In search of Freedom
Auf der Suche nach Freiheit
Jens Hagestedt (Traduction)
Wolke Verlag, Hofheim. In cooperation with Peermusic Classical GmbH (juin 2010)
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . .
Die Macht der Musik.
Mieczysław Weinberg : Eine Chronik in Tönen
The power of music.
Mieczysław Weinberg : A chronology in sounds
If someone were to tell me that there is a Soviet composer of whom I've
barely heard, who composed 26 symphonies and 17 string quartets, many
of which deserve to be in the standard repertoire, my first reaction would
probably be to assume they meant
– that modest, noble-minded 'musical conscience of Moscow' who composed 27
symphonies and 13 quartets, some of which do speak with a unique and
treasurable voice. But if that same informant said no, it's someone entirely
different, then I should probably have to stifle a groan. What, yet another 'neglected
genius'? Presumably one of those countless moderate or eccentric talents
who deserved a better roll of the dice but who is never going to be more than
a footnote in musical history?
And even if I should come to share my enthusiast's point of view, isn't life too short to add such a quantity of must-know music to the in-tray? And if those are my hypothetical reactions - as a supposed specialist in the field - what can I expect when I'm the one trying to do the persuading?
Well, if you are reading this essay, I suppose I can at least count on your curiosity. Those of us contributing to this volume aren't doing so just because we like to see our words in print, nor because we like to spend our time championing lost causes. So if I claim that there are symphonies and string quartets - and indeed operas, concertos, sonatas and song cycles - by Mieczysław Weinberg that deserve to be heard, known and never forgotten, that is because I believe not only in his talent and his individuality, but in the potential power of his music to change lives for the better.
That's not a belief based merely on sympathy for the struggles he had to endure. Yes, he had a difficult life. Yes, he encountered all sorts of practical obstacles to performances of his work. And yes those circumstances contributed to why his music is as it is and to why most of us in the West still know comparatively little of it.
All that is part of a fascinating back-story. But his music is what counts. It is music with profound emotional content and ethical awareness, produced not only in response to suffering, but also by rock-solid technique and thorough assimilation of a rich heritage of folk and art sources. Much of his output engages directly with the world around him, especially in its response to the Second World War and its aftermath. But an equal quantity of works faces inwards, to topics of love and longing, mortality and the search for meaning. That's not so easy to write about, but encountering it in the concert hall is equally inspiring.
Tempting though it may be to set Weinberg up as some kind of moral beacon, his message has nothing – or almost nothing - to do with pro- or anti-communism, or with political engagement of any kind. He would have answered to the label of 'anti-fascist', but not to any other. His message, if we want to call it such, has to do with what it is to be a human being and artist living close to the turmoils of the mid-20th century.
To take the full measure of his achievement, things have to get worse before they get better. Not only do we have to reckon with 26 symphonies and seven operas (eight if you include Weinberg's one operetta, six if you subtract one of the operas that is an operetta in all but name).There are also three full-length ballets (one of them lost), six concertos, roughly 30 song-cycles and six cantatas (roughly, because in Weinberg's case the border between the last two genres is somewhat hazily drawn), some 28 sonatas, plus handfuls of orchestral suites, tone-poems, rhapsodies and so on. Not to mention upwards of 60 film scores, plus music for the theatre, radio and even for the circus. After Weinberg's first flush of public success in the Soviet Union in the mid-1940s, mainly in the field of chamber music, it was primarily with such applied music that he made his living. That was especially true after his troubles with the authorities in 1948 and again in 1953. In that respect the life undoubtedly have some bearing on the work.
