urania 233; Omega Classics. [3] Philharmonia Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Studio One, Abbey Road, London, February 22/26, 1959. LP: EMI/Columbia SAX 2307; HMV Concert Classics SXLP 30063; Trianon CTRE 6186. CD: EMI Artist Profile 7 67732 2 (published 1993). [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, October 21, 1959. LP: Melodiya C01635-6 (published 1965); Melodiya Polnoe sobranie zapisej, vol. 9 M1049479001; Chant du Monde LDX 78 421, LDX 78 516. CD: Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. 15 76. [5] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Eduard Grach (1930–), violin. N.p., 1961. CD: Russian Compact Disc Ecole de violon Russe 16211. [6] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, February 2, 1963. CD: RCA The Essential David Oistrakh 74321 72914-2 (published 2000); RCA Victor Red Seal. [7] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., February 8, 1963. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10015. [8] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 16, 1967. CD: Altus. [9] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Royal Festival Hall, London, September 19, 1963. CD: BBC Legends BBCL41972. Double Concerto for Violin and Cello in A Minor, op. 102. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin and Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello.

Discography

Royal Albert Hall, London, October 9, 1965. CD: BBC Legends BBCL41972. Symphony no. 1 in C Minor, op. 68 (1854/76). [1] USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. N.p., [1969/71?] CD: Lys LYS 538-539 (published 1999). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, February 29, 1980. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 10 438 278-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Symphony no. 2 in D Major, op. 73 (1877). [1] USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. N.p., [1969–71?]. LP: Melodiya 10 04873. CD: Lys LYS 538-539. [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 29, 1975. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 11 438 279-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Symphony no. 3 in F Major, op. 90 (1883). [1] USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. N.p., [1969–71?]. CD: Lys LYS 538-539 (published 1999). [2] Radio Moscow Symphony Orchestra. N.p., 1976. CD. Symphony no. 4 in E Minor, op. 98 (1885). [1] USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra. N.p., [1969/71?]. LP: Chant du Monde C10 07135/36. CD: Lys LYS 538-539. [2] NHK Symphony Orchestra. Tokyo, January 16, 1980. CD: King Record KICC-3061. Revol Samuilovich Bunin (1924–1976) Sinfonia Concertante, op. 43. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, October 7, 1975. CD: Triton.

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294

Discography

Alfredo Casella (1883–1947) Paganiniana, op. 65. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1961. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 17, 1979. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 13 438 281-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Ernest Chausson (1855–1899) Poème for Violin and Orchestra, op. 25. USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., March 15, 1948. LP: Melodiya D 03040/1; HMV Melodiya SXLP 30220; Chant du Monde LDM 8173, LDXS 8359, LDXA 8359; Westminster XWN 18177; Westminster Gold WGM 8251. CD: Brilliant Classics 92609 (10 CD); Melodiya SUCD 10 00219; Lys LYS 355; Russian Revelation RV 10015; Monitor MCD 72073; Chant du Monde David Oistrakh Edition Vol. 8 LDC 278 908. [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. Luigi Cherubini (1760–1842) “Overture” from Medea. Lucerne Festival Orchestra. Lucerne, 1979. [Origin: radio archive]. Frédéric Chopin (1810–1849) Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise Brillante in E-flat Major, op. 22. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. N.p., June 1952. CD: Brilliant Classics Emil Gilels Edition (10 CD). [2] London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Royal Albert Hall, London, July 16, 1961. LP: Rococo 2092 (published 1976); Fonit Cetra DOC 27 (published 1982); Longanesi GCL 69. CD: BBC Legends BBCL4031; AS Disc 341; Concerto 08; Intaglio INCD 7071; Virtuoso 2697092. Concerto for Piano no. 1 in E Minor, op. 11. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, October 12, 1962.

Discography

295

LP: Melodiya SM 02209/10, D 014725/26; Eurodisc/Melodiya 302 611-435 (5 LP), 27349 XHK, 88701 XAK. CD: BMG/Melodiya Emil Gilels Edition Vol. 2 401182; Eurodisc/Melodiya GD 69097; BMG/Melodiya 40118 2, BVCX 4081 (Japan). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with Krystian Zimerman (1956–), piano. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 3, 1979. LP: DG 419 054-1. CD: DG Chopin Complete Edition 463 047-2 (set), 463 048-2 (concertos), 100 Classiques 439 069-2, 431 580-2, Galleria 419 054-2 (published 1988). Claude Debussy (1862–1918) “Fêtes” from Nocturnes. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. “Iberia” from Image pour orchestre no. 2. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1961. LP: Melodiya S0 1783/84; Chant du Monde LDX 78 417. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. Antonín Dvorák (1841–1904) Concerto for Piano in G Minor, op. 33, B 63 London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Royal Albert Hall, London, July 16, 1961. LP: Fonit Cetra DOC 27; Rococo 2118. CD: Intaglio INCD 751; Arkadia/Hunt CGD 559. Concerto for Violin in A Minor, op. 53 (1879). USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., September 7, 1949. LP: Melodiya S 20.006, D 03064/5; Eurodisc/Melodiya 63951 (set); Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga DO 3064; Musidisc RC 868; Vanguard VRS 6027. CD: Brillant Classics 92609/1 (10 CD); BMG/Melodiya David Oistrakh Edition, Vol. 2 34179-2 (published 1997), 40710-2; Melodiya SUCD 10 00212; Chant du Monde David Oistrakh Edition, Vol. 8 LDC 278 908; Lys LYS 354; Omega Classics; History 204567. [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive].

296

Discography

Concerto for Violoncello in B Minor, op. 104. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Free Trade Hall, Manchester, October 10, 1965. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. Slavonic Dances, op. 46, nos. 3 and 8. NHK Symphony Orchestra. Tokyo, January 30, 1980. CD: King Records KICC-3062. Symphony no. 9 in E Minor, “The New World,” op. 95, B 178. Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., September 17–19, 1979. LP: Decca Ovation 417 267-1 (published 1986). CD: Decca Etoile 448 245-2, Eclipse 446 245-2, Ovation 430 702-2 (published 1991), 400 047-2. César Franck (1822–1890) Les Djinns, Symphonic Poem for Piano and Orchestra (1884). Moscow Youth Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, December 30, 1952. LP: Melodiya D 019039-40. CD: BMG/Melodiya Richter Edition, Vol. 6 74321 29466-2, BVCX 4060 (Japan); Russian Revelation RV 10048. Symphonic Variations for Piano and Orchestra. RAI Symphony Orchestra, Turin with Robert Casadeséus (1899–1972), piano. RAI Auditorium, Turin, May 6, 1960. LP: Fonit Cetra LAR 18; Longanesi Periodici/I grandi concerti GCL-46. CD: Fonit Cetra 2051. Symphony in D Minor, FWV 48 (1888). [1] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 27, 1977. CD: Tahra TAH 501-502 (published 2003). [Origin: NPS radio archive]. [2] Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Herkullesaal, Munich, February 8, 1980. LP: Philips 6514 119. George Gershwin (1898–1937) An American in Paris. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. RAI Building, Amsterdam, June 17, 1978.

Discography

297

CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 14 438 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Alexander Glazounov (1865–1936) Chant du Ménestrel, op. 71. Moscow Youth Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., n.d. CD: DG Rostropovich: Early Recordings 477 6505 (published 2007). Concerto for Piano no. 1 in F Minor, op. 92. Moscow Youth Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, December 14, 1952. 78t: Melodiya 023037. LP: Melodiya 04683/84; Chant du Monde LDXP 8225, LDA 8135 (25cm); Colosseum CRLP 210, CRLS 210; Gramophone 20218; Saga XID 5314. CD: Melodiya Richter Edition Vol. 8 74321 29468-2; Chant du Monde LDC 278 950; Urania SP 4218 (published 2004). Concerto for Violin in A Minor, op. 82 (1904). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., January 1, 1947. LP: Melodiya D 03, D 012939/40; Chant du Monde LDA 8041 (25cm); Supraphon LMP 7 MM9; Vanguard VRS 6005, 6027; Monitor MCS 2136; Design DLP 134; Pickwick PR 112; Westminster Gold WGM 8224. CD: Brilliant Classics 92609 (10 CD); Melodiya 10 00239; Monitor MCD 72073; Omega Classics OCD 1025; Lys LYS 331-334; Vanguard OCD 1025. [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. [2] Prague Radio Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Prague, May 2, 1949. CD: Praga PR 256 009. [3] Moscow Youth Orchestra with Julian Sitkovetsky (1925–1958), violin. N.p., 1952. CD: Russian Disc RD CD-15009. Reinhold Glière (1875–1956) Romance for Violin in D Major, op. 3. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947/48. LP: Melodiya D 026211/2. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10-00242; Omega Classics OCD 1025; Lys LYS 491-494; Vanguard OCD 1025. Mikhail Glinka (1804–1857) “Overture” from Ivan Susanin.

298

Discography

Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 4, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 019. Ruslan and Ludmila (arr. Rimsky-Korsakov). [1] Bolshoi Theatre Chorus and Orchestra with Vera Firsova (1918–1993); Vladimir Gavryushov (1902–1982); Elena Korneyeva (1917–1965); Alexey Krivcheniya (1910–1974), bass; Sergei Lemeshev (1902–1977), tenor; Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor; Ivan Petrov (1920–2003), bass; Nina Pokrovskaya (1919–); and Yevgeniya Verbitskaya (1904–1965); Moscow, 1950. CD Great Hall MVT006-008 (published 2000). [2] Bolshoi Theatre Chorus and Orchestra with Vera Firsova (1918–1993), soprano; Vladimir Gavryushov (1902–1982), bass; Elena Korneyeva (1917– 1965), mezzo-soprano; Alexei Krivchenia (1910–1974), bass; Sergey Lemeshev (1902–1977), tenor; Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor; Ivan Petrov (1920–2003), baritone–bass; Nina Pokrovskaya (1919–), soprano; and Evgenia Verbitskaya (1904–1965), contralto. Moscow, 1952. LP: Melodiya ND 02452-61; Parlophone; Chant du Monde LDXS 8067; Westminster OPW 1401. CD: Preiser Complete Preiser 90663 (3 CD); Dante/Preiser (extract). Benjamin Godard (1849–1895) “Canzonetta” from Concerto no. 1, “Romantique,” op. 35. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., December 13, 1948. LP: Melodiya D 26211. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00219; Russian Revelation RV 10015; Lys LYS 491494. Edvard Grieg (1843–1907) Concerto for Piano in A Minor, op. 16 (1868). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Moscow, 1962. DVD: VAI 4453. [Origin: Soviet Radio]. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, March 23, 1964. CD: Revelation RV 10057; Praga PR 250048, 256001. “Notturno” from Suite Lyrique. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra.

Discography

299

N.p., August 29, 1980. CD: “0” “0” “0” Classics TH 056. Fromental Halévy (1799–1862) “Air d’Eleazar” from La Juive. Bolshoi Theatre Choir with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor. N.p., 1950. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 14937/38. Joseph Haydn (1732–1809) Symphony no. 100 (1794). North German Radio Symphony Orchestra. N.p., January 26, 1981. CD: En Larmes EL S01 58/9. Symphony no. 103, “The Drum Symphony,” (1795). Philadelphia Orchestra. Academy of Music, Philadelphia, October 24, 1980. CD: Andante. [Origin: radio archive]. Paul Hindemith (1895–1963) Concerto for Clarinet (1947). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with George Pieterson, clarinet. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 17–21, 1979. LP: Etcetera ETC 1006 (published 1983). CD: Etcetera KTC 1006. Concerto for Violoncello (1940). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with Tibor de MacHula (1912–1982), violoncello. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, February 7–8, 1973. LP: Etcetera ETC 1006 (published 1983). CD: Etcetera KTC 1006. Nobilissima Visione. North German Radio Symphony Orchestra. N.p., January 26, 1981. CD: En Larmes EL S01 58/9; Treasure of the Earth. Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes of Weber. USSR State Symphony Orchestra. Moscow, 1961.

300

Discography

LP: Philips 835 264 AY; Turnabout TV 34215. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). Dimitri Borisovich Kabalevsky (1904–1987) The Comedians, op. 26 (1940). RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra. Manhattan Center, New York, October 30, 1958. LP: LSC 2398. CD: RCA Living Stereo 633022. Vasily Kalinnikov (1866–1901) Symphony no. 1 in G Minor (1895). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1960. LP: Melodiya SR 40173, D 7381; Mezydnarodnaya Kniga; HMV ASD 2720. CD: Melodiya MELCD1000957. Aram Ilyich Khachaturyan (1903–1978) Concerto for Piano in D-flat Major (1936). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Yakov Flier (1912–1977), piano. Moscow, 1963. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 59477-2 (published 1998); Melodiya MELCD1001006. Concerto–Rhapsody for Violin in B-flat Minor. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., November 3, 1962. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Russian Revelation RV 10065; Brilliant Classics (Set). “Suite” from Masquerade. RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra. Manhattan Center, New York, October 30, 1958. LP: RCA LSC 2398, LM 2398. CD: RCA Living Stereo 633022 (published 1999). Symphony no. 3, “Symphony-Poem” (1947). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Harry Grodberg, organ, and Bolshoi Theatre Trumpet Ensemble. Moscow, January 14, 1964. LP: Melodiya; Eterna/Melodiya 826304. CD: Melodiya MELCD1001006.

