In 1936 Stalin walked out of Dmitri Shostakovich's opera, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. Soon an article in Pravda appeared: "Muddle Instead of Music" - inept criticism, but devastating effect. The political war for Shostakovich's soul had begun.
Performance of his Fourth Symphony was canceled. Friends avoided him. Musicians supporting him were persecuted. And as Shostakovich, one of the 20th century's greatest composers, would acknowledge much later, had it not been for the totalitarian regime under which he lived, "I would have written more pure music."
Yet this same man who suffered under Soviet communism also joined the Communist Party in 1960, even spoke or signed statements against Soviet dissidents. What are we to make of him?
In Elizabeth Wilson's artfully woven collection of reminiscences, Shostakovich (1906-75) emerges three-dimensional, fascinating, yet still enigmatic - neither Soviet cheerleader nor covert subversive, as some would have him. First published in 1994, the book is freshly augmented with new material for his centenary. The voices of family, friends, composers, conductors and other musicians make riveting reading; they document Shostakovich's struggle to balance the demands of musical genius with those of a repressive state.
Wilson's credentials are first-rate: She studied cello with the great Mstislav Rostropovich, a close friend of Shostakovich's, and attended several premieres of the composer's late work. She documents in chilling detail the fears under which Shostakovich worked, the subterfuges he used to make his music pass in a hostile climate while still mining his soul's depths.
For 1936 wasn't his last run-in with the state. His heroic Seventh Symphony, performed during the World War II siege of Leningrad, bought him credit with Stalinist authorities up to a point. But with war's end came new decrees denouncing artistic "formalism" - excess attention to aesthetics at the expense of socialist realism.
Rostropovich recalls: "For him it was a calamity that the people for whom he had written his works with his very blood, to whom he had exposed his very soul, did not understand him."
One decree came in 1948 as Shostakovich wrote his Concerto for Violin in A minor. The work could not be performed publicly till 1955, after Stalin's death. Musically, it's no proletarian picnic: a "relentlessly hard, intense piece for the soloist," Russian composer Venyamin Basner calls it. Violinist David Oistrakh even asked Shostakovich for the mercy of "letting the orchestra take over the first eight bars in the Finale so ... I can wipe the sweat off my brow."
Though her book doesn't move in a straight-line narrative, Wilson's analyses frame the oral histories - many of them from interviews she conducted - and for the most part provide adequate context. At times she fails to referee discrepancies between speakers. Laurel Fay's 2000 Shostakovich: A Life, a more traditional biography, clears up some confusions.
With Shostakovich, some matters may never be entirely clear. He gave communism lip service, but did speak out powerfully in his music. He helped innumerable repressed artists behind the scenes. Though not Jewish, he defended the Jews, affirming their culture musically.
As another composer said, the perpetually nervous, agitated Shostakovich was "pain personified," but in his music "was able to transform the pain ... into something exalted and full of light."