I don't by any means wish to suggest that all Weinberg's 154 opuses are equally inspired. The best can stand proudly beside the best of his great friend and mentor, Shostakovich. If asked to short-list just a dozen of the finest, I would nominate Weinberg's first opera, The Passenger, his Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, his String Quartets Nos. 4-8, his Clarinet Concerto, and his two Song Cycles Opp. 13 and 17 on Jewish texts. I would then be impatient to name another dozen or so that would not be out of place in any festival of 20th-century masterworks – including the Clarinet Sonata, the Concertos for Trumpet, Violin and Cello, the Piano Trio and the Piano Quintet, the Sinfonietta No.1, the Moldavian Rhapsody. But then there are quite a few in which the flame does not burn so brightly. That is particularly true of his output in the last two decades of his life, when failing health and waning reputation meant that creative work became an end as well as a means. Friends and family have testified that in those years Weinberg increasingly gave little thought to whether what he was working on would even be performed, deriving sufficient fulfilment from the act of composing itself. In a letter to the conductor and composer Krzysztof Meyer he wrote:
"As for me, I must say that composition causes me ever more problems. But there is one good thing about my character: so long as I am writing, the work interests me. When the piece is finished, it doesn't exist any more. Its fate (whether that be ostracisation by the Philharmonic Societies, lack of performances, silence in the press, scorn from the music critics) is all the same to me." (1)
Yet even when first encounters suggest music running on auto-pilot, sympathetic performance can tease out hidden depths (I think, for example, of the Quatuor Danel in the later quartets, Rebekka Adler in the sonatas for solo viola). Finally there are a few works that suggest that his heart and mind were not always fully engaged – especially, again, around that difficult period 1948-1953.
There again the life story helps to explain why. So let me tell it from the beginning, pausing along the way to consider what is unique about the music in each phase.
The Wander Years: Warsaw, Minsk, Tashkent, Moscow
Weinberg was born in Warsaw, and his early musical activities were as pianist and ensemble leader at the Jewish theatre where his father was composer/arranger and violinist. From the age of 12 he took piano lessons at the Warsaw Conservatoire, and he was shaping for a career as a concert pianist, until the German invasion in 1939 deprived him of the chance to take up an invitation to study with the legendary Josef Hofmann in Philadelphia. In later life his fluency as sight-reader and score-reader was much vaunted, and among his recordings is a fine account of his own Piano Quintet with the Borodin Quartet. He fled the German occupation (in which his parents and sister were murdered at Trawniki) to Belarus, where a border guard reportedly inscribed his documents with the stereotypically Jewish first name, Moisey. This became the appellation by which all official sources thereafter referred to him, while friends and family used the pet-name Metek. In the Belarusian capital of Minsk from 1939 to 1941, Weinberg attended the composition classes of Vasily Zolotaryov, one of Rimsky-Korsakov's numerous pupils, where he acquired a solid technical grounding. When German forces invaded the Soviet Union, Weinberg had to flee again, and he left Minsk just a few hours after his graduation concert. He then spent two years in Tashkent, capital of the central-Asian Soviet republic of Uzbekistan, where a number of composers and other artists were in evacuation, including the famous Jewish actor, Solomon Mikhoels, whose daughter, Nataliya, Weinberg met and married.
Talent-spotted by fellow composers, he received an invitation from Shostakovich to go to Moscow in 1943, when wartime conditions permitted the journey. There he settled for the remaining 53 years of his life, rarely travelling outside the city and only leaving the country twice: once on an uncomfortable visit to his native Poland in 1966. There he took part in the Warsaw Autumn festival as a member of the Soviet delegation and his compatriots saw him as "one of them". The second time was not until 1983 when he travelled to Brno in Czechoslovakia where his opera The Portrait was being staged.
Until his arrival in the Soviet Union, Weinberg was more or less self-taught as a composer, absorbing techniques and styles from his piano repertoire, from the incidental music played by his father's Jewish-theatre band, and from concert life around him in Warsaw. A small number of pieces survive from his teenage years, mainly for piano or violin-and-piano duo, among them his Op. 1 Lullaby for piano and a highly-wrought First String Quartet (whose extensive revision, made 50 years later, is the version we hear nowadays).
During his two years in Minsk, under the tutelage of Zolotaryov, Weinberg composed five opus-numbered works – the first of his six piano sonatas, his first two song cycles, a graduation-piece Symphonic Poem (in hindsight a dry run for the first movement of a symphony), and his Second String Quartet, in whose scherzo movement the first signs of a characteristically wistful tone of voice may be detected. It was in Minsk that he had a life-changing encounter with Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony (playing the important celesta and harp parts on the piano, since the orchestra lacked those instruments). Here he discovered music that was entirely contemporary yet also spoke to a broad public. And with this epiphany, his style turned away from the Neo-impressionism of his early output towards a serious brand of Neo-classicism as a vehicle for embattled humanism.
