Shostakovich's Preludes and Fugues 9780300149449

Citation preview

SHOSTAKOVICH’S PRELUDES AND FUGUES

shostakovich ’s

Mark Mazullo

preludes and fugues CONTEXTS, STYLE, PERFORMANCE

New Haven & London

Copyright © 2010 by Yale University. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. Set in Scala Roman type by The Composing Room of Michigan, Inc. Printed in the United States of America. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mazullo, Mark, 1967– Shostakovich’s Preludes and fugues : contexts, style, performance / Mark Mazullo. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-300-14943-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Shostakovich, Dmitrii Dmitrievich, 1906–1975. Preliudii i fugi, op. 87, piano. I. Title. ML410.S53M43 2010 786.2⬘18928—dc22 2009041418 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my parents, Anthony and Theresa (Lukasik) Mazullo, whose generosity, humor, sense of adventure, and deep care for others have always inspired me.

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contents

Preface ix Acknowledgments xv Part I

1

Contexts

Shostakovich and the Challenges of Interpretation 3 Lost in Translation • The Naked Heart • Essential Truths

2 Placing the Preludes and Fugues 13 Understanding the 1948 Resolution • Public and Private • Wasted Labor • Analyses and Metaphors 3

The Cycle as a Whole 27 Back to Bach • Shostakovich and the Russian Contrapuntal Tradition • Strange Bedfellows • Shostakovich’s Earlier Preludes, Without Fugues

Part II

The Preludes and Fugues

4 Personalities in Pairs 53 The Self Seeking Substance • No. 1 in C Major • No. 2 in A Minor • No. 9 in E Major • No. 10 in C-sharp Minor • No. 15 in D-flat Major • No. 16 in B-flat Minor 5

Slow Tendencies 105 The Poetics of Enstrangement • No. 4 in E Minor • No. 6 in

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viii Contents

B Minor • No. 8 in F-sharp Minor • No. 12 in G-sharp Minor • No. 13 in F-sharp Major • No. 14 in E-flat Minor 6 Active Surfaces 153 Outbursts and Thrill Rides • No. 3 in G Major • No. 5 in D Major • No. 7 in A Major • No. 11 in B Major • No. 17 in A-flat Major • No. 21 in B-flat Major 7 Completing the Cycle 194 Listening for the Plot • No. 18 in F Minor • No. 19 in E-flat Major • No. 20 in C Minor • No. 22 in G Minor • No. 23 in F Major • No. 24 in D Minor Part III The Living Work of Art

8

The Ethics of Expression: Towards a Performance History 239 Embracing Clichés • The Phobia of Expression • The Performance as the Work • Sentimental and Ideological Traditions • Performance, Sincerity, and Authenticity Notes 261 Select Discography 271 Credits 273 Index 277

preface

I claim no direct connection to Dmitri Shostakovich. I did not experience the conditions of life in the Soviet Union that so richly and controversially contextualize his music. I was not present at any premieres of his work; I never witnessed his nervous fidgeting during such events, nor did I feel the tremendous emotional catharsis that his music brought to his fellow citizens of the totalitarian state. I have not been a Shostakovich family friend, a professional colleague, or even a bystander on the margins of his magnetic orbit. For all intents and purposes, Shostakovich and I are strangers. Or are we? The first time I heard Shostakovich’s music—indeed, the first time I consciously registered his name—was in January 1988, when I was an undergraduate student of music in Washington, D.C. Still new to the world of “classical music” (no one else in my family had been a musician, and I had only recently been exposed to the wonders of Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms), I decided to supplement my education with season subscriptions to the Washington Opera and the National Symphony Orchestra. On the NSO’s schedule that season was a performance of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 13, “Babi Yar,” conducted by the ensemble’s music director, Mstislav Rostropovich. This music, with its distinctly Russian bass soloist and men’s choir, both baffled and bewitched me. On the one hand, its strange harmonies, gripping orchestral effects, and declamatory text setting were all alien to me; my musical education had not yet exposed me to anything like this. On the other,

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the music was overpoweringly fresh and alive, directly communicative, fully accessible. I felt unprepared yet captivated. In tandem with the musical rush, the poetry of Yevgeniy Yevtushenko left me with a dreadful yet somehow exciting sense of my own historical naïveté: who were these suffering people, where were these controversial landmarks, why would a composer choose such subjects for a symphony? Soaking all of this up, I was ignorant of, or at least insensitive to, the fact that the conductor that night had been one of the composer’s closest friends and colleagues in the Soviet Union. Within days, I was deeply involved in a quest to absorb as much of Shostakovich’s music as my schedule would allow—the Seventh and Fifth Symphonies, the Piano Quintet, and the opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District became early favorites. It was not long before I found, at a local music store, the score of his Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues for Piano, Opus 87. I happened at the time to be learning, as all undergraduate piano students do, a couple of the preludes and fugues from J. S. Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. I can still vividly recall lying in bed at night with snippets of the jaunty subject from the first book’s Fugue in C-sharp Major buzzing around in my head while I tried to fall asleep. As if Bach’s complexities weren’t enough, I soon asked my teacher if I could supplement my study of these baroque preludes and fugues with one from Shostakovich’s cycle. Though unfamiliar with this music himself, he consented (probably simply delighted at this new student’s enthusiasm, as I now realize, having students of my own), and with my first read-through of the similarly frenetic Prelude and Fugue No. 11 in B Major, the seeds of this book were sown. Thus Shostakovich’s music has been a constant part of my musical life from the beginning, as a performer and as a writer about music. I have since learned about Babi Yar, the siege of Leningrad, the Soviet avant-garde of the 1920s, and Soviet cultural life during the Thaw. I have traveled to Russia several times, and to Shostakovich-related archives elsewhere, to examine manuscripts and other documents. I’ve taught semester-long seminars on Shostakovich and lectured to audiences of the Minnesota Orchestra and St. Paul Chamber Orchestra about Russian music. At the piano, the tangible results of Shostakovich’s creative and intellectual labor have passed through

Preface xi

my brain, arms, and fingers, resulting in sounds and expressions for which we both bear some responsibility. I have, in other words, collaborated with Shostakovich. We are indeed colleagues, fellow seekers of that most elusive of entities, musical meaning. I am thus also, for better or for worse, a caretaker of Shostakovich’s legacy. This legacy turns out to be a precious and dangerous cargo. Utter the name Dmitri Shostakovich in many circles, and you’ll quickly encounter the powerful forces of myth-making that have characterized the reception of his art since the 1920s. Former citizens of the Soviet Union, and Russians in general, tend to bring the issue of national identity to the table right up front: the late-eighteenth-century concept of the Volksgeist—the spirit of a people as defined by language—continues to do important cultural work today. Only those who have experienced life as Shostakovich experienced it, the argument goes, can “really understand” this music. In even more emphatic terms, equally fraught with questions of identity, professional musicians who knew Shostakovich personally or were a step or two removed from his direct circle will impose their authority on matters relating to performance practice and interpretation. Their “understanding” of Shostakovich and his musical intentions is seen to trump all alternative readings. Divisions have been most intense in the realm of Shostakovich’s biography, as evidenced in the many bitter disputes in print that have raged since his death in 1975, largely centering upon, but by no means limited to, the imbroglio surrounding the 1976 publication of Testimony, Solomon Volkov’s purported edited volume of Shostakovich’s dictated memoirs.1 The investment in ascribing meaning to Shostakovich’s music begins with the facts of his life: identifying, naming, classifying the kind of man he was is the first step towards making sense of his art. Performing, studying, and teaching his music necessitates making one’s way through these thickets. Writing a book about him has often meant having to challenge notions of pedigree and expertise, and to rely more firmly on music’s infinite modes of accessibility and truth. For me, and I hope for many people who perform and teach classical music, no meaningful hierarchy exists between occupying the same space

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and time as Shostakovich the person and the physical act of bringing his music to life. It’s a matter of apples and oranges, different realms of inquiry and meaning. One might even go so far as to claim that bringing his music to life is profoundly more meaningful, for sometimes close connections can get in the way, and thus close off an interpreter (a performer, a listener, or a commentator) from the variety of what is possible. All performers and interpreters of Shostakovich’s work are witnesses to his world. When it comes to music, these traditional physical and intellectual boundaries dissolve. We can chronicle the Soviet Union with facts and words, but the music presents its own living history in the abstract. This book, the first in English devoted entirely to Shostakovich’s TwentyFour Preludes and Fugues for Piano, is best described as a work of criticism. It is not a book for musicologists or music theorists, although it rests solidly upon foundations such scholars have laid. And it is not for those wishing to see any particular set of critical-interpretive values reinforced at the exclusion of others. It does not, in other words, purport to prove anything about Shostakovich or his music. Instead, it is aimed towards those who wish to supplement their efforts in performing, teaching, or listening to Shostakovich’s music with a critical and (I hope) imaginative guide. My approach to music has always been influenced by my love of literature. Readers will notice immediately that the sources of my critical inspiration are located equally in musical and literary realms. I employ, for instance, Lionel Trilling’s distinction between sincerity and authenticity in the book’s final chapter as a way of explaining the conflicting traditions in the performance history of Shostakovich’s work. Elsewhere, I suggest that Viktor Shklovsky’s notion of “enstrangement” (ostraneniye) can help us understand Shostakovich’s particular expressive language. And I refer to Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending in exploring questions of meaning and expression in the cycle’s final stages. The relationship between literature and music is, of course, endlessly complex and fascinating, and I certainly acknowledge the many difficulties in making such connections. But like Joseph Kerman, another musicologist interested in exploring the intersections be-

Preface xiii

tween scholarship and criticism, I believe that “prose cannot track the immediacy of aesthetic experience. But prose can cozy up to it, suggest it, create an aura about it that heightens sensitivity. . . . We accept that words will often fall flat, if sometimes they can provide light, insight.”2 By necessity, the mysteries of musical meaning will never be truly revealed; this should not, however, deter us from attempting to pry something loose from this most imposing of edifices. Readers may travel through this book by any number of paths. In Part I (Chapters 1 through 3), I offer some potential contexts for better appreciating the Preludes and Fugues, ranging from the cycle’s relationship to Bach’s contrapuntal keyboard music to its place within the culture of midcentury Soviet musical life. While these chapters contain occasional reference to musical details, they are designed to be accessible to a general audience. Those without a background in musical theory may wish to read these chapters and then skip ahead to the final chapter, which contains little musical detail and instead concerns itself with the performance history of the Preludes and Fugues. The book’s core, Part II (Chapters 4 through 7), is composed of twentyfour essays, one on each of the preludes and fugues in Shostakovich’s cycle. Some of these essays are more technical than others, but they all assume some basic understanding of music theory. They are aimed primarily towards students and teachers of this music, pianists, and listeners who wish to delve into some of the details of each piece in the cycle. Rather than arranging the essays in the order dictated by the cycle itself, I have chosen to group the Preludes and Fugues thematically, much as, for instance, Kenneth Drake has organized his discussion of Beethoven’s piano sonatas.3 Thus, Chapter 4 concerns itself with questions of personality and subjectivity in six preludes and fugues, which are related as relative majorminor pairs; Chapter 5 explores aspects of poetic enstrangement in Shostakovich’s use of expressive markings and other musical details; Chapter 6 looks at six of the cycle’s faster and more virtuosic preludes and fugues; and Chapter 7 focuses on the issue of narrative closure in the cycle’s final stage. It is a measure of this cycle’s scope and interest that any number of books

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Preface

could be written about it. One could easily imagine a scholar with extensive experience in Russian archives coming at the cycle from entirely different angles from the ones I have chosen here, or a music theorist explaining the nuances of Shostakovich’s musical language in far more detail than I do. I hope that such books are written and that they take their place in the evergrowing Shostakovich literature, as examples of work that bypasses the more vexed questions of Shostakovich’s political identity and instead focuses closely on the music itself. As we move beyond the recent celebrations of Shostakovich’s centenary year—and as the Soviet Union becomes a more distant memory even while questions of Russia’s political and cultural future remain sharply in focus—what remains secure is this composer’s reputation as an extraordinary communicator. His poetic gift is justification enough for our continued explorations into his music’s numerous mysteries. Thus I intend this book to be not only about the Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues for Piano, but about Shostakovich’s music in general—a jumping-off point for those who are ready to take the same leap that I took back in the mid-1980s. If it leads to more engaged encounters with Shostakovich’s music on the part of performers, teachers, and listeners, it will have served its purpose.

acknowledgments

One of the great pleasures of embarking upon a project like this one is the anticipation of making new connections, of forming bonds with others who share your interests. I am honored to be able to offer gratitude here to the many people who have influenced and supported my work for the past several years. But before I do that, I must begin with those who have been with me for longer, most of all my uniquely supportive family—the family that everyone else (among my friends, at least) wishes was their own. Whether they realize it or not, my parents and four siblings have all played huge roles in the story of my development as a musician. Even closer to home, my immediate family—my wife, Jill, and our three daughters, Sophie, Claudia, and Eva—have been intimately involved in the making of this book, not least from having to put up with messy tabletops and piano music racks, monopolized audio equipment, and many other forms of obnoxious behavior on my part. To all of these and other family members, immediate and extended, I want to express my deepest thanks for being an important part of this project. A special brand of acknowledgment must go to my piano teachers— Ronald Kershner, the late William Masselos, Edward Newman, Nancy Roldán, and Lydia Artymiw—all of whom helped me to develop in ways that have been essential to the ideas presented in this book. In a similar way, my many mentors in the academic study of music have helped me to recognize just

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xvi Acknowledgments

how deeply music’s mysteries extend. In this realm, I would like to single out in particular James Hepokoski, David Grayson, Michael Cherlin, and Richard Leppert. As much as these scholars taught me how to listen and think, my peers in graduate school also helped me to hone my critical faculties and to better articulate my musical values. Over the years, Phil and Helen (Shively) Ford, Chris Gable and Merie Kirby, Graham Wood, Claudia Chen, and Arek Tesarczyk have been fantastically entertaining and instructive interlocutors. Studying Shostakovich has its rewards, to be sure, but it also poses challenges that may justly be called unique in the study of music. For their guidance through some of these professional thickets, I am deeply thankful to Simon Morrison and Laurel Fay. Similarly, Emanuel Utwiller and the staff of the Centre Chostakovich in Paris provided me with numerous indispensible resources, making the process simple and pleasant all the while. Other colleagues in musicology who provided me assistance and advice on numerous occasions are James Parakilas, Michael Steinberg, and James Briscoe. Similarly, the superb pianist Anna Polonsky provided me with translations of two articles whose contents are crucial to many of this book’s central arguments. Yuri Serov generously shared time with me at the piano. It is a special kind of scholar or artist who will share freely of his or her own time and energy for no other reason than a natural inclination to help others. I am lucky to have encountered many such individuals along my path. Chapter 8 originally appeared in somewhat different form in the Yale Review, vol. 96, no. 2 (April 2008). I am grateful to Sandy McClatchy and Susan Bianconi for their support of my writing. I know of no one who enjoys their daily professional work more than I do. Much of my satisfaction comes from working at an institution as fine as Macalester College, where I enjoy daily encounters with inspiring and warm people. A small group of colleagues, present and past, have been directly involved in my project throughout its many stages, and I wish to express to them my heartfelt appreciation: Gita Hammarberg, Hilde Hoogenboom, Steve Burt, and Diane Brown. I owe an enormous amount of gratitude to the late Jan Serie, who as director of Macalester’s Center for Scholarship and

Acknowledgments xvii

Teaching assisted me in the securing of grants from the Wallace Foundation, the Keck Foundation, and the Associated Colleges of the Midwest, as well as funds for purchasing a digital piano for a semester’s sabbatical in rural New Hampshire. The importance of research materials and leave time supported by these grants to the successful completion of this book cannot be overestimated. Similarly, many of my colleagues on Macalester’s staff have shared their time and industry to keep various parts of this long process proceeding along smoothly. In particular, the Music Department staff, Rachel Hest and Stephanie Kobbe, came through regularly during the project’s final stages with what at the time felt like life-saving assistance; to Rachel, thanks also for introducing me to Wade Clark, and to Wade, an immense thank you for coming through at the last minute with expert skills in setting musical examples. As great as my faculty and staff colleagues are, consistently the very best thing about working at Macalester is the students, who are as a rule uncommonly bright, interesting, engaged, and generally fun to be around. Three students—Elizabeth Everson, Chloe Kiritz, and Adam Nelson— worked closely with me in Shostakovich-related summer research projects supported by the Keck Foundation. These were wonderful months of discovery, for me as much as for them, and I will treasure them for a lifetime. No less important to the development of my ideas are all of the students who have taken my Shostakovich seminar: Drake Andersen, Jeff Barnes, Owen Brafford, Jeanne Coffin, Eric Davidson, Andy Dykema, Betsey Engebretsen, Liz Everson, Nick Fagerlund, Alexis Gunderson, Elizabeth Lostetter, Diana Marianetti, Kristyn Martin, Luis Mesa-Martinez, Daniel Pickens-Jones, Ben Sachs, Kate Saylor, Sarah Sutter, Sarah Turner, Anne Villanueva, Josh Whitney-Wise, Emily Williamson, Mike Vasich, and Laura Zeccardi. It was a pleasure to share my passion for this great composer with all of you, and it was a privilege to assist you in coming to your own understanding of what makes his art unique. Finally, among Macalester students, special recognition must go to Anastasia Verdoljak and Sara Schultz, who provided me with substantial blocks of time and valuable labor during their senior year to assist with crucial aspects of the manuscript’s final preparation.

xviii Acknowledgments

Lastly, I need to send out special thanks to two small groups of people. First, to the proprietor and staff of the Green Door Inn of Haverhill, New Hampshire, for providing inspiring spaces, both natural and man-made, to write in. The summer and fall of 2007 will forever be remembered as a remarkable time in my, and my family’s, life. And to the Mazumdar-Stanger family, the world’s greatest neighbors, for allowing me to use their living room for house concerts (featuring—yes, you guessed it—numerous Shostakovich Preludes and Fugues), for many a late-night conversation, and for lending me their talented daughter for an author’s photo-shoot. (Thanks, Aysha!)

part i

contexts

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1

shostakovich and the challenges of interpretation Beethoven has sometimes been called a philosophical musician, but if that means that he was a philosopher it is certainly untrue. Music can no more express philosophic ideas than it can express scientific ideas. And nothing that Beethoven wanted to express can be called a philosophy. The states of consciousness he expresses, his reactions to perceptions and experiences, are not ideas. —J. W. N. Sullivan, Beethoven: His Spiritual Development

Lost in Translation When it comes to comparisons with language, and to a lesser degree with the visual arts, music has long suffered from a certain inferiority complex. Even while it flaunts its superior mystery, its inevitable abstraction, music cannot seem to shake off the gravitational pull that would forever bind it to its companion arts. Take, for instance, the eternal popularity of subtitles— Beethoven’s “Moonlight” Sonata, Chopin’s “Raindrop” Prelude, Dvorˇák’s “New World” Symphony. Regardless of their provenance, whether it be popular convention, a publisher, or the composer, such labels steer this music’s reception in multiple realms, from marketing to programming, teaching to criticism. As performers and listeners alike, we like to have words to help us explain, and thus to interpret, instrumental music. And if words are not available, we are happy to create our own images, something to keep focused in our mind’s eye as we listen. Subtitles have attached themselves to Dmitri Shostakovich’s music with a natural ease. He was, after all, a composer who provided us with a great deal of explicit musical imagery. Some works’ titles were the composer’s

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4 Contexts

own, and they therefore constitute an inextricable part of the music’s meaning: Symphony No. 7, “Dedicated to the City of Leningrad”; Symphony No. 11, “The Year 1905.” But not all subtitles are genuine in this way, even some of those most commonly known. Perhaps one of the most egregious cases of an instrumental work by Shostakovich being known by a name having nothing to do with the composer is the Fifth Symphony, in D Minor, composed in 1937. Many performers and listeners have accepted as genuine a subtitle—“a Soviet artist’s response to just criticism”—which refers to the 1936 attacks in Pravda of Shostakovich’s opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District and his ballet The Limpid Stream. Scholars are quick to point out, however, that this title has no basis at all in the facts surrounding the work’s genesis, composition, and reception in the Soviet Union. It is a designation of purely Western devising, having never been used in the Soviet Union, and it thus speaks more of a certain exoticizing of the Soviet Union on the part of Western critics and audiences than of the work itself. It is not only politics and economics—our capitalist, democratic fascination with the cultural life of a socialist state—that drive the popularity of subtitles in Shostakovich’s music. The music itself is often so startlingly pictorial, so compellingly narrative, that it creates a craving for explanation. Its symbol world—its webs of quotations, allusions, and stock gestures, its extraordinary mood setting—suggests that something specific is being communicated, that there is some kind of deeper truth to be gleaned from the details. Performers aim to “get it right,” to deliver the message accurately, as it were. Listeners, too, want to be sure they are “getting it right,” that they are open, both intellectually and emotionally, to the immense expressive power of these musical texts. They seek out literal prompts—in the form of subtitles, or preconcert lectures, or program notes, or oftentimes apocryphal stories—to aid in the understanding of this musical truth. But sometimes, in reality nothing could be further from it. Since its premiere, given by the Beethoven Quartet in December of 1946, Shostakovich’s String Quartet No. 3 in F Major has been widely regarded as one of his finest works, even by the composer himself. It is a masterpiece of expressive subtlety, formal invention, and spiritual depth. Across its five-

Challenges of Interpretation 5

movement span—a structure that it shares with the Symphony No. 8 in C Minor of 1943 (in many ways a companion piece to this quartet) and other important works, including the Piano Quintet—it conveys a range of moods and expressive states, from naïveté to fear, unabashed emotionalism to guarded reserve. Its formally complex and expressively indefinite finale, featuring a serene and ethereal coda that offers a glimpse of transcendence, is clearly meant to represent the contemplation of deep existential questions. As such, it readily brings to mind Beethoven, as many of Shostakovich’s works do, and specifically his final string quartet, Opus 135 in F major. The fourth and final movement of Beethoven’s quartet includes one famous example of that composer’s inclination to rely on words to explain his music. In the style of the provocative “Sphinxes” in Schumann’s Carnaval, Beethoven inscribed the words “Muss es sein? Muss es sein? Es muss sein!” (Must it be? It must be!) above a repeating three-note motive that appears both in the introduction and in the movement proper. Joseph Kerman explains that there is an element of humor in Beethoven’s gesture, having to do with a situation involving the payment for quartet parts—as in the old silent movie scenario: “You must pay the rent!”1 But its philosophical overtones are clearly more dominant. We are tempted to take Beethoven’s final quartet to be “about,” in a significant and verifiable way, existentialism. We equate it with philosophy. Shostakovich’s Third Quartet shares this characteristic quality, this philosophical tone. Like much of Beethoven’s music, it puts forth engaged, dramatic, and contemplative “states of consciousness” (to use J. W. N. Sullivan’s phrase) that drive our understanding of what it might mean. Unlike Beethoven, however, Shostakovich did not inscribe any words onto the score of his Third Quartet, and neither did he indicate subtitles for its five movements. And yet, as in the Fifth Symphony, this has not stopped many performers and listeners from latching desperately onto a set of subtitles whose origin can in no way be traced to the composer himself. The titles certainly make sense: “calm unawareness of the future cataclysm,” “rumblings of unrest and anticipation,” “the forces of war unleashed,” “homage to the dead,” and “the eternal question—Why? And for what?” They accurately convey the gist

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Contexts

of what any observant and imaginative listener would glean from the music itself. But they are not, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, the composer’s. As Shostakovich biographer Laurel Fay makes clear, they “do not appear in the composer’s autographs, published scores, letters, or in the rehearsal diaries or memoirs of the first performers and dedicatees—or actually in any Russian-language source.”2 As it turns out, the subtitles for the Third Quartet—which one can find printed in many sources other than editions of the score, including Derek Hulme’s well-known Shostakovich catalogue, bibliography, and discography —appear to have originated with Valentin Berlinsky, cellist for the Borodin String Quartet, an ensemble that worked closely with Shostakovich in preparing all of his quartets.3 Whether or not Berlinsky once heard Shostakovich use these titles, they are hardly necessary to understanding and appreciating the Third Quartet on a deep level. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine that the composer ever conceived of these titles: the music is simply of too high a quality to be collapsed into such literalness. Their obviousness cheapens the musical experience. Something serious gets lost in the translation from music back to words. But we seem not to be able to help ourselves. Shostakovich himself is still too strong a force. Few composers possess as much authority over today’s performers, listeners, and critics. His lingering spirit haunts the continuing debates over his political views and their representation in his music, just as it steers discussions of tempo and rubato in performance practice. He stands, in personal and collective mythologies, singlehandedly for the Soviet Union, for Russia, for all artists censored and oppressed by the monolithic forces of totalitarianism. Something in his art mandates that we become keenly aware of the stakes involved in its creation. Something in his life story reminds us of both the fragility of the human condition and the resilience of the human spirit. The need to understand him, and to be true to him, is overwhelming. We are talking here about truth and falsehood, right and wrong, and therefore we are treading on ethical ground. Indeed, there does exist a moral dimension to all of this talk of interpretation, a sense of obligation in operation in the interactions among the music, the performers, and the listeners

Challenges of Interpretation 7

that reaches back to the composer, and to our own responsibilities to his legacy. Shostakovich is not, of course, the only composer to whom such a scenario applies. One easily discovers in the annals of musicology, music criticism, and musical biography a wealth of opinions like the one of this commentator, who expressed his dissatisfaction with Pablo Casals’s playing of the music of J. S. Bach: “Although Casals was sensitive to musical nuance, and although he was sincere, at the most profound level, Casals personally was insensitive to the person of Bach in the same way that an insensitive person dominates conversation and projects his views upon others, seeing in others only reflections of himself.”4 In this book’s final chapter, I will address the ways in which performers of Shostakovich’s music have responded to the composer’s continuing authority. Some tread gingerly upon his scores, assigning themselves a more passive role in the putting forth of Shostakovich’s musical statements, while others willfully dominate the conversation. And, of course, the bulk of this book is concerned with expressing my own interpretations as a critic, a listener, an analyst, and a performer of his music. All of this is a slippery business. In our interactions with Shostakovich, we strive to treat him with respect—to understand where he was coming from, to see him as he truly was, and to leave ourselves in the background. And yet, we cannot but recognize our own influence in the continuing creation of his music’s meaning.

The Naked Heart Shostakovich’s cycle of Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues for Piano, composed in 1950–51, does not suffer from having erroneous subtitles attached to it. There are no known extramusical associations that go along with the score, no titles or legends attributing a story or a fixed character to the sounds. But questions of its identity and its meaning are hardly less fraught as a result. For one thing, the music itself often conspicuously calls attention to itself, begging to be interpreted, even at times to be pinned down. Sometimes, as in the cycle’s opening two fugues, brief but potentially meaningful snippets of self-quotation from Shostakovich’s own works direct our quest for

8

Contexts

meaning in a certain direction, even if only momentarily. Elsewhere—in the parodistic Prelude and Fugue in D-flat Major, or in the wailing, Jewishinflected Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor—the music’s character is so strong, its tone so seemingly unambiguous, that we are quick to place limits on what we are willing to believe it conveys. More important, as is the case with all of Shostakovich’s serious works, the circumstances of the cycle’s creation provide ample material for the creation of sturdy interpretive myths. As I shall explain in more depth in Chapter 2, the Preludes and Fugues were composed in the period directly following Shostakovich’s public denunciation during the anti-formalist campaigns of 1948. One therefore encounters in their reception history a tendency to read those events directly onto the score. Commentators will inevitably lay stress upon the composer’s adoption of a highly abstract—and thus, from official perspectives, highly suspicious—musical form, the fugue. And they will be quick to make assumptions about the music’s intentions as a confessional, and even dissident, work. If the quest for “secret subtexts” in the Preludes and Fugues is part of a thankfully waning tendency in the Shostakovich literature to decode his musical symbols once and for all, the essential foundation of that project remains firmly in place: in general, the Preludes and Fugues are widely regarded as a haven, an inner sanctum in which Shostakovich sheltered his private self.5 As one recent writer puts it: “His choice of the Prelude and Fugue genre was not just coincidental, and it was not simply a homage to the great German composer. The very nature of the Prelude and Fugue form and its abstract language, more than any other form allowed Shostakovich to express his inner thoughts and ideas. This ‘pure’ music provided an ideal escape for a composer who was literally suffocating within the narrow confines of socialist realist culture.”6 Another exclaims that the Preludes and Fugues represent “a highly improbable, extraordinarily bold and shockingly profound act of self-healing.”7 For these and many other devotees of the Preludes and Fugues, composing this cycle was as much, and perhaps more, a political act on Shostakovich’s part as it was an artistic one. And it was political strictly by virtue of being personal.

Challenges of Interpretation 9

The question of selfhood or subjectivity in Shostakovich’s music has dominated a great deal of recent scholarship, especially from those commentators of a hermeneutic bent. Not surprisingly, these interpreters have hardly reached anything resembling consensus on the subject. In a recent booklength study of the Eighth Quartet (1960), for instance, David Fanning casts this work, which is full of quotations and self-referencing, as an assertion of subjectivity, “a reminder of what it is to have a self at all—in a society founded on the notion of subordinating the self to the collective, and in an era when forces of dehumanization were by no means confined to that society.”8 By contrast Lawrence Kramer, picking up on Shostakovich’s own use of the phrase “pseudo-tragedy” in relation to this work, stresses the quartet’s various strategies of alienation (its fractured cyclic form in particular), interpreting it as a dispossession of Romanticized subjectivity put forth by an ironic, “auto-obituarizing subject.”9 Regardless of the perspective from which it is viewed—ironic or sincere—the subject is the same: the confessional self and its status within the work of art. Not all commentators are so quick to apply the confessional model to Shostakovich’s work. Working with another genre, Boris Gasparov argues in a recent study of the Fourth Symphony (1935–36) that the majority of Shostakovich’s symphonies are “alien to inner dilemmas,” the kind of dialectical relationships between self and society that are generally characteristic of works in the genre since Beethoven. Suggesting that in the Fourth Symphony “the lyrical inner self and tragic outer experience never become involved in an interaction of any kind,” Gasparov portrays Shostakovich as an earnest contributor to the quest for a viable socialist realist aesthetic, a view that Pauline Fairclough develops in greater detail in her own work on the Fourth Symphony.10 In total, the work of such scholars provides an important reminder that any work by Shostakovich needs to be taken on its own terms. Every piece is unique and deserves to be treated as such. The degree to which the Preludes and Fugues represent some form of selfexploration constitutes an important part of their story. Shostakovich’s investment in the tradition of Western art music—and thus, by association, in a bourgeois conception of music that rested firmly upon the foundations

10 Contexts

of introversion and self-exploration through art—allows us to read a fair degree of self-expression onto his scores. Certainly his proclivities towards quotation and the use of other musical symbols hardly deter us from forming distinct impressions of musical meaning. Especially in works like the Eighth Quartet and the Tenth Symphony, the idea of Shostakovich baring his “naked heart” remains alluring.11 Hearing their prominent use of the “DSCH” motive, the composer’s musical signature, we rush to decipher his tone and to make connections with his life story. The Preludes and Fugues do, without doubt, possess something of the flavor of a confessional. They certainly do not represent a merely technical exercise in contrapuntal writing, as the composer once attempted to explain the cycle away to his colleagues in the Union of Composers.12 Their occasional but strong inflections of the familiar “Jewish tone,” found regularly throughout Shostakovich’s work, bring forth intimations of deep personal expression, as do, for example, the highly charged emotional atmospheres of the double fugues in E minor and D minor. Their status as his largest work for his own instrument creates for the Preludes and Fugues an aura of heightened personal investment as well. He performed these pieces and thus went through the process of figuring out how to interpret them himself. But if it is permissible on one level to take the Preludes and Fugues as an expression of Shostakovich’s deepest personal thoughts, it is equally valid, and indeed important, to acknowledge the flipside. Here, one would want to comment on the features that make the cycle of Preludes and Fugues a work of art distinctively of its time and place—its folk-like character, its technical and expressive accessibility, the comfortable singability of much of the score. Perhaps the cycle’s dominant trait is neither its personal emotionalism nor any perceived political subtexts, but rather the very thing that many of Shostakovich’s devotees would wish out of their minds—its role in the composer’s sincere and ongoing attempt to produce excellent Soviet music.13 On the subject of the music’s accessibility, we would do well to remember that many of Shostakovich’s most well-known and beloved works are

Challenges of Interpretation 11

playable by young musicians. Members of youth symphonies performing the Fifth Symphony and young string players experiencing the Eighth Quartet for the first time as performers, once bowled over by the music, yearn to get the fuller story: Was the Symphony a conciliation to the state? Was the Quartet a suicide note? I’ve encountered such reactions many times myself during preconcert talks or postconcert conversations. I would not go so far as to suggest that the Preludes and Fugues were written with young performers specifically in mind, that they belong in the category of “music for youth” so prevalent in Soviet music culture, especially in the post-1948 period. But they do provide ample material for intermediate-level players to get hooked on Shostakovich’s music, thus planting the seeds of his authority early on.

Essential Truths Story or no story, subtitled or not, Shostakovich’s music remains alluring because it buzzes with the tension between immanent meaning and context-driven contingency. Thrown back and forth from one sensation to another—on the one hand, the desire to “get it right”; on the other, the surrender to “the music itself”—we revel in its thrills. It takes a deep reserve of willpower to ignore the lure of interpretation. Just as Beethoven has sometimes been called a philosophical musician, Shostakovich has widely been understood as a political one, and his music has been experienced and discussed in terms of the so-called ideas, or even ideologies, that it puts forward. Elements of both his personal biography and his nation’s history have been said to be indelibly etched upon the scores, his reactions to life’s experiences recorded for posterity. But we must be careful in taking such metaphorical views too far, for the kind of “meaning” produced by music is special and unique. As Vladimir Jankélévitch argues in a provocative critique of the music-as-language position, even the most common language we use to explain music is loaded with a suspect value judgment about music’s true character: “Incapable of developing in the true sense, music is—despite appearances—also incapable of expressing.” For

12 Contexts

Jankélévitch, “saying it in music” is closer to “saying it with flowers” than saying it literally.14 While it may pull us ever so close to the shores of fixed meaning, its message—and indeed its very impact—remains inscrutable. As we enter into our aesthetic encounters with Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues, we would do well to concern ourselves not only with a keen awareness of the sociopolitical and cultural context of their creation, but with a mind full of, and open to, a host of other concerns as well—the cycle’s relation to Bach and to other traditions of piano music, the mastery of its contrapuntal material, the earnest folk-like sweetness of many of the preludes, the proliferation of expressive markings designed to effect shapes that manipulate our emotions. These musical facts are truly the only thing we have to hold on to as we head out into the alluring but murky depths of aesthetic experience. Even if I somehow “knew” what the Preludes and Fugues were supposed to be “about”—and even if the subtitles of the Third Quartet or the Fifth Symphony were the composer’s own—I should hope that it would not make a difference. I stand with Levon Hakobian, who argues that “the ‘essential truth’ of any credible artwork lies in a realm that has little in common with the political convictions of its creator. Even the most righteous protest against tyranny will be of no lasting value unless supported by some mysterious force inexplicable in rational terms.”15 If the Preludes and Fugues constitute a credible work of art—and I cannot imagine a persuasive argument that they are not—they transcend even their own creator’s intentions. To borrow the words of the great Soviet pianist Mariya Yudina upon the premiere of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 13, “Babi Yar,” this music “is about us, it’s for us, but also for everybody and for Eternity.”16

2

placing the preludes and fugues

The Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues for Piano were composed during a particularly complex time in Shostakovich’s life, amid conditions that have contributed greatly to the strong interpretive pull described in the previous chapter. Many discussions of the cycle, as we have seen, place it at the heart of the composer’s personal response to the events of the winter and spring of 1948, when Shostakovich, along with several of his peers, was publicly taken to task by the Central Committee of the Communist Party. To be sure, the aftershocks of the first half of 1948 were strong and long-lasting, directly and profoundly affecting Shostakovich, his family, and many of his colleagues. Still, it was more than two and a half years after the February 1948 Central Committee resolution that Shostakovich began composing the Preludes and Fugues, in October 1950, and three years after that event when he completed the cycle in February 1951. Moreover, recent scholarship based upon archival information has cast revealing new light on the events of 1948, inviting us to challenge entrenched notions about Shostakovich’s subjugation during the period that lasted roughly from early 1948 until Stalin’s death in March 1953. It is therefore worth situating the Preludes and Fugues generally within the period of the 1948 resolution, and more specifically within the years 1950–51, in order to assess the ways in which various contexts might help us to better appreciate the text itself.

13

14 Contexts

Understanding the 1948 Resolution By the time the anti-formalist decree rocked the Soviet musical establishment in early 1948, attacks in other professional realms, most notably the arts and sciences, had been going on for years. While the Second World War had done something to interrupt and ease the tensions of the Great Terror of the late 1930s, the situation in the later 1940s was not appreciably different for many people than it had been a decade before. Musicians could hardly have been surprised when the critical eye of the Central Committee turned in their direction at the start of the new year of 1948. Within the general campaign of Zhdanovshchina—the post–World War II program of ideological renewal headed by Stalin’s cultural watchdog, Andrei Zhdanov—music was inevitably bound to face the same charges as the other arts, even if it took some extra time and ingenuity (or disingenuity) on the part of officials in order to make them stick. One close family friend remembers the gloomy mood and sense of foreboding that lingered over the New Year’s Eve dinner that she shared with the Shostakovich family in December 1947, before the overt stage of the onslaught against music began.1 Presumably, for Shostakovich and other leading Soviet musicians, it was only a waiting game. When the dam finally burst, and the forceful stream of invective was unleashed, a now forgotten opera by Georgian composer Vano Muradeli entitled The Great Friendship was identified as the chink in the edifice. Using this opera’s political failings as a pretext, Zhdanov called several meetings of the Central Committee of the Communist Party in January 1948 in order to discuss the ideological vacuity of Soviet music, thus putting music on level playing ground with other, more overtly representational arts. These proceedings gave way to an all-out assault against the leading Soviet composers of the time in a resolution issued by the Central Committee in February, in which the “formalist,” “anti-people” direction taken by these composers (Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Myaskovsky, Khachaturian, Popov, and others) was condemned. Various works by these composers were banned from performance, and most of them were removed from their teaching positions. In April 1948, at the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Composers in

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 15

Moscow, the ideological lines were drawn fast, as delegates from across the country were given the opportunity to speak in favor of the resolution and, if necessary, to publicly repent their formalist ways. Assuming his place in line, Shostakovich addressed the delegates on the second day of the Congress, obviously under duress, and promised publicly to compose hereafter in a melodic style aimed at the people, and in programmatic forms dedicated to contemporary themes. Nonetheless, Shostakovich was stripped of his position at the Moscow Conservatory, and as many testimonials by his close family friends and professional associates attest, in the aftermath of the Central Committee resolution he suffered greatly from humiliation, a near-constant feeling of dread, and an ever-deepening cynicism. He also endured some lean economic times. Mstislav Rostropovich recounts Sergei Prokofiev complaining to him about having no food, and no money with which to purchase any; Rostropovich stresses that similar financial troubles plagued Shostakovich and his family for some considerable time after the 1948 decree.2 Laurel Fay also writes that in the early 1950s, “money continued to be a pressing problem for Shostakovich.”3 At the same time, as the leading Soviet composer of his age, Shostakovich continued to benefit from many of the privileges afforded him as a member of the cultural elite. He was removed from his teaching post, but he was soon restored to it. Although some of his works were banned from performance, the order was lifted shortly thereafter, as part of the general revival of his reputation that would make possible such public service as being an official Soviet delegate to the Cultural and Scientific Congress for World Peace in New York City in March and April 1949. Indeed, in the years directly surrounding the 1948 resolution, Shostakovich was publicly lauded with awards and titles, many of which came with monetary rewards attached. And while financial and existential worries continued to trouble him, he could at least rely on the basic necessities, as well as some extras, including a car and a driver subsidized, even during the immediate post-1948 period, by Muzfond, the financial wing of the Union of Composers. As historian Kiril Tomoff explains, the Union of Composers was an ex-

16

Contexts

ceptional Soviet institution, and Shostakovich, one its highest-status members, benefited directly from its unique organizational structure. Unlike the other artistic unions, whose financial branches were overseen by the more general and far-reaching Committee for Artistic Affairs, the Composers’ Union was able somehow to maintain control of its own finances from within—this despite the fact that “every audit of Muzfond from the [Second World] War until Stalin’s death [in 1953] found evidence of malfeasance, favoritism, and other forms of financial impropriety.”4 In consolidating its own authority in many decision-making realms, it was able to provide individual composers with a degree of real agency largely unheard of in other artistic spheres. Muzfond paid for such expenses as food, health and travel grants, training, and score copying; it oversaw the building of housing and creative retreats for musicians. As the most privileged members of the Union, Shostakovich and his elite peers therefore “became the lasting beneficiaries of a codified system of privileged access to scarce resources.”5 Indeed, while Zhdanov had pinpointed Muradeli’s opera in his resolution, and while in general it appeared from the outside that questions of musical style and aesthetics lay behind the 1948 “anti-formalist” attacks, problems of fiscal malfeasance in Muzfond most likely lay at the root of the outburst. For one thing, the very same Vano Muradeli whose opera was making frontpage headlines for its purported anti-people stance was in fact the head of Muzfond. Put differently, The Great Friendship, an immensely extravagant affair that generated tremendous production costs, needed only its own composer’s signature for the green light. Moreover, behind him lay not an oversight committee steered by Communist Party bureaucrats—as was the case, for instance, in the Writers’ Union—but by an organizing budgetary committee headed by the leading composers of the day (Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Khachaturian, Popov, and Kabalevsky). Leonid Maximenkov, who has accessed vast resources of official archival documents, goes so far as to argue that the formalism charge was only a ruse on the part of Agitprop (Agitational Propaganda, the Central Committee’s arts oversight apparatus) intended to deflect attention from the embarrassing economic situation: “Were the officials responsible going to scream out to the whole world about the

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 17

money that had been squandered? In Agitprop they came up with a different strategy: let’s tell the nation we are fighting against incomprehensible music that is alien to us.”6 All of this is essential to forming an accurate view of Shostakovich’s personal and professional life in the period after 1948. While the humiliation and dread he experienced during this period were certainly real, he still managed to enjoy a level of material comfort that the large majority of Soviet citizens would never live to see.7 Much of the recent scholarship on Shostakovich asks us to keep in check our Western tendency to romanticize suffering as an all-encompassing Soviet affair. Few things can compare to the daily existential horror that certainly plagued the inner lives of Soviet citizens throughout Stalin’s long reign. But it becomes a slippery task to thereby interpret all art works created in this period as confessional reactions to such conditions. As we shall see, the stunningly diverse cycle of Preludes and Fugues both invites and then resists such analyses at every turn. Elizabeth Wilson’s oral biography includes a story by the musicologist Marina Sabinina in which Shostakovich paid her a visit at the Moscow Conservatory during the winter of 1949–50, while he was still stripped of his post there. As various colleagues paraded by them while they sat talking on a bench in the cloakroom foyer of the Conservatory’s Small Hall, Shostakovich “started to imitate their smug, obsequious and fawning behavior, their pompous manners of speech. Miming certain of the professors, he played out whole scenes, displaying a brilliant gift for comedy in his simultaneous impersonations of several characters.”8 Such testimony reminds us that in the Dmitri Shostakovich of the early 1950s, we are dealing not merely with a spirit battered and broken by years of abuse, but with a life-affirming survivor, a man with deep reserves of good humor, and also perhaps a certain necessary, life-sustaining naïveté.

Public and Private The strange and uncomfortable tension that Shostakovich experienced during this time has led biographers to single out the post-1948 period as one

18

Contexts

marked by sharply separated dimensions. The American biographer Laurel Fay’s chapter on this period is entitled “Public and Private,” and Elizabeth Wilson employs the subtitle “Official and Unofficial Works” in her own discussion of these years. On the one hand, such a distinction works: Shostakovich was a publicly lauded, high-profile national celebrity, who traveled extensively, often giving speeches. Whether he liked it or not, he was, as Maximenkov has put it, a highly valued “fighter on the ideological and cultural front.”9 In this capacity, he also produced a great quantity of music— film scores, oratorios and cantatas, choral and solo vocal songs—much of it of very high quality and strong appeal, some of it less inspired. One must remember that, regardless of its ultimate aesthetic appeal, Shostakovich willingly took on commissions for these works—one assumes primarily, if not exclusively, for financial reasons. At the same time, as an exceptionally talented artist capable of working on a far more complex scale than these projects allowed, Shostakovich continued to compose the kinds of abstract instrumental works that clearly rubbed against the grain of official aesthetic doctrine. The Fourth String Quartet, composed throughout the fall of 1949, represents the serious work that lies closest in proximity to the 1948 resolution. During early rehearsals with the Beethoven String Quartet in December 1949, it was decided, behind closed doors, that the work should be withheld from public performance until a later time. No record or other testimony survives concerning the reasons for this decision, though many have assumed that the distinctly Jewish tone of the final movement played a role. Interestingly, given this aspect of the quartet’s style, it was performed privately on occasion at Shostakovich’s apartment along with another work from the period, the song cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry (1948). Only after Stalin’s death in March 1953 did the time feel right for a public premiere; the quartet finally received that overdue honor in December of that year. The Fifth Quartet, composed during the fall of 1952, falls into the same category. Both works show Shostakovich maintaining steady work during the aftermath of 1948 in the one “private” genre that would ultimately rival his symphonic output as his main compositional concern.

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 19

To view Shostakovich’s life and works during these years in terms of extremes—public and private, official and non-official—certainly makes sense. And yet there exists, in Shostakovich’s life and work, an appreciable grey area, in which the composer’s motivations and intentions are less clearly demarcated. It does a disservice to the Preludes and Fugues to think of them solely as a “private” work, just as it does violence to Shostakovich’s memory to pin him down, as an artist and as a man living in extraordinarily complex times, into convenient but misleading stereotypes. By no means do I intend to criticize Fay, Wilson, and others for their use of these categories, which surely existed in reality. I only mean to say that this cycle is better appreciated from a vantage point somewhere in the middle of this spectrum, in which his concurrent “official” works are viewed not as polar opposites but as equal pieces of a complex artistic whole. In the chronology of Shostakovich’s works, the Preludes and Fugues are sandwiched in among several vocal works on texts by the state-favored poet Yevgeniy Dolmatovsky, whose lyrics Shostakovich had previously set in two of his earlier film scores. Encountering one another by coincidence on the train between Moscow and Leningrad in the spring of 1949, the two struck up a conversation about Stalin’s recently announced initiative to restore and repair the Soviet forests, which had been brutalized during the war. Actively seeking opportunities to showcase his own rehabilitation in the public arena, Shostakovich soon thereafter contacted Dolmatovsky about a possible collaboration. The result, the oratorio Song of the Forests, which was premiered at the Plenum of the Union of Composers held in Moscow from November 26 to December 10, 1949, won Shostakovich a Stalin Prize and thus secured a more promising immediate future. Even though Shostakovich reportedly cried in shame and drank himself into a stupor after the premiere of this work, his colleagues still recognized the quality of the music in comparison to the two hundred other patriotic cantatas on display at the same conference.10 Indeed, all in all, Song of the Forests is not an especially “bad” piece of music. A good-faith attitude towards it would at least acknowledge that its inspiration came from a sincere place: surely the devastated landscape that Shostakovich viewed outside the train window while he conversed with

20 Contexts

Dolmatovsky struck a chord in the heart of the proud Russian. All of this makes Shostakovich’s quotation of the oratorio’s opening vocal melody in the first fugue in Opus 87 especially intriguing. All questions of his self-pity over Song of the Forests aside, Shostakovich continued to capitalize upon his relationship with Dolmatovsky during the next several years. On the heels of the success of their oratorio, he composed four songs on texts by Dolmatovsky, Opus 86, one of which, “Motherland Hears,” enjoyed immense popularity after it was sung in outer space by cosmonaut Yuriy Gagarin in April 1961. While hardly complex, and while surely conceived mainly as money-making ventures, these songs are nonetheless strongly appealing in their simplicity—folk-like melodies over graceful piano accompaniments clearly modeled on Schubert’s lieder—and well deserving of long lives in public performance. And in the summer of 1952, the two collaborated once more, with the cantata The Sun Shines over Our Motherland, Opus 90, which received public attention both in November 1952, during the celebrations of the thirty-fifth anniversary of the 1917 revolution, and in January 1953, at the opening of the Sixth Plenum of the Composers’ Union. Concurrent with his work on the Preludes and Fugues in the fall and winter of 1950–51, Shostakovich worked on another large-scale vocal work, his first concert work for unaccompanied mixed chorus, the Ten Poems on Texts by Revolutionary Poets of the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries, Opus 88. Premiered in October 1951, this work also won Shostakovich a Stalin Prize. It represents the same interest in the period surrounding the 1905 revolution that Shostakovich would again explore in his Symphony No. 11, composed in 1956–57. Like Song of the Forests, these finely crafted pieces on the one hand bear the mark of officialdom and on the other surely stem from the composer’s sincere personal interest in this particular time in Russian history. Are these songs as easily and happily ensconced in the realm of the “public,” as many would say of the Dolmatovsky pieces, or do they represent a more subtle middle ground? Is this where the parsing out of his works into such categories breaks down? An over-firm reliance upon the public-private dichotomy may also cause

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 21

us to lose perspective on another of Shostakovich’s duties as an elite cultural professional, his travel. Throughout the 1940s and 1950s, Shostakovich participated in events—such as the Peace Conferences in New York (March 1949), Warsaw (November 1950), and Vienna (December 1952)—which he clearly would rather have avoided. His resistance, in fact, to the New York trip is legendary, in large part because it ultimately required a personal telephone call from Stalin in order to get him to agree to go. And yet this very same elite status earned him the right to travel, in the summer of 1950, to Leipzig and Berlin in order to take part in the events commemorating the 200th anniversary of the death of J. S. Bach. In Berlin he collaborated with pianists Tatyana Nikolayeva and Pavel Serebryakov in a performance of Bach’s concerto for three keyboards, and in Leipzig he adjudicated the First International Bach Competition. On this trip, quite in contrast to his other professional travel engagements, Shostakovich experienced deep artistic inspiration that would soon manifest itself directly in the Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues. It thus mirrors a similar burst of creativity that led the young pianist-composer to compose his ten Aphorisms upon returning from his participation in the 1927 Chopin Competition in Warsaw. Beyond the financial, then, it seems there were other riches to be gained from possessing a high profile. And lest we forget, even Shostakovich’s personal travel was made possible by state support: the Leipzig and Berlin trip was not the only excursion Shostakovich made during the summer of 1950, which he spent largely outside of Moscow, at the family dacha in Komarovo. He and his family also spent some time vacationing on the Crimean Peninsula of the Black Sea; they lodged at the state-operated Writer’s House in Yalta. Public and private, official and unofficial: these are at best heuristic categories, meant only to get us so far in our savoring of the fruits of this creative life.

Wasted Labor With the active summer behind him, Shostakovich began work on the Preludes and Fugues on October 10, 1950. He worked consecutively, in the order

22 Contexts

in which the pieces appear in the cycle, on a nearly daily basis for over four months (interrupted only in November for his trip to the Peace Conference in Warsaw), showing the results of his daily labor both to Tatyana Nikolayeva in Moscow and also, when he was in residence at the artists’ retreat in Ruza provided by the Composers’ Union, to composer Grigoriy Fried. He completed the cycle in late February, and by March 31 he was ready to audition the cycle’s first half before his peers at the Union of Composers. His presentation of the second half, which was originally to have taken place five days later, was postponed until May 16. Following the composer’s performance that day, an evaluative discussion ensued. An official stenographic record of this discussion does exist in state archives, and Elizabeth Wilson’s biography includes some material based upon this record, in the form of reminiscences by the writer Lyubov Rudneva. Within a matter of weeks, however, the official report on the Preludes and Fugues appeared in Sovetskaya Muzika. This document, which has not appeared in English translation, represents the official edited version of what was said at these proceedings.11 It nonetheless provides us with a sense of Shostakovich’s public status within the bureaucracy at the time. As would be expected, the report begins in a typical socialist realist vein by stressing the importance of art that depicts “the great themes of contemporary life.” Guilty still of his “former, mistaken creative positions” and of “repeating the old mistakes,” Shostakovich is accused of producing in the cycle of Preludes and Fugues a generally gloomy and morbid vision, marked only occasionally by music of true contemporary worth. Thus its “images of tragic detachment or nervous exaltation, which dominate many of the pieces, in no way can be accepted as typical of the inner world of the Soviet citizen.” On the one hand, the report lays great stress upon the various tendencies towards slowness and hesitation that I will describe in Chapter 5 of this book. The Fugue in F-sharp Minor is said to convey “morbid images of sickly terror, individualistic self-digging,” and many others are deemed sickly as well. But the expressive opposite of that mood—the extroverted and active aspect that I discuss in Chapter 6—is also viewed as suspect. The “jagged”

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 23

quality of the B Major Prelude and the “harsh, disharmonious combinations” of the Fugues in G Major and E-flat Major are singled out in this respect, though the “intolerably cacophonic” Fugue in D-flat Major is clearly the most universally loathed. In contrast to Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, which displays the “multi-facetedness of life,” Shostakovich’s cycle was viewed as expressively narrow: “It doesn’t encompass the broad range of life’s images typical to our time.” In some cases—the Preludes and Fugues in A Major, A-flat Major, and F-sharp Major, for instance—it was thought that “the composer approaches the depiction of lively images of reality.” Also appealing to the committee were the momentary glimpses of Musorgsky’s influence that some commentators found in such pieces as the Prelude in E Major and the Fugue in F Minor. But even here, Shostakovich’s ideological deficiencies were brought to bear on the final musical result: “It’s as if the Russian theme, especially in the fugues, is overcome by the complex constructivist antics, thus losing its simplicity and humanity.” His good intentions notwithstanding, Shostakovich seems to have seriously missed his mark. A final, brief paragraph near the end of the article reports on the positive reactions towards the cycle from Tatyana Nikolayeva and various composers, including Yuriy Sviridov and Yuriy Levitin. With a mere two sentences devoted to their comments, after several pages of reporting on the negative aspects of the audition, the author nonetheless felt comfortable claiming that “in all, the discussion passed in an atmosphere of free competition of different points of view.” Mariya Yudina’s outburst, however, which is related in Wilson’s biography and which I will return to in this book’s final chapter, did seem to have struck a sore spot. A separate full paragraph is devoted to her words—her own verbal reproach of her colleagues turned back against her as an in-print warning—and she is cast as slightly deranged and “vengeful.” The final official word in the spring of 1951 on Shostakovich’s newly composed cycle of Preludes and Fugues was that it represented nothing but “wasted labor.” It seemed, for the purposes of public record at least, that the rehabilitation of this most elite of cultural professionals needed to be portrayed

24 Contexts

as incomplete. Indeed, it was not until late summer 1952 that Tatyana Nikolayeva took it upon herself, while Shostakovich was out of the city, to bring the cycle to the Committee for Artistic Affairs in search of authorization for publication and a complete public performance of the cycle. Successful in her efforts (presumably, among other things, she played more convincingly than the composer had in the spring of 1951), she herself premiered the complete cycle in Leningrad on December 23 and 28, 1952. The score was published that same month by the state publisher Musgiz. Only then was the official view of the composer’s labor changed from wasted to useful, as a weapon in the ongoing campaign to advertise the artistic and cultural superiority of the Soviet Union.

Analyses and Metaphors The Preludes and Fugues offer a tantalizing case study in Shostakovich’s artistic persona during the period circa 1948–53. With its overt nods towards Russian folk melodies and oftentimes heart-on-the-sleeve emotional immediacy, the cycle might be understood as the composer’s sincere attempt at remaining true to his promise to represent and honor “the heroic Russian people,” as he put it in his speech at the Composer’s Congress in the spring of 1948. But Soviet Russians in the late 1940s knew all too well that stressing the “Russian” over the “Soviet” was a potentially dangerous move, especially in the cultural realm. In evoking the Russian spirit in an abstract, Bach-inspired language, and in not representing the contemporary Soviet persona in more obvious programmatic terms, Shostakovich therefore may have been treading on thin ice. The report on the Preludes and Fugues in Sovetskaya Muzika certainly gives the impression that Shostakovich’s stylistic tendencies were still a matter of contention within the bureaucracy, and that any effort on his part to bill the Preludes and Fugues as a good-faith response to the 1948 decree backfired. Depressing as it may be to read, however, and humiliating as it surely was for the composer to experience, this report ultimately tells us very little, if anything, about the Preludes and Fugues. We certainly do not learn

Placing the Preludes and Fugues 25

to appreciate this music any better as a result of being privy to the discussion. And Shostakovich’s reputation did not suffer in any serious way as a result of this composition, which was, after all, officially published and given a public premiere before Stalin’s death. While elements of parody and caricature are certainly present in the Preludes and Fugues, and while other aspects—the occasional reference to Jewish music in particular—might draw our attention as potentially “critical” in spirit, the cycle simultaneously, and perhaps more pervasively, speaks in an accessible and ultimately apolitical voice. This makes a view of the Preludes and Fugues as an act of dissidence difficult to sustain in the end. Such a view is appealing to those who wish to emphasize the suffering that Shostakovich endured as an artist. I do not wish to downplay this suffering: given his exceptional artistic talents, Shostakovich was likely in need at this time of some soul-enhancing redemption that would allow him to rise above the degraded spiritual and material conditions that he was experiencing. Perhaps the Preludes and Fugues represent such a project to some degree. But they need not be singled out as an exceptional case in this respect. If we are inclined to say that Shostakovich sought refuge from the storm in composing a cycle of Preludes and Fugues for piano, we must also acknowledge numerous other aspects of this creative life central to this same project of self-renewal, including his turn towards string quartets. And once we open that door, the important uniqueness of each of these compositions begins to slip away from our grasp. At the same time, even if we acknowledge that the problem of “formalism” was largely a pretext for Shostakovich’s dressing-down in 1948, we must remember that his continued work in the realm of serious concert music was a conscious choice on his part to go against the grain and follow his own individual creative spirit, a choice that could potentially lead to a negative outcome. In other words, even if Shostakovich knew full well that the 1948 resolution was motivated primarily by economic concerns, and not stylistic ones, he was not ignorant of the fact that his stylistic choices would nonetheless be evaluated in a highly politicized, public context. We should be careful not to let such distinctions, however real they may be, lead us too

26

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easily to the conclusion that the “private” is synonymous with the overtly “dissident,” or even with the covertly political. It may very well be that such matters were the last things on Shostakovich’s mind when he sat down to compose anything. Questions concerning the artistic and political identity of the Preludes and Fugues have tended to lead in that all-too-familiar polarizing direction that has characterized the discussion of so much of Shostakovich’s music. It is more helpful to acknowledge that elements of both views are important and necessary in our own continuing evaluations of his legacy. Kiril Tomoff has offered a brief, even-handed assessment of this contested subject, identifying two disparate strands in the reception of Shostakovich’s works—the “analytic view” espoused by those who rely on facts verified by archival documents, and the “metaphorical view” that has long been upheld by many interpreters and commentators, especially from those within the Soviet Union, and in particular since the 1976 publication of Solomon Volkov’s Testimony. Tomoff neither fully condones nor ridicules either position. I also aim to promote such a view, in which the complexities of artistic creation within a totalitarian state are acknowledged, in which the facts of personal biography and sociopolitical history are taken into account, and in which the mysteries of musical expression are given their full due.