Discography

301

Tikhon Khrennikov (1913–2007) Concerto for Piano in F Major, op. 1. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Tikhon Khrennikov (1913–2007), piano. N.p., n.d. LP: Chant du Monde LDXA 8339; HMV ASD 3227. Concerto for Violin in C Major, op. 14. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., n.d. LP: Chant du Monde LDXA 8339. Symphony no. 1 in B-flat Minor, op. 4 (1933–35). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Royal Albert Hall, London, 1965. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. Édouard Lalo (1823–1892) Symphonie Espagnole. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., January 23, 1948. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 15566/71. LP: Brilliant Classics 92609/1 (10 CD); Supraphon H 24094/7; Vox STPL 516160. CD: Lys LYS 331-334. [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. [2] Philharmonia Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Studio One, Abbey Road, London, February 25, 1959. LP: Columbia SAX 2329; Emi CFP 40040; World Record Club ST 562. CD: Emi Artist Profile 7 67732 2 (published 1993). [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, October 21, 1959. LP: Melodiya M1049479001. Yuri Levitin (1912–1993) Concerto for Violoncello in E Minor, op. 54. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, 1964. CD: Russian Disc RUS 1111. Anatoly Liadov (1855–1914) Eight Russian Folksongs, op. 58. N.p., n.d. Moscow Youth Orchestra 78t: Supraphon H 23877/78.

302

Discography

The Enchanted Lake, op. 62. NHK Symphony Orchestra. Tokyo, January 16, 1980. CD: King Records KICC-3061. Franz Liszt (1811–1886) Concerto for Piano no. 1 in E-flat Major, S. 124/LW H4 (1849/56). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. N.p., January 1949. 78t: CCCP 017656-60/021051. LP: CCCP D 0351/52; Melodiya D 0351-03817, ND 0351-3817, D 014029/30; Chant du Monde LDXP 8165; Concertone 20218; Colosseum CRLP 158, CRLP 10223; Vanguard VRS 6015; Parlophone PMA 1039; Westminster XWN 18356; Bruno BR 14025; Acropole APCC 60 042. CD: Brilliant Classics Emil Gilels Edition (10 CD); Omega OCD 1029 (published 1998); Bianco e Nero BN 2432/2. [2] Lazar Berman (1930–2005), piano. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, February 23, 1953. CD: Vogue Archives Soviétiques VG 651 016 (published 1991). [3] London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Royal Albert Hall, London, July 18, 1961. LP: Discocorp RR 489; Fonit Cetra DOC 27; Longanesi GCL 19. CD: BBC Legends BBCL 40312; AS Disc 345; Fonit Cetra CDE 3012; Hunt/ Arkadia GDHP 559.1; Virtuoso 2697092; Bianco e Nero BN 2433/2. [4] London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Assembly Hall, Walthamstow, London, July 19–23, 1961. LP: Philips ABL 3401, SABL 207 (published 1962), PHM 500-000, L00576L, 835 474 LY, 6580 071 (published 1975), 6880 046, 6504 015 (published 1980); Melodiya D 013747/48, S 0867/68 (published 1964); Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK D 013747/48. CD: Philips 464 710-2, Solo 446 200-2, 100 Classiques 454 545-2, 434 163-2, 412 006-2, Duo 462 176-2. [5] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Byron Janis (1928–), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, June 14, 1962. LP: Mercury 90329; Philips 6582 003; 6531 029. CD: Mercury 432 002-2 (published 1990); Philips Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century, Vol. 51 456 850-2. Concerto for Piano no. 2 in A Major, S. 125/LW H6. [1] London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Royal Albert Hall, London, July 18, 1961. LP: Discocorp RR 489; / Fonit Cetra DOC 27; Longanesi GCL 19.

Discography

303

CD: BBC Legends BBCL 40312; Bianco e Nero BN 2433/2; Fonit Cetra CDE 1011, CDE 3012; Hunt/Arkadia GDHP 559.1; Intaglio INCD 7071. [2] London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Assembly Hall, Walthamstow, London, July 19–23, 1961. LP: Philips ABL 3401, SABL 207, PHM 500-000, L00576L, 835 474 LY, 6580 071 (published 1975), 6880 046, 6504 015 (published 1980); Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK D 013747/48. CD: Philips 464 710-2, Solo 446 200-2, 100 Classiques 454 545-2. [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Yakov Fliyer (1912–1977), piano. N.p., December 27, 1973. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 006. [Origin: Pyotr Kondrashin archive collection]. Fantaisie Hongroise, S. 123 (1853). London Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Royal Albert Hall, London, July 18, 1961. LP: Discocorp RR 489; Fonit Cetra DOC 27; Rococo 2092. CD: BBC Legends BBCL 4031; Fonit Cetra CDE 1011; Bianco et Nero 2433/2. Rhapsodie Espagnole, (arr. Busoni). USSR State Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra with Grigory Ginzburg (1904–1961), piano. N.p., 1946. CD: Arlecchino ARL 161. Fernando Lopes-Graça (1906–1994) Concerto da Camera (1965). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Moscow, 1967. CD: EMI Rostropovich: The Russian years: 1950–1974 5 72016 2 (13 CD), 5 72298 2. Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) Symphony no. 1 in D Minor, “Titan” (1888). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra Moscow, April 1, 1969. CD: Melodiya MEL00807 (published 2004); RCA Audiophile Classics 539; Lys LYS 521-526 (published 1999). [2] North German Radio Symphony Orchestra. N.p., March 7, 1981.Amsterdam. LP: NDR F 667.624 (Electrola). CD: Emi 5628562 (published 2005); En Larmes EL S01 58/9; Cin Cin. [Kondrashin’s final concert].

304

Discography

Symphony no. 3 in D Minor (1896). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Valentina Levko (1926–), mezzo-soprano; Vladislav Sokolov, chorusmaster; Ladies of Moscow State Choir; and Children’s Choir. Moscow, 1961. CD: RCA. “Menuet,” 2nd movement from Symphony no. 3. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 020. 4th and 5th movements from Symphony no. 3. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Ilga Tiknuse, mezzo-soprano; Imants Cepitis, chorusmaster; Ladies of Latvia Philharmonic Choir; and Children’s Choir. Riga, 1975. CD: RCA. Symphony no. 4 in G Minor (1900). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Galina Pisarenko, soprano. Moscow, [July 10, 1972?]. LP: Westminster wgs-8328. CD: Melodiya MEL00809 (published 2004); Lys LYS 521-526 (published 1999). 4th movement from Symphony no. 4. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Galina Pisarenko (1934–), soprano. Moscow, [June 26, 1973?]. CD: RCA. Symphony no. 5 in C-sharp Minor (1902). USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra. N.p., 1974. Moscow Radio and TV Studio LP: Melodiya C 10 5351. CD: Melodiya MEL00810 (published 2004); RCA; Lys LYS 521-526; Audiophile Classics APL 101.501 (published 1994). Symphony no. 6 in A Minor (1904). Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra. Leningrad, May 1978. CD: Melodiya MEL00811 (published 2004); Lys LYS 616-617.

Discography

305

Symphony no. 7 in E Minor, “Song of the Night” (1905). [1] Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra. Concert Hall, Leningrad, March 3, 1975. CD: Melodiya MEL00812 (published 2004); Icone ICN 9427-2 (published 1994); Lys LYS 616-617. [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 29, 1979. CD: Tahra TAH-451. [Origin: NPS radio archive]. Symphony no. 9 in D Minor (1909). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, May 1967 [1964?]. CD: Melodiya MEL00813 (published 2004); Lys LYS 521-526 (published 1999). [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, May 16, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 01. Felix Mendelssohn (1809–1847) Concerto for Piano no. 1 in G Minor, op. 25. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. N.p., May 4, 1953. LP: Melodiya 33D 014775/76; Bruno BR 14024; Allegro ALL 717; Classics Club X1033; Colosseum CRLP 191; Monarch MWL 308; Saga FID 2060; Arc Records FDY 2060; Concert Hall CHS 1312. CD: Yedang Classics. Concerto for Violin in E Minor, op. 64 (1844). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Moscow, October 25, 1949. LP: Melodiya D 012939/40, S 20.006, D 1167/68; Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK D 012939/40; Eurodisc; Eurodisc/Melodiya 63951 (set); Everest 3343; Vox PL 16160, 516160E; Design DLP 134; Pickwick PR 112; Musidisc RC 812; Westminster WGM 8224. CD: Brilliant Classics 92609/1 (10 CD); Lys LYS 331-334; Arkadia; Preludio PHC 3135 (published 1987). [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. [2] NHK Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Tokyo, April 18, 1967. CD: Altus ALT066. Symphony no. 4 in A Major, “Italian,” op. 90 (1833). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra.

306

Discography

Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 17, 1979. CD: Philips 412 068-2, Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 10 438 278-2 (published 1993). Nikolay Myaskovsky (1881–1950) Concerto for Violoncello in C Minor, op. 66. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., December 27, 1972. CD: Brilliant Classics Historic Russian Archives: Rostropovich 92771 (10 CD). [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. Symphony no. 5, op. 18 (1918/19). USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra. N.p., [1950?]. CD: Audiophile Classics APL 101.503. Symphony no. 6 in E-flat Minor, op. 23 (1921–23). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Russian Republic State Chorus. N.p., February 7, 1959. LP: Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK D 05472-75. CD: Russian Disc 15008. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with USSR State Academic Chorus. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, November 5, 1978. CD: Melodiya MEL CD 1000841 (published 2005). Symphony no. 15 in E Minor, op. 38 (1933/34). USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra. N.p., 1963. LP: Melodiya D 13225-6, C 0801. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Audiophile Classics APL 101.502 (published 1994). Stanisław Moniuszko (1819–1872) Halka (1848). Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Natalia Sokolova (1914–1988), soprano, and Irina Maslennikova (1918–), soprano. N.p., [1947?]. LP: Colosseum CRLP 188/189. Scene of Jenek with Dumka from Halka. [Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus?] with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor, and Georgy Korotkov (1895–1967), baritone.

Discography

307

N.p., 1947. CD: Preiser. Modest Musorgsky (1839–1881) “Overture” from Khovanshchina. Orchestre de Paris. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, March 29, 1980. [Origin: Pirate]. Act Two from Khovanshchina. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Larisa Rudenko, mezzo-soprano. N.p., 1948. 78t: Melodiya 19908. CD: Arlechina ARL 103-105. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–1791) Adagio for Violin in E Major, KV 261. USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., December 15, 1969. CD: Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. 17 88. Concerto for Piano no. 21 in C Major, KV 467. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, December 23, 1959. CD: Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK 417106. Concerto for Two Pianos in E-flat Major, KV 365. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985) and Yakov Zak (1913–1976), pianos. Moscow, 1949. LP: Monitor MC 2006; Period SPL 601; Club International du Disque CID 60. Concerto for Violin no. 1 in B-flat Major, KV 207 (1775). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, February 2, 1963. CD: RCA The Essential David Oistrakh 74321 72914-2 (published 2000). Concerto for Violin no. 4 in D Major, KV 218 (1775). USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., n.d. CD: Classic Edition CE-3002.

308

Discography

Concerto for Violin no. 5 in A Major, KV 219 (1775). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00230; Lys LYS 491-494; Tuxedo TUXCD 1052 (published 1990); Preludio PHC 2149. [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., October 21, 1953. CD: Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. 17 88. Concerto for Violin no. 7 in D Major, KV 271a. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947. LP: USSR A 1562-63; Melodiya D 1562/63; Colosseum CRLP 154. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00230; Classic Editions CE2. Concerto for Flute, KV 313. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra N.p., n.d. CD: Melodiya MELCD1001007. Duo for Violin and Viola in C Major, KV 423. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), alto, and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violin. Decca Studios, West Hampstead, London, September 1963. CD: Decca Legends 470 258-2. Sinfonia Concertante in E-flat Major, KV 364 (1779). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Igor Oistrakh (1931–), Yehudi Menuhin (1916–1999), violins, and David Oistrakh (1908–1974), alto. Royal Festival Hall, London, September 28, 1963. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violin, and David Oistrakh (1908–1974), alto. Decca Studios, West Hampstead, London, September 1963. LP: Decca LXT 6088, SXLWB 6088, SDD 445, SWL 8519 (25cm), London 6377, STS 15482. CD: Decca Legends 470 258-2, 100 Classiques 452 645-2, Ovation 417 759-2. Carl Nielsen (1865–1931) Symphony no. 5, op. 50, FS 97 (1920). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 20, 1980. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 15 438 282-2 (published 1993) [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive].