Weinberg's own First Symphony dates from his Tashkent years and shows him still grappling with, rather than mastering, the demands of full-scale symphonic composition; the work is dedicated to the Red Army, which he considered had saved his life. But undoubtedly the most characteristic achievement of this period is the cycle of Children's Songs, Op. 13, where the Jewish texts and their tragic content go hand-in-hand with elements of the klezmer idiom, using them to convey pathos and moral outrage. This was the magic ingredient that at once personalised and, paradoxically, universalised Weinberg's musical language. He would turn to it time and again, either to channel the ethical content of his chosen verses, narratives or subject matter, or simply to enrich and deepen his expressive palette. A second set of Jewish Songs, Op. 17, now explicitly so titled, dates from soon after his move to Moscow. Both collections almost certainly inspired Shostakovich to compose his own cycle From Jewish Folk Poetry just a few years later, by which time the context of anti-Semitism in Russia lent such projects new cultural resonance.
Moscow Maturity: Dialogues with a Master
Weinberg settled in Moscow at a time when ideological pressures on Soviet composers were relatively light, because of the over-riding concerns of wartime. He rapidly made his mark both as pianist and as composer, and between 1943 and 1948 he produced a remarkable succession of chamber masterpieces. His ascent is perhaps most dramatically illustrated by the four quartets from this period. Their expanding horizons are expressed in their outward form, in that No. 3 is in four movements, No. 4 in four, No. 5 in five and No. 6 in six. At the same time their concentration, originality and independence from inherited procedures progressively increases, so that No. 6 stands as a pinnacle of achievement from this first maturity, closely followed in that respect by the Clarinet Sonata, the Piano Quintet, and the Second Symphony (for string orchestra). All these are confident, extrovert works, capable of holding a place in concert programmes alongside Shostakovich – or any other mid-twentieth-century composer for that matter – without embarrassment.
At the same time Weinberg was adding to his output of song cycles. These now branch out in several directions at once; more settings of poems from his Polish homeland, are balanced by Soviet patriotic texts, and foreign classics such as Schiller and Shakespeare. In the post-war era there are also the first signs of Weinberg's awareness that all Soviet composers were expected to pay their dues to the doctrine of Socialist Realism. This he sought to do by cultivating the folk idioms of his Jewish, Polish and Moldavian heritage (his family roots were in the Moldavian capital of Kishinev). Compositions such as the Festive Pictures for Orchestra, Op. 36, with its Jewish Rhapsody second movement, may not be among his most carefully wrought or most individual, but from the sociological point of view they are highly revealing. In this instance, Weinberg seems to have been responding directly to the 1946 Composers' Plenum, whose exhortations to tuneful folksiness were a sign of more draconian instructions to come.
Almost immediately upon his move to Moscow, Weinberg came into contact with Shostakovich. In creative terms this was never an official teacher-pupil relationship; nor was it one based on the exchange of high-flown ideas and opinions. Rather it was a dialogue based on mutual respect and common interests, developing through each one showing the other his latest work, often played through at the piano, whether solo or in duet. Shostakovich rarely offered advice, and when he did he confined it to a few sporadic reactions and hints. Weinberg could not but be influenced by the colossal personality of his great friend and mentor, and though never officially enrolled as a student, he readily acknowledged: 'I count myself as his pupil, his flesh and blood.'(2) Echoes of Shostakovich's Cello Sonata, Second Piano Trio and Fifth String Quartet resonate through dozens of Weinberg's works. But for every such example, another comes to mind where Weinberg has precedence. The two sets of Jewish songs already mentioned are not even the earliest example. Already in 1944 Shostakovich's Second Quartet borrows its main first-movement motif from Weinberg (also his Second Quartet, composed five years earlier). And from the same work Shostakovich took one of his most enigmatic gestures, known to every fan of his music: this is the much-discussed faux-naif perfect cadence that ends each movement of his Sixth Quartet (1956), which in context sounds like a longing to regain lost innocence. Maintaining the cycle of influence, when Weinberg revised his Second Quartet in the 1980s, at the same time rescoring it as his First Chamber Symphony, he adjusted the cadence to bring it closer into line with the way in which Shostakovich had appropriated it. These examples are but the tip of the iceberg. The two composers' musical gestures, instrumentation, choice of subject matter, number of movements, and even overall dramatic conception, all show the reciprocal influence at work.