3

the cycle as a whole

Back to Bach The initial flash of inspiration that compelled Shostakovich to compose a cycle of preludes and fugues for piano certainly came from J. S. Bach. Especially in the first two preludes and fugues, but elsewhere in the cycle as well, allusions to Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier occupy the foreground. The first sonority in Shostakovich’s cycle—the initial tonic chord of the Prelude in C Major—reproduces the opening harmony and voicing of Bach’s own C Major Prelude from Book I, while turning its arpeggiations into simultaneously sounding chords. The missing arpeggiations come in the next prelude, in A minor, hurled down as lightning bolts of streaming sixteenth notes, in the tradition of baroque Fortspinnung, an unbroken churning-out of material in a single contrapuntal line. Elsewhere, Shostakovich is even more forthcoming about the specific origins of his inspiration. The Prelude in C-sharp Minor begins with the same hand-shape figure, presented in imitation between the two hands, found in Bach’s E-flat Major Prelude from Book I. Similarly, the opening contour and rhythm in

12 8

time of Shosta-

kovich’s A Major Prelude—an initial surge of four sixteenth notes followed by a longer wave of eighth notes—gently recasts the fanfare-like opening of Bach’s D Major Prelude from Book II. The dotted rhythms of Shostakovich’s Prelude in B Minor convey a similar formality and seriousness of purpose as those in the G Minor Prelude from Book II. In these and in many

27

28

Contexts

other places, Shostakovich’s cycle exudes the spirit of the Well-Tempered Clavier. And yet Tatyana Nikolayeva, the dedicatee of Shostakovich’s cycle and herself a renowned interpreter of Bach, stressed that any attempt at an in-depth comparison between these two collections of Preludes and Fugues was unlikely to yield any significant insight: “The question about a comparative study of Bach’s and Shostakovich’s cycles is natural. It seems to me that it is inappropriate to do so. It is only possible to talk about some relative comparison of discrete traditions and techniques.”1 Nikolayeva is certainly right in this assessment: beyond Shostakovich’s general intention to pay homage to Bach, and apart from a few instances of overt resemblance, their style, musical language, formal technique, and expressive affect part ways drastically. And yet a closer look at these differences will sharpen our appreciation of the distinct qualities of Shostakovich’s cycle. Perhaps the most glaring and significant disparity between the two cycles as complete entities lies in their large-scale tonal plan. Bach, with his decision to compose a series of Preludes and Fugues for keyboard such that each of the twelve pitches of the chromatic scale could serve as the tonic for both a major and minor key without retuning the instrument, was acting upon multiple intentions. For one, he aimed to demonstrate the integrity of every individual key, each with its own attributes and tendencies. Although some of the pieces in the two books of the Well-Tempered Clavier were certainly transposed from different original keys, in general Bach sought in each prelude and fugue to create a world unto its own whose terrain was fashioned from the individual characteristics of its key.2 Of course, technical and pedagogical concerns also lay at the heart of Bach’s enterprise: he wanted performers of this music to gain familiarity with chord shapes and progressions in each and every key. But in no way was he concerned with the kind of large-scale planning that would trace a journey from C major to B minor. The ordering of the keys in the preludes and fugues of the WellTempered Clavier was logical and didactic for Bach, not the result of a narrative impulse. By contrast, Shostakovich—a composer for whom a narrative impulse

The Cycle as a Whole 29

seems to have been all but inescapable—conformed to a far more conspicuously dramatic mold in the construction of his cycle, creating a structure whose logic was predicated upon the progression from beginning to end. In patterning his key movement according to the circle of fifths (C major and A minor, G major and E minor, and so on), he was clearly influenced by the nineteenth-century piano tradition and such cycles as Chopin’s Preludes, Opus 28, which follow the same key plan. But even more than that cycle, Shostakovich’s maps an expressive, formal, and textural evolution that is goal-oriented, teleological in conception. From the cycle’s laid-back opening strains in C major, the eventuality of D minor weighs heavily on the interpreter’s conscience. There is no escaping its iron grip. As I explain in further detail in Chapter 7, the music is clearly designed to ride the circleof-fifths wave, taking us from a general atmosphere of graceful lightheartedness (for instance, the Preludes and Fugues in D Major and A Major) in the cycle’s first half, to tentativeness and uncertainty (for instance, the Preludes and Fugues in C Minor and F Major) in its second, to an epic climax in the D Minor Prelude and Fugue. From this perspective, any pedagogical, theoretical, or affective intentions on Shostakovich’s part in the individual preludes and fugues are outweighed, when one considers the cycle as a whole, by its governing key scheme. Worlds removed from the theoretical concerns of Bach’s time—poised on the cusp between the waning system of modes and the increasingly fixed conventions of tonality—Shostakovich instead found firm support, and indeed poetic inspiration, from a longestablished system of key movement with an expressive logic of its own. If the system of “well-tempered” tuning was more or less dictated to Shostakovich by virtue of the conventions of traditional tonality, the particular approach he would take towards the tonal system was by no means selfevident. While the cycle of Preludes and Fugues is unquestionably tonal in the deepest sense, Shostakovich’s manipulation of keys is rooted in procedures that both conform to and deviate from traditional models. The subject of Shostakovich’s harmonic language has become increasingly important to scholars as the study of his life and works has moved in general from questions of politics and interpretation to questions of musical form and

30 Contexts

style. While a fair amount of this kind of work has been done in the Russian language, the scholarship in English, while burgeoning, is less substantial. It is not my intention here to survey the many Russian-language sources and approaches towards Shostakovich’s harmonic practice. I do not intend for this book to provide a survey of Shostakovich scholarship from a theoretical point of view.3 Instead, in identifying the salient characteristic of Shostakovich’s harmonic language, I would like to highlight one effect that, to my ears, represents the core of what his approach towards tonality is all about in this particular work. Many of us have experienced the sensation, when listening to Shostakovich’s music, of feeling deprived of the pleasure of an anticipated cadence, of being led astray. Examples abound in his works of the tendency to establish a harmonic progression only to change course abruptly mid-stream and end up somewhere else entirely. Snippets of appealing tonal material are snatched away from us without notice. Such interruptions are more often than not the result of chromatic substitutions in the pitch collection that steer our ears in a new direction even while keeping our desires and expectations, based upon both the phrase structure’s logic and the previous pitch collection, intact. In a study of this same technique in the music of Sergei Prokofiev, Richard Bass has referred to this procedure as “chromatic displacement,” and I would argue that Shostakovich’s employment of this device functions as one of the chief defining characteristics of the cycle’s harmonic language. The result is a brightly colored approach towards tonality that, while holding fast to the basic principles of the tonal system, nevertheless allows for significant deviations that enstrange the language and, put colloquially, perk up listeners’ ears. Bass explains that Prokofiev’s (and other Russian composers’) use of this technique differs significantly from examples of abrupt shifts of pitch collection and of key in the music of earlier tonal composers such as Beethoven. While Beethoven will frequently employ such semitonal shifts to effect a dramatic turn, he does so inevitably at a structural juncture where the listener is likely to expect it—as in the jarring shift from the first to the second movements of the String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Opus 131, which abruptly

The Cycle as a Whole 31

modulates from C-sharp minor to D major; or in the explosive move from C major to A-flat major near the end of the recapitulation in the first movement of the Piano Sonata in C Major, Opus 2, No. 3. By contrast, in the chromatic substitutions that Bass examines in Russian music of the early twentieth century, the technique is not modulatory in intent but represents instead a temporary move in an otherwise diatonic context. That is to say, if a piece is in B major, either F-sharp major (the actual dominant) or its semitone neighbor, F major, can serve as an effective dominant. This manner of expanded tonality thus “permits a relationship approaching equivalency between any two key systems separated by a semitone.”4 One essential aspect of this technique is that the diatonic note the ear expects to hear remains present in the listener’s imagination as a “shadow” that lies behind the chromatic substitution. Thus, again, if F major is presented as the chromatic equivalent of the dominant in B major, our ears perceive the shadow-presence of F-sharp major as something nearly there. We are able to perceive the normal syntactical function (a dominant harmony) even if the notes are not the “right” notes, and we accept the substitution as fulfilling this function. The wrong notes act just like the right notes would have: “Even though it comes as something of a surprise, the listener is obliged to deal with it in a diatonic context, as a representative of its diatonic shadow.”5 In my commentary on the individual preludes and fugues in Part II of this book, I will single out numerous examples of Shostakovich’s reliance on this procedure—in the dramatic contest between the tonic key and its gloomy nemesis (C minor) in the Prelude and Fugue in B Minor; in the mysterious transitions out of the developmental and modulatory middle parts of several fugues into their stretto sections, which re-establish the tonic; and in the many instances of fugal subject entrances in distant keys, often arrived at by the abrupt slip of a semitone. Shostakovich’s score is saturated with locallevel harmonic effects that place it in a category entirely outside the realm of Bach’s tonal language, just as its large-scale design enacts a monumental drama that is alien to the baroque master’s aesthetic and didactic concerns.

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If Shostakovich’s treatment of chromaticism distinguishes his cycle from Bach’s, his approach towards the formal design of his preludes reminds us of the affinities between the two composers. Like Bach, Shostakovich aims in his Preludes and Fugues towards an overarching heterogeneity in his prelude types, each with its own unique affect and character. David Ledbetter, in his study of the Well-Tempered Clavier, notes that “by Bach’s time the concept of the prelude could draw on a rich array of prototypes.”6 It should go without saying that Shostakovich, composing his cycle more than two hundred years later, had at his disposal even more varied possibilities. And yet, while a range of form and of expression does exist, in general the preludes in his cycle seem to reinforce a few basic types and principles. The Preludes in G-sharp Minor, a passacaglia (a set of variations over a ground bass), and B-flat Minor, a theme and variations, are noteworthy as single exemplars of distinct genres. Among all the cycle’s preludes, they stand as the most conspicuous references to traditional forms. The Preludes in D-flat Major and A-flat Major, while drastically different in their tone and expressive content, are closely related as a result of their straightforward and conventional ternary form. At least three of the cycle’s preludes—in G Major, E Major, and E-flat Minor—have a distinctly Russian flavor to them, with their stark, declamatory textures, ambiguous modal-tonal language, and texture-driven formal plans. Three others—in A Minor, B-flat Major, and G Minor—are based upon unchanging keyboard patterns and figurations and thus perhaps most clearly refer back to the technical-pedagogical intentions of Bach. Elements of the grotesque figure in the Preludes in F-sharp Minor and B Major—the former in a serious vein, the latter purely playful —while a sweet and uncomplicated lyricism pervades those in A Major, D Major, and F-sharp Major. Three of the cycle’s later preludes—in C Minor, E-flat Major, and F Major—possess a free-flowing quality that suggests a more intense probing in the cycle’s final stages, one far removed from the stricter formal design of many of its earlier preludes. By far the most prominent aspect of formal design in the preludes as a group is the principle of recapitulation. In some cases—the Preludes in C Major and A Minor, for example—a strict repetition of the opening phrase

The Cycle as a Whole 33

(in the latter, with the minimal addition of a dominant pedal tone) effectively signals a binary structure. Elsewhere the proportions are such that the recapitulation seems false, or at least radically truncated, the return to the tonic and the opening thematic material coming unsettlingly close to the piece’s conclusion. The Preludes in D Major, B Minor, F-sharp Minor, F Minor, F Major, and D Minor all follow this somewhat lopsided format, in which the tonal and thematic promise of a full-fledged formal recapitulation is thwarted by forces intent upon bringing about closure more swiftly. Bach’s and Shostakovich’s cycles part company most dramatically when it comes to their fugues, Shostakovich’s approach towards the fugal process being far more streamlined and less varied. Roger Bullivant has provided a useful comparative overview in this regard, even if he arrives in the end at an unfair assessment of the overall quality of Shostakovich’s cycle. Bullivant stresses several qualities of Shostakovich’s fugues that remain consistent throughout the cycle: the unvarying use of countersubject and the complementary character of the subject and countersubject within any given fugue; the answer on the dominant (the only exception being the Fugue in B-flat Major, whose answer comes at the sixth, and thus on the relative minor); the episode built from material that first appears in the exposition’s codetta; and the first “middle entries” (after the exposition) arriving in the relative key (major or minor). For Bullivant, such regularity of fugal practice constitutes a fault on Shostakovich’s part: “The feeling cannot be resisted that he has accepted tradition rather than acquiring it. . . . The impression of all this is of a composer who knows Bach’s fugues well but is not himself a natural fugue writer. One feels that very original material has been poured into a set mould.”7 In the history of fugal analysis, especially in the past hundred years or so, one truism seems to trump all others: fugue is not a form, but a process. Any writer on fugue will be quick to deliver multiple examples demonstrating that formal or structural variety is of the essence in any successful fugue. Such writers inevitably point out that the tripartite model for fugue that is normally used in courses such as Form and Analysis—which posits that normative fugues possess an exposition, development, and recapitulation—is

34 Contexts

simply an unfortunate inheritance from the nineteenth century, the age of historicism and formalism in which many of our basic understandings of musical form were codified in textbooks and conservatory curricula. As such, we do ourselves a disservice in trying to force fugues into such formal categories, and we are better served by the attempt to identify single features common to most fugues. If this is the case, what do we make of Shostakovich’s dogged adherence to a single formal model for the fugues in his cycle? What implications might we derive from this decision? Surely this was a composer who not only possessed a deep understanding of traditional practice but who also was able easily to intuit the effects his musical choices would elicit. I believe that Bullivant’s analysis is lacking in one crucial respect, having to do exactly with such questions. For among the elements of Shostakovich’s homogeneous fugal practice that he identifies, one is conspicuously absent—the fact that nearly all of them (the final double fugue in D minor being the only true exception) rely on the principle of stretto in their culminating sections. Just as they each create their individual moods by way of complementary subjects and countersubjects, so too are they organized such that the pilingup of entries becomes a signal event in their formal design. As such, the climactic stretto must be understood as one of the principal devices of Shostakovich’s compositional strategy, which indeed seems built upon the effect of an intentional sameness. Resisting the standard three-part model for fugue, David A. Sheldon has suggested that we understand the fugal process as “more continuous and cumulative than sectional or cyclic,” and that as an element of closure we take the stretto to be at least as important as the so-called exposition.8 Indeed, Sheldon points out that stretto has been discussed in the literature on fugue from the beginning, and that even such a master of fugue as Luigi Cherubini identified it among his four required elements of fugue (subject, answer, countersubject, and stretto).9 Notice how closely Shostakovich’s practice in the Preludes and Fugues follows this advice, which suggests that his own view on fugue placed it closer to form than process along a spectrum. His emphasis on the culminating stretto section demonstrates that he

The Cycle as a Whole 35

understood the creation of a fugue to be akin to the telling of a narrative story, and not an exercise in rhetoric or “an elaborate, disputatious discourse.”10 He seems, in other words, to have “formalized” the fugue on purpose, and not as a result of an ignorance of tradition. All of this has everything to do with the questions of plotting, and specifically of closure, with which I began this comparative discussion of Shostakovich and Bach. For Shostakovich, as I suggested above, the principle of telos was paramount—not only in the sense of the large-scale key scheme that dictated a conclusion in D minor, but also, we observe now, in the locallevel sense of each fugue. Consistently a composer for whom questions of closure were vexed (as I will explain in further detail in Chapter 7, during my discussion of the “finale problem” in his work in general), Shostakovich seems to have understood in this cycle that fugues require a special kind of formal culmination—that, in David Sheldon’s words, “it is by means of momentum and energy that a fugue closes, not recapitulation and repose.”11 As for any trace of originality in Shostakovich’s achievement, Bullivant locates it solely within the fugue subjects: “These are the most original and most widely varied feature of the collection of fugues, and such variety as there is between fugues is largely due to the different characteristics of the various subjects.”12 To be sure, insofar as the subject of a fugue contains what might be likened to a DNA blueprint for the piece as a whole, Shostakovich displays great skill in their fashioning. Along with the key, such elements as gesture, contour, intervallic makeup, rhythmic profile, and ornamentation all play significant roles in the general affect of a subject, and therefore of a fugue as a whole. One of music history’s greatest traders on associative affect, Shostakovich proves himself prodigiously adept at creating forcefully communicative subjects. But once again, while I agree with Bullivant’s assessment of Shostakovich’s success with his fugue subjects, I find his analysis wanting in one important respect. For if we are looking to understand the creative impetus behind Shostakovich’s particular approach towards fugue in this cycle, we cannot overlook the fact that the fugues’ subjects, while remarkably varied in their details, draw consistently upon a single governing contour—out-

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lining the first, fifth, and (major or minor) sixth scale degrees—that also forms the crux of a relationship between the tonic and the submediant that dominates the cycle on the harmonic level as well. Several of the cycle’s preludes (in E Minor, E Major, B-flat Minor, and F Minor) and at least nine of its fugue subjects (both of those in the E Minor Fugue, and those in the C Major, D Major, C-sharp Minor, E-flat Minor, B-flat Minor, A-flat Major, and G Minor Fugues) are fashioned according to this 1– 5–6 contour. The various manifestations of this basic shape create a strong overall sense of coherence within a cycle that is otherwise notably varied in its expressive material. Indeed, one might go so far as to think of Shostakovich’s use of this motive as an obsession—for as the two-and-ahalf-hour cycle progresses, its regular recurrence, especially as a fugue subject, keeps it audible in the foreground of the musical surface for an almost excessive amount of time. Again, our thoughts turn towards Shostakovich’s creative intentions in fashioning his musical materials in such a way. Perhaps this basic shape represents a folk element in the cycle and thus places it in a category similar to that of his song cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry, which was composed in the months directly following the 1948 anti-formalist resolution. In any event, the prominence of this motive represents one aspect of a general accessibility in the Preludes and Fugues—in terms of style and performance level—that must be taken into account when assessing its character and expressive intentions. If on the one hand his fugue subjects are notable for their variety, providing the cycle with range and scope, on the other hand their similarity bears an equal responsibility in maintaining expressive, and I would even argue narrative, continuity.

Shostakovich and the Russian Contrapuntal Tradition If Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier represents in the end only a superficial comparative model for Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues, one might be tempted to look into the annals of Russian contrapuntal piano music for some more revealing connections. During his formative years at the Petrograd Conservatory, where he began his studies in piano and composition

The Cycle as a Whole 37

in the autumn of 1919, Shostakovich surely came to know, for instance, the many fine contrapuntal keyboard works composed by that institution’s director, Alexander Glazunov (1865–1936). Indeed, over the four-year period that coincided with Shostakovich’s course of study on piano (he took his exam in June 1923), Glazunov composed his Four Preludes and Fugues, Opus 101, a nearly forty-minute cycle of impressive depth and imagination. And these excellent pieces, assured in style and pianistically rewarding, were not Glazunov’s only exercises in the form. He composed several other independent preludes and fugues (including the better-known Prelude and Fugue in D Minor, Opus 62, composed in 1899), and his Piano Sonata No. 2 in E Minor, Opus 75 (1901) includes a substantial fugue in its third and final movement. Its dotted rhythms and demanding virtuosity seem designed to trace a lineage back through Liszt to Schumann and Beethoven— the very pianist-composer tradition through which the young Shostakovich was making his way at the same time. With Glazunov’s work, Shostakovich was shown early on that the prelude and fugue as a keyboard genre was still very much alive and rich with artistic potential. Any direct influence between Glazunov’s and Shostakovich’s preludes and fugues, however, is unlikely —though, interestingly, the second of Glazunov’s Opus 101 Preludes and Fugues, in C-sharp Minor, begins with a hand-shape figure traded in turn between the hands not unlike that of the prelude in the same key from Shostakovich’s cycle (which, as noted above, is surely referencing Bach’s E-flat Major Prelude from Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier). Both composers seem to have found that particular contrapuntal texture ripe for continued exploration. Glazunov was not the only composer of his era to try his hand at wedding the contrapuntal genres of the baroque with the romantic virtuoso style. In the 1880s, Ferruccio Busoni (1866–1924) had composed three preludes and fugues for piano, and he more deeply explored his passion for the contrapuntal tradition in several later works, including the Two Contrapuntal Studies after J. S. Bach (a fantasie and fugue, and a canonic variation and fugue) of 1916–17, the two versions of the Fantasia contrappuntistica (1910, 1912), and the Fantasia after J. S. Bach (1909). Max Reger’s epic Variations

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on a Theme by Johann Sebastian Bach, Opus 81 (1904), one of the great monuments of this virtuoso-contrapuntal tradition, surely must be counted among this group as well. And in the Russian context, another great lover of Bach, and of Renaissance polyphony, Sergei Taneyev (1856–1915) had only recently passed away when Shostakovich was embarking upon his musical career. Even more so than Glazunov’s already challenging examples, Taneyev’s well-known Prelude and Fugue in G-sharp Minor (1910) is representative of the grand nineteenth-century virtuoso tradition. With its mysterious, quasi-improvisatory prelude and demonic, thickly scored fugue— featuring a rolling subject in 12 16 time reminiscent of Bach’s C-sharp Minor Fugue from Book II of the Well-Tempered Clavier—it demands tremendous technical resources from its performer. For Glazunov, Taneyev, and other pianist-composers, compositional and performerly concerns merged into one. Their various preludes and fugues and other baroque-inspired keyboard works are thoroughly wedded to their own performance idiom in a way that Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues are not. As a young man, Shostakovich was of course in possession of a true virtuoso technique. He played Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata as a fifteen-year-old (from which he also surely absorbed much in the way of contrapuntal understanding), as well as many other of the most demanding works in the repertory. But while he attempted a modernist-inspired virtuoso style of writing in his Piano Sonata No. 1 (1926), in general he did not seem to experience this same kind of synchronicity between his dual talents as a pianist and composer. By the time he came around to composing his own Preludes and Fugues in 1950s, decades after his conservatory years, his own creative path lay well outside the standard pianist-composer orbit. If this strand of the Russian and more broadly European keyboard tradition seems to have had little effect on Shostakovich as a composer, his Preludes and Fugues seem to have become a source of influence themselves upon one of his own contemporaries in the Soviet Union. We can only take it as a testament to Shostakovich’s unmatched abilities as a conjurer of moods, and not as a clue to his own ideological inclinations, that his partyline colleague Dmitri Kabalevsky would blatantly mimic Shostakovich’s Pre-

The Cycle as a Whole 39

lude in C Major in the first of his own Six Preludes and Fugues, Opus 61 (1958–59), which together form the first book of his Music for Children and Young People. As Kabalevsky explained in his Composer’s Foreword, these are programmatic pieces that “deal mostly with the life of young people— Young Pioneer and Komsomol members, also with Nature.”13 This first prelude and fugue is titled “A Summer Morning on a Lawn.” As Kabalevsky describes it, it depicts “a glade in the forest, overgrown with soft green grass. It has not yet cast off the night’s sleep. . . . The sounds of the reveille come from the Young Pioneer summer camp nearby.” The similarities with Shostakovich’s score are obvious, from the expressive markings to the chord spacing and tessitura (ex. 3.1). Moreover, the prelude’s second phrase (measure 9) begins with a repetition of the opening in the right hand with the

Ex. 3.1a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 1 in C Major, mm. 1– 2

Ex. 3.1b. Dmitri Kabalevsky, Preludes and Fugues, Opus 61: No. 1, “A Summer Morning on a Lawn,” mm. 1– 10

40 Contexts

left hand taken down the interval of a second—just as in the second half of Shostakovich’s C Major Prelude, a strategy he seems to have borrowed directly from J. S. Bach. (See my discussion of the Prelude in C Major in Chapter 4.) But the change to common time and shift of emphasis to the downbeat—not to mention the didactic programmatic element expressed in the composer’s comments—transform Shostakovich’s easy charm into a plodding, predictable affair. As Kabalevsky’s cycle continues, the influence of Shostakovich becomes pronounced to an almost ludicrous degree. One wonders if perhaps Kabalevsky intended this cycle as a training piece for the pianist interested in, but not yet capable of, taking on Shostakovich’s more complex cycle. The second prelude and fugue, “Becoming a Young Pioneer,” features a gigue-like fugue subject not unlike that of Shostakovich’s Fugue in G Major (No. 3); the third, “An Evening Song Beyond the River,” shares the gloomy mood and E Minor key of Shostakovich’s fourth prelude and fugue; and the subject of Kabalevsky’s Fugue in A Major (No. 4, “In the Young Pioneer Camp”) begins by arpeggiating the tonic triad, just as in Shostakovich’s fugue in the same key. We should perhaps not be surprised of such blatant theft from a composer who felt it necessary to explain that his Prelude and Fugue in C Minor (No. 5) is “A Story About a Hero.” Of course, his aims being pedagogical, perhaps it would be more charitable to view all of this not as dumbing down but rather as important preparation for the fledgling performer, one who has yet to experience, for instance, the strong lure, and lore, of C minor under the hands of Beethoven. But such good will is difficult to sustain upon reaching the conclusion of Kabalevsky’s cycle—the Prelude and Fugue in F Major, “Feast of Labor”—an orgy of bad taste that shamelessly attempts to model (again, if primarily out of pedagogical concern) the D minor apotheosis of Shostakovich’s cycle. In assessing Kabalevsky’s achievement, I am compelled to cite the eminent historian of Soviet music Boris Schwarz, who wrote of Kabalevsky’s Requiem (1963): “The lively and somewhat impish talent of Kabalevsky, endearing but not profound, does not seem ideally suited to create a work of such dimensions and emotional depths.”14 If, for the officially minded Kabalevsky, Shostakovich’s cycle of Preludes and Fugues was a work

The Cycle as a Whole 41

“based upon a grave miscalculation”—a view he put forth during the discussion following Shostakovich’s initial audition of the cycle for his peers at the Union of Composers—his own aesthetic miscalculations are equally visible, and egregious, from the perspective of those for whom the fundamental required element of great music is its mystery.

Strange Bedfellows Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues inevitably draw comparison with another midcentury landmark of contrapuntal piano music, Paul Hindemith’s Ludus Tonalis. For many reasons, such a discussion is warranted. Both composers derived significant inspiration from J. S. Bach in the creation of their cycles. Both conceived of their projects during a period of notable refinement of compositional technique—after having begun their careers as brazen modernists and gradually worked their respective ways into a mature, individual style. And, along with Kurt Weill and Sergei Prokofiev, both are mentioned in the same breath, in textbooks and the like, as composers whose careers were inextricably linked to the political realities of the twentieth century. Each from their respective contexts, the two piano cycles speak to the importance of tradition, and to the continuing commitment to music as a profession, as a craft whose lifetime study is to be taken with great respect. That the young Shostakovich subscribed to such principles, also held and put into practice by Hindemith throughout his career, is evidenced in his belief that it was every Soviet composer’s responsibility to keep abreast of developments in European art music. To a great extent, it was possible for Shostakovich to do just that in his early years as a composer. He thrived on the opportunity to engage with new music, and he participated in a number of discussion and performance circles—including, in the early 1920s, the Fogt Circle, a group of established professional musicians (the conductor Nikolai Malko, the musicologist and composer Boris Asafyev) and younger protégés who met biweekly at the apartment of a certain Anna Fogt to discuss their own music as well as that of Igor Stravinsky, Béla Bartók, Ernst Krenek, the members of Les Six and the Second Viennese School,

42 Contexts

and of course Hindemith. In his responses to a survey administered in the 1920s on the psychology of the creative process, as well as in several other sources, one finds Shostakovich identifying his decade-older German counterpart as one of his favorite composers.15 And yet, numerous sharp differences between Shostakovich’s and Hindemith’s cycles—in terms of harmonic language, fugal design, and perhaps even expressive intentions, not to mention the political context in the time and place of their creation—set them worlds apart. Ludus Tonalis was composed in 1942, not long after Hindemith arrived in the United States, after having emigrated from Germany and gone first to Switzerland. A professor of music at Yale (and director of its Collegium Musicum) since 1940, he had also recently completed the second volume of his two-part study, The Craft of Musical Composition, in which he explained an original system of musical organization as an alternative to traditional tonal harmony. From the midto late 1930s until his death in 1963, Hindemith composed faithfully according to the principles laid out in this book. Ludus Tonalis is widely viewed as one of the most thorough and successful applications of these theories in practice. Hindemith’s Craft stands as one of many searches for a post-tonal order in the early decades of the twentieth century. Unlike Schoenberg, whose own method of composition in twelve tones had been unveiled in the mid-1920s, Hindemith held onto the basic principles of tonal music, believing that the major triad functioned like a musical sun—as the basis not only for the kind of music he composed, but for all music. The problem with traditional harmony, for Hindemith, was that it did not permit a free enough use of all twelve chromatic pitches in a tonal context. Tonality’s construction of consonance and dissonance (melodic, intervallic, and harmonic) created rules and conventions that were not only expressively limiting but inadequately supported by physical, acoustical facts. His alternative theory reimagines the relationships between a tonic note and all of the other pitches in the chromatic scale—and by association the tonic triad and all other possible intervallic structures—thus allowing for a freely chromatic yet tonal “play of tones” (ludus tonalis) that sounds both familiar and strange at the same time.

The Cycle as a Whole 43

Ludus Tonalis holds fast to Hindemith’s theory with remarkable tenacity. The hour-long cycle includes twelve fugues (one for each of the twelve pitches in the chromatic scale), eleven interludes, a prelude, and a postlude. The key scheme of the fugues is ordered according to Hindemith’s “Series 1”—a sequence of pitches that he believed represented the truest account of music’s real acoustical properties: C–G–F–A–E–E-flat–A-flat–D–B-flat– D-flat–B–F-sharp. The cycle’s harmonic language, which more than any other musical parameter (rhythm, melody, or form) defines Hindemith’s truly unique stylistic calling card, stems from a similarly derived system of intervals.16 And its large-scale form is designed such that the journey from C to F-sharp in the fugues is paralleled on multiple levels. The Prelude’s structure outlines the tritone progression by tonicizing C and F-sharp in its various toccata-like sections, concluding on F-sharp before the first fugue reestablishes C as tonic. Perhaps most striking, the Prelude and Postlude are designed as a “modified retrograde mirror”—such that the score of the latter is exactly the same, note for note, as the score of the former turned upside down and played backward. This allows the resolution from F-sharp (the key of the final fugue and also, because of the retrograde operation, the beginning of the Postlude) back to C for the cycle’s conclusion.17 Hindemith had to labor extensively to create this highly unusual organizational scheme, both the Prelude and the Postlude composed painstakingly in tandem, trialand-error style. In addition to its impressive and compelling formal design, Ludus Tonalis possesses its fair share of expressive highlights, captivating musical imaginings that leap out as evidence that this composer possessed extraordinary communicative gifts. The fifth fugue, in E, is a swinging gigue, which from a comparative perspective might bring to mind the same confident swagger found in Shostakovich’s Fugue in G Major (No. 3). A humorous allusion to Debussy’s “Golliwog’s Cakewalk” pervades the third interlude, one of the cycle’s most playful moments, whose effervescence seems intended to recall something of the glittering 1920s. And the tranquil, floating quality of the sixth fugue in E-flat, with its gently ornamented subject, might serve as another expressive link to Shostakovich, evoking not only his med-

44 Contexts

Ex. 3.2a. Paul Hindemith, Ludus Tonalis: Fugue No. 6 in E-flat, mm. 1–4

Ex. 3.2b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor, mm. 1–4

Ex. 3.2c. Shostakovich, Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Minor, Opus 61, third movement, mm. 1–4

itative B-flat Minor Fugue (No. 16), but also the third movement of the Second Piano Sonata in B Minor, Opus 61 (composed, like Ludus Tonalis, in 1942), a theme and variations whose theme shares with Hindemith’s fugue the basic contour of two leaps—a fifth followed by a fourth (ex. 3.2).

The Cycle as a Whole 45

But overall, one enjoys a radically different musical experience in these two cycles. While both are indebted at their core to tonality, it is Shostakovich’s music that sounds more traditional in comparison, more readily recognizable, despite its quirks, as tonal. Hindemith’s, with its glimpses of tonal centers emerging only fleetingly amid the clouds of unfamiliar voice leading and perplexing harmonic progressions, can easily become disorienting. Similarly, the unorthodox formal design of Ludus Tonalis, especially the retrograde mirror structure of the Prelude and Postlude, represents a more abstract, intellectualized approach towards plotting—and specifically formal closure—than Shostakovich’s adherence in his cycle, which concludes so monumentally and decisively in D minor, to the time-honored teleological model, with its emphasis on climax and catharsis. Structural concerns also lie behind another significant difference between the cycles: the ease and appropriateness of extracting individual preludefugue pairs. As we have seen, Shostakovich clearly intended that his TwentyFour Preludes and Fugues could be played either as a complete cycle, in smaller groups, or as individual pairs, and the music is equally effective in any of these formats. By contrast, while one could conceivably parse out an interlude and fugue from Ludus Tonalis, it is not commonly done, and Hindemith surely composed the work with the intention that it would be played primarily (perhaps exclusively) in its complete form. In this way, it is closer to another roughly contemporary keyboard cycle, John Cage’s Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano (1948), which features its own brand of narrative plotting and arrives at its own peaceful and transcendent conclusion. Similarly, the question of fugal design sets Hindemith’s and Shostakovich’s achievements in stark relief. While Shostakovich, as we have seen, conforms largely throughout his cycle to a single type of fugue—heavy on stretto and light on such fugal techniques as inversion, augmentation, and diminution—Hindemith follows a prevailingly heterodox practice, not only serving up a hearty menu of such techniques but also demonstrating without doubt his belief that the ingredients of fugue need not be poured into a single formal mold. An overall assessment of the two cycles would pit Hindemith’s complexities against Shostakovich’s comfortable accessibility.

46

Contexts

One final area that helps to illuminate the relationship between these two composers, and these two piano cycles, is that of performance, and specifically the relationship between performance and composition for both men. Both were exceptional performers (Shostakovich on piano, Hindemith on several instruments—violin, viola, clarinet, and piano) who possessed legendary skills in musicianship (sight reading, score reading and transposition, improvisation). But while there are moments in Shostakovich’s cycle that provide the performer with insight into his own technique as a pianist, in general one would not say that the Preludes and Fugues are thoroughly conceived for the piano. By this point in his life, Shostakovich was no longer in a position to consider himself a virtuoso performer. Hindemith’s style in Ludus Tonalis, by contrast, seems far more integrally connected to the act of performance. As was the case throughout his career, the musical idea is rooted deeply in the music making. Interestingly, one of Hindemith’s students at the Berlin State Academy in the early 1930s, Franz Reizenstein, also composed a cycle of twelve fugues whose tonal centers are based upon the successive pitches of Hindemith’s Series 1. An émigré like his former teacher, Reizenstein was born in Nuremberg in 1911, left Germany in 1934, and lived in London from then until his death in 1968. A professor of piano at the Royal Academy of Music and the Royal Manchester College of Music, and a private student of the famed British pianist Solomon, he composed in a style that showcased his tremendous pianistic talents. In this respect he was very much heir to Hindemith’s philosophy of music making. Both the Twelve Preludes and Fugues (1955) and his Piano Quintet (1948) are marked by an assured, individual style— indebted both to Hindemith in its expert craftsmanship and to Reizenstein’s later composition teacher, Ralph Vaughan Williams, in its lyric quality. Reizenstein’s Piano Quintet is sometimes mentioned alongside Shostakovich’s own Quintet (1940) as one of the great examples of the genre to have been composed in the twentieth century. It is surely worthy of greater attention from performers. The same applies to his Twelve Preludes and Fugues, which also deserve a place in the repertory. Like Shostakovich,

The Cycle as a Whole 47

Reizenstein represents an “inspired conservatism” of style that functioned as a welcome alternative for those serious musicians looking beyond the various high modernist trends in circulation at midcentury.18 Although Shostakovich and Hindemith are commonly grouped together under the rubric of politics (see, for instance, the chapter entitled “The Influence of Politics” in Robert Morgan’s widely used textbook Twentieth-Century Music), we should be cautious about taking that aspect of the comparison too far.19 The material realities of these two composers were, after all, extraordinarily different, perhaps especially so during the period when their two contrapuntal piano cycles were composed. I have witnessed a certain defensiveness in operation when the two are compared, as a result of too highly politicized a view—perhaps most extremely on one occasion when an elderly scholar with a thick German accent initiated the discussion following a presentation of mine on the Preludes and Fugues not with a question but with a declaration of musical value: “I’m glad you like these pieces by Shostakovich, because I do not. I have always much preferred Hindemith’s Ludus Tonalis.” Perhaps the conflict between the two composers can be traced to the source: Hindemith was reportedly inspired to compose Ludus Tonalis after his negative reaction to hearing Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 7 (the “Leningrad”), to whose historic radio broadcast by Arturo Toscanini and the NBC Symphony Orchestra he listened on July 19, 1942.20 David Neumeyer writes that Ludus Tonalis is “for many people the quintessential Hindemith.” I would count myself among that company. This does not, however, lead me to a negative appraisal of Shostakovich’s more expressively naked and formally accessible Preludes and Fugues. In the end, the soul of Shostakovich’s cycle lies elsewhere. As with Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, the only effective use to which such comparisons between the cycles can be put is to open our ears and minds to the individual wonders of each. And whether the more accessible surface of Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues represents a case of a Soviet artist constrained by and reacting to political conditions—whether, in other words, questions of musical style can be reduced to questions of human freedom—is truly not for any of us to say.

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Contexts

Shostakovich’s Earlier Preludes, Without Fugues Within his own output for the piano, Shostakovich’s cycle of Preludes and Fugues stands as something of an anomaly. The Preludes and Fugues have little, if anything, in common with his early works, composed during the years when he juxtaposed his work as a composer with high-level performance activities. His most important works from this period—the modernist and alienating Piano Sonata No. 1 (1926) and the ten Aphorisms (1927), witty and audacious fragments indebted to the rhetoric of the Second Viennese School, composed upon his return from participating as a pianist in the 1927 Chopin Competition in Warsaw—draw upon a musical language completely alien to that of the Preludes and Fugues. The disparities in style and technique speak volumes about the real influence that sociopolitical history can enact upon an individual creative life. Of course, no one can know the degree to which Shostakovich would have remained comfortable in this style were he to have, for instance, emigrated to the West when he had the opportunity. What is certain is that Shostakovich’s earlier work for the piano bears scant relation to his later style. Of all of Shostakovich’s works for solo piano, the Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34 (1932–33), can serve most appropriately as a point of comparison for the later Preludes and Fugues. Both this cycle and the First Piano Concerto, Opus 35 (1933), represent the composer’s first true stylistic maturity —marked by a tonal language with free chromatic expansion, contrapuntal clarity, clear and lucid structures and textures, and plenty of individual flair. With an ear tuned towards the Preludes and Fugues, listening to the Preludes conjures up many a reverse echo—seeds of techniques and effects that he would revisit in his next cycle of miniatures nearly two decades later. The technique of chromatic displacement makes several appearances throughout the Preludes, most hilariously in No. 5 in D Major, a frenzied piece that seems only accidentally to discover its own tonic in its final moments. Similarly, Shostakovich shows off his ability to turn on a dime in No. 11 in B Major, where a sudden move to B-flat major (in measure 30) is highlighted with the rare marking amoroso. (The same marking appears

The Cycle as a Whole 49

again in No. 17 in A-flat Major, but is not to be found anywhere in the Preludes and Fugues.) The marking asks the performer to show off here, much in the way that the composer clearly recognized he was showing off himself. Shostakovich obviously realized how appealing and sensuous these harmonic moves were. Other moments reveal strong associations between the two cycles, many of which I will describe in detail in Chapters 4 through 7 of this book. The spirit of the grotesque animates both of the Preludes in F-sharp Minor, and intriguingly sliding semitone motion provides an unusual, nearly jazzinspired edge to the conclusions of both the Prelude in G-sharp Minor from Opus 34 and the fugue in the same key from Opus 87. A dramatic tremolo lends an epic tone to both Preludes in E-flat Minor, while both Preludes in D-flat Major rely, tongue in cheek, on oom-pah-pah accompaniment figures designed, it seems, to vent some of the steam that has accumulated in each of the cycles. From a comparative perspective, perhaps the most significant observation one can make (and here we recall the same observation made with respect to Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier) is that the earlier cycle of Preludes does not have a momentous, climactic ending. Indeed, despite the fact that he relies on the inherently dramatic circle of fifths for his key scheme here as well, the final Prelude in D Minor impishly slips out the back door, leaving all pretensions to high dramatic seriousness by the wayside. Gigantic, thundering climaxes were not part of Shostakovich’s stylistic fingerprint in the modernist-inspired early 1930s, when he went instead for mischievous twitterings. By the 1950s, on the other hand, with several of his grandest symphonic statements behind him, Shostakovich seems to have internalized the rhetoric of the grand apotheosis.

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part ii

the preludes and fugues

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4

personalities in pairs

People of remarkable gifts carry within themselves a rich fund of the universal, of the social and historically characteristic. —Lydia Ginzburg, On Psychological Prose Until recently, many words used in Western public and private spheres lacked Russian equivalents: among them are the words for “privacy,” “self,” “mentality,” and “identity.” —Svetlana Boym, Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia

The Self Seeking Substance Few works by Shostakovich better illustrate his own possession of the extraordinary expressive-communicative gifts described by Lydia Ginzburg than the Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87. In this cycle of miniatures, which nonetheless constitutes his largest single instrumental work, Shostakovich seems determined to catalogue a great diversity of emotions, expressions, and characters. Fully cognizant of his role as a national cultural hero—as both a Pushkin-like chronicler of the Russian character and a modernized (and, when appropriate, “rehabilitated”) artistic representative of the Soviet people—he draws deeply from his creative well to fashion a sweeping human panorama. Despite its intimacy, the score explodes with a sense of the communal. In doing so, it preserves the historical Russian notion of the “spiritual community,” which Svetlana Boym has described as “the mythical alternative to private life, advocated by 19th-century Slavophile philosophers and contemporary nationalists.”1 This is not to say that the realm of the private is completely absent from

53

54 The Preludes and Fugues

this score. As we shall see, quotations from Shostakovich’s own music in the cycle’s early stages at least offer the possibility that he was interested here in telling us something about himself as well. The composer’s tendency towards musical autobiography became more pronounced in the decade following the composition of the Preludes and Fugues—beginning with his dynamic use of the “DSCH” motive in the Symphony No. 10 of 1953, and culminating in the complex web of allusions and quotations in the Eighth String Quartet of 1960. But the discerning listener can catch glimpses of the private self on display in the Preludes and Fugues as well, if perhaps absorbed by, or at least more heavily contextualized by, the public. All of this speaks to a clear situation in the years following the campaign of 1948 in which Shostakovich dealt overtly with such issues. As I’ve said earlier, the Preludes and Fugues straddle the public-private divide in intriguing ways. It is perhaps helpful in this context to recall the oft-used locution that characterizes Shostakovich’s music as “the secret diary of a nation,” for this phrase so neatly captures this interplay between the public and the private.2 Here, Shostakovich’s art is described as speaking for the inner thoughts and feelings of the Russian people—one man’s imaginative and powerful capturing of a communal spirit otherwise kept under close scrutiny and denied overt expression. But diaries can be complicated texts, as full of misrepresentation and deception as they are of true and honest observation and reflection. Diaries function not so much as the expression as the performance of identity, a culturally negotiated act that raises as many questions as it provides answers. As Lydia Ginzburg—a pioneer in the study of such traditionally “peripheral” literary genres as memoirs, correspondence, and diaries—explains: “Personality is an ideal conception, a structure created by the individual himself in consequence of his self-conception, and continuously created in everyday life by everyone on the basis of observations of other people or of information around them. . . . Human life is shot through with the process of self-organization (whether conscious or automatized). Out of chaos and flux social man identifies and combines those elements that are most valuable and suitable for the situations in which he finds himself —social, professional, domestic, emotional, and so on. He passes, so to

Personalities in Pairs 55

speak, through a series of images that are oriented towards shared norms and ideals, images that not only have a social function but also possess aesthetic coloration.”3 With its stunning array of moods, characters, quotations, and allusions, Shostakovich’s cycle of Preludes and Fugues gives presence to this aesthetic coloration of personality that Ginzburg describes. It is perhaps best understood as a meta-commentary on the notion of personality in general. Concerned not so much with Shostakovich’s “true self,” or even “the self ” in general, it instead meditates on the project of creating a self within the context of the social, and it captures both the joys and challenges of such an endeavor. As such, the cycle offers a reflexive view of personality; it conveys a sense of the self poised between individual agency and scrutiny by external authority. Like Kiril Tomoff, who has warned against lending too much credence to an all-encompassing idea of “the State” in understanding representation in the Soviet arts, the social and political philosopher Anthony Giddens draws attention to the similarities among all formations and expressions of selfhood in modernity. Echoing Lydia Ginzburg’s words above, Giddens writes: “The reflexive project of the self, which consists in the sustaining of coherent, yet continuously revised, biographical narratives, takes place in the context of multiple choices as filtered through abstract systems.”4 Giddens continues, “Late modernity produces a situation in which humankind in some respects becomes a ‘we,’ facing problems and opportunities where there are no ‘others.’”5 All of this is to say that there is a give and take in the making, and the representing, of identity. We all conform as much as we branch out; we all occupy the edgy space between the plummet into conformism and the risk of authentic expression. In his Preludes and Fugues, Shostakovich—a pianist writing music for himself to play— places this tension front and center. If Shostakovich’s symphonic and chamber works might be interpreted as the musical equivalents of the Bildungsroman—narrative accounts that chart the moral, spiritual, or emotional progress of individuals within changing social contexts—the Preludes and Fugues require another model in order to be understood as a commentary on the human condition. Of course,

56

The Preludes and Fugues

in terms of generic models and expectations, one would expect a cycle of short piano works to behave differently than a symphony or a string quartet. For one thing, a strong degree of heterogeneity is required for a cycle of such proportions to sustain itself. In depicting an array of subjectivities, then, the cycle is perhaps better conceived as a collection of various subject-states, of purposefully diverse miniatures, united under a single, loosely narrative arc. The interactions among these sundry selves make for compelling minidramas, inviting listeners and interpreters to imagine relationships, atmospheres, and moods in dramatic flux. This chapter surveys six individual preludes and fugues grouped together in three pairs based upon the major–relative minor key relationship that governs the tonal plan of the cycle as a whole. Proceeding alongside this parade of distinct personalities walking side by side, it offers snapshots of pieces whose contrasts of key and character are balanced out, and their relationships thus made more engrossing, by an equally prevalent complementarity. Other pairs in the cycle may be appreciated in this same light, of course; I do not intend to suggest that the pieces chosen for discussion here represent an exclusive set. The Preludes and Fugues in D Major and B Minor offer one tantalizing instance: the former’s naïve cheerfulness is dealt a dose of reality with the self-important grandeur of the latter. The final pair, in F Major and D Minor, are also intriguingly matched, the one serving as a kind of mystical, introductory reflection before the larger-than-life events of the other. The pieces in this chapter have been selected because, when placed in expressive relief alongside one another, they illustrate especially powerfully the qualities of personality that I take to be one of the cycle’s central expressive aspects. Especially when one situates them chronologically, during the period directly following Shostakovich’s 1948 denunciation, it is easy enough to think of the Preludes and Fugues as a deeply internalized meditation on his own artistic identity. Any number of commentators have described the cycle in terms of a cleansing retreat, an act of purification, a revitalization of the quest for artistic and existential truth in the face of deadening bureaucracy. Evidence from the score itself easily supports such a view. If the pianistic tex-

Personalities in Pairs 57

tures of the cycle’s first two preludes, for instance, offer Shostakovich’s reflection on the keyboard style of J. S. Bach, their corresponding fugues establish another of the score’s dominant presences, Shostakovich himself. Crafting here a more subtle version of the kind of self-quotation that permeates his Eighth String Quartet of a decade later, Shostakovich writes his own creative self into the cycle’s story in its opening chapter. The subject of the C Major Fugue restates the opening melodic phrase from Shostakovich’s 1949 patriotic oratorio Song of the Forests, while the Fugue in A Minor steals its own subject’s head motive from a fleeting rhythmic snippet in the final movement of the Symphony No. 4. The disparity between these two sources—the first a contemporary piece of propaganda for which he was publicly rewarded, the second a masterful artistic document composed during his first creative height that nevertheless remained unperformed until the 1960s—is compelling, especially coming in the earliest stage of the cycle. The allusions give rise to multiple potential interpretations that turn on the relationship between the self and society, the autonomous versus the subjugated artist, sincere expression versus ideological control. Whether or not Shostakovich consciously aimed to depict such relationships—and, in my own personal view, it seems unlikely that he was purposefully inserting into his score material infused with political agendas—the musical materials are there for the interpreting. In these fleeting but nevertheless conspicuous acts of self-referencing, it becomes clear why the “secret diary of a nation” idea has attached itself so firmly to Shostakovich’s musical, and more broadly cultural, legacy. The existential quality of this music cannot be denied, even if it might ultimately be agreed that it offers no definitive statement on existence, no overarching brand of metaphysics. Along these lines, one could easily take Shostakovich’s referencing of the Song of the Forests in the opening fugue of the cycle as an example of what has been called “the internalization of authority.” In the sphere of literary studies, the examination of Soviet-era diaries and correspondence has led to a deeper understanding of how Soviet citizens wrote themselves into the social order by internalizing officially determined categories and expressing them as elements of their own self-formation, at the

58

The Preludes and Fugues

expense of (or in the place of ) fostering any semblance of individual importance or worth.6 At worst, the mere reminder of the recent “official” work (Song of the Forests) within the boundaries of the seemingly “private” context of a piano work may constitute a representation of these very difficulties. Alternately, in a more positive light, the quotation may be viewed as a purely aesthetic negotiation of the self-society dichotomy, an absorbing of the public into the realm of the private—an accommodation of sorts, an admission that the romantic dialectic between internal and external no longer holds. The Preludes and Fugues in E Major and C-sharp Minor, both characterized by sharply stratified textures and other conspicuous musical representations of duality, seem also to address directly this question of self and other. They put into relief the very dialectic that, as Shostakovich well enough understood, was commonly employed as an interpretive tool in the reception of his work. I describe both of these deeply complementary pieces below as richly drawn portraits of a subject in a quest for wholeness. But the effect here is subtly drawn, conveyed through harmonic, contrapuntal, and textural devices rather than through strong allusion or quotation. Indeed, as soon as one gives in to the temptation to make something of this piling-up of “dualistic” images, one quickly suspects that there is nothing there at all to be grasped. Music’s ultimate mystery keeps us from feeling interpretively secure. In this way, the Preludes and Fugues masterfully play upon the dual conditions of what Lawrence Kramer has termed the “imprintability” and “subtractability” of music.7 While the Preludes and Fugues in C Major and A Minor seem highly “imprinted” with meaning—their musical surfaces inscribed with an array of externalized signifiers—in the pair in E Major and C-sharp Minor, the condition of “subtractability”—music’s ultimate, abstract meaninglessness—clearly dominates. Shostakovich draws productively throughout the cycle upon the irresistible pull of his imprintings, knowing well that his art will always benefit from that uncanny ability of musical meaning to disappear from view as soon as it is glimpsed. For many music lovers, Shostakovich is the twentieth century’s supreme master of manipulating this property. He forces his listeners to work through, to psychologi-

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cally manage, the imprintings in order to get through to the total experience that the music offers. In the final pair examined in this chapter, the tension between imprintability and subtractability is at its most electrifying. Perhaps the cycle’s most strikingly contrasting pair, the Preludes and Fugues in D-flat Major and B-flat Minor might be taken as an opposition between externalized irony and internalized sincerity of feeling. According to a dialectical model of self, the first seems viciously to mock its surroundings while the other appears to retreat to an untouchable emotional core. I will suggest below that the spirit of Gustav Mahler animates the Prelude in D-flat Major, while the form and texture of its relative-minor partner conjures the ghost of Beethoven’s “Appassionata” Sonata. Considering the transformation over the course of the nineteenth century from Beethovenian sincerity (think of the “Ode to Joy”) to Mahlerian irony (think of the third movement of his Symphony No. 1, which puts “Frère Jacques” in the minor mode on a solo double bass and which requires the winds to play a Klezmer-inspired passage “Mit parodie”), one might view the contrast between these two Preludes and Fugues less as a personal statement from Shostakovich himself than a representation of the changing and flexible nature of subjectivity across time and space. No mere confessional states, these are selves reflexively formed; their expressive modes seem to have been selected purposefully from a broad network of possibilities, and placed into expressive relief alongside one another. These two pieces, expressive opposites, reveal the gulf between sincerity and irony and at the same time demonstrate to us how closely related those two states can be. Kramer has argued that music, particularly abstract instrumental music, functions as a trope for the self. Just as we, as modern subjects, are defined by an “interplay of autonomy and contingency” in our understanding of ourselves, and in the fashioning of our own identities—just as we like to believe, in other words, that our socially determined processes of self-fashioning are complemented by a unique and immutable core of self—so, too, does music consistently erase any perceived specificity of meaning as soon as it is created, banking on this power of subtractability to stand on its own, refusing to

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be grounded by specificity, or limited by context. As such, music provides especially fertile ground for the cultivation of self-representation: “musical affect, expression, and association become pure forms of self-apprehension: music is known by, and valued for, its ‘transcendence’ of any specific meanings ascribed to it; identity seeks to become substance in music, even though music, being more event than substance, continually eludes this desire in the act of granting it.”8 Music, in other words, stands in as a substitute for ourselves. It purports to have a soul. In the specific context of the Soviet experience, the idea of an identity that refuses to be limited by contingency, and a musical representation of such identity that eludes detection even while giving it powerful voice, has especially poignant appeal. One of our most perceptive critics of Soviet music, Levon Hakobian, has written persuasively about this special brand of selfexploration: “No wonder that, under the conditions of a repressive state, ‘private’ thoughts should be centered especially on the paramount subjects of existentialist philosophy: the tragic splitting of the human soul between good and evil, the impossibility of reaching complete mutual understanding with one’s fellow man, and the search for self-identity in an alien and absurd world.”9 In facing the metaphysical rush of humanity in its full scope, Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues square off against this phenomenon head-on.

Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major In his cycle’s opening statement, the Prelude and Fugue in C Major, Shostakovich seems intent on keeping things uncomplicated and unoffending. It is a self-consciously modest beginning. No high drama invigorates the music’s calm momentum. Instead, a subdued feeling dominates: the fugue never reaches a forte, and non-chord tones blur every dominant-function harmony in the prelude’s final measures (measures 60, 62, 64, 66), weakening, or at least softening, their impact. Contemplative and unadorned, this music is clearly inspired by Bach, whose own Prelude in C Major from Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier is perhaps the most celebrated example of a musical statement whose unassuming lucidity betrays a startling depth of

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content. Shostakovich’s prelude—part chorale, part lullaby, part jazzy improvisation—sets the cycle into motion with a gentle push. The classically structured fugue rolls ever smoothly, without even a single chromatic bump marring its all-white-note path. Shostakovich maintains a general uniformity of texture throughout the prelude, establishing as its dominant technical exercise the even playing of five-voiced chords. Rich voice leading animates the music from within. One subtle nod to Bach may be caught near the beginning of the binary form’s second part: after a literal recapitulation of the prelude’s first four measures, the second phrase begins with a surprise B in the bass, replacing the expected C. This marks the beginning of a chromatic descent in the bass whose harmonic complications soon permeate all of the voices, leading to the prelude’s climax at forte in measure 51. Bach employs a similar strategy as a means of phrase extension early in his own C Major Prelude: the first four measures having begun in, moved away from, and returned to C major, Bach seems about to repeat the process in the next four, with submediant and secondary dominant chords adding new interest to the progression. The expected resolution to C major in measure 8, however, happens only in the upper voices, while the B from the dominant harmony in measure 7 is retained as a bass suspension. A single, repeating rhythmic motive provides the other life-giving pulse in Shostakovich’s C Major Prelude. The piece is dominated in all but a few measures by this saraband-inspired rhythm, which establishes a gentle emphasis on the second beat in 34 time, the graceful lilt of a single eighth note keeping the rhythmic flow alive with a strong pull to the downbeat. Shostakovich would put the same figure to poignant expressive use in the slow movement of his Piano Concerto No. 2, composed in 1957 (ex. 4.1). As the opening statement on subdued strings, cast in a minor key and a slightly slower tempo, the motive establishes in the concerto a deep melancholy. The prelude, by contrast, is all brightness: marked dolce and piano, the closedspaced chords of the opening are set above middle C, without a low bass note. Its absence is palpable, suggesting that we hone our ears for its later appearance as the piece progresses. The music sounds as if lit from above.

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Ex. 4.1a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 1 in C Major, mm. 1–2

Ex. 4.1b. Shostakovich, Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Opus 102, second movement, mm. 1–2

The fugue’s light, by contrast, is filtered, multidirectional, and far more subtle. Played entirely on the piano’s white keys, this piece can legitimately be called monochromatic. On one important level, it constitutes an essay on the continuing musical validity of modes, which in the context of a cycle based upon the tonal system’s circle of fifths may be viewed as an unusual and potentially meaningful compositional decision. Nonetheless, the fugue’s clear-cut structure allows us to hear entrances in distinctly contrasting tonal areas—for instance in A minor in measure 58, and a Phrygian-flavored E in measure 40. Perhaps the most challenging technical element in performing the fugue is maintaining this coloristic evenness while leaping to execute several wide intervals, such as in the stretto between the upper two voices (beginning at measure 79), where the alto voice is sometimes notated as a grace note. If the fugue might conjure the aura of the medieval church modes, the prelude’s binary structure and generally foursquare phrase structure hearken conspicuously back to eighteenth-century models, as do many of the cycle’s preludes. The first section (measures 1–34) is characterized by a strong pull to the flat side. In the second phrase of the opening period (beginning in

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measure 8), the melody rises to a pre-climactic F-sharp in measure 12 (a significant chromatic pitch first encountered as an unresolved inner-voice movement in measure 7) and halts there expectantly on a half note before resolving to the G on the downbeat. When the G arrives, however, it is transformed into the third of an E-flat major chord, whose mystery is spotlighted with a pianissimo. From here, the first half of the binary form explores various flat regions before again coming to a dramatic pause on F-sharp, this time in the left hand (measure 33); here, the resolution on G functions as a dominant, as the C major tonic is restored for the beginning of the prelude’s second half. The only element of contrast from the prelude’s omnipresent lilting rhythm is the flourish (measures 31–32) that brings about the conclusion of the first part—rescuing, one might say, the key of C major from the pull of these flat regions. After an especially surprising chromatic slip in measure 30, this line seems almost physically to pick up the bass note of E-flat and, arpeggiating it with a few passing tones, hurl it out of orbit onto the F-sharp. This same flourish is used twice more at important junctures —in the first half as an extension of the opening period (measures 15–16), and in the second as a preparatory gesture for the coda (measure 58). Musicologist David Fanning refers to the C Major Fugue as “a retreat to the womb” and suggests that Shostakovich uses the key here and elsewhere (notably the First String Quartet, composed in 1938) “in its guise as a refuge.”10 Similarly, theorist Patrick McCreless sees the opening movement of the First Quartet as a piece composed “in as cautious a fashion as possible: in C, with nothing to rock the boat.”11 Both of these commentators point out that Shostakovich was composing these respective pieces in the direct aftermath of public assaults against him—the quartet after the 1936 Pravda article denouncing his opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, and the prelude and fugue after the 1948 Central Committee Resolution. His choices with respect to both key and texture in these works may indeed suggest, as McCreless puts it, an expressive attitude “both placid and yet, in a word, blanched—outwardly optimistic, perhaps, but pale and a bit tentative.”12 The C Major Prelude and Fugue sets a conspicuously unassuming tone for the cycle’s beginning.