Discography

309

Niccolò Paganini (1782–1840) Concerto for Violin no. 1 in D Major, op. 6. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Moscow, n.d. CD: Great Hall GH 050. Francis Poulenc (1899–1963) Concert Champêtre, FP 49 (1928). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, October 12, 1962. LP: Melodiya D 014775/76, 33M10 39141/42; Eurodisc 28370 XAK. CD: BMG/Melodiya Emil Gilels Edition, Vol. 2 40118-2, BVCX 4081 (Japan); Eurodisc GD 69099. Sergei Prokofiev (1891–1953) Alexander Nevsky, Cantata for mezzo-soprano, chorus, and orchestra, op. 78. Netherlands Radio Philharmonic Orchestra with Carolyn Watkinson (1949–), mezzo-soprano, and Netherlands Radio Choir. N.p., September 6, 1978. CD: BMG Music 74321 308892 (published 1993). Cantata for the 20th Anniversary of the October Revolution, op. 74 (1937). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Ivan Petrov (1920–2003), bass; Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), choirmaster; Russian State Choir; and Wind Orchestra of the M.V. Frunze Academy Accordion Ensemble. Moscow, 1965. LP: HMV ASD 2593; Chant du Monde LDX 78423. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). [2] ORTF National Orchestra. Paris, June 18, 1974. [Origin: radio archive]. Concerto for Piano no. 1 in D-flat Major, op. 10. [1] Moscow Youth Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, 1952. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 021670/71. LP: USRR D-0785-6; Melodiya D 0735/36, D 09897/98, SM 04289/90 (published 1976); Chant du Monde LDY 8122 (17cm); Colosseum CRLP 186; Emi 97786; Eterna 826987; Saga XID 5160, XID 5314. CD: Melodiya Richter Edition, Vol. 8 74321 29468-2; Chant du Monde LDC 278 950; Period SPL 599; Urania 4208. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Rudolf Kerer (1923–), piano. N.p., 1961. Melodiya studio.

310

Discography

CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Multisonic 31 0353-2; Vogue Archives Soviétiques 651024 (published 1991). Concerto for Piano no. 2 in G Minor, op. 14. [1] USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Moscow, [1959?]. LP: Mezhdunarodnaia Kniga DO 4584. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vladimir Ashkenazy (1937–), piano. Royal Festival Hall, London, September 15, 1963. CD: Intaglio INCD 7181. Concerto for Piano no. 3 in C Major, op. 26 (1917/21). [1] USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Moscow, 1955. LP: Melodiya D 2931; ND 04584-04403; Chant du Monde LDS 8218; Eurodisc 302 611/435 (5 LP), 87957 XAK, 27349 XHK; Bruno BR 14007; Mezhdunarodnaia Kniga DO 4584; Monitor MCS 2061; Westminster XWN 18178. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Chant du Monde Emil Gilels Edition LDC 278 978; Eurodisc GD 69098. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Byron Janis (1928–), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, June 8–9, 1962. LP: Mercury 130.525 MLY, 120.525 MLL (mono); AMS 16130; SR 90300; Fontana MGY 130 525; Philips 6513 013. CD: Mercury 434 333-2 (published 1994); Philips Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century, Vol. 51 456 850-2 (published 1999). Concerto for Piano no. 5 in C Major, op. 55. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, May 12, 1967. CD: Stradivarius La légende de S. Richter, vol. 1 10024/26. Concerto for Violin no. 1 in D Major, op. 19 (1917). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947. CD: Allegro Master of the Violin CDO 2010; Lys LYS 356. [2] USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., June 1953. 78t: Melodiya 15181/6; Eurodisc/Melodiya 63951. LP: Melodiya D 03040/1; Monitor MCS 2073E; Everest 3367; Period SHO 338; Saga XID 5160; Westminster XWN 18178; Westminster Gold WGM 8251. CD: Lys LYS 278; Russian Revelation RV 10074; Monitor MCD 62014.

Discography

311

[3] Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1955. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10-00242. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., September 7, 1963. CD: Brilliant Classics 92609/1 (10 CD). [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. Concerto for Violin no. 2 in C Minor, op. 63 (1935). [1] London Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Kingsway Hall, London, November 18, 1955. CD: Testament 1224 (published 2002). [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Moscow, February 28, 1956. LP: Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK 3190-3191; Chant du Monde LDM 8202 (25cm). CD: Russian Revelation 10074; Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Arlecchino Leonid Kogan Legacy, Vol. 4 ARL 9. [3] Naples Symphony Orchestra with Salvatore Accardo (1941–), violin. Naples, April 26 1960. CD: Fonit Cetra 2051; Arkadia CDMP 405.1. [4] ORTF National Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Paris, November 6, 1974. [Origin: radio archive]. Lieutenant Kijé, Symphonic Suite, op. 60 (1933). [1] National ORTF Orchestra. Paris, January 29, 1969. [Origin: radio archive]. [2] NHK Symphony Orchestra. N.p., January 25, 1980. CD: King Records KICC 3061. “Scherzo” and “March” from The Love for Three Oranges. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. Scythian Suite, op. 20. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., December 27, 1973. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 006. [Origin: Pyotr Kondrashin archive collection].

312

Discography

Symphony no. 1 in D Major, “Classical,” op. 25 (1917). [1] Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden. Leipzig, October 1955. CD: Berlin Classics 90512. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., April 5, 1966. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 006. [Origin: Pyotr Kondrashin archive collection]. Symphony no. 3 in C Minor, op. 44 (1928). [1] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 29, 1975. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 16 438 284-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. [2] Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Chicago, n.d. CD: Collector’s Choice Chicago Symphony Orchestra in the Twentieth Century (10 CD). Symphony no. 5 in B-flat Major, op. 100 (1944). NHK Symphony Orchestra. Tokyo, January 30, 1980. CD: King Records. KICC 3062 Symphonia Concertante for Cello and Orchestra, op. 125 (1952). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., December 27, 1972. CD: Brilliant Classics Historic Russian Archives: Rostropovich (10 CD). [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. “Allegro giusto” from Symphonia Concertante for Cello and Orchestra, op. 125 (1952). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., 1966. [Origin: ?]. Giacomo Puccini (1858–1924) “Air de Mimì” from La bohème. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Irina Maslennikova (1918–), soprano. N.p., [1950?]. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 16679/80.

Discography

313

Sergei Rachmaninov (1873–1943) Concerto for Piano no. 1 in F-sharp Minor, op. 1. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Byron Janis (1928–), piano. Conservatoire, Moscow, June 13, 1962. LP: MGY 130, 130.525 MLY, 120525 MLL (mono); AMS 16130; SR 90300; Fontana MGY 130 525, 894 085; Philips 6513 013, 6582 008, 6780 251, 416 193-1. CD: Mercury 434 333-2 (published 1994); Philips Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century, Vol. 51 456 850-2. Concerto for Piano no. 2 in C Minor, op. 18. [1] Moscow Youth Orchestra with Yevgeny Malinin (1930–), piano. N.p., 1952. CD: Vogue Archives Sociétiques VG 651 651002 (published 1991). [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vladimir Ashkenazy (1937–), piano. Walthamstow Assembly Hall, London, September 1963. LP: Decca SXL 6099, 417 265-1; London POCL 5008. CD: Decca Legends 466 375-2 (published 1999), Ovation 425 047-2 (published 1995). [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Rudolf Kerer (1923–), piano. N.p., 1963. CD: Multisonic. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Moscow, 1972. DVD: VAI4454. [Origin: Video recording] Concerto for Piano no. 3 in D Minor, op. 30. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. N.p., April 1958. LP: Melodiya D 04330/31. DVD:VAI4454; Testament SBT1440. [2] Symphony of the Air with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Carnegie Hall, New York, May 19, 1958. LP: RCA 630518, SB 2048, Red Seal LM 2355. CD: RCA 6209 (published 1987); Philips Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century, Vol. 19 456 748-2. [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Yevgeny Mogilevsky (1945–), piano. Moscow, 1966. LP: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) D 014875; Chant du Monde LDXS 8380, LDXS 48380, LDXA 78380. CD: Melodiya 10-00656 (published 1992); Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); MELCD100656 (published 2007).

314

Discography

Concerto for Piano no. 4 in G Minor, op. 40. Moscow Youth Orchestra with Yakov Zak (1913–1976), piano. N.p., 1950. LP: USSR/Dolgoigraushaya D 797-8, D 2544-45. CD: Vogue Archives Soviétiques VG 651 651002 (published 1991). The Bells, choral symphony for soprano, tenor, baritone, and chorus, op. 35 (1913). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Alexei Bolshakov (1914–1979), baritone; Mikhail Dovenman, tenor; Yelizaveta Shumskaya, (1905–1988), soprano; Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), chorusmaster; and Russian State Choir. N.p., 1962. LP: Melodiya SR 40114; Everest Records 3251; Chant du Monde 78.545 (published 1974). CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 32046 2; MELCD1000840. Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, op. 43. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Yakov Zak (1913–1976), piano. Moscow, 1952. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Appian APR6005. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Conservatoire, Moscow, 1972. CD: RCA Victor Red Seal 09026 62695 2 (published 1994). Symphonic Dances, op. 45 (1940). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1963. LP: Melodiya SR 40093, 33 C 0525-26 (published 1970). CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 32046 2; MELCD1000840 (published 2007). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 21, 1976. CD: Emergo Classics EC 3962-2. Symphony no. 2 in E Minor, op. 27. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. N.p., August 29, 1980. CD: “0” “0” “0” Classics TH 056. Symphony no. 3 in A Minor, op. 44. Czech Philharmonic Orchestra. Prague, July 1, 1960. [Origin: ?].

Discography

315

Nikolai Rakov (1908–1990) Concerto for Violin no. 1 in E Minor (1948). USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1948. 78t: Melodiya 015368/74. LP: Colosseum CRLPX 002; Period 709; Ultraphonic 1667. Maurice Ravel (1875–1937) Piano Concerto for the Left Hand in D Major, M. 82. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with Daniel Wayenberg (1929–), piano. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, March 1, 1979. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 14 238 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Daphnis et Chloé. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 30, 1972. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 13 438 281-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Mother Goose Suite. ORTF National Orchestra. Paris, November 6, 1974. [Origin: radio archive]. Rhapsodie espagnole. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1961. LP: Melodiya S0 1783/84. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, January 4, 1971. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 14 438 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. [3] Junge Deutsche Philharmonie. N.p., 1980. CD: Berlin Classics 2159. Tzigane (arr. Ravel), op. 76. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Moscow, 1947. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin.

316

Discography

Moscow, March 15, 1948. LP: Melodiya D 03040/1; Chant du Monde LDM 8173 (25cm); LDXA 8359; Monitor 2073E; Westminster Gold WGM-8251; XWN 18177. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00219; Chant du Monde David Oistrakh Edition, Vol. 8 LDC 278 908; Lys LYS 356; Monitor MCD 72073. [3] Herman Krebbers (1923–), violin. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. RAI Building, Amsterdam, June 17, 1978. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 14 438 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. La Valse, op. 72. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1961. LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 417. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. [3] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 30, 1980. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 14 438 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Ottorino Respighi (1879–1936) Adagio con variazioni (1921). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Chamber Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, 1960. CD: Emi Rostropovich: The Russian Years: 1950–1974 5 72016 2 (13 CD), 5 72297-2 (2 CD). Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov (1844–1908) Capriccio Espagnol, op. 34. RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra with Oscar Shumsky (1917–2000), violin. Manhattan Center, New York, October 29, 1958. LP: RCA Victor VICS 1007, LM 2323; JVC JMXR-24013; Chant du Monde LDYA8091. CD: RCA Living Stereo 09026 63302-2, Planets 74321 17899-2 (published 1994). Concerto for Piano in C-sharp Minor, op. 30. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano.

Discography

317

Moscow, February 17, 1950. 78t: Melodiya 017956/59. LP: Melodiya 04683/84; Chant du Monde LDY 8127 (17cm); Everest 3393; Monitor MC 2131E; Saga XID 5314; Vedette VMC 3019; VSC 4019. CD: BMG/Melodiya Richter Edition, Vol. 8 74321 29468-2; BVCX 4058 (Japan); Chant du Monde LDC 278 950; Urania 4208. “Air of Sadko” from Sadko Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor. N.p., 1950. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod). Scheherazade, op. 35. [1] Radio France Philharmonic Orchestra. Paris, May 19, 1978. [Origin: radio archive]. [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with Herman Krebbers (1923–), violin. N.p., June 27–28, 1979. LP: 9500 981 (published 1980). CD: Universal/Philips The Originals 475 7570, 100 Classiques 454 550-2, Solo 442 643-2. The Snow Maiden (1882). [1] Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Alexei Ivanov (1904–1982), baritone; Sergei Lemeshev (1902–1977), tenor; Irina Maslennikova (1918–), soprano; Maxim Mikhailov (1893–1971), bass; and Nadezhda Oboukhova (1886–2000), mezzo-soprano. N.p., 1943. LP: Melodiya. CD: Aquarius. [2] Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus N.p., 1952. CD: Vista Vera VVCD 00180 (published 2007). The Tsar’s Bride (1899). Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Alexei Ivanov (1904–1982), baritone. N.p., 1945. CD: Preiser 89067. Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921) Concerto for Piano no. 2 in C Minor, op. 22 (1868). USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano.