In his obituary tribute, Weinberg ventured a characterization of Shostakovich, almost every word of which could be applied to himself, his music and his attitudes to it. Given that he said so little about his own work, these comments are, paradoxically, the nearest we have to a personal credo:
"Shostakovich's personality was extremely enigmatic. There was no person to whom he would open his soul, not a single one. Secretiveness must be seen as one of the main qualities of his character. The amplitude of his perception of life was extremely wide, many-sided, and it was a guarantee of his one hundred per cent artistic integrity. … He said that he was omnivorous, that he loved every kind of good music and that the genre did not matter. Only the quality was important […] He knew how to separate the essential from shallow, everyday things […] Until the very end he always wrote music honestly: music of any form, thematicism and genre. Compare, for example, his Eleventh and Thirteenth symphonies: they were written by one and the same composer and with complete efficiency […] When I heard music by Shostakovich, it made me want to speak about it in sublime words: this was after all the work of genius, or on the verge of that. But what could I say?! I had a reverential attitude towards him, and it was always difficult to speak. Whenever he was praised, he would turn the conversation to other subjects. And one thing I noticed in the course of those thirty years was that he did not describe his own works as much as one single time. If he sometimes happened to say something, he would rather tease himself, even though he was quite self-assured." (3)
The relationship with Shostakovich was founded additionally on music-making. In Moscow Weinberg was evidently reluctant to put himself forward as a concert pianist, though he participate in several premieres of his chamber works. Possibly his somewhat fragile health restricted him; he suffered from tuberculosis of the spine, resulting in a stoop that became more pronounced with age and that would have hindered him from powerful projection in a large hall. However, his pianistic skills were otherwise at a professional level, and before long he was on the short-list of those Shostakovich trusted to help present new work to the Composers' Union, in the normal vetting procedure before publication and performance, or to conductors preparing for a premiere, as was most famously the case leading up to Yevgeny Mravinsky's premiere of Shostakovich's Tenth Symphony in 1953. In that instance a recording was made of Shostakovich and Weinberg's duet performance, and their virtuosity and instinctive large-scale structural pacing make this an inspiring document, which has since been released several times on LP and CD.
Crises and Coping Strategies
After Weinberg's Sixth Quartet of 1946, there is an eleven-year gap before No. 7. In this same period his ongoing production of sonatas for piano and violin-piano duo is balanced by sonatinas. Similarly there is only one symphony (No. 3, 1949) but a host of orchestral suites, overtures, rhapsodies and the like. His songs continued to develop along established lines, but new among their choices of text is a paean to Stalin, from the Four Romances on Verses of Soviet poets (1947). Apart from the Moldavian Rhapsody and the Sinfonietta No.1, which rank among his freshest and most popular works, almost all of these compositions give an impression of circumspection, far removed from the bold panoramic sweep of his first Moscow maturity. And the reasons are not hard to fathom.
Almost as soon as victory was won, the social and cultural climate in the Soviet Union changed. Readers of this journal hardly need reminding that during the War, the Party had other priorities than supervising artistic production, while the over-riding imperative of patriotic solidarity was willingly adopted by the artistic intelligentsia. Then in the post-war era, intense suspicion of the West percolated down from Stalin and his henchmen to every level of officialdom, blighting the sciences and the arts alike. Although composers felt the lash later than writers or film-makers, the signs were obvious as early as the Composers' Plenum of October 1946. It is from this point that Weinberg, in common with his peers, increased the emphasis on folk-like idioms, general tunefulness, and clear, undemanding structures. The Festive Pictures, Op. 36 are the clearest example of these things in practice. Consisting of a Greetings Overture, Jewish Rhapsody and Triumphal Ode, they could hardly have been better calculated as an offering for "the 30th Anniversary of the Great Socialist October Revolution" (the dedication on the manuscript). Two more things are symptomatic about this apparently innocuous opus. The fact that Weinberg could offer his Jewish Rhapsody in the spirit of Socialist Realism is not so surprising – until late 1948 he had no reason to suppose that there was any contradiction in this. In addition the Triumphal Ode is missing from his archive, as indeed are a good half dozen other works from this time with similarly inoffensive titles. The most likely explanation for this is that they were all submitted for publication and performance but for one reason or another deemed unsuitable and not returned to the composer. That is unlikely to have had anything to do with political incorrectness or stylistic transgression. Far more probable is a case of over-cautiousness on the part of low-grade officials, worried that they might taken to task as some future point if they had allowed something to be played that was subsequently deemed unacceptable. Whatever the case, this was the beginning of troubles for Weinberg that would by no means ended with the death of Stalin.