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Ex. 4.2a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 1 in C Major, mm. 1–9

Ex. 4.2b. Shostakovich, Song of the Forests, Opus 81: “When the War Was Over,” mm. 13–16

Complicating our attempts to pinpoint the exact expressive nature of the C Major Fugue is one of Shostakovich’s most blatant acts of self-quotation in the cycle. The fugue’s subject restates the opening phrase of the melody, in the same key, from the first movement of his patriotic oratorio Song of the Forests, composed in 1949 on a text by state-favored writer Yevgeniy Dolmatovsky, and winner of a Stalin Prize, first order (ex. 4.2).13 In the oratorio, the tune is set to the words “The war came to an end with victory.” One must wonder about the degree to which the first audiences of the Preludes and Fugues caught the allusion and, if they did, what impressions the connection might have made. Of course, Shostakovich was a flagrant quoter, both of his own music and that of others, particularly in his works from the 1940s on. Given the strength of this music’s symbolic content, it is very tempting to read into this act of self-borrowing any number of confessional statements concerning his place

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as an artist in the Soviet state. All of the shopworn binaries of private-andpublic, self-and-state call out to be applied. One might, for instance, yearn to hear in his reclaiming of this melody in the Preludes and Fugues a firm conviction in the absolute power of abstract art—a fugue taking the place of, and thus obliterating from memory, a line of state-imposed doggerel. Along similar lines, Alexander Dolzhanskiy, in his monograph on the Preludes and Fugues, refers to the C Major Fugue subject as “a symbol of truth,” likening it to another Russian set of miniatures that is held together with a similar melody, Musorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition, and its similarly fashioned Promenade theme.14 Taken as a nod to Musorgsky, the melody—with its prominent first, fifth, and sixth scale degrees—functions in Shostakovich’s cycle as an element of cohesion within an otherwise frenetically changing array of styles and characters, a focal point reminding listeners of an underlying, perhaps folk-based essence. Taken as an allusion to Song of the Forests, however, it might be understood otherwise. Dolzhanskiy elsewhere raises a perhaps pertinent issue. Commenting on Shostakovich’s general fugal practice in the cycle, he gives his analysis the expected socialist realist spin: “The compositional peculiarities of Shostakovich’s fugues emerged as the result of the innovative application of some of the most progressive contemporary ideas. For many years, the theme of peace and war was the predominant theme in Shostakovich’s music. In representing it, the remarkable master of socialist realism appears as a passionate champion of peace and social justice, as the angry denouncer of evil and violence, the daring fighter ‘for the best ideals in the history of mankind.’”15 While on the one hand, it would seem pure folly to suggest that a work like the Preludes and Fugues could constitute some kind of statement on the theme of war and peace, on the other hand the quotation on this subject from Song of the Forests brings to mind a number of related issues that keep the matter tantalizingly open-ended. Consider, for instance, the key of C major, which Shostakovich, like Beethoven, seemed to feel had a special ability to accommodate the most elemental musical narratives. Though not without their own expressive ambiguities, such works as Beethoven’s Fifth

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Symphony and his final piano sonata, Opus 111, project an earnest optimism, using the tabula rasa of C major as a symbol for purity and its parallel minor as a threat. Aligning himself with the modernist symphonic tradition of Mahler, where such devices as progressive tonality shatter the tonalharmonic conventions of the classical style, Shostakovich trades Beethovenian transparency for Mahlerian ambiguity in such works as his Fourth and Eighth Symphonies, both in C, whose conclusions play compellingly on the major-minor divide, blurring the lines between light and dark, victory and defeat, war and peace.16 (His Seventh Symphony, the “Leningrad,” is also in C, although expressive ambiguity is not, in general, a hallmark of this quite different, and oft-discussed, work.) Perhaps not by coincidence, the subject of the cycle’s second fugue, in A minor, quotes (as we shall see) from the Fourth Symphony. It seems the composer’s artistic identity in past and future manifestations was on his mind in the fall of 1950, as he began work on this piano cycle. And the question certainly remained rooted throughout the process—after all, the opening fugue’s recollection of Song of the Forests is matched at the cycle’s conclusion by the D Minor Fugue’s projection into the future, towards the first movement of the Tenth Symphony (which I discuss in Chapter 7). One need not land on any particular interpretation of these self-quotations in order to enjoy getting caught up in their dizzying swirl. With this music’s general accessibility, and with his specific self-quotation from a patriotic work in the first fugue, was Shostakovich wishfully throwing a bone to his more bureaucratic-minded peers, as if to make clear that while he was moving in a new direction, he was not straying far from the path? Or, in a more critical vein, was he employing this material as a cautionary reminder (for note that it appears in both the major and minor modes) that one should not place too much faith in a strict division between victory and defeat? Conversely, might the material shared by the Song of the Forests and the Preludes and Fugues merely represent a topos, a part of Shostakovich’s language—and the languages of Russian folk music and common practice tonal music, for that matter—that sprung forth naturally, effortlessly, and sincerely without any overt or even covert extramusical intentions? Or does the quotation from Song of

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the Forests mark this music, intentionally or not, as a dialectical point of encounter between identity and authority? We can remain safe in asking such interpretive questions—they constitute an important element of the domain of the imagination, and to ignore them would be to deny the music some of its special mystery. It’s when we find ourselves tempted to begin providing answers that we find ourselves in riskier waters.

Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in A Minor The more dissonant and angular Prelude and Fugue in A Minor plays mischievous foil to the humbly sincere pair in its relative major. I would not want to stretch the point beyond its usefulness as a potential point of reference, but when performing these two preludes and fugues, I sometimes think of them as analogous to Shostakovich’s Seventh and Fourth Symphonies. The first prelude and fugue and the Seventh Symphony (also in C major) are both earnest, and solidly anchored in tradition. The Seventh served self-consciously as a symbol of Russian pride during the war—the composer having toiled, atypically, through multiple versions in order to strike the most appropriate tone for this unprecedentedly significant and monumental public work—while the C Major Fugue quotes, more surreptitiously, from an overtly propagandistic oratorio. The Prelude and Fugue in A Minor, by contrast, borrows its subject’s mechanistic head motive from the unconventional third movement of the Fourth Symphony (ex. 4.3). Shostakovich keeps the C Major Prelude’s allusion to Bach alive into the second prelude, which even more than the first makes reference to the kind of hand-shape exercises that lay behind many of Bach’s preludes. Here, the figuration—an arpeggiation with occasional passing and other nonharmonic tones, shared between the hands—seems to be a reimagining of Bach’s Prelude in C Major (the Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I). What went up gently in Bach comes hurtling down in Shostakovich, the right hand beginning the pattern, with the left hand picking up the final four notes (ex. 4.4). Shostakovich’s tempo marking of Allegro is misleading: with the half note marked at 92, the sixteenth notes come in a whirling blur. More suitable as a true

Ex. 4.3a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 2 in A Minor, mm. 1– 4

Ex. 4.3b. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 4 in C Minor, Opus 43, third movement, rehearsal number 191

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Ex. 4.4. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 2 in A Minor, mm. 1– 6

point of reference for this prelude are the bursts of scalar activity in the first part of Bach’s Prelude in B-flat Major (the Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I), which function as connecting passages between sequences of broken chords (ex. 4.5). The autograph manuscript provides a clue towards Shostakovich’s intended phrasing for this prelude. Added in pencil above the original ink are phrase markings extending from the highest, first note of the sixteenth-note run to the bottommost note on each strong beat. This marking persists for the first two measures—thus for four groupings. Additionally, a piano marking is placed underneath the high notes of the second and third groupings, reinforcing the piece’s general piano marking at the beginning (fig. 1). Clearly, Shostakovich was concerned that the higher notes would have a tendency to ring out louder, thus upsetting the smooth clouds of sound that his tempo and his legato marking clearly indicate he desired. The phrasing in the autograph (which was not reproduced in the first edition and does not appear in any edition since) aids in the bringing out of each individual harmony. It also creates a certain smoothness of color that aids in the sustaining of a true legato. Indeed, this legato presents something of a conundrum in the work’s performance history. As printed in the first and subsequent editions, without

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Ex. 4.5a. J. S. Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I: Prelude in B-flat Major, mm. 3– 4

Ex. 4.5b. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 2 in A Minor, mm. 19– 20

the added phrase markings, the score of the Prelude looks perhaps the most Bach-like of anything in Shostakovich’s cycle—an uninterrupted line of sixteenth notes, spun out as if pulled, thread-like, from a spool. It seems most performers want to preserve this visual impression of the score in their own sonic reproductions of it, denying the use of pedal to soften the articulation and seal the edges. Some pianists (most notably Konstantin Scherbakov, recorded on Naxos, and Tatyana Nikolayeva in her 1987 Moscow recording) seem to be aiming for a nearly detached sound. However, as Shostakovich’s own recording from February 1952 testifies, careful employment of partial pedal is required here to achieve the proper effect. Shostakovich’s recording, the first of this work, is the only one in which pedal is clearly used. The result is a subtly wet sound, only a shade more legato than other recordings, but significantly truer to the spirit of that marking than any other render-

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Fig. 1. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 2 in A Minor, mm. 1– 14, reproduction from the autograph manuscript

ing. One wonders why subsequent pianists, especially Nikolayeva—whose first recording was made while Shostakovich was still alive, in 1962—have not followed Shostakovich in this regard. As thrilling and precise as Nikolayeva’s 1962 account of this piece is, the crisp and clean texture of the pre-

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lude seems unappealingly to ignore, or at least downplay, the legato sempre marking in its first measure. Similarly, several performers deviate from Shostakovich’s own pedaling practice in the A Minor Fugue as well. In measures 38 and 44, the texture is such that the long note values of the syncopated countersubject cannot be sustained while playing one of the other voices in the same hand. Shostakovich himself lets go of both the F-sharp in measure 38 and the B-flat in measure 44. Clearly, he notated them as long values in order to conform with statements of the countersubject elsewhere, when sustaining them is indeed possible; he did not expect that they would actually be sustained here. Many pianists attempt—understandably, given the notation—to sustain both notes using either sostenuto or middle pedal, to varying success. Like Bach’s and Shostakovich’s preludes in C major, the A Minor Prelude involves the repetition of each chord before moving on to the next in the progression, establishing a comfortable sense of hypermeter in its phrase groupings. Like its predecessor in this cycle, it is cast in binary form, with similar extensions of the second half of the period. A conventional, foursquare first phrase of the opening period in both is followed by a second phrase in which the anticipated groupings are dispensed with, and movement towards clean closure stalled. The first half of the period concludes on a strong dominant in which the pattern of downward flourishes first is extended by four extra sixteenth notes (measure 7), and is then reversed in the first upward sweep in the piece (measure 8). This is only one of several manifestations of the idea of metric displacement in the prelude—an idea that is present more subtly from the first bar, the arpeggiated pattern beginning not on the downbeat but on the second sixteenth of the bar, thus putting the downbeat on the bottommost note of each grouping. (The fugue’s stretto, beginning in measure 55, also plays with this idea, employing the initial two-sixteenth-note motive in the subject as a pickup as well as a downbeat.) In the second half of the prelude’s first period, a change in pattern in measure 14 (essentially a borrowing from the extended dominantharmony patterning in measures 7–8) brings about first a sequence involving melodic thirds in contrary motion in the outer voices and, ultimately, a shift in the perceived downbeat in measure 20. It requires a strong, rising

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line in the bass beginning in measure 22 to restore order and bring the first half of the binary form to closure on the relative major. Picking up on these transformations in pattern, Shostakovich does away with the repetitions entirely in the second half. Repeating the opening chord sequence nearly verbatim in the recapitulation, but with only one statement per chord (beginning in measure 25—the one exception being the first half of measure 26, which retains the high D as a suspension, unlike in the exposition), he momentarily thickens the texture with the addition of a dominant pedal tone. Dramatically leaping an octave to assert itself amidst the relentless flow of sixteenths, these quarter-note pedal tones propel the music forward, disallowing the comforting repetition of each chord, and thus bringing about a truncated second half that arrives rather unexpectedly at its abrupt conclusion in just over half the time it took in the first half. A feeling of abruptness in the prelude’s conclusion is also the result of the absence of any indication of tapering in the final measures. The music rushes to its end point, with the final sonority of a tonic chord on the downbeat of the final measure coming as an almost whimsical surprise. Moreover, the final dominant sonority, established in measure 37, resolves not to a tonic chord—as would be expected, given the piece’s uniformity of texture—but to a reckless-sounding, descending tonic scale. The fugue concludes assertively in the same manner, the downward scale in the lower voice with the upper two filling out the A minor chord with punctuations on each beat. The prelude’s final scalar cascade becomes an important motivic element in the fugue. Appearing first in the two-measure codetta between entrances of the second and third voices (measures 9–10), the downward scale smoothes out the jerkiness of both the motor-like subject and the syncopated countersubject. Because the scale is preceded directly by the same leap up a fourth that characterizes the countersubject, the two seem fused—dual partners playing foil to the already manic subject. Throughout the fugue, the subject appears to be eschewed regularly in favor of episodes that feature the frenetic play between the countersubject and the codetta’s scale. Dramatically unlike the C Major Fugue, whose texture seems focused at all times upon its omnipresent and highly symbolic subject, this fugue trades calm control for contrapuntal fireworks. Recalling again that the subject’s head

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motive comes from a motoric figure from the haphazardly structured third movement of the Fourth Symphony, one senses here that Shostakovich is striving to retain something of that motive’s mocking, stalled-out quality here. In the fugue’s concluding section (beginning in measure 71), the subject does just that—becoming stuck on only its head motive, essentially reproducing the same effect as in the Fourth Symphony—while the countersubject assumes the dominant position. Less and less fugue-like towards its conclusion, the piece seems intent on denying, or at least obscuring, its own generic identity. Adding most to the dizzying confusion of the fugue’s final burst is one last slip back to the flat regions that had punctuated its tonal landscape throughout, beginning with the first episode. Whereas in the C Major Fugue Shostakovich decided not to pursue any of its own prelude’s exploration of flattened scale degrees, both the Prelude and Fugue in A Minor exhibit this penchant to a high degree. In the prelude, the first deviation from the established phrase rhythm (groupings of two measures, each consisting of a repeated chordal pattern) comes simultaneously with the first significant nondiatonic harmony—the Neapolitan chord of B-flat major (measure 14). This opens the door for subsequent appearances of flat areas during important cadential points in the prelude: an E-flat major chord plays a role in the progression that tonicizes C major at the conclusion of the first part (measure 23), and both B-flat major and E-flat major appear during the final cadential progression on the circle of fifths (measures 34– 36). If these nondiatonic chords are employed as gentle harmonic colorings in the prelude—blending in peacefully with their natural surroundings, functioning respectfully within the progressions they are a part of—similar harmonic turns assume a more upsetting, devilish role in the fugue, whose jarring reversals of direction, especially during the episodes, are complemented by these harmonic twists and turns. Nearly analogously with the prelude, the B-flat makes its first appearance in the fugue in measure 17, during the first episode. Harmonized by an E-flat major chord, the high B-flat quickly resolves back to the tonic, which itself becomes the fifth of a D major chord; descending scales in E-flat major and G minor immediately

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follow, before a firm entrance in C major puts an end to this harmonic ruckus. The intrusion of flat-key areas continues throughout the fugue. When the codetta’s downward scale dramatically reverses its direction for the first time (measures 41– 42) —suggesting, at least for me, a relationship to the Courante from Bach’s French Suite No. 5 in G Major, which features an inventive opposition of rising and falling scales cast in the same rhythm as this fugue’s codetta figure—it does so on E-flat minor, which gives way immediately to an entrance of the subject in the distant key of B-flat minor. The extended episode that follows, which leads ultimately to the fugue’s stretto, is marked by a continued emphasis on E-flat minor arpeggios, as well as a brief tonicization of B-flat major (measures 52–54). Finally, the B-flat (having served already as the root and fifth of these two chords) becomes the third of a G minor chord at the surprising cadence in measure 67, after which it proceeds to stick around self-importantly as a pedal point, essentially declaring itself as a functional dominant in the important structural cadence that precedes the fugue’s coda—the true dominant seventh receiving only half a measure and two of its pitches (E and D) before the tonic of A minor is restored. The B-flat continues to color the tonic area in the coda—as a fleeting chromatic passing tone in the middle voice in measure 73, as a locally tonicized entity in measure 76 (which provides large-scale balance by essentially reversing the pattern in measures 17–18, which had moved from B-flat down to A), and as part of the general harmonic explosion in the two measures that follow. The return to a firm A minor is achieved only as if by force— the concluding left-hand scale and right-hand chords screwing the harmonic lid on quickly and tightly.

Prelude and Fugue No. 9 in E Major Perhaps no single Prelude and Fugue in Opus 87 wears a sense of ambiguity and duality on its sleeve more conspicuously than the one in E major. On a number of levels—melodic, harmonic, textural, expressive—it puts front

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Ex. 4.6. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 9 in E Major, mm. 1– 10

and center the idea of a quest for wholeness. The melodic material of the prelude’s opening figure is organically related to the fugue’s subject: both outline the cycle’s ubiquitous interval of the sixth in a rising and falling figure, and this interval (E–C-sharp) forms the crux of an ambiguity between the tonic key and its relative minor that characterizes the prelude throughout. The fugue represents a variation on the prelude’s main idea, an alternative riff, another revelation of the possibilities for realizing this melodic material. To some, it might suggest a reversal of fortune, for others a retreat into the more structured realm of the fugue, a flight from the psychological and emotional anxieties that plague the prelude. The prelude’s texture from the outset conjures an image of separate worlds. The opening consists of two parts, each part (low and high) comprising two voices, doubling the same pitch two octaves apart (ex. 4.6). The effect is that of an ominous shadow, creating an almost visceral reaction: any

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slight out-of-tuneness on the piano will yield a high degree of discordance between the two lines, a charged field of tension. Above this context, the ethereal upper-register material speaks touchingly, its poignancy enhanced by a contrast in expressive markings: the low-register line is marked piano, phrased legato, and conspicuously shaped with hairpin crescendo and decrescendo markings, while the upper-register statement is marked pianissimo, with slurred staccato and no markings to delineate a particular shape. While such textural and melodic starkness seems absolutely typical for Shostakovich—one thinks, for instance, of the openings of the Fifth and Eighth Symphonies, with the sharp divisions between high and low, or of the fugato opening of the Piano Trio No. 2, with its haunting cello harmonics and wide-spaced piano entrance—it seems here to function on the verge of parody, as if the composer were demonstrating the number of ways in which he could represent the idea of duality in a concentrated musical space: two planes, each comprising two voices, doubling at the octave. When also considering that the prelude is followed by the only two-voiced fugue in the entire set, and the only one to use strict inversion of the subject, one begins to suspect that Shostakovich was making a point here, or at least aiming consciously to depict a highly polarized environment. In any event, the prelude undoubtedly, and hauntingly, presents a unique soundscape that evokes the idea of two separate worlds, often with a chasm lying in between. In its meandering, the treble melody comes to a grinding halt on a repeated pitch several times throughout the prelude (for example, in measures 9 and 24), giving the impression of a tentative personality unsure of its role in this context, unconfident, perhaps, in asserting its own agency, unable to attain a sense of lyric wholeness through any satisfyingly regular phrase structure. Each of these sudden cessations of melody is followed by a measure of silence, as if the stalled melodic subject is taking time to pause, or is becoming lost in thought. The prelude’s first page, in which the line between E major and C-sharp minor is blurred, draws upon the baroque harmonic strategy that Jan LaRue has termed “bifocal tonality,” in which the harmonic structure is “characterized by oscillation between major and relative minor,” and in which “the

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two centers seem to be of approximately equal importance.”17 Such ambiguity is exploited rather overtly throughout the prelude: the first phrase, beginning with a rising, partial E major scale, comes to an inconclusive melodic pause on C-sharp, suggesting, if ever so slightly, an arrival on C-sharp minor. Shortly thereafter, the melodic contours alternately emphasize various tonalmodal zones, including G-sharp minor (measure 13), B mixolydian (without its leading tone, sounding quite emphatically unlike a typical dominant to E major), and F major and minor (both A-natural and A-flat being present). While it is possible to hear the repeated Bs in measures 23–24 as dominants in E major, both in terms of pitch collection and contour, the prelude’s opening section undoubtedly presents a less secure image of E major than most of the other preludes in the cycle do of their own respective keys. In some sense, the prelude seems to be concerned with keeping the promise of E major unfulfilled. In this sense, this opening section of the prelude also represents an example of the so-called alternating tonality (tonal’naia peremennost’ ) characteristic of Russian music in general, in which inconspicuous shifts from the major to the relative minor are made possible by a lack of strong cadences, an emphasis on less active scale degrees, and ambiguous melodic contours. As Boris Gasparov explains, such a harmonic strategy, “with its potential for dissolving tonal and chordal integrities, could be seen as an alternative path into modernity.”18 The Prelude in E Major thus looks both forward and back, its harmonic ambiguities placing it simultaneously on both sides of the tradition of common practice tonality (pretonal and modern), while its discursive strategies, as we shall see, mark it clearly as a piece of music ultimately concerned with articulating an untroubled tonic. In measures 33–37, the key of E major is firmly asserted for the first time in the piece, and the contextualizing bass drone is conspicuously absent, replaced by a solid, root position E major chord in the heretofore uninhabited middle register. This marks the first time the melody has had a chance to speak on its own, untainted by the lurking shadow figure, supported instead by a redeeming glimpse of wholeness. This momentary, fragile

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realization of the tonic, however, is quickly dissolved via a series of troubling slippages: the first phrase to emerge out of the E major triad begins on D-natural, which signifies the loss of the tonic key’s leading tone, and soon a clear focal point of E-flat mixolydian is established, in effect tonicizing the lost leading tone. The mixolydian moment, however, soon gives way to E-flat major, and an intense passage, marked espressivo and occupying the piano’s middle range (which serves as a musical battleground for the piece as a whole), brings us chromatically to B major, the home key’s dominant. The opening melody of the piece returns in measure 56, marking a quasirecapitulation, if only momentarily, on E major. However, immediately after the intense middle-register passage, the lower-register melody appears, for the first and only time in the piece, in the upper register. The opposition of registers and tonal-modal ambiguity that lend the prelude its expressive import are thus supported also by an opposition of themes. The appearance of the lower-register melody in the upper register occurs directly after the prelude’s most passionate moment, and it leads directly into a clear recapitulation in E major, suggesting that it took an unprecedented degree of tension to force this material into the upper register, and thus to bring about some degree of calm in the restatement of E major at the point of recapitulation. The ending of the prelude, however, categorically refuses to allow E major any solace. While the upper voices, in a series of poignant triads, alternate between G-sharp minor and E major (measures 65–68), the bass line—in keeping with its role as a lurking menace—lags behind, falling from an F-sharp not by step to the expected tonic of E, but down a fourth to its omnipresent double from the prelude’s opening, C-sharp. Meanwhile, the upper voices revert from triads back to the opening’s rising-scale melodic idea, seemingly trying to urge on the bass to reach the E. When this finally occurs (measure 69), and both the upper and lower registers are happily ensconced in E major, one final ambiguity upsets the sense of closure: just as the pitch G-sharp had served as the final word in the first articulation of E major in measure 13 (the melodic arpeggiation having rested on the third of the chord instead of the root), so too does the ending underscore the third

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of the tonic chord, with an octave G-sharp ringing out in the middle register, drawing our attention away from the disparity between the low and the high by filling in the space between. Read either as a sign of reconciliation or the slightest hint of continuing trouble (the middle-register G-sharp being, after all, a shared note of E major and C-sharp minor), the point here is that Shostakovich seems to be fashioning some kind of dialectical relationship in the final measures of the prelude. As might be expected, the fugue also takes advantage of the relationship between the major and its relative minor. In this context, however, the move to C-sharp minor functions merely as part of the technical exercise: like all good fugues, this one moves to several expected related keys in its development (C-sharp minor, B major, F-sharp minor), all while maintaining an overall carefree mood. While all realizations of E major in the prelude remain fragile, in other words, in the fugue the tonal center is so clearly grounded as to be able to move unproblematically through any number of related keys without losing a clear sense of identity. If in the prelude, E major never really “means” E major with any real conviction, in the Fugue the tonic finally seems to enjoy some degree of firm grounding. In the place of ominous harmonic ambiguity, the E Major Fugue offers other glimpses of the same “two-ness” that pervades the Prelude. Consider, for instance, that this fugue is not only the single two-voiced fugue in the cycle, but also the only fugue to make use of the inverted subject. Not only is inversion present as a contrapuntal tool, but the inverted subject is used in the place of the subject itself in a complete set of entrances in the dominant key (beginning in measure 21). By virtue of its absence elsewhere in the cycle, the technique of inversion stands out here as a rarefied example of pure, refined contrapuntal craft. While the majority of the other fugues in the cycle come across as lyric duets, with their complementary tuneful subjects and countersubjects, here the subject is joined not only by a clear countersubject but also by its own inverted double. It is almost as if Shostakovich is primping his music in antique dress, offering an especially baroque-sounding, carefree fugue as a necessary counterpart to the brooding, declamatory, and most Russian of preludes.

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The fugue’s playful stretto section plays up the idea of dualistic relationships as well—the absence of a third voice is almost palpable, and one hungers for another entrance. It seems a result of the two-voiced texture that the ending of the fugue moves away from the baroque model of Fortspinnung towards classical models of punctuation and articulation of phrase and cadence. A repeated motor rhythm in the bass in measure 60 recalls similar moments in many of the cycle’s fugues (for example, those in A-flat major, A major, A minor, G major, and B major) when forward-moving counterpoint gives way to static repetition, signaling the approaching conclusion of the piece. And in the final four measures, the counterpoint yields to octave doubling, recalling the opening of the prelude, with its own dualities, but here at the closer and more natural-sounding level of one octave instead of two.19 The only other fugue in the cycle to conclude with such doubling, instead of the more conventional winding down of free counterpoint to the end, is the final one, in D minor, in which the alternative tonic and dominant pitches that constitute the head of the fugue subject are sounded triumphantly across four octaves. In the E Major Fugue, the effect is similarly exultant, if not as dramatic, serving both as a reminder of the prelude’s troubling opening and an emphatic reversal of the authorial attitude towards that previous dilemma. It is a jaunty and jovial finale to a story with its fair share of danger.

Prelude and Fugue No. 10 in C-sharp Minor The Prelude and Fugue in C-sharp Minor exudes a sense of mystery and elusiveness. Playing off expectations of harmony, voice leading, and phrase rhythm, it thwarts them at nearly every turn, creating its own unique logic. I share Tatyana Nikolayeva’s regret that this particular prelude and fugue seems to be programmed relatively infrequently when compared with other, perhaps more immediately gratifying, preludes and fugues.20 For me, it is one of the cycle’s true highlights, a work that rewards extended study with its subtle craftsmanship and deep expressiveness. The technical challenge of the prelude, which requires the most even fingerwork across occasion-

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ally awkward stretches, is balanced by a smoothly songful fugue full of expressive ebbs and flows. The contrast between the two makes it especially gratifying to play—there is a journey to make here, an intriguing story to tell. The overwhelming sense of duality that pervades the textures of the Prelude and Fugue in E Major continues into the Prelude in C-sharp Minor. And as in that major-key relation, such features are manifest on multiple levels. There is, for instance, a marked doubleness of texture within each of its three main sections, between the sixteenth-note figures that open the piece and the chordal passage that caps off each section. As in the E Major Prelude, one of the key formal-narrative elements of this prelude concerns the eventual joining of these disparate textures by the piece’s end. There is also the obvious motivic connection between the prelude and fugue: here, the fugue’s subject picks up, as its head motive, the right-hand figure (the cycle’s omnipresent sixth) that concludes the prelude. Again in a similar vein as the pair in E major, we are invited to hear the fugue as a continuation of various motivic, harmonic, and textural strands presented in the prelude. The most striking and immediate symbol of duality is the mirror-image texture between the hands with which the prelude opens. Shostakovich is clearly alluding here to the hand pattern seen in the Prelude in E-flat Major from Book I of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier (ex. 4.7). In Bach’s atypically extended and monumental prelude, an opening section built upon this figure constitutes a preamble to a multisection form in the style of an organ prelude. After a fugato flavored with stile antico harmonies, the curving scalar motives of the introduction return as a countersubject in the third section, a full-fledged double fugue. Shostakovich’s reference to this work ends with the quotation of this figure in the first measure of his prelude. He proves himself especially eager and willing to be led by the fancy of the meandering line and thus takes the material in completely different harmonic and formal directions. And yet, several elements bind it expressively with Bach’s model—a certain spirit of improvisation, even within highly structured forms; a sharp contrast between scalar and chordal sections; perhaps even an ambition towards being something of greater consequence than a trifling prelude.

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Ex. 4.7a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 2

Ex. 4.7b. J. S. Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I: Prelude in E-flat Major, mm. 1– 2

Shostakovich’s prelude is cast in three sections, each progressively longer than the previous one, plus a coda. Each of the main sections begins with a chase of hands, employing Bach’s hand-shape figure, and concludes with a chordal passage, in which the chase continues, but on a more subtle voiceleading level. In the third section, the two contrasting textures are fused, their juxtaposition coming as a wondrous surprise that conveys much expressive and formal significance. The prelude is at once a superb cat-and-mouse game and an artful essay on the ideas of deception, disagreement, and delusion. The opening section begins by establishing and fulfilling expectations. Serving as the first half of an initial periodic structure is a foursquare phrase in sentence form (short-short-long, or 1+1+2) outlining a tonic-subdominantdominant progression (albeit a dominant in the minor mode). Beginning in the same vein, the second phrase quickly unravels, omitting the second of the single-bar subphrases and getting too quickly to the two-bar subphrase, which itself is extended by the interpolation of a passage in which the hands trade on the quarter note. This intensifies the chase momentarily, before the left hand resolves the phrase in measures 8–9 by finally imitating the right hand’s pattern from measure 6.

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All this takes us to a firm landing on the relative major (E major) in measure 9, where the first section’s chordal passage begins. Also set in two parts, this passage first tonicizes E major but ultimately brings us back to G-sharp minor and an internal cadence on the dominant. If the presence of E major seems to cast a ray of light briefly upon the otherwise darkly colored proceedings, a hairpin crescendo-diminuendo across measures 12–13 accentuates the return to the minor mode, with a deeply ominous secondary dominant (V/V) placed at its apex. These two halves are held together by the most fragile of threads—a glimmer of pure and hopeful-sounding D major in measures 11–12. This out-of-place sonority represents the first of many times in this piece in which voice leading will bring about unexpected harmonies. Here, D major is the result of an arpeggiation on that triad in the bass, an appoggiatura of sorts that is resolved in the rise up a half step in the following measure to D-sharp, which serves to ground the secondary dominant. No longer occupying the comfortable middle range of the piano, the second of the prelude’s three main sections begins with an immediate explosion of tessitura that is matched soon thereafter with a tonal breakdown as well. While this second part eventually restores the C-sharp minor tonic, it proves to be far more elusive in its phrase structure and harmony than the first. Here, the sixteenth-note chase is cast essentially as one long phrase from beginning to end, without any of the internal points of repose that characterized the first section. Indeed, it takes a V–I cadence on a completely alien-sounding B-flat minor across measures 22–23 to bring the formal unraveling to an end, though it hardly quells the harmonic confusion. Tonally mobile to an extreme, the sixteenth-note meanderings offer only fleeting tonicizations; the landing on a clear A major in measures 15–16 represents the first and only point of harmonic rest. Related to all this formal and harmonic unrest is a change in the heretofore scale-based patterns of sixteenth notes. Beginning in measure 17, the figuration breaks its predominant stepwise pattern with the introduction of a string of falling fifths, which reappears in measure 20. This change of pattern seems related, expressively and texturally, to a general drop in tessitura in the second part of this first section. The falling fifths propel the

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music downward, instigating a return to the depths that is brought about ultimately by the left hand. As if forced by the laws of gravity, the left hand works its way down diatonically to a low F-sharp before the lurking chromaticism creeps in once again, enacting the slip down to F that makes possible the dominant of B-flat minor. As before, the chordal passage that follows is neatly broken into two halves. This time, however, the first half is marked by an unprecedented harmonic confusion, while the second dramatically restores the tonic of C-sharp minor. As suggested above, the exotic harmonies of the first part (measures 22–25) are the result of the continuation, but drastic slowing down, of the chase idea. The technique here is based upon a misalignment of voice leading (ex. 4.8). Thus, while the bass presents a sequence of two dominant-tonic movements, in B-flat and C, the right-hand chords move at a faster rate, in effect concluding the cadence on C Major a beat before the entrance of the bass C. By the time the bass gets to the C, the right hand has continued its own series of parallel descending chords, passing from C Major through B-flat major and A major before eventually reaching G-sharp major in measure 25. All through this, the bass sits on the C—allowing it finally to be respelled as a B-sharp, and thus functioning as the third of the dominant chord, but in the

Ex. 4.8. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, mm. 22– 28

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meantime creating some extremely harsh sonorities, such as the chromatic cross-relation between C and C-sharp in the second half of measure 24. The second half of the chordal passage reverses the first half’s falling pattern in the right hand. The rising melodic line, matched by ascending chords beginning with G-sharp major, creates wedge-shaped contrary motion with the bass, as C-sharp minor is restored as tonic. In the prelude’s final section, we find ourselves back at the beginning, with the same pattern as measure 1, in the same octave and in the same key. We even have an initial, four-measure phrase, though it takes us quickly to the relative major (measure 32), a point from which all similarities with the opening cease. The second half of this periodic phrase shape is, as we might expect by this point, willfully distorted. In particular, it is marked by the opposition between E major and its chromatic neighbor E-flat major, a tip to a flat region that was perhaps anticipated by the appearance of B-flat minor in the middle of the second section. The two pitches are each tonicized (if extremely briefly) twice: E in measures 32 and 38, E-flat in measures 34 and 42. This local-level battle takes precedence even over an attempt at recapitulation in measure 40, in which the left hand’s reassertion of the opening measure’s outlining of C-sharp is weakened by the presence of an A major chord in the right hand. Only a half step away from one another, these chords nonetheless clash mightily, effectively negating the sense of reprise manifest in the texture. Also of interest in this second part is yet another alteration to the sixteenthnote pattern. Just as the second section had introduced a falling-fifth figure into the predominantly scalar pattern, so the third section playfully adds another shape to its repertoire—a rocking, stepwise motion (measures 34, 35, 37). When the left hand takes up the figure, one senses that the right hand is goading it along, teasing it, as if to say, “I can make you do anything.” In any event, the tip from E to E-flat seems to have granted a degree of freedom to the musical discourse, allowing it to try something new without causing too much of a disturbance. It is a lovely moment, and one of the more playful aspects of a piece in which a more momentous dramatic sensibility dominates.

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Above all, the main point of this culminating third section is the bringing together of that which had heretofore been kept separate—the sixteenthnote runs and the block chords. In this way, it relates back to both the Prelude and Fugue in E Major (its relative-major partner) and the Prelude and Fugue in G Major (see Chapter 6). In this passage (measures 42–47), a rising sequence of parallel triads in the right hand (beginning in second inversion, but soon moving to first inversion) maps out the journey from E-flat major back to the tonic of C-sharp minor, while the left hand guides the strange progression ever forward with its runs of sixteenths. Perhaps less dissonant overall than the comparable moment in the prelude’s second section, this passage nonetheless features the same misaligned voice leading that we encountered in both of the previous sections. Here (measures 46– 47), the bass reaches a low D-sharp before the right-hand chords execute the change from G major to G-sharp major. Being that this takes place in the more tonally stable second half of the chordal phrase group, the left hand does not continue in its off-putting ways, resolving neatly to another diatonic pitch (D-sharp) with the right-hand chord, so as to render it an effective structural dominant as we reach the coda. The coda itself is purely, and refreshingly, diatonic. And yet, Shostakovich seems intent on continuing with some kind of blurring effect. Once the chordal passage comes to a firm rest on a five-voiced tonic chord in low register, the composer indicates with continuous ties and a rare pedal marking that this chord be held for the duration of the prelude. Each of the sequential steps in the sixteenth-note pattern going on above are kept ringing— the whole range of C-sharp minor exuberantly resonating, creating a strange brand of unified sound. Solidly anchoring all of this is the final right-hand flourish—a five-fold repetition of the cycle’s dominating 1– 5– 6 motive in short bursts punctuated by quarter-note rests. This motive will become the head motive of the fugue’s subject. The Fugue in C-sharp Minor is one of the cycle’s longer fugues (though nowhere near the longest), and also one of its most soulful. Clearly intended to evoke the character of Russian folk song, and trading heavily on the associations conveyed by the ubiquitous sixth in its subject, it makes its way

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Ex. 4.9. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 6

along the ebb and flow of expressive waves (ex. 4.9). Beginning pianissimo and marked legato sempre, the fugue reaches a climactic forte with the appearance of an appropriately disquieting D minor (measure 88), which represents the same tip towards the flat region that characterized the tonal discourse of the prelude. Indeed, the passage leading up to the D minor entrance is the harshest of the fugue: in measure 85, for instance, the A-sharp in the bass is put into contest with itself, as the right hand descends chromatically from B to A through a B-flat. Adding to the mystery of how this will all turn out is a fake-out in the expressive markings. Having begun mysteriously with new material in free counterpoint on the level of piano (measure 81), the phrase begins to crescendo as the shift from A-sharp to B-flat approaches. Instead of following through once the change occurs, however, the sound recedes—a diminuendo in measure 86 momentarily stalls the rise and perhaps suggests that the modulation would not go through after all. The crescendo is restored quickly, however, and the subject’s entrance in D minor in measure 88 reinforced with two forte indications, one for each hand. The tip towards the flat regions continues after the D minor entrances have run their course. A long diminuendo calms the D minor storm but brings us nowhere closer to the home key. Instead, a pair of entrances on C minor ensue, with similarly effective expressive markings emphasizing the harmonic mystery. Performers should take great care in this passage (measures 102–117) to execute Shostakovich’s dynamic markings with precision. The unexpected drop to pianissimo in measure 112—which sounds counterintuitive because of the rise of the melodic line—is one of the fugue’s most sublime moments.

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In measure 122, the return journey to the tonic begins, as a brief resolution on a D major chord turns this connecting passage into a battleground between sharp and flat keys. The continued presence of B-flats and E-flats denies closure for several measures, until finally the syncopated countersubject in the right hand gently steers us back to an entrance on the tonic in measure 129. Of course, this moment represents the stretto—the first of three stretti that make up the fugue’s extended final section. The first (beginning in measure 129), which comprises entries of both subject and answer, involves first the tenor and soprano, and then tenor and alto, above a dominant pedal. The second (beginning in measure 152), serving as the answer statement to a subject entrance on the tonic in measure 147, again features the tenor and soprano, but this time over a C-sharp pedal, now acting as the dominant in the key of the subdominant. The final stretto (beginning in measure 171) involves the soprano and tenor over a C-sharp pedal, this time complete with the necessary D-sharps to close the piece on a firm tonic. While the fugue on one level captures an easy and natural emotional release that seems alien to the character of the prelude, they are not to be taken as completely unrelated. This goes beyond the obvious connection between the motive of the prelude’s final measures and the opening of the fugue’s subject. Near the fugue’s conclusion (beginning in measure 167), a marked change in texture finds the left hand continuing to move in steady eighth notes underneath a contrapuntally challenged right hand stuck on chords involving the remaining three voices. The texture here recalls the climactic moment of the prelude, when the running line and block chords achieve their mysterious union (ex. 4.10). The fugue thus casts a gentler shadow on the prelude’s moment of greatest intensity, suggesting that all of the tumultuous and clangorous chasing might be forgotten and replaced with a less antagonistic, more accommodating sense of benevolence.

Prelude and Fugue No. 15 in D-flat Major Shostakovich himself did not record the Prelude and Fugue in D-flat Major; its technical difficulties were likely too great for him by this point in his per-

90 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 4.10a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, mm. 41– 44

Ex. 4.10b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, mm. 167– 171

formance career to truly do it justice. (Already in the early 1950s a debilitating condition in his right hand was beginning to weaken his technique.) He did, however, perform it—he had to, as part of his audition of the complete cycle at the Union of Composers in spring 1951. By all accounts, the piece stirred up significant controversy. Singled out by several committee members as “ugly” and a “caricature” of Soviet reality, the fugue in particular was deemed, for the record, an unacceptable product from a recently denounced colleague currently undergoing a well-publicized artistic rehabilitation.21 It is easy to feel an immediate reaction to this music. It seems calculated to get our attention, like a cold, hard slap in the face. Consonance and dissonance—or, rather, tonality and its abandonment in wild, unfocused chro-

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maticism—are put on display, functioning as seemingly easy, decodable signs. We feel we know this piece instantly, we are comfortable in our assessment of its personality in large part because of the affective and stylistic associations it creates with other music by Shostakovich in a similar vein. In particular, this prelude and fugue provides convenient fodder for those who wish to seek and reveal oppositional elements in Shostakovich’s music. The fugue can be turned easily into a symbol for dissent, just as the prelude fits nicely under the rubric of parody. And yet, the question of this music’s true character turns out to be one of the cycle’s more complex mysteries. For the juxtaposition of opposites that governs the music on one level is matched by another level in which relationships of various types bind the seemingly disparate pieces—the impishly parodistic prelude and the relentlessly mocking fugue. The more we notice, the less sure we are of this music’s expressive intent. In the end, its most enduring trait is that it forces us, despite the immediacy of our response, to acknowledge the “meaninglessness” of music. When put in the context of the twenty-three other preludes in this cycle, the Prelude in D-flat Major seems marked as a special case. As piano music, it might be viewed as blatantly insincere—hardly a real piano prelude at all, an artistic non-entity. Instead, what it most brings to mind is the four-hand symphonic transcription—a genre that Shostakovich himself excelled in, both as composer (or, rather, arranger of his own and other works) and performer. Essentially, what we have here is a symphonic scherzo and trio, whose martial character and aggressive spirit of lampooning easily bring to mind the example of Mahler. It also evokes the second movement of Shostakovich’s own Symphony No. 5 (1937), whose bold, confident lines, strident boom-chuckchuck rhythms, and, in the Trio, high treble solo over a motoristic accompaniment all find their way back into the textures of this prelude. All true scherzos crack a joke or two, and the Prelude in D-flat Major is no exception. Here, a near constant two-measure grouping of strong and weak measures functions as a thumbing of the nose, an affront to the sophisticated aficionado of serious contrapuntal keyboard music. In measures 42–43, Shostakovich merely fills in the required metrical space, uninter-

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ested, it seems, in coming up with anything more inventive than these expressively numb repeated notes, whose banality is reinforced across multiple octaves. Like an unimaginative drill sergeant, or a frustrated instructor of musical fundamentals (“march with me: strong-weak, strong-weak. . . .”), he puts us through our paces, dulled by routine. This is a composer who understands, however, just how far he can go before passing beyond the line of artistic legitimacy. Sprinkled occasionally throughout the prelude’s dumbed-down hypermetric course are moments where these groupings break down. In measures 70–72, for instance (and the corresponding moment in the scherzo’s reprise), a hemiola stretched across two measures results in a grouping of three—two weak measures following the strong—creating a floating effect that lasts just long enough for us to feel strangely comforted by the return of hypermetric predictability afterward. Similarly, the transitional phrase between the opening section in the tonic and a new theme in the relative minor (B-flat minor, measure 28) contains another hemiola, in the chromatically descending parallel fifths. Such jocularity feels somewhat out of place in this otherwise generally serious cycle. The tone of the D-flat Major Prelude seems better suited to a different Shostakovich. It would have worked nicely, for instance, as one of his workaday accompaniments to a chase scene in the movie houses of his youth. Indeed, it is in another piano cycle from Shostakovich’s earlier days that we find this piece’s closest relation, in the same key—the Prelude in D-flat Major, No. 15, from his Opus 34 set of twenty-four preludes. The two pieces are remarkably similar. In the earlier work, the strong-weak grouping of measures is accented in the opening measures with tonic-dominant downbeats, while underneath the treble oom-pah-pahs, a circus-like melody again enters in the bass (ex. 4.11). But the Opus 34 prelude displays more of a sense of youthful daring in its modernist-inspired harmonic quirks. In particular, as evidence of the influence of Prokofiev’s piano music on his own musical style, Shostakovich employs the technique of chromatic displacement to playfully thwart his listeners’ harmonic expectations.22 Directly preceding the reprise of the opening theme (measure 42), a two-octave arpeggiation of a D minor chord

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Ex. 4.11a. Shostakovich, Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34: Prelude No. 15 in D-flat Major, mm. 1– 8

Ex. 4.11b. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 15 in D-flat Major, mm. 1– 8

interrupts the modulation from F minor back to the tonic of D-flat major. In the rising scale that comes out of this arpeggiation, the semitone movement from A to B-flat slips the tonality back on track, and the half step up from C to D-flat that completes the line acts as the tonic cadence. The piece’s final cadence works similarly: a surprise G major chord, marked pianissimo, sneaks in on the second beat, requiring another half-step slip, this time downward to G-flat, in order for it to function as an acceptable subdominant in the final cadential progression. The Prelude in D-flat Major from Opus 87 also contains a fair amount of chromatic play, which allows it to function as a related and yet strongly contrasting partner to the fugue that follows. The sense of unraveling that

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Ex. 4.12. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 15 in D-flat Major, mm. 199– 206

characterizes the fugue’s subject is anticipated in several moments during the prelude, including the chromatic parallel fifths (measures 24–27) mentioned above. Moreover, the same G major chord that colored the final cadence of the earlier prelude as a slightly off subdominant also finds its way into this one, establishing a double chromatic neighbor movement to the tonic chord in the opening section (measures 15–20). Most important with respect to the fugue, in the prelude’s final cadence, a firm landing on the tonic (measure 199) is followed by an eight-measure coda in which chromatic alterations to the pitch collection—raised dominant, subdominant, and tonic scale degrees—upset repeated attempts at dominant-tonic closure (ex. 4.12). The more unstable chromatic side of things has begun to reveal itself. Described as “intolerably cacophonic” and “nervously spasmatic” in the official report on the cycle’s audition in Sovetskaya Muzika, the Fugue in D-flat Major is undoubtedly the cycle’s most glaring anomaly. Its closest relation in the cycle might be the near-equally craggy Fugue in G-sharp Minor, which is also marked marcatissimo (but not, as is the case with the D-flat Major Fugue, sempre al Fine). Another of the cycle’s fugues in 54 , in E-flat major, might also be cited as an expressive cousin, with its inscrutable metric arrangements and its subject’s garish use of the flattened second scale degree. The subject of the D-flat Major Fugue (ex. 4.13), anticipated in the harmonic disturbances of the prelude’s final cadence, in many ways harkens back to both the “wedge” and “cross” (chiasmus) shapes employed by J. S.

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Ex. 4.13. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 15 in D-flat Major, mm. 1– 6

Bach. G-natural is the only pitch in the chromatic scale not to be represented in the subject, which spirals outward from the tonic in both directions as it passes through a total of twenty-one quarter-note beats at dizzying speed. Bach reserves this shape for special expressive purposes and perhaps for important structural points as well, insofar as the midway point (F minor) and the concluding prelude and fugue (B minor) of Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier both feature similar subjects.23 To say that the subject of the Fugue in D-flat Major is atypical of the fugues in Shostakovich’s Opus 87 is a gross understatement. Shostakovich was clearly capable of writing unassuming melodies that employed the twelve tones of the chromatic scale, including themes that could subsequently be used neatly within fugal contexts. The opening theme of the first movement of the String Quartet No. 3 (1946) covers the entire chromatic scale, though you wouldn’t necessarily pick that up upon first hearing it (ex. 4.14). This movement’s development section constitutes a fugal episode featuring this melody as one of three thematic entities comfortably coexisting within a tonal context. As difficult as it is to discern any sense of tonal-harmonic order governing the Fugue in D-flat Major, finding an acceptable way of counting is an equally treacherous undertaking. If this can safely be called virtuoso music, it is in its disavowal of the notion of hypermeter and the difficulties that ensue in breaking the music down into metrical groupings to aid in learning and performing it. The lightning-fast tempo makes any sustained counting of the only constant beat—the quarter note—impossible (indeed futile), and yet the changing meter seems an almost superfluous means of orga-

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Ex. 4.14. Shostakovich, String Quartet No. 3 in F Major, Opus 73, first movement, mm. 1– 10

nization. The meter can hardly contain the material that it is meant to elucidate. Of course, such conditions provide a striking contrast with the prelude, whose all-too-balanced metrical profile has perhaps lulled the listener by this point into a state of nonchalance. This sharp expressive division between the prelude and the fugue is brought to a head about three-fifths of the way through the fugue, with the intrusion into the fugal texture of the prelude’s bouncy, cheerfully iambic accompaniment rhythm (beginning in measure 116). From this point on,

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the fugue ceases to function as such, and instead serves as a battleground between these two opposing forces—the evasively chromatic and asymmetrical versus the naïvely tonal and balanced. Having moved through a passage featuring the subject in augmentation stated in tandem with the subject in its original form, one might expect the fugue to be reaching its climax and settling into a coda by this point. Instead, this culminating section seems unusually extended, the classic fugue proportions upset—its constant and formless flow striving to shake off this new intruder and reach tonal closure. The fugue’s final cadential passage constitutes a flashback to the ending of the prelude, with repeated dominant-tonic progressions emphasizing the downbeat while mini–wedge shapes refuse the silence that would make such closure stick. While many of the cycle’s preludes allude, most commonly in their final measures, to the subject of their corresponding fugues, no other pair features such a blatant intrusion of the prelude into the fugue. What are we to make of this unprecedented formal-expressive move? Does it represent a comic undermining of the fugue’s authority? An insidious corruption of innocence? A weak, and ultimately failed, attempt at “straightening out” the fugue? Or does it suggest that both prelude and fugue represent two sides of the same character, equal partners in the chaos—comfortably contoured melodies and spiraling anti-themes merged as one? If they represent narrative personalities, which entity—prelude or fugue—is endowed with agency, and which is the pawn? Given that Shostakovich references music both from his confident youth (the Opus 34 Prelude in D-flat Major) and from the crisis-laden late 1930s (the Fifth Symphony), are we to assume that the subject of his own artistic identity is lying barely concealed under the surface? Should we search, in these patent and transparent musical signs, for some key to their significance, or might we remain content to be baffled? The Prelude and Fugue in D-flat Major is a tour de force not only of virtuoso technique but also of expressive ambiguity. As such, it is associative music that transcends its own symbols. In the end, the visceral thrills and starkly drawn contrasts of this musical non sequitur are content enough.

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Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor Whether or not they are performed together, the Preludes and Fugues in D-flat Major and B-flat Minor were certainly composed consecutively, and one gets the distinct impression that Shostakovich gave some serious thought, coming off the heels of the D-flat Major, as to what would constitute an appropriate next move. Indeed, he seems to have gotten himself into a momentary jam over the issue: in the autograph manuscript, the B-flat Minor Prelude represents the only instance in which the composer experienced a true, and substantial, false start. The music he had already composed being too long a stretch to erase or cross out, he opted to begin work on a new sheet of staff paper and simply paste that new material over the old. This rare example of Shostakovich second-guessing himself adds to the sense of mystery that pervades this piece, which seems bound inextricably to its major-mode partner. While strikingly different in character and tone, these two preludes and fugues share a certain transparency. They both beg to be interpreted, to be infused with direct feeling, to be bestowed with fixed meaning. The personalities of the preludes conform unabashedly to types—the D-flat Major the ironic scherzo, the B-flat Minor a set of variations most appropriately categorized as a passacaglia, a genre that Shostakovich held in a special position when it came to the baring of intense emotions—as in the Prelude No. 12 in G-sharp Minor from this cycle, the Eighth Symphony’s fourth movement, the third movement of the Violin Concerto No. 1, and Act II of the opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District. The fugues, while both exploiting the disorienting effect of mixed meters, achieve vastly different expressive ends from this technique—bold assertion in the D-flat Major, free meditation in the B-flat Minor (ex. 4.15). Even in the context of a cycle that bursts at its seams with personality types, it seems all too easy to apply lifemetaphors to these particular musical materials. And yet, like its D-flat major counterpart, the Prelude and Fugue in B-flat Minor contains its fair share of expressive ambiguities, which complicates, and indeed ultimately negates, the project of defining any truth content.

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Ex. 4.15. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor, mm. 1– 4

The prelude’s twenty-measure theme is constructed of the simplest of materials, which allows its subtleties to stand out all the more and ultimately carry the expressive burden. The theme comprises several distinct subphrases (ex. 4.16). An opening gesture in four-part harmony establishes the key with the elemental shape of a rising third that falls back to its starting point. The second, shorter phrase features once again the 1– 5– 6 shape that dominates the cycle, while the opening phrase’s rising third is repeated in the alto voice and the lower voices establish the subdominant, which will become this theme’s salient harmonic point. The use of dotted quarter notes in this inner voice serves as a subtle foreshadowing of the grander hemiolas that are to come. In its nervous refusal to align, the voice leading here also calls attention to itself, setting up the movement to an unexpected chromatic area in the next phrase. A palindrome is suggested by the third phrase, which begins by repeating the leap of a minor sixth found in the second phrase (but here sequenced up a step), and continues with a restatement of the rising third, in the same rhythm as it occurred in the first phrase. The theme’s most striking moment occurs at the top of this rise of a third, and at the top of a crescendo, when a D major chord, the result of chromatic voice leading in contrary motion in three of the voices, explodes the heretofore

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Ex. 4.16. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 16 in B-flat Minor, mm. 1– 20

purely diatonic texture. When this moment subsides—smoothed out by a hemiola across two measures, a decrescendo, and a thinning of the texture to three voices—a fourth phrase offers again the minor-sixth leap and seems to close off the theme with a plagal cadence. Another chromatic inflection, however, announces the surprise fifth subphrase, the raised sixth scale degree creating a major-mode subdominant harmony, which thereby repeats the plagal cadence. This final phrase hearkens back, in its contour and rhythm, to the climactic third phrase. And just as the fourth phrase had concluded with a brief swirl of a tag in the bass, the fifth closes with a bass flourish, this time suggesting yet another plagal cadence, with its minormode subdominant restored, in the final measure. In effect, the theme begins with a move from the tonic to the subdominant, passes quickly through a moment of harmonic enstrangement, and concludes with a string of three plagal cadences (one, of course, with its mode altered). And yet, simple as this seems, consider the fact that five of the seven diatonic pitches are altered through the course of this altogether rather static harmonic block—a reminder, perhaps, that some residue of the previous fugue’s chromatic abandon remains on this landscape.

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The economy of materials is impressive, given the expressive depth that Shostakovich is able to convey. A similar use of the major-mode subdominant is found in the Prelude in G-sharp Minor (also a passacaglia), in which the raised sixth scale degree is used sparingly but effectively to create momentary major-mode subdominants that sink poignantly back to their minor-mode forms after a fleeting, hopeful moment. And the deeper structural and expressive potential of the chromatic slip that gives way to the spotlighted D major harmony in measure 8 is realized later in the prelude, when the final variation begins (in measure 78) not on the tonic, but a half step below—the result of another chromatic slip, this time from the low B-flat that concludes the bass-line tag of the previous variation. The sense of defamiliarization at this moment is made more extreme by a certain indecision in the upper voices as to whether this substitute tonic should be harmonized in the major or minor mode. The slip from one to the next creates, of course, another half-step slip downward, as well as an allusion to the modal mixture involved in the theme’s string of plagal cadences. With their sequential rhythmic diminution—quarter-note motion giving way to eighths, triplets, and then sixteenths—and eventual rise in tessitura, the variations that follow this theme bring to mind the slow movement of Beethoven’s Sonata in F Minor, the “Appassionata,” Opus 57, even if the total effect is more subdued. The pleasure of performing the eighth-note variation lies in making coloristic and contrapuntal decisions about which of the moving lines to bring out within the texture. One might aim for replicating the same voicing as in the theme, or perhaps allowing the added moving line to become a coloristic unraveling of the basic material. A lovely tension ensues between the moving eighth notes and the melody in longer rhythmic values that rides this current. In the triplet variation, by contrast, the theme’s melody is no longer completely intact—an observation that sinks in gradually, and that ultimately changes one’s perception of the form from a classical theme and variations to a passacaglia. Here, the performer must decide the degree to which that absent line, which nonetheless can always be found within the flow of triplets, should be heard. The sixteenth-note variation restores the theme as initially notated, as the accompaniment figure

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finally rises to a higher tessitura. The allusion to Beethoven’s “Appassionata” strikes home at the conclusion of this variation, as the bass-voice tag reaches its low tonic pitch and then drastically oversteps itself by a half step. The moment is analogous to the conclusion of Beethoven’s variation movement, when an expected dominant-tonic cadence is interrupted by a diminished seventh chord, functioning as a secondary dominant to the dominant, the musical equivalent of a question mark. Beethoven denies ultimate closure for his slow movement; the normative silence between movements is filled instead with repeated poundings of this diminished sonority. While of a different character entirely, and while occupying an internal rather than final cadential point, Shostakovich’s moment of enstrangement elicits a similar sense of disruption. It may come as a surprise that, despite its structure based upon growth and intensification, the prelude never strays from the general dynamic level of piano. Hairpin crescendo-decrescendo markings punctuate the moments of chromatic displacement, but overall the composer’s desire seems to have been to create a static, rather than dynamic, effect overall. He takes this idea to the next level, indeed to an extreme, in the fugue. Here, another kind of surface activity—an atypically melismatic fugue subject cast in mixed meters and featuring an unprecedented array of rhythmic values (upping the prelude’s ante, as it were)—betrays a deep inner calm, manifest in the fact that the dynamic level here never changes from its initial pianissimo. Not a single crescendo mars this ice-smooth surface. The contrast between this and the preceding fugue could not be greater—two monuments occupying the extreme ends of a spectrum from chaos to tranquility. By most accounts the longest fugue in the cycle, and by far its most placid, the B-flat Minor Fugue, like its prelude, conserves its drama. One special landmark on this slow-moving horizon is the stretto section—an unlikely enough event, given the subject’s complexities. Coming out of an extended section characterized by several false subject entrances (the initial long note values of what at first seem to be the subject’s first pitch turning out merely to be pedal points), the first stretto features the two upper voices in complete statements of the subject, albeit with modest alterations to the longer note

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values to accommodate the mixed meter. As if this feat weren’t clever enough, Shostakovich extends the stretto to all three voices in its second section, each containing a full statement of the subject. The heart of this fugue, however, must be said to lie not in this working out of the subject, but in the sudden shift to the tonic major in the coda that follows the stretto. If the prelude had evoked the spirit of Beethovenian transcendence, in the fugue we hear echoes of Schubert. The revelatory appearance of B-flat major in the coda brings to mind the second, slow movement of Schubert’s final sonata in B-flat major, in which the yearned-for C-sharp major is painfully delayed—and at one point devastatingly replaced by the fragile substitution of C major—until the edifice can no longer bear the emotional weight of the minor mode. In Shostakovich’s fugue, too, one experiences an impulse to release a great breath at this moment of major-mode redemption. The emotional suspense it has generated, it turns out, has taken more of a toll than its even-keeled dynamic scheme and perhaps aimlessly busy surface would suggest. For the interpreter, the Prelude and Fugue in B-flat Minor poses a number of challenges. In both the prelude and the fugue, for instance, there is the issue of resisting the temptation to guide the musical discourse with the wavelike swelling and receding of dynamic levels that characterize the cycle’s fugues. As a performer, Shostakovich himself was unable to keep himself from doing so, adding fairly hefty crescendos in the fugue’s middle entries in G-flat major and C minor in his early 1952 recording. In the prelude, the question of rubato is particularly important. On the one hand, the opening thematic space, moving slowly with the quarter-note pulse, allows a certain freedom in the treatment of rhythms. On the other, the careful placement of the dotted figure in measure 4 and the related hemiolas that follow dictate that the pulse be kept strict so that they can be readily discerned. Shostakovich again seems tentative in this regard. Quite in contrast to his general performerly tendency towards rhythmic integrity, his performance of the opening theme is elastic, atypically free, so much so that he actually misplays the dotted-quarter figure. What was likely a miscalculation in measure 4 turns into an outright error at the figure’s recurrence in measure 24, when

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the dotted quarters are lined up clearly underneath the moving eighth-note accompaniment, and yet Shostakovich once again plays a half note and quarter in the left hand. Strangely, Tatyana Nikolayeva replicates Shostakovich’s error in both measures 4 and 24 in all three of her recordings of the Preludes and Fugues, leading us to wonder about the possibility of discrepancies in the editions. Comparison of the autograph manuscript, first edition, and subsequent editions reveals no such inconsistencies.24 While Shostakovich’s performance is notable for its lovely sound and emotional outpouring, especially in the prelude, its occasional textual errors and unconvincing expressive choices cause me to feel ambivalent about it. In measure 31 of the fugue, for instance, he plays the left-hand sixteenth notes as thirty-seconds and thus finds himself forced to extend the 34 by an extra beat, adding figures and altering note values along the way. And, given that he was known also as a performer with a keen ear towards musical structures, it seems odd that he ignores the crescendo-decrescendo marking at the theme’s close (measures 19–20), which serves as a consistent cappingoff for each of the prelude’s subsections. Perhaps it is telling that several other interpreters also seem to have difficulty knowing what to make of this piece. Roger Woodward gives the fugue an especially bizarre spin, adding an extra (impressionist-inspired?) trill to the subject’s opening melisma, and completely ignoring the fugue’s Adagio marking. For his part, Boris Petrushansky applies his trademark emotionally searching rubato to the prelude to such an extent that the phrase is completely distorted: the dotted quarter that gave Shostakovich problems comes too early in the measure, while other events come unexpectedly late. It seems the compositional transparency of this music gives rise to more complex difficulties in execution. At stake in interpretive decisions, of course, is the meaning gleaned by listeners: is this an earnest experiment in soulsearching, the complete antithesis to the alienating Prelude and Fugue in D-flat Major? Or does the placidness of its materials suggest more an emotional reserve, an icy stoicism that rebukes attempts at sentimentality?