318

Discography

N.p., May 11, 1948. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 016649/54. LP: Melodiya D 1478-79, D 0351-3817, M10 39141/42; Club International du disque CID 45; Eurodisc 28370 XAK; Vanguard VRS 6015; VOX PL 16 400. CD: Omega OCD 1029 (published 1998); Russian Revelation RV 10014 (published 1996). Concerto for Piano no. 5 in F Major, “Egyptian,” op. 103. [1] Moscow Youth Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, 1952. LP: Melodiya D 019039/40, M10 45197; Chant du Monde LDX 78 699, LDA 8128; Monitor S-2004 (published 1957); Vedette VMC 3019, VCS 4019; Jocker SM 1080 (published 1969). CD: BMG/Melodiya Richter Edition, Vol. 6 74321 29466-2; BVCX 4060 (Japan); Monitor MCD 72004; Urania SP 4213 (published 2003). [2] Radio France Philharmonic Orchestra with Bernard Ringeissen (1938–), piano. Paris, May 19, 1978. [Origin: radio archive]. Concerto for Violin no. 3 in B Minor, op. 61. Orchestre de Paris with Pierre Amoyal (1949–), violin. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, March 29, 1980. [Origin: Pirate]. Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso in A Minor, op. 28. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1947. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 16274/75; Colosseum 249. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10 00219; Lys LYS 356. Phaéton, op. 39 (1873). Radio France Philharmonic Orchestra. Paris, May 19, 1978. [Origin: radio archive]. Franz Schubert (1797–1828) Fantasy for Piano in F Minor (arr. Kabalevsky), D. 940. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. N.p., October 12, 1962. CD: Jimmy Classics OM 03-110.

Discography

319

“The Magic Harp,” D. 644, overture from Rosamunde. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. N.p., November 20, 1980. CD: Tahra TAH 501-502 (published 2003). [Origin: NPS radio archive]. Robert Schumann (1810–1856) Concerto for Violoncello in A Minor, op. 129. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., n.d. LP: Everest 3391. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mikhail Khomitzer (1935–), violoncello. N.p., 1961. CD: Vogue Archives Soviétique 651 010 (published 1991). [3] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Daniel Shafran (1923–1997), violoncello. N.p., 1957. LP: Melodiya D 01195/6; Vanguard VRS-6028. CD: Multisonic 310180 (published 1993); Omega Classics OCD 1026. Alexander Scriabin (1872–1915) Concerto for Piano in F-sharp Minor, op. 20. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Dmitry Bashkirov (1931–), piano. N.p., 1960. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999). “Prefatory Action” from Mysterium (restored by Alexander Nemtin), (1913). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Alexei Lyubimov (1944–), piano; Irina Orlova, organ; and USSR State Academic Chorus. N.p., March 16, 1973. LP: Emi/Melodiya SR-40260. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 59477 (published 1998); Russian Compact Disc 16301 (published 1996); Russian Disc 11004 (published 1994); EMI. Symphony no. 3 in C Minor, “Le Divin Poème,” op. 43. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, February 12, 1976. CD: Etcetera KTC 1027 (published 1984). Rodion Shchedrin (1932–) Concerto for Orchestra no. 1, “Naughty Limericks,” op. 26 (1963). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra.

320

Discography

Moscow, November 17, 1963. CD: Melodiya 74321 49125-2. Merry Ditties. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., n.d. LP: Angel “Not Love Alone,” suite from the opera Not Love Alone, op. 28 (1964). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Irina Arkhipova (1925–), mezzo-soprano. Moscow, 1964. LP: Melodiya C10 24545, A10 00389; HMV-Melodiya ASD 3447. CD: Melodiya 74321 49125-2. Dmitry Shostakovich (1906–1975) “The Bolt,” suite from the ballet The Bolt, op. 27a. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, May 13, 1980. [Origin: Pirate]. Concerto for Violin no. 1 in A Minor, op. 99. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Moscow, 1962. LP: Melodiya D 8451/52; Victor VIC-5089. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Russian Disc RD CD 11 025. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., 1964. CD: Supraphon Giants of the Violin SU 3005-2 001 (published 1995). [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., October 3, 1966. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10084. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 18, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 046. Concerto for Violin no. 2 in C-sharp Minor, op. 129. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Moscow, September 13, 1967. LP: Melodiya D 021405/6, S 01627/8, 33 C 10-06907-08; MEL 410; Angel/ Melodiya 40064; HMV ASD 2447; Eurodisc 63951; Chant du Monde LDX A 78 415.

Discography

321

CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); RCA The Essential David Oistrakh 74321 72914-2 (published 2000); BMG/Melodiya SUCD 10-00242; Chant du Monde LDC 278882; Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Russian Disc RD CD 11 025; Eurodisc GD 69084; Icone ICN 9408-2; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). DVD: VAI 4473. [2] Baden-Baden Symphony Orchestra with György Pauk (1936–), violin. Coblenz, January 13, 1981. [Origin: radio archive]. Concerto for Violoncello no. 1 in E-flat Major, op. 107 (1959). [1] Czech Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., May 29, 1960. CD: Intaglio INCD 7251 (published 1992). [2] USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Natalia Gutman (1942–), violoncello. Conservatoire, Moscow, June 21, 1976. CD: Live Classics LCL 202 (published 2000). The Execution of Stepan Razin, op. 119. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vitaly Gromadsky (1928–), bass; Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), chorusmaster; and Russian Republic Choir. Moscow, 1966. LP: HMV ASD 2409; Chant du Monde LDXA 78 376. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Hamlet, op. 32. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., n.d. LP: MK. Overture on Russian and Kirghiz Folk Themes, op. 115 (1965). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Prague, October 14, 1964. CD: Praga PR 250 040 (published 1993). The Sun Shines Over Our Motherland, op. 90. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with USSR State Academic Chorus, Russian Republic Choir, and Moscow Children’s Choir. Moscow, 1965. LP: HMV.

322

Discography

CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). The Complete 15 Symphonies (1961–1975). LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 621/34 (published 1976); EMI SLS 5025; Victor VICC-40094/103. CD: Chant du Monde LDC 278 1003; BMG/Melodiya 7432 119 952-2; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 1 in F Minor, op. 10 (1925). [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra. N.p., 1951. CD: Omega OCD 1031. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1972. LP: Chant du Monde LDA 8044 (25cm); Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) D0408/49; Eurodisc. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198482; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 2 in B-flat Major, “October,” op. 14 (1927). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Russian Republic Choir and Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), chef de choir. Moscow, 1972. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321198442; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 3 in E-flat Major, “First of May,” op. 20 (1929). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with USSR State Academic Chorus and Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), chef de choir. Moscow, 1972. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198452; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 4 in C Minor, op. 43 (1934/36). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1962. LP: Melodiya ASD 2741; Chant du Monde LDXA 8327/28, LDXA 78 413/14. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 198402; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [2] Orchestre de Paris. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, March 29, 1980.

Discography

323

[Origin: Pirate]. [3] Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden. Dresden, 1963. CD: Profil PH6023. Symphony no. 5 in D Minor, op. 47 (1937). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1964. LP: Melodiya 364 503, R 40004, C 0909; Chant du Monde LDX 8371; Eurodisc 73627 MK. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198452; Chant du Monde 2781003/04 (published 1988); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 6 in B Minor, op. 54 (1939). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 18, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 046. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1967. LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 595/96 (published 1976); Melodiya MEL 410; Angel/Melodiya SR 40064; Victor VICC-40094/103. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198472; Chant du Monde 2781003/04 (published 1988); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [3] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, January 21, 1968. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 15 438 282-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. [The debut concert by Kondrashin with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra.] [4] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, December 20, 1968. CD: RCO Live Anthology of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, Vol. III. [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. [5] Lucerne Festival Orchestra. Lucerne, 1979. [Origin: radio archive]. Symphony no. 7 in C Major, op. 60 (1941). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1975. LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 595/96 (published 1976); HMV ASD 3441-2. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 19839 2; Chant du Monde LDC 27881003/04 (published 1988); Victor VICC-40094/103; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006).

324

Discography

Symphony no. 8 in C Minor, op. 65 (1943). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1961. LP: Melodiya CM 03583-4; HMV/Melodiya ASD 2474. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198412; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Prague, September 29, 1969. CD: Praga PR 250 040 (published 1993). [3] ORTF National Orchestra. Théâter des Champs-Élysées, Paris, January 29, 1969. [Origin: radio archive]. [4] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, n.d. [Origin: radio archive]. Symphony no. 9 in E-flat Major, op. 70 (1945). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1965. LP: Melodiya 01109-10; Chant du Monde LDXA 78 376; Victor SMK-7507; Eurodisc 85 314 MK. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198462; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, March 6, 1980. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 16 438 284-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. [3] Junge Deutsche Philharmonie. N.p., 1980. CD: Berlin Classics 0021572BC. Symphony no. 10 in E Minor, op. 93 (1953). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Radio Moscow Concert Hall, Moscow, October 20, 1973. LP: Chant du Monde Musiques de notre temps LDX 78 629 (published 1976). CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 19847 2; Icone ICN 9426-2 (published 1994); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 11 in G Minor, “The Year 1905,” op. 103 (1957). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1973. LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 577; HMV ASD 3010.

Discography

325

CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 198432; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 12 in D Minor, “The Year 1917,” op. 112 (1961). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1972. LP: Melodiya S 04713/14; HMV ASD 3520. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198392; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). Symphony no. 13 in B-flat Minor, “Babi Yar,” op. 113 (1962). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vitaly Gromadsky (1928–), bass and Male Voice Choir of the USSR State Academic Chorus. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, December 20, 1962. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Russian Disc RDCD 11191. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vitaly Gromadsky (1928–), bass, and Male Voice Choir. N.p., 1963. CD: Moscow State Conservatory SMC CD 0018. [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Vitaly Gromadsky (1928–), bass, and Male Voice Choir. N.p., Moscow, [November 20, 1965?]. LP: Philips/Everest 3181. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Artur Eizen (1927–), bass; Alexander Yurlov (1927–1973), chef de choir; and USSR State Academic Chorus. Moscow, 1967. LP: Chant du Monde LDX 78 500 (published 1973); Eterna 8 26 456 (published 1974). CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 19842 2; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [5] Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra with John Shirley-Quirk (1931–), bass, and Bavarian Radio Male Voice Choir Herkullesaal, Munich, December 18–19, 1980. LP: Philips 27PC-54. Symphony no. 14 for soprano, bass, string orchestra, and percussion, op. 135 (1969). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Evgeniya Tselovalnik, soprano, and Evgeny Nesterenko (1938–), bass. Moscow, 1974. CD: RCA/Melodiya 74321 198442; Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006).

326

Discography

Symphony no. 15 in A Major, op. 141 (1971). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Paris, November 16, 1972. [Origin: radio archive]. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Radio Moscow Concert Hall, Moscow, May 27, 1974. LP: Eterna 826 776; Eurodisc/Melodiya 88793 MK. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 198462; Icone ICN 9408-2 (published 1994); Melodiya MELCD 1001065 (published 2006). [3] Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden. Dresden, 1973. CD: Profil PH06065. Shostakovich Violin Concerto No. 2 David Oistrakh, Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, 1968 Shostakovich Symphony No. 15 Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, 1972 ALC 1062 Jean Sibelius (1865–1957) Concerto for Violin, op. 47. Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra with Gidon Kremer (1947–), violin. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, n.d. [Origin: Netherlands Radio]. Symphony no. 2 in D Major, op. 43. [1] ORTF National Orchestra. Paris, November 6, 1974. [Origin: radio archive]. [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. N.p., March 1, 1979. CD: Tahra TAH 501-502 (published 2003). [Origin: NPS radio archive]. Symphony no. 3, op. 52 (1904/7). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, April 4, 1977. CD: Globe GLO 6011 (published 1992). [Origin: Pyotr Kondrashin archive]. Symphony no. 5, op. 82. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, November 7, 1973.