When the storm broke early in 1948, Weinberg was not in the first row of composers to be targeted. (This was occupied by Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Khachaturian and Popov who were deemed to be lacking in Soviet patriotism and defamed as advocates of abstract bourgeois "formalism"). Still only 28, Weinberg was regarded as one of the great hopes for the future of Soviet music. As such, he was treated with a mixture of solicitude and condescension. A few of his works were condemned in speeches or publications; partly, it would seem, because of his association with Shostakovich, partly because of over-zealous application of official exhortations to give guidance to 'the young'.
"When the 'little Shostakoviches' are mentioned, as Yury Shaporin has strikingly characterized the composers who blindly copy the most negative traits in Shostakovich's style, Weinberg springs to mind first of all [...] The striving for originality at any price, the tendency towards dry linearism, towards harmonic harshness, towards the break-up of melody, strangle the depth of thought and feelings almost everywhere when they appear in his music. (4)
When Weinberg produced his version of a creative response to just criticism, it was with his Sinfonietta No. 1, composed in March 1948. If there is a cause célèbre in his output, this would be it. Those who like to think of Soviet composers as dividing into martyrs and time-servers can point to the fact that the piece has a stronger Jewish accent than anything in Weinberg's output since the two collections of Jewish Songs, and that the manuscript contained a quotation from his father-in-law, the great Jewish actor Solomon Mikhoels, who had just died in suspicious circumstances (much later confirmed as a state-sponsored murder); here, according to this logic, is a prima facie case of courageous covert dissidence, and this is indeed how the composer's first wife Nataliya Vovsi-Mikhoels sees it.
"[The Sinfonietta No.1] was dedicated from the beginning to the Friendship of the Peoples of the USSR (Druzhbe narodov SSSR), and he placed a quotation from my father on the subject of the equal rights of the Jews in Russia at the top of the score. The idea to dedicate it 'to the Friendship of the Peoples' was his own, as a protest against the murder of my father. He wanted to emphasize that a man must not be killed simply for being Jewish. When the work was printed, the motto, the quote of my father's words, was removed." (5)
The evidence to the contrary is that the Sinfonietta's folk-like tone and tuneful accessibility were just what the Party had ordered, that these qualities arose organically from Weinberg's artistic output throughout the1940s, and that the Mikhoels quotation - "In the kolkhoz fields a Jewish song also began to sound; not a song from the past, full of sadness and misery, but a new, happy song of creation and labour" – which in any case reads like pure socialist Realist propaganda, stressing as it does the friendliness of the Soviet Union towards its Jewish population, is there as a personal tribute. In addition, the work was singled out for praise by Tikhon Khrennikov himself, who was only six years older than Weinberg, but now thrust into the limelight as Secretary of the Composers' Union and thereby the main interlocutor between the Party and his fellow-composers.
Weinberg had plenty of opportunity later in life to claim victim/hero status. But he never did so. Asked in the era of glasnost for his recollections of the events of 1948, he echoed the Khrennikov line: that the oppression was not as bad as history has painted it, and that composers who claimed victim status were merely being self-serving.
In the end, it is the job of critics and polemicists to make their case, and the job of scholars to assemble evidence and critique conclusions. No one has the right to judge. Pending further revelations, my own opinion is that Weinberg continued to believe in the fundamental justness of the Soviet system, knowing full well that it harboured absurdities and individuals of ill-will; and that he did his best to negotiate a path that would enable him to retain individuality and (increasingly as he moved into middle age) to address the moral issues that burned within him.