5

slow tendencies

The Poetics of Enstrangement Shostakovich drew upon a wide repertory of expressive markings and indications of articulation and tempo in the Preludes and Fugues, lending the score a dramatic palette to match its epic scope. Among other occasional markings, one encounters a few morendos and dolces, a couple of maestosos, a single tranquillo and pesante each, and, in the most fiercely energetic fugues, several marcatissimos. More common are two markings, espressivo and legato (or legato sempre), which appear in more than half the pieces. Their regular presence sheds light on a poetic attitude in the work that is sometimes shadowed, in its reception and performance, by its outward status as an homage to J. S. Bach. With the abundance of such markings, Shostakovich delivers a forceful message to the performer that this music is not to be played in the mechanical, “objective” or “impersonal” vein commonly associated with a broadly conceived aesthetics of neoclassicism. This is thoroughly music for the piano—and for the interpreting pianist, insofar as the composer seems to be calling for a fair degree of performerly mediation. The most frequently used marking in the score (disregarding common notations of dynamics and articulation) is also the most evocative of this expressive quality: the ritenuto, which appears in twenty of the preludes and fugues. Taken alone, an abundance of ritenutos might not signify much.

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106 The Preludes and Fugues

Modification of tempo for the purposes of expression has, after all, been a hallmark of Western art music from the beginning; and pianists in particular have been perfecting the art of rubato since their instrument was invented. But in the Preludes and Fugues, the ritenuto marking belongs to a complex of gestures that all contribute to a sense of halting, of poignant hesitation that calls attention to the affective nature of the material. An investigation into the significance of the ritenuto in the Preludes and Fugues thus leads us into new territory, in which broader vistas of the cycle are possible, more sweeping views of its expressive terrain. One often finds the marking tenuto, for instance, at successive entrances of the more lyric fugue subjects, a signal to the performer both to hold back slightly, as if extracting from the melody some obscure element of its character, and to change touch, conveying its dramatic significance physically. Elsewhere, the horizontal line indicating tenuto is employed to accentuate a rocking figure shared by a number of fugues. These lumbering motives provide another conspicuously visceral dimension to the musical discourse, which complements the emotional character of the subjects themselves. Another, more dramatic manifestation of this gesture of hesitation is found in the cycle’s many pointed moments of harmonic and rhythmic stasis. Here, an abrupt modulation to an unexpected tonal area is coupled with a lengthening of note values. These shifts in rhythmic and harmonic emphasis bring about a floating, disembodied effect, an opening up of time and space. As recurring landmarks that aid in the production of a kind of affective memory for the cycle as a whole, such moments represent a compositional spotlighting that begs examination, and perhaps some prudent interpretation, as a unifying expressive device. Using terminology advanced by Robert S. Hatten, one could say that these various gestures function in both “rhetorical” and “thematic” capacities throughout the cycle. As Hatten explains, “A rhetorical gesture is marked by its disruption of the otherwise unmarked flow in some dimension of the musical discourse,” and “thematic gestures are those that play a significant role in the drama of the work, as subjects for musical discourse.”1 Ritenutos regularly, and sometimes inexplicably, suspend the normal flow of musical

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time; moments of unexpected stasis upset our harmonic and rhythmic expectations; and the recurring rocking figure marked tenuto takes on a dramatic character by the cycle’s end, marking it as one of the work’s distinct melodic personalities. With an ear tuned to this affective stance, one begins to recognize its centrality in the cycle as a formal and expressive feature. Even given the cycle’s overall diversity, this hesitating tendency stands out as a dominant character whose force often supersedes the local, individual personalities represented in the various miniatures. The import of musical gestures extends beyond the printed page. The relationship between gesture and performance is crucial: What do performers do with gestures in order to convey musical ideas? How do they maximize their effect or, aiming for something more subtle, downplay it? What does it take to turn a musical shape into something that can pull, almost palpably, on listeners’ heartstrings, disturbing, exciting, or calming them? As Hatten writes, “Rhetorical gestures are characterized by sudden changes in energy, force, direction, and character, and hence imply the marked presence of a higher, narrative agency. . . . The pianist takes on the role of an orator.”2 In examining such gestures in the Preludes and Fugues, I will at times refer to the characterizations that various pianists have lent this music in their decisions to emote demonstrably or to remain reticent. A more detailed discussion of what José A. Bowen would call the cycle’s “hermeneutic history,” however, will come in this book’s final chapter, in which I survey the cycle’s history on recordings, discuss several pianists’ tendencies as orators, and muse over some possible implications of the interpretations that this music has received.3 Closer to my subject here is the bodily significance of gesture, its visceral appeal to the listener. Hatten suggests that musical gestures “‘go beyond’ the score to embody the intricate shaping and character of movements that have direct biological and social significance for human beings.”4 The manner in which musical gestures of both composerly and performerly varieties can powerfully represent and fulfill social roles has been amply demonstrated in a range of recent scholarship—from Richard Leppert’s examination of the relationship between Franz Liszt’s music and stage man-

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nerisms and the value systems of the emergent European bourgeoisie, to Elisabeth Le Guin’s analysis of Luigi Boccherini’s chamber music for strings, in which a pervasive theatricality of gesture and repetitiveness of texture are understood as a “performed embodiment” of some of his era’s most “urgent, volatile inquiries into the nature of selfhood.”5 How might these demonstrable halting gestures in Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues be said to operate in this regard? Can they in any way be understood as meaningful markers of subjectivity that relate to the composer’s own time and place? As I hope to have made clear in the previous chapter, it is, I think, too much to suggest that Shostakovich himself had an interest in representing some particular vision of selfhood—personal, Soviet, universal, or otherwise—in the composition of his Preludes and Fugues. But intentional or not, does their gestural character convey any broader importance, reveal any other relationships? Some degree of the rich social meaningfulness of these gestures can be discerned in the cycle’s reception history, in which commentators of various aesthetic and ideological stripes have made a recurring theme of the music’s tendency towards slowness and hesitation. Those colleagues presiding over the composer’s audition of the cycle at the Union of Composers in the spring of 1951, for instance, sensed a troubling individualism in its imagery and overall mood. The report on the proceedings, as published in Sovetskaya Muzika shortly thereafter, takes as its first point of argumentation in the case against the composer the “extremely morose, burdensomely lugubrious character” of the cycle, which brings it disturbingly in line with the “individualistic, darkly cult-like images of ancient polyphonic music.”6 For this bureaucratic committee, a certain perceived depth of spiritual content and general attitude of reverence is regarded as a serious flaw: in its vastness, this music tantalizes its listeners with glimpses of a world beyond, thus conflicting directly with official doctrine. Conversely, writing in the early 1960s, Alexander Dolzhanskiy interpreted the same material under the rubric of the heroic—thus attempting to keep the cycle alive, well into the post-Stalinist Thaw, within the fragile discourse system of socialist realism. The individual narrative agent is now cast as a

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Soviet everyman, a bearer of burdens, a symbol of strength and fortitude, and a deliverer of ultimate triumph: “In many fugues the slow tempo of the composition, and a certain strain of its elements, create the impression of significant difficulties that the hero of the work has to overcome. Furthermore, there is a stubbornness in claiming victory over these obstacles, an image of steadfast determination and strength. The composer discovered and was a virtuoso at devising a variety of means for broad melodiousness, for the primordial slowness that characterizes Russian peasant singing. The fugues of Shostakovich are substantially different from those of Bach in the slowness of the individual elements and the composition as a whole.”7 For Dolzhanskiy, a great admirer of Shostakovich’s music, the cycle’s expansive pacing and anxious tension was best reinterpreted in terms of the nation, the familiar theme of victory over adversity thus overriding the religious connotations perceived by the committee of composers a decade before. Lest we forget, this kind of rhetoric was required of Dolzhanskiy if his book was ever to see the light of day. Feeling compelled to address the main point of contention raised about the cycle in its first official review, he gave the material a new, if familiar, spin. Regardless of the interpretation, the cycle’s folk-inspired, leisurely spaciousness and tension-filled textures clearly struck him as a meaningful aspect of the cycle’s artistry. By contrast, in a 1951 review of the Preludes and Fugues in the Musical Times, composer Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji characterized the cycle as “a vast acreage of boredom.”8 His spatial metaphor both limits the work geographically as Russian (a country whose own vast plains had surely been on the minds of many a European citizen during the years of the Second World War) and draws comparison with his own penchant for creating scores of gigantic proportions. From the perspective of musical modernism in the West, the music’s lyric accessibility and formal conservatism negate its legitimacy as a valid work of art. It is, in Sorabji’s formulation, as trapped by its own devices as the Soviet citizenry, as bleak and uninteresting as its landscape. Sorabji’s metaphor might be turned back on itself: perhaps Shostakovich was interested both in conveying something of the vastness of his country’s landscape and in cultivating, especially in the preludes and fugues discussed

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in this chapter, a certain kind of reception state related to what Sorabji characterized as boredom. Like any number of twentieth-century composers, filmmakers, and playwrights who reveled in producing artworks that challenged their audiences’ expectations of time, duration, and mood, Shostakovich seems to have been interested throughout the Preludes and Fugues in liberating his listeners from a passive mode of reception to a kind of listening based on more active confrontation. In this case, such an aesthetic stance does not involve the more typical modernist ploys of disturbing expectations of pitch, harmony, and rhythm. Instead, Shostakovich’s strategy here seems to be rooted in the concept of time and our relationship to it. In each of the pieces discussed in this chapter, Shostakovich at one point or another uses a displacement of time—via a ritenuto, or a floating gesture with unusually long rhythmic values, or even simply a slow tempo—as a strategy of defamiliarization. As much as they can be said to lend a sense of unity to the cycle, these gestures of hesitation, of time displacement, also represent an essentially disruptive strategy. Breaking up the regular flow of musical discourse, they also interrupt the listener’s absorption in the work of art. As such, it is useful to consider their relationship to what the Russian formalist critics, most notably Victor Shklovsky, termed ostraneniye, or enstrangement. I am not the first to suggest that strategies of alienation, defamiliarization, or enstrangement are in operation in Shostakovich’s music. Most recently, both Pauline Fairclough, in her analysis of the Symphony No. 4, and Lawrence Kramer, in an interpretation of the String Quartet No. 8, have stressed the composer’s penchant for creating purposeful imbalances in his formal structures, bringing about a sense of formal disruption, and at times disintegration, for a variety of expressive purposes.9 As Kramer notes, significant differences apply among the theories of alienation proposed by various critics throughout the twentieth century—from Shklovsky’s ostraneniye, which stressed the artwork’s autonomy, to Bertold Brecht’s highly politicized social model of Verfremdungseffekt, to Roland Barthes’ more abstract semiotics of cultural representation. While for Kramer all roads lead to the social and political, and while the tendency in

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general has certainly been to view Shostakovich’s works through the lens of the Soviet experience, I would like to entertain the notion here that it is worthwhile to examine the Preludes and Fugues from a vantage point a step removed from these levels. This is not to say that I am opposed to interpretations of the Preludes and Fugues that take matters of social and political representation into account, or that I ignore the inherently political nature of cultural representation. Rather, I wish merely to suggest that there is also space for reflection on the purely artful character of this work. I believe that in its poetic tendency towards slowness, heaviness, and holding back, the cycle of Preludes and Fugues is actively involved in the project of making familiar musical objects unfamiliar. It thus falls nicely in line with Shklovsky’s most widely cited statement on the function of art: that it exists to “recover the sensation of life . . . to make one feel things, to make the stone stony. . . . The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar,’ to make forms difficult, to increase the difficulty and length of perception because the process of perception is an aesthetic end in itself and must be prolonged. Art is a way of experiencing the artfulness of an object; the object is not important.”10 As recurring markers on the landscape of the Preludes and Fugues, these suspensions of time guide listeners towards an awareness of the work’s artistry. With them, Shostakovich reveals his plotting self, demonstrating the ways in which he can take a fugue, or a prelude cast in an otherwise unencumbered binary form, to a new and unexpected expressive level on a moment’s notice. And in doing so, he jolts listeners out of passive forms of attentiveness, steering them, if only momentarily, to a more acute awareness of the musical event, and thus to a reevaluation of habitual complacency. Indeed, the Russian formalists also stressed the ways in which defamiliarization in art was meant to counteract the inexorable pull of habit that characterizes daily life.11 Taken together, these halting gestures function as principal indicators of the cycle’s artistry, as important formal-compositional elements of the cycle, as crucial determining factors in its interpretation and performance, and as meaningful aspects in its reception. Whether interpreted as a symbol for exhaustion or struggle, for awe, elation, serenity, or determination, the halt-

Ex. 5.1a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 1– 5

Ex. 5.1b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 1– 4

Ex. 5.1c. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 47– 48

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ing character that pervades the cycle unmistakably calls attention towards itself. Let us turn now to surveying six preludes and fugues that exhibit various manifestations of this poetic device, from the subtle to the spectacular.

Prelude and Fugue No. 4 in E Minor The texture of the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor is saturated with the 1–5–6 motive first introduced in the cycle’s opening fugue in C major, here modified to the minor mode. Sing aloud any of its prominent melodies—the incessantly moving inner voice and sustained whole-note bass line of the prelude’s opening, both of the fugue’s two subjects—and a streamlined motivic simplicity will reveal itself (ex. 5.1). As in the C Major Fugue, the motive’s constant presence establishes a soulful, plaintive mood. Nothing is hidden in this earnest piece, nothing complicates its intensity of feeling. This makes it especially popular with audiences. Like a good pop song that builds and intensifies towards its conclusion, it appeals in both its local and larger formal gestures to the physical rush of music in its purest form. With its defining motive cast in the minor mode, however, and put to the

Ex. 5.2a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 8– 9

Ex. 5.2b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 117– 118

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service of a double fugue featuring dramatic transformations in texture and tempo, the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor takes us beyond the innocence and pastoral landscape of the cycle’s beginning and into the weightier realm of the epic. A clear-cut sense of plotting moves the music inexorably towards its goal—the pairing of the two fugue subjects (beginning in measure 88), a series of climactic waves based upon these double entrances, and a grand pause on a diminished seventh chord (measure 118) before a denouement marked fortissimo to the finish. Everything has been effectively set up in advance. The wave-like phrase gestures of the fugue’s climactic section, for instance, are anticipated in a subito piano in the ninth measure of the prelude, a slight halting at the end of the first phrase section that interrupts the inevitable conclusion of a chromatic rise in the melody. The same chromatic slide in the fugue’s uppermost voice leads to a floating plateau representing its climax at measure 118 (ex. 5.2). These suggestive swells, an important stylistic element in the Preludes and Fugues overall, pervade the first part of the double fugue in E minor. A crescendo in measure 39, for instance, leads to the entrance of the subject at a heightened dynamic level in measure 41, but the high does not last for long: a quick diminuendo brings the level back to pianissimo within a single bar. The first part of this double fugue is governed by the rhetoric of satisfaction denied; the second part, by contrast, forcefully delivers. The pervasiveness of the 1– 5– 6 motive is further enhanced by a certain fastidiousness in Shostakovich’s use of expressive markings. A proliferation of markings characterizes the pair in general: an espressivo colors the prelude’s upper-voice sigh figure; the fugue, like many of its slow-tempo relatives throughout the cycle, begins its slow crawl towards transcendence marked pianissimo and legato; and a morendo at the end of the prelude suggests cleansing, restorative purposes for the closely related fugue. For the prelude’s inner-voice ostinato on the 1– 5– 6 motive, Shostakovich indicated a detailed articulation, with tenuto markings and slurred staccato accentuating the figure’s initial leap up a fifth and semitone neighbor movement at its midpoint. This marking persists to the prelude’s end, and performers should take note of the fact that each and every slur, dot, and hor-

Fig. 2. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 1–4, reproduction from the autograph manuscript

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izontal line appears in Shostakovich’s own hand in the autograph manuscript (fig. 2). In the fugue, the tenuto marking adds color to yet another characteristic shape, a rocking countersubject beginning in measure 6 whose sighing contour complements the fugue’s overall somber character. The subject it-

Ex. 5.3a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 6– 7

Ex. 5.3b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 13 in F-sharp Major, mm. 10– 12

Ex. 5.3c. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 22 in G Minor, mm. 3– 5

Ex. 5.3d. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 24 in D Minor, mm. 117– 120

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self anticipates this shape, rocking between B and C before finally breaking free and arriving on its high point of D on the third try. If in the subject, marked legato, the performer aims for an overall smoothness across this movement, the composer has made sure that the countersubject disturbs such level evenness. The thrice-used tenuto marking, placed firmly on the strong beats, makes an issue of the figure’s sighing, as does its placement in the uppermost voice of the fugue, its sound thickened with added harmonization, during the final climactic phase (measures 99–102). Here, perhaps, lies one important source for Alexander Dolzhanskiy’s heroic narrative, the protagonist’s “significant burdens” palpably exposed in the music’s repeated moanings. A similar rocking figure marked tenuto is shared by a number of the fugues in the cycle (ex. 5.3). As an element of thematic unity, it certainly invites a kind of interpretive thinking. Compare the E Minor Fugue’s countersubject, for instance, to the material in the codetta (measures 10–13) of the Fugue in F-sharp Major, another vast Adagio landscape, where the same figure serves the expressive purpose of emphasizing a lamenting quality in the music’s character. Consider, next, the subject of the Fugue in G Minor: lilting and graceful at first in its outlining of the ever-familiar 1– 5– 6 motive, it comes to a somewhat jarring halt on a similar rocking motive, marked with three tenutos. Look also at the second part of the Fugue in D Minor. Here, the figure has become a more insistent countersubject, a certain anxiety coming across in the radical expansion of the rocking interval to a minor sixth. Our first encounter with this motive in the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor is informed by our understanding of its place within this intertextual array. The most mysterious gesture of hesitation in a pair of pieces already saturated with a deep sense of longing occurs near the end of the E Minor Prelude. After a completely diatonic initial period of twelve measures, a second phrase section begins quickly to slip into murkier harmonic waters. A landing on a B-flat major chord in first inversion (measures 21–22) represents this section’s point of greatest strain, and the tonic is thus restored in a firm structural cadence (measures 29–30). Rising from the ashes of E minor, however, a diatonic scale leads unexpectedly to the key of A-flat major, and

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Ex. 5.4a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 29– 32

Ex. 5.4b. Shostakovich, Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34: Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, mm. 26– 27

the prelude’s steadfast eighth-note rhythms give way to a free-floating chord on a half note (ex. 5.4a). The enharmonic spelling of G-sharp does not obscure the fact that Shostakovich is tonicizing the major third in the tonic key. But together with the prelude’s earlier tip toward the flat region, the stark change in texture and movement at this point of stasis suggests that he clearly desired an otherworldly sound from A-flat major here. This stretchedout sonority evokes a sense of naïve bliss, a momentary perch on a hopeful tonal level that—after two and a half measures of peaceful, stepwise contemplation—dissolves, despairingly, through a series of crushing, doubleaccented passing tones back into the abyss of E minor. The ensuing recapitulation of the prelude’s opening is made even more stark with the transformation of the opening’s upper-voice sighs in downward thirds into sinister, sliding halfsteps (measures 38– 46). Like the rocking countersubject, this gesture of harmonic-rhythmic stasis shall also become a recurring theme throughout the cycle (perhaps most con-

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spicuously in the Prelude in A Major and the Prelude and Fugue in B Minor). The composer shines a rhetorical spotlight on such moments, inviting listeners and performers to seek whatever kinds of significances they will. Interestingly, there seems to be an earlier intertextual precedent for this moment in the E Minor Prelude as well, in the prelude in the same key from Shostakovich’s Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34. This short piece, cast as a solemn fugue, reaches a climactic breaking point eight measures from its conclusion. A general quickening of the texture beginning in measure 21 leads to a flurry of sixteenth notes (conspicuously absent in the slow-moving piece thus far) and a complementary unraveling of the harmony. In a sudden fortissimo eruption followed by a pronounced silence, the harmony inexplicably turns to A-flat major (ex. 5.4b). The A-flats and E-flats are the first and only nondiatonic pitches in the entire piece. In this context, the abrupt shift comes across as a modernist gesture—an audacious lunge towards the longed-for major mode, fists raised in the effort, arms ready to grab it out of thin air. In the E Minor Prelude and Fugue, composed two decades later, the same move to A-flat major seems more an episode of utopian dreaming, possessing a feeling of reservation that replaces youthful vitality with contemplative wisdom. The final gesture of holding back in the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor, a dramatic broadening in the fugue’s final four measures, involves the syncopated countersubject of the second fugue. A cadential ritenuto elongates this figure further, culminating in a victorious filling in of keyboard space that, with its wide-stretching pianistic gesture, has required various solutions from pianists in the work’s performance history. First heard during the haunting transition into the second fugue, the syncopated gesture refers back to the first fugue’s countersubject, which devolves into a syncopated chromatic slide downward after its initial rocking figure. And again, the layers of association extend further: six of the cycle’s first thirteen fugues (the A Minor, G Major, C-sharp Minor, B Major, G-sharp Minor, and F-sharp Major) feature countersubjects with this same falling syncopated figure. Interestingly, the figure disappears for the cycle’s second half—although the countersubject of the notoriously craggy Fugue in D-flat Major is notable for

120 The Preludes and Fugues

its syncopated rising line, a disturbingly inverted reference back to a oncefamiliar theme. With its heart-on-sleeve emotionalism and monumental scale, the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor assumes a position of structural importance in the cycle: it serves as a grand finale to the first grouping of four Preludes and Fugues, allowing for a fresh beginning with the highly contrasting Prelude and Fugue in D Major that follows. With its assemblage of highly evocative motives, however, it also functions as a sort of repository for the cycle’s soul, reaching back to the undisturbed archaism of the Fugue in C Major, and in multiple directions ahead to many expressive worlds yet to be explored. For the uninitiated, this nicely streamlined piece can serve as a wonderful introduction to the cycle. The directness of its appeal loses none of its strength over time.

Prelude and Fugue No. 6 in B Minor In the Prelude and Fugue in B Minor, one finds a highly rhetoricized gesture serving an especially conspicuous formal function. Occurring near the conclusions of both prelude (beginning in measure 47) and fugue (beginning in measure 124), two moments of stasis illuminate further a close relationship between the two pieces that is discernible on a number of levels. The most obvious of these connections is that the first melodic segment of the fugue’s subject is prefigured explicitly at the climactic midpoint of the prelude, beginning in measure 26 (ex. 5.5). The rhythmic profile of this melody—in 34 time, a half note on the downbeat, followed by a series of quarter notes—provides the floating, longer initial note value necessary for the later static moment’s element of contrast. And a persistent conflict that governs the harmonic plan of both movements—between the tonic key of B minor and a distant relation based on a flattened scale degree, C minor— lends the necessary quality of tonal enstrangement. From its opening gesture, the B Minor Prelude exudes a manner of selfimportance. History and memory are in the air, its dotted rhythms evoking not only the French overture in general, and the similarly stylized Prelude in G Minor from Book II of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, but also the tex-

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Ex. 5.5a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 6 in B Minor, mm. 1– 4

Ex. 5.5b. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 6 in B Minor, mm. 26– 29

tures of the piano music of Robert Schumann and of late Beethoven—two mainstays in Shostakovich’s repertoire as a young performer. One anticipates drama of some kind or another, whether it be in imitation of the elaborate playacting and pomp of the French baroque or pitched earnestly as a heroic quest narrative à la German romanticism. The relentless dotted figures of the prelude contrast dramatically with the opening of the fugue subject. But this subject’s second half (measures 5–6) itself differs in the extreme from its slowly curving beginning. A new, faster-moving rhythmic cell, composed of ornamental sixteenth-note turns around a basic melodic skeleton outlining a falling half step from G to F-sharp ( 6 to 5), also invites interpretation as a quasi-narrative element. Because the countersubject also includes this figure, its presence is constant in the fugue’s texture. As the subject entrance in the second voice approaches its own moment to take this motive, the first voice has just repeated it, now as the countersubject. The contrapuntal lines are blurred; one does not know whether one is anticipating or remembering the gesture. Time stands still and yet marches on. After outlining the tonic triad in an exuberant opening figure, the prelude’s melodic voice leaps up a ninth and fills in the octave from G to G be-

122 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 5.6. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 6 in B Minor, mm. 49– 51

fore resettling back on the dominant. A similar leap, this time upwards, is made more directly in measure 5, where the high G reasserts itself as the top of the melodic range. This relationship between the flat-sixth and fifth scale degrees remains a constant force throughout the prelude’s opening melodic statement. And this pitch-based battle of wills continues to the drama’s bitter end: even in the prelude’s final measures, a rocking figure oscillates between the two of them, the F-sharp seemingly unable to shake off its shadow. As noted above, the flat-sixth scale degree plays a prominent role in the second half of the fugue subject as well, serving as the fundamental melodic pitch ornamented with sixteenth-note turns. In the subject’s first half, a sequence of stepwise thirds, leading from and then to the tonic pitch, outlines the submediant triad, which is perched a half step above the dominant (represented in the figure’s closing fifth, C-sharp down to F-sharp). Harmonically and expressively, this vagueness stands in direct contrast with the assertive tonal statement at the beginning of the prelude. By this point, it seems the G has made some headway in upsetting B minor’s stability as tonic. The rising-third figure from submediant to tonic found in the opening of the fugue plays a significant structural role in the prelude. In the prelude’s concluding phrase, hidden between two outer voices that consume much of our attention as they reach extremes of range, the same figure serves as the tail end of an inner voice that had emerged during the chordal static moment a few measures earlier (ex. 5.6). The same figure also serves as connecting material at two of the fugue’s most important internal cadences— leading comfortingly into the stretto at measure 96 (where it serves finally

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to pull the tonality back to a firm B minor from a stubbornly naïve D major) and into the static gesture at measure 124 (where it runs smack into a B-flat that has snuck in to replace the expected but absent B). The most important role of the G, however, is its function as dominant to C minor, our perpetual antagonist to the tonic key. The F-sharp/G semitone is thus mirrored in the same relationship between these two contrasting keys. The strong presence of the submediant pitch in the prelude’s opening phrase section assists in putting into motion a move to C minor as early as measure 14, the result of chromatic slips from E to E-flat in extremes of both high and low register. C minor dominates the next phrase section as well, which is marked by strong cadential pulls in that direction, especially from diminished seventh chords. The arrival of the structural cadence in measure 26, however, does not take place in C minor. Instead, through the technique of chromatic displacement, C minor is shoved into the background, its machinations towards dominance thwarted by a newly energized B minor. The revitalization of the tonic key is manifest in the dramatic new theme discussed above. Its floating half note and rounded contour contrast strongly with the sharp angles and jerky motions of the opening’s dotted rhythms, which continue underneath. Its dominance in the texture also lends this theme strong heroic connotations. Though it seems entirely new when it enters, it actually has been growing organically throughout the prelude, making its first embryonic appearance in measure 10, then emerging more fully developed (though not yet melodically in line with the final theme) in measures 14 and 15. But even this impassioned call to arms in the tonic key will not keep C minor at bay. Another chromatic slip—significantly from C-sharp down to C (measure 32)—brings about a passage of harmonic tension. Despite the lingering C-natural, however, the opening of the prelude returns firmly in B minor and a recapitulation is securely under way.12 As with the prelude’s opening, this sense of tonal groundedness does not last. Instead, as a snarling bass line beginning on F-sharp descends triumphantly a third below the tonic, all dotted rhythms come to a halt in a passage of static homophony—our moment of defamiliarization, grimly anchored on a C minor chord in second inversion, and thus above our

124 The Preludes and Fugues

now-familiar antagonist, G (ex. 5.7a). This moment represents the only two measures in the prelude in which the dotted figure is absent. In the grip of C minor, we now associate that displaced, lively rhythm with the lost tonic of B minor. When it does return, in the context of a final cadential passage that only minimally restores B minor, it is as if in death throes. The slackening of tempo—the result of a ritenuto leading to a new tempo of Moderato—transforms the stately dance figure into pathetic sobs. The contest between B minor and C minor persists in the fugue, and the static moment returns to great cyclic narrative effect, but it is a long time coming. For more than sixty measures in a Moderato tempo, the only nondiatonic pitch to appear in the fugue is the regularly occurring G-sharp necessary to establish B minor’s dominant for the fugue’s real answers. The entire exposition of the fugue, and slightly beyond, is marked pianissimo, creating an atmosphere of secrecy, of hiding under wraps, holding threats at bay. But after a series of crescendo-diminuendo arcs, in an evocative passage marked pianissimo, the G begins to assert its dominance (measures

Ex. 5.7a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 6 in B Minor, mm. 47– 49

Ex. 5.7b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 6 in B Minor, mm. 124– 127

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62–65). Stubbornly refusing in this passage to take part in the expected rocking back and forth with its neighbor F-sharp, the G successfully pulls the tonality to G minor (where we have yet another entrance at the level of pianissimo), and ultimately to C minor (at the relatively powerful dynamic level, given this subdued context, of mezzo-forte). As the subject entrance in the bass on C minor concludes on the low G, a short passage of winding down based upon the subject’s more rhythmic second half creates anticipation, as the prelude had, for yet another cadence in C minor. However, as the bass slips upward chromatically from F to F-sharp, that key is relegated to the role of misplaced shadow. Proceeding from the fugue’s stretto (beginning in measure 96), the conflict between these two keys is kept on the surface until its conclusion, with C-natural serving as a constant nondiatonic pitch, a Phrygian-inspired lowered second. The fugue’s general consonance is upset on the final page with C and B sounding simultaneously in the counterpoint. As this tension reaches its breaking point, one final chromatic slip, in the bass from B to Bflat at measure 124, brings about the devastating reprise of the prelude’s moment of disruption. (See ex. 5.7b.) Reharmonized to accentuate the relativemajor end of C minor (E-flat major), the figure nonetheless brings all voices to the now-familiar G five measures from the fugue’s conclusion. From here to the end, B minor is once again established as tonic, but just as in the prelude, its security is tenuous at best. The ritenuto and morendo markings, as well as the syncopated gasps on the dominant that barely hold on as the fugue’s last-sounding voice, all serve to cap this drama with a fitting, demonstrably tragic end. Shostakovich seems to have struggled with the degree to which he wanted to enstrange this static moment in the fugue, the brightness of the light he wanted to shine upon it. In the autograph manuscript, he indicated meno mosso above these measures, indicating to the performer that this moment requires a special kind of rhetoricizing based upon modification of tempo. The meno mosso marking, however, appears not in the original ink used for the rest of the manuscript, but in pencil, added after the fact. Indeed, for the first edition, Shostakovich clearly decided to excise the marking, thus

126 The Preludes and Fugues

safeguarding against too demonstrable a display of oration on the part of performers. (It is left out of all subsequent editions, although it appears in brackets as a critical editorial marking in the 1980 complete edition published by Muzika.) The composer fell back on his own characteristic expressive reserve here, streamlining the gesture by keeping it in tempo, trusting that its presence in both prelude and fugue would carry the expressive effect without any further degree of spotlighting. One can perceive the roots of this compositional decision in Shostakovich’s own performances of this prelude and fugue, which he recorded twice, in the Soviet Union in 1952 and in Paris in 1958. Each of these recordings runs just over five minutes in length, which contrasts strongly with the accounts of such pianists as Tatyana Nikolayeva and Boris Petrushansky, whose recordings of the pair each fall in the ten-minute range. The B Minor seems to invite extremes of interpretation, at least partly because of a certain ambivalence in the fugue’s tempo marking (Moderato), but also certainly because of the overtly dramatic character of the material. The dual expressive quality of the fugue subject requires a difficult decision on the pianist’s part —whether to emphasize the first half by taking a slower tempo, or the second half by moving the tempo along. Either way, one character must end up dominating the other, and thus the lines of the conflict are drawn. Shostakovich’s reading is certainly too fast: the double dots in the prelude become superfluous in his tempo, where they are impossible to execute (he plays the thirty-seconds as sixteenths), and the fugue lacks both technical evenness and the necessary equality of contrapuntal voices. The slower tempo taken by Nikolayeva and Petrushansky, on the other hand, makes both the equality of voices and a beautiful tone far easier to achieve, but it creates an entirely different kind of drama—one of a more blatantly epic-historic variety, the historical Russian self in full bloom.

Prelude and Fugue No. 8 in F-sharp Minor No dramatic, static moments punctuate the inescapable flow of the musical discourse in the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor. No overt gestures of

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hesitation are necessary here: the musical materials exude this expressive quality in and of themselves. The composer’s rhetorical spotlight is shone not on a part but on the whole. This pair of pieces insists upon being viewed as a singular event, not merely one example in a cycle of like-minded miniatures. Indeed, the F-sharp Minor has come, in the work’s reception history, to be one of the most commented upon of the preludes and fugues. Discussing Roger Woodward’s recording of the complete cycle made in the mid-1970s, reviewer Hugh Ottaway, for instance, commented that “a nicely-judged sense of duration is another characteristic [of the cycle]; my only doubts arise from the Fugue in F-sharp Minor (No. 8), which is perhaps over-long.”13 The F-sharp Minor is not the only long and slow fugue in the cycle, but it is the most painfully so. But Ottaway’s criticism is surely misguided: the fugue’s excessive length is part of the piece’s intended effect, an element of its poetics, and not an error of compositional judgment. Hidden within this oblique music is a message that time is something not to be taken for granted. The music requires that we remain uncomfortably trapped within its confines for longer than we wish to be. We are given no choice but to reflect upon our captivity within a seemingly endless expanse of wailing. As we shall see, this general impression might lead, depending on one’s inclinations, in any number of interpretive directions. What remains indisputable is the significance of this prelude and fugue as one of the cycle’s emotional landmarks. The motoric quality of the prelude, with its nearly unwavering eighth-note figure, is emphasized in its complete lack of tempo modification markings. Performers might take special note of the absence of a final cadential ritenuto here. Throughout the cycle, one observes a distinct contrast between those pieces that end without any fluctuation of tempo—that is, with a sense of rhythmic continuity, perhaps even inexorability—and those with conclusions marked by more extravagant dramatic gestures that involve, among other formal devices, a slackening of tempo. The fugues in particular often require some device, external to the notes themselves, to aid in the cessation of the otherwise constant stream of contrapuntal material. Many of the preludes also feature a final cadential ritenuto, and even in those in which

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one is not marked, most performers tend not to be able to resist creating the effect (perhaps one of Western art music’s most ubiquitous) of stretching the final measure or two in order to fashion the sense of an ending. In those individual pieces whose primary thematic material comes closest to emulating the baroque ideal of Fortspinnung, or is overtly mechanical in the consistency of its rhythmic drive, such cadential ritenutos serve the purpose of allowing the material to spin out gently, thus avoiding a certain randomness at the conclusion. The Prelude in A-flat Major and the Fugue in D Major, for instance, with their incessant streams of eighth notes, seem simply to run out of gas at the end, the ritenutos steering us comfortingly to the shoulder, while the Prelude in A Minor, which features an uninterrupted single line of sixteenth notes from beginning to end, plows forward to the finish, a sudden putting on of brakes in the piece’s final beats serving as the only cadential pause before the onset of the madcap fugue. A cadential ritenuto in the Prelude in F-sharp Minor would destroy the mood of impishness that characterizes the melody throughout; the absence of such a marking at its conclusion pushes the listener without warning into the borders of the deeply expressive landscape of the fugue. The transition serves as one last insult—a sharp, cold shock, a plunge into darkness. In the place of a cadential ritenuto in the prelude, we receive an unusually long fugue subject, its obsessive repetitions functioning as a composedout tenuto of sorts. The subject is cast in six distinct parts (ex. 5.8a). The first two-measure subphrase—itself made up of two motives, each involving repeated notes and neighbor figures—is repeated verbatim as the second and sixth (final) subphrases. The third subphrase—which, in imitation of the first two, features a repeated note and a leap to a sigh figure—is itself repeated directly as the fourth subphrase, and then varied slightly as the fifth. Here, the consistent piano marking gives way to a pianissimo, an effect carried throughout the fugue’s exposition. Performers should take care not to alter the sound and color of the subject until this point, letting the swells marked by the composer in the first four subphrases be the sole carriers of the expressive burden. Like the opening melody of the prelude, this music

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Ex. 5.8a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 8 in F-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 9

Ex. 5.8b. J. S. Bach, The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book I: Fugue in F-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 5

seems not to want to move on. Instead, it seems set upon lasting beyond its expected length, insisting on its own devastating importance. As a point of comparison, it is worth noting a similarly dramatic play upon the expectations of time in the subject of the fugue in the same key from the first volume of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier (ex. 5.8b), which David Ledbetter calls “one of the most subtly expressive of Bach’s [fugue subjects].”14 Beginning on the second beat in a compound meter, the subject’s metrical-

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Ex. 5.9. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 8 in F-sharp Minor, mm. 10– 11

rhythmic identity is already on unsure ground from the outset. After only three notes are sounded, the subject comes to a dead halt, with a dotted half note tied over the bar line creating a pregnant pause. The silence here —and in this regard one must take into account the even more dramatic decay of sound on Bach’s keyboard instruments—carries an air of profundity, of reverence or deep contemplation, and of mystery. Continuing in this vein, the subject rests on a total of three perches, ascending melodically from the mediant to the dominant, with rhythmic values diminishing from the initial pause of four beats, to two, and finally to one and a half, before a final gesture turns downward and completes the subject with a cadential trill. I know of no evidence suggesting an intention on Shostakovich’s part to paraphrase Bach in his own Fugue in F-sharp Minor, and I would not posit that any direct intertextual referencing is going on here. Still, when Bach’s countersubject kicks in—with the chromatic spiraling, repeated notes, and sighing in measure 5—are we not compelled to relate this material to the eerily similar turn of the melody in Shostakovich’s prelude in measures 10– 11 and thereafter (ex. 5.9)? Interestingly, Wanda Landowska relates Bach’s pair to the St. Matthew Passion, suggesting an atypical narrative pathos within the abstract context of absolute music.15 Ledbetter, too, stresses the fugue’s “extraordinary depth of experience.”16 As if all of the subject’s repetition weren’t enough, Shostakovich’s yearning and sighing countersubject provides no contrast, and thus no relief. Indeed, it almost seems as if the subject’s discourse of repetition demands the same behavior from its counterpart, which therefore twice descends

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through the interval of a diminished fifth—the fall through a tritone perhaps evoking a kind of baroque-inspired death imagery. The initial interval in this descending figure (from G to F-sharp) nicely mimics the sigh of the subject’s third and fourth subphrases, but here the sigh continues to pull downward, eventually reaching the dominant. The particularly expressive character of this fugue subject leads to some interesting performerly choices in the cycle’s recording history. Most pianists seem to feel an unshakable desire to add tenuto-like gestures in the opening statement, despite the fact that none are marked. Konstantin Scherbakov, for instance, comes close to inserting a full extra eighth-note rest between each subphrase, while Boris Petrushansky imbues the entire fugue with a deliberate sense of halting, as if attempting to demonstrate that it represents Shostakovich’s realistic portrayal of some kind of tortured daily plight. Shostakovich himself uncharacteristically adds numerous pregnant pauses, as do most performers of this fugue. But perhaps most significantly, no two pianists add the gestures in the same places. Such a desire to insert an element of extroverted feeling to the score suggests that this fugue needs to speak more because it somehow means something special. With a melody that twice rocks before embarking upon a leap, the fugue subject might lead one to hear a reference to the rocking motive discussed above in the Prelude and Fugue in E Minor. Here, of course, the eventual leap is downward, as is fitting for this somber occasion. Equally pronounced is the subject’s reference back to the opening of the prelude, particularly its melody. In a sense, what we have here is a dual image, the same melody cast two ways, the same narrative agent playing a role in two completely different stories. In the prelude, the melody remains static longer; one senses perhaps a certain unwillingness or inability to proceed over such a monotonous, motoric accompaniment. One feels prodded or goaded along. In the fugue, while we abandon the initial repeated note only after two statements, the drudgery persists in the repetition of the sighing figure that takes its place. On the most basic of levels, then, this pair of pieces is based on the idea of contrast. From the perspective of poetics, however, the contrast is only superficial. Binding these forces of opposing character is the element of the

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grotesque. Are we meant, in some way, to be repulsed—our innocent smiles through the first page of the prelude transformed into shivers by the dreadfully long fugue’s conclusion, with its ominous, widely-spaced texture? The presence of the grotesque brings to mind a more youthful Shostakovich. Indeed, the overall tone of the Prelude in F-sharp Minor is significantly reminiscent of his earlier piano music. One might, for instance, think of the Prelude in B Minor from his Opus 34 (No. 6), a quirky march with humorous chromatic inflections and delightful shifts in tone. Playing through both preludes, I think of the fledgling composer’s sessions with Maximilian Steinberg during the earliest stages of the composition of his First Symphony. As reported by Shostakovich himself in a letter to an early girlfriend, Tatyana Ivanovna Glivenko, written in 1924, the esteemed professor ripped up an early draft of a scherzo movement, exclaiming, “What is this enthusiasm for the Grotesque? There were already Grotesque bits in the Trio [No. 1]. All the cello pieces are Grotesque and finally this Scherzo is also Grotesque! What is this!”17 Shostakovich is thus on familiar ground in the Prelude and Fugue in Fsharp Minor. But in this case the grotesque is no mere symbol of a more carefree, experimental, modernist-inspired youth. Instead, its meaning resonates on a far more specific level, representing nearly a decade’s worth of interest on the composer’s part in Jewish music. Commentators have found in both the prelude and the fugue evidence of this Jewish inflection. Tatyana Nikolayeva, in an essay on the Preludes and Fugues from 1967, writes for instance that “the F-sharp-minor Fugue is permeated with hopelessness. It always brings up in me the image of a ghetto.”18 Similarly, in a widely cited essay on Shostakovich’s interest in Jewish music, Joachim Braun reports that the fugue’s subject relates directly to certain passages from Jewish liturgical chant. In pointing out this relationship, and in generally discussing the presence of a Jewish element in other preludes and fugues (most demonstrably the double fugue in D minor, whose second subject takes the form of the fastermoving, repeated-note figure found in the F-sharp Minor Prelude), Braun argues that the cycle’s overall meaning can be said to have something to do with “the fate of Soviet Jewry.”19 Indeed, in his final pronouncement on Jew-

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ish elements in Shostakovich’s music, Braun unequivocally states that Shostakovich’s intention was to produce a kind of “concealed dissidence,” a “hidden language of resistance communicated to the aware listener of its subtle meaning. Dissidence and opposition are here represented by the Jewish element which, because of its special place in Soviet culture, served as a perfect vehicle and ‘screening device’ for the expression of ‘symbolic values’ consciously and, in part, unconsciously employed by the artist.”20 To be sure, the fact that the cycle’s apotheosis, in the double fugue in D minor, prominently features a motive with a distinctly Jewish character suggests that we might at least entertain the importance of the Jewish element in the cycle overall. But Braun’s highly politicized conclusion—which, to be fair, is characteristic of the tone of Shostakovich scholarship in general during the 1970s and 1980s—is for me a bit heavy-handed. By contrast, Esti Sheinberg has more recently argued that the Jewish elements discerned in the Prelude in F-sharp Minor possess “no political or any other extrinsic connotations” but instead reference the intrinsically grotesque elements of Jewish music “almost as an ‘exercise.’”21 The purely aesthetic task in question is to convey an overall “musico-semantic ironic purpose of ‘amused tension.’ ” As Laurel Fay does in her own discussion of the vocal cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry, Sheinberg here stresses Shostakovich’s interest in the emotional and expressive ambiguity of Jewish music in general. As Sheinberg puts it, “This is how he thought music should be.”22 David Ledbetter strives to make a similar point in concluding his discussion of Bach’s F-sharp Minor Fugue: “No more than any other great composer in writing a moving piece does Bach need to have been making a personal statement. He was merely demonstrating with ultimate mastery how both technical and expressive means can most effectively be developed and presented. A personal note would be entirely inartistic and false and would undermine the universality of what he has achieved. This is not to say that a connoisseurship of emotions is not every bit as essential to the achievement as a connoisseurship of materials and technique.”23 I am sympathetic to the revisionist call for a depoliticized look at Shostakovich’s music. I would, moreover, add to the discussions of the Jewish el-

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ement in his Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor that the layers of imbalance created by the musical materials here—imbalances of tone between prelude and fugue, imbalances in length and emotional import, even within the confines of the fugue subject itself—relate equally to Shostakovich’s concern with disrupting formal equilibrium in his symphonic work. The architecture of the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor brings to mind similarly imbalanced structures in his symphonic output: truncated recapitulations, miniature movements placed alongside ones of epic length, and so on. Shostakovich cultivated such formal experimentalism. His imbalances and other eccentricities of scale always serve poetic ends. On this level, might not the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor serve as a meditation on the infinite ambiguities and ambivalences (moral, spiritual, perhaps political) that characterize human life? In its purposefully exaggerated stretching of time, it both evokes and symbolizes the eternal, and provides the listener with the space necessary to reflect upon it. Defamiliarizing time and space, it counteracts the inexorable pull of habit that characterizes daily life. What end does its referencing of Jewish music serve? Our answer to that question has everything to do, ultimately, with what we take to be the role of the artist in the world. To limit the meaning of this undoubtedly meaningful prelude and fugue to an act of dissidence is to strip it of many other equally attractive layers of significance. Why not find, for instance, in the juxtaposition of the foolhardy prelude and the chromatically murky fugue a representation of mental illness—an Alzheimer’s-like state of being adrift upon a sea of confusion? One thing is certain: there is true pain in this music, and we are asked to endure it beyond our comfort level. My guess is that Shostakovich was not aiming here for a Wagnerian spell of absorption on the part of the listener; I believe he wanted us to feel the music’s sting.

Prelude and Fugue No. 12 in G-sharp Minor The G-sharp minor Prelude takes the form of a stately passacaglia on a twelve-measure ground bass in sentence structure (a-a⬘-b—or, short-short-

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Ex. 5.10a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 12

Ex. 5.10b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, mm. 1– 4

long), in which the concluding contour of each subphrase features a dramatic descending octave leap (ex. 5.10a). Over the course of successive statements of the ground bass, treble voices first accumulate in turn, rise to a climax, give way to a rhapsodic solo that spans ardently over two statements of the bass melody, and, in the seventh rotation, ultimately usurp the ground itself, leaving the bass open for its own octave-doubled solo in free counterpoint. Immediately before the ninth statement of the ground, which constitutes a two-voiced canon, a briefly stated dactyl rhythm in the uppermost voice foreshadows a more extended, new contrapuntal line that takes over throughout the final, tenth statement. This melody, characterized above all by the dactyl rhythm and a concluding descending leap, transforms the similarly contoured but steady-rhythmed ground bass into a more energetic form of itself. Emerging first as a contrapuntal line over the final statements of

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the ground, the motive is uttered one final time in the concluding two measures of the prelude, as the bass holds its final note, before materializing, fully formed and independent, as the fugue subject. Once set free, this subject is revealed as a variation on the ground bass: again, two short subphrases are followed by a more extended concluding one, and each of the three is marked by a concluding descending leap (see ex. 5.10b). Unlike the purely diatonic context of the passacaglia, however— with its notable dearth of accidentals, making each of the only five nondiatonic pitches in the entire piece stand out all the more poignantly—the fugue is marked from the outset by a succession of chromatic neighbor tones in the subject’s final subphrase. This contrasting diatonic-chromatic relationship between the prelude and fugue is reinforced by changes in tempo (Andante to Allegro), articulation (tenuto to marcatissimo), and meter (34 to

5) 4

—all of which combine to create a perhaps antagonistic effect. As the ground bass lies peacefully still at the end of the prelude, the fugue subject violently takes up and transforms its phrase structure, like a mischievous child pulling on a docile animal’s tail. In this especially expressive prelude and fugue, one is led to observe that real threats never lie too far from the surface, that the line between empathy and antagonism is rarely as finely drawn as it would seem, or as we may hope. The idea of an antagonistic push and pull between musical materials is carried through in the fugue itself on another level. The marcatissimo subject finds its own antithesis in a figure from the codetta that is consistently phrased as a legato statement (first heard in measures 8–11). Insofar as it falls neatly into two halves (the first eight-note subphrase concluding with the quarter note tied to an eighth, and the second subphrase mirroring the first, its downward movement lending a sense of repose), this melody provides a sense of symmetrical relief to the jagged, three-part subject. Throughout the fugue, a sense of contestation between these two elements persists: following nearly every statement of the strident fugue subject comes the calming effect of the smooth codetta melody. In the recapitulation of this devilish and dramatic fugue (beginning in measure 83), the storm is somewhat quelled: accents are removed, the

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dynamics hushed to pianissimo, and the downward leap of the final subphrase is removed, suggesting that of the two opposing forces at play throughout the fugue (marcatissimo subject and legato codetta melody), it is the latter that has emerged as the victor. The mysterious winding down of this final section, whose dynamic never rises above mezzo-forte but whose phrases seem never to want to cease, culminates in a brief Andante in the final measures, thus harkening back to the tempo of the passacaglia and reminding us once more of the relationship that the fugue had established at its outset. In the concluding measures, the fugue subject’s chromatic inflection of the ground bass is worked out in a sequential treatment of a melodic fragment that leads to a final rising chromatic line in one of the inner voices and closes with a serene Picardy third, set off expressively by a rare breath mark, and marked triple-piano. This ending, one of the cycle’s most remarkable, recalls a similar strategy in Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Major, Opus 32, No. 1, in which the rising chromatic line that drives the dramatic opening phrase upward, and culminates in a frenzied final burst of energy in the penultimate section, is reversed—deflated, as it were—in the masterfully scored chords in the final measures (ex. 5.11). Here, a change of direction serves to subdue a force of energy that had heretofore appeared to be relentless. A certain sense of peaceful equilibrium is achieved in Shostakovich’s Fugue in G-sharp Minor as well: the uneasy, indeed at times grotesque, refashioning of the prelude’s material has not completely undermined its source. The direct emotional appeal of the Prelude in G-sharp Minor can be attributed at least in part to the care with which Shostakovich employed his expressive markings. The first two statements of the ground bass, for instance, are marked with the term tenuto—the second of which creates an especially affecting moment with the slight pause on the dissonance between the Asharp in the bass and the B in the continuing voice (measure 14). One might notice something similar in the Fugue in D Minor, where every entrance of the searching first subject is marked painstakingly with the word tenuto. But in the G-sharp Minor Prelude, the tenuto is used only twice, leaving the per-

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Ex. 5.11a. Sergei Rachmaninov, Prelude in C Major, Opus 32, No. 1, mm. 36– 41

Ex. 5.11b. Sergei Rachmaninov, Prelude in C Major, Opus 32, No. 1, mm. 1– 2

Ex. 5.11c. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, mm. 119– 123

former to question whether Shostakovich intended the effect to continue throughout the piece. He might have assumed that performers would continue the heightened articulation throughout; conversely, perhaps he realized that, once the voices had begun accumulating, the execution of a holding back would somehow upset the melodic flow, and that the drama of subsequent statements would take care of itself. My own sense, especially given the care shown to markings in general throughout the autograph manuscript of the Preludes and Fugues, is that the tenuto is employed here

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Ex. 5.12. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, mm. 65– 68

as part of an opening gambit—a reminder to the performer to give some extra weight to these stark opening phrases. The G-sharp Minor Prelude also features what is for me the most captivating example of the ritenuto marking in the cycle. One might imagine that, in the context of a passacaglia, Shostakovich would have used a ritenuto at a moment that accentuated the overall structure. Instead, he reserved his single use of the term in this piece for the middle of a phrase (measures 66–67) during the central treble solo (ex. 5.12). In the measures directly preceding this poco ritenuto, the solo ardently stretches over two statements of the passacaglia bass, much in the way a jazz musician might decide in an inspired moment to extend a solo over two statements of the head.24 The forward momentum created by this unexpected doubling-up of bass statements is thus either violently shattered or carefully balanced out by the interruption of the poco ritenuto six measures later. For a performer, it is difficult to know exactly what to do here, to intuit what Shostakovich might have intended. But it is in the particular shape of the melody during the poco ritenuto that the interpretive conundrum is manifest. On the one hand, the marking appears in the middle of the bass statement, and the a tempo comes not at one of the natural junctures in that three-part melody but rather several notes into its final subphrase. On the other hand, the treble solo at this point is passionately repeating itself, and clearly the poco ritenuto is there on one level to accentuate the fervent repetition. Again, however, the a tempo appears not at the expected beginning of one such repetition, but in the mid-

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dle of a string of eighth notes: no natural way of accomplishing the obligatory stretching seems to reveal itself. Instead, the performer is left to make some kind of musical and emotional sense of a generally inexplicable, yet gripping, musical moment. Sviatoslav Richter, in a 1963 recording made in Paris, does nothing whatsoever to convey this ritenuto, seemingly opting to let the passacaglia’s relentless repetitions carry the affect of the piece. Shostakovich himself ignores the tempo modification completely but instead changes the tone color—his poignant subito piano acting in defiance of the crescendo marking in the score. (He also, not uncharacteristically, misplays the rhythm in the bass—playing a half note and then a quarter instead of the notated reverse—and thus noticeably alters the passacaglia melody.) Keith Jarrett, taking the prelude at a fast clip, achieves the desired effect by disrupting the simultaneity of attack between the two hands—not so much slowing down as letting the appoggiatura in the right hand resolve itself before playing the bass note underneath it— and then slightly delaying the downbeat of the following measure. Perhaps not surprisingly, given her close association with the cycle from its earliest inception, Tatyana Nikolayeva’s three recorded versions give us the most to think about. In her later two recordings (made in 1987 and 1991), she adopts a fairly straightforward approach, slowing down the tempo slightly during these measures (in other words, executing a ritardando) and, particularly in the 1987 recording, duplicating Shostakovich’s own subito piano effect at the exact moment when a crescendo is called for in the score. In her lesser-known 1962 recording, however, she creates a truly dramatic ritenuto—a sudden halting that draws our attention to the unusual repetition of the upward leap in the melody and lasts until the indicated a tempo two measures later. If in her later two recordings of the cycle she seems to be aiming to honor her friend‘s memory by recapturing the spirit of his own interpretation, in the first recording—made of course when Shostakovich was still alive, and possibly under his supervision—she seems to be more intent on following the indications in the score itself. As a performer of the Preludes and Fugues, I have always felt that the special mystery of this ritenuto in the Prelude in G-sharp Minor somehow holds

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within itself one key to understanding the entire cycle. To be sure, the score can be said to harbor many other secrets, even given the immediacy of its many intellectual, musical, and emotional gratifications. But the oddness of this gesture of pulling back in the middle of a forward-moving phrase, especially when considered in the context of an abundance of halting gestures throughout the cycle, has always struck me as an exceptional case. Indeed, it was while learning this particular prelude and fugue that I was spurred on to investigate a fine point of clarification on a matter of performance practice. In the process, I discovered that Shostakovich seems to have used the term ritenuto as synonymous with ritardando, and not in the commonly employed sense of a more sudden, and often extreme, slowing down of tempo.25 In his manuscripts, he wrote either “ritenuto” or “rit.,” but never to my knowledge “riten.,” “ritardando,” or “ritard.” This of course creates some confusion, because it remains unclear whether “rit.” signifies ritardando (which would make the two markings distinct) or serves merely as an abbreviation for ritenuto. Editorial practice in subsequent editions has done nothing to alleviate such confusion. However, because Shostakovich did (although with far less frequency than ritenuto) use other such indicators of tempo modification as meno mosso and allargando, I am given to believe that he used ritenuto as an equivalent substitute for a general ritardando and relied upon other markings to indicate a more sudden effect. Other clues also demonstrate that Shostakovich employed ritenuto to signify a gradual, rather than abrupt, slowing of tempo. For instance, the phrase rit. poco a poco occurs fairly frequently in his works, which would render nonsensical the reading of ritenuto as a more abrupt gesture. (See, for example, the String Quartet No. 3, fourth movement, before rehearsal 82; the Symphony No. 9, third movement, seven measures from the end; and, in the autograph, but not subsequent editions, of the Symphony No. 8, first movement, eight measures before rehearsal 34.) One also finds the marking “rit. sin’alla fine,” or “rit. al fin.,” rather frequently (for example, in the Symphony No. 8, second movement, and the String Quartet No. 3, fifth movement), and while this term does not negate the possibility of ritenuto

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having a different connotation than ritardando, it still suggests strongly that he was calling in these cases for a gradual slowing of tempo to the end of the movement, and not a suddenly slower tempo for the final bars, which would just as easily be achieved with a plain ritenuto. Finally, in the autograph manuscript of the Preludes and Fugues, Shostakovich wrote “meno mosso” in two of the fugues (the G Major, in the final eight measures, and the B Minor, in the final seven measures), suggesting that if ritenuto indicated a sudden slowing of tempo, he would have used that marking in these cases.26 Indeed, a ritenuto or morendo follows the meno mosso in each of these fugues, again demonstrating that even within the new, slower tempo, he wanted a further, gradual slowing for the fugue’s final moments. As might be expected, careful study of the treatment of the ritenuto marking in the performance history of Shostakovich’s works offers little in the way of a definitive solution to this issue. It is particularly useful to observe how musicians closely associated with Shostakovich during his lifetime managed the question of tempo modification. For instance, in his live recording of the Symphony No. 9 with the USSR Symphony Orchestra made in Leningrad in 1969, David Oistrakh interprets the several ritenutos in the second movement more as sudden haltings than as gradual slackenings. This approach makes sense in this movement, in which two primary thematic ideas—a lyric melody in the winds and a more anxious climbing figure in the strings—are starkly alternated, with the ritenuto in the final measures of each section functioning as a transitional gesture. Mstislav Rostropovich takes a similar approach towards the marking in his recording of the Symphony No. 8. In the opening of the final movement, which features a rhapsodic bassoon solo marked by a fair degree of tempo ebb and flow, a ritenuto appears towards the end of the first section, with the occurrence of a brief melodic quotation (itself set off with tenuto markings) from Wagner’s Siegfried. Again, Rostropovich’s decision to abruptly halt the tempo here makes sense, given the animando marking that had appeared six measures earlier: a sudden, rather than gradual, change serves not only to restore the original tempo but also to place this melodic material in a rhetorical spotlight. In his own recordings as pianist in the Cello Sonata and the Piano Quin-

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tet, Shostakovich himself seems to opt for the abrupt ritenuto more frequently than the gradual. But in the Preludes and Fugues, and elsewhere, he is notably inconsistent in this regard. The same is true of the cycle’s dedicatee, Tatyana Nikolayeva, who worked closely with the composer in first learning the cycle. Led in such circles, we must ultimately admit that for every example of one interpretation we can find another confirming the opposite. The point is a subtle one, and perhaps ultimately inconsequential: interpreted either way, the ritenuto belongs to the category of hesitating gestures that constitute a central expressive feature of the cycle. But as a matter of performance practice, it is worth raising, if only to heighten one’s sensitivity towards the potential expressive range of this marking.