Discography

327

CD: Globe GLO 6011 (published 1992). [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 21, 1976. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 11 438 279-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive]. Bedrich Smetana (1824–1884) The Bartered Bride, JB 1:100. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor; Anatoli Ivanovich Orfenov (1908–1987), tenor; M. Schegolkov (1905–1981), bass; Elena Shumilova (1913–), soprano; and Mikhail Skazin, (1905–?), baritone. N.p., 1945. LP: Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK DO 045-50; Concert Hall CHS 1318. “Air of Jenik” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor. N.p., 1947. CD: Preiser 89081. “Aria of Marenka” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Irina Maslennikova (1918–), soprano. N.p., 1950. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) V19114/15. “Duo of Jeneka and Kecala” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with B. O. Geft, tenor and V. F. Rajkov, baritone. N.p., 1950. 78t: Muztrest 7119. “Duo of Jenik with Svata” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor, and Nikolay Schegolkov (1905–1981), baritone. N.p., 1950. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) V16524/25. “Duo of Marenka and Jenik,” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor, and Elena Shumilova (1913–), soprano. N.p., 1947. CD: Preiser 89081.

328

Discography

“Polka: Furiant and danse” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus. N.p., 1950. 78t: Komitet po radiofikacii i radiovesaniu 253/255. “Scene of Finn with Ruslan” from The Bartered Bride. Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Georgy Nelepp (1904–1957), tenor, and Ivan Petrov (1920–2003), bass. N.p., 1950. CD: Preiser 89081. Richard Strauss (1864–1949) Don Quixote, op. 35. USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello, and L. Dvoskin, alto. No dates available for Dvoskin Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, March 12, 1964. CD: Emi Rostropovich: The Russian Years: 1950–1974 5 72016 2 (13 CD), 5 72297 2; Russian Revelation 10088; Russian Disc RD CD 11 009 (published 1994). A Hero’s Life, op. 40. Philadelphia Orchestra. Philadelphia, October 24, 1980. [Origin: radio archive]. Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971) Concerto for Violin in D Major. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., February 8, 1963. CD: Brilliant Classics 92609/1 (10 CD); Russian Revelation RV 10075. [Origin: Gostelradiofund archive]. Four Etudes for Orchestra (1914/29). Junge Deutsche Philharmonie. N.p., 1980. CD: Berlin Classics 2157. Petrushka (1947). [1] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, February 8, 1973. CD: Philips Collector Limited Edition, Vol. 12 438 280-2 (published 1993). [Origin: Radio Netherlands NOS archive].

Discography

329

“Russian Dance” from Petrushka. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. Georgy Sviridov (1915–1998) Concerto Oratorio (1959). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Margarita Isakova (1936–), mezzo-soprano; Alexander Vedernikov, 1927–), bass; and Russian Chamber Choir. N.p., 1975. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Melodiya SUCD 10-00232. Kursk Songs (1964). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Anatol Lagutin, tenor; Marina Valkovskaya, mezzo-soprano; Motja Zlatopolsky, bass; and USSR State Academic Chorus. N.p., [1965?]. LP: HMV. Sergei Taneyev (1856–1915) Suite de Concert, op. 28. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., n.d. LP: Melodiya; Disques Acropole APCC 60.047. Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840–1893) Capriccio Italian RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra. Manhattan Center, New York, October 29, 1958. LP: RCA Victor VICS 1007; RCA LM 2323; JVC JMXR 24013. CD: RCA Living Stereo 633022. Act I (extracts no. 2, 3, 5, and 9) from Casse Noisette, op. 71. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., March 29, 1978. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 009. Concert Fantasy for Piano in G Major, op. 56. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Tatiana Nikolayeva (1924–1993), piano. N.p., 1950.

330

Discography

CD: Multisonic 31 0238-2 (published 1994); Vogue Archives soviétiques 651 015 (published 1991); Appian APR5666. Concerto for Piano no. 1 in B-flat Minor, op. 23. [1] Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Moscow, November 1948. CD: Lys. [2] RCA Victor Symphony Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Carnegie Hall, New York, May 30, 1958. LP: RCA Red Seal ARP 1441; RCA LM 2252; LSP 2252. CD: RCA 0786355912, Red Seal RD 85912; Philips Great Pianists of the Twentieth Century, Vol. 19 456 748-2. SACD: RCA Living Stereo SACD 82876-61392-2 (published 2004). [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–), piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, April, 1958. DVD: Testament SBT 1440 (published 2008). [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Van Cliburn (1934–) piano. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, 1962. CD: Melodiya MELCD10000250. DVD VAI4452 (published 2008). [5] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Svyatoslav Richter (1915–1997), piano. Moscow, April 9, 1968. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10057. [6] Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra with Martha Argerich (1941–), piano. Radio Hall, Munich, February 7–8, 1980. LP: Philips NM 21730, 6514 118 (published 1982), 411 057-1. CD: Philips 446 673-2 (published 1995). [Origin: Bavarian Radio archive]. Concerto for Piano no. 2 in G Minor, op. 44. [1] Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Leningrad, November 1948. LP: Vedette VSC 4035. CD: Great Hall 052; Dante HPC 102; History 204567 (published 2000). [2] London Philharmonic Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. BBC Maida Vale Studio 1, London, February 23, 1959. [Origin: BBC Radio archive (broadcast: June 6, 1959)]. [3] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Emil Gilels (1916–1985), piano. Moscow, December 23, 1959. CD: Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga MK 417106 (published 1993).

Discography

331

Concerto for Violin in D Major, op. 35. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1957. LP: Melodiya D 03820/21; Chant du Monde LDS 8167, LDXS 8349; Melodiya/ Eurodisc 77 297. CD: BMG/Melodiya 74321 17084 2; Melodiya SUCD 10-00239. [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Nelly Shkolnikova (1928–), violin. N.p., 1959. CD: Doremi DHR-7819. [3] ORTF National Orchestra with Victor Tretyakov (1946–), violin. Paris, December 2, 1976. [Origin: radio archive]. [3] Radio France Philharmonic Orchestra with Isaac Stern (1920–2001), violin. Paris, May 13, 1980. [Origin: radio archive]. “Air of Kochubeï” from Mazeppa, (1881–83). Bolshoi Theatre Orchestra and Chorus with Alexei Ivanov, baritone. N.p., 1946. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) EL CCCP 13672/73. Pezzo Capriccioso for Violoncello in B-flat Minor, op. 62. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. Moscow, 1960. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 018611/12. CD: Pearl 9981. Romeo and Juliet. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., n.d. CD: Melodiya MELCD1000956. Serenade for Strings. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., n.d. CD: Melodiya MELCD1000955. Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto David Oistrakh USSR SSO, 1968 Stereo MELCD 1000239

332

Discography

Sérénade Mélancolique for Violin in B-flat Minor, op. 26. [1] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. Moscow, 1945. 78t: Melodiya D 12982/5. LP: Colosseum CRLP 110. CD: Melodiya SUCD 10-00239; Doremi D. Oistrakh Collection, Vol. 6 DHR 7742 [2] Philharmonia Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Studio One, Abbey Road, London, February 27, 1959. LP: Emi CFP 40040. CD: Testament SBT 1224 (published 2002); Emi Artist Profile 7 67732 2 (published 1993); Doremi DHR 7742. Suite no. 3 in G Major, op. 55. [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., February 1, 1962. LP: Melodiya D 10041. CD: Icone 9425 (published 1994); Melodiya MELCD1000955. [2] Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, November 24, 1974. CD: Emergo Classics EC 3962-2. Souvenir d’un lieu cher from Méditation, op. 42 (1878). USSR State Symphony Orchestra. N.p., n.d. CD: Brilliant Classics Leonid Kogan Edition (10 CD). Symphony no. 1 in G Minor, “Winter Daydreams,” op. 13 (1868). NHK Symphony Orchestra. Tokyo, January 30, 1980. CD: King Records KICC-3062. Symphony no. 4 in F Minor, op, 36 (1878). ORTF National Orchestra. Paris, December 2, 1976. [Origin: radio archive]. Symphony no. 5 in E Minor, op. 64 (1888). Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra. N.p., January 24, 1978. CD: “0” “0” “0” Classics TH 033.

Discography

333

Symphony no. 6 in B Minor, “Pathétique,” op. 74 (1893). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Royal Festival Hall, London, October 9, 1965. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. [2] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 4, 1967. CD: Altus ALT 019. [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., March 29, 1978. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 009. [4] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Moscow, 1967. CD: Melodiya MELCD1000956 (published 2007). Variations Rococo in A Major, op. 33 (1877). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Daniel Shafran (1923–1997), violoncello. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, 1948. 78t: CCCP 20215/23. LP: Melodiya D 035383/84, C10 04913-14 (published 1974). CD: Triton DICC-20017 (published 2002). [2] USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Natalia Shakhovskaya (1935–), violoncello. N.p., 1963. CD: Russian Compact Disc 16203 (published 1995). [3] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Mstislav Rostropovich (1927–2007), violoncello. N.p., n.d. LP: Everest 3391. Boris Chaykovsky (1925–1996) Concerto for Violoncello (1964). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, September 4, 1966. CD: Emi Rostropovich: The Russian Years: 1950–1974 5 72016 2 (13 CD). Symphony no. 2 (1967). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1969. CD: Russian Disc 11063.

334

Discography

Theme and 8 variations (1978). [1] Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., November 5, 1978. CD: Globe Kondrashin in Concert GLO 6 006. [Origin: Pyotr Kondrashin collection archive]. [2] Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden, N.p., n.d. CD: PH06065. Mieczysław Weinberg (1912–1996) Concerto for Violin in G Minor, op. 67 (1959). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, February 19, 1962. LP: Melodiya D 08529, CM 02693-4; Melodiya M10-49479-001; Chant du Monde LDX 78 421, LDX 78 516; Emi ASD 2755. CD: Olympia OCD 622 (published 1997). Symphonietta no. 1. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Royal Albert Hall, London, October 9, 1965. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. Symphony no. 4 in A Minor, op. 61 (1957). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1974. LP: Melodiya D 10069, CM 02693-4; Emi ASD 2755; Chant du Monde LDX 78 421, LDX 78 516. CD: Russian Disc RDCD 11006 (published 1993); Olympia OCD 622 (published 1997); Venezia CDVE 43218; Melodiya MELCD 1000986. Symphony no. 5 in F Minor (dedicated to Kirill Kondrashin), op. 76 (1962). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. N.p., 1962. LP: Melodiya D 12081. CD: Venezia CDVE43218 (published 2004); Russian Disc RDCD 11006. Symphony no. 6 in A Minor (1963). Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Moscow Children’s Choir. Grand Hall, Conservatoire, Moscow, 1974. LP: Melodiya C 01267-68, D 17687-88. CD: Olympia OCD 471 (published 1994); Melodiya MEL 10 00986. Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901) “Air of Gilda” from Rigoletto.

Discography

335

USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Vera Mikhajlovna Firsova (1918–), soprano. N.p., [1950?]. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 16551/52. “Ballade of the Duke of Mantua” from Rigoletto. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Sergey Lemeshev (1902–1977), tenor. N.p., [1950?]. 78t: Melodiya (Aprelevskij Zavod) 11748. Henri Vieuxtemps (1820–1881) Concerto for Violin no. 5, op. 37. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. N.p., February 22, 1952. LP: Westminster SWN 18228. CD: Russian Revelation 10018 (published 1996); Brilliant Classics Leonid Kogan Edition (10 CD). Giovanni Battista Viotti (1755–1824) Concerto for Violin no. 22 in A Minor. USSR State Symphony Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974), violin. N.p., 1948. LP: Melodiya D 026211/12; Ariola-Eurodisc XA 85 315. Antonio Vivaldi (1678–1741) Concerto for Two Violins and Strings in A Minor, op. 3, no. 8, Rv. 522. with David Oistrakh (1908–1974) and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violins. N.p., n.d. LP: Bruno 14019. Concerto for Two Violins and Strings in D Minor, Rv. 514. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974) and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violins. N.p., May 17, 1961. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10039 (published 1997). Concerto for Three Violins and Strings in F Major, Rv. 551. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Yehudi Menuhin (1916–1999), David Oistrakh (1908–1974), and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violins. Royal Albert Hall, London, September 28, 1963. CD: BBC Magazine. Richard Wagner (1813–1883) “Prelude” to Act III from Lohengrin.

336

Discography

Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra. Tokyo Bunka Kaikan, Tokyo, April 20, 1967. CD: Altus Encore Collection ALT 020. Franz Waxman (1906–1967) Carmen Fantasie. USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Leonid Kogan (1924–1982), violin. Moscow, 1956. LP: MK/Melodiya A 03098-03450. CD: Lys LYS 568-573 (published 1999); Triton. Carl Maria von Weber (1786–1826) Konzertstück for Piano and Orchestra in F Minor, op. 79, J. 282 (1821). USSR Radio and Television State Symphony Orchestra with Robert Casadeséus (1899–1972), piano. RAI Auditorium, Turin, May 6, 1960. LP: Fonit Cetra LAR 18; Longanesi Periodici; I grandi concerti GCL-46. CD: Fonit Cetra 2051. “Overture” from Oberon. Royal Festival Hall, London, September 28, 1963. [Origin: BBC Radio archive]. Eugène Ysaÿe (1858–1931) Amitié for Two Violins and Strings, op. 26. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with David Oistrakh (1908–1974) and Igor Oistrakh (1931–), violins. N.p., May 17, 1961. CD: Russian Revelation RV 10039. Extase for Violin, op. 21. Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra with Rosa Fain (1929–), violin. N.p., n.d. LP: HMV/Melodiya ASD 3237.

