by Lev Ozerov
this evening,” I said happily.
“For some a concert
is drudgery,” he replied,
“but for me it is always
a celebration.” We went outside
and walked along the lanes
of old Riga. The coast’s slate-blue
moisture was invigorating.
“Knitwear.” “Perfumes.” “Books.”
“It’s my way:
Wherever I’m staying,
I always listen to the organ—
in churches, prayer halls, cathedrals.
Once I was going to play the organ myself.
But I play my Bach on the grand piano.
I’ve loved Bach since childhood;
I can hardly express how much.
But the organ is not only Bach;
its breath
is present in all music.”
That evening he played
Chopin—Brahms—Debussy.
The audience went wild.
Then, for an encore, Bach.
I ran backstage.
“Thank you, Emil, for everything,
and for the Bach.”
A friendly, knowing nod.
Possibly, we were both thinking
of our morning meeting.
In his eyes I saw
the expanse of the Black Sea, its sound,
and the Riga Cathedral,
standing free,
with no other buildings around it,
enveloped by Bach’s thunders.
Translated by Maria Bloshteyn
*Yakov Tkach and Berta M. Reingbald were piano teachers in Odessa with whom Gilels studied in his early years. Heinrich Neuhaus taught Gilels at the Moscow Conservatory.
MIRON POLYAKIN (1895–1941), a violinist renowned for his powerful, emotive style, was born into a Jewish family in Cherkasy, Ukraine. He studied first in Kyiv and then at the Saint Petersburg Conservatory under the famed Leopold Auer, debuting in 1909. Between 1917 and 1926 he toured the world. After returning to the Soviet Union, he taught at the Leningrad and Moscow Conservatories. He died of a heart attack in a sleeper carriage, returning from Crimea to Moscow. Shostakovich, with whom he had spent the preceding evening, discovered him in the morning.
MIRON BORISOVICH POLYAKIN
Do you recall hearing Polyakin?
The second movement
of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto?
Why do I even ask?
If you had,
you would remember
for life.
The speaking soul of Polyakin’s violin!
I still hear it.
Lady Astor,
Count Champfleury,
Baron Rosenheim
thought it an honor
to host this boy
from Ukraine,
this sorcerer with a violin,
at their castles, palaces,
parks, estates,
latifundia, and villas.
Miron surveyed these places
a little nervously,
as if he were studying geography.
He found dovecotes more appealing
than ancient stained-glass windows.
But all this
fed the flames of an already
flamboyant imagination.
Music is jealous—
it doesn’t like to be abandoned,
and he cherished his cantilena
faithfully.
Beethoven and Brahms were waiting.
And he returned to them.
Shy, gentle, quiet,
Miron Polyakin
conquered the world
while still an adolescent.
His name was uttered
in the same breath
as those of Heifetz, Elman,
and Zimbalist. He was invited
to Buckingham Palace
and Versailles; notable personages
trailed behind him.
They tried to entertain him,
to teach him to ride:
“No—I must protect my hands.”
The art of rowing:
“Oh, no—my hands.”
Fencing: “Oh, no—my hands!”
He couldn’t, even when
he was resting, tear his left hand
from the instrument’s
warm, polished neck;
he couldn’t tear
his right from the strings.
He’d touch them—and hear
their quiet reply. His deft fingers
had a life of their own.
But how our hearts leapt
at those cadences!
How we were rapt
by those scherzi!
I once saw a prominent violinist
reach out his hands
to Polyakin’s violin:
“Allow me.” “No, no,
I wouldn’t trust this neck to anyone—
it’s grown so used to me,
and I to it.” “Forgive me,
Miron Borisovich.” “Oh, no, it’s me
who should be asking for forgiveness,
but I’ve made up my mind:
no one will lay a finger on it,
be he a simple fiddler
or a virtuoso
like you.”
The wunderkind had long ago matured;
his hair was withdrawing.
And after conquering the world,
he decided to return to Russia—
family, graves, memory,
grief, love, nostalgiya.
He gave concerts,
lessons at the conservatory.
A new chapter in his life.
“Miron Borisovich, with all due respect,
you need
to attend the Marxist-Leninist circle.”
“But will this help me
to hold the bow better?”
Polyakin told me
many entertaining scenes
from his rich life.
I could have set them all down—
the start of a book on Polyakin—
but I put this off till the dawn
of better days
(the mindlessness of youth)
and they never did dawn,
those better days.
Perhaps they never do?
I don’t want to talk
about Polyakin’s death
in a sleeper carriage.
I’d rather say how I was once rewarded—
I don’t know for what.