Prelude and Fugue No. 13 in F-sharp Major After the heavy emotional impact of the Prelude and Fugue in G-sharp Minor, which functions effectively as a conclusion to the first part of the cycle, the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Major offers a new beginning. Midway through the cycle, and thus through the circle of fifths, we might imagine ourselves at the apex of a large spinning wheel, our heads now above the Gsharp minor clouds. A giddy feeling pervades the prelude, a gentle lightheadedness enhanced by the wisps of melody constantly floating past. By the time we reach the deeply contemplative fugue, we are fully at ease, ready to accept the cosmic visions that become realizable in such lofty heights. If in its immediate predecessor we experience transformations from smooth to craggy in texture and moderate to fast in tempo, this prelude and fugue pair takes us on a journey from pastoral bliss to an even quieter kind of euphoria. Another of the cycle’s slower fugues, with an exposition marked legato sempre that remains fully within the realm of pianissimo, the F-sharp Major Fugue takes this familiar effect one step further: as the noticeably extended exposition of the cycle’s only five-voice fugue comes to a close, the dynamic level, instead of beginning a slow rise out of the depths, sinks to a rare triple-piano (measure 38). A subito piano in the second half of this measure, which constitutes the beginning of the fugue’s second part, comes as

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a jarring surprise. Performers must take note of the vast difference between the two dynamic levels: not to be taken for granted, this piano marking is the loudest point in the piece thus far, and it must command some presence. Similarly, although this moment might signal a ritenuto or other lingering to the performer (for one thing, a slight holding back makes it far easier to organize a diminuendo in five voices), one must be careful not to overdo it: a spirit of intense mystery prevails if the phrase ends on the triple-piano without advance warning. This deeply peaceful composition conveys a spirit of non-aggression, again in contrast with the marcatissimo tempest of the preceding Fugue in G-sharp Minor. Drawing upon the familiar wavelike flow of phrase sections that characterizes so many of the fugues in the cycle, this one more than the others seems to find solace in the act of receding. The drop to triple-piano at the end of the exposition is the first example of a general sinking tendency, discernible also, for example, in the passage from measures 105–115, in which all of the fervent striving of an attempted climax quickly dissolves. Similarly, a subito pianissimo in the middle of measure 136 cuts short another forte push within the stretto. Here, the music sounds almost penitent as it meekly recedes into the background; indeed, it will remain subdued—mezzo-piano or quieter—for the remainder of the piece. The Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Major fits in nicely with the expressive character that I have been tracing throughout this chapter, although it happens to be the only piece in the major mode in this grouping. Both the prelude and the fugue, for instance, employ the ritenuto marking to significant structural ends. In the prelude, a ritenuto coming out of the most extended statement of the piece’s opening melisma marks off a coda featuring a twice-stated return of the motive’s earlier incarnation (ex. 5.13). After a firm 68 is established in measure 44 with a crescendo to a strong downbeat, a hemiola at the beginning of this gesture (measure 47) adds extra hesitation to the moment: normalcy having just been emphasized, the music’s flow is thus further enstranged. In the next measure, the melodic figure leaps up a minor seventh, the appoggiatura resulting in one of the prelude’s magically poignant extended harmonies. (See, for instance, the C-sharp domi-

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Ex. 5.13. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 13 in F-sharp Major, mm. 41– 49

nant ninth with added sixth in measures 11 and 38.) In the fugue, three measures of ritenuto (114–116) create a false ending before an unpredictably extended stretto, featuring the subject in diminution sounded simultaneously with its original rhythmic values. (This particular moment links the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Major with the later Fugue in A-flat Major, which also employs a ritenuto as a moment’s pause for breath before a structural recapitulation; in that case, the culminating section features the original subject in tandem with its form in augmentation.) Like the Fugue in E Minor, the Fugue in F-sharp Major features a rocking figure, accentuated with the tenuto marking, as the main motive in its many codettas that follow entrances of the subject in two voices (see ex. 5.3). Here, the stepwise movement involves an upper neighbor tone, and the concluding shape of the gesture is a gentle descent through a third. Of course,

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Ex. 5.14a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 13 in F-sharp Major, mm. 1– 5

Ex. 5.14b. Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata in A-flat Major, Opus 110, third movement, first fugue subject

a similar descent closes the fugue’s subject, which instead of rocking moves emphatically upward in a sequence of rising thirds. The resulting overall shape is perhaps the most basic in the cycle—two simple ups followed by a down that fills in their third, a Grundgestalt, a basic shape whose simplicity conveys infinite expressive potential. Students of Beethoven will notice, as Shostakovich certainly must have, an affinity between the subject of the fugue and the third, final movement of Beethoven’s Sonata in A-flat Major, Opus 110 (ex. 5.14). Beethoven’s subject, anticipated in the opening measures of the sonata’s first movement and discernible in materials from the second movement as well, includes one additional figure in its sequence of ascending fourths before resolving itself downward, stepwise through the fourth. I have heard it posited that a passion narrative can be discerned in this sonata, the hybrid form of the final movement (which includes a recitative, arioso, fugue, and variations on both of the latter two) serving to represent a succession of psychological states ranging from lamentation through redemption. Shostakovich’s Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Major offers a similar traversal of moods, the simplicity

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of its materials not standing in the way of its radiant, emotional punch. Note, for instance, that the rising third figure of the fugue’s subject is prefigured in the cascading thirds of the prelude’s opening statement; its reversal in direction in the fugue may symbolize transcendence, but the slow tempo, gradual arc, and constant sinking back suggest that it shall not be had without struggle. I am especially intrigued by the marking espressivo in measure 7 of the prelude. As with the ritenuto in the G-sharp Minor Prelude, the marking’s placement perplexes me. Why is this material, for instance, more expressive than the six measures that precede it? How long is the performer’s creation of a special feeling supposed to last—merely the three notes that fall under the marking, the next three notes as well, the entire phrase, with perhaps an added ritenuto at its conclusion in measures 11–12? To be sure, the absence of the sixteenth-note figure for the first time here represents a demonstrable halting in the prelude’s proceedings. Indeed, one feels that a tenuto marking on the first three melodic notes here would serve the same purpose as the espressivo. Shostakovich certainly was at liberty to draw once again upon that favored marking, so why the new term here? One way to ensure a striking sense of contrast between the opening figure in sixteenth notes and the espressivo figure in eighths is by aiming for a complete evenness of finger work in the melismatic figure. As in the Prelude in C-sharp Minor, the technique here requires the utmost sensitivity to the improvisatory hand-shape figure that guides the texture. The shifts in hand position are, however, more awkward here than in that earlier example, as the figure here takes place largely on the black notes and requires the occasional, and undesirable, stretching of the hand. Moreover, the distribution of the sixteenth notes across the measures of

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unusual accents, which may be emphasized somewhat but must not overly stand out. Such smoothness becomes especially important when a measure of 78 is inserted into the figure (measures 14 and 52). The prelude is built upon a dual foundation of distinct layers: a melismatic treble solo marked piano, and a heartbeat accompaniment figure cast in undulating, pianissimo chords. Notice, though, the subtle play of dynamics as

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the dance between these two thematic entities continues. Shostakovich is ever diligent in his portrayal of this relationship—sometimes the accompaniment figure swells, rising to the melody’s plane; elsewhere it recedes to almost nothing, thus leaving the melody floating unsupported above, ever graceful as it curls in mid-flight. Some hear a likeness in this prelude to Chopin’s Barcarolle, which happens to be in the same key. I tend rather to think of the Mazurka in A-flat Major (Opus 59, No. 2), with its heart left beating at the end, the dancers having left the floor. Shostakovich concludes his prelude in a similar fashion, with only a distant echo of the melody absorbed into the gentle neighbor figures of the chords. The poignant pre-recapitulatory ritenuto discussed above having accomplished its structural task, he characteristically adheres to a balanced restraint in his use of tempo modification with the absence of a final cadential ritenuto.

Prelude and Fugue No. 14 in E-flat Minor As the F-sharp Major Prelude and Fugue had relieved the tension built up by its predecessor in G-sharp minor and begun the cycle’s second half on a note of subdued reverence, the Prelude and Fugue in E-flat Minor throws us immediately back into the maelstrom of gloomy moods. Despite the fact that the initial sonority of a fortissimo octave tremolo is calmed within a measure’s time, overall the prelude sets the most serious of tones. It is the starkest of the cycle’s preludes, its recitative-like melodic line suggesting a vocal context, and the accented half-step figure between the third and flattened fourth scale degrees found throughout evoking a now-familiar Jewish tone (ex. 5.15). David Fanning has also noted a pronounced nod here to Shostakovich’s most beloved of Russian composers, Musorgsky, which is discernible in the prelude’s declamatory, speech-song quality and austere textures.27 As in a historical epic moving inexorably towards a predetermined tragic conclusion, one simultaneously finds narrative satisfaction in the unchanging pressing forward and yearns for some kind of change—for the constant octave tremolos to be filled in or cease their rumbling, for instance, or for the

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Ex. 5.15. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 14 in E-flat Minor, mm. 1– 7

melodic line to pull itself out of the murky depths. This feeling persists in the fugue, in which an emptiness in the final sonority—three unharmonized E-flats spanning four octaves—secures a desolate feeling at the conclusion. We are denied even the relative fullness of an open fifth. The only other fugues in the cycle to conclude with bare octaves (the E Major, B-flat Major, D-flat Major, and D Minor) all reach this point not as a result of contrapuntal spinning-out, as is the case here, but because of a bravura final gesture that effectively breaks out of the contrapuntal mode entirely. It is a unique moment in the cycle, whose significance is shaded somewhat, again, because of its subtlety. One also senses here a close relationship with the deeply sorrowful third movement, a chaconne, of the Piano Trio No. 2, another work with strong Jewish connotations. Here, the violin and cello alternately take up a similarly wailing, lamenting melodic figure. In the opening section of that work’s first movement, each of the three imitative statements of a fugal subject— itself characterized by a thrice-repeated note followed by a leap of a perfect fourth—is marked with tenuto, again emphasizing the expressiveness of the melodic gesture and perhaps a certain metaphorical reluctance to move forward into the movement proper. The Prelude in E-flat Minor, too, features

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Ex. 5.16. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 14 in E-flat Minor, mm. 1– 4

a similarly dramatic opening gambit: three repeated notes, marked tenuto, stepwise descending motion, an ominous supporting bass doubled at the octave. As always with Shostakovich, the associations continue outward: finding ourselves in the early stages of the cycle’s movement toward completion, we must notice here the affinity with the final prelude, in D minor, whose opening figure shares these characteristics as well. The E-flat Minor Fugue is one of the slightest in the cycle, and one of the easiest to play. One senses that Shostakovich tipped the dramatic balance in this pair towards the prelude, leaving the fugue to convey its own affect in less imposing terms. Its riches are of a more subtle variety. The subject’s lilting movement in 34 time offsets its deep melodic rootedness in the 1– 5– 6 motive that we have encountered already many times in the cycle’s fugue subjects (ex. 5.16). A more awkward, limping dactyl rhythm in the codetta (beginning in measure 26) serves throughout as an opposing force to the subject’s more graceful iambic flow. Also serving as a strategy of interruption is Shostakovich’s somewhat atypical use of a poco ritenuto marking at two internal junctures. Upon closer inspection, one finds that these markings aid in delineating the fugue’s structure. The marked absence of a ritenuto at two related moments elsewhere in the fugue therefore gives the performer something to think about. The first instance of the ritenuto marking (measures 58–59) aids in the resolution of a false subject entrance on the dominant that appears to have stalled the completion of the exposition. But these final four measures of the exposition serve as an effective closing gesture for the fugue’s first part: the long subject itself is rounded at its own conclusion with a restatement of

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the initial motive (the falling fifth and leap up a minor sixth). Thus the larger structural entity of the exposition mirrors the local-level structure of the subject. Still, the ritenuto gesture has the quality of an erasure to it, as this false entry gives way to a true subject entrance on the relative major of G-flat, which effectively puts into motion the fugue’s second part. Within the developmental flow of this second part, another poco ritenuto (measure 101) also helps to establish a true entrance, this time in B minor, after a pair of partial entrances that move sequentially from A-flat minor through F-sharp minor in the preceding measures. Again, this moment of slight holding back both clarifies the structure and demands that the performer create a sense of emotional logic to the gesture. B minor stands here as an enharmonic substitute for C-flat minor, the submediant key modally altered; the pitch of C-flat plays a prominent role in the subject and begs to be explored more fully as the fugue progresses. Of course, there is a practical side to Shostakovich’s choice of B minor over C-flat minor, whose double flats would cause unnecessary complications for the performer. At the same time, however, one might notice an expressive tension in the movement between sharp and flat keys in this fugue, which relates directly to the fact that this is the first prelude and fugue in the cycle in a flat key. We have entered, in other words, a grey area, in which even close relations might be recast, or disguised, as distant regions. In his 1952 recording of the piece, Shostakovich adds an additional ritenuto in the transitional measures leading up to the fugue’s stretto, which begins in measure 155. Here, a dominant pedal helps to steer the wayward music back to the realm of flat keys, after a long spell on the sharp side that began back with the move to B minor noted above. One notices the extension of a pattern: the first poco ritenuto had come at the tail end of a single false subject entrance on the dominant, the second after a modulatory sequence of two such entrances, and this juncture (the stretto) on the heels of a series of three false entrances that move us from B minor back through Fsharp minor to E minor and finally, with a jarring slip back to the dominant pitch of B-flat in the bass, to the tonic of E-flat minor for the stretto. Such a structure might once again bring to mind Alexander Dolzhanskiy’s idea of

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significant difficulties that a narrative agent must overcome. In any event, the expressive swelling and receding of waves of flat and sharp keys unmistakably evoke a feeling of repeated strivings. In the composer’s performance, then, the ritenuto gesture seems perfectly appropriate at the stretto, which leads us to wonder why no such indication appears in the score. I tend to think, again, that he was concerned here with balance. Along with the two internal poco ritenutos, another graces the fugue’s final four measures. As a composer, he seems to have decided that this was enough for this relatively short fugue; as a performer, however, he could not resist articulating the logic of his structure with an additional moment of holding back. Towards the fugue’s end, the tension between flat and sharp keys and the lure of false subject entrances come to the fore one final time in an unexpected chromatic slip into D major (measure 202). Here, given what has come before, one expects a false entrance in D major to be followed by a ritenuto that would effectively steer the discourse back on track. Instead, Shostakovich eschews the marking, interrupting the D major entrance and fusing it with an abrupt tip back into the tonic key, thus proceeding through the moment without any demonstrable pausing. The tonality, in other words, is left to make the effect on its own, and the performer must take care here to execute the slight diminuendo from mezzo-forte to piano with great precision, so as to allow this melting back to E-flat minor from D major to seem all the more mysteriously fluid.

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Outbursts and Thrill Rides It would be reasonable to argue that the dominant mode of expression in Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues is the lugubrious, hesitant, introverted character that I described in the previous chapter. Even the preludes and fugues discussed in this chapter, while grouped under a different rubric altogether, contain moments of harmonic and rhythmic defamiliarization similar to what we encountered in that earlier group. But a cycle of this scope requires variety, of course, and Shostakovich balances out the score’s more expansive aspects with plenty of speed, manic energy, and virtuosic flash. As early as the Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in A Minor, listeners will recognize the familiar, frenetic release of force so characteristic of Shostakovich’s art. While it may not be expressively dominant, there is a lightheartedness in the cycle that contributes a great deal to keeping its spirit afloat. The six preludes and fugues grouped together in this chapter exemplify the cycle’s jubilant, extroverted side. They are, not incidentally, all in major keys. There is no hard and fast analogy in the cycle between the minor mode and a slow, tragic sensibility, or between the major mode and a fleet, lighthearted character. It is possible, however, to pass through the cycle along one sunny corridor of major-key preludes and fugues, avoiding its gloomier corners. A sense of boundless energy characterized Shostakovich’s compositional

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style from the beginning. In several early piano works, he capitalized upon his own skills as a pianist in creating wild and cacophonous textures, based as much upon visceral sensations as on abstract musical ideas. Despite the obvious influence of Prokofiev’s Piano Sonata No. 3 in its opening section, for instance, Shostakovich’s Piano Sonata No. 1, Opus 12 (1926) quickly deviates from the classically modeled, coolly rational logic of his compatriot and instead delivers a physically brutal, sonically alienating effect. Moments in the Ten Aphorisms, Opus 13 (1927), evoke a similar mood. In a more jocular vein, the orchestra and piano solo seem constantly at risk of losing another in the circus-like fray during the finale of the Piano Concerto No. 1, Opus 35 (1933). The rush of pure speed occupies its own special place in Shostakovich’s bag of expressive tricks. The Prelude in D Major from the Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34, flies by in a flash, a nearly continuous stream of sixteenth notes, with the quarter note marked, ridiculously, at 200. Similarly, in the blizzard of a fugato that interrupts (at rehearsal 63) the already chaotic first movement of the Symphony No. 4, the quarter is marked at 168, making for a thunderous clangor, supremely difficult to hold together once all four voices are in play. The element of risk is part of the effect, especially in live performance. Such outbursts, moreover, are often cast expressively as something one small step beyond the militaristic frenzy that is another of the composer’s signature textures. The Fourth Symphony’s first-movement fugato possesses this quality, arising as it does out of all the march-like musical signifiers that pervade that movement. In these examples and others, we can observe a close tie between Shostakovich’s musical world—the Soviet music culture of the 1920s and early 1930s—and that of his western European colleagues. Consider, for instance, the famous example of Paul Hindemith’s Sonata for Viola Solo, Opus 25, No. 1 (1922), in whose fourth movement the quarter note is marked at the utterly absurd speed of 600–640. Such extremity was suited to Weimar Germany, with its off-the-scale economic crises, political instabilities, and cultural obsessions. Especially in his youth, when this world was not completely closed off to him, Shostakovich was able to maintain a connection to con-

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temporary Western art music circles. The aesthetic ideals of the European modernist movement were central to the fashioning of this manic side of his musical personality. Elsewhere, Shostakovich reserves a single frenzied outburst within a larger formal structure to create a stunning textural climax, controlling his tendency towards hyperagitation as a carefully planned element. In the finales of both the Sonata for Cello and Piano, Opus 40 (1934), and the Piano Trio No. 2, Opus 67 (1944), for instance, the drama reaches a peak at a sudden explosion in the piano part. The violent cascades in the Trio (at rehearsal 282) are in fact a reorchestration of the repeating chord progression from the third movement (a chaconne), while the melody above these arpeggiations reprises the first movement’s primary theme. The increased activity coincides with our own realization that the form is cyclic, that both this melody and the shocking textural disruption in the accompaniment actually represent new castings of material we’ve heard before. Similarly, the torrent of sixteenth notes in the Cello Sonata’s finale (beginning in measure 181) comes out of nowhere in the piano part, the accompaniment having been up to this point relatively docile. Unlike in the Trio, where the shock of the effect is mediated by the fact that it is a cyclic element, here the gesture remains more of an expressive enigma, an element of random violence, or perhaps deeply sarcastic humor, something closer in expression to the Fourth Symphony’s fugato. It was certainly possible for Shostakovich to employ this idiom in the preludes of Opus 87, and some examples recall his youthful flamboyance. For the whirling, etude-like hand groupings in the B-flat Major Prelude, he once again called for an unrealistic metronome marking (half note at 104). The wider-spanned torrent of the A Minor Prelude—which sounds, coming after the C Major Prelude and Fugue, as if a dam has suddenly sprung a leak— clearly harks back to any number of those impromptu pianistic explosions cited above. And even the Fugue in B Major, with its occasional passages featuring parallel thirds in one hand, requires a special kind of dexterity from the performer. But the contrapuntal texture of the fugues usually necessitates something

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different, a vertical conception of the exuberance that in the past he imagined more naturally in horizontal terms. The hyperactivity here is a bumpier, more throbbing, less streamlined affair. It results from effervescent textures whose execution forces the performer to bounce the arms, the vertical motion deterring the high velocities made possible more typically by a smoothly floating arm and wrist. In such examples as the Fugues in G-sharp Minor and D-flat Major, the tumult is particularly aggressive, the composer maximizing the voltage with marcato markings and forceful accents. All of this makes for some of the cycle’s most virtuosic writing: even as stupendous a technician as Sviatoslav Richter is reported to have complained about the difficulties of the G-sharp Minor Fugue.1 But then again, with Shostakovich we are talking about someone who performed Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata at the age of fifteen: he instinctively understood the many dimensions of virtuosity. Thus, many of the Opus 87 fugues deny the kind of melodic, line-driven contrapuntal equality of voices that defines the genre, establishing a marked contrast with other fugues (for instance, those in E minor and F-sharp major) whose predominantly legato and pianissimo textures highlight this quality. Some fugues in this cycle, in essence, are primarily about melody, while others are concerned mainly with texture. Beyond the thrills of sheer technique, the active qualities found in some of the cycle’s fugues give rise to other, sometimes gentler emotions, images, and characters as well—folksy naïveté in the A-flat Major, enthusiasm and confidence in the rising scales and leaps of the G Major, dreamy distant bells in the A Major. In such cases, the visceral appeal is less in the headlong rush than in the fast-changing patterns of ascent and descent. If not exceptional in their virtuosity (though they are far from simple to play, especially the passages that require quick leaping), these fugues nonetheless also contribute to our understanding of Shostakovich as a composer for whom music’s underlying rhythmic structures were of the essence. Many anecdotes about Shostakovich’s mannerisms in life—his perennial twitching, his chain-smoking, his manic effusiveness at rehearsals and per-

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formances of his own music—bring to mind the kinds of frothy, fidgety textures one finds in so many of the fugues. Staccato textures and nervous bouncing conjure images of his personality. As one writer put it, “He was a human lightning conductor, carrying the electrical discharges of his music to the soles of his feet.”2 One of my favorite remembrances comes from Gavriil Yudin—a cousin of the extraordinarily gifted pianist Mariya Yudina, Shostakovich’s classmate at the Leningrad Conservatory—who described an incident during the exams in aural harmony administered by the school’s director, Alexander Glazunov: “We all clustered around the door of Glazunov’s study when Shostakovich went in to take the exam. . . . After a short pause while he was being told what to play, the silence from behind the closed doors was suddenly broken by a cascade of chords played at prestissimo speed. This tempo was so fantastic that we were left suspended in disbelief and awe. Shostakovich then ran out of Glazunov’s study and here started the real fireworks.”3 Shostakovich was capable of expressing, in both his life and his music, an uncomplicated kind of joy, which existed side by side with all of the suffering and hardship he undoubtedly endured and communicated elsewhere in his music. While a fair degree of his youthful zeal had dissipated by 1950, and while the Preludes and Fugues in general thus tread gently upon listeners’ ears and performers’ fingers, at times one can still catch a glimpse in the cycle of the former wunderkind obsessed with speed and brimming with vitality.

Prelude and Fugue No. 3 in G Major If the first burst of inspiration that compelled Shostakovich to compose a cycle of twenty-four preludes and fugues came from J. S. Bach, and if the opening two preludes and fugues in the cycle pay conspicuous homage to that past master, the third patently shakes off this influence and seeks new expressive motivation. Many commentators have discerned, especially in the declamatory style of the Prelude in G Major, a nod to Musorgsky; already,

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this early in the cycle, Shostakovich was aiming significantly to broaden the scale of his canvas. Described as “warrior-like” by Tatyana Nikolayeva, the Prelude and Fugue in G Major firmly sets a new tone, replacing the gentleness of the Prelude and Fugue in C Major and the playfulness of that in A minor with a new seriousness and a sense of drama. The expressive markings themselves convey the degree of change, with a shift of gears from legato, dolce, and espressivo in the earlier preludes and fugues to pesante and marcato here. Without doubt, there is something of the weighty and warlike, perhaps even of the historical, to be discerned in the Prelude and Fugue in G Major —from the stark opening statement of the prelude, its unaccompanied line offering perhaps an image of grand pillars set to assume any conceivable burden, to the streaking rocket figures and syncopations of the fugue. The many writers who have likened this piece to Musorgsky cite its raw and intuitive character; one might go so far as to suggest that the conspicuous sixteenth-note turn in the prelude’s marcato figure and the rising head motive of the fugue’s subject can be found in the tavern scene of Act I of Boris Godunov. Whether or not such shadows are truly there, the Prelude in G Major does seem to be filled with decidedly operatic gestures, which, as such, are also pianistically unidiomatic, as many performances, especially of the sixteenth-note figure when it appears in left-hand octaves in measure 14 and elsewhere, demonstrate. In contrast to the binary structures that govern the first two preludes, the form of the compact Prelude in G Major is built upon a more intuitive device, which perhaps establishes another link to the self-taught and stridently antiestablishment Musorgsky. As in the Preludes in E Major and C-sharp Minor, and both of the cycle’s double fugues, Shostakovich establishes a pair of contrasting thematic elements that are initially kept separate but are ultimately combined in a climactic formal section (ex. 6.1). The first element here, the unaccompanied pesante melody of the opening measures, conveys something of the “bifocal tonality” that also governs the harmonic scheme of the Prelude in E Major. While completely diatonic within G major, the melody’s

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Ex. 6.1. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 3 in G Major, mm. 1– 12

contour suggests strong references to its relative minor, E minor, especially in the fact that its range encompasses the octave spanning from B to B, that key’s dominant. The ambiguity is heightened at the phrase’s conclusion, where a firm landing on a fleshed-out C major chord might be taken as either the subdominant in G major or the submediant in E minor. The second element, the marcato figure that follows, alludes to the first in its general melodic descent, but its character suggests a world of difference between them. The prelude continues generally in this vein, establishing in its alternating phrases a kind of musical prose that again contrasts sharply from the more regularly metered discourse of its two predecessors in the cycle. After the marcato passage is repeated in left-hand octaves (measures 12– 14) —this time unambiguously in E minor—the opening melody returns. Alterations to the pitch collection, however (an A-sharp in measure 19 and an F-natural in the following measure), combined with a D pedal point in the alto voice, transform the tonal ambiguity of the prelude’s static opening into a highly mobile, modulatory statement. A firm landing on B-flat major in measure 23 lends aural sense, after the fact, to both the A-sharp and the F-natural and provides the foundation for a restatement of the marcato passage. After this

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reprise, however, the reconnecting passage back to the opening pesante melody is significantly developed, with a strong inflection towards E-flat major—a close cousin of the recently established B-flat major, but a distant relative from our home key. Only later do we realize that we have been perched a half step above the home-key’s dominant, ready to be pulled at any moment back into the conflict. The prelude’s climax features the combination of the opening melody in its original key—this time harmonized with rock-solid fifths on the tonic and dominant—and the marcato countermelody in left-hand octaves. But this culminating section offers no definitive closure for the piece. For by the end of this twelve-measure final section, the pitch collection of G major —which had only so recently been restored from the flat-key regions, and indeed reinforced through the use of key-defining fifths in the right hand’s inner voices—has been radically undermined. The first element to interfere with the sense of stability is a lingering Bflat (measure 39), though other departures soon follow in its wake. Perhaps most significantly, the same F-natural that earlier had worked in tandem with the A-sharp to pull towards B-flat major returns to provide a modal edge to the prelude’s final five measures, in the form of an octave-doubled F in the bass. This opens the door for the breakdown of a clean tonic in the right hand, as the marcato melody, originally a diatonic entity, explores new semitones of its own. Coming out of a chromatic turn around the dominant involving a harsh-sounding E-flat and C-sharp, a final chromatic line moving downward from B brings us finally to A-flat, a precarious half step above the tonic. This balances nicely with the passage immediately preceding the prelude’s climax, when we found ourselves on E-flat, a half step above the dominant. The stage is set for a restorative fugue, in which both the A-flat and the F-natural that undermine tonic closure in the prelude shall be heard from once again—the A-flat especially significantly—but in which G major shall finally prevail. Given the maniacal speed of his own recorded performance of the G Major Fugue, Shostakovich surely intended this piece, marked Allegro molto, to convey a violent release of energy. It certainly shares some char-

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acteristics with its A minor predecessor, in particular the subject’s alternating wide leaps and jaunty blend of sixteenth- and eighth-note rhythmic cells. But such similarities are far outweighed by their expressive differences. While the A Minor merrily goes about making its pranks, the G Major seems intent on delivering a heavier message, despite its trappings as a mere rollicking gigue. The head motive of the fugue’s subject is a skyrocketing figure that ascends stepwise from the tonic to the leading tone. Here it is left hanging, unresolved for a moment before being released downward through a series of leaps in alternating directions. Another heroic rise upward begins the subject’s second half (measure 3), this time a leap, with the scalar notes in between missing. The gently turning, stepwise line that follows creates both a contrast from the concluding leaps of the subject’s first half and an appealing symmetry for the subject as a whole. When the syncopated countersubject kicks in, it is often the case that four of every six beats of the measure are accented. Because the subject’s head motive is utilized also in the codetta (in measure 10), it soon begins to dominate the fugue’s texture. It is natural that Shostakovich should choose, in the fugue’s stretto section, to displace the subject entrances by a half measure—the result is a torrent of sixteenths, outstretched across one and a half measures in the three-voiced stretto (beginning measure 88) and two full measures in the episode leading into it (measures 83–84) (ex. 6.2). The tenuto marking in measure 84 holds some interest. Upon first notice, it seems strangely out of place in this frenzied environment. Shostakovich clearly intended for the performer to bring out a contrast here between the staccato treble D on the final beat of measure 83 and the same D marked tenuto a measure later. Even a slight emphasis here will convey an urgency and determination to reach the stretto, to become untangled from the episode’s spray of head motives. (As an expressive gesture, it bears a resemblance to the concluding section of the Fugue in A-flat Major, where a busy line is twice stated, first in its typical guise of staccato and then smoothed out—calmed, as it were—with a legato marking.) After such a buildup and a hurling of energy, the augmentation of the subject’s head motive in measure 94 comes as a shocking halt. Clearly related

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Ex. 6.2. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 3 in G Major, mm. 83– 89

to the cycle’s many instances of defamiliarization discussed in the previous chapter, the element of surprise created by the rhythmic augmentation here is heightened by the jarring harmonic shift, another of the chromatic displacements that characterize the harmonic language of the Preludes and Fugues as a whole. Here, a long eighth-note descent in the left hand beginning in measure 90 seems destined, with rising subject heads in the home key above, to conclude strongly on a bass G. Missing its mark by a half step, the line instead proceeds from A to A-flat (measure 94), which of course is one of the primary pitches with which Shostakovich had disrupted the final cadence of the prelude. (The other significantly disruptive pitch at the prelude’s conclusion—the bass F-natural—had served in the fugue as the key area for the second stretto, beginning in measure 75.)

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As if returning to the scene of a lost battle—or perhaps an episode in a scarred past—the subject, beginning with its determined rhythmic augmentation, seems set upon righting the harmonic wrong. Though it is marked fortissimo and staccato, Shostakovich nonetheless wants the passage to convey something more, as evidenced by the presence of an espressivo— more a firm coaxing than a warlike attack. What had, at the beginning of the prelude, seemed an ambiguously portrayed tonic at best has, by the fugue’s end, asserted itself as a strong presence. The gentle ritenuto in the final two measures, along with the complete absence of the sixteenth-note head motive, suggests a certain benevolence lying behind this awesome force.

Prelude and Fugue No. 5 in D Major In performances of the complete cycle, the Prelude and Fugue in D Major offers tender relief from the cathartic double fugue in E minor that immediately precedes it. Part sweet lyricism and part cool detachment, the D Major Prelude clearly evokes the French neoclassical tradition, bringing to mind such pieces as Emmanuel Chabrier’s “Idylle,” Ravel’s Pavane pour une infante défunte, and the slow movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G, in which sumptuously colored melodies are set in relief against the cold greys of mechanized accompaniment figures. Shostakovich’s chordal accompaniment, marked sempre arpeggiato, also recalls the baroque stile brisé, whose broken harmonies aimed both to heighten emotion and to convey perhaps a certain vulnerability. The fugue, too, suggests the neoclassical influence: its subject is composed of sharply articulated subphrases made up of basic shapes—such building blocks of the classical style as repeated notes, upper neighbors, leaps of fourths and fifths, and a scalar descent from the fourth scale degree to the tonic (ex. 6.3). Taken together, the prelude and fugue convey a spirit of frivolity, and perhaps naïveté, which links them expressively back to the cycle’s opening pair and looks ahead to the continued exploration of this mode in later preludes and fugues, most notably the A Major. It seems to be the task of its highly serious minor-mode partner (the Prelude and Fugue in B Minor) to trans-

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Ex. 6.3. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 5 in D Major, mm. 1– 7

form, and perhaps even negate, the D Major’s carefree attitude. Taking the form of a French overture, the Prelude in B Minor brushes aside its feathery predecessor in the flash of a single, stern dotted figure. The Prelude in D Major is cast in three phrase sections of roughly equal proportions, three rotations on a single idea. The first section is left openended in its consequent phrase by means of a chromatic slip from E to Eflat in the bass (measures 12–13), which brings about a modulation to B-flat major. (The flattened second scale degree served a similar function for Shostakovich early in the Prelude in D Major from his Opus 34 cycle, a demented, forty-second thrill ride that flatly denies, indeed ridicules, all sense of both harmonic and rhythmic stability.) Here, in the Opus 87 prelude, an insistent low D stalls the bass line across measures 21 and 22, anticipating a quick return to the tonic—via another chromatic slip, from B-flat major through B minor (measures 20– 22) —for the beginning of the second section. The harmonic mystery is heightened throughout this episode with carefully designated dynamics: a crescendo-diminuendo wave highlights the initial tip into the flat regions, while the blurred restoration of the true tonic at the section’s end is further obscured through a retreat into the prelude’s first pianissimo. With the hands reversing the distribution of the three-part texture, the Prelude’s middle section (measures 23–42) features a soaring melody in the right hand, one related in contour and character to many of Shostakovich’s most distinctive melodies, such as the lyric line found in the central part of the Prelude in G-sharp Minor, and the brief but memorable piano tune in the first movement of the Piano Quintet (ex. 6.4). Left to manage the

Ex. 6.4a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 5 in D Major, mm. 23– 32

Ex. 6.4b. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, mm. 48– 53

Ex. 6.4c. Shostakovich, Piano Quintet in G Minor, Opus 57, first movement, rehearsal number 3

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strummed chordal accompaniment in addition to its own countermelody, the left hand requires extra care here—in particular, even control of the weak outer fingers as they maneuver across the noodling eighth-note turn figure. Like its opening section, the prelude’s central part is harmonically stalled at its midpoint: a chromatic slip from A up to A-sharp (measures 31–32) leads to a static harmonic plateau over an F-sharp minor chord for several measures. The A-sharp of course relates back to the B-flat that had been tonicized in the opening section. And this same slip—A to A-sharp—will steer the recapitulation off course a few moments later (measures 48–49), thus merging the prelude’s first two parts in its third and final section. Throughout the Prelude, Shostakovich playfully alludes to the chordal arpeggiations in the interaction between the two melodic lines, setting resolutions off from one another, staggering their respective points of arrival, and thus conveying another kind of brokenness. The early arrival of the bass D in measure 21 is one example (the E-flat within the right-hand chord resolving to D in the following measure), as is the final cadence, where the melodic D in the treble is heard first as the fifth of a subdominant harmony (measures 66–68) before the bass resolves to the tonic one measure later (measure 69). This syncopated character continues to the prelude’s final breath, with the final chirping of an arpeggiated major second arriving after a quarter-note rest on the second beat of the final measure. One must be careful to note the absence of a cadential ritenuto marking here: having already used the marking to close off the middle section, Shostakovich surely aimed to maintain an emotional-rhythmic balance here, and not tip too far towards a lyric-inspired plasticity. Elsewhere in the prelude, too, he achieves a floating effect without resorting to tempo modification—for instance, in the bass line in measures 16–17 and 52–55, where the prelude’s governing iambic rhythm is stalled momentarily across a number of measures while the right hand continues its more active wandering. While its breezy, staccato textures are miles away from the cycle’s opening fugue in expressive terms, the Fugue in D Major strongly refers back to that point of origin with its demonstrable emphasis on the tonic, dominant,

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and submediant scale degrees in the first half of its subject. (See example 6.3.) Of course, the same motive had been altered to suit the minor mode in the preceding E Minor Fugue, and clearly part of the sense of relief, of air-clearing, that one experiences in the D Major Fugue stems from its restoration of the motive’s purer-sounding, major-mode version. Arranged in neatly ordered, mosaic-like, static blocks, the fugue possesses a restrained kinetic energy characteristic of early twentieth-century neoclassicism. Its incessant chattering seems to deny the element of pathos that had lingered on the margins throughout the prelude. As an emotional statement, it remains proudly aloof. One indication of the fugue’s cool confidence is its tendency always to find its way easily back to the tonic. After the exposition, the first modulatory entrance, in B minor (beginning in measure 33) gives way to a potentially dramatic crescendo, only to deflate gently back to the tonic (measure 52). When the fugue picks up on the prelude’s most noteworthy nondiatonic harmonic movement, putting forth a subject entrance in B-flat major (beginning in measure 75), things appear to get more interesting; a tip towards C minor seems imminent (measure 92). Instead, waiting at the top of this crescendo is D major once again. The entrance here (measure 98), however, is false. Having gotten stuck in a circular loop based upon the subject‘s opening gambit, and having sunk back to piano from its heights, another push is required to set things in motion again. The result of this next crescendo is the somewhat surprising appearance of the fugue’s stretto, which involves all three voices from the start (measure 107). Harmonically, the stretto descends stepwise from the tonic, landing on C major (measure 117) and B major (measure 128), before reaching the dominant, A, and thus restoring the home key with an emphatic subito forte (measure 133). Just as the stretto in the G Major Fugue had created a cacophony of sixteenth notes whose quelling required the rather drastic augmentation of the subject’s head motive, so in the D Major Fugue a constant stream of eighth notes—again, the result of the stretto—gives way to an abrupt halting on quarter notes (measures 142–143), which, along with a

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poco ritenuto, signals the fugue’s end. This moment is related, if only distantly, to the same sense of defamiliarization noted above in the G Major Fugue and elsewhere in the cycle. What it lacks in this generally lighthearted context, however, is any pronounced sense of harmonic enstrangement. The elemental contrast between staccato and slurred legato built into the fugue’s subject requires some technical finesse on the part of the pianist once all three voices are in play. In some cases, the simultaneous playing of staccato and legato in a single hand can be avoided by quick leaping. In measure 27, for example, the left hand can take the two lower treble eighth notes in the second half of the measure and thus carry through the slurred phrasing of this figure. A similar solution works effectively in measure 67. Elsewhere, however, the single-hand staccato-legato is unavoidable, as in measure 59, where the left hand must take both the subject and the countersubject. Along with the delicacy required in the left hand in the prelude’s middle section and the quicksilver repeated notes throughout the fugue, these subtleties make the D Major one of the trickier Preludes and Fugues to master, despite its charming simplicities.

Prelude and Fugue No. 7 in A Major The Prelude and Fugue in A Major represents the cycle’s sunniest point. If the pointillistic Prelude and Fugue in D Major might be likened to a dappling of early-morning rays, here we find ourselves in the pure, bright light of mid-afternoon. Though relatively slight in its proportions, this piece conveys an easy confidence, perhaps in part to compensate for its relative-minor partner (in F-sharp minor), whose fugue in particular contains some of the cycle’s most somber music. The A Major Fugue, by contrast, evokes a shimmering oasis. When it concludes—marked pianissimo, without a cadential ritenuto but with plenty of inner-voice activity—it is as if a flock of birds has flown just out of sight, having been revived by a cool drink. Both the prelude and the fugue are characterized by a strong tonal wandering, brought about by Shostakovich’s trademark exploitation of chromatic

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scale alterations for coloristic effect. It is a completely different style of chromaticism than that employed by the Fugue in F-sharp Minor, where semitones function largely as sighing, chromatic neighbors. Instead, an unshakable optimism keeps the tonality always firmly grounded, even while chromatic inflections bring about brief, often unexpected tonicizations. Both the prelude and the fugue are animated by a tension between the chromatic neighbors C and C-sharp, and the fugue additionally highlights the A–A-sharp conflict. The subdominant also plays a leading role in the harmonic discourse in both—working alternately to reassert and subvert the overall tonic. In the prelude, for instance, a passage of chromatic slipping through C major and B-flat major chords in measure 10 signals the potential for modulation, but as the dominant pedal holds fast, a subdominant chord magically restores A major in measure 11. Elsewhere, this strategy is not so successful: after a mysterious tip to F major (measures 17–18), the subdominant appears set once again for the rescue. Instead, the D slips puckishly upward by a half step, delaying the tonic resolution for four measures of flat-key interruption (a highlight of the piece which I discuss below). The prelude’s final cadence emphasizes the subdominant as well, and the fugue makes effective use of it as early as the codetta, where it contributes to the fugue’s music-box sweetness. At the fugue’s fortissimo climax (measure 61), D major once again steps in to put an end to an unprecedented burst of chromaticism. As in the passage cited above from the early stages of the prelude, the subdominant effectively harnesses the pitch collection at the final moment, again with the help of a dominant pedal. When the subdominant emerges early in the ensuing stretto, it is as if it has discovered a newfound confidence, which comes in handy for its final appearance in the fugue, in the second half of measure 88, where it once again seems to be called upon to bring resolution to a chromatic conflict, this time between A and A-sharp. As always, the dominant is close at hand, appearing two measures later to complete the task of securing traditional, functional harmony in the final cadence.

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These moments of tonal clarity provide essential balance to the chromaticism that lend this prelude and fugue its unique color, allowing the tonicizations to be wide-ranging but never threatening. While both the prelude (in measure 4) and the fugue (in measure 21) employ the submediant (Fsharp minor) as the first significant departure from the tonic, they both quickly shake off the burden of a purely diatonic pitch collection. One easy move both pieces make is to the flat submediant—F major. In the prelude, a B-flat major chord in measure 17 (which refers back to the B-flat chord that appeared during the passage of chromatic slipping in measure 10) signals the arrival of F major. Its tonicization, while certainly firm, is kept in check by both the drop to a pianissimo dynamic and by the lingering dominant sonority in the right hand. F major appears slightly earlier in the fugue, proportionally speaking (measure 47), as the first step in a string of tonicizations that venture into increasingly distant realms. The C and B-flat that had announced Shostakovich’s tonal-harmonic intentions for this pair early in the prelude anticipate the fugue’s move to F major by four measures (beginning in measure 43). The C-natural that makes F major possible is placed in conflict, in both prelude and fugue, with the C-sharp that provides the tonic key with its source of brightness, its major third. Beginning from its midpoint (measure 13), the prelude keeps this tension indelibly on the surface. A surprise move to C-sharp major here, supported by a conspicuous, long-held C-sharp in the left hand, is the first sign of the ensuing clash. After the C-sharp sinks enchantingly to C with the diminuendo in measure 17, and rests a while as the fifth in F major, it survives the sudden chromatic jolt in the bass to be reassigned as the third in A-flat major. Before the C-sharp is restored to its proper place in the tonic, it therefore must provide a segue back from this distant region. The solution, a captivating move to D-flat major (measure 21), represents the prelude’s moment of tonal and rhythmic enstrangement, which places it firmly in the group of related pieces throughout the cycle that employ, towards their conclusion, this strategy of rhetorical spotlighting (ex. 6.5). The absence here of moving lines—neither eighths nor sixteenths to be found for two complete measures—creates the same effect of a static

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Ex. 6.5. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 7 in A Major, mm. 18– 23

plateau found in the pre-recapitulatory modulation to A-flat major in the Prelude in E Minor. Of course, D-flat major is the enharmonic equivalent of C-sharp major, the key that had begun the prelude’s more extreme movement away from the tonic. And the key of A-flat major, as it turns out, while certainly tonicized in the final quarter of measure 20 (if briefly, and only melodically, with the fifth in the bass), had really been there all along only in order to function as a dominant harmony in this crucial progression. As if to solidify its final victory, the C-sharp makes its way emphatically into the bass line that emerges from these mists in measure 23, while the prelude’s nearly ever-present pedal point, here on the dominant, rings out in the treble, doubled at the octave. In the fugue, the C–C-sharp conflict seems more persistent, the clash of harmonies perhaps a touch more sour. First appearing in measure 43 as part of the above-mentioned entrance on F major, the C is next emphasized in

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the ensuing string of quick-moving progressions as the tonic of a C minor chord (measure 58). At the height of the crescendo in measure 61, immediately preceding the waving of the subdominant’s magic wand, the C-sharp is reasserted in a brief landing on C-sharp major, which of course brings with it echoes of the prelude. Despite the aid of a strong dominant pedal, this restoration of the tonic continues to face trouble, as the C and C-sharp do battle above, with A major and C major chords alternating by the half measure in the right hand (measures 66–67). The same happens closer to the fugue’s end (measure 83), after the stretto seems to have quelled the chromatic tides. Here, however, the role of C is short-lived, a new conflict between A and A-sharp having risen to take the old one’s place. A surprise move to F-sharp major, marked pianissimo (measure 86), launches another series of alternations, this time between that major chord and its parallel minor. Once the A is restored this time, as part of the subdominant harmony in the second half of measure 88, all tonal conflict ceases, and the fugue is left to make its way one last time through a completely normative progression from the subdominant, through the dominant, to the tonic. Gentle though it may be in its overall character, the Prelude and Fugue in A Major buzzes with life. A fair degree of its appeal lies in the variety with which Shostakovich employs the strategy of chromatic slipping. Sometimes the slips are so moderate and even-tempered (as in the prelude, measure 10) as to go almost unnoticed. Elsewhere (as in the prelude, measure 13), the noodling completely takes over, stalling all progression, rubbing our noses in the chromaticism. Perhaps most emphatically, the mystery of the prelude’s defamiliarizing move into flat keys (measure 19–22) is complemented by the fugue’s more assertive, combative jousts between chromatic neighbors. In all cases, it seems the composer’s aim was to keep the light constantly shifting, creating a subtle spectacle of color, but never to the extent that the warm glow of the tonic’s particular light is obscured. It remains the task of the performer to keep such balances in check, refraining from excessively energized sonorities and taking time in the fugue especially to let the momentum subside. As I will suggest in my discussion

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of Shostakovich’s own performance habits in this book’s final chapter, he himself had some difficulty with such challenges. As a result, the fugue under his fingers suggests a tumult, a violent refraction of light, an unfocused outburst. In this way, the A Major functions effectively as a test case for the degree to which different performances can drastically alter the character of a work.

Prelude and Fugue No. 11 in B Major As the cycle nears its midpoint—with the powerful drama of the G-sharp Minor Prelude and Fugue and the peaceful equilibrium of the F-sharp Major standing on either side of that divide—the forceful and assertive Prelude and Fugue in B Major seems to represent a marshalling of energy, a gathering of strength. A fair degree of whimsy does characterize the prelude, whose staccato textures might bring one’s mind back to the earlier pair in D major. But once the fugue announces itself with an alternately striding and skyrocketing subject, marked marcatissimo, any youthful naïveté discerned in the prelude is recast as boundless confidence. Indeed, despite their starkly contrasting characters, similarities between the prelude and the fugue in terms of contour and tonal scheme—the sequential leaps of a fourth, the emphasis on the flattened second scale degree—are convincing indicators of Shostakovich’s concern for organic oneness in these preludes and fugues. Cast in a sharply articulated binary form, and rather schematic in its formal design, the prelude is balanced effectively with the more free-flowing fugue. Its opening eight-measure phrase has the character of an introduction, with the strong arrival of the tonic in measure 9 perhaps indicating the start of something real. The prelude’s initial melodic statement (to my ears, not unlike the impish opening of the Symphony No. 1) emphasizes the submediant, albeit one that hovers above a tonic-dominant fifth drone in the bass. In the motivic volleying between the hands that ensues, this submediant alternates with the dominant before the two join to effect a convincing progression to the piece’s first true tonic sonority.

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Built upon the same three-note cell that opened the piece, the second phrase section (measures 9–17) takes us to a half cadence, where, thinking enharmonically (A-flat = G-sharp, B-flat = A-sharp), the stepwise melodic ascent from dominant to tonic suggests a return to the tonic. Of course, alterations to the diatonic pitch collection directly before this cadence suggest otherwise: the five-note melodic ascent outlining a C minor triad (measure 15–16) is the first hint of the prelude’s true tonal machinations, and the bass movement that follows (C-sharp pulling firmly back to F-sharp), along with the melodic ascent, seems an attempt to keep things on track. Drawing once again upon the technique of semitone displacement, Shostakovich replaces the expected tonic on the downbeat of measure 18 with F minor, the key of the tritone. The right hand’s B-flat in measure 17 (again, certainly aurally interpretable as an A-sharp) overshoots its potential resolution on a tonic B by a half step to land on C, while the bass Fsharp slips down by a semitone, displaced to the F an octave lower. Shostakovich had a fondness for the key of the tritone as a substitute dominant, and its presence here brings to mind two examples from his chamber music of the 1940s in which it is used to wonderful expressive effect. The first movement of the Piano Quintet in G Minor (1940) is a Prelude that begins with a soaring, rhapsodic piano solo, launched by a thick tonic chord spanning four octaves. Within a measure and a half, the security of this impressive tonic is threatened by an equally forceful D-flat major chord, whose presence suggests ominous things to come. Indeed, at the movement’s point of recapitulation, which grows out of one of Shostakovich’s trademark passages of mounting energy, the key of the tritone returns with a vengeance: now enharmonically spelled as C-sharp minor, it violently replaces the tonic for the first phrase (marked triple-forte), requiring an abrupt tip back to G minor four measures later. Similarly, the first movement (“Overture”) of the String Quartet No. 2 (1944) replaces a progression from the tonic A major to the minor dominant (E minor) in the exposition with a motion from the tonic to E-flat minor (the key of the tritone) in the recapitulation. Such a substitution is anticipated in, and indeed dictated by, the fact that the tonic is col-

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ored heavily by the Phrygian flattened second (B-flat) at the movement’s point of recapitulation. The tritone substitution in the B Major Prelude is less formally imposing than in these two examples. Indeed, Shostakovich here seems to portray the move as a sort of goofy error: in the twelve measures following the abrupt modulation to F minor, the newfound C-natural and the previous tonic of B alternate comically as the upper voice of the left hand’s drone, while the right hand eventually joins in the fun, juxtaposing dominant-tonic melodic fourths in each key (measures 23–24). Unwilling to put his entertaining problem to rest this early in the game, Shostakovich denies closure in either key at the end of the binary form’s A section. Instead, he opts for as ambiguous a solution as could be imagined, first tipping by semitone (C– D-flat) to the possibility of some new, unheralded flat key (measures 29–30), and then, just as abruptly, establishing a left-hand drone in A major (beginning in measure 32) whose firmness is undone by a still-noodling right hand. The inconclusive melodic B that closes the prelude’s first half—not insignificantly, in the middle of a measure (measure 35)—then becomes the same tonic B that had opened the piece, and we find ourselves unexpectedly at the top of the B section, which reverses the hands but reprises the opening pitches note for note. An extended opening phrase in the second half features another chromatic slip, in the bass from G-sharp to G (measures 44–45). This allows the alternation between C and B from the prelude’s first half to reappear in a comic episode featuring tonic-dominant movement in the bass in C major underneath a melody outlining B major (beginning measure 46). The momentary conflict is magically evaded with a reprise of the first half’s firm landing on the tonic (measure 50, repeating measure 9), and we soon find ourselves once again at the half cadence that had brought us in the first half to F minor. Here, it seems at first that B major will hold fast, as the melody outlines the upper third of the tonic triad and the bass moves easily from dominant to tonic. However, as early as the second measure of the ensuing phrase, the C-natural returns to complicate things. At first, the same playful alternation of B and C in the left hand seems

176 The Preludes and Fugues

merely to reprise the similar passage from the first half. However, as the right hand becomes stuck on the rising fourth figure and slinks out of sight across a diminuendo, the C takes the opportunity to assert itself, now as the root of a C minor chord. Beginning in measure 65, we have another of the defamiliarizing moments that have characterized so many of the preludes and fugues thus far in the cycle. Here, the conflict between B and C drives a progression whose functionality lies in an ambiguous zone between the tonic B major and F minor, the other primary key area of the prelude’s first half. Employing both a ritenuto and a hairpin crescendo-diminuendo to maintain suspense, Shostakovich keeps us guessing to the very end, when an E minor chord (measures 68–69) is revealed finally as part of a plagal cadence in the tonic key. Even now, however, the C-natural continues to assert itself for four more measures. As such, the right hand, stuck again on the rising fourth figure, never seems fully to recover, and the prelude, left inconclusive, seems to call out for an especially forthright fugue to set things straight. With the exception of a single subject entrance during its first half, the fugue is set entirely at a forte level or higher. Such assertiveness can also be discerned in the formidable technique that it requires, with fast-moving sixteenths frequently coupled in the same hand as jaunty eighths, and, in the passage leading into the stretto, the rare occurrence of parallel thirds. (The Prelude and Fugue in A-flat Major is the only other pair in the cycle that features this texture.) Its subject has in common with the Fugue in G Major an initial burst of sixteenths followed by sequential leaps, making it another of the cycle’s more aggressive, extroverted fugues. Even more than that earlier example, which had emphatically negated the problematic tone set forth by its prelude, the Fugue in B Major seems jovial, self-assured, unstoppable. The similarities between the G Major and B Major Fugues do not end with their subjects, nor even with their generally restorative characters. For as the B Major arrives breathlessly to its concluding measures, a sudden chromatic slip from C-sharp to C-natural (measures 131–132) signals a final moment of harmonic and rhythmic defamiliarization that links back both to its own prelude (the passage beginning with the C minor chord at measure 65) and

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to the earlier fugue. Just as the G Major Fugue had, in its final eight measures, slipped into the area of the Neapolitan (A-flat major) and presented the subject in augmentation, so too do we find in the final seven measures of the B Major Fugue both an augmented subject and a slip to C major (ex. 6.6). The close quarters of these sharply contrasting keys so near to the final cadence might suggest trouble in terms of resolution. But just as we had seen these two keys coexisting in the prelude, the fugue is able to remain comfortable with them in close proximity. When the chromatic slip is ultimately righted, allowing the final three measures to solidify B major once and for all in a heavily accented final subphrase, one realizes that the tonic has been conceived all along as a flexible entity, capable of accommodating seemingly foreign elements without conflict. C major appears earlier in the fugue as well, as the key of a subject entrance in the passage preceding the stretto. Here, however, it emerges not as the logical result of a chromatic slip but as its abrupt denial. Chromatic changes to the pitch collection in measure 75 (A to A-flat, with added E-flat and B-flat) may signal, enharmonically, a move to E major—the right-hand E-flat functioning as leading tone and the left-hand B-flat as chromatic neighbor to the dominant. When the anticipated E does arrive on the downbeat of measure 76, however, it is harmonized not as the root, but as the third of a surprise C major. Shostakovich seems to be calling for a new color here as well, one perhaps more suited to the clean-sounding C major, as the fortissimo that had held sway for the previous fifteen measures (through a complete entrance and episode) recedes abruptly to forte. This holding back allows for the subsequent rebuilding of sonority through the next episode (featuring the above-mentioned parallel thirds), and for the arrival of the abundantly energetic stretto on a resounding fortissimo, a dynamic level from which the remainder of the fugue never drops.