Bibliography

WORKS BY KIRILL KONDRASHIN Die Kunst Des Dirigierens. Munchen: Piper, 1983. Kirill Kondrashin rasskazyvaet o muzike i zhizni. Edited by Vladimir Razhnikov. Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1989. Mir Dirizhera. Edited by Vladimir Razhnikov. Leningrad: Muzika, 1976. O dirizherskom Iskusstve. Edited by Sophia Mikhailovna Khentova. Leningrad: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1970. O Dirizherskom Prochtenii Simfonii P. I. Chaikovskovo. Leningrad: Muzika, 1978.

ARTICLES BY KIRILL KONDRASHIN “K 60-letiy K. P. Kondrashina, Razmyshleniye o Professii.” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974), 50–63. “Moy vstrechi s Shostakovichem.” In Dmitry Shostakovich: stat i i materialy. Edited by G. M. Shneerson. 86–97 Moscow: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1976. “Muzika iYeyo Zhizn v Narode.” Sovetskaya Muzika 3 (March 1974), 61–62. “Razmyshleniya o Professii.” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974), 50–58. “Yavleniye Unikalnoye.” Sovetskaya Muzika 7 (July 1975), 57–58.

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Antonov-Ovseenko, Anton. Teatr Iosifa Stalina. Moscow: Gregory-Page, 1995. Asafyev, B.V. “Myaskovsky kak symphonist.” In Isbranniye Trudi Akademik B. V. Asafyev, t. 1. Edited by T. N. Livanova. Moscow: Academia Nauk SSSR, 1952. Asafyev, B. V. Vosmaya simfoniya Shostakovicha. Moscow: Moskovskaya Filarmoniya, 1945. Bogdanova, A. Muzika I Vlast. Moscow: Naslediye, 1995. Braun, Eduard. Meyerhold: A Revolution in Theatre. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1995. Clark, Katerina and Evgeny Dobrenko. Soviet Culture and Power: A History in Documents, 1917–1953. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007. Dolmatovsky, Evgeny. Bylo: zapiski poeta: novye stranitsy. Moscow: Sov. pisatel, 1982. Figes, Orlando. The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin’s Russia. London: Allen Lane, 2007. Fitzpatrick, Sheila. “Cultural Revolution as Class War.” Chap. 6 in The Cultural Front. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992. Gaakel, Leonid. “Iz Nablyudenii nad Konzertnoy Zhisnyu Leningrada 5–60 godakh.” In Muzika I Muzikanty Leningrad. Leningrad: Sovetsky Kompositor, 1972. Ginzburg, Lev. Izbrannoye, Dirizhori I Orkestri. Moscow: Muzika, 1963. Glikman, I. Pisma k Drugu. Moscow: DSCH, 1993. Gorchakov, Nikolay. The Theatre in Soviet Russia. Translated by E. Lehrman. New York: Columbia University Press, 1957. Hakobian, Levon. Music of the Soviet Age: 1917–1987. Stockholm: Melos Music Literature, 1998. Heyworth, Peter. Otto Klemperer: Volume 1, 1885–1933: His Life and Times. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Ivanov, Konstantin Konstantinovich. Volshebstvo Muziki. Moscow: Sovetskaya Rossiya, 1983. Kennedy, Michael. The Hallé, 1858–1983: A History of the Orchestra. Dover, NH: Manchester University Press, 1982. Khrennikov, Tikhon. Tak eto bylo: Tikhon Khrennikov o vremeni i o sebe. Moscow: Muzika, 1994. Kozlov, Leonid. “A Hypothetical Dedication.” In Eisenstein Revisited. Translated by H.Lovgren. Stockholm, 1987. Kozintsev, Grigory. V. Meyerhold: Sobranie sochinenii v 5 tomakh: tom 2. Leningrad, 1983. Laqueur, Walter Z. and George Lichtheim., ed. The Soviet Cultural Scene 1956– 1957. New York: Atlantic Books, 1958. Lenin, V. I. A. V. Lunacharsky: vospominanie i vpechatlenie. Moscow: Sovetskaya Rossia, 1968.

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JOURNALS Aleshin, S. “Teatr vremeni-Iosifa, Nikity i Leni,”Ogonek 28 (May 2001). Danilevich, L. “Nachalo konzertnovo sesona.” Sovetskaya Muzika 12 (December 1965), 103–106. Ginzburg, L. “Zametki o Bostonskom Orkestre.” Sovetskaya Muzika 11 (November 1956), 110–113. Grinberg, Moshei. “Redaktsionniye besedi.” Sovetskaya Muzika 1 (January 1968), 19–21. Grosheva, E. “Obnovlennaya Klassika.” Sovetskaya Muzika 3 (1976), 35–48. Kozhevnikova, Nadezhda. “Drugaya Zhizn?” Sovetskaya Kultura 17 (April 27, 1991). Khaikin, Boris. “Kak my rabotali.” Sovetskaya Muzika 5 (May 1975), 88–93. V. Kukharsky, “Vdokhnovenny muzikant, blestyashii artist.” In A. Sh. MelikPashayev vospominaniya statyi materiali, edited by R. V. Glezer and A. A. Melik-Pashayeva (Moscow: Muzika, 1976), 7–17. Kuznetsov, K. “Neskolko zamechanii k postanovke operi Bela.” Sovetsky Artist 5 (October 1946). Lebedinsky, L. “Proizvedeniye D. Shostakovicha.” Sovetskaya Muzika 12 (December 1956), 97–99. Neuhaus, Heinrich. “Blesk talanta.” Izvestiya 129 (May 30, 1964), 5. Neuhaus, Heinrich. “Moi Vpechatleniya.” Sovetskaya Kultura 6 (1958), 3. Neuhaus, Heinrich. “Van Cliburn.” Sovetskaya Kultura 80 (July 7, 1960). Razhnikov, V. and V. Uritsky. “Vysokaya Missiya Dirizhera.” Sovetskaya Muzika 4 (April 1974), 50–63.

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ARCHIVE MATERIALS Archive of the Central Committee Apparatus of the CPSU Central Archive of the FSB of the Russian Federation Central Museum of Musical Culture, 2000. Dmitry Shostakovich v pis’makh i dokumentakh. Edited by Irina Bobikina. Moscow: Glinka State Netherlands Music Center, The Hague Nolda Broekstra archive Russian State Archive of Literature and Arts

Index

Abendroth, Hermann, 18, 23 Abramov, Georgy, 21 Adamov, Lev, 115 Alterman, Mark, 33, 38 Alexandrov, Anatoly, 38, 89 Alexandrov, Boris, 94–96 Akutagawa, Yasushi, 185 Anderson, Marian, 23 Anisimov, Alexander, 105 Anosov, Nikolay, 160 Ansermet, Ernest, 23 Apostolov, Pavel, 220 Argerich, Martha, 273, 274 Arnold, Malcolm, 120, 169 Arnstam, Lev, 35 Asafyev, Boris, 15, 21, 34, 38, 45, 92, 93, 203 Ashkenazy, Vladimir, 188, 190, 268, 269 Atovmyan, Levon, 203 Babadjanyan, Arno, 180 Babel, Isaac, 19, 34 Bach, J. S., 46, 48, 108 Balakirev, Mily, 189 Balmont, Konstantin, 178 Balzac, Honore de, 36 Baratov, Leonid, 89

Barbirolli, Sir John, 167 Barshay, Rudolf, 156, 208, 210 Barsova, Valeriya, 86, 93, 103, 105 Bartok, Bela, 18; interpretation of, 190, 193, 194, 200, 205, 207 Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, 254, 273, 277, 278 Bedny, Demian, 33 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 3, 11, 23, 53, 90, 109, 19, 26, 31, 66, 68, 69, 73, 75, 130, 164, 226, 246, 252, 254, 270, 273, 274, 276 Beethoven String Quartet, 210 Belotserkovsky, Mitrofan, 120, 156, 165, 170, 256 Benes, 134 Berezovsky, Lev, 65 Berg, Alban, 149 Berlin, Anisim, 91 Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, 190, 280 Berlioz, Hector, 253, 280 Beria, Lavrenty, 184 Bernstein, Leonard, 250 Birman, Serafimova, 10 Bizet, Georges, 28, 35 Bliss, Sir Arthur, 209 Blok, Alexander, 46 Bobrovskaya, Lyubov, 103, 104 343

344

Index

Bogino, Georgy, 137 Bolshakov, Alexander, 118 Borisenko, Vera, 85, 97, 98 Borisov, Yuri, 255 Borodin, Alexander, 103 Borodin Quartet, 268 Boston Symphony Orchestra, 143 Boulez, Pierre, 108, 183 Boult, Sir Adrian, 108, 220 Braginsky, 16 Brahms, Johannes, 130, 216, 219, 221, 226, 246, 273, 275 Braun, Edward, 48 Brezhnev, Leonid, 185, 186, 154, 255 Brik, Osip, 41, 85, 86 Brik, Lilya, 85 Britten, Sir Benjamin, 166, 167, 222 Broekstra, Nolda, 261–67, 270, 279– 282 Bruckner, Anton, 25, 89, 212, 230, 279 Budenny, Marshal, 13 Bulgakov, Mikhail, 23 Bunin, Revol, 202, 244 Carnegie Hall, 120, 129, 139, 161 Chagal, Mark, 17 Chissel, Joan, 238 Cleveland Orchestra, 244, 255 Colonne, Eduard, 85 Concertgebouw Orchestra, 283 Conservatoire, Moscow, 10, 11, 14, 16–19, 25 Chaykovsky, Boris, 144, 154, 189, 243, 263 Chaplin, Charles, 232 Chekhov, Anton, 8 Chekhov, Mikhail, 7 Chekhova, Olga, 94, 96, 97 Cheremnykh, Mikhail, 48 Cheremukhin, 87 Cherepnin, Nikolay, 13 Cherubini, Luigi, 43 Chopin, Frederick, 8, 11, 12, 14, 242, 261 Chulaki, Mikhail, 105, 110, 203

Cliburn, Van, 217–221, 223, 224, 226, 229–31, 246, 285 Coates, Albert, 20, 25 Coldstream Guards, 158 Columbia Artists, 129 Cooper, Emil, 15 Cortot, Alfred, 118 Curzon, Clifford, 119 Dankevich, Konstantin, 49 Dargomyzshky, Alexander, 20, 49 Davidenko, Alexander, 11 Davis, Angela, 224 Davydova, Vera, 88, 96 Debussy, Claude, 183 Decca Limited, 192, 193, 273, 274 Del Marr, Norman, 157 Delibes, Leo, 49 Delitsev, Sergey, 6 De Beer, Anton, 265 De’Falla, Manuel, 18 Dikii, Alexey, 32, 35, 84 Dokshitser, Timofey, 110 Dolidze, Viktor, 96 Dolmatovsky, Yevgeny, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18 Dolukhanova, Zara, 154 Dombrovsky, Nikolay, 96 Dorati, Antal, 157 Dorliak, Nina, 31 Dmitryev, Alexander, 83, 88, 99, 103 Dranishnikov, Vladimir, 44, 45 Dresden, Staatskapelle, 96, 181 Dubinsky, Rostislav, 177, 263, 269 Dudarova, Veronika, 141, 215 Dunayevsky, Mikhail, 87 Duncan, Isadora, 9 Durer, Professor, 282 Dvorak, Antonín, 142, 228, 273, 275 Dzherzhinsky, Ivan, 11, 30, 44, 51, 55, 80 Edlina, Lyuba, 263 Egk, Werner, 33 Ehrenberg, Ilya, 108, 132

Index

Eisenhower, Dwight, 124 Eisenstein, Sergey, 33, 88 Eizen, Artur, 209, 210 Ekskusovich, Vladimir, 32, 81 Elgar, Sir Edward, 94, 156, 257 Eliasberg, Karl, 34, 39, 40 Enesco, Georges, 170 Erkel, Ferenc, 96 Fain, Rosa, 125, 171, 272, 273, 280, 281 Faktorovich, Nikolay, 115 Fayer, Yuri, 8, 109, 137, 197 Fedorov, Leonid, 76 Fedoseyev, Vladimir, 256 Feldt, Pavel, 40, 42 Fenster, Pavel, 41, 42 Feurbach, 166 Fibich, Zdenek, 230 Figes, Orlando, 8 Fliyer, Yakov, 154, 158 Fournier, Jean, 19 Franck, Cesar, 59, 96, 164, 192, 193 Fried, Oscar, 24, 28, 180, 253 Fruman, Naum, 271 Furtseva, Ekaterina, 146, 186–188, 190, 232–236, 247–250, 259 Furtwangler, Wilhelm, 174 Gaakel, Leonid, 148 Gabovich, Mikhail, 65, 71 Gagarina, Varvara, 68, 69 Gauk, Alexander, 20, 51, 69, 80, 93, 100, 130, 148, 158, 184, 196, 210, 283 Gëdike, Alexander, 19, 88 Gelfont, Lazar, 135, 136 Geringas, David, 281 Gibson, Sir Alexander, 157 Gieron, Wolfgang, 264, 265, 273, 277, 278 Gilels, Emil, 59, 114, 117, 120, 127, 128, 136, 143, 165, 170, 260, 275 Ginzburg, Lev, 12, 109 Glazounov, Alexander, 14, 20, 48, 114