Polyakin allowed me to attend
a rehearsal of the Kreutzer Sonata.
Polyakin and Neuhaus.
Violin and piano.
Man to man.
Soul to soul.
Close as close
can be.
1996
Translated by Boris Dralyuk
ARAM KHACHATURIAN (1903–1978) was a flamboyant Armenian composer, known not only for his innovative concertos but also for his dazzling ballets, such as the patriotic Gayane (1942), which includes the famous “Sabre Dance,” and the heroic Spartacus (1954). He was initially allowed to hold various prominent positions in the Union of Soviet Composers, even though he was not a member of the Communist Party (he joined only in 1943). In 1948 he was publicly denounced as a formalist along with Prokofiev and Shostakovich, but was restored in the Party’s good graces later that year. He put on his own compositions both in the Soviet Union and abroad. In 1957 Khachaturian became the secretary of the Union of Soviet Composers, a position that he held until his death in 1978. In the 1960s and ’70s Khachaturian and Ozerov were not only friends but also creative collaborators: they were planning to write an opera together, to be titled Twenty-Six Commissars from Baku. Ozerov wrote the libretto, but the opera was never finished. Khachaturian himself told Ozerov the story described in his portrait.
ARAM ILYICH KHACHATURIAN
Free time for whims is what makes age alluring;
the aging Khachaturian
grew to like touring:
Rome—Paris—London—Berlin.
He conducted, shook hands,
represented the state,
gave many an interview,
enjoyed his fame through and through.
Glory, after all, is glorious;
he lapped up bravos;
the glitter of concert halls
held him in thrall.
Glad of each chance
to further his own fame,
he paid his respects
to the pope and von Karajan,
Stravinsky and Britten,
the Dalai Lama, the Queen.
He was photographed with them,
or rather—they with him.
Some photos were like ads, others
more personal. Best of all
were the snapshots
of handshakes: hands
coupled, heads bent forward.
In his Moscow apartment,
with its sliding doors,
he treated guests to Armenian wine,
Mutakh cheese, a few grapes,
and these photos—
expecting rapt
exclamations.
His albums, his apartment walls
were adorned with every
major celebrity.
The only one missing
was Salvador Dalí.
He must visit Dalí!
Must see Dalí!
Must chat with Dalí!
Must be photographed with Dalí!
Otherwise
both the collection
and his own fame
would be incomplete.
Dalí gave his consent.
A date was set
for a meeting
in a remote castle,
At the time agreed,
Khachaturian and his assistant,
his assistant’s assistant, and his photographer,
a friend and this friend’s daughter—
a budding artist—
approached the castle.
A truly ancient castle!
But in order to enter it
you had to cross
a wide swath of swampland.
No other way:
no footbridges,
no guards to assist them.
Mud splattered their dress
shoes and best clothing;
dispirited and exhausted,
they crossed the swamp.
The gates clanged open;
they entered the empty vastness
of the ancient castle,
akin to a planetarium or crematorium.
The silence continued.
The guests stood in a stupor.
This was insane!
Suddenly, in all its wild frenzy,
the “Sabre Dance” was unleashed.
It was like bolts of lightning!
Crossed sabres rang out,
struck each other,
recoiled, parted,
flashed again,
clanged again.
It was spectacular!
The music’s proud composer
managed a smile: this was,
after all, in his honor.
He was distracted,
however, by the sight
of his Angelo Litrico shoes,
gleaming new only the day before
but now encrusted with mud.
The “Sabre Dance” drew to an end.
After a meaningful pause,
Salvador Dalí himself appeared,
riding a dark horse,
dressed like Don Quixote,
carrying a spear, of course,
but without Sancho Panza.
He rode three victory laps,
respectfully stopping
beside his shivering guests.
Through half-closed eyes
he looked down at everyone
with benevolent condescension:
a look full
of meaning.
Then, thrice brandishing his spear,
he withdrew so abruptly that
the photographer
was unable to recollect
what he was meant
to be doing there.
A prerecorded message
boomed a polite “Arrivederci”;
the lights went out,
the wayfarers exited.
“Ouch!” groaned the photographer.
“Argh!” growled the assistant.
Khachaturian stayed silent.
Once again they trudged
through the surrounding mud,
but I said enough about that
as I described their approach
to the castle
of the ingenious Salvador.
It is said that this episode
cooled the composer’s ardor:
he went less often on tour
to dodgy venues.
December 1995–1996
Translated by Maria Bloshteyn
VSEVOLOD MEYERHOLD (1874–1940), a seminal figure in the world of experimental theater, was born into a merchant-class Russian German family near Penza. He briefly studied law at Moscow University, hoped to become a professional violinist, but soon found his true calling in the theater, enrolling at the Moscow Philharmonic Dramatic School in 1896. His teacher was Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, who, along with Konstantin Stanislavsky, founded the Moscow Art Theater in 1898; Meyerhold became a regular performer in their productions. He left the Art Theater in 1902 and struck out on his own, experimenting with new interpretations and staging methods. After the Revolution he joined the Bolshevik Party and tried to influence its cultural policy in favor of his experimental vision. His efforts met with little success, though he did manage to open the Meyerhold Theater in 1920 and run it until 1938. The imposition of socialist realism in the early 1930s put ever-greater pressure on Meyerhold. After his theater was closed, Stanislavsky invited him to lead the opera company he was then directing. Meyerhold did not last long in this new position. He was arrested in June 1939 and tortured until he confessed to having spied on the Soviet Union for Britain and Japan. He bravely rescinded his confession in a letter to Premier Vyacheslav Molotov. Meyerhold was shot on February 1, 1940.
VSEVOLOD EMILYEVICH MEYERHOLD
A man runs in,
and on his heels—a breeze,
heralding genius.
It fans everyone in the foyer.
No one says, “He’s here now.”
Everyone feels his presence.
Nobody says, “He has arrived.”
Everyone feels, “He’s here.”
He takes his scarf off on the go,
bows to all,
and throws off his coat,
which someone catches and carries away.
The day begins.
“Let’s get to work,
A List of Benefits—
Yury Karlovich Olesha,
please give him a warm welcome.”
Meyerhold concentrates, gliding
through space,
seeking the right tonality,
and sparkles with his gray-blue eyes,
blue eyes with flecks of green.
Eyes that can darken in anger.
Lids that descend majestically.
Backstage smells of planks,
wood chips, perfume,
Griboyedov’s* verses.
Disheveled, Meyerhold
quickly removes his smoke-gray jacket.
Two actors are onstage beside him.
One has to hit the other.
“Wrong!” says Meyerhold.
He doesn’t work
on the one doing the hitting—
he grabs the one taking the hit.
Squatting, bending sideways,
he raises his hands in defense
against the hitter. “Again, again!
And you’re hitting a person,
not chopping firewood.
There’s a differ
ence!
We’ll come back to this.”
The scenes have yet to fall into place;
they’re still
just getting used to one another.
And Meyerhold is getting used to them,
sculpting a performance.
It comes together in the strangest fashion—
out of guesswork, non sequiturs,
everything we find hard to predict.
I took a liking to the mystery of rehearsals,
got to know everyone by name:
Raikh, Babanova, Shtraukh,
Martinson, Shostakovich, Garin,
Shebalin, Ilyinsky, and others—
all vivid, sharp, unforgettable.
I heard the famous:
“Ulalume! The great Ulalume’s arrived!”†
Words
I remember from early youth.
I saw Meyerhold at other times:
stepping out onstage, summoned by the audience;
looking around the theater building
on Triumfalnaya Square;
talking to Olesha
about Hamlet.
Meyerhold has lost
his theater, lost
his home,
lost
his life. The world
has lost
Meyerhold.
How simple,
how deadly simple!
July 1994–March 1996
Translated by Boris Dralyuk
*Alexander Griboyedov was an early nineteenth-century playwright, poet, and diplomat, whose verse comedy Woe from Wit (1823) is one of the classics of Russian literature.
†A line from the play A List of Benefits (1931), by Yuri Olesha (see p. 100).
ALISA KOONEN (1889–1974), a star of the Russian and Soviet stage, was born into a Belgian family in Moscow. She studied with Konstantin Stanislavsky at the Moscow Art Theater and made her debut in 1906. She met her future husband, the director Aleksandr Tairov (né Kornblit), in 1913, and the following year they formed the Chamber Theater. She was particularly renowned as a tragedienne and is remembered for her performances as Phaedra, as the titular characters in Oscar Wilde’s Salomé and Gabriel Legouvé’s Adrienne Lecouvreur, as Anita in Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, Abbie in Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms, and Emma in an adaptation of Gustav Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. The Chamber Theater closed in 1949, a casualty of the anti-Semitic campaign against cosmopolitanism. Heartbroken, Tairov died the following year.
ALISA KOONEN
The name Alisa Koonen
is like a house with many windows,
a temple with many columns.
Back then the name was here, there—
here, on Bolshaya Bronnaya,
there, on Tverskoy Boulevard,