Prelude and Fugue No. 17 in A-flat Major With the rustic and genial Prelude and Fugue in A-flat Major, we catch a glimpse into the cycle’s folk soul. The prelude and fugue alike resemble chil-

Ex. 6.6a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 11 in B Major, mm. 55– 69

Ex. 6.6b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 11 in B Major, mm. 131– 135

Ex. 6.6c. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 3 in G Major, mm. 92– 96

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dren’s tunes—naïve, innocent, untroubled, and joyous. Within the context of the cycle as a whole, the emotional rootedness of this piece stands out all the more: moving from the caustic Prelude and Fugue No. 15 in D-flat Major (whose emotions, in their wildness, seem still underdeveloped) through the strangely serene Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor (which seems unwilling, in its major-key partner’s wake, to plunge into the depths of feeling just yet), we arrive in the A-flat Major to a place of uncomplicated, unabashed happiness. That such an emotional release is expressed in the language of folk music reminds us that we are dealing with a composer who is, first and foremost, a Russian. One might hear echoes, in the bass and treble duet that drives the prelude, of the duet between Pamina and Papageno (“Bei männern”) from Act I of Mozart’s The Magic Flute. There, the ideal union between man and woman is celebrated by two characters who are neither in love with one another nor of the same social class. This princess and common man speak not only of the romantic love they each seek separately, but also of the general, universal ideal of brotherhood preached by the benevolent Sarastro. From the beginning, the Prelude and Fugue in A-flat Major too conveys the character of a human drama, a folk narrative in which basic human goodness seems to function as the underlying force. There is, of course, no such story to this piece. Any words we may feel compelled in our minds to set to the fugue’s jaunty subject, or the prelude’s rolling theme, must remain unsung. And yet, the presence of a benevolent narrative subject moving through time and space is unmistakable, evoked for instance in the repetitive patterning and gentle sequencing that characterize both the prelude and the fugue—the taking of small but significant steps. The fugue’s unusually wide array of tonal areas, too, suggests a vast panorama of the natural world. In its unusual structure, which features a wholly atypical note-for-note recapitulation of the exposition’s codetta (measure 56, repeating measure 9), the fugue seems to invite interpretations based upon movement, plotting, and memory. Perhaps the operatic allusion can be extended, for this piece at times seems less interested in being a well-behaved fugue than in serving as an example of the “changing background technique” used by Russian

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composers from Mikhail Glinka onward as a symbol of musical Russianness. Here, the abruptly changing tonalities serve as the symbolic ground over which the steadfast narrative agent, represented in its subject, treads. The tonal and thematic recapitulation (a device borrowed from the more obviously plotted genre of sonata form), which comes after an equally obvious nod to a development section in the fugue’s tonally mobile middle, therefore serves as a sort of homecoming for the subject. And in the coda, whose repetitive quality gently diffuses the energy, the wayward subject is lulled into a quiet slumber, the wound-up tension represented by its sixteenthnote turn figure released in the tender coils of the final two measures. Like the napping Papageno in Ingmar Bergman’s masterful film of The Magic Flute, our metaphorical bass singer in the prelude seems frantic in his attempts to arrive on cue. The one-measure introduction—which introduces the prelude’s ostinato accompaniment, built amiably upon the cycle’s governing 1– 5–6 motive—seems either too short or unintentional. When the melody begins in measure 2, it is almost as if the line and its accompaniment are playing catch-up for a moment before they slip into comfortable agreement. The single measure of introduction represents a delightfully anticipatory moment when the curtain is raised and the stage is empty, awaiting the arrival of its protagonist. Like the D-flat Major Prelude, the A-flat Major is cast in a straightforward ternary form. The basic phrase structure of its opening section (measures 1– 29) —which is expanded by way of the repetition of each of the period’s halves for the purposes of the above-mentioned duet—is characterized by the soothing return of the initial statement as the final phrase. Thus, we have a dramatically coherent “abca” structure—or, with the repetition, “ab/ab/ca/ca.” The opening antecedent-consequent phrase pair (measures 2–7) concludes on the tonic after highlighting the subdominant in the consequent phrase with the pitch G-flat, which both mellows the key of A-flat major by removing its leading tone (in effect giving it a Mixolydian flavor) and acts as a subdominant to the subdominant, pulling characteristically downwards through the interval of the fourth. This entire passage is then repeated with the melody in the treble, sequenced melodically on the level of

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the dominant (rather like a fugue subject) while the accompaniment remains harmonically the same. As a result, while a tonic harmony grounds the conclusion of this section (measure 13), the melody concludes on the dominant, leaving things at least somewhat open-ended at the start of the period’s second half. Beginning on the subdominant, the second half of the period (measure 14) soon gives way to a by now expected chromatic slip. Here it is the subdominant itself that is defamiliarized—the D-flat raised a half step in the melody, and the tonic-dominant fifth in the accompaniment following suit (measure 16). As we shall see, the same interplay between D-flat and D-natural is spotlighted in the fugue subject. While each of the subphrases in this period had, to this point, consisted of three-measure groups, an extra measure is required here, in the third subphrase, in order to “right the wrong” of the chromatic slip and restore the diatonic pitch collection. The initial subphrase then returns to cap off the period with a sense of comforting relief. Only the accompaniment’s half-note countermelody is altered slightly, so that when the treble repeats the period’s second half, the bass ends up, inconclusively, on the third of the tonic triad. An echo of the melody’s final three notes, marked with a subito pianissimo (measure 28), spotlights this open-endedness and leads into a one-measure transition into the prelude’s central B section. The melodic echo, too, might be said to convey an image of the natural world—the protagonist’s innocent singing bouncing off a distant cliff as she tumbles, with her partner, into the darker, hushed region of F minor. A bass-treble melody also drives the prelude’s B section, whose character clearly evokes memories of the childlike simplicity found in the corresponding part of the D-flat Major Prelude. Here, the balanced, three-measure phrases of the A section give way to one-measure fragments arranged asymmetrically. The resulting chameleon-like phrase structure suggests an exploration of an impolite and raucous side to our narrative agents, its impish gestures contrasting with the prelude’s first section in all respects—legato turns to staccato, lyric to rhythmic, song to dance. The G-flat from the prelude’s A section remains, functioning in the context of F minor as Shostakovich’s

182 The Preludes and Fugues

beloved flattened second scale degree, whose off-color character of course suits the occasion perfectly. Beginning in measure 40, one encounters a wonderful variety in the left-hand accompaniment pattern—the rhythmically offset Cs in measures 41–44, the turn to legato in measure 46 (a recollection of the A section), the double-time two-note slurs in measure 49. Harmonically, the B section ends on a chaotic note. While the legato marking during the transitional measures (56–58) provides a textural connection back to the A section, the raised tonic, supertonic, and subdominant scale degrees undermine any sense of tonic stability. When the prelude’s opening melody is reprised, it therefore is radically altered—instead of an alternating melodic duet, the bass melody, intact from the prelude’s beginning, is harmonized in the treble (across the rather wide gulf of two octaves) with parallel major chords, an unprecedented move in the cycle, while the ostinato accompaniment continues in between, in its original register (ex. 6.7). One feels palpably—in this mysterious, folksy, perhaps ancient-sounding vocal trio—the lingering effects of the first chromatic slip, back in measure 16. Indeed, such alterations to the pitch collection continue well into the coda, whose last mini-progression (beginning in measure 79) fixates on the raised tonic and flattened seventh scale degrees, harmonizing this bass line as well with parallel major chords. All four bass notes from this last burst —A-flat, A-natural, F, and G-flat—play a role in the prelude’s final cadence, effectively conjuring its own brand of closure, as demanded by the occasion. As we move into the fugue, all is softness and calm, the satisfied feeling of a pleasant meandering across gentle hills. A new journey awaits in the fugue, whose wide-ranging tonal plan,

5 4

meter, and folk-inspired subject unmistakably mark it as a musical tale. (In the next major-key fugue, in E-flat major, Shostakovich again employs the 5 4

meter, but in a strongly contrasting, modernist idiom.) Laid out in aa⬘ba⬙

structure, and full of repeated notes, the A-flat Major Fugue’s subject is clearly meant to recall the melody of its prelude, and thus it again plays upon the powerful draw of musical memory (ex. 6.8). As mentioned before, the first two measures of the subject also bring back the prelude’s interplay between D-flat and its chromatic upper neighbor. Both prelude and fugue in-

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Ex. 6.7. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 17 in A-flat Major, mm. 60– 65

Ex. 6.8. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 17 in A-flat Major, mm. 1– 4

troduce the chromatically altered pitch in the same way, as part of the descending line F–E-flat–D. Indeed, as we shall see, the implications of this D-natural on the fugue’s tonal plan are considerable, just as it seems to have played a significant role in the drastically altered character of the melody in the prelude’s reprise.

184 The Preludes and Fugues

The contrasting third subphrase of the subject (measure 3) employs a flourish of sixteenth notes, which will contribute throughout the fugue both to a general business of texture and, as a result, a significant technical challenge when all four voices are in play. These sixteenths also lend themselves to the fugue’s codetta and episodes. Expanded across all five beats of the measure, the uninterrupted legato line provides a textural contrast to the staccato melody, much in the way that the legato countersubject in the Fugue in Gsharp Minor brings occasional relief from its relentless marcatissimo texture. While it relies upon the common ploy of using the submediant (F minor) as the first nontonic key of a subject entrance (measure 21), the fugue quickly sheds a conformist attitude. In a surprise enharmonic reimagining of the dominant pitch (E-flat, now D-sharp), Shostakovich moves abruptly to B major (measure 31), thus establishing a central developmental section that has more to do with the single pitch D-natural than with the tonic key itself. As the D-sharp slips downward to this D-natural, B major gives way to G major (measure 37), and then to a very distant-sounding D minor (measure 43). The subject entrance on D minor—which rumbles quietly, Rachmaninoff-like, in the low bass register, overtones resounding—sounds particularly menacing, with both the subject and the countersubject further obscured by their placement in the inner voices. In the episode that follows, Shostakovich hints briefly towards a slip back into G major (measure 50). But a surprise slip to E-flat in all three voices at the downbeat of measure 51 establishes a highly anticipatory dominant pedal in the by now long-forgotten tonic key. Instead of serving to re-establish this lost tonic, however, the pedal is rendered in effect useless, as the pitch collection refuses to be pulled back on track. A general modal confusion reigns in this wonderfully mysterious passage, with stretto-like statements of the subject’s head motive overlapping as the key remains tantalizingly obscure. In the final measure before the surprise recapitulation (measure 55), a fleeting hint towards the tonicization of C-flat major suggests something of a palindrome in the fugue’s overall key scheme: the initial move out to B major had given way to G major; a central section in D minor then hinted back to G major, which itself now seems to want to return to B major (spelled

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Ex. 6.9. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 17 in A-flat Major, mm. 62– 65

enharmonically as C-flat). Instead, however, the voice leading rights itself on the final beat of the measure (G-flat and C-flat both moving up by semitone to their correct diatonic position above the dominant), and in measure 56 we find ourselves standing on strangely familiar ground—an exact reprise of the episode from measure 9. As far as the palindrome goes, it is worth noting that F minor—the key of the fugue’s first modulation—returns as well, as the first sonority of the coda, beginning in measure 72. That Shostakovich seems intent in this fugue on turning the tables on our expectations is obvious not only in this recapitulation, but also in its culminating section (beginning in measure 62), where instead of a regular stretto —by far his most common strategy in the cycle—he employs the subject in its original form sounded simultaneously with the augmentation of its first two measures (ex. 6.9). (A similar formal device is used in the climactic section of the Fugue in F-sharp Major, but in a very different expressive context.) The coda that follows this marvelous climax seems to give up on the idea of fugue entirely and instead follows up on the palindrome idea, now on a textural instead of a tonal level. While all of the pieces of the fugue’s opening section are present, everything seems out of place, and yet, nothing seems amiss. The first motive to be heard from in the coda is the subject’s

186

The Preludes and Fugues

contrasting third subphrase, a slightly altered form of which is stated twice verbatim in measures 72–73. A similar outright repetition of the codetta/ episode material follows (measures 74–75), which recedes gently to a pianissimo for the final playing out of the subject’s head motive, stated twice in exact repetition before the sixteenth-note figure returns one final time to conclude the fugue on a gentle, if somewhat melodically unresolved, note. Instead of the return to the head motive that has concluded the aaba phrase structure throughout the fugue, the noodling sixteenths reign over the final three measures. Having been lulled to sleep after this epic excursion, our narrative protagonist seems unavailable for final comment.

Prelude and Fugue No. 21 in B-flat Major Speed is of the essence in the Prelude in B-flat Major. An etude-like essay in the subtly changing relationships between two constantly moving entities —the right hand in perpetual-motion sixteenth notes, the left in irregular, changing rhythms—it is perhaps the cycle’s most frantically active surface. One is reminded of any number of frenzied, motoristic passages from Shostakovich’s youth, and of the modernist-pitched obsession with speed in earlier twentieth-century music in general. A moment in the Prelude’s second half (measures 42–43) easily brings to mind any number of passages in the piano writing of Sergei Prokofiev, in which semitone displacements lead to alternating tetrachords placed at the interval of a tritone, making for a dizzying traversal up the keyboard (ex. 6.10). Idiomatic and comfortable as such a passage may be, the prelude overall betrays a less congenial attitude towards the performer. Its metronome marking (the half note at 104) is all but unrealizable in reality—another indicator of a lurking, Hindemith-like, modernist sensibility. Shostakovich himself did not record this prelude and fugue, likely because he understood its virtuosic demands were beyond his own capabilities by the 1950s. One has to look to such inspiringly fleet accounts as that of Boris Petrushansky for an indication of how nightmarishly fast the composer’s intended speed would truly be in execution. Whatever one’s ultimate speed, one must take

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Ex. 6.10. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 21 in B-flat Major, mm. 41– 43

care to let a fast half-note pulse prevail—so that, for instance, the syncopation between the two voices in the left hand in measure 13 is heard as such, the measure of 23 in the prelude’s second half (measure 38) sounds like an anomalous extension, and the left hand’s alternation between quarter notes and eighth notes throughout feels barely in control. And yet, given all the surface-level indicators of lightness and speed, Shostakovich once again insists upon a smoothness of sound, attack, and color in the prelude, with the cycle’s trademark legato marking placed underneath the opening notes of both the left and right hands. While we might note a similar quality in character, mood, and technique between this prelude and fugue and the B-flat Major from Book I of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, these legato markings serve as forceful reminders of the composer’s having imagined these sounds as wholly in the domain of the pianistic. A forthright legato from the start becomes especially important later on, as the left hand switches to a more frenetic eighth-note pattern in measure 18. Here, the staccato marking calls attention to the new leaping figure in the left hand, which in turn nicely shadows the right hand’s similar change in texture, from flowing, scalar noodlings to more disjointed, widely spaced hand figures.

188 The Preludes and Fugues

The result of the prelude’s overall textural homogeneity is that its mercurial tonal plan stands out all the more sharply, even if its speed makes its sour cross-relations and other playful voice leadings barely perceptible at times. Perhaps one useful metaphor for the prelude is the idea of becoming physically lost—its improvisatory character, which leads to an alternation between the comforting home-base of B-flat major and various, nebulous tonal excursions, is based largely upon the vicissitudes of the constantly changing hand-shape figures. This is the kind of music that one can easily imagine the young Shostakovich conjuring on the spot in the movie theater days of his youth, his hands doing all the thinking while his multitasking brain was perhaps occupied elsewhere. This is not to say that the piece lacks an intelligence and carefulness of design, but rather that its trajectory as such seems to be based more purely upon physical sensation than is common among other preludes in the cycle. What the prelude does share with many others in the cycle is an overall binary form. In this case, the midway point comes with the cadence in Bflat major across measures 28–29. Both halves move fairly quickly from the tonic to the submediant key of G major—the first half in measure 12, the second in measure 34—which, in replacing the traditional binary-form move to the dominant, relates to the similarly unexpected (and indeed strikingly anomalous) feature of the fugue’s answer being on the relative minor instead of on the dominant. G major is also strong at the end of the first part, measures 23 and afterward. A chromatic slip in the bass from D to D-flat during this passage (measures 26–27) signals the end of the prelude’s first half: the resulting emphasis on flattened scale degrees leads ultimately to a semitone movement in the bass octaves from G-flat to F (flat-6 to 5), which pulls firmly to the tonic and the reprise of the opening figure. The strong nondiatonic presence of the G-flat at such a crucial juncture leaves its trace in the lingering E-naturals (raised 4), which are mischievously accented across two complete measures at the start of the reprise. The prelude is filled to the brim with nondiatonic pitches that more often than not result in a playful aural confusion rather than a clear-cut scheme

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of modulation. The first such pitch is the G-flat that arrives in measure 8 and lingers throughout much of the first half. In its first incarnation, the G-flat seems to be functioning not only outside the tonic of B-flat major, but also as a highly unusual color tone within the key of D minor, which receives a subtle but unmistakable inflection beginning in measure 8. It is a D minor highly altered by way of Shostakovich’s trademark penchant for flattened scale degrees: in this case, a lowered second degree (the E-flat from the piece’s key signature remains in play) and the lowered fourth represented by the new G-flat. By the time the above-mentioned move to G major comes around in measure 12, the G-flat has found a more secure aural identity as the enharmonic equivalent of F-sharp, the new key’s leading tone. In measure 18, the altered D minor reappears (its E-flat and G-flat still intact), but that soon gives way once again to G major at measure 23, where the true Fsharp steps in to replace the G-flat momentarily. As mentioned above, the G-flat is restored in the first half’s final cadence, pulling downwards by semitone to the dominant and ultimately to the tonic for the reprise. All of this emphasis on G-flat in the prelude’s first half brings about a strikingly different use of the same pitch in the second half. In measures 39–41 and 50–52, as the left hand attempts to restore order by reestablishing the opening measure’s tonic-dominant seesaw figure, the right hand roguishly alters its own opening figure by replacing the dominant pitch with an Fsharp, thus providing the G with a lower neighbor, around which the curving figure then pivots. This subtle emphasis on G might allude once again to the fugue’s unusual use of the relative minor in its answer. But the presence of the F-sharp in the right hand also creates a local-level cross relation with the prominent F-natural in the left hand, a sourness that harkens back to the accented E-naturals at the beginning of the prelude’s second half. In its first instance (measures 39–41), this cross-relation seems to bring about a flurry of harmonic confusion, with the above-mentioned scale passage, ascending more than two octaves out of these depths, juxtaposing B-flat major and E major tetrachords in a Prokofievian vein. When the cross-relation appears for the second time (measures 50–52), another rising passage

190 The Preludes and Fugues

ensues, this time leading to the prelude’s final cadence, which restores equilibrium by erasing the F-sharp only from the final three measures. These nondiatonic pitches also result in another of the prelude’s most notable characteristics, a proclivity for substitute dominants. Of course, insofar as its opening two measures launch the piece with a clear-cut tonic-dominant groove, which continues uninterrupted for five more measures, any deviation from this routine is bound to be noticed. In measure 8, then, with the move to the modally inflected D minor, the left-hand figure, though unaltered from the beginning in terms of texture, breaks the pattern nonetheless. Here, the alternation is between two substitutes: a second-inversion tonic on the strong beats (the prominent octave-doubled A in the bass) and on the weak, a Neapolitan sixth chord (its bass notes, G and B-flat, lying of course a step on either side of the A). Similarly, when G major is established four measures later, these same stepwise relationships hold sway: here, an unproblematic, root-position tonic on the strong beats alternates with an augmented dominant chord on the weak, with the treble G-flat serving as the third of the chord (enharmonically substituting for F-sharp) and the left-hand A-sharp again exploiting the semitone relationship with the B-natural that lies on either side of it. When G major returns in measure 23, the left-hand texture changes somewhat, but the principle of alternating tonic and dominant remains in place. While the tonic here remains firmly anchored—perhaps even more so, as it is established by a leap up a fifth— the dominant is further obscured, the substitute here being a skeletal vestige of an augmented sixth chord or, more precisely, a wide-leaping figure on its two defining pitches, the flattened sixth scale degree (E-flat) and the tritone (C-sharp). The prelude’s emphasis on the conspicuous alternation between contrasting entities dominates the fugue on a number of levels as well— melodic, harmonic, and formal. Its subject begins by taking up the initial pitches in the upper part of the prelude’s left-hand rocking figure—tonic, dominant, tonic, dominant—and breathing new life into this relationship by providing them with a jaunty rhythm. As Tatyana Nikolayeva points out, the motive with which the subject begins harks back to the Symphony No.

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1 of Alexander Borodin, in which the same gesture is employed throughout the first movement, at first as a heralding fanfare in the timpani, and in the movement’s serene closing section as a gentle echo.4 This swinging figure permeates the texture of the fugue, thus reminding the listener constantly of its subtle affinity with the prelude. At the palindrome-like subject’s end, eight measures later, the tonic-dominant dance returns, but altered: here, the tonic is stressed via the repetition of the motive’s initial pitch, and the opening figure’s even-spaced equity between dominant and tonic is replaced with a strong sense of tonic closure. Such emphasis on the tonic nicely sets up the fugue’s answer (measure 9), which as stated above enters anomalously on the relative minor of G. Though completely without precedent in the cycle, this unusual move has been effectively anticipated in the subject, whose third measure (which receives a slight accent as the strong measure within two-measure groupings in the subject) outlines the G minor triad. The newfound wonder of the relative major-minor relationship provides the entire fugue with its life force. In terms of its formal-tonal plan, the fugue is founded entirely upon alternating subject-answer entrances that exploit this relationship. Yet another variety of alternation in the fugue is manifest in the contrast between the foursquare, eight-measure subject and the irregular groupings of measures that make up the many episodes. This process begins with the codetta, which follows the G minor answer (measures 17–20). Being four measures long, and beginning with the same motive with which both the subject and the answer had concluded (the repeated note that dips down to the dominant and then returns), the codetta establishes a close affinity with the subject material, promising a comfortable homogeneity throughout the fugue, both motivically and in terms of phrase rhythm. The first episode (beginning in measure 29) bears up this pattern as well. But beginning with the second episode (measure 49), the codetta material, while nearly always present within subsequent episodes, is followed by irregular groupings of additional material that disrupt the equilibrium, tipping the balance in much the same way that the various tonal excursions and substitute dominants had altered the rules of the game in the prelude.

192 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 6.11. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 21 in B-flat Major, mm 186– 193

These imbalances take on increasing dominance as the fugue progresses. A more extended episode, which significantly diverges from the fugue’s previous episodes by not beginning with the codetta material, precedes the extended stretto section. Its prominence effectively heralds the long and somewhat jagged climb to come. A series of stretti with intervening episodes of noticeably varying length leads to the fugue’s most startling moment, a rare instance of bitonality in the fourth stretto (beginning in measure 186). Here, a treble subject entrance in A major is set in dramatic relief against an entrance in the bass in the tonic key of B-flat major. Both voices are pumped up with octave doubling, causing the competing tonalities to conflict all the more sharply (ex. 6.11). Having reached this dramatic plateau, the fugue remains big to the finish. Repetition becomes the rule of the game in its final section, in which two-measure blocks of motivic material (this post-stretto section’s substitute for true subject entrances) are each stated twice verbatim, and interspersed with linking passages of by now expected varying lengths (its episodes). The lingering pitch A-flat in this section lends a folksy, modal air to the proceedings, while perhaps serving also as a reminder back to the codetta, in

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which an accented half-note A-flat had first interrupted the fugue’s diatonic opening. With the whirlwind of motivic repetition and episodic interjection in full tilt, some force of energy is required to bring the fugue to its conclusion. Shostakovich opts for a jarring, two-measure hemiola four measures from the end, which allows for two final measures to straighten out the meter with one last statement of the head motive. The hemiola relates subtly to the subject, in which two strong-weak pairs of measures are followed by three accented downbeats in a row. This same accenting of three measures in a row, which provides a large part of the contrast from the fugue’s predominantly duple phrase rhythm, appears in its final section as well, when the codetta’s motive of an accented half note that falls by semitone is repeated once more than in its original incarnation.

7

completing the cycle

Listening for the Plot In its final stretch, Shostakovich’s cycle of Preludes and Fugues takes on an increasingly enigmatic, darker-hued character. The Prelude in F Major and the Fugue in G Minor are, for instance, filled to the brim with stops and starts, pointing to an accumulation in the later stages of the cycle of the kinds of halting gestures I discussed in Chapter 5. The mysteriously stalled fragments of the Prelude in E-flat Major—which might suggest a distracted speaker losing his train of thought—also fit with this tendency. And with their direct evocation of the opening of the Symphony No. 11, which depicts a wintry quiet in St. Petersburg’s Palace Square before the brutal murder of hundreds of innocent people by the Tsar’s troops in January 1905, both the Prelude and the Fugue in C Minor create an unmistakable mood of anticipation, of palpable expectation that something momentous is in the air. With these final preludes and fugues, one begins to sense that Shostakovich aimed to chart an emotional progression throughout the cycle from carefree to anxious, thus matching the transformation from light to darkness, or from nonchalance to fiery resolve, inherent in the circle-of-fifths logic of the cycle’s tonal journey from C major to D minor. The realm of flat keys, where we find ourselves for the cycle’s final quarter, can tend to be a darker world in general. True, F major has served for centuries as a “pastoral” key, and the “heroic” key of E-flat major has illus-

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trated majestic subjects both sacred and profane—Beethoven’s Third Symphony (the “Eroica”), Bach’s Cantata No. 140 (“Wachet auf, ” or “Sleepers Awake”), the prelude to Wagner’s Das Rheingold. But in the individual preludes and fugues in these keys, Shostakovich shuns such common associations, instead calling on these tonal regions to reinforce the obscure vision conveyed by their more shadowy minor-mode counterparts. Near the cycle’s end, as the tonal journey comes full circle, something in the composer’s expressive choices conveys a different brand of momentum for the final push. Especially in the final two preludes and fugues, in F major and D minor, one senses a great deal of striving, of pushing and pulling, in the proliferation of maestoso, accelerando, ritenuto, and a tempo markings. The great tonal wheel has become heavier, it seems, the result of the accumulation of emotion and experience over time. Knowing that the final installment of this story will be cast in D minor—Mozart’s key of vengeance (the Queen of the Night’s aria “Die Hölle Rache,” or “Hell’s Revenge,” from Die Zauberflöte; the overture to Don Giovanni ), and the key of a terrifying chaos needing to be clarified through the experience of joy in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony —one wonders what kind of awesome conclusion Shostakovich might be steering us towards. While any of these pieces may, of course, be performed out of context, and thus potentially take on entirely different associations, it is important to remember that Shostakovich composed these pieces consecutively within a concentrated time frame. Sharing front and center stage with his purely musical motivation to delve deeply into the contrapuntal idiom is thus another desire, perhaps a dominant one, to be a storyteller. He clearly fashioned the cycle with a purposeful beginning (the blank slate of C major, a contemplative curtain-opener, quickly followed by the wilder, slapstick mood of A minor—the plot put into motion, as it were), a wide and heterogeneous middle (whose own center point includes the dramatic G-sharp Minor and beatific F-sharp Major), a somewhat inscrutable denouement (the final quarter of the cycle, save the last prelude and fugue), and a whopper of an ending. It thus makes sense to champion a way of listening to the cycle that is centered around the modalities of its storytelling. And while I do not want to

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open up the whole fraught issue of music and narrative, I do want to suggest that Shostakovich invites us with purpose to listen for the plot. The literary critic Peter Brooks (author of Reading for the Plot) describes the experience of reading narrative as a “dynamic operation” built on deepseated desires for temporal causality. Literary plots need to make sense because our lives need to make sense, and in reading, especially reading for the plot, we are actively fulfilling such a desire. Obviously, the wish, even the need, for coherent beginnings, middles, and endings is no less urgent in music (at least some kinds of music—at least Shostakovich’s kind of music) than it is in literature. We expect composers to design musical structures that cohere, and the particular strategies used in this process matter to us, because of this bridge between art and life, this desire for logical temporality. That is to say: just as our own individual lives have clear points of origin and cessation, and just as we strive as a species to understand larger questions of time and space and our collective role in it, so do we require of a good deal of our art some kind of clear modeling of such structures, to clarify, or at least give artistic representation to, real life’s mysteries. Brooks suggests that “one could no doubt analyze the opening paragraph of most novels and emerge in each case with the image of a desire taking on shape, beginning to seek its objects, beginning to develop a textual energetics.”1 The same rules apply to endings, when these energies reach their release points, and when our own expectations, our desires, are met or denied. The D Minor Prelude and Fugue is as conspicuously designed an ending as a piece can be. As a conclusion, it carries tremendous associative import, and it represents a profound emotional release. As we shall see in the discussion below, especially in its use of a rocking motive from Shostakovich’s contemporary song cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry, this deeply intertextual piece contrasts strongly on many levels with the cycle’s opening statement, the far less revealing Prelude and Fugue in C Major. In narrative terms, it is easy to think of this journey not only as one moving from light to darkness, but as one concerned with releasing that which has been held back, with delivering on a promise, or with confronting a situation with strong words and actions at whatever the cost. The D Minor has thus represented

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for many commentators, listeners, and performers an apotheosis, a thundering cataclysm, an epic surge. All of this brings to mind another influential book on the subject of literary narrative, Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending. Remarking upon “the continuity of apocalyptic postures” in the middle of the twentieth century, Kermode seized the moment in the mid- to late 1960s to explore the ways in which literature lends expressive representation, in its organizing principles, to the life story. Similar to Brooks, Kermode views narrative forms of art as “images of the grand temporal consonance”: they function as compensating devices for the unfathomable, unmanageable temporality of existence. And as readers (or, I would suggest, listeners), we require strategies of organization that help us to make a connection between the fiction and our material conditions. As Kermode writes, “In ‘making sense’ of the world we still feel a need . . . to experience that concordance of beginning, middle, and end which is the essence of our explanatory fictions.”2 Again, it is not my intention to delve too deeply into literary theories of narrative. Musicologists and theorists have been dancing around the question of music’s narrative abilities since time immemorial, and most will admit that no definitive statement on this issue is forthcoming. So let us assume that there is a narrative dimension to Shostakovich’s compositional thinking in the cycle of Preludes and Fugues—a strong, pronounced, carefully wrought dimension—and that our own responses to the music are, whether we realize it consciously or not, tied directly to our own personal desires as listeners, as active participants in the making of this music’s meaning. In Shostakovich’s case, some serious baggage is attached to the question of endings. In the Soviet Union, artistic narratives of all sorts were of course called upon to satisfy many other demands beyond the individual psychologies of readers, viewers, and listeners. As we discover in the work of such scholars as David Fanning and Laurel Fay, the “finale problem” was a source of some stress for Shostakovich, especially in the most public arena of the symphony. Fay elaborates on the many interpretive (and performancebased) quandaries involved with the finale of Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5, finally noting that “whether the finale of the Fifth Symphony succeeds

198

The Preludes and Fugues

ultimately in balancing the gravity of the preceding movement and the symphony as a whole and whether the Bildungsroman scenario . . . is here convincingly executed are questions that have not abated since the Fifth Symphony’s premiere.”3 Fanning, writing about the Symphony No. 10 (1953), contextualizes the problematic reception of Shostakovich’s finales in terms of both Russian and Western critical traditions and ultimately counsels that “none of Shostakovich’s finales should have its character taken for granted.”4 And in other works as well—the Symphonies No. 4 and No. 8, which both play on the time-honored C major-minor divide; the Piano Quintet; the Third String Quartet—Shostakovich’s willful embrace of expressive ambivalence, his open revealing of the “negative dialectic” at the conclusion, makes for a both psychologically and politically intriguing narrative experience. While ambiguities abound in the Preludes and Fugues on many levels, and while the cycle’s final stages do offer their fare share of expressive conundrums, its ultimate conclusion seems to wear a certain pride of character on its sleeve. The result of an increasingly strong nod towards a symphonic style later in the cycle (see especially the discussions below of the E-flat Major and C Minor Preludes and Fugues), the D Minor Prelude and Fugue transcends the role of salon-style miniature and explodes into a more public dimension. We do not know at what point he decided to conclude the cycle with a grand double fugue, or when the Jewish-inspired, rocking eighth-note motive revealed itself to him as this fugue’s second subject. The mechanisms of his plotting are not recorded in any sketchbooks; he composed too quickly and effortlessly to have left behind any record other than the completed score itself. But we do know that he had the key of D minor on his horizon as an end point during the entire process of composing the cycle, and that when he arrived at that point, he had brought the musical material to a place where a fair degree of expressive ambivalence thus far required some kind of breakthrough to clarity. Perhaps, though, the character of the D Minor Fugue is not so easily gleaned; perhaps it should not be taken for granted. After all, what meaning, what emotional state even, can be attached to the bare-bones, single-note dominant-tonic cadence with which the cycle ends? Does the fact that these pitches

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are quadrupled signify some kind of vast reserve of determination, an impenetrable wall of emotional fortitude linked by way of the melodic material of the second subject to the Jewish spirit, and perhaps by association to the Russian soul as well? Or does the key take precedence, with D minor serving as the basis for a prescribed ending on a dim note? Does the absence of harmonization in the final cadence create a more self-consciously open-ended effect—Shostakovich suggesting perhaps that Beethoven’s strategy of tonal redemption (the unnatural minor mode gloriously tipping to the major) was too easy an answer for his particular time and place? Or is the meaning of the ending best defined in more purely physical terms—the violent upheaval of two and a half hours’ worth of refined contrapuntal textures into nineteenthcentury-style bravura octaves and clangorous bells.

Prelude and Fugue No. 18 in F Minor If the Prelude in A-flat Major is cast as a comic duet, its neighboring minormode partner is a pathetic aria in the antique mold, its regal melody built upon an elegant dotted figure and its accompaniment gently coaxing in stately iambs (ex. 7.1). All is subtlety and grace in both the prelude and the fugue— formally, harmonically, motivically—to the extent that a generally enigmatic tone persists. In a sense, the F Minor represents a point of no return in the cycle, a gateway into its murkier, more emotionally and interpretively challenging final quarter. It seems to be more of a piece with the final six preludes and fugues in the cycle than with what has come before it. And yet one strong tie binds the F Minor to its immediate past. The final cadences of both the prelude and the fugue play upon the semitone between

Ex. 7.1. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 18 in F Minor, mm. 1– 4

200 The Preludes and Fugues

A and A-flat, thus recalling the final eight measures of the Prelude in A-flat Major, in which the raised tonic pitch plays a prominent role in the winding down of the already tonally unraveled main theme, which had been harmonized with parallel major chords in its reprise (ex. 7.2). Both pieces in F minor return to this scenario, establishing common ground not only between themselves but also with their major-mode partner. In both, it is an expressively ambiguous Picardy third, with other elements of the harmony negating its nod towards the major mode. In the prelude, the semitone pull from D-flat to C, set to the piece’s ubiquitous dotted figure, reinstates the minor mode with every announcement of the major third. In the fugue, the tonally ambiguous contours of the subject—which reinforce the natural minor as well as, in this final flourish, the flattened second scale degree— function similarly to dislodge the major mode. At the very least, in both pieces, the minor and major modes coexist in a fragile balance, their notably similar final cadences constructed as a site of memory, binding them irrevocably to one another. Several features of the Prelude in F Minor bring to mind Shostakovich’s symphonic style. The long-breathed opening theme, cast in expansive paragraphs, evokes any number of free-form wind solos that occur with regularity in his symphonies. Again in contrast to the predictability that characterizes the melody in the A-flat Major Prelude, this theme wanders impulsively, aloof, as if in a pondering isolation, with just enough repetition and return of the motivic material to lend it a recognizably classical architecture. Towards the end of the first major phrase section, as the melody is harmonized in thirds (rather like the pair of clarinets announcing the dance-like theme in the recapitulation of the first movement of the Symphony No. 10) and the once innocuous accompaniment gives way to ominously low bass notes, a ritenuto leads into a new tempo zone, marked Adagio (measures 21–22). Such usage of the term is wholly atypical for the cycle in general, where nearly all ritenutos function as momentary haltings of an original tempo that is ultimately restored. Only the Prelude in B Minor (perhaps not coincidentally, also built conspicuously on a dotted figure) and the Fugue in D Minor employ the marking in this way.

Ex. 7.2a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 18 in F Minor, mm. 47– 50

Ex. 7.2b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 18 in F Minor, mm. 193– 210

Ex. 7.2c. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 17 in A-flat Major, mm 79– 86

202 The Preludes and Fugues

This is perhaps the prelude’s most overt nod to Shostakovich’s symphonic rhetoric. In such contexts as the Symphony No. 8 (first and second movements), the Symphony No. 10 (first and third movements), and the Piano Quintet (first movement), the term ritenuto is employed consistently as a means of shifting from one tempo zone to another within the larger structure. Along these lines, David Fanning has cited the “arc of accelerando and ritardando” in the first movements of the Symphonies No. 5, 7, and 10 as a significant expressive device that reveals a particularly psychological edge to the music.5 The ritenutos in such cases can be considered expressive only insofar as they help to articulate this large-scale process, lending a “special eloquence to each structural juncture.”6 The structural juncture marked by the ritenuto in the F Minor Prelude is indeed special. The new Adagio marks the piece’s moment of harmonic and rhythmic defamiliarization, a short-lived yet expressively significant episode occupying the prelude’s middle, its heart left exposed. A crescendo to a subito pianissimo adds to the mystery of the moment, although it is the chromatic slips in all voices that affect the ear most dramatically. The prominence of the flattened second scale degree throughout the first melodic period lends a fair degree of aural sense to the otherwise abrupt tip to D major (measure 22): the G-flat is spelled enharmonically as F-sharp, and the other voices slip by half step—B-flat down to A in the bass, A-flat up to A in the right-hand octaves. The D major chord emerges in the texture like a ray of light, much in the way that a surprise move to A-flat major had lent desperately needed relief to the gloom of the Prelude in E Minor. The moment is unbearably short-lived: within a couple of measures, the hopeful sharp key gives way to the restored tonic, as the unified chords of the right hand begin to unravel, with motivic fragments alternating in each of two upper voices, and an accelerando poco a poco restores the Moderato tempo. When these two unwinding voices are ultimately reinstated as simultaneities, they emerge as the original iambic accompaniment figure, and the opening melody sings once again in the treble above. Another harmonic slip, again spotlighted by a pianissimo, comes early in the reprise (measure 32). Here, the rise of a third in the fourth measure

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of the theme is repeated sequentially at the level of a semitone (measures 31–32), thus marking the moment of departure from the original melody. The resulting surprise E major chord creates an effect similar to that of the D major chord that had appeared ten measures earlier. Another bout of contrapuntal unraveling ensues before the accompanimental thirds are restored, this time with the lyric melody relegated to the left hand underneath them (measures 40–41). One final passage of motivic unwinding (measures 44– 45) leads to a climactic-sounding rise that recalls the measures leading into the central D major episode. Indeed, as the rising thirds gain momentum, we anticipate a reprise of this episode. Instead, however, the semitone movement from A-flat to A in the upper voice—which previously had rested optimistically on the obscure perch of D major—now brings the prelude to its unexpected, indeed premature-sounding, conclusion on a tenuous Picardy third. The A-natural lingers, mysteriously unfulfilled, reaching ever upward against the implacable gravitational pull of the two lower voices. Tragic overtones dominate in the widely spaced concluding measures, which require careful attention to pedaling. The special pathos of the prelude lingers into the fugue, which is characterized by a significant uniformity in its melodic materials. The subject comprises a string of discrete events. Its initial rising figure announces the tonic triad. This is followed by a sequence of rising fourths, emphasizing first the flattened seventh scale degree and then the tonic. (Similar to the subject of the Fugue in F-sharp Major, these rising fourths may bring to mind the fugue in the finale of Beethoven‘s Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, Opus 110.) The flat 7 remains a strong presence in the subject’s second half, where the absence of a leading tone is conspicuous. The noodling countersubject mimics the prevailing rhythmic motive of the subject (long-short-short) while again emphasizing the flat 7. And nothing of a notably contrasting character is to be found in the codetta or episodes throughout the fugue. The result is a fugue with strong modal inflections, its monochrome subject entrances offset by unusually lengthy episodes that do nothing to offset the stately uniformity of mood. Perhaps owing to the subject’s lack of a leading tone, the fugue contains

204 The Preludes and Fugues

no strong structural cadences. Its first nontonic subject entrance, in the relative major colored by the ubiquitous lowered seventh scale degree (A-flat major with G-flat) and marked off by a poco ritenuto into an a tempo, is announced only with a fleeting dominant sonority on the final eighth note of measure 48. Even less auspicious is the lead into the stretto, which is marked with another ritenuto into an a tempo but is announced harmonically only with a weak subdominant. The fugue’s surface thus also remains glassy, hazy, ungrounded by strong harmonic progressions. Something of the prelude’s tip towards uncanny-sounding sharp-key realms can be discerned in the fugue’s central section, in which an entrance in E minor (measure 107) serves as this generally reserved piece’s most dramatic moment. The modulation is achieved again via an enharmonic spelling, as the F-flat that had served as the lowered seventh scale degree for an entrance in G-flat major is now recast as an E-natural. The shift back into the fugue’s original flat-key world is first heralded in measure 131, with the reinstatement of the G-flat via semitone voice leading from both directions—upwards from F in the treble, downwards from G in the bass. A movement from C to D-flat in the uppermost voice on the second half of the measure secures an unproblematic return to the tonic. A four-voiced stretto beginning in measure 158 begins the slow rise to mezzo-forte that functions as the fugue’s characteristically underplayed climax. Beginning in measure 169, the texture brings to mind the similar climactic passage in the Fugue in C-sharp Minor: a conspicuously extended tonic pedal in the bass with rising fragments alternating among the three upper voices. But, perhaps owing in part to the persistence of the flattened second scale degree throughout this passage, the drama is of a far more subdued quality. Indeed, as the climax recedes in a passage of descending melodic thirds (measures 189–192), the understated pathos of the prelude again creeps in. This soon gives way to the final cadential passage, which makes overt reference to the conclusion of the prelude in its spacing and texture as well as its use of the raised third. Sublimely inconclusive and enigmatic in tone, the fugue requires from the performer a subtlety of vision in order for its charms to be fully realized.

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In a brief overview of the cycle, David Fanning makes light of the Prelude and Fugue in F Minor, stating that “this is not a highly characterised piece or one that provokes significant differences of interpretation.”7 It is a strange comment to make, given the remarkable disparity between Shostakovich’s own recorded performance of the prelude and Tatyana Nikolayeva’s. Shostakovich plays the prelude at a fast clip, with his typical emotional reserve, while Nikolayeva’s significantly slower reading brings a high level of emotion to the otherwise stately theme. At the prelude’s telltale moment— the “defamiliarizing” transition into D major—Shostakovich follows his own marking, with a true subito pianissimo emerging as a surprise out of a crescendo. Strangely, and quite ineffectively, Nikolayeva decrescendoes into the pianissimo, stripping the moment of all mystery. At the prelude’s conclusion, as well, Nikolayeva is uncharacteristically unconvincing, going so far as to alter the register of the notes—taking the bass notes up an octave —and thus destroying the special textural quality achieved through the details of Shostakovich’s spacing. These differences are indeed significant and should serve as a warning to the performer that the F Minor poses subtle interpretive questions whose solutions are in no way obvious.

Prelude and Fugue No. 19 in E-flat Major The expansive and vividly scored Prelude in E-flat Major is one of the cycle’s most orchestrally conceived. As in its relative-minor partner in C minor, which has a close affinity with the Symphony No. 11, one senses a particular concern here for texture, timbre, tone color, and line. The prelude’s narrative arc features a bold, assertive statement in block chords that is subdued (from forte to pianissimo and from the middle of the keyboard to its lower end) over the course of six paragraphs by a contrasting element that, by virtue of its tonal, rhythmic, and textural profile, appears either threatening or ironic. It is in some ways a dark tale, or a tale about darkness, and the murmuring fugue does little, if anything, to alter the general mood established in the prelude. Perhaps there is one small glimmer of light at the fugue’s conclusion, when the original treble register of the prelude’s opening is restored.

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In a large-scale work so firmly grounded upon a cycle of tonal key relationships, and in which the characters of individual keys often convey strong associations, one might expect something grandiose upon reaching E-flat major at this point in the cycle. As I noted in this chapter’s introduction, this key has for centuries brought with it associations of the divine and the heroic, and Shostakovich was surely aware of such connotations. The noble opening statement of the prelude begins with this promise of E-flat major intact. But the situation quickly becomes more complicated, and we soon see that Shostakovich’s E-flat major is darkly hued, unstable as a tonal region and thus insecure as the foundation for an epic drama. Its role is more that of a harbinger of the expressively elusive tone that characterizes the final quarter of the cycle in general, and of the cycle’s grand symphonic finale in D minor. The composer’s treatment of E-flat major here is particularly interesting in light of several other instances of this key in his output. In the brazenly small-scale Symphony No. 9 (composed in 1945—his ironic, neoclassical response to the end of World War II), the choice of this particularly associative key seems intended as part of the antiheroic stance. Compare the near-purely diatonic opening theme of its first movement with those of two later works, the Cello Concerto No. 1 (1959) and the String Quartet No. 9 (1964), in which the tonality is immediately obscured by an emphasis on nondiatonic pitches, particularly those that lie a semitone away from the tonic and dominant (ex. 7.3). These two works feature a more original approach to the key of E-flat major, bringing them closer in spirit to his prelude and fugue. Indeed, the ending of the prelude highlights the same tension between the tonic E-flat and the two nondiatonic pitches of A-natural and D-natural played out in the opening measures of the Ninth Quartet. Such a treatment of this typically heroic key suggests that Shostakovich aims to thwart expectations, to offer not joy, optimism, or faith, but rather modern, and perhaps sometimes grim, alienation. A stronger, similarly ominous set of associations is established in the prelude’s texture and narrative plan, in which widely spaced, highly contrasted elements are initially set in stark alternation and then ultimately joined in a mysterious, perhaps slightly uncomfortable union. Shostakovich had ef-

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Ex. 7.3a. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, Opus 70, first movement, mm. 1– 4

Ex. 7.3b. Shostakovich, Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat Major, Opus 107, first movement, mm. 1– 9

Ex. 7.3c. Shostakovich, String Quartet No. 9 in E-flat Major, Opus 117, first movement, mm. 1– 12

fectively employed this same scenario several times earlier in the cycle, in the Preludes in G Major, E Major, and C-sharp Minor. Each of these also portrays a relationship between disparate textural entities that move between separation and convergence. The prelude begins with a long, fourteen-measure phrase that floats along

208 The Preludes and Fugues

steadily in 43 time, first at the leisurely pace of the dotted half note, and next with dotted-quarter movement in an inner voice. Here, too, one’s attention is drawn towards significantly contrasting elements: the natural triple subdivision of the 43 measure in those measures featuring only dotted half-note chords, and the duple division of the measure that dominates the texture once the inner voice begins to move. When the second thematic element— a puckish, chromatically slippery woodwind-like duet above a long tonic pedal—arrives to begin the next long phrase breath, the subdivision returns to triple, the quarter-note movement representing the most active musical voice in the texture. These first two phrases establish the general harmonic tone for the prelude as a whole, with significant chromatic elements upsetting any semblance of tonic stability. The first chromatic slip occurs within the first phrase (measures 10–11), when the bass D slips down to D-flat and the upper voice moves from F to G-flat. The resulting flat mediant chord in second inversion (G-flat major 64 ) slips effortlessly back to the dominant harmony in measure 12, setting up the first internal cadence. Such sliding is more pronounced in the staccato chirpings of the second phrase. Here, the G-flat from the first phrase takes on a more prominent role, as the upper voice of the duet passes through this pitch on its stepwise descent, souring the progression mi-re-do. Equally strong in this section are the pitches D-flat (the flattened seventh scale degree, which had also been involved in the first phrase’s move to the flat media), C-flat (the flat submediant), and A-natural (the raised fourth scale degree, which returns significantly at the prelude’s conclusion). Like the opening phrase, the second statement of the chorale-like theme (measures 40–69) concludes on a firm tonic, here dramatically enhanced by a closed-position tonic chord in the piano’s middle register. This long phrase involves a great deal of tonal wandering over several waves of crescendo that take us from the initial level of mezzo-forte to triple-forte. (The final push involves a crescendo from fortissimo to the final, widely spaced tonic chord in measure 68. Shostakovich noted triple-forte in the autograph manuscript, but that marking does not appear in the first or any

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subsequent editions.) Unpredictable voice leading presents limitless possibilities for the defining of momentary substitute tonics. Perhaps most significantly, a slight tonicization of E minor (measures 45–47) foreshadows a later nod to the same key (measure 116); note, of course, the semitonal relationship between this key and the tonic. The prelude’s second half—from the return of the staccato duet to the end —involves the gradual union of the heretofore separated elements. Expressively, the idea here seems to be the portrayal of a kind of force that works to break down the long phrases of the prelude’s first half, reducing its sweeping arcs to fragments, which are then more easily encroached upon. The continuing tonal ambiguity invites particular types of interpretive language— the thematic elements seem to influence one another, and they seem contaminated, invaded. An inexorably sinking tessitura to the prelude’s end only serves to reinforce such imagery. As the harmonic progression of the dotted-half-note chords comes to a final rest on the tonic, the staccato motive is left picking away at the mortar between its chord tones, the A- and D-naturals a mere semitone away from these foundations. Unresolved semitones lie at the core of the fugue as well, whose subject represents the closest relative in this cycle to that of the equally craggy, yet expressively quite different, Fugue in D-flat Major (No. 15). While the subject of that fugue, marked marcatissimo sempre al Fine, spirals chromatically outward with dizzying momentum, this one remains confined to a narrow range and even seems to collapse inward upon itself in its final, incomplete subphrase. Several characteristics of the fugue’s subject are worth paying attention to (ex. 7.4). First, it is cast in three measures of 45 meter, and its sinewy line can be thought of in terms of four irregularly proportioned subphrases: the first and the second are identical, the third is a slight expansion of the first two, and the fourth, featuring a rearrangement of the original subphrase’s rhythm, is left hanging both harmonically and rhythmically—on the second scale degree, and on an eighth note at the end of the bar. Second, while its range is a mere perfect fifth, it outlines not the tonic triad but the submediant—C minor—with its outer limits being C and G. Third, its frequent use of F-flat (the flattened, Phrygian second scale de-

210 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 7.4. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 19 in E-flat Major, mm. 1– 6

gree) not only casts a modal shadow on the tonic of E-flat major but also works to confuse the emerging chord of C minor, bringing with it suggestions of C major (F-flat being enharmonic with E-natural). As if the subject itself were not confined enough, the countersubject (bass clef, measures 4–6) is even more restrained, its entire range falling within a major second, or whole step. Once the fugue is in full gear, with both subject and countersubject in constant motion, it begins to take on a rather unsettling character, a directionless sense, both tonally and rhythmically, pervading the unchanging surface. It murmurs nervously, buzzes abrasively, mumbles incoherently. One senses the shadow of Béla Bartók here, in particular his fondness for “night music.” All of this seems reinforced by the fact that, while marked forte, the fugue does not share with its closest relatives in the cycle (the Fugues in D-flat Major and G-sharp Minor) the marcatissimo marking. In contrast to those aggressive statements, the E-flat Major Fugue requires not only a firm touch but a round tone. Its directionless semitonal mutterings call not for an angry attack but for a uniformly dark and full sound. The clarified timbral colors made possible by the widely spaced textures of the prelude are not possible here. Instead, one might consider aiming for a uniformity of touch, creating the feeling of a closed-space semitonal improvisation, or evoking a land-

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scape of gently rolling low hills set in muted grays. Even the accents should not be too sharp, but rather only rolls of thunder in the distance. While few, if any, significant differences of interpretation can be discerned in the performance history of the Fugue in E-flat Major, the prelude has proven more malleable. Shostakovich himself did not record this prelude and fugue. Tatyana Nikolayeva, whose three recordings of the piece are similar, conceives of different tempos for the contrasting chordal and staccato elements, with the opening theme being expansive, significantly slower than Shostakovich’s tempo marking, and full of rubato. Boris Petrushansky takes an even more flexible approach, and the general consistency of tempo in his recording makes for unusually slow staccato quarter notes in the second theme. In a piece that lasts roughly two and a half minutes, the full minute of added length in his recording seems an extraordinary interpretive intervention. One of the more satisfying accounts of the E-flat Major Prelude is that of the Calefax Reed Ensemble, whose instrumentation (oboe, clarinet, saxophone, bass clarinet, bassoon) makes for ideal tone colors throughout —in the staccato theme, the close-spaced chords, and the generally monochrome fugue.

Prelude and Fugue No. 20 in C Minor For those who know Shostakovich’s symphonies, it is difficult not to hear in the Prelude and Fugue in C Minor a reference to the opening of the Symphony No. 11 in G Minor. Composed in 1956–57, Shostakovich’s epic symphony, which draws upon popular revolutionary songs, commemorates the events of January 1905, when hundreds of citizens were murdered by the Tsar’s troops in Palace Square, outside what is now the Hermitage Museum. There are also those who believe that Shostakovich intended in this piece to comment on a more recent act of brutal governmental force, the Soviets’ murderous response to the Hungarian uprising in the autumn of 1956. Whatever the case, Shostakovich was clearly dealing in his symphonic work with questions of human freedom and the abuse of power. Both the Prelude and the Fugue in C Minor begin with the same figure that

212 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 7.5a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 20 in C Minor, mm. 1– 8

Ex. 7.5b. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 20 in C Minor, mm. 1– 4

opens the symphony in muted, pianissimo strings, depicting Palace Square at dawn (ex. 7.5). Of course, the Preludes and Fugues were composed well before the Symphony, and one would not want to discuss the similarity in terms of intentional quoting. Nor does it make sense in programmatic terms, for unlike the symphony the Preludes and Fugues possess neither an official nor a “sub-textual” program. But on a general expressive level, one notices in this prelude and fugue a high seriousness and a distinctly orchestral conception. The Prelude in C Minor shares several elements in common with its relative-major partner in E-flat. Each is conceived in a sequence of broad paragraphs, or theme-spaces, in which two distinct and contrasting textures are first introduced separately and gradually begin to interact, and in which the dynamic level sinks to a low point at the conclusion. In general terms, the contrasting thematic elements in the C Minor Prelude correspond roughly to those in the Prelude in E-flat Major: the first involves chords in a lower register and the second, appearing in the treble, hovers as a singled-out voice above long pedal tones in the low bass. The differences in details, however, are of equal importance. In the C Minor Prelude’s first thematic space, Shostakovich draws upon one of his

Ex. 7.5c. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 11 in G Minor, Opus 103, first movement, mm. 1– 6

214 The Preludes and Fugues

favorite textures: a long and winding melodic line doubled in two voices spaced two octaves apart. These lines are harmonized in the space that lies between them, with whole notes in two other voices, themselves doubled at the octave. The second thematic element is a solo recitative easily imagined, with its smooth legato and long-breathed contours, as one of the numerous rhapsodic wind solos in Shostakovich’s symphonies. In both thematic spaces, one observes that a strictness of rhythm is not of the essence, but rather a fluidity and flexibility of line and a keen awareness of tone color. An interesting ambiguity characterizes the phrasing of the prelude’s eightmeasure opening space. While the melody and harmonic plan clearly make sense in two groups of four measures — the quarter-note D in measure 4 serving as a leading-tone pick-up to the E-flat on the downbeat of measure 5 — Shostakovich instead organizes the material into asymmetrical phrases of five and three measures respectively. In disrupting a natural foursquare tendency in the melody, Shostakovich adds a more dramatic, speechlike quality to the section. As a poetic statement, it comes across far more like a folk story than proper verse. The two phrases do not mirror one another in a singsong fashion. Rather, the first seems dramatically long (especially in a proper Adagio), and the second, beginning oddly on a clear yet never resolved dominant seventh of the relative major, feels rather like a codetta of sorts, which swells and recedes, dissolving ultimately into the low dominant pedal that provides the foundation for the free-flowing lyric melody that next enters the scene. The tonal plan of the prelude does involve some of the trademark harmonic wandering that characterizes the cycle’s language in general. But it is of a more subdued, less rhetorically highlighted variety. The two main key areas other than the tonic that play any significant role at all are the relative major (E-flat major, which dominates much of the prelude’s middle section with a lengthy pedal point beginning in measure 27) and its own parallel minor (E-flat minor, whose presence begins to be felt in measure 46). One does see in the final cadence some evidence of Shostakovich’s characteristic penchant for sliding half steps: the B-flat major chord that arrives at the end of the E-flat minor section (measure 52) melts by two sliding half

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steps into D major (measure 54), serving a local dominant function to G minor, which arrives firmly in measure 55. Partly because of the general tonal obscurity, and partly because the melodic line above outlines the cycle’s familiar 1– 5– 6 motive, G minor has the feeling here of a firm tonic. Only when the melody is transposed does a final cadence on the tonic become possible. The Picardy third lends a sweetness to this final breath, the diminuendo from pianissimo to triple-piano contributing to a sense of subdued (if you will, antiheroic) satisfaction. Like its predecessor in E-flat major, the Prelude in C Minor is ultimately rather free in form. While both begin by establishing clear alternating thematic zones, their second halves are characterized by a more subtle interplay between the thematic elements and, consequently, a less clearly articulated structure. In the C Minor Prelude, the first textural change to disrupt the previously sharp division between themes occurs late into the second statement of the rhapsodic melody. Here, in a way that brings to mind similar textures throughout the Prelude in E Major, the space between the pedal point and the treble melody is filled in, harmonized with a sweet, subdominant-feeling A-flat major chord. Once this space has been breached, things change for the first theme-texture as well, its sense of being firmly anchored upset more frequently by staggered movement among the voices (for instance, measures 38– 42). Along with these nuances to the texture, the slow tempo aids in obscuring any clear sense of formal direction from this point out, leaving the prelude to find its quiet peace without active punctuation. And the stage is set for the fugue to launch another quiet meditation on the same turn-figure with which the prelude began. In some ways, the Fugue in C Minor conforms to the general pattern carried through the cycle as a whole. Its exposition features a four-measure codetta that separates the first two subject entrances from the second pair, and the material from this codetta is used consistently throughout the fugue in the episodes. The first and second entrances after the exposition arrive in the expected keys of E-flat major (measure 26) and A-flat major (measure 40), and the third, which serves as the point of furthest tonal remove between the exposition and the stretto section, is in A minor, which of course

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marks a characteristic slide by semitone from the A-flat major of the previous section. Each of these entrances is harmonized by a submediant chord on the opening half note, creating a smooth elision and somewhat ambiguous tonality. At eighteen measures, the fourth episode (beginning in measure 64) is over twice as long as any of the previous episodes; as such, it marks a dramatic passage of retransition into the stretto. Because the winding string of eighth notes that characterizes the episode is so predominant in this section, the two voices carrying the subject in the first stretto (beginning in measure 82) are accompanied by a freestyle variation on this theme in the bass. This represents another kind of elision, to match those moments in the first half when a subject arrived as harmonized by the submediant instead of the tonic. The upper voices here carry the fugue subject, in the soprano, and the subject doubly augmented, in the alto, marking a strong resemblance to the Fugue in A-flat Major, an affinity one senses in many respects on the final page or two of the C Minor Fugue. Two subsequent stretti follow. In the first (measure 94), the two voices in stretto are joined again by the meandering episode-like melody, as well as a pedal point in the bass, while the second (measure 103) reverts to three voices. When the subject appears for its final statement (measure 113), it is no longer in stretto, but rather doubled at the octave in the bass register. It thus hearkens back to the opening of the prelude, reinforcing the unity between prelude and fugue made most conspicuous in their shared opening melody. Here, at fugue’s end, however, the motive is menacingly altered, the intervals surrounding its central note changed from two whole steps to a whole step below and a semitone above. The resulting Phrygian-flavored minor second seems to be the instigator behind a ritenuto that ushers in the final statement of the episode theme, in the hopeful pianissimo glow of C major. A dramatic sense of spacing—another throwback to the concerns of the prelude—in the fugue’s concluding eight bars requires some pianistic problem solving. (In this way, too, the C Minor and A-flat Major Fugues are similar.) Shostakovich himself seems not to have been able to reach the interval of a

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major tenth without breaking it: in his recording of the fugue, he plays the low Cs in measures 118, 120, and 122 as grace notes. Others come up with similar solutions (Tatyana Nikolayeva, for instance, who also plays grace notes in measures 118 and 120). Even those whose hands can span the interval of the major tenth, however, have to figure out the final four measures, in which the two low Cs must be sustained below two moving upper voices that cannot be taken with the right hand alone. One or the other of these bass pedal Cs ultimately has to be given up—which Shostakovich of course realized, thus supplying restatements of each of them before the fugue’s end.