Remarkably, his belief in the system – if such it was – survived not only the buffeting of 1948 (in which his Sixth Quartet, along with his Festive Pictures and the song-cycle, Shakespeare Sonnets, were put on the banned list) but also his arrest five years later. It is a myth – propagated principally by Khrennikov - that no Soviet composers were arrested or eliminated. But it is true that the half dozen or so who make up a tiny number compared to writers, and among composers who suffered this way, Weinberg is by far the best known.
It seems to have come about because of family connections. His wife's uncle, Miron Vovsi, was one of the doctors implicated in the notorious 'Doctors' Plot' dreamed up by Stalin in his paranoid last year. Moreover, since the murder of his father-in-law Solomon Mikhoels in 1948, Weinberg had been shadowed by the secret police. The arrest came out of the blue in February 1953, while family and friends were celebrating after a performance of the Moldavian Rhapsody by David Oistrakh Weinberg faced the patently absurd charge of 'bourgeois Jewish nationalism', and the Sinfonietta was now one of the sins held against him. In solitary confinement, with little chance of sleep, Weinberg's already delicate health was further damaged. Shostakovich himself wrote a testimonial on his behalf to Beriya. Whether this would have had any effect had Stalin not died when he did, precipitating the mass release of prisoners, is impossible to say. At any rate Weinberg was freed in April, and a long process of personal and creative recovery began.
Shostakovich's act – one of his boldest, but by no means his only one on behalf of the wrongfully imprisoned – reinforced the bond between the two composers. Less than a year on, they would make their famous piano duet recording of the Tenth Symphony, and Weinberg would perform similar services for many years to come. His piano technique at least had evidently returned almost at once. And he took the unusual step for him of speaking in public, defending Shostakovich's Tenth Symphony during its four-day trial-by-musicology in March-April 1954.
Recovery as a composer would take rather longer. There was at least one masterpiece from the year of Weinberg's release, which is the Fifth Sonata for Violin and Piano, dedicated to Shostakovich (possibly in gratitude for his intervention earlier in the year) and entirely worthy of the dedication in artistic terms. But not until 1957 did he venture to resume his production of symphonies (with No. 4) and quartets (with No. 7). It was worth the wait. The symphony's energetic first movement seems virtually like a manifesto for Weinberg's recovery of symphonic potency, while the slow movement is the first definitive statement of his lyrical persona in his orchestral output: profound, sympathetic and warm, yet also subdued and circumspect, and above all elusive. While the Fourth Symphony builds on the achievement of the Third – notably in the folk-like elements of the finale - the Seventh and Eighth Quartets strike off on a very different path from the monumental Sixth. Both co-opt elements of the klezmer idiom to give Weinberg's lyricism an even more distinctive colour.
One reason for his relatively fallow period in terms of concert works between 1953 and 1957 is that he was extraordinarily busy writing film scores. From this time he developed a particular gift with music for cartoons, which would reach a pinnacle around 1970 with his three scores for Fyodor Khitruk's Russian versions of Winnie-the-Pooh in 1969, 1971, 1972 (here on YouTube). Of the feature-film scores, by far his most famous was for Mikhail Kalatozov's The Cranes are Flying, a masterly film that won the Palme d'Or at the 1958 Cannes Film Festival. The story is of a family torn apart by the son's enlisting for war service, and the title refers to the traditional Russian symbol of love and hope, twice glimpsed in the film. The music became so popular that several extracts were made for various kinds of ensembles, and Weinberg's pastiche Rachmaninov, for the scene where the hero's girlfriend is seduced by his cowardly composer-brother in the middle of an air-raid, was arranged as a Fantasy for Piano and Orchestra by Paul Haletzki.
Music for the circus, theatre and radio had long since proved effective as coping strategies, helping Weinberg to keep body and soul together in the difficult late-Stalinist years. But the most ambitious of his theatrical efforts from the1950s were undoubtedly for the ballet. The Golden Key (1954-5) is fairy-tale retold by the popular Soviet author Aleksey Tolstoy, using puppet characters as allegory for the goodness and eventual triumph of the weak over the strong. The White Chrysanthemum (1958) is even more explicitly a Cold War document, telling of a Japanese girl who, having been blinded during an American air-raid at the end of the War, has her sight restored by expert Soviet doctors during her visit to the Sixth Festival of Youth and Students in Moscow, and is then reunited with the faithful boyfriend of her childhood. If such story-lines seem nowadays almost laughable in their sentimentality and political correctness, it should be borne in mind that few ballet scenarios can be retold without raising a smile. Moreover, Weinberg was always likely to be receptive to tales that paralleled his own experience of displacement, loss and resettlement in a land that gave him a living and a career. In any case, all these projects for stage and screen were storing up musical-theatrical experience that would bear fruit when Weinberg turned to opera at the end of the 1960s.