345

Glezer, Rosa, 215 Glière, Reinhold, 13, 49, 58 Glikman, Isaak, 212 Glinka, Mikhail, 24, 48, 94, 196, 203, 241 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 26 Gnessin, Mikhail, 14, 97 Gnessina, Elena, 97 Goethe, Wolfgang, 83, 94, 118 Goldenweiser, Alexander, 39, 50, 89, 130 Golovanov, Nikolay, Semenovich, 5, 6, 22, 24, 25, 28, 30, 32, 85, 88–92, 96, 103, 111, 115–120, 122, 132–135, 140, 149, 160, 168, 283 Goldstein, Boris, 49 Golovin, Dmitry, 75, 81, 106 Golubev, Yevgeny, 14 Gorki, Maxim, 202 Goryaninov, 46, 47, 85, 86 Gotseridze, Sergey, 78 Gounod, Charles, 65 Grach, Eduard, 114 Greenfield, Edward, 209 Gretry, Andre, 138 Grieg, Edvard, 65, 118, 131 Griffiths, Paul, 275, 276 Grikurov, Eduard, 50, 76, 77 Grikurov, Sophia, 115 Grinberg, Moshei, 135, 136, 165, 166, 187, 198, 199, 203 Grishin, Viktor, 272 Gromadsky, Vitaly, 203, 204, 206, 209, 211–214 Grossmann, Eric, 8 Gutman, Theodor, 8 Guzman, Boris, 167 Guzman, Isaak, 215, 227, 228, 256 Hadzibekov, Uzeir, 39 Haitink, Bernard, 183, 270, 277–279 Halle Orchestra, 155 Harrison, Terry, 269, 270 Harvey, Trevor, 293 Haydn, Joseph, 39, 80, 116, 260, 277

346

Index

Heifetz, Jascha, 19, 116, 169, 170 Heuwekemeijer, Piet, 266 Heward, Leslie, 54 Hindemith, Paul, 17, 156, 157, 162, 180, 223, 245 Hochhauser, Victor, 127, 154, 155, 286 Hodzha-Einatov, Leon, 39 Hoffman, Albert, 141 Hoffman, Josef, 121 Holst, Gustav, 109 Hurok, Sol, 139 Israel Philharmonic Orchestra, 289 Ivanov, Alexei, 95 Ivanov, Andrey, 87, 140 Ivanov, Konstantin, 31, 38, 50, 96–98, 101, 102, 110, 111, 118, 128, 134, 139, 145, 189, 190, 214, 230, 265, 283 Ivanov, Yevgeny, 98 Janis, Byron, 170, 171 Jarvi, Neemi, 282 Kagan, Oleg, 116 Kakhidze, Jansug, 256 Kalinnikov, Vassily, 160 Kamenev, Lev, 2 Kandelaki, Vladimir, 18 Karajan, Herbert von, 69, 245 Karayev, Kara, 159, 215, 216 Katayev, Valentin, 91 Katulskaya, Elena, 84, 97 Kerkhoff, Hans, 261–263 Kershner, Lidiya, 45 Khachaturyan, Aram, 19, 46, 67, 88, 89, 104, 105, 185, 195, 220, 213, 245, 246 Khaikin, Boris: teaching of, 14, 15, 26, 27, 32, 33, 36, 46; disagreement with, 59, 60; personality of, 60, 93, 106, 107, 109, 110, 113, 114, 171, 201, 218 Khalip, Boris, 224–26

Khanaev, Nikandr, 4, 76, 77, 89 Khrapchenko, Mikhail, 66, 69, 72, 90, 105, 230 Khrennikov, Tikhon, 33, 77, 106, 154, 187 Khromchenko, Solomon, 89 Khrushchev, Nikita, 100, 187, 188, 205, 252 Kilchevsky, Vitaly, 107 Kirov, Sergei, 96 Kirov Theatre, 39, 93, 110 Kitaenko, Dmitry, 215, 256 Kleiber, Erich, 11, 19, 21, 253 Klemperer, Otto, 7, 8, 11, 19, 20, 25, 27, 29, 31, 32, 35, 137, 253 Kletzki, Paul, 150 Koloshin, Grigory, 230 Kabalevsky, Dmitry, 23, 44, 48, 55, 78, 93, 127, 239 Kerzhentsev, Platon, 28, 29, 38 Kirilenko, Andrey, 185, 250 Knappertsbusch, Otto, 19 Knushevitsky, Svyatoslav, 79, 83, 94, 95, 107, 108, 111 Kon, Felix, 11, 19 Kosygin, Alexei, 187, 188, 189, 191 Kovalenko, Alexander, 98, 91 Kozintsev, Grigory, 211 Kogan, Alexander, 41 Kogan, Leonid, 114, 126, 127, 144, 169, 170, 221, 222, 260, 275 Kolomaitseva, Tatyana, 89 Kondrashin, Pyotr, 1–7, 83, 84 Kondrashin, Kirill: birth of, 3; early childhood, 4, 5; education of, 6, 13, 14; at Bolshoi Theatre, 7, 8; at Moscow Conservatoire, 25, 26; at Nemirovich-Danchenko Theatre, 35, 36; at Maly Theatre, 45, 58–61, 80–84; at Bolshoi Theatre, 85, 144; at Moscow Philharmonic, 167, 240; relations with Van Cliburn, 217–220; relations with David Oistrakh, 84, 240; death of, 282, 283 Kondrashin, Andrey, 271, 283

Index

Kondrashin, Pyotr, Kirillich, 270, 271, 275, 282, 283 Kondrashin, Sergey, 271, 283 Kondrashina (Tamina), Anna, 2–4, 6–9, 18, 19 Kondrashina, Nina Leonidovna, 127, 221, 261, 264–267, 271, 283 Koonen, Alissa, 39 Korneyev, Alexander, 114 Korovina, Maria, 96 Koussevitsky, Serge, 1–3, 25, 76, 109, 127, 136, 152, 247, 267 Koval, Marian, 11 Kozintsev, Grigory, 33 Kozlovsky, Ivan, 72, 87, 88, 96, 104, 105, 116–118, 127 Kramarev, Nikolay, 83 Kramskoy, Ilya, 97 Kremer, Gidon, 241, 258 Krasovsky, Sergey, 89 Krebbers, Herman, 262, 263, 272, 274 Krenek, Ernst, 19, 89 Kruglikova, Elena, 88, 99 Krupskaya, Nadezhda, 225 Kukharsky, Vasily, 208 Kyung Wha Chung, 273 Lalo, Eduard, 85 Lavrovsky, Sergey, 41, 42 Layton, Robert, 202, 232 Lear, Edward, 158 Lemeshev, Sergey, 25, 75, 82, 89, 92, 97, 98, 104–107 Lenin, Vladimir, 3, 80, 109, 114, 166, 196, 197, 253 Leningrad, Philharmonic Orchestra, 161, 162, 195, 197–199, 219 Lepeshinskaya, Olga, 76 Lermontov, Mikhail, 88 Levitin, Yuri, 144 Liberman, Viktor, 125 Lisitsian, Pavel, 29, 89 Liszt, Frantz, 49, 90, 142, 143, 171 London Philharmonic Orchestra, 215, 229, 290

347

London Symphony Orchestra, 142, 143 Lubotsky, Mark, 280, 281 Lunacharsky, Anatoly, 3, 4, 19 Lupu, Radu, 120 Lyadov, Anatoly, 114, 160 Lyamin, Pyotr, 32, 33, 81 Lyatoshinsky, Sergey, 13, 39 Lyubimov, Yuri, 254 Maazel, Lorin, 149 Mahler, Gustav, 47, 62, 149, 249–252, 254, 261, 262, 274, 279–282 Maksakova, Maria, 86–88, 96 Makarova, Nina, 78 Malko, Nikolay, 14, 40, 90 Mann, William, 257, 276 Markevitch, Igor, 138 Markiz, Lev, 115, 280–282 Marx, Karl, 166 Maslennikova, Irina, 82, 83, 91, 109 Maslennikova, Leonikada, 99 Matsov, Roman, 215 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 21, 38, 49 Mayhew, Sir Christopher, 157 Mazurov, Kirill, 255 Melik-Pashayev, Alexander, 30, 67–69, 25, 37, 43–46, 55, 68–71, 83, 89, 100, 111, 189, 214, 283 Melodiya record company, 144, 170, 190, 209, 210, 220, 232, 241, 288 Mendelssohn, Felix, 52, 116, 128, 169, 223, 249, 250 Mengelberg, Willem, 272 Menuhin, Yehudi, 158 Mercury Records, 171 Merimée, Prosper, 19 Messaien, Olivier, 108 Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 10, 20, 32–35, 54, 78, 133, 138 Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga, 128 Michelangeli, Arturo Benedetti, 120, 163–165 Michelangelo, David, 228 Mikhailkov, Boris, 84, 95, 107, 111, 116–118, 121

348

Index

Mikhailov, Maxim, 82, 92, 109, 114, 121, 127, 129–131 Mikhailov, Mikhail, 103, 104, 113 Mikhoels, Samuil, 3 Mikoyan, Anastas, 185 Millington, Barry, 279 Miroshnikova, Margarita, 222 Mirzoyan, Eduard, 160 Mogilevsky, Evgeny, 180, 275 Molotov, Vyacheslav, 21, 35, 85 Monteux, Pierre, 128 Monuisko, Stanislav, 84 Moscow Arts Theatre, 8, 34, 84, 86, 97 Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra, 180, 276 Mossolov, Alexander, 17, 29 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 17, 18, 23, 28, 36, 38, 40, 41, 100, 104, 126, 155, 156, 180, 223, 260, 270, 252, 273, 277 Mravinsky, Yevgeny Alexandrovich, 40, 47, 48, 50, 55, 56, 59, 80, 86, 110, 114, 128, 134, 141, 145, 155, 161, 178, 182, 195, 196, 202, 204, 214, 231, 256, 260, 283 Mshvelidze, Dmitry, 98 Myaskovskaya, Valentina, 64 Myaskovsky, Nikolay, 13, 20, 49, 50, 62, 63, 64, 109, 110, 150, 170 Munch, Charles, 140, 262 Muradeli, Vano, 75, 97 Musin, Ilya, 84 Musorgsky, Modest, 35, 38, 49, 87, 85, 160, 168, 213, 222 Muti, Ricardo, 261 Nebolsin, Vasily, 85, 87, 91, 92 Nechipailo, Viktor, 203, 205 Nekhlyudov, Pavel, 114 Nelepp, Georgy, 44, 65, 89, 91, 101, 102 Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir, 19, 32, 33, 52, 83 Neuhaus, Heinrich, 34, 37, 38, 117, 118, 163, 164

Nezhdanova, Antonina, 3, 94, 96–98 Nikisch, Artur, 21, 23, 39 Nikolay I, 1 Nikolayev, Alexey, 142 Nikolayeva, Tatyana, 116, Nikonchuk, Kirill, 114 Nixon, Richard, 224 North German Radio Symphony Orchestra, 279, 280 Nortsov, Panteilemon, 72 Nureyev, Rudolph, 268, Oborin, Lev, 8, 32, 44, 117, 120 Obukhova, Nadezhda, 89 Offenbach, Jacques, 49 Ognivtsev, Konstantin, 99 Oistrakh, David, 43, 61, 62, 84, 91, 96, 107, 108, 164, 174, 175, 187, 190, 193, 197, 201, 206, 212; Shostakovich Second Concerto, 211, 217, 219, 224, 228, 229, 254, 268, 272, 290, 294; death of, 245, 248 Oistrakh, Igor, 154, 155, 157, 160 Olesha, Yuri, 24, 34 Ordzhonikidze, Sergo, 95 Orfenov, Anatoly, 89 Orlov, Alexander, 23, 28, 80, 170 Ormandy, Eugene, 200, 209, 210, 274 Ostrovsky, Alexander, 82 Otdelinov, Vladimir, 167 Ots, Georgy, 249 Paliashvili, Zakhary, 29 Panova, Sophia, 81 Paperno, Dmitry, 111, 119, 123, 124, 179, 271 Parrott, Jasper, 269 Part, Arvo, 223 Paschenko, Andrey, 47–49, 51 Pasovsky, Ariy, 24, 34, 58, 66, 72, 74, 76, 77, 70, 82, 89, 99, 104, 151, 174, 185, 283 Pasternak, Boris, 1, 25, 58, 87, 95, 119, 208, 234, 295, 249; meeting with, 8 Patti, Adelina, 80