Prelude and Fugue No. 22 in G Minor Saturated with sigh figures, heavy rocking motives, and the 1– 5– 6 contour encountered so many times throughout the cycle, the Prelude and Fugue in G Minor bears a close relation to the preludes and fugues discussed in Chapter 5. The fugue in particular can be linked expressively to several of the cycle’s more brooding, folk-inspired fugues, especially the one in Csharp minor, with which it shares a number of key characteristics. The prelude also captures something of this folk-epic quality, although it also stands out in the cycle for its unique texture, a near-constant stream of eighth notes meticulously phrased (with only two measures of exception) into groups of two, and the cycle’s single use of the term tranquillo. Though definitely not a lament, the prelude certainly provides an opportunity for gentle sobbing. Its long phrases, however, could also easily be interpreted otherwise—as gently rolling waves, or a chilly autumn breeze. Shostakovich is careful not to let the unchanging flow of eighth notes render the music predictable. From the initial phrase, he seems concerned with playing upon the listener’s expectations, establishing an effective tension between the stability of the texture and the irregularity of other elements. For instance, the initial group of four measures, which progress from the tonic to the dominant in the right hand’s arpeggiated chords while hovering securely over G minor in the left hand, is followed asymmetrically by a group of three, in which the distant harmony of E-flat minor is emphasized. (The

218 The Preludes and Fugues

F-sharp of the dominant chord in measure 4 becomes G-flat in measure 5, which is accompanied by a trademark slip by semitone in the bass from G to G-flat.) The imbalance of the phrase grouping is palpable: measure 7 is left unfinished, its melodic line hanging in midair, cut off abruptly with a rest, and the harmony just as surprisingly shifting back to the tonic for the downbeat of measure 8. Having established such irregularity in the opening phrase, Shostakovich toys with expectations again in the next group. Here, while each of the subphrases lasts four measures, thus restoring some sense of equilibrium, the total number of subphrases is three, which works to keep a sense of imbalance on the surface. An expressive dynamic swell across measures 17–19 serves as a necessary marker for the premature end of this phrase section —a device that Shostakovich retains in the fugue, where he uses both dynamics and tempo modification as structural markers. Once again, the restoration of G minor at the end of the second phrase (measure 20) is achieved by way of abrupt semitone voice leading in two voices (B to B-flat in the left hand, F-sharp to G in the right) and a mysterious leap from Dsharp (our first phrase’s E-flat recalled) to G in the bass. With the third go-round of a phrase beginning on the tonic G minor, order is maintained for two initial four-measure phrases. One senses that we have entered the prelude’s hazy, developmental middle, however, when the third subphrase is extended beyond this length, as the right and left hands switch places (with the two-note slur figure moving in the piano’s lower register), and with the tonality perched ambiguously between C major and C minor. A similar play of major and minor on the tonic of B around measure 42 leads to yet another magic slip back to G minor in measure 45, which serves as a point of structural recapitulation and launches the prelude’s second half. The dynamic swell that had marked off an earlier section (measures 17–19) returns to fulfill the same function here, with the structural division also being established by the two hands taking back their initial roles in the twopart texture. A subphrase of five measures over G minor at the beginning of the prelude’s second half serves to maintain its appealing interchange between the

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Ex. 7.6. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 22 in G Minor, mm. 67– 72

expected and the surprising. As in the opening phrase, the harmony slips by half step to E-flat minor (measure 50), which itself lasts for another five measures before the phrase is extended and the hands once again trade their motives (measure 55). As the prelude winds its way through this more seamless second part, the texture is suddenly interrupted when the two-note sigh groupings are replaced momentarily (measures 67–68) by a fluid legato scale in the left hand and a sequence of broader two-note figures on quarter notes in the right, which are of course augmentations of the prelude’s trademark eighth-note sigh figure (ex. 7.6). This moment functions as a relation to the many halting gestures found throughout the cycle—moments of high rhetorical significance in which longer note values and distant harmonies create floating or static spaces towards the end of a piece. The textural rupture lasts even into the restoration of the eighth-note stream in the left hand in measure 69—the right hand’s chords creating a five-measure grouping whose broad syncopation functions as a segue into the prelude’s final phrase section. The distant key of B-flat minor is tonicized in this section, most strongly with the outline of a diminished seventh chord on A in measure 71. But the diminished seventh chord is quickly transformed into a C major-minor seventh chord (measure 72) whose function sounds anything but dominant. Its

220 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 7.7. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 22 in G Minor, mm. 1– 5

own bass note begins to slide upward by semitone, first to D-flat, then to D and E-flat, establishing the rocking between 5 and flat 6 that will become an essential feature of the fugue’s subject. The prelude thus ends on a series of questions, the secure anchor of root-position G minor completely absent here, and the final sonority, a second-inversion tonic triad, seeming more a dissonance than a resolution. Comparing the subjects of the Fugues in G Minor and C-sharp Minor, one notices a string of obvious connections (ex. 7.7). Both last five measures in 43 time, both emphasize the cycle’s prominent 1– 5– 6 motive, both employ a stepwise figure on half notes that rock back and forth from the tonic below, and both are marked Moderato, pianissimo, and legato sempre. Like the C-sharp Minor, the Fugue in G Minor possesses a folk-like quality, and several characteristics aid in creating its pronounced sense of storytelling. For one, as we saw in the prelude, Shostakovich provides structural markers in the form of either dynamic swells (measures 13– 14, 76–77) or tempo modification (measures 29, 62), which might convey the impression of a narrator taking a deep breath before moving on to read the next paragraph. Additionally, the fugue’s unusual lack of a strict countersubject allows for a freer use of the stream of eighth notes that serves loosely as the countersubject-like agent; the performer is given ample opportunity, as orator or narrator, to bend and stretch across this motive and thus create drama, suspense, and release. This becomes especially important during the pair of entrances on B-flat and F major (measures 30–40), where the eighth-note material is especially sensuous and free. Perhaps the fugue’s most salient characteristic is its effective employment of the stretto principle. Atypically for the fugues in this cycle, one finds a point

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Ex. 7.8. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 22 in G Minor, mm. 30– 34

of stretto as early as the first post-exposition subject entrance in the standard key of the relative major (B-flat major, beginning in measure 30). While not a full-blown stretto, the point of imitation here nevertheless gives the impression of forward motion, and perhaps of impatience, as the narrative progresses. (In this way, it bears some resemblance to the ambitious Fugue in D-sharp Minor from Book I of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, whose second section also begins with an allusion to stretto.) The false stretto in this entrance on B-flat major allows for a staggered rocking motive in parallel tenths between the low and middle voices, and it also brings about the unusual and appealing harmony of a major-seventh chord built on E-flat (measure 33), which melts effortlessly back into the momentary tonic of B-flat (ex. 7.8). The false stretto effect is used during the pair of entrances in E-flat and A-flat major later, which of course places the onus on Shostakovich to produce something truly special during the actual stretto section in the fugue’s later stages. He does not disappoint: a series of three points of stretto begins in measure 78 and lasts until the end of the fugue, fifty-one measures later. In each of these stretti (in G minor, measure 78; C major, measure 88; and A-flat minor, measure 104), only one of the voices constitutes a statement of the full subject. The others emphasize only its turning head-motive, creating the effect of a flowering, a fragrant bursting into bloom for the fugue’s long final section. The strong sense of drama throughout this section is enhanced by a hearkening back to the tonal language that dominated the prelude: the key of A-flat minor for the third stretto represents a purely semitonal relationship with C major, the key of the previous stretto. In the episodic space between these stretti, every pitch of the C major triad ultimately slips by a semitone to produce eventually the key of A-flat minor.

222 The Preludes and Fugues

Moreover, each of the pitches of A-flat minor must slip once again by semitone to produce the fugue’s tonic key of G minor, which is eventually restored in measure 114. The episodes of the G Minor Fugue are especially effective in producing these dramatic shifts between sections and key areas. In the exposition’s codetta (measures 11–14), a constant stream of eighth notes is produced in the interchange between the two voices in stepwise motion. In the first fullblown episode (beginning in measure 25), the movement is intensified as a result of the added third voice. The dramatic climb in register, enhanced by a crescendo, signifies movement, or perhaps some kind of encroachment, but the tide is turned by way of a diminuendo and poco ritenuto (measures 28–29), which like the similar swell in measures 13–14 marks off the end of one section and the beginning of the next. Subsequent episodes utilize the sequence of stepwise ascents or descents to similar dramatic ends. The third episode (beginning in measure 54) is the longest thus far and includes a false subject entrance in C major (measure 60) at the peak of its crescendo, which effectively balances all of the false strettos throughout the fugue. This leads to a long period of winding down and ultimately the diminuendo and ritenuto that we by now have come to expect during this fugue’s structural joints—a sense of stretching at points of transition, of tugging at the seams. The fourth and sixth episodes (beginning in measures 73 and 109 respectively) both feature staggered, syncopated descending lines whose resulting dissonances sound crushingly harsh over a sustained pedal in the bass. Both of these episodes lead into stretto statements of the subject in G minor and thus dramatize the distances between the home key and the numerous nether regions that this fugue explores. Moreover, these passages might be said to contain strong associations with the lamenting two-note slurs of the prelude. The final statement of the subject in the tonic, beginning in measure 114 over a lengthy dominant pedal point, is extended, such that the tail end of the subject contains one extra turn of the rocking motive from the fourth to the third scale degree. In the fugue’s final eight measures, while the bass sustains a hard-earned tonic pedal, the subject’s head motive is continually

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sounding, swirling in the breeze of eighth notes, wafting above the rocking figure that persists to the end. Its progress having been characterized throughout by dramatic ebbs and flows of tempo and dynamics, a series of two ritenutos is necessary to bring this incessantly forward-moving fugue to a close.

Prelude and Fugue No. 23 in F Major David Fanning has written that the Prelude and Fugue in F Major together add up to “an elevated, consolatory experience before the final onslaught” of the Prelude and Fugue in D Minor.8 Indeed, it is difficult—given the obvious climactic quality of the D Minor Prelude and Fugue, and its conclusion of the cycle in that most associative of keys—not to think of the penultimate F major pair in such narrative terms. Perhaps of all of the cycle’s preludes and fugues, the one in F major seems to need its relative-minor partner in order to define itself; it cannot truly stand alone successfully extracted from the cycle. In particular, the final measures of the fugue possess an unusual inconclusiveness—the result mainly of an emphasis on the subdominant harmony and the sixth scale degree—that begs for some contextualization, some sense of purpose from beyond its own borders. The Prelude in F Major features several dramatic, highly rhetoricized displays of semitonal slipping. In tonal terms, it may be the cycle’s most freely wandering piece: throughout its course, crystal clear articulations of various tonal areas alternate with passages of heightened instability, in which the voice leading becomes utterly unpredictable. Such moments give the impression that something is being snatched from one’s grasp or is disappearing before one’s eyes. The slow tempo—Adagio with a quarter note indicated at 48, making it the slowest individual piece in the entire cycle (the next slowest being the B-flat Minor Fugue, whose quarter note is marked at 54)—aids in establishing this elusive quality by maintaining a constant feeling of anticipation. Moreover, its thirty-one measures are saturated with ritenuto and a tempo markings, which produce its most palpable tension. As early as the second measure, the flat submediant of D-flat major is toni-

224 The Preludes and Fugues

cized, the result of a prevalence of flattened scale degrees that represent not so much a modal borrowing from the parallel minor as an immediate tendency to slip unexpectedly by semitone. The first of three large-scale phrase sections (measures 1–11) takes us on a journey in which the semitone looms large in the tonal narrative. A thematic motto with a distinct rhythmic profile spread across three beats (quarter note, sixteenth-note turn, quarter note) is sounded in the tonic in the opening measure. After the move to D-flat major in measure 2, several measures of tonal wandering take us to a restatement of the opening motto in D major (measure 7), which of course has a semitonal relationship to D-flat major. As soon as the three-beat motto is sounded, however, the flattened scale degrees return to tonicize D-flat major once again (measure 10) before the tonic of F major is finally reestablished to close the section in measure 11. The resulting tonal plan is a palindrome (F major→D-flat major→D major→D-flat major→F major) at whose center lies the semitonal shift that animates the prelude on every level. The prelude’s overall structure is marked by repeating statements of the opening motto that alternate with long, wandering phrases. The second of three large-scale sections (measures 12–20) serves as the developmental core (ex. 7.9). At its outset, the motto is sounded in the left hand, representing the first absence of the bass octaves that lent the first section its particular grounded quality. The resulting instability is made even more pronounced by a far more ambiguous harmonization of the motto than has been experienced thus far. One senses that C minor may emerge as a tonal center, but as early as measure 13 (just as in measure 2) flattened scale degrees steer us into murkier waters. Anxiety builds for several measures, heightened via a crescendo marking, and reaches its apex in measure 15, in which the right hand’s texture is fractured into two components, offset rhythmically and marked by rocking semitones, some marked tenuto. (This moment serves as a harbinger of the fugue that follows, in whose episodes the rocking semitones play a prominent role.) All of this instability leads to a magical slide into A major from measure 16 into measure 17, which begins a passage that—with its alternating ritenuto and a tempo markings for six consecutive measures—feels much

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Ex. 7.9. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 23 in F Major, mm. 12– 21

like one of the cycle’s ubiquitous halting gestures. A major gives way, again via semitonal slipping, to a less secure hinting at G-flat major in measure 20, which quickly disappears during a remarkably mysterious passage involving a ritenuto, a diminuendo, and a rare eighth-note quintuplet, all of which serve gesturally as a continuation of the formal and tonal enstrangement that began with the move to A major several measures before. The air is cleared at the downbeat of measure 21, which represents an obvious recapitulation—with the exception of the pianissimo marking, everything is exactly the same as the prelude’s opening for two full measures, which, at

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the slow tempo, seems a long time. D-flat major is once again tonicized in measure 23, but suddenly, on the second beat of measure 24, the motto is sounded in the key of G major. Just as surprisingly, the tonality once again turns on a dime, with a move back to F major on the downbeat of measure 26. We experience some hint of D minor in this measure, but as the bass slips in measure 27 from D to D-flat, we sense that this third section is loosely mirroring the first, in which strong tonicizations of F major framed movements to D and Dflat. The difference here, however, is of the utmost significance: the bass note D-flat serves not as the foundation of a tonal area but simply as a member of the minor subdominant harmony (B-flat minor) within the final cadential progression towards the F major tonic. One senses that F major has absorbed, or accommodated, all tonal interlopers by this point, which lends the four-measure coda that begins in measure 28 a special serenity. Indeed, while the pitch D-flat sticks around for the first two measures of this coda, it functions only as a harmonic color element. In one sense, it can be heard as part of a major mediant harmony (A major, with its third enharmonically spelled—a substitute dominant over a tonic pedal), which creates an allusion back to the haunting shift to A major in the prelude’s central section. Alternatively, and perhaps more appropriately, the D-flat functions not so much as part of a chord but rather as an element within a semitone descent, or turn figure, in the inner voice: C→D→D-flat→C. This too, of course, hearkens back to earlier moments in the prelude, in which the D-flat semitone played so prominent a role. It should come as no surprise that the D and the D-flat return to play prominent roles in the fugue, which features subject entrances in the keys of D minor (measure 32) and D-flat major (measure 52). These entrances take place within the standard formal plan established by most of the cycle’s fugues: an exposition with codetta, episodes that slip mainly into flat-scaledegree regions, a first post-exposition subject entrance in the relative minor (the above-mentioned D minor entrance), a series of episodes in contrasting keys (D-flat major, E minor), a long episode (the fourth, beginning in measure 89) that leads into the stretto, and a series of points of stretto—in the tonic (measure 102), C major (measure 109), and B-flat minor (measure 121),

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Ex. 7.10. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 23 in F Major, mm. 14– 19

the last of which of course hearkens back to the end of the prelude and its various uses of the pitch D-flat. The combination of a wide-spanned and highly contoured subject (which uses six of the seven pitches in the key—only the leading tone is missing), a fair degree of expressive markings for the subject (two crescendo-decrescendo swells and a tenuto marking), and an active countersubject in streaming eighth notes makes for a fairly animated fugue, even if its general character lies on the gentler side. The rocking semitone between F and G-flat in the codetta (measures 16–18) recalls the tense developmental rise in the prelude (see measure 15 especially), and this shape is featured heavily in the fugue’s subsequent episodes (ex. 7.10). In terms of performance, it might be brought out expressively as a conspicuous link between the prelude and the fugue. One further performance issue arises in the C major stretto section (measures 109–115), in which the pianist must break the line in order to maneuver several wide gaps. Here, the challenge is to maintain the even flow of contrapuntal lines and not to let the quick leaping disturb the fugue’s moderate temperament. Akin to the concluding page of the Fugue in A-flat Major, in which literal repetitions of motivic fragments serve to quell its overall dramatic surge, the ending of the Fugue in F Major is marked by an easing of tension brought

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about by a number of factors. The final statement of the subject’s head motive appears (measure 133) on the subdominant, which serves to erase once and for all the D-flat that had pervaded the textures of both the prelude and the fugue and lasted in the fugue all the way up to the preceding measure. This two-measure statement is repeated verbatim in a hushed pianissimo (measures 135–136) and is followed by a four-measure concluding passage in which the stepwise rocking motive (now in whole steps in the upper voice, C→D) is coupled with repetitions of a short, eighth-note fragment, clearly derived from the countersubject, in the other two voices. No ritenuto is marked here: instead, one final crescendo-decrescendo swell marks the fugue’s last breath, and the melodic la-ti-do in the bass, with its lingering emphasis on the pitch D, seems to beckon us forward into the realm of D minor. As I mentioned earlier, the ending of the F Major Fugue is hardly conclusive. Sensing that the end of the cycle was imminent, Shostakovich clearly did not wish to come to a full stop at this point. An examination of the autograph manuscript, in which Shostakovich dated the completion of each prelude and each fugue in the cycle, reinforces this idea: both the Fugue in F Major and the Prelude in D Minor are dated February 23, 1951. This is one of only two instances in the entire cycle (the other being the Fugue in A-flat Major and the Prelude in F Minor) in which Shostakovich completed two separate pieces on the same day. The final push to the summit was at hand.

Prelude and Fugue No. 24 in D Minor In contrast to its more enigmatic relative-major partner, the Prelude and Fugue in D Minor can easily stand on its own extracted from the cycle. As the cycle’s monumental finale, however, it is perhaps best experienced in context, as a summation, an emotional climax that communicates the soul of the cycle in a single, expansive gesture. Grand in scale on many levels— dynamic range, formal design, pianistic textures, expressive markings—this piece resounds with intertextual associations, pointing beyond itself in mul-

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tiple directions. One thinks first of Shostakovich’s symphonies. Tatyana Nikolayeva noted a likeness between the D Minor Prelude and Fugue and the finale of the Symphony No. 5, both expressively and in their tonal schemes, which chart a progression from D minor to D major.9 Several other commentators have discerned similarities of contour and affect (or intonation) between the fugue’s second subject (beginning in measure 111) and a figure in the first movement of the Symphony No. 10 (at rehearsal 17; ex. 7.11a–b). And the fugue, once it has moved beyond its second exposition and acts less and less like a fugue, begins texturally and rhetorically to resemble the transitional and developmental zones in the epic first movements of the Eighth and Tenth Symphonies, where chaotic swirls and pulsing rhythms (sometimes of the militaristic variety) combine exhilaratingly. The associations that the Prelude and Fugue in D Minor conjures are not limited to the symphonic realm. One might, for instance, find in the fugue’s second subject a textural allusion back to the incessant two-note slurs of this cycle’s Prelude in G Minor, which in this paradigm might thus be viewed as a kind of premonition of climactic things to come. More intriguing is the same motive’s relationship with one of Shostakovich’s contemporary chamber works, the song cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry. One of the most widely discussed and intensely debated of Shostakovich’s works, a result of its strong and obvious Jewish content during a period of increasingly strident, public anti-Semitism, the cycle is unified in part by a recurring motive of rocking eighth notes that bears an unmistakable similarity to the second subject of the fugue (ex. 7.11c).10 The resemblance is so strong that it has led at least one commentator to put forward the cycle of Preludes and Fugues, and in particular the D Minor, as one of Shostakovich’s most decisively “Jewish” works. As I noted in my discussion in Chapter 5 of the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor, Joachim Braun interpreted the references to Jewish elements in several of the cycle’s Preludes and Fugues as an act of “concealed dissidence” on Shostakovich’s part, a subtle, coded use of “a hidden language of resistance.”11 Surely Shostakovich intended this highly associative motive in the finale of his cycle to carry an important part of the work’s expressive load. Whether

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Ex. 7.11a. Shostakovich, Fugue No. 24 in D Minor, mm. 111– 117

Ex. 7.11b. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 10 in E Minor, Opus 93, first movement, rehearsal number 17

Ex. 7.11c. Shostakovich, From Jewish Folk Poetry, Opus 79, third song, “Kolybal’naya” (Lullaby), mm. 1– 4

it invites the listener to think about the Tenth Symphony or From Jewish Folk Poetry, it serves the purpose of contextualizing this piano cycle, of placing it within a broader sphere whose expressive character is marked equally by other compositions from Shostakovich’s hand. He certainly aimed in the Prelude and Fugue in F-sharp Minor (and, to a lesser degree, in the Pre-

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lude in E-flat Minor) to reference, even more blatantly, a Jewish mode of musical expression. Moreover, the pitch collection of the concluding section of the Fugue in D Minor (D–E-flat–F-sharp–G–A–B-flat–C-sharp–D)—with its two augmented seconds, prominent flattened degrees, and conflation of the major and minor modes—belies a deep interest in the expressive ambiguity of Jewish music, the smiling-through-tears quality of this music for which Shostakovich himself admitted a special interest.12 But the degree to which all of this should be taken as an act of politicized defiance is, of course, destined to remain a blurry area. Far more subtly, the beginning of the Prelude in D Minor establishes another intertextual link, this time to the Prelude in F Major (ex. 7.12). Both Preludes feature an initial texture in which a slower-moving bass line in octaves underscores a treble duet. More than the F Major, the D Minor Prelude involves an active interplay between these two lines and thus outlines a less clear distinction between melody and accompaniment. The contours seem always to be playing off of one another, landing on crushing seconds and melting by step into luxurious thirds, or approximating melodic imitation—as rising bell-curve figures (measures 2–4), for instance, or descending tetrachords (measures 55– 56). Also akin to the F Major Prelude is the D Minor’s formal design, in which the structure is punctuated by restatements of an opening motto, with contrasting, recitative-like material in between. A dramatic crescendo beginning in measure 7 leads to the first restatement of the opening at the level of fortissimo, a surprising move this early in the game, which suggests an imploring quality to this music’s rhetoric. The next restatement, in measure 51, takes place on a hushed pianissimo, the sense of mystery at this structural recapitulation aided by a lingering, octave-doubled E in the bass—the remnant of the prelude’s center-section modulation to E major discussed below. When the dissonant bass, which is reluctant to budge for nearly three measures, finally rises by a semitone to F, it makes a strong nod towards the relative major. In the spaces between these statements of the theme, one encounters the cycle’s most clear-cut examples of prelude-fugue interconnection—the forth-

232 The Preludes and Fugues

Ex. 7.12a. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 24 in D Minor, mm. 1– 5

Ex. 7.12b. Shostakovich, Prelude No. 23 in F Major, mm. 1– 4

right statement of the majority of the fugue’s first subject as a prominent melody in the prelude. While in several other preludes and fugues the fugue’s subject will emerge, in some form or other, towards the end of the prelude as a connective device, here the subject arrives early on and thus establishes itself as a key player in the prelude’s drama. This rare instance of integration is another element that contributes to the powerfully programmatic effect of the D Minor Prelude and Fugue. Indeed, insofar as this motive serves as one of two subjects that climactically combine in the fugue’s later stages, it remains a fixture on the musical surface for an unusually long period of time. The prelude’s first large phrase section, preceding the entry of the fugue subject, is cast in two parts. The second of these, which begins with the for-

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tissimo restatement of the opening in measure 11, is characterized by a more developmental sense of tonal wandering. The A major chord in measure 17 comes as a true surprise, a strong dominant approached over three measures via a chord progression based on sliding semitones (B-flat major→ E-flat major→C major→A major). Similar voice leading drives the concluding part of the prelude’s second large phrase section (measures 42–50), which ultimately results in a mystical landing on E major. Serving as a strong internal, structural cadence immediately before the recapitulation, this moment foreshadows a similar process in the fugue, in which E major is tonicized in the space immediately preceding the second exposition (measures 99– 110). The third of this E major chord, the G-sharp, serves (enharmonically spelled) as the key for this second exposition—A-flat major—which lies a distant and menacing tritone away from the D minor tonic. In the prelude’s second half, the fugue’s first subject enters in C minor (measure 65), the result of a lingering E-flat that had begun to permeate the texture during the recapitulation of the opening motive, falling repeatedly by a semitone to the emerging yet unstable tonic D. From here to the end of the prelude, more tonal wandering ensues (B-flat major receives a nod in measure 72, and A-flat minor is felt even more strongly, because of the fugue subject in the bass, in the following measure), until a final wide-arching melodic descent (measures 76–78) brings us to the four-measure codetta. The conclusion of the D Minor Prelude, like its opening, again hearkens back to elements of the F Major Prelude that preceded it. The grouping of four quarter notes in a single measure of 43 meter—which creates the effect of an added beat to the measure—relates back to the similar ploy in the leadup to the F Major Prelude’s recapitulation. And both preludes feature, in their final measures, nervously rocking chord tones that, while perhaps smoothing out all of their more dissonant rocking semitones, still convey a certain anxiety, a sense of unfinished business. Having established the idea that something momentous is at hand in the prelude, Shostakovich designed the D Minor Fugue to deliver on his promise. Several features contribute to its self-consciously grand tone, most obviously the fact that it is a double fugue, one of only two in the cycle (the other

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being the Fugue in E Minor). This sense of the wondrous and strange is manifest, however, even from the beginning, in the details of the first subject. An emphasis on the lowered seventh scale degree lends it an ancient, modal quality; its contours—predominantly upward motion, both by leap and by step—convey a sensation of striving, or of reaching forward; and its narrow range of a perfect fifth (on the dominant: A–E) creates a perhaps claustrophobic atmosphere, a confined, brooding folk-spirit yet to be aroused. A similar kind of containment, this time of a large-scale formal variety, is in evidence at the first subject entrance to follow the exposition (measure 37). Typically cast in the relative major or minor (even in the E minor double fugue), here this first “developmental” entrance continues in the tonic. Only after the second episode (measures 50–60) does the subject enter in F major, thus beginning the true development. Along with the fact that this first subject was introduced unusually early in the prelude, all of these elements contribute to a slow build, a dramatic holding back that relates back to the cycle’s strong overall sensation of halting. A stepwise rising figure in the middle of the first subject from C to E lays the ground for other similar contours in the first part of the fugue: for instance, in the countersubject, with its sequences of stepwise falling thirds, and in the codetta and episodes, which feature rising tetrachords in twopart imitation (first seen in measures 13–14). These shapes can be effectively stretched and pulled in performance, as tools for creating and releasing tension over the course of the long and gradual rise. Indeed, Shostakovich seems to have intended such a quality, having littered the score with tenutos. Most entrances of the subject are marked with a tenuto; Shostakovich even went so far as to write tenuto across a diagonal dotted line connecting the first rising fourth of the subject in an inner voice (measures 80– 81). In the transition into the second part of the fugue, Shostakovich revisits the beatific-sounding key of E major, which (as noted above) he had surprisingly tonicized in the space immediately preceding the recapitulation in the prelude. Here, the initial rising figure of the first subject stalls out, its energy dissipated in this serene zone. Instead of moving forward, the

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rising gesture is repeated verbatim in the treble three times, while in the tenor voice the swirling, crawling contour of the second subject emerges piecemeal in between these statements, signaling a massive change to come. Even apart from the many associations catalogued above to be discerned in the second subject, the very contrast between the first and second part of this double fugue conveys dramatic and narrative import enough. From quarter notes marked tenuto at a Moderato tempo in the first part, the texture changes on a dime to more frantic, rocking eighth notes, spurred on with an accelerando poco a poco that begins immediately with the entrance of the second subject (measure 111). The countersubject (first heard in measure 117), which rocks across wider intervals, is also propelled forward by its strong iambic rhythm and tenuto markings on the metrically accented half notes. Perhaps the most startling element of change is the key: the fugue’s first part having progressed from D minor eventually to E major, its second half begins a tritone away, on A-flat major. (The second exposition in the double fugue in E minor, by contrast, occurs on the minor dominant, B minor.) The winding transitional material is instrumental in obscuring the tonality and making such a shift possible. As is made clear in the note spelling in measures 109–110, the A-flat represents the enharmonic equivalent of G-sharp: the sweet major third of our previous key seems responsible for the liftoff into the fugue’s second half. While it does feature a straightforward exposition and subsequent entrances that combine the subject and countersubject, the second part of the fugue quickly sheds its identity as such. Rather than alternating subject entrances with contrasting episodes, Shostakovich takes a steamroller approach, accumulating power and energy as each successive statement is unmarred by an intervening episode. Here the D Minor Fugue truly takes on a symphonic mantle, as its developmental swirls lead to a climactic combination of its two subjects. All of this movement comes to a head at an aweinspiring cadence in C minor in the passage directly preceding the combination of subjects (measures 206–210), which launches another connecting passage on frenetic eighth notes tripled at the octave. Rocking semitones

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maintain the semblance of C minor up to the last moment, when we are ripped abruptly back into the tonic upon the entrance of the first fugue subject (measures 217– 218). The tonic mode established here, which is reinforced to the end in two subsequent decisive cadences (measures 260 and 282), represents one of the fugue’s most characteristic expressive features. With the pitch collections of D minor and D major combined, a startling expressive ambiguity emerges —the unmistakably heroic gestures darkened by flattened scale degrees, the brooding bass octaves on the first subject’s head motive underscoring the pealing of bells in the right hand’s octaves. All of humanity is on display, our miraculous goodness and inevitable flaws alike. History seems to merge with the present, as we are invited to grasp some essential understanding of human existence; the mixed mode and the effervescent texture, unprecedented in the cycle and so long in arriving, serving obvious metaphorical purposes. As abrupt as the entire prelude and fugue has been gradual, the final measures release all of this power, the events stripped of all context as the bare dominant-tonic head motive of the first subject is stated in the piano’s lower half, quadrupled at the octave. The question, of course, is left unanswered, the story now only a shadow play, continuing within each of us individually.

part iii

the living work of art

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8

the ethics of expression

towards a performance history

A motor never feels sorry for itself. An automaton has no knowledge of the irregularities and inequalities that result from the caprices of human nature. Don’t be late; keep walking. Don’t rush, but above all, don’t slow down, for someone might believe that your heart has been moved. —Vladimir Jankélévitch, Music and the Ineffable

Embracing Clichés There are several wonderful opportunities for sentimentalizing in the second, slow movement of Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Performing the concerto once as a faculty soloist with my college’s orchestra, I drew out these moments for their full effect—taking just shy of excessive amounts of time wherever Shostakovich called for a ritenuto, shaping his trademark meandering lines in the boldest of strokes, striving for drastic changes in color and mood between sections. The work rather calls for it: Shostakovich composed it in 1957 as a showpiece for his teenage son Maxim, who was in his final year of study at the Central Music School. Unlike many of the composer’s more serious works for his own instrument, this concerto belongs to the category of the brilliant and pleasant diversion—a compositional style that Shostakovich knew and loved well. Dmitri Dmitrievich was, after all, a great entertainer, an expert pusher of emotional buttons. The Second Piano Concerto is youthful, frivolous, fun. It is not especially difficult to play, although the composer, perhaps aping the style of Dmitri Kabalevsky and his various “concertos for youth,” clearly wrote it to sound more challenging than it actually is. And it does not appeal especially to the intellect—it is not cut from the cloth of Bildung, the program of self-betterment through education and acculturation whose spirit animated the mu-

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sical life of the nineteenth century. Shostakovich spent a lifetime fashioning a contribution to this tradition. But in this concerto, even the serious moments are of a cartoonishly brooding variety. This is not the voice of a person who is deeply suffering. While such works as the Third String Quartet and the Eighth Symphony are worthy heirs to the kind of compositional logic, philosophical abstractness, and confessional tone that characterize, for instance, the string quartets of Beethoven and the symphonies of Mahler, other whole areas of Shostakovich’s output require a different set of critical approaches if they are to be appreciated for what they are. In the Second Piano Concerto, we are offered emotional satisfaction, quick and cheap: a jaunty first movement with lyricism and tumult aplenty, an exotically flavored finale that borders on the satirical, and, sandwiched in between, the perfectly gorgeous Andante. Though clearly inspired by Beethoven’s quasi-spiritual slow movements (and indeed paraphrasing the middle movement of his “Emperor” piano concerto), Shostakovich trades German abstractness for unabashed, and perhaps clichéd, representations of Russian soul. It is not difficult to imagine, when listening to this movement, a vast and unchanging landscape, as seen from the window of a moving train or sled. A master film scorer, perhaps Shostakovich was aiming here to capture a certain Doctor Zhivago–style cinematic grandeur. Whatever the case, the movement is a lyric gem whose glow is nearly impossible to resist. After the performance, I encountered two colleagues. One was the evening’s conductor, who shook my hand, offered a gracious comment or two, and then blurted out, “But you know, Mark, this is not Rachmaninoff.” I knew, of course, what he meant: I had over-schmaltzed it, revealed the clichés as clichés. I knew this colleague well, and so I was not surprised by his reaction. His Shostakovich is miles away, expressively and politically, from Rachmaninoff, who was in his eyes a true-blue exemplar of Theodor Adorno’s “melancholy Slav,” a one-trick pony pianist-composer who titillated packed houses of the upper bourgeoisie while Shostakovich languished, or so the myth goes, enduring an interminably bleak Soviet existence.1 I didn’t worry much: the students in the orchestra and I had had a blast performing the piece together, and I certainly didn’t feel that I was somehow

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instilling in them a false or inauthentic sense of Shostakovich’s personality (musical or otherwise) through my interpretive choices. What was I supposed to do with the clichés, after all, hide them? Disguise them as bland sincerity? My other colleague understood what I was up to. His beef was not with my performance, but rather with the clichés themselves. A pianist-composer himself whose taste ran basically from Bach through Beethoven and Brahms, with the occasional Liszt, he likened the slow movement to “watered-down Grieg.” Aha, I thought, his Shostakovich (right there in the same room as the other one!) is even less serious than the sappiest of all nineteenth-century national folklorists, the king of bird calls and elfin marches. This colleague belonged to that generation of professional musicians, many of them (in my experience) composers, whose high modernist sensibilities preclude acknowledgment of Shostakovich’s compositional gifts. For him, the concerto was at best eighteen minutes of harmless drivel, at worst an artistic insult. Too many Shostakoviches—such has been the mantra in Shostakovich studies for some time. It reminds me of a passage from Andrei Sinyavsky’s iconoclastic and brilliant Strolls with Pushkin, where he ruminates on the relationship between Pushkin’s public persona—his “sprightly and obliging executor” who “spiffed himself up and got the hang of strutting his stuff in rhyme”—and his more complex, interior artistic self, “the beautiful original we’re seeking” in our encounters with his art.2 Too many Shostakoviches, each with a claim to authenticity, a tie to the real but obscure object of desire, and each driven by a possessive investment in something (Russian identity, political ideology, performance tradition) that keeps the stakes especially high. In the performance of his work, a central conflict emerges between a subjective, romantic impulse to interpret, to emote, and to entertain, and an imperative, often with modernist overtones and driven ideologically, to let the music speak for itself. It is the responsibility of individual interpreters to grapple with this conflict; its resolution can only ever be reached and articulated within the fleeting and nebulous confines of musical meaning. The fact is that Shostakovich called regularly upon the sentimental, the appeal of the obvious, the thrill of the visceral, the poignancy of the some-

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times cheap effect. The symphonies are full of such moments: the Bolerolike rise in the mock-up of a battle scene that occupies the large center of the Seventh Symphony’s first movement; the devastating rapid fire of artillery in the second movement of the Eleventh, which depicts the murder of hundreds of petitioners by the Tsar’s troops in January 1905. These works suffer from an uneven reception history. For every person thrilled and moved by this composer’s miraculous ability to convey the human dimension of history in sound, there is another who feels that such moments represent Shostakovich’s ultimate artistic selling out. Looking over at my wife during a live performance of the Seventh, the “Leningrad” Symphony, which features some of the composer’s most bombastic and blatant effects, I noticed that her face was wet with tears. The same piece, however, was surely in mind when violinist and conductor Yehudi Menuhin, writing in his 1976 memoir Unfinished Journey, said of Shostakovich: “Had he been free to develop as he wished, I imagine his music would have been more subtle, more harmonically experimental, repudiating the blatant effects which can coarsen his best writing.”3 But who’s to say? How can we possibly know anything about how Shostakovich might have wished to develop, and how that might compare to how he actually did? And even if we could, what would it change? He made the art he made, and as performers and concertgoers, historians and critics, we have that legacy to deal with. Several years ago I was in Russia, receiving coaching at the St. Petersburg Conservatory from a pianist who has widely performed and recorded Shostakovich’s music. I had sought him out in order to get advice on how to maneuver some of the especially tricky passages in one of the more gnarly fugues of Opus 87, the G-sharp Minor. We quickly, however, got onto the subject of Shostakovich’s music for piano and voice, in particular a set of songs on texts by the state-favored poet and writer of mass lyrics Yevgeniy Dolmatovsky. As it inevitably will, the issue arose of what constitutes genuine art and what counts as mere propaganda. This pianist saw little difference, or at least he wanted to narrow the gap, even going so far as to suggest that elements of the cultural milieu under Stalin were beneficial to the creation of music with lasting importance and appeal. The

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state-controlled artistic bureaucracy, after all, kept composers from writing difficult, hyperintellectualized music that no one wanted to listen to—as had, his argument continued, many composers from the generation of Pierre Boulez and Karlheinz Stockhausen. I don’t know to what extent I agree with this rather drastic position, but what I take away from it is an even firmer conviction that we need to focus on the “whats” and not the “what ifs.”

The Phobia of Expression The taboo against sentimentalizing Shostakovich’s music has its roots in the anecdotal history surrounding Shostakovich as a performer and as a performance coach working with other musicians in the preparation of his own music. Story after story in the literature reveals that “Chopinesque sentiment” seems to have been anathema to his deepest convictions about what music making was all about. His own approach as a pianist is said to have been motivated primarily by an intellectual appreciation of musical structures and rhythmic relationships. An early classmate, Boris Losskiy, wrote that the young Shostakovich’s performance of Beethoven’s “Appassionata” Sonata “was remarkable for its overall grasp of the work, rather than any depth of inner passion.”4 And the soprano Nina Dorliak, in her account of the rehearsals for From Jewish Folk Poetry, suggests that Shostakovich demanded a similar emotional restraint from performers of his music. Recalling how Shostakovich repeatedly had to steer a certain tenor away from excessive emoting, she writes, “The characteristic trait of performance for Dmitriy Dmitriyevich is a complete absence of sensitivity, sentimentality— these traits in performance he could not tolerate.”5 The conductor Nikolai Malko, who led the premiere performance of the nineteen-year-old Shostakovich’s First Symphony in 1926, also called attention to the composer’s laconic side: “I shall not call his playing artistic. It lacked a certain expressiveness and was devoid of certain artistic impulses inherent in the performance of a great artist. It was as if . . . he was presenting the music itself rather than a performance of it.”6 The distinction is crucial. To a degree, we expect composers merely to document their works,

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and not to give interpretively extreme performances. But does it necessarily follow that the performance of their music by others must be of the same temperament? On the flipside, consider the numerous testimonials to the “heartfelt emotion” conveyed by Shostakovich in performance, not to mention many references to the “unbridled display of his feelings” and “indescribable raptures” that one often witnessed in his character, especially in his younger years. One especially meaningful account of the relationship between Shostakovich’s inner life and his attitude towards music making comes from the singer Nadezhda Welter, who performed the role of Sonetka in the original production of Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District in 1934. Her account of the rehearsal process, found in Elizabeth Wilson’s indispensable oral biography, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, corroborates similar testimony to the composer’s high excitability at the prospect of hearing his own music performed. But her interpretation of his manner reveals a deeper truth: “Shostakovich’s restraint was only a superficial skin . . . a passionate spring of energy and dynamic creative force was bubbling underneath it.”7 One wonders about the origins of this façade, its conscious or unwitting motivations. Shostakovich recorded a good deal of his own music, a fact that both helps and hinders our attempts to seek some kind of authenticity in our own performances and those of others.8 At times, his nervous fidgeting is right there on the surface—the bubbles at full boil. This can lead to both disastrous and revelatory conclusions. His recording of the Prelude and Fugue in A Major, for example, is one of the less convincing accounts. The fugue has something of an interpretive conundrum built into it. On the one hand, the fugue’s subject possesses the shape and character of a fanfare. One feels compelled to play out, to infuse the piece with great energy and momentum. On the other hand, the two expressive markings in the fugue’s opening measure—pianissimo and legato sempre—suggest just the opposite, that one should strive for a more interior voicing, at least for the first several lines, and in general should take time throughout to let the musical events happen, with a sense of grace and ease. If this is a fanfare, it is a muted one, as if emanating from a dream, or submerged under water.

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Shostakovich the performer drowns, I’m afraid, the victim of a storm-atsea plot devised by his own composer-double. Ignoring his own expressive indications and playing the fugue 30 percent faster than his already fast metronome marking, he plows through almost every cadence, dropping fistfuls of notes along the way, agitating the cool, shimmering surface of this morning lake. The prelude, too, while colored in a way to suggest a true concern for beauty of tone, is marred by technical unevenness, its smooth waves of ambling sixteenth notes jolted regularly by whitecaps. For me, the performance conveys something of the flavor of how it might have sounded to the peer-review panel at the Union of Composers in the spring of 1951. By all accounts, Shostakovich played poorly on that occasion as well. Perhaps Shostakovich was nervous while recording the A Major Fugue, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was the first piece he recorded that day and found the quicksilver leaping that it requires of the pianist especially daunting. Perhaps he was ill. Or perhaps the debilitating condition in his right hand that would force him to retire from public performing in the later 1950s was already beginning to affect him. But what if he was playing the piece this way on purpose? What if the sloppiness is somehow part of something larger, an inclination not to emote, perhaps even not to care? Many other moments in Shostakovich’s recorded legacy convey a similarly detached mood, an attitude that brings to mind what Vladimir Jankélévitch calls “affected indifference,” the musical pose of “expressing nothing whatsoever.”9 Jankélévitch interprets the proliferation of mechanistic sonorities in certain music of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Claude Debussy, Erik Satie, Prokofiev, Manuel de Falla, Stravinsky), as a calculated artistic reaction to the fervent passions of German Romanticism and its eternalizing of the emotional instant. He praises such music’s “phobia concerning lyric exaltation or pathetic élan,” finding in this repertory an antiheroic stance that exposes the project of nineteenthcentury German art as a sham—a stunt of emotional manipulation whose eventual psychological and political fallout had drastic, and ultimately unforgivable, consequences.10 In emphasizing the motoric elements of the Fugue in A Major—its con-

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stant eighth-note motion and static harmonic blocks—over its sensual surface or the emotional punch of its climaxes, perhaps Shostakovich was tapping into a similar refusal to be lured into an individualistic, heroic fantasy. It is tempting to want to read Shostakovich’s adoption of this mechanistic pose as some kind of survival technique, a pathetic acknowledgment that there was no room for emoting in this context, no sense in trying to make the music beautiful. The cycle of Preludes and Fugues, after all, had not even been officially approved for public performance when the composer was persuaded to record large chunks of it for state archival purposes. Given such circumstances, perhaps in this archival recording what we are supposed to pay attention to is the pose, the performerly attitude, and not the music at all. Looking closely at the Preludes and Fugues, one indeed discerns this same pose in the music itself, in the details of the score as they exist outside the realm of anyone playing them. The Prelude and Fugue in D Major, for instance, might bring to mind the clocks and mechanical buzzings of Jankélévitch’s belovedly “enchanted” repertory, the strangely poignant realm of the automaton. The prelude uses one of the oldest tricks in the book, the baroque stile brisé, in which the chords that accompany a melody are played one note at a time instead of simultaneously—strummed, as if on a lute. This lends a certain pathos to the melody; one might even feel compelled to set words to it. It is a rather cheap effect, but in saying so I do not mean to disparage the music, which is lovely, haunting, and totally effective. The prelude’s brokenness suggests the same tender fragility one encounters in much late nineteenth-century French piano music, as do the chirping antics of the fugue that follows. Jankélévitch discerned in music marked staccato another form of the denial of German Romanticism’s longing for eternity: “The staccato . . . relates to a phobia about the pathos of lingering [and] forbids vibration, which is the source of the almost-there, of continuity, that which prolongs previous sounds into the next ones, and, in realizing the fusion of past and present, the past’s survival or resonance within the present, in a word, creates the immanence that we call ‘Becoming.’”11 There is a doleful quality to all of this music, which Shostakovich

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uses to great effect, its pleasantly active surface indeed seeming to deny a certain coming into being, an emotional depth underneath the music-box façade, yet another superficial skin. I mentioned earlier that the results of Shostakovich’s idiosyncratic, motoric performance stance could be revelatory as well. At the same recording sessions that produced the poorly executed A Major Prelude and Fugue, Shostakovich again exceeded his own tempo markings in the Prelude and Fugue in A Minor. Here, however, while still bringing the performance to a boil, he keeps the bubbles from spilling over the sides of the pot. This fugue requires the performer to maneuver some extremely awkward twists and turns. Most frustrating and pianistically unidiomatic are the abrupt changes of direction called for within the coiling sixteenth notes, with their mercurial harmonic skitterings. It’s a madcap, slapstick affair, a soundtrack for the Keystone Cops, and Shostakovich the performer knocks the ball out of the park. Would we want to go so far as to suggest that in general Shostakovich the performer-actor seems to have had an easier time with comic roles than with serious ones? Would we dare to contemplate why? Imagining him strutting his A Minor stuff in the Soviet-era recording studio, I again think of Sinyavsky’s Pushkin: “He’s our Charlie Chaplin, a contemporary ersatz Petrushka.”12

The Performance as the Work As a monument of the literature for his own instrument, Shostakovich’s cycle of Preludes and Fugues fits nicely with a critical approach that views the musical work not as an autonomous, abstract entity, but rather as a “script” born of and existing through performance.13 These works were not, after all, composed for the drawer. It is likely that Shostakovich first conceived of them while witnessing dazzling displays of performance at the Bach Festival in Leipzig, he played them himself for Tatyana Nikolayeva and others on a nearly daily basis as they were being composed, he brought them forth to the Composers’ Union so that they might be published and made widely accessible to performers internationally, and he himself performed

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and recorded them on multiple occasions. Their “meaning,” therefore, insofar as we can catch a glimpse of it, is located in their performance history, and in the continuing efforts by performers to keep them alive. It feels somewhat strange for me to admit it, as a pianist, but some of my most enlightening experiences listening to Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues have come from a recording released by the Calefax Reed Quintet in 2003. Based in their native Netherlands, this dynamic group has established an international reputation performing small wind ensemble music from a repertoire that spans six centuries. Most impressive are their own arrangements, which cover an astonishing variety of styles and sources: Richard Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit, even Conlon Nancarrow’s Studies for Player Piano. Calefax’s performance of selections from Shostakovich’s Opus 87 arranged by Eduard Wesley brings into intense focus the equality and independence of voices so crucial in this style of contrapuntal music.14 The bulk of the effect is achieved not by any special effort on the part of the individual performer, as would be the case in a performance on piano, but simply as a result of the instrumentation. Especially in the fugues, the timbral differentiation among the lines creates the ideal conditions for absorbing the music’s contrapuntal intricacies. In such a context, one cannot help but hear more. At times, Calefax’s arrangements make us wonder if we are experiencing an altogether different piece of music. The cascades of sixteenth notes in the A Minor Prelude, for instance, which whiz by in a blur on the piano, are here passed back and forth among instruments, in Webern-esque Klangfarbenmelodie style, and thus far more sharply defined and shaped, despite all the best efforts of the performers to achieve a consistency of sound production. Elsewhere, however, the textures seem perfectly suited to the wind instruments’ sonorities: the A Minor Fugue, in contrast to its prelude, sounds like it might come directly from the scherzo movement of one of Shostakovich’s symphonies, with cackling, ironic melodic snippets set to motor rhythms. Pianists can only strive in vain to produce such vividly differentiated colors—even under the hands of the most subtle of colorists, the instrument can only metaphorically sound like five different instruments.

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Above all, the Calefax recording bursts with a fiery creativity, demonstrating to all but the most hardened skeptics the potential value in meddling with the notion of the sacred score. As an arrangement, the Calefax’s version of the Preludes and Fugues is hardly the most invasive of interpretations. It sticks faithfully to Shostakovich’s score, and their performance does not contain any interpretive excesses. But it does serve to remind us that the character or meaning of a musical work is deeply subject to the conditions of its performance—that, in the words of Hans-Georg Gadamer, “Every performance is an event, but not one in any way separate from the work—the work itself is what takes place.”15 As Gadamer explains in Truth and Method, one of the most influential philosophical works of the twentieth century, aesthetic experience can be considered akin to religious experience, and in particular to the experience of transcendence. Art puts us in the presence of an awe-inspiring mystery: the most significant aspect of aesthetic experience is not what we encounter directly in the work of art, but what we come indirectly into contact with in the process—what is not said but nonetheless ever-present, the infinite horizon of interpretation. Thus performances of art works, because they constitute not a secondary commentary on a text with fixed meaning but instead a primary-source-like realization of meaning along a never-ending stream of possibilities, cannot be separated from the work itself. In the case of the Preludes and Fugues, listeners have an increasingly diverse pool of interpreters from which to choose, a multitude of musical truths through which to sift. Lying close to the source, Sviatoslav Richter—a friend and colleague of Shostakovich who premiered and performed many of his works—offers absorbing and satisfying accounts of several of the Preludes and Fugues. At times—in the D-flat Major, A-flat Major, and G-sharp Minor Fugues, for instance—Richter’s legendary virtuosity shines through. His effortless execution of the tricky A-flat Major Fugue in particular offers a glimpse of something special in Shostakovich’s score—the pealing of Russian bells, a joyous and festive atmosphere more characteristic of Rachmaninoff than Shostakovich. Elsewhere, as in the C Minor Prelude and Fugue, it is the lyric beauty of Richter’s tone that captures our attention—

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the lovely colors he achieves in the gently melismatic treble solo of the prelude, and the intense, full-bodied sound in the fugue’s climactic section. But for me, and for many enthusiasts of this repertory, the greatest interpreter of the Preludes and Fugues is Tatyana Nikolayeva, the work’s dedicatee. In 1962, she became the first to record the cycle in its entirety, a decade after she had given its public premiere in Leningrad. She recorded it twice more, when she was much older, and even won a British Gramophone Award for her 1991 account on the Hyperion label. In her later years, she enjoyed a blossoming of success in the West, which was somewhat surprising given that she had never been granted the “favored artist” status necessary to establish an international reputation through extensive touring. It was while on tour with the Preludes and Fugues in November 1993 that she suffered a cerebral hemorrhage onstage at the Herbst Theater in San Francisco, lapsing into a coma and dying a few days later. She had gotten as far as the great fugue in B-flat Minor, one of the cycle’s longest and most spellbinding, with a melismatic fugue subject that Nikolayeva herself once likened to a shepherd’s pipe tune. Her two later recordings gained Nikolayeva a well-deserved following. Similar in their interpretive approaches, both finely display her profound timbral imagination, her ability to create an atmosphere of momentous drama, and above all her deep love and respect for this music and its composer. The only problem is that by this time she had lost control of her onceformidable technique, and as a result both of these accounts are riddled with spoiled passagework. Listening to them is akin to listening to Arthur Schnabel’s legendary recordings of the complete Beethoven Sonatas, or Walter Gieseking’s Debussy: knowing the background of the performer’s relationship with the music and the composer, and sensing an unmistakable deep spirit of communication, one must resolve oneself somehow to “hear past” the wrong notes in order to gain all that there is to be gained from the interpretation. For years, when learning various preludes and fugues myself, I had no problem doing this, going back to Nikolayeva’s later recordings time and time again for inspiration. It is Nikolayeva’s little-known 1962 recording—which had limited release

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when it was first made, has never been transferred from LP, and is out of print and difficult to come by—that deserves the most attention. Here, Nikolayeva is at the height of her technical powers, fully able to realize any and all of her interpretive choices. But even more than the assured execution, what I take away from this performance is a sense that the musical work is a fluid, flexible entity, created as much by the performer’s ear as the composer’s pen. From the outset, in the opening phrases of the Prelude in C Major, she seems intent on showing us what the composer, her close friend, “really meant,” even if the details of the score suggest otherwise. The first prelude lures the listener unsuspectingly into the epic two-and-a-half-hour experience with repeated statements of a gentle, iambic rhythmic motive, while the harmony, at first completely traditional and somewhat blasé, gradually breaks free of its C major bonds and achieves a state of blissful dissonance by the first phrase section’s end. The key having been firmly renounced, the form itself, which had begun in the classical mold (symmetrical, predictable, well behaved) also disintegrates into a stream-of-consciousness flow that itself must be overcome in the prelude’s second half in order for normalcy to be restored. In the midst of this opening passage, immediately before a mysterious subito pianissimo on the somewhat distant harmony of E-flat major, Nikolayeva intensifies the mounting dissonance with a sudden halting gesture, a true ritenuto that aims a rhetorical spotlight directly at the most mysterious chord in the piece thus far. Shostakovich calls for nothing of the sort in the score: as a musical idea, it belongs entirely to the performer. In an essay about interpreting Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues, Nikolayeva singled out a similar moment in the Prelude in E Minor—a modulation to the distant key of A-flat major near the piece’s end—as another instance in which the performer “should take a little time” in order for it “to sound more significant.”16 This, of course, flies directly in the face of the composer’s own approach. For instance, the Prelude in A Major described above also features an unexpected modulation accompanied by a slowing down of rhythmic values—a static oasis, a quiet moment to reflect on what

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has been and what is still to come. This moment is preceded by a pickup of four quick-moving sixteenth notes—one final burst of energy before the stillness sets in. In his own performance, Shostakovich creates a lovely sense of contrast, playing the faster sixteenth notes exactly in tempo, with no Nikolayevan emoting, so that the tranquility of what follows stands out all the more. Nikolayeva’s textual emendations in the Prelude in C Major and elsewhere would surely strike some listeners as instances of bad faith. I can imagine the argument because I’ve heard it myself hundreds of times from my own mentors: if Shostakovich had wanted a ritenuto there, he would have put one there. One might also view the interpretation a cliché—a sensually (versus logically) inspired decision to supplement the shift in harmony from diatonic to chromatic with an exaggeration in the flow of tempo. From such a perspective, the subtlety of the score is damaged, composerly craft trumped by sentimental performerly fancy. But as I first listened to Nikolayeva’s 1962 account of the Preludes and Fugues and came across other similar moments, I developed a fascination with them, a need to understand their motivation. Nicholas Cook has suggested that such score-based elements as expressive markings and tempo indications should be understood “not just as textual features, as attributes of the musical object, but as prompts to the enaction of social relationships in the real time of performance.”17 What kind of social relationship is brought into view with Nikolayeva’s ritenutos and other interventions? One clue to the impact of Nikolayeva’s performance can be discerned in her spectacular rendering of the Prelude and Fugue in D-flat Major, one of the cycle’s high points, and one of the individual pieces accused of conveying a distorted and false image of Soviet reality at the composer’s audition of the cycle for the Union of Composers. Her playing of this mocking, raw, and relentless music is so breathtakingly committed, so driven, that I feel cheated of not having been a part of this moment in history, of having missed the show. What was she thinking, as her stocky arms powered through this devilish fugue, marked marcatissimo sempre al Fine, the angriest and sharpest of attacks, from start to finish?

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There is a bravery in this performance, which I liken to the heroism (of whatever variety) of Shostakovich’s compositional act itself. And a similar conviction of spirit seemed to follow this piece wherever it traveled. In the discussion following Shostakovich’s initial audition of this music, the pianist Mariya Yudina, exasperated by the escalating farce of the proceedings, finally exclaimed, “And if indeed there are amongst the Preludes and Fugues instances of caricature, tell me what’s wrong with that? Maybe some of us deserve to be caricatured.”18 No slave to the state, Yudina (another fascinating figure about whom far more should be written) felt compelled to call a spade a spade, opening the doors for her fellow artists to speak about and perform this music with total commitment, despite the strong pressures of conformity. Nikolayeva’s 1962 recording affirms this artistic solidarity, keeping the spirit of caricature, and thus of protest, alive into the second decade of the Thaw. It constitutes an essential counternarrative to the composer’s own documentary account. Such features as its stretching of time, its loose attitude towards expressive markings, and its occasional creation of local-level expectations that rub uneasily against the flow of larger musical structures place it squarely under the rubric of the sentimental. Its emotional immediacy seeks a state of communion, which brings the music full circle back to the aesthetic ideals of the early nineteenth century. One might suggest that this earnest dialogue between the individual spirit of the performer and the distinctly Russian tone of the musical work advocates for a romantic, humanist-inspired “subjective universalism.”19 It is a performance that wills the opening of eyes, and hearts, to what is real, and that refuses to be merely a document of its time.

Sentimental and Ideological Traditions Contemporary performers of the Preludes and Fugues thus have a double authority to confront in their own pursuit of musical truths. Jumping into the waters of what José Bowen has called “the history of remembered innovation,” they find themselves pulled by the opposing tides of narrative and counternarrative.20

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Soviet émigré Boris Petrushansky—who received his musical education in Moscow but for many years has lived and taught piano in Modena, in Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region—recorded the cycle for the relatively obscure Dynamic label in the early 1990s. His approach is marked generally by a high degree of what I would call sentimentalizing: this is a man who takes pride in his rubato, the delicate art of producing an ebb and flow in tempo, and accordingly in the detailed placement and timing of his sound. Petrushansky seems less concerned with maintaining a rhythmic pulse than with establishing an inner tension, an inherent hesitation that nonetheless drives the music forward, in a sometimes tortured fashion. Discussing this performance recently with one Shostakovich expert, I found that it elicited the strongest of negative reactions, which confused and frustrated me, because I find myself strongly attracted to it. From the tender push and pull that characterizes his treatment of the opening C Major Prelude, to the highly emotional use of rubato in the melancholy, songful Fugue in C-sharp Minor, Petrushansky seems intent on demonstrating that this music is only distantly related to the aggressive and mechanistic avant-garde piano scores of the composer’s youth. He invests the music with the wisdom of experience, making it somehow historical, epic, and yet deeply personal. Somewhat similarly, the Finnish virtuoso Olli Mustonen takes a highly idiosyncratic, at times bizarre approach marked by an overzealous attunement to the sensual musical moment. Dubbed the “hyper-hermeneute” by students in my Shostakovich seminar, Mustonen can safely be called a sentimentalist, insofar as his exaggerations and distortions effectively obscure larger musical structures. Not content with mere rubato, he actually swings the Prelude in C Major, turning its strict eighth notes into triplets, jazzing it up as if aiming to out-slapstick the composer himself. Oddly placed accents in the D Major Fugue and elsewhere suggest he is attempting to inhabit the composer’s famously twitchy body through his own quirky gestures. Far from Petrushansky’s sober philosophizing, Mustonen aims for the physical rush, his fanciful interpretation evocative of the exhilarating toboggan runs of some idyllic Nordic youth. Here is a performer for whom the ghost of the composer is simply not an authority to be reck-

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oned with. He eschews the lessons of history for the superficial thrill rides of the present. If these two pianists aim, each in his own way, to rekindle a spirit of interpretive freedom, others seem to want to enforce a closed-door interpretive policy that would forever keep this artwork under wraps. Australian pianist Roger Woodward produced the first complete recording of the Preludes and Fugues in the West in the mid-1970s. Delivered in a straightforward manner generally lacking in nuance, his performance conveys a certain Cold War frostiness, an alienating superficiality that seems not to acknowledge the possibility of emotional depths to plumb. In contrast to Nikolayeva’s overt romanticism, this interpretation seems intent on “letting the music speak for itself ”—perhaps representing a baroque sensibility that seems born not only of the fact that Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues were intended as a Bachian retrospective, but also of the “authentic performance” movement that was at full tilt when Woodward was making the recording. When he finally, and anomalously, decides in the Fugue in B-flat Minor to adopt a decidedly interpretive tone—strangely adding an extra trill in the lengthy subject and creating an atypical, impressionistic tone color—one wonders about his motivation. Was he misreading the score? (Such things happen, in almost all recordings of the complete cycle.) Perhaps, understanding this fugue as somewhat anomalous within the cycle, he simply decided to have some fun with it, to treat it less seriously than the others. In any event, the result is unfortunate, the deeply serene music transformed into a musical bonbon, a sonority of snowflakes. One especially privileged account of the Preludes and Fugues is the Grammy Award –winning recording by Vladimir Ashkenazy released by Decca in 1999. A staunch defender of Solomon Volkov’s Testimony, Ashkenazy has used his status as a Soviet émigré to assume a position of authority in pronouncing not only who the “true” Shostakovich was but also who may and may not study and perform his music with any degree of authenticity. Lending his influential voice to a vicious ad hominem attack against American Shostakovich biographer Laurel Fay, for instance, he has written: “Without profound (and I repeat, profound) knowledge of what Shosta-

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kovich had to live through it is virtually impossible to be a serious and credible analyst of his output.”21 Relying, it seems, more on his own self-professed deep understanding of Shostakovich’s situation than any demonstrable displays of musical imagination on his own part, Ashkenazy’s widely praised interpretation of the Preludes and Fugues sounds to me as if it is attempting to remain loyal to a vision of Shostakovich as a bitter dissident—or, to use his language, a “hunted animal”22 —whose soul was tragically sacrificed to the deadening forces of the communist state. Especially when compared to many of the superb recordings made by Ashkenazy in his younger years (one thinks especially of the vibrant, multi-hued performances of Rachmaninoff’s Preludes), these Shostakovich interpretations come across as cold, bloodless, and perfunctory. The individual, feeling subject is willfully obscured behind clouds of colorless monotony (his aural symbol, perhaps, for the mediocrity imposed by the conformist state?), suggesting that it is an act of interpretive violence to cloak this music in the gaudy mantel of individual expression. Waxing enthusiastic about Volkov’s Testimony, Ashkenazy has commented, “We knew without a shadow of a doubt that Shostakovich deeply detested the system in which he lived. With the release of Testimony, there was no question in my mind that the real Shostakovich was here in this book. . . . All that we knew to be true about Shostakovich was now confirmed in print.”23 There is an arrogance in such a statement that I find troubling: one wonders the means by which Ashkenazy came to know what he thought he knew about Shostakovich. Yes, they met once or twice, and Ashkenazy was present at various premieres and other performances of Shostakovich’s music where the composer was also in attendance. He also, of course, talked to people about Shostakovich, and isn’t that more to the point? For what can we really know about another person’s interior life? And to whom, therefore, are we really “being true” in our performances and attitudes? Why this compelling desire to replace a cardboard cutout for the beautiful original? In The Queen’s Throat, one of the most provocative and emotionally honest accounts of the power of performance, Wayne Koestenbaum writes, “Listening is a love factory: one produces that potion, ‘love,’ from the raw ma-

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terial of one’s own attentiveness. ‘I love Callas’s voice’ is another way of saying ‘Callas’s voice loves me.’”24 The various attentivenesses at play in the reception and performance of Shostakovich’s works have implications that far transcend simple matters of aesthetic taste—for we all are competing, on some level, for Shostakovich’s love. For all his overheated rhetoric, I personally would prefer it if Ashkenazy’s performances themselves were equally zealous in their emotional content. Instead, in conjunction with his public statements about the dangers in interpreting Shostakovich, his bland Preludes and Fugues suggest to me a contradiction between his purported acknowledgment of this music’s “universality” and his own distrust of other performers putting their own individual stamp on it. As Koestenbaum might put it, saying “I love Shostakovich’s music” is the same thing as saying “Shostakovich loves me.” And when it comes to the complex matter of Soviet art, and the turf wars that inevitably accompany such discussions, there has often been too little room for sharing in such love.