Before that, Weinberg composed a succession of symphonic masterpieces, starting with probably the finest of all his symphonies, No. 5 (1962). This was just the kind of piece that a conductor of the magnetism of Kirill Kondrashin would relish, and Kondrashin's Melodiya recording is a superlative account of a demanding score. Here the characteristically 'Weinbergian' images and moods are subject to interrogation, rather than being affirmed and celebrated, and the process of statement, interrogation and reaffirmation becomes the essence of the musical drama, raising the work's horizons beyond those of his own previous symphonies to the level of the great 20th-century symphonists. Shostakovich acclaimed Weinberg's Fifth Symphony as "a symphony on a heroic level." In a way, it emulates the achievements of Shostakovich's Fourth (which had recently received its belated premiere, and from which Weinberg borrows a number of musical images) and his Tenth. Weinberg never repeated the feat and only rarely attempted to do so.
What he went on to in the first instance was on the one hand choral symphonies (Nos. 6, 8, 9 and 11) and on the other symphonies for chamber forces (Nos. 7 and 10). Not until the Twelfth Symphony of 1976 did he return to the abstract-epic symphony for full orchestral forces. That, significantly, was his memorial tribute to Shostakovich – a fine work, but by no stretch of the imagination a masterpiece of the order of the Fifth Symphony. Of all the intervening symphonies, No. 6 has been the most played and recorded, and its use of children's chorus to convey a message of damaged innocence is certainly profoundly touching. This symphony was composed alongside Shostakovich's Thirteenth, and with its fourth movement orchestrating the song Red Clay from Weinberg's Op. 17 Jewish Songs, it seems likely that it may have played a part in inspiring Shostakovich's composition; in return Shostakovich's five-movement layout and revivification of the Soviet oratorio-symphony may have inspired Weinberg.
Weinberg's subsequent choral symphonies develop the moral-ethical content of protest against war, particularly as it affected his Polish homeland. As such they point forward to his first opera The Passenger, of 1967-8. Meanwhile the symphonies for chamber forces are arenas for more abstract, indeed experimental thoughts, and as such they open the way to Weinberg's long succession of later sonatas and chamber music. Both endeavours, incidentally, suggest strong kinship with Benjamin Britten, whose operas, War Requiem and solo cello works (composed for Rostropovich) are godfathers and cousins to Weinberg's output from the 1960s to the end of his life. Weinberg's own symphonies after the Twelfth reflect a synthesis of the two main lines – which is to say that the forces are in almost all cases orchestral and the content of several continues to reflect his ethical preoccupations (Nos. 17-19 are a trilogy explicitly denouncing war), while the musical language more elliptical and contorted, on the lines of the symphonies for chamber forces.
Weinberg himself referred to the 1960s as his 'starry' years: referring not so much to his own productivity – he was far too modest to indulge in such self-promotion – as to the support he received from the cream of the USSR's performers, such as Rostropovich, Oistrakh, Kogan, the Borodin String Quartet, Gilels and Kondrashin. It was certainly a period of growing self-confidence, and it set him up for tackling the most demanding and (especially in the Soviet Union) most problematic genre of all: opera.
Operas and operetta
Weinberg was in his late forties, with over 90 opus-numbered works to his name, before he embarked on his first opera. Readers of Osteuropa will need no reminding that was not so easy to write operas with any pretensions to dramatic depth in a culture blighted by Socialist Realism, and harder still to get them staged. The holy grail for an independently-minded composer such as Weinberg was a text that would touch the deepest personal chords but at the same time be unimpeachable in terms of official ideology. He found precisely that fusion in Zofia Posmysz's short novel, The Passenger. Her tale of the traumas of Auschwitz and the memories of the survivors was brought to the composer's attention in the mid-1960s by Shostakovich and their mutual friend Alexander Medvedev, who fashioned the libretto. What made it the stuff of opera is its two-tiered drama: of the Auschwitz inmates Marta and her fiance Tadeusz, and of the former overseer Anneliese and her husband Walter. The composer and all those close to him knew full well that the resulting work was a masterpiece and his most important achievement.