Index

Paverman, Mark, 38 Peiko, Nikolay, 190 Persimfans orchestra, 9–11 Pertsev, Igor, 91, 125 Petri, Egon, 118 Petrov, Andrei, 242 Petrov, Ivan, 82, 203, 211, 212 Philadelphia Orchestra, 200, 201 Philips Record Company, 143, 193, 201, 274, 282 Picasso, Pablo, 27 Pirogov, Alexander, 82, 87–88, 98, 104 Pirogov-Oksky, 98 Planquette, Robert, 29 Podkaminer, Madame, 41 Pokrovsky, Boris, 33, 83, 86, 90, 91, 94, 96, 98, 104–110, 120, 122, 124–128, 132, 133, 135, 139, 141, 142, 194, 208, 268, 269 Polekh, Valery, 93 Polovinkin, Leonid, 8, 39 Pommier, Jean-Bernard, 275 Popov, Alexei, 206, 207 Popov, Gavriil, 18 Potter, Tully, 274 Poulenc, Francois, 162 Poulver, Lev, 2 Preis, Yulia, 24 Preobrazhenskaya, Olga, 39 Previn, Andre, 278, 279 Prokofiev, Sergey, 8, 13, 21, 27, 29, 63, 88, 96, 101, 108–110, 130, 155, 182, 186, 189, 228, 253, 258, 273 Provatorov, Gennady, 91, 25, 196 Pshibyshevsky, Bronislav, 15, 18 Puccini, Giacomo, 42, 86, 190 Pugachev, Emelian, 56 Pushkin, Alexander, 29 Pyatigorsky, Gregor, 170 Rabinovich, Nikolay, 43, 215 Rachmaninov, Sergey, 13, 58, 88, 118, 154, 155, 162, 182; Interpretation of Symphonic Dances, 190–192, 193, 198, 233, 258

349

Radlov, Sergey, 29 Raeburn, Christopher, 273 Rakhlin, Nathan, 38, 110, 134, 138, 114 Rakov, Nikolay, 14 Ravel, Maurice, 85, 116, 156, 168, 223, 250, 275, 276 Razhnikov, Vladimir, 264, 282 Reiner, Fritz, 220 Reizen, Mark, 34, 62, 77, 78, 86, 88, 100–102, 108, 113, 114 Reshetin, Mark, 222 Revutsky, Dmitry, 39 Richter, Svyatoslav, 56, 104, 114, 117, 124, 128, 142, 143, 145, 164, 165, 195, 196, 268 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolay, 3, 13, 19, 25, 30, 32, 36, 52, 65, 87, 92, 109, 154, 165, 174, 240, 274 Rogal-Levitsky, 83, 84 Rossini, Giacomo, 23, 86, 98, 235 Rostropovich, Leopold, 115 Rostropovich, Mstislav, 115, 144, 154, 163, 170, 195, 226–230, 255, 256, 269 Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, 268, 269 Rozhdestvenskaya, Natalia, 25, 102 Rozhdestvenskaya, Vera, 48, 52 Rozhdestvensky, Gennady, 90, 97, 102, 155, 200, 256, 272 Rozhdestvensky, Vsevolod, 48 Ryndin, Valery, 98 Rubinstein, Anton, 76, 118 Rubinstein, Artur, 121, 161, 163 Ruffo, Titto, 96 Sadie, Stanley, 163 Sadovskaya, Larissa, 288 Sakharov, Semyon, 75 Saltykov-Shchedrin, Nikolay, 47–51 Samama, Leo, 261 Samosud, Samuil, 26, 28, 38, 39, 43, 45, 48, 49, 83, 86–93, 95, 108, 140, 148, 283 Sanderling, Kurt, 18, 42 Saradzhev, Konstantin, 17

350

Index

Satz, Natalia, 8, 23 Savelev, Boris, 39, 45 Scarlatti, Domenico, 175 Schelkov, Boris, 91 Scherbachev, Vladimir, 49, 80 Scherbakova, Alexandra, 79 Scherchen, Hermann, 17, 19, 48 Schnabel, Arthur, 21, 118 Schoenberg, Alfred, 108 Schubert, Franz, 48, 118, 157, 223 Schumann, Robert, 7, 119, 120 Schwartz, Lev, 46 Scriabin, Alexander, 11, 68 Sebastyan, Georges, 19, 28, 137 Selivanov, Pyotr, 80 Sëngar, Eugen, 19, 137, 253 Serebryakov, Pavel, 96 Serov, Alexander, 71, 79–81, 92, 93, 97–100 Shafran, Daniel, 115, 144, 154, 230 Shalman, Boris, 199 Shalyapin, Fyodor, 48, 82, 94, 173, 267, 268 Shaporin, Yuri, 24 Shatsky, Stanislav, 17 Shauro, Boris, 272 Shchedrin, Konstantin, 3, 11 Shchedrin, Rodion, 144, 154, 158, 189, 235, 244 Shebalin, Vissarion, 15, 31, 49, 59, 73, 86 Shein, Karol, 230 Shepilov, Dmitry, 121 Sheremetyev, Count, 1 Sherman, Issay, 40, 47 Shikova, Mariya, 3 Shirley-Quirk, John, 278 Shlepyanov, Ilya, 48, 50 Shkolnikova, Nelli, 114 Shneerson, Georgy, 145 Sholokhov, Mikhail, 45, 212 Shostakovich, Dmitry, 13, 21; Lady Macbeth premier, 26–30, 33–35, 37; Fifth premier, 47–50, 51, 63, 64, 78, 79; First Symphony, 81–83, 92, 97,

101, 102, 104, 105, 109, 110, 129, 130, 135–37; Fourth Symphony, 142, 147–49, 159; Thirteenth Symphony, 174, 176, 178; Eighth Symphony, 179, 181, 183, 189, 192, 194, 199, 200, 207, 208; Fourth Symphony, 209–10; Thirteenth Symphony premier, 212–17; Execution of Razin premier, 218, 219; Second Violin Concerto premier, 221–24; Fourteenth Symphony, 224–26; Eighth Symphony, 230–33; Fifteenth Symphony, 234–237; death of Shostakovich, 237–240, 245, 246, 252, 254, 258, 259, 268; Thirteenth Symphony, 278, 279, 283 Shostakovich, Irina, 258 Shostakovich, Maxim, 220–224 Shpiller, Natalya, 87, 88, 97, 95 Shtange, Nadezhda, 84 Shteinberg, Lev, 48, 87 Sibelius, Jean, 242, 270 Simonov, Konstantin, 95 Simonov, Ruben, 31, 33 Simonov, Yuri, 215 Sinaisky, Sergey, 274 Slonimsky, Sergey, 213 Smetana, Bedrich, 42, 79, 84, 90 Smolenskaya, Yevgeniya, 77 Smolich, Nikolay, 26, 46 Sobinov, Leonid, 23, 84 Sobolevsky, Lev, 114 Sokolova, Natalia, 90 Sollertinsky, Ivan Ivanovich, 43, 59–61, 78, 80, 109, 198 Solodar, Cesar, 81 Solodovnikov, Alexander, 88–90, 103, 107, 109–13 Soloviov-Sedoi, Vladimir, 44, 80 Spendiarov, Alexander, 87 Spivakov, Vladimir, 116 Stalin, Iosif, 38, 52–54, 119, 120, 125, 132–34, 139–45, 150, 151, 153, 155, 156, 158–160, 163, 164, 180–87, 225, 284

Index

Stanislavsky, Vladimir, 16, 22, 23, 26, 33, 39, 73 Starokademsky, 49 Staroselsky, 11, 12, 14, 16, 22, 23 Stein, Galina, 266 Steinberg, Lev, 3, 4, 45, 46 Stepanova, Elena, 3, 84 Stern, Isaak, 104, 116, 117, 282 Stiedry, Fritz, 19, 21, 42, 43, 197, 198, 253 Stolyarov, Grigory, 20, 25, 26, 31, 32 Steinway Pianos, 131 Stock, Leonard, 58 Stokowski, Leopold, 56, 68, 167–69, 200 Strauss, Johann, 60 Strauss, Richard, 28, 34, 156, 226, 237 Stravinsky, Igor, 4, 18, 27, 47, 49, 58, 72; Interpretation of Petrushka and Rite of Spring, 145, 146, 156, 252 Suk, Vyacheslav, 3, 23, 65, 82, 97 Suslov, Mikhail, 249 Svetlanov, Yevgeny, 90, 107, 189, 190, 219, 256, 257 Sviridov, Georgy, 174, 189, 243 Tairov, Alexander, 32, 34 Talich, Vaclav, 17, 21 Taneyev, Sergey, 58, 59 Tarasenko, Sergey, 64, 65, 67 Tarasova, Alla, 249 Tchaikovsky, Pyotr Ilyich, 6, 10, 13, 31–33, 45, 50, 62, 92, 100, 103, 151, 154, 156, 158–62, 167, 169–71, 180, 181, 184, 187, 192, 225, 228, 235, 236, 254, 263, 272, 274 Temirkanov, Yuri, 268, 169, 210, 215 Terian, Mikhail, 79 Tennstedt, Klaus, 280 Thibaud, Jacques, 230 Timofeyev, Nikolay, 16 Tolansky, Jon, 258, 259 Tolstoy, Lev, 118 Toscanini, Arturo, 135, 261 Tracey, Edmund, 159

351

Treder, Leonard, 96, 97 Tretyakov, Viktor, 225 Trotsky, Lev, 66 Tsarev, Mikhail, 8 Tseitlin, Lev, 86 Tukhachevsky, Mikhail, 13 Yaroshevsky, Adolph, 3 Yenukidze, Sergey, 11 Unger, Heinz, 19, 23, 51–55 Vakhtangov, Mikhail, 31, 32 Vainberg, Moshei, 144, 154, 157, 189, 202, 243 Van Dantzig, 267 Van Royen, 267 Vartanyan, Ruben, 78, 207 Vasilenko, Sergey, 58, 77 Vaughan-Williams, Ralph, 109, 156 Verdi, Giuseppe, 3, 29, 40, 43, 49, 77, 80, 184, 222 Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, 181, 278 Vincent, Jo, 265 Vinogradov, Konstantin, 8, 9, 11, 12 Vinogradova, Svetlana, 173 Virsaladze, Elisso, 254 Vishnevskaya, Galina, 99, 167, 256, 269 Vitachek, Fabii, 11 Vladimirov, Lev, 222 Voloshinov, Viktor, 30 Vondel Park, 270 Voroshilov, Marshal, 11, 70, 85, 94, 99 Westerveld Cemetery, 282 Wagner, Richard, 11, 40, 43, 78, 168, 237, 276 Walter, Bruno, 17, 58, 121, 200 Walton, Sir William, 94, 109, 156 Weisberg, Julia, 45 Weber, Carl Maria von, 54, 268 Weingartner, Felix, 21, 276 Williams, Pyotr, 21 Wood, Sir Henry, 158

352

Yansons, Arvids, 215 Yevtushenko, Yevgeny, 202, 204, 207, 208, 211, 256 Ysaye, Eugene, 171 Yudin, Gavriil, 111 Yudin, Mikhail, 46 Yudina, Mariya, 95, 106, 116, 145 Yurasovsky, Alexander, 61 Yutkevich, Sergey, 29 Zakharevich, Ilya, 61 Zavetnovsky, Viktor, 57 Zeitlin, Lev, 4, 6 Zimerman, Kristian, 272

Index

Zhadan, Ivan, 96 Zhdanov, Andrey, 76, 87, 89 Zhelobinsky, Valery, 35, 39 Zhilyaev, Nikolay, 11, 12, 14, 16, 19, 58 Zhivotov, Alexey, 23 Zhuk, Valentin, 60, 124, 136, 139, 223, 251 Zhukov, Georgy, 255 Zhukov, Mikhail, 23, 39 Zhukovsky, Herman, 89, 90, 101, 102 Zhukovskaya, Glavira, 77 Zolotov, Andrey, 200, 285 Zon, Boris, 45 Zykina, Ludmila, 249, 250

About the Author

Gregor Tassie was born in Bristol, England, in 1953 and studied at Glasgow University, graduating in engineering, music, and Russian. From 1977 until 1986, he worked in Moscow and, in 1991, was artistic director of the Prokofiev Centenary Festival, which was held in Scotland. Between 1992 and 2002, he worked as a concert agent in the United Kingdom. He has written articles on music and musicians in numerous magazines and journals, including Gramophone and Musical Opinion, and for CD booklets. He has also worked as a consultant for BBC Radio and TV, including on a DVD documentary film on the distinguished conductor Yevgeny Mravinsky. His biography on Mravinsky was published by Scarecrow Press in 2005. He currently teaches in Glasgow, Scotland, and is doing research on the composer Nikolay Myaskovsky.

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