Performance, Sincerity, and Authenticity What does it mean to condemn the sentimental in music? What might it mean to embrace it? In the highly politicized case of Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich, such questions take on an uncommon urgency. The act of performance risks becoming morally tinged, the interpreter burdened with the responsibility not only of conveying a view of the composer’s personality as manifest in the work but also of chronicling the Soviet condition. For many, at stake is nothing less than the continuing historical negotiation of what it meant, and how it felt, to be a Soviet person. I don’t necessarily like Olli Mustonen’s playing or agree with his musical decisions, but I’m glad that his recording of the Preludes and Fugues exists. It flies in the face of all of the self-serving genuflection at the altar of “the true Shostakovich,” and instead celebrates one performer’s imaginative encounter with a rich artistic document. Its moral obligation is not to be true to the composer, or to a particular vision of Sovietness, or even to an accurate rendering of the score, but rather to an honest account of the performer’s

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emotional reaction to the music. For all its lapses in taste—or, perhaps, because of them—it represents a rare instance of authenticity in a context in which sincerity reigns supreme. In his classic book Sincerity and Authenticity, Lionel Trilling described authenticity as a central feature of modernity: “a more strenuous moral experience than sincerity, a more exigent conception of the self and of what being true to it consists in, a wider reference to the universe and man’s place in it, and a less acceptant and genial view of the social circumstances of life.”25 The key to Trilling’s distinction between sincerity and authenticity lies in the ultimate end of one’s quest for self-definition. Sincerity, on the one hand, has a social end in view: one’s quest to know oneself is inherently tied to the imperative to avoid falsehood to others. (Trilling cites Polonius’s counsel to his son Laertes: “This above all: to thine own self be true / And it doth follow, as the night the day, / Thou canst not then be false to any man.”) Authenticity, on the other hand, as an outgrowth of sincerity, involves a more intense turning inward. As such, the quest for personal authenticity often leaves questions of social obligation in the background, regarded as negligible when compared to the overwhelming task of truly knowing oneself. Such seems to be Olli Mustonen’s position—a belief in the dominance of the performerly moment over the eternalized art work. Of course, we learn as much about Mustonen from his recording of Shostakovich’s Preludes and Fugues as we do about the music. But we also learn something new about Shostakovich: that the Chaplinesque side of his own spirit can emerge from the most unsuspected of places; that underneath all the drama and pathos in his art lies a spirit of naïveté, innocence, even irreverence; and that it is not an interpretive crime to lay bare such expressive conditions. The authentic performance of Shostakovich’s music demands neither a certain critical-historical position on the Soviet condition nor a slavish devotion to the composer’s own performing practices but a willingness to ignore a good deal of background noise and focus on one’s own attitude towards the work. Judged by the moral standards of “being true to the composer,” this might be considered a negligent position. But as philosopher

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Charles Taylor has explained in his insightful book The Ethics of Authenticity, navigating the challenges of authenticity and sincerity requires different moral compasses. Discussing a nihilistic strain that runs from Baudelaire through Nietzsche and extends to such thinkers as Foucault, Taylor writes: “The demands of authenticity have been pitched against those of morality. Authenticity involves originality, it demands a revolt against convention. It is easy to see how standard morality itself can come to be seen as inseparable from stifling convention. Morality as normally understood obviously involves crushing much that is elemental and instinctive in us, many of our deepest and most powerful desires. So there develops a branch of the search for authenticity that pits it against the moral.”26 In order for Shostakovich’s legacy to take flight—to break free of the shackles of possessiveness, the strongholds of sincerity—performers need to confront their own elemental and instinctive desires, and trust that these desires will guide them toward the forging of musical truths. A musical performance is a theatrical event, and it is no poor substitute for the kind with spoken words. Might a given performance of Shostakovich’s work liken him, and perhaps by association the Soviet people, to Jankélévitch’s automaton—keeping emotions in check in order to defend themselves against the atrocities of history? Might another strive retroactively to construct a vision of the Soviet subject as deeply feeling, fully, emotionally human? Musical performances can accomplish either of these, and of course infinitely more. If our hearts are to be moved, we owe it to Shostakovich—musically and morally—to continue to invest performances of his music with as much imagination and variety as the scores can accommodate, and not to think ourselves into interpretive boxes, shutting out of the very range of possibilities that keeps Shostakovich a beautiful original in our collective memory, and his works open vessels on the endless horizon of musical meaning.

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notes

Preface 1. Solomon Volkov, Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich, trans. Antonina W. Bouis (New York: Harper & Row, 1979). 2. Joseph Kerman, The Art of Fugue: Bach’s Fugues for Keyboard, 1715– 1750 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2005), 146. 3. See Kenneth Drake, The Beethoven Sonatas and the Creative Experience (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000). Chapter 1. Shostakovich and the Challenges of Interpretation 1. Joseph Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 1966), 362– 367. 2. Laurel E. Fay, review of Derek Hulme, Dmitri Shostakovich: A Catalogue, Bibliography, and Discography, third ed., in Notes: The Quarterly Journal of the Music Library Association 60, no. 1 (September 2003): 180. 3. See Derek Hulme, Dmitri Shostakovich: A Catalogue, Bibliography, and Discography, third ed. (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2002), 257. 4. John H. Planer, “Sentimentality in the Performance of Absolute Music: Pablo Casals’s Performance of Saraband from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Suite No. 2 in D Minor for Unaccompanied Cello, S. 1008,” The Musical Quarterly 73, no. 2 (1989): 247. 5. See Tanya Ursova, “Shostakovich’s 24 Preludes and Fugues op. 87: Subtexts in Context,” DSCH Journal 22 (January 2005): 11–14; and Joachim Braun, “The Double Meaning of Jewish Elements in Dmitri Shostakovich’s Music,” The Musical Quarterly 71 (1985): 68– 80. 6. Sofia Moshevich, Dmitri Shostakovich, Pianist (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2004), 131. 7. Lawrence Cosentino, liner notes to Tatyana Nikolayeva’s 1987 recording of the

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262 Notes to Pages 9– 17

complete Preludes and Fugues, Moscow Studio Archives (MOS 19065), volume 1. 8. David Fanning, Shostakovich: String Quartet No. 8 (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2004), 139. 9. Lawrence Kramer, “Long Ride in a Slow Machine: The Alienation Effect from Weill to Shostakovich,” in Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002), 241. 10. Boris Gasparov, “A Testimony: Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony and the End of Romantic Narrative,” in Five Operas and a Symphony: Word and Music in Russian Culture (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), 182. See also Pauline Fairclough, “The ‘Perestroyka’ of Soviet Symphonism: Shostakovich in 1935,” Music & Letters 83, no. 2 (May 2002): 259–273, and A Soviet Credo: Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006). 11. On this subject, see Peter Gay, The Naked Heart, vol. 4 of The Bourgeois Experience, Victoria to Freud (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 1995). 12. See Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, second ed. (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006), 283– 285. 13. See Leon Botstein, “Listening to Shostakovich,” in Laurel E. Fay, ed., Shostakovich and His World (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 374. 14. Vladimir Jankélévitch, Music and the Ineffable, trans. Carolyn Abbate (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003), 25. 15. Levon Hakobian, “A Perspective on Soviet Musical Culture during the Lifetime of Shostakovich,” in Malcolm Hamrick Brown, ed., A Shostakovich Casebook (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 223. This essay originally appeared as part of Hakobian’s book Music of the Soviet Age, 1917– 1987 (Stockholm: Melos Music Literature Kantat HB, 1998). 16. Wilson, Shostakovich, 405. Chapter 2. Placing the Preludes and Fugues 1. See Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, second ed. (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006), 234– 235. 2. Ibid., 250. 3. Laurel E. Fay, Shostakovich: A Life (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 180. 4. Kiril Tomoff, Creative Union: The Professional Organization of Soviet Composers, 1939– 1953 (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2006), 219. 5. Ibid., 93. 6. Leonid Maximenkov, “Stalin and Shostakovich: Letters to a ‘Friend,’” in Laurel E. Fay, ed., Shostakovich and His World (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 53. 7. Similarly, Tomoff claims that “in the end, his dressing-down in 1936 played

Notes to Pages 17– 40 263

no substantive role in Shostakovich’s fate as a nomenklatura beneficiary (titles, awards, responsibilities, rations, housing).” Maximenkov, “Stalin and Shostakovich,” 49. 8. Wilson, Shostakovich, 258. 9. Maximenkov, “Stalin and Shostakovich,” 51. 10. Fay, Shostakovich: A Life, 175. 11. “K obsuzdeniyu 24 Preludi i Fug Shostakovicha” [On the Discussion of the 24 Preludes and Fugues of Shostakovich], Sovetskaya Muzika 6 (1951): 55–58. I am greatly indebted to Anna Polonsky for providing me with a translation of this document. Chapter 3. The Cycle as a Whole 1. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. G. Ordzhonikidze (Moscow: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1967), 301. I am indebted to Anna Polonsky for providing me with a translation of this source. 2. See David Ledbetter, Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier: The 48 Preludes and Fugues (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), especially chapter 5, “All the Tones and Semitones,” 104– 125. 3. One important figure must be mentioned: Alexsander Dolzhanskiy, considered by many to be the leading pioneer in the study of Shostakovich’s musical language. His monograph on the Preludes and Fugues approaches the cycle from a theoretical point of view, but of course, given the time and place of its publication, it is lacking in interpretive and sociocultural perspectives. Neither does it discuss performance. See Dolzhanskiy, 24 preludii i fugi D. Shostakovicha (Leningrad: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1963; second ed. 1970). 4. Richard Bass, “Prokofiev’s Technique of Chromatic Displacement,” Music Analysis 7, no. 2 (1988): 199. 5. Ibid., 199– 200. 6. Ledbetter, Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier, 53. 7. Roger Bullivant, Fugue (London: Hutchinson, 1971), 172– 173. 8. David A. Sheldon, “The Stretto Principle: Some Thoughts on Fugue as Form,” The Journal of Musicology 8, no. 4 (1990): 554. 9. Ibid., 561. 10. Ibid., 554. 11. Ibid., 566. 12. Bullivant, Fugue, 172. 13. Dmitri Kabalevsky, “Composer’s Foreword,” Music for Children and Young People, Book I: Preludes and Fugues, Op. 61 (Miami Lakes, FL: The Well-tempered Press, n.d.), 5. 14. Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917– 1970 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1972), 429.

264 Notes to Pages 42– 60

15. See “Responses of Shostakovich to a Questionnaire on the Psychology of the Creative Process,” prepared by Roman Ilich Gruber, trans. Malcolm Hamrick Brown, in Laurel E. Fay, Shostakovich and His World (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 32. 16. For a more detailed overview of Hindemith’s theoretical views, see David Neumeyer, The Music of Paul Hindemith (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1986). 17. Ibid., 228. 18. Michael Haas, “Suppressed Music: The Composers; Emigré Composers,” Jewish Musical Institute, http://www.jmi.org.uk/suppressedmusic/composers .html#reizenstein, accessed July 18, 2008. 19. Robert P. Morgan, Twentieth-Century Music (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 1991), 220– 250. 20. Alex Ross, The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2007), 299. See Giselher Schubert, preface to Paul Hindemith, Ludus Tonalis (Schott, 1989), iii. Chapter 4. Personalities in Pairs 1. Svetlana Boym, Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia (Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 1994), 3. 2. See, for instance, Richard Taruskin, review of The New Shostakovich, by Ian MacDonald, Slavic Review 52 (1993): 397, and “Double Trouble,” The New Republic, 24 December 2001. Francis Maes borrows the phrase for the title of his chapter on Shostakovich in his monograph A History of Russian Music: From Kamarinskaya to Babi Yar, trans. Arnold J. Pomerans and Erica Pomerans (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2002). 3. Lydia Ginzburg, On Psychological Prose, trans. and ed. Judson Rosengrant (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 10– 11. 4. Anthony Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1991), 5. See also Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1990). 5. Giddens, Modernity and Self-Identity, 27. 6. See, for instance, Jochen Hellbeck, “Self-Realization in the Stalinist System: Two Soviet Diaries of the 1930s,” in David L. Hoffmann and Yanni Kotsonis, eds., Russian Modernity: Politics, Knowledge, Practices (London: Macmillan; and New York: St. Martin’s, 2000), 221– 242. 7. Lawrence Kramer, Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 2002), 1– 9. 8. Ibid., 4. 9. Levon Hakobian, “A Perspective on Soviet Musical Culture during the Lifetime of Shostakovich,” in Malcolm Hamrick Brown, ed., A Shostakovich Casebook (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 218.

Notes to Pages 63– 104 265

10. David Fanning, “Shostakovich: ‘The Present-Day Master of the C major Key,’” Acta Musicologica 73, no. 2 (2001): 137. 11. Patrick McCreless, “Music Theory and Historical Awareness,” Music Theory Online 6, no. 3 (August 2000), http://mto.societymusictheory.org/issues /mto.00.6.3/mto.00.6.3.mccreless.html (accessed January 15, 2008). 12. Ibid. 13. Various reviewers of the cycle’s recording history have casually noted the allusion. See, for instance, Eric Roseberry, review of recordings of the Preludes and Fugues by Tatyana Nikolayeva and Marios Papadopoulos, The Musical Times 132, no. 1783 (September 1991): 453; and Hugh Ottaway, review of Roger Woodward’s recording, Tempo 118 (September 1976): 26. See also the brief discussion in Fanning, “Shostakovich: ‘The Present-Day Master,’” 137–138. Finally, for a discussion of this motive’s roots in folk music, see Lev Mazel, “O fuge do mazhor Shostakovicha,” in Lyubov’ G. Berger, ed., Chertï Stil’ya D. Shostakovicha [Stylistic Traits of D. Shostakovich] (Moscow, 1962), 332– 335. 14. Alexander Dolzhanskiy, 24 preludii i fugi D. Shostakovicha (Leningrad: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1963), 8– 9. 15. Ibid., 243. 16. For an extended discussion on the expressive import of C major in Shostakovich’s symphonic output, see Fanning, “Shostakovich: ‘The Present-Day Master.’” 17. Jan LaRue, Guidelines for Style Analysis, second ed. (Warren, MI: Harmonie Park, 1992), 52–53. LaRue grounds the technique in the history of musical style, viewing it as an intermediate stage in the development of a clear-cut, “unified” tonal system. 18. Boris Gasparov, Five Operas and a Symphony: Word and Music in Russian Culture (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2005), 7. 19. Bach’s own two-voice fugue in Book I of the Well-Tempered Clavier (No. 10 in E Minor) also utilizes the idea of octave doubling at structural cadence points for dramatic emphasis. 20. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. G. Ordzhonikidze (Moscow: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1967), 301. 21. See Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 248– 251. 22. See Richard Bass, “Prokofiev’s Technique of Chromatic Displacement,” Music Analysis 7, no. 2 (1988): 197– 214. 23. On the expressive affect of this figure in Bach, see David Ledbetter, Bach’s Welltempered Clavier: The 48 Preludes and Fugues (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), 81. 24. One misprint, however, should be noted: in measure 22 of the fugue, some editions (e.g., Peters and DSCH) place the third beat an eighth note too early

266

Notes to Pages 106– 123

in the treble clef—with the bass line’s first B-flat instead of the second. The error comes from the autograph manuscript. It is corrected in the first edition, the 1980 edition of the complete works, and most other editions. Chapter 5. Slow Tendencies 1. Robert S. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), 113, 177. Two other recent sources that are enlightening on gesture are Naomi Cumming, The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2000), particularly 133– 165; and Elisabeth Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body: An Essay in Carnal Musicology (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2006), particularly the chapter entitled “Gestures and Tableaux,” 65– 104. 2. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, 165. 3. See José A. Bowen, “Finding the Music in Musicology: Performance History and Musical Works,” in Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist, eds., Rethinking Music (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 446. 4. Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, 94. 5. Richard Leppert, “Cultural Contradiction, Idolatry, and the Piano Virtuoso: Franz Lizst,” in James Parakilas, ed., Piano Roles: A New History of the Piano (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 252–281; Le Guin, Boccherini’s Body, 209. 6. “Kobsuzhdeniyu 24 prelyudii i fug D. Shostakovicha” [On the discussion of the 24 Preludes and Fugues of Shostakovich], Sovetskaya muzika 6 (1951): 55. 7. Alexander Dolzhanskiy, 24 preludii i fugi D. Shostakovicha (Leningrad: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1963), 232. 8. Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji, “Broadcast Music,” Musical Times 99, no. 1383 (May 1958): 258. 9. See Pauline Fairclough, A Soviet Credo: Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006), especially 55–60, and Lawrence Kramer, “Long Ride in a Slow Machine: The Alienation Effect from Weill to Shostakovich,” in Musical Meaning: Toward a Critical History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 216– 241. 10. Victor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique,” in Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays, trans. and intro. by Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965), 12. 11. See Victor Erlich, Russian Formalism: History—Doctrine, third ed. (The Hague and Paris: Mouton, 1969), 177. 12. Many editions mistakenly print a C-sharp in the bass on the downbeat of measure 32. While Shostakovich himself missed the accidental in the autograph manuscript, it was incorporated into the first edition and subsequent Russian editions.

Notes to Pages 127– 148 267

13. Hugh Ottaway, review of Roger Woodward’s recording of the Preludes and Fugues, Tempo 118 (September 1976): 27. 14. David Ledbetter, Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier: The 48 Preludes and Fugues (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002), 198. 15. Wanda Landowska, Landowska on Music, ed. and trans. Denise Restout (New York: Stein and Day, 1964), 189. 16. Ledbetter, Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier, 198. 17. Laurel E. Fay, Shostakovich: A Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 24. 18. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. G. Ordzhonikidze (Moscow, 1967), 298. 19. Joachim Braun, “The Double Meaning of Jewish Elements in Dmitri Shostakovich’s Music,” The Musical Quarterly 71, no. 1 (1985): 76. 20. Ibid., 80. 21. Esti Sheinberg, Irony, Satire, Parody and the Grotesque in the Music of Shostakovich: A Theory of Musical Incongruities (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2001), 314. 22. Sheinberg, Irony, Satire, 315. See Fay, Shostakovich: A Life, 169. 23. Ledbetter, Bach’s Well-tempered Clavier, 200. 24. One mystery of phrasing that I have always found interesting in this part of the Prelude in G-sharp Minor was solved during my examination of the autograph manuscript of the Preludes and Fugues: in all of the printed editions of this work, there is an incongruous phrase break between measures 62 and 63. I had always assumed that this was intended by the composer to be a less forceful version (perhaps a foreshadowing) of the halting gesture represented four measures later in the ritenuto, and while it did not make a great deal of musical sense to me beyond this, I added a distinct break of phrase at this moment. As it turns out, a page break in the manuscript at this point seems to have created some editorial confusion, as the phrase marking could not practically extend, unbroken, from one page to the next. Clearly, given this detail of layout, the phrase should be continuous at this point, the three-note slur in the treble of measure 63 obviously belongs as the tail of the long preceding phrase, and the phrase should only break at the repetition of this motive in measure 64. This logical phrasing is borne out consistently in the recording history of the work: I was never able to find a single pianist who broke the phrase there as I had. 25. See “Ritenuto” (no author cited), in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. S. Sadie and J. Tyrrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), xxi, 446. 26. The meno mosso does not, however, appear in the first or subsequent editions, except for a bracketed indication in the 1980 complete edition by Muzïka. 27. David Fanning, “In Bach’s Footsteps,” Gramophone, February 2002, 28– 31.

268

Notes to Pages 156– 241

Chapter 6. Active Surfaces 1. See Vladimir Ashkenazy with Jasper Parrott, Beyond Frontiers (New York: Atheneum, 1984), 40. 2. Ronald Stevenson, “The Piano Music,” in Christopher Norris, ed., Shostakovich: The Man and His Music (Boston and London: Marion Boyars, 1982), 82. 3. Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, second ed. (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2006), 42. 4. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. G. Ordzhonikidze (Moscow: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1967), 298. Chapter 7. Completing the Cycle 1. Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1984), 47. 2. Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967), 123, 17, 35– 36. 3. Laurel E. Fay, Shostakovich: A Life (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 104. 4. David Fanning, The Breath of the Symphonist: Shostakovich’s Tenth (London: Royal Music Association, 1988), 58. 5. Ibid., 32. 6. Ibid., 9. 7. David Fanning, “In Bach’s Footsteps,” Gramophone, February 2002, 31. 8. Ibid. 9. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. G. Ordzhonikidze (Moscow: Sovetskii Kompozitor, 1967), 296. 10. For details about the work’s compositional genesis, see Fay, Shostakovich: A Life, 167– 170. 11. Joachim Braun, “The Double Meaning of Jewish Elements in Dmitri Shostakovich’s Music,” The Musical Quarterly 71, no. 1 (1985): 76, 80. 12. See Fay, Shostakovich: A Life, 169. Chapter 8. The Ethics of Expression 1. The term “melancholy Slav” comes from Theodor Adorno, “Types of Musical Conduct,” the first chapter of his Introduction to the Sociology of Music, trans. E. B. Ashton (New York: Continuum, 1988), 1–20. The musical behavior of the “melancholy Slav” is located a few steps from the bottom in a hierarchy of categories ranging from the most elevated forms of “structural listening” to the most depraved acts of cultural consumption. 2. Andrei Sinyavsky (writing as Abram Tertz), Strolls with Pushkin, trans.

Notes to Pages 242– 253 269

Catharine Theimer Nepomnyashchy and Slava Yestremski (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 50. 3. Yehudi Menuhin, Unfinished Journey (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1976), 190. 4. Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, second ed. (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2004), 21. 5. Nina Dorliak, “O rabote nad tsiklom ‘Iz Yevreiskoi Narodnoi Poezii’” [About the Work on the Cycle “From Jewish Folk Poetry”], with commentaries by Olga Digonskaya, in Shostakovich: mezhdu mgnoveniem i vechnost’yu [Shostakovich: Between the Moment and Eternity], ed. L. Kovnatskaya (St. Petersburg: Kompozitor, 2000), 456. I am grateful to Tomas Vail and Gitta Hammarberg for their assistance in translating this source. 6. Nikolai Malko, A Certain Art (New York: William Morrow, 1966), 181. 7. Wilson, Shostakovich, 111. 8. For a useful discography of Shostakovich’s recorded performances, see Sofia Moshevich, Dmitri Shostakovich, Pianist (Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press, 2004), 205– 214. 9. Vladimir Jankélévitch, Music and the Ineffable, trans. Carolyn Abbate (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003), 43. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., 44. 12. Sinyavsky, Strolls with Pushkin, 50. 13. On the idea of the “script” as an alternative to the musical “work,” see Nicholas Cook, “Music as Performance,” in Martin Clayton, Trevor Herbert, and Richard Middleton, eds., The Cultural Study of Music (New York and London: Routledge, 2003), 204– 214. 14. Numerous other arrangements of various Preludes and Fugues exist as well, including several for string quartet. 15. Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method, second, revised ed., trans. Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall (New York: Crossroad, 1992), 147. For a helpful overview of Gadamer’s thinking along these lines, see Nicholas Davey, “Art, Religion, and the Hermeneutics of Authenticity,” in Salim Kemal and Ivan Gaskell, eds., Performance and Authenticity in the Arts (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 66– 93. 16. Tatyana Nikolayeva, “Ispolnyaya Shostakovicha” [Performing Shostakovich], in G. Ordzhonikidze, ed., Dmitriy Shostakovich (Moscow, 1967), 294. 17. Cook, “Music as Performance,” 213. 18. Wilson, Shostakovich, 288. 19. I use the term “subjective universalism” in accordance with the music historian Paul Henry Lang, who stresses this idea’s importance to the early romantics in his classic book Music in Western Civilization, particularly the short sub-chapter entitled “Classicism versus Romanticism.”

270 Notes to Pages 253– 259

20. See José A. Bowen, “The History of Remembered Innovation: Tradition and Its Role in the Relationship between Musical Works and Their Performances,” The Journal of Musicology 11, no. 2 (Spring 1993), 139– 173. 21. Vladimir Ashkenazy, “Overture,” in Allan B. Ho and Dmitry Feofanov, eds., Shostakovich Reconsidered (London: 1998), 11. 22. Ibid., 9. 23. Ibid., 9– 10. 24. Wayne Koestenbaum, The Queen’s Throat: Opera, Homosexuality, and the Mystery of Desire (New York: Da Capo Press, 2001 [orig. 1993]), 33. 25. Lionel Trilling, Sincerity and Authenticity (Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 1971), 11. 26. Charles Taylor, The Ethics of Authenticity (Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 1991), 65.

select discography

The following lists all of the specific recordings made reference to in this book. Items are arranged in alphabetical order, using performers’ last names.

Ashkenazy, Vladimir. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). Decca 289 466 066– 2 (1999). Calefax Reed Quintet. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 1– 9, 12, 15–17, 19. MDG (Musik Dabringhaus und Grimm) 691 1185– 2 (2003). Jarrett, Keith. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). ECM New Series 1469/70 (1992). Mustonen, Olli. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 1, 5– 7, 11– 13, 17– 19, 23–24. Ondine ODE 1033–2D (2003). Nikolayeva, Tatyana. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). LP only. Victor VICC 40055/56/57 (1962). ———. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). Moscow Studio Archives MOS19065/66/67 (1987). ———. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). Hyperion CDAA66441/2/3 (1991). Oistrakh, David, conductor. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 9. USSR Symphony Orchestra.Russian Disc 29436505 (1993; recorded live in Leningrad, 1969). Petrushansky, Boris. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). Dynamic S 2039/1–3 (2001; recorded 1992– 93). Richter, Sviatoslav. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 4, 12, 14, 15, 17, 23. Philips 438 627 2 (1994; recorded 1963). Rostropovich, Mstislav, conductor. Shostakovich, Symphony No. 8. National Symphony Orchestra. Teldec 9031– 74719– 2 (1992). Scherbakov, Konstantin. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). Naxos 8.554745– 46 (2000).

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Shostakovich, Dmitri. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 1– 8, 12–14. Revelation RV 70001 (1998; recorded 1951– 52). Shostakovich, Dmitri. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 16– 18, 20, 22–24. Revelation RV 70003 (1998; recorded 1951– 52). Shostakovich, Dmitri. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87: nos. 1, 4– 5, 23–24. EMI Classics CDC-7 54606–2 (2000; recorded 1958). Shostakovich, Dmitri. Quintet for Piano and Strings in G Minor, Opus 57. With the Beethoven String Quartet. Revelation RV 70005 (1998; recorded 1955). Shostakovich, Dmitri. Sonata for Cello and Piano in D Minor, Opus 40. With Daniel Shafran. Revelation RV 70008 (1998; recorded 1946). Woodward, Roger. Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87 (complete). LP only. RCA LRL2 5100 (1976).

credits

The author is deeply grateful to Mrs. Irina Shostakovich and the heirs of D. D. Shostakovich for their permission to reproduce excerpts from the autograph manuscript of the Preludes and Fugues, Opus 87. The following copyright holders have graciously given their permission to reprint musical excerpts from copyrighted works. Works of Shostakovich Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat, Op. 107 Copyright © 1960 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, measures 1– 9. Concerto No. 2 for Piano and Orchestra, Op. 102 Copyright © 1957 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. Second movement, measures 1– 2. From Jewish Folk Poetry, Op. 79 Copyright © 1955 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission.

Third song: “Kolybal’naya” (Lullaby), measures 1– 4. Piano Quintet in G Minor, Op. 57 Copyright © 1941 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, eight measures beginning at rehearsal number 3. Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Minor, Op. 61 Copyright © 1943 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. Third movement, measures 1– 4. Song of the Forests, Op. 81 Copyright © 1950 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured.

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274 Credits

All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First song: “When the War Was Over,” measures 11– 16. String Quartet No. 3 in F Major, Op. 73 Copyright © 1947 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, measures 1– 10. String Quartet No. 9 in E-flat Major, Op. 117 Copyright © 1966 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, measures 1– 12. Symphony No. 4 in C Minor, Op. 43 Copyright © 1962 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. Third movement, six measures beginning at rehearsal number 191. Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, Op. 70 Copyright © 1945 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, measures 1– 4. Symphony No. 10 in E Minor, Op. 93 Copyright © 1954 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, eight measures beginning at rehearsal number 17. Symphony No. 11 in G Minor, Op. 103 Copyright © 1958 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP)

International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. First movement, measures 1– 6. Twenty-Four Preludes, Op. 34 Copyright © 1935 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. Prelude No. 4 in E Minor, measures 25– 27. Prelude No. 15 in D-flat Major, measures 1– 8. Twenty-Four Preludes and Fugues, Op. 87 Copyright © 1952 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major: Prelude, measures 1–2; Fugue, measures 1–9. Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in A Minor: Prelude, measures 1–20; Fugue, measures 1– 4. Prelude and Fugue No. 3 in G Major: Prelude, measures 1–12; Fugue, measures 83– 89, 92– 96. Prelude and Fugue No. 4 in E Minor: Prelude, measures 1– 5, 8– 9, 28–32; Fugue, measures 1– 4, 6– 7, 47– 48, 117– 118. Prelude and Fugue No. 5 in D Major: Prelude, measures 23–32; Fugue, measures 1– 7. Prelude and Fugue No. 6 in B Minor: Prelude, measures 26,29, 47– 49, 50–51; Fugue, measures 1– 4, 124– 127. Prelude and Fugue No. 7 in A Major: Prelude, measures 18– 23. Prelude and Fugue No. 8 in F-sharp Minor: Prelude, measures 1– 11. Prelude and Fugue No. 9 in E Major: Prelude, measures 1– 10. Prelude and Fugue No. 10 in C-sharp Minor: Prelude, measures 1– 2, 22– 28, 41–44; Fugue, measures 1– 6, 167– 180.

Credits 275

Prelude and Fugue No. 11 in B Major: Prelude, measures 55–69; Fugue, measures 131– 135. Prelude and Fugue No. 12 in G-sharp Minor: Prelude, measures 1– 12, 48– 53, 65–68; Fugue, measures 1– 4, 119– 123. Prelude and Fugue No. 13 in F-sharp Major: Prelude, measures 41–49; Fugue, measures 1– 5, 10– 12. Prelude and Fugue No. 14 in E-flat Minor: Prelude, measures 1–7; Fugue, measures 1– 4. Prelude and Fugue No. 15 in D-flat Major: Prelude, measures 1– 8, 199–206; Fugue, measures 1– 6. Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor: Prelude, measures 1–20; Fugue, measures 1– 4. Prelude and Fugue No. 17 in A-flat Major: Prelude, measures 60– 75, 79–86; Fugue, measures 1– 4, 62– 65. Prelude and Fugue No. 18 in F Minor: Prelude, measures 1– 4, 47–50; Fugue, measures 193– 210. Prelude and Fugue No. 19 in E-flat Major: Fugue, measures 1– 6. Prelude and Fugue No. 20 in C Minor: Prelude, measures 1–8; Fugue, measures 1– 4. Prelude and Fugue No. 21 in B-flat Major: Prelude, measures 41–43; Fugue, measures 186– 193.

Prelude and Fugue No. 22 in G Minor: Prelude, measures 67–72; Fugue, measure 1– 5, 30– 34. Prelude and Fugue No. 23 in F Major: Prelude, measures 1– 4, 12–21; Fugue, measures 14– 19. Prelude and Fugue No. 24 in D Minor: Prelude, measures 1–5; Fugue, measures 111– 120.

Works of Other Composers Ludus Tonalis By Paul Hindemith Copyright © 1943 by Schott Music (renewed) All rights reserved. Used by permission of European American Music Distributors LLC, sole U.S. and Canadian agent for Schott Music. Fugue No. 6 in E-flat, measures 1– 4. Preludes and Fugues, Op. 61 By Dmitri Kabalevsky Copyright © 1961 (Renewed) by G. Schirmer, Inc. (ASCAP) International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission. No. 1: “A Summer Morning on a Lawn,” measures 1– 10.

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index

Adorno, Theodor, 240 Art: aesthetic and religious experience in, 249; defamiliarization in, 111; function of, 111, 197; narrative forms of, 197; self-exploration via, 10; transcendence via, 249 Asafyev, Boris, 41 Ashkenazy, Vladimir, 255–256 Babi Yar, x Bach, J. S., 7, 133, 255; affinities with work of, 12, 23, 32, 35, 70, 82–83; Cantata No. 140 “Sleepers Awake,” 195; contrasts with works of, 28– 29, 31, 32, 33, 109; French Suite No. 5 in G Major, 75; fugues by, 33, 38, 57, 129–130, 221; homage to, 21, 28, 105, 255; influence of, 27–29, 37–38, 40, 41, 57, 60, 61, 157; preludes by, 37, 60, 61, 70, 120; specific Shostakovich works compared with, 32–33, 67, 82–83, 95, 120; St. Matthew Passion, 130; tonal language of, 31; Well-Tempered Clavier, x, 23, 27–28, 32, 36, 37, 38, 47, 49, 60, 67, 95, 129, 187, 221 Baroque stile brisé, 163, 246 Barthes, Roland, 110

Bartók, Béla, 41, 210 Bass, Richard, 30, 31 Baudelaire, Charles-Pierre, 259 Beethoven, Ludwig van: comparisons with works of, 5, 9, 37, 65–66, 101, 102, 103, 121, 146, 240; as philosophical musician, 11; Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat “Emperor,” 240; Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, Opus 110, 146, 203; Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, Opus 106 “Hammerklavier,” 38, 156; Piano Sonata in C Minor, Opus 111, 66; Piano Sonata in F Minor, Opus 57 “Appassionata,” 59, 101, 102, 243; Piano Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Opus 2, no. 1, 38; Piano Sonata No. 3 in C Major, Opus 2, no. 3, 31; Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Opus 27, no. 2 “Moonlight,” 3; String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Opus 131, 30–31; String Quartet in F Major, Opus 135, 5; Symphony No. 3 in E-flat “Eroica,” 195; Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, 65; Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, 59, 195; tonal systems of, 30–31, 199

277

278

Index

Beethoven String Quartet, performances by, 4, 18 Bergman, Ingmar, Magic Flute (film), 180 Berlinsky, Valentin, 6 Bifocal tonality, 77–78, 158 Bildungsroman, 55–56, 198 Boccherini, Luigi, 108 Borodin, Alexander, Symphony No. 1, 190–191 Borodin String Quartet, 6 Boulez, Pierre, 243 Bowen, José A., 107, 253 Boym, Svetlana, Common Places: Mythologies of Everyday Life in Russia, 53 Braun, Joachim, 132–133, 229 Brecht, Bertold, 110 Brooks, Peter, Reading for the Plot, 196, 197 Bullivant, Roger, 33–35 Busoni, Ferruccio: Fantasia after J. S. Bach, 37; Fantasia contrappuntistica, 37; Two Contrapuntal Studies after J. S. Bach, 37 Cage, John, Sonatas and Interludes for Prepared Piano, 45 Calefax Reed Ensemble, 211, 248–249 Callas, Maria, 257 Casals, Pablo, 7 Chabrier, Emmanuel, “Idylle,” 163 Cherubini, Luigi, 34 Chopin, Frédéric: Barcarolle, 148; Mazurka in A-flat Major, Opus 59, No. 2, 148; Preludes, Opus 28, 29; “Raindrop” Prelude, 3 Chopin Competition (1927), Warsaw, 21, 48 Cook, Nicholas, 252 Cultural and Scientific Congress for World Peace, 15

Debussy, Claude, 245; “Golliwog’s Cakewalk,” 43 Doctor Zhivago (film), 240 Dolmatovsky, Yevgeniy, 19–20, 64, 242 Dolzhanskiy, Alexander, 65, 108–109, 151, 263n3 Dorliak, Nina, 243 Drake, Kenneth, xiii Dvorák, Antonin, Symphony No. 9 in E Minor “From the New World,” 3 Fairclough, Pauline, 9, 110 Falla, Manuel de, 245 Fanning, David, 9, 63, 148, 197, 202, 205 Fay, Laurel, 6, 15, 18, 19, 133, 197, 255 First All-Union Congress of Soviet Composers (1948), 14–15 Fogt, Anna, 41 Fortspinnung, 27, 128 Foucault, Michel, 259 “Frère Jacques,” 59 Fried, Grigoriy, 22 Fugues: abstract form of, 8; culmination of, 35; elements of, 34, 35; fugal analysis, 33–36; as process vs. form, 33; stretto in, 34; subjects of, 35–36; tripartite model for, 33, 34 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, Truth and Method, 249 Gagarin, Yuriy, 20 Gasparov, Boris, 9, 78 German Romanticism, 245, 246 Giddens, Anthony, 55 Gieseking, Walter, 250 Ginzburg, Lydia, 53–55 Glazunov, Alexander: Four Preludes and Fugues, Opus 101, 37; Piano

Index 279

Sonata No. 2 in E Minor, Opus 75, 37; Prelude and Fugue in D Minor, Opus 62, 37 Glinka, Mikhail, 180 Glivenko, Tatyana Ivanovna, 132 Hakobian, Levon, 12, 60 Hatten, Robert S., 106, 107 Hindemith, Paul, 186; The Craft of Musical Composition, 42; Ludus Tonalis, 41–47; Sonata for Viola Solo, Opus 25, No. 1, 154 Hulme, Derek, 6 Jankélévitch, Vladimir, 11–12, 245, 246, 259; Music and the Ineffable, 239 Jarrett, Keith, 140 Kabalevsky, Dmitri, 16, 38–41; Music for Children and Young People, 39, 239; Requiem, 40; Six Preludes and Fugues, 39–40, 61 Kerman, Joseph, xii–xiii, 5 Kermode, Frank, The Sense of an Ending, 197 Khachaturian, Aram, 14, 16 Koestenbaum, Wayne, The Queen’s Throat, 256–257 Kramer, Lawrence, 9, 58, 59, 110 Krenek, Ernst, 41 Landowska, Wanda, 130 Lang, Paul Henry, 269n19 LaRue, Jan, 77 Ledbetter, David, 32, 129, 130, 133 Le Guin, Elisabeth, 108 Leppert, Richard, 107 Les Six, 41 Levitin, Yuriy, 23 Liszt, Franz, 37, 107 Losskiy, Boris, 243

Mahler, Gustav, 59, 66, 240; influence of, 91; Symphony No. 1, 59 Malko, Nikolai, 41, 243 Maximenkov, Leonid, 16, 18 McCreless, Patrick, 63 Menuhin, Yehudi, Unfinished Journey, 242 Morgan, Robert, 47 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus: Don Giovanni, 195; The Magic Flute, 179, 180, 195 Muradeli, Vano, The Great Friendship, 14, 16 Musgiz, 24 Music: authenticity in, 258–259; and enstrangement, 110–111; imprintability of, 58; interpretation of, 249; as language, 11–12; meaninglessness of, 91; and narrative, 196–197; sentimentality in, 257; subtractability of, 58–59; and theater, 259; as trope for the self, 59–60 Musical Times, 109–110 Musorgsky, Modest, 23, 148, 157; Boris Godunov, 158; Pictures at an Exhibition, 65 Mustonen, Olli, 254–255, 257–258 Muzfond, 15–16 Muzika, 126 Myaskovsky, Nikolai, 14 Nancarrow, Conlon, Studies for Player Piano, 248 NBC Symphony Orchestra, 47 Neoclassicism, 167 Neumeyer, David, 47 Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 259 Nikolayeva, Tatyana, 21, 22, 23, 247; on comparisons of Bach’s and Shostakovich’s works, 28; death of, 250; descriptions of Shostakovich’s work, 132, 158, 190, 229, 251;

280 Index

Nikolayeva, Tatyana (continued ) performances of Shostakovich’s work, 24, 70–71, 81, 104, 126, 140, 143, 205, 211, 217, 250–253, 255; and publication, 24 Oistrakh, David, 142 Ottaway, Hugh, 127 Petrushansky, Boris, 104, 126, 131, 186, 211, 254 Popov, Gavriil Nikolayevich, 14, 16 Pravda, Shostakovich attacked in, 4, 63 Prokofiev, Sergei, 14, 15, 16, 41, 245; chromatic displacement in works of, 30; influence of, 92, 154, 186, 189; Piano Sonata No. 1, Opus 12, 154 Pushkin, Aleksandr, 53, 247 Rachmaninoff, Sergei, 184, 240, 249, 256; Prelude in C Major, Opus 32, No. 1, 137, 138 Ravel, Maurice: Gaspard de la Nuit, 248; Pavane pour une infante défunte, 163; Piano Concerto in G, 163 Reger, Max, Variations on a Theme by Johann Sebastian Bach, Opus 81, 37–38 Reizenstein, Franz, 46–47; Piano Quintet, 46; Twelve Preludes and Fugues, 46 Richter, Sviatoslav, 140, 156, 249–250 Romanticism, 245, 246, 253 Rostropovich, Mstislav, ix, 15, 142 Rudneva, Lyubov, 22 Russia. See Soviet Union Sabinina, Marina, 17 Satie, Erik, 245 Scherbakov, Konstantin, 70, 131

Schnabel, Arthur, 250 Schubert, Franz, 20; Sonata in B-flat Major, 103 Schumann, Robert, 37, 121; Carnaval, 5 Schwarz, Boris, 40 Second Viennese School, 41, 48 Serebryakov, Pavel, 21 Sheldon, David A., 34, 35 Shklovsky, Victor, 110, 111 Shostakovich, Dmitri: awards and honors to, 19, 20, 64; joy expressed by, 157; legacy of, 242, 259; musical output of, 18, 269n8, 271–272; myths about, xi, 8; as performer, 46, 48, 70, 91, 103–104, 121, 126, 131, 140, 142–143, 151–152, 154, 156, 157, 160, 173, 186, 205, 216–217, 243–248, 252; personal traits of, 17, 156–157, 244; in post-1948 period, 17–21, 24, 25, 36; privileges allowed to, 15–16, 17, 21; public denunciations of, 8, 13, 14–15, 25, 56, 63, 90; public status of, 22, 23–24, 53, 240; reputation of, 15, 25, 256; right hand of, 245; talent of, 38, 46; travels of, 21; and Western music circles, 154–155. See also Shostakovich, Dmitri, works Shostakovich, Dmitri, works: accessibility of, 10–11, 36, 66, 109; attempts to decode, 8–10, 19, 24–26; authentic performance of, 258– 259; autograph markings of, 137– 143; clichés in, 240–242; compositional style of, 153–154, 198, 239; continuity in, 36; “DSCH” motive in, 10, 54; enstrangement in, 110– 111; the grotesque in, 132, 133; influence of, 6; interpretation of, 6–7; “Jewish tone” in, 10, 18, 25, 132– 134, 229–231; in performance, 142, 155–156, 241, 243–245, 258–259;

Index 281

and politics, 8, 11, 25–26, 47, 57, 111, 211, 256, 257; ritenuto marking in, 105–106, 141–143, 200, 202; Russian themes in, 54; self-quotation in, 64–65, 66; self-revelation in, 8, 9–10, 54, 108; telos principle in, 35; theme of peace and war in, 65; titles and subtitles of, 4, 5–6, 12. See also specific works Shostakovich, Maxim (son), 239 Shostakovich Aphorisms, 21, 48, 154 Shostakovich ballet The Limpid Stream, 4 Shostakovich cantata The Sun Shines Over Our Motherland, Opus 90, 20 Shostakovich Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat Major, Opus 107, 206, 207 Shostakovich Cello Sonata, 142, 143, 155 Shostakovich opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, 4, 63, 98, 244 Shostakovich oratorio Song of the Forests, 19–20, 57, 58, 64, 65, 66– 67 Shostakovich Piano Concerto No. 1, Opus 35, 154 Shostakovich Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Opus 102, 61, 62, 239–241 Shostakovich Piano Quintet, 5, 46, 142–143, 164, 165, 174, 198, 202 Shostakovich Piano Sonata No. 1, 48 Shostakovich Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Minor, Opus 61, 44 Shostakovich Piano Trio No. 2, Opus 67, 77, 149, 155 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C Major, 58, 60–67; binary structure of, 62–63; comparison with Bach, 27, 57, 60, 61; comparison with Kabalevsky, 38–40; comparison with Musorgsky, 65; com-

parison with other Shostakovich works, 73–74, 113, 120, 155; and eighteenth-century models, 62; fugue, 36, 62–67; opening of the cycle, 27, 29, 60–61, 63, 67, 158, 195, 196, 251, 254; and other works in C, 65–66; in performance, 251, 252, 254; prelude, 32, 60–63, 251, 252, 254; self-quotation in, 57, 61, 62, 64–65, 66–67; tonal system of, 62–63, 66 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 2 in A Minor, 67–75; autograph manuscript of, 69, 71; comparison with Bach, 27, 32, 57, 67, 70; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 81, 119, 128, 161, 248; expressiveness in, 153, 155, 158, 195; and Fortspinnung tradition, 27; fugue, 69, 72, 73–75, 248; imprinted with meaning, 58; in performance, 70–72, 247; prelude, 27, 32–33, 67–73, 74, 248; recapitulation principle in, 32–33, 57, 73; subject and countersubject in, 73–74 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 3 in G Major, 157–163; comparison with Hindemith, 43; comparison with Kabalevsky, 40; comparison with Musorgsky, 158; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 81, 87, 119, 142, 158, 161, 167, 168, 176, 177, 178; expressiveness in, 156, 158; fugue, 160–163; inspiration for, 157–158; official report on, 23; in performance, 160; prelude, 32, 158–160, 163, 207; sense of drama in, 158; tonality of, 158–159 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 4 in E Minor, 112, 113–120; autograph manuscript of, 115, 116; comparison with Kabalevsky, 40;

282 Index

Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 4 in E Minor (continued ) comparison with other Shostakovich works, 113, 117, 119, 120, 131, 145, 156, 167, 234; fugue, 114–117, 119–120, 156, 234; official report on, 23; 1–5–6 contour of, 36, 113, 114; in performance, 119, 251; popularity of, 113; prelude, 114, 117–119; structural importance in the cycle, 120 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 5 in D Major, 120, 163–168; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 120, 163–165, 167, 173; fugue, 36, 165, 166–168, 254; lighthearted atmosphere of, 29, 32, 56, 163–164, 166, 168; in performance, 168, 254; prelude, 163–166, 246; structure of, 164 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 6 in B Minor, 120–126; autograph manuscript of, 125–126; comparison with Bach, 27, 120; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 119, 120, 142, 163, 164, 200; fugue, 120, 121, 122–126; grandeur of, 56; in performance, 126; prelude, 33, 120, 121–122, 123, 124; tonal system of, 31, 122–124 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 7 in A Major, 168–173; comparison with Bach, 27; comparison with Kabalevsky, 40; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 81, 119, 163; expressiveness of, 245; fugue, 168, 171–173, 245–246; lighthearted atmosphere of, 29, 32, 156, 168; official report on, 23; in performance, 172–173, 244–246, 247, 251; prelude, 27, 168–171, 251–252; tonal system of, 168–170 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No.

8 in F-sharp Minor, 126–134; comparison with Bach, 129–130; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 128, 132, 134, 169, 230; contrast in, 131–132; critical reviews of, 127; fugue, 128–134, 168, 169; Jewish inflections in, 8, 132–134, 230– 231; melody in, 128; official report on, 22; in performance, 127, 128, 131; prelude, 32, 33, 49, 127–128, 130, 131, 134 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 9 in E Major, 75–81; abstraction of, 58–59; ambiguity in, 75–76, 78, 80; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 87, 149, 158, 215; contrapuntal craft of, 80; fugue, 76, 77, 80–81; inverted subject of, 80; melody in, 78–79; prelude, 32, 36, 76–80, 81, 158, 207; self-revelation in, 58; tonality of, 77–78, 80 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 10 in C-sharp Minor, 81–89; abstraction of, 58–59; comparison with Bach, 82, 83; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 119, 147, 158, 204, 217, 220; fugue, 36, 82, 87–89; mystery and elusiveness of, 81, 88; in performance, 81, 254; prelude, 81–87, 89, 207; and Russian folk song, 87; self-revelation in, 58 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 11 in B Major: x, 173–177; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 81, 119, 173, 174–175, 176–177; fugue, 173, 176–177, 178; official report on, 23; in performance, 155; prelude, 32, 173–176, 178 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 12 in G-sharp Minor, 134–143; autograph manuscript of, 138–139,

Index 283

141–142, 267n24; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 94, 98, 101, 119, 137–138, 141–143, 144, 147, 164, 165, 210; comparison with Rachmaninoff, 137; as conclusion to first part of cycle, 143, 173; emotion in, 98, 156, 173, 195; fugue, 49, 135, 136–138, 156, 242; in performance, 138–139, 140–143, 156, 249; prelude, 32, 101, 134–136, 139–140 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 13 in F-sharp Major, 143–148; comparison with Beethoven, 146; comparison with Chopin, 148; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 117, 119, 128, 145, 147, 156, 185, 203; fugue, 143–144, 145–147, 156, 185; moods expressed in, 144, 146–147, 156, 173, 195; new beginning offered in, 143, 148; official report on, 23; prelude, 32, 144–145, 147–148 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 14 in E-flat Minor, 148–152; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 149, 231; epic tone of, 49, 148; fugue, 36, 149, 150–151, 152; Jewish tone of, 148, 149, 231; in performance, 151–152; prelude, 32, 148, 149–150 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 15 in D-flat Major, 89–97, 98; anomaly of, 94–95; comparison with Bach, 94–95; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 119–120, 128, 149, 179, 180, 181, 209, 210; fugue, 90, 91, 93–97, 100; general character of, 8, 49, 59, 91; official report on, 23, 90, 94; in performance, 89–90, 249, 252–253; prelude, 32, 33, 90, 91–94, 96, 98; as

scherzo, 91–92; virtuosity of, 95, 97, 156 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 16 in B-flat Minor, 98–104; ambiguity of, 98; autograph manuscript of, 98, 266n12; comparison with Beethoven, 101, 102, 103; comparison with Hindemith, 44; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 98, 101, 179, 223; false start of, 98; fugue, 36, 98, 99, 102–104, 255; general character of, 59, 101; in performance, 103–104, 255; prelude, 32, 98–102 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 17 in A-flat Major, 177–186; comparison with Mozart, 179, 180; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 81, 128, 145, 161, 178, 179, 180, 181, 185, 199, 200, 216, 227, 228; comparison with Rachmaninoff, 184, 249; folksy character of, 156, 177, 179, 182, 199; fugue, 36, 178, 179, 182–186, 249; official report on, 23; in performance, 249; prelude, 32, 178, 179–182, 183, 201 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 18 in F Minor, 199–205; comparison with Beethoven, 203; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 200–202, 228; fugue, 199, 201, 203–204; official report on, 23; in performance, 205; prelude, 33, 36, 199–203, 205 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 19 in E-flat Major, 205–211; autograph manuscript of, 208–209; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 206, 207, 210, 212, 215; fugue, 209–211; official report on, 23; in performance, 211; prelude, 32, 194, 205–209

284 Index

Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 20 in C Minor, 211–217; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 211–212, 213, 215, 216; fugue, 211, 212, 215–217; mood of anticipation in, 194; in performance, 216–217, 249–250; prelude, 32, 211–215; tentativeness in, 29; tonal system of, 214–215 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 21 in B-flat Major, 186–193; comparison with Bach, 32, 187; comparison with Borodin, 190–191; comparison with Hindemith, 186; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 149, 188; comparison with Prokofiev, 186, 189; fugue, 33, 190–193; in performance, 186; prelude, 186–190; speed in, 155, 186– 188, 193 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 22 in G Minor, 217–223; comparison with Bach, 32, 221; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 117, 220, 229; folk quality in, 217, 220; fugue, 36, 194, 218, 220–223; 1–5– 6 contour of, 36, 217, 220; prelude, 217–220 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 23 in F Major, 223–228; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 227, 228, 231, 233; fugue, 226–228; prelude, 32, 33, 194, 223–226, 227, 231; tempo of, 223, 226, 231; tentativeness in, 29, 56, 194; tonal system of, 195, 226 Shostakovich Prelude and Fugue No. 24 in D Minor, 228–236; comparison with other D Minor works, 195; comparison with other Shostakovich works, 66, 117, 132–133, 137, 149, 196, 200, 229–233; double fugue in,

34, 81, 198; ending of the cycle, 29, 34, 49, 195, 196–197, 198–199, 223, 228, 236; fugue, 34, 81, 198, 229, 230, 233–236; Jewish character in, 132, 133, 198, 199, 229–231; prelude, 33, 231–233; prelude-fugue interconnection in, 231–232 Shostakovich Preludes and Fugues for Piano, Opus 87, 7–11; accessibility of, 10–11, 25, 45, 47, 109; artful character of, 110–113; attempts to decode, 8, 24–26; audience expectations for, 110, 111, 217–218; auditions of, 22, 41, 90, 108, 245, 252; autograph markings of, 69, 71, 98, 105–108, 110, 111; chromatic displacement in, 30, 48, 162, 168– 169, 174, 175, 181; coherence in cycle of, 36, 195; completion of the cycle, 13, 49, 236; in context, 10, 13–26, 111; creation of, 8, 13, 21–24; critical reviews of, 109–110; expressiveness of, 53–60, 153–157; formal prelude design, 32–33; harmonic language of, 29–30, 162; influence of, 38–41; inspiration for, 21, 23, 27–29, 36; and listener expectations, 30; official report on, 22–25, 108, 109; performances of, 24, 45, 46, 107–110, 156–157, 163, 195, 246–253, 254–259, 265n13; poetic tendencies in, 111; publication of, 24, 247; public premiere of, 250; regularity of fugal practice in, 33; self-quotation in, 7, 54, 57–58; selfrevelation in, 10, 54, 55, 56–58, 108; storytelling in, 195–199; tonal system of, 28–31, 105–107, 194; traditional forms in, 32, 33–34. See also specific works Shostakovich Sonata for Cello and Piano, Opus 40, 155

Index 285

Shostakovich song cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry, 18, 36, 133, 196, 229– 231, 243 Shostakovich songs, Opus 86, “Motherland Hears,” 20 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 1 in C Major, 63 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 2 in A Major, 174–175 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 3 in F Major, 4–5, 6, 12, 95, 96, 141, 198, 240 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 4 in D Major, 18 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 5 in B-flat Major, 18 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor, 9, 10, 54, 57, 110 Shostakovich String Quartet No. 9 in E-flat Major, 206, 207 Shostakovich Symphony No. 1 in F Minor, 132, 173, 243 Shostakovich Symphony No. 4 in C Minor, 154, 155, 198; critical writings on, 9, 110; and Fugue in A Minor, 57, 67, 68, 74; and Mahler’s work, 66 Shostakovich Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, 97; finale, 197–198, 229; opening of, 77, 202; second movement, 91; subtitle of, 4, 5–6, 12 Shostakovich Symphony No. 7 in C Major, “Leningrad,” 4, 47, 66, 67, 202, 242 Shostakovich Symphony No. 8 in C Minor, 198; comparisons with other composers’ works, 66, 240; first movement, 77, 141, 202, 229; fourth movement, 98; in performance, 142; second movement, 202; and String Quartet in F Major, 5

Shostakovich Symphony No. 9 in E-flat Major, 141, 142, 206, 207 Shostakovich Symphony No. 10 in E Minor: “DSCH” motive in, 10, 54; finale, 198; first movement, 66, 200, 202, 229, 230 Shostakovich Symphony No. 11 in G Minor, 4, 20, 194, 205, 211, 213, 242 Shostakovich Symphony No. 13 in B-flat Minor, “Babi Yar,” ix–x, 12 Shostakovich Ten Poems on Texts by Revolutionary Poets of the Late Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries, Opus 88, 20 Shostakovich Twenty-Four Preludes, Opus 34, 48–49; in E-flat Minor, 49; in G-sharp Minor, 49; No. 4 in E Minor, 118, 119; No. 5 in D Major, 48, 154; No. 6 in B Minor, 132; No. 11 in B Major, 48; No. 15 in D-flat Major, 49, 92, 93, 97; No. 17 in A-flat Major, 49 Shostakovich Violin Concerto No. 1 (1948), 98 Sinyavsky, Andrei, Strolls with Pushkin, 241 Sorabji, Kaikhosru Shapurji, 109–110 Sovetskaya Muzika, 22, 24–25, 94, 108 Soviet Union: Agitprop in, 16–17; anti-formalist campaign (1948) in, 8, 13–17, 24, 25, 56, 63; artistic narratives in, 197; and Babi Yar, x; Central Committee of the Communist Party, 13, 14, 16, 63; Committee for Artistic Affairs, 16, 24; formalists in, 111; Great Terror in, 14; and Hungarian uprising (1956), 211; ideological traditions of, 253– 257; internalization of authority in, 57–58; Jewish element in, 133, 229;

286

Index

Soviet Union (continued ) musical tonality in, 31, 78, 179–180, 253; music and politics in, 8, 14–17, 24, 41–42, 47, 57–58, 108–109, 110–111, 242–243, 256, 257; music and self-exploration in, 60, 240; Muzfond, 15–16; national identity, xi, 67, 109, 241, 257, 259; Palace Square massacre (1905), 211, 212, 242; post-Stalinist Thaw in, x, 108, 253; revolution (1917), 20; Russian contrapuntal tradition, 36–41; siege of Leningrad, x; socialist realist culture of, 8, 9, 22, 65, 108–109, 154, 242; spiritual community of, 53; Union of Composers, 10, 14–16, 20, 108, 109, 245, 247, 252; and World War II, 14, 109; Writer’s Union, 16; Zhdanovshchina (ideological renewal) in, 14 Stalin, Joseph: death of, 13, 16, 18, 25; and denunciations, 14; reign of, 17, 242; and Shostakovich’s travel, 21 Steinberg, Maximilian, 132 Stockhausen, Karlheinz, 243 Strauss, Richard, Till Eulenspiegel’s Merry Pranks, 248 Stravinsky, Igor, 41, 245 Subjective universalism, 253, 269n19 Sullivan, J. W. N., 3, 5 Sviridov, Yuriy, 23 Taneyev, Sergei, Prelude and Fugue in G-sharp Minor, 38

Taylor, Charles, The Ethics of Authenticity, 259 Tomoff, Kiril, 15, 26, 55 Toscanini, Arturo, 47 Trilling, Lionel, Sincerity and Authenticity, 258 USSR Symphony Orchestra, 142 Vaughan Williams, Ralph, 46 Volkov, Solomon, Testimony, xi, 26, 255, 256 Volksgeist, xi Wagner, Richard: Das Rheingold, 195; Siegfried, 142 Webern, Anton von, 248 Weill, Kurt, 41 Weimar Germany, 154 Welter, Nadezhda, 244 Wesley, Eduard, 248 Wilson, Elizabeth, 17, 18, 19, 22, 23, 244 Woodward, Roger, 104, 127, 255 World War II, 14, 109, 206 Yevtushenko, Yevgeniy, x Yudin, Gavriil, 157 Yudina, Mariya, 12, 23, 157, 253 Zhdanov, Andrei, 14, 16