A dozen or so years after the war, on a liner travelling to Brazil where Walter is to take up a diplomatic position, Anneliese thinks she recognises Marta (the passenger) and so feels compelled to confront her former self. Will she address Marta face-to-face, and how will Walther deal with discovering the truth of his wife's past? In a series of flashbacks to Auschwitz, we see Marta and Tadeusz enjoying fleeting moments of contact, facilitated by Anneliese, who seeks to use Marta to control the other women. Tadeusz is forced to play the violin in a show-concert. However, instead of the prescribed salon waltz, he delivers the Bach Chaconne (with both orchestral violin sections in unison), in effect throwing German high-culture back in the face of the Nazis. In this spine-tingling climax, his violin is smashed and he is led off to execution.
Clearly conscious that the story tapped into the most profound and personal things he wanted to say as an artist, Weinberg deployed the full range of styles he had mastered, from folk-like melody, through salon-jazz, to free atonality and occasional twelve-note rows. In that respect comparisons with Berg's Wozzeck are almost unavoidable, and indeed there are other, more detailed references to Wozzeck in the score, alongside passages that display affinity with Shostakovich's The Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk District, which Weinberg certainly knew well, and with several of Britten's operas (Peter Grimes, The Turn of the Screw, Billy Budd). The very opening gesture is a spin-off from Britten's War Requiem, which Shostakovich promoted to everyone in his circle. But The Passenger has no need to fear even such estimable comparisons, such is the force and concentration of its drama, and such the overwhelming power of its moments of truth. At the opposite pole from the tragic climaxes are islands of lyrical repose, expressed in Weinberg's own inimitable voice. Surely the most potent of these is Marta's aria in Scene 6, where she sings of how she would elect to die, if God were to give her the choice. Here Weinberg draws on his Seven Romances to words by the 19th-century Hungarian revolutionary poet, Sandor Petofi, composed eight years before the opera. This is just one of dozens of examples of interpenetration between his songs, operas, symphonies and quartets, only beginning to come to light as the entirety of his output gradually becomes known.
None of these qualities, and not even Shostakovich's public enthusiasm and behind-the-scenes advocacy, were enough to secure The Passenger a premiere in the composer's lifetime, despite plans being laid at several theatres. Medvedev and Weinberg's care to minimize references to the Jewish holocaust (always a problematic topic for the Soviets, who regarded their national suffering in wartime as more significant than that of any ethnic sub-group) was insufficient to deflect the nebulous charge of 'abstract humanism'. Under the aegis of Socialist Realism, works such as this could easily be blocked if they were regarded as too negative, or rather if the negatives were not balanced by sufficient affirmation of the Soviet system. That was a potential weakness Medvedev and Weinberg addressed in their next collaboration.
The Passenger carries a motto from Paul Eluard, sung by Marta in the Epilogue: "If the echo of their voices disappears, then we will die." Similarly, Weinberg's next opera, The Madonna and the Soldier, is headed by lines from Alexander Tvardovsky: 'War: the Cruellest of Words', sung by the chorus in the Introduction. Set in Poland at the battlefront in 1945, Alexander Bogomolov's story tells of the encounter of Red Army soldiers with Polish villagers. Such scenarios make painful reading for Poles, all too aware of the Red Army's war crimes, which were by no means solely against the fleeing Nazis. But even had Weinberg heard reports of such atrocities, he would most likely not have believed them. For him the Red Army had been his salvation in 1939, and that was that.
In dramatic terms The Madonna and the Soldier is perhaps strongest in its delineation of the undeclared love of the two title characters, and weakest in its generic scenes of folksy virtue and comradeship between the peasants and their liberators. Weinberg let himself be swayed by Shostakovich to end the opera on a defiantly upbeat note, with the Russian soldiers going off to fight. That unhappy suggestion may well have been made - and indeed adopted - with one eye on the necessary approval of powers-that-be. Likewise, the absence of any dark roles (apart from the silent role of Death, who dