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music is another. The usual dichotomy between word and deed. And it's a shame that the students don't understand the dichotomy, and that they feel that being illiterate is a form of opposition. I've spoken with mature people who were proud of not knowing or liking Glinka.
This general musical illiteracy is naturally one of the factors that have helped plagiarism flourish; but obviously it's not the only one.
There are so many reasons. Greed, for one, but also the certainty that no one will catch you. They're not afraid of being caught and shamed.
Entire tragedies unfold in whispers, lives are ruined. I had a friend who once confessed while drunk that he earned his living ghost-writing songs for a very popular composer. He told me which one.
"Our people love those songs, don't they?" he said with a wry smile.
"They're all about heroic deeds, courage, nobility, and other marvelous things." He told me how they did it-a lovely picture straight out of Dostoevsky. The two "co-composers" met in a toilet. One handed over the money, the other the sheet music for the latest song about nobility. Then the conspirators flushed, for authenticity.
This was the lofty and poetic setting for the birth of another valuable work that was to elevate the moral level of the people.
I said to my friend, "I'll throw the bastard out of the union." (I was secretary of the Composers' Unfon of the R.S.F.S.R. then.) He sobered up and replied, "Just try. I'll say that you're slandering him."
"Why?" I asked. "You just told me about him yourself." And he replied, "I'll deny it, I'll say you're lying. I'll lose income because of you.
He pays me well, and on time. I have to dun the others. This one lets me live, and thanks to him for that. I'll turn you into a slanderer-.just try saying anything. You'll be a slanderer, everyone will call you a liar."
And I said nothing, I let it go. Why? I still don't know for sure. I shouldn't have, I know. I never seem to follow up on anything. I suppose I was afraid of being branded a liar. I hate hearing things like that about myself. I want to be an honest man in all respects.
Citizens, a new era has begun in musical history, new and unheard of. Now we are no longer dealing with simple plagiarism. In plagiarism the thief fears being caught. But now the person who knows the truth is the one who lives in fear. Because he faces a smoothly running operation, a large machine at work, and he, the fool, wants to stick his hand in it. Obviously, it will be chopped off.
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I backed off, but I should have seen it through. I should have got rid of him. But then my friend would have lost his job. Of course, his job was perverse and he should have done something more worthwhile.
But I felt sorry for him.
Perhaps l just washed my hands of it. There's· no point in getting involved with plagiarists and scoundrels when they're in power. The whole world can shout that a man is a scoundrel and a bastard, and he'll just go on living and thriving. And not twitch a hair on his mustache, if he has one.
Take the astonishing rise of Mukhtar Ashrafi, famous composer, and not only in his native Uzbekistan. He is the recipient of two Stalin Prizes, is a People's Artist of the U.S.S.R., and a professor. He even has the Order
.
of Lenin. The reason l know . his title and awards so well is that I handled his case. He turned out to be a shameless plagiarist and thief. I was chairman of the commission that smoked him out.
We dug around in shit, "analyzing" his music, hearing depositions from witnesses. We had Ashrafi up against the wall. It was exhausting work-and in vain, as it turned out. At first we seemed to have got some results. He was expelled from the Composers' Union. But recently I was thumbing through a magazine, I don't remember which, and I saw a familiar name. Ashrafi was giving an interview. He was in power again, sharing his creative plans, which were quite extensive.
How can you keep from washing your hands of it, from saying to hell with it?
I think the greatest danger for a composer is a loss of faith. Music, and art in general, cannot be cynical. Music can be bitter and despairing, but not cynical. And in this country, they like to confuse cynicism with despair. If music is tragic, they say it's cynical. I've been accused of cynicism more than once, and incidentally, not only by government bureaucrats. The Igors and Borises of our country's musicologists added their two cents' worth too. But despair and cynicism are different, just as ennui and cynicism are different. When a man is in despair, it means that he still believes in something.
It's the smug little music that is often cynical. Quiet and calm it is, for the composer doesn't give a damn about anything. It's just drivel and not art. And it's all around us. It saddens me to talk about it, because cynicism is not characteristic of Russian music. We have never had the tradition. I don't want to be full of hot air and bore everyone 1 75
with calls to good citizenship; I want to discover the causes of cynicism. In looking for the causes of many interesting phenomena, one must tum, I feel, to the Revolution, because the Revolution brought a turnabout in the consciousness of a significant number of people, a radical turnabout. I'm speaking now of the so-called cultural stratum.
The living conditions of this stratum changed sharply and the unexpected change caught many smack between the eyes. People w�re unprepared. They were professionally involved in literature and art. It was their work, their market, and suddenly everything in the market changed.
I'll never forget one incident that Zoshchenko told me about. It had made a strong impression on Zoshchenko and he often ref erred to it.
He used to know a poet in Petersburg by the name of Tinyakov, a fair, even talented, poet. Tinyakov wrote rather recherche poetry about betrayals, roses, and tears. He was a handsome man, a dandy.
Zoshchenko met him again after the Revolution and Tinyakov gave him a copy of his latest book. There was nothing about love, flowers, and other lofty objects. They were talented poems, Zoshchenko f cit they were works of genius, and he was a severe critic-Anna Akhmatova gave him her prose to read with trepidation. Tinyakov's new poems dealt with the poet's hunger-that was the central theme. The poet announced firmly that "I will perform any vile act for food."
It was a direct, honest statement, which didn't remain only as words. Everyone knows that a poet's words often diverge from his deeds. Tinyakov became one of the rare exceptions. The poet, who was not yet old and still handsome then, began begging. He stood on a heavily traveled comer in Leningrad, with a sign that said "Poet"
around his neck and a hat on his head. He didn't ask, he demanded, and the frightened passers-by gave him money. Tinyakov earned a lot that way. He bragged to Zoshchenko that he was making much more than he had before, because people liked giving money to poets. After a hard day's work, Tinyakov headed for an expensive restaurant, where he ate and drank and greeted the dawn, whereupon he returned to his post.
Tinyakov became a happy man, he no longer had to pretend. He said what he thought and did what he said. He had become a predator and he wasn't ashamed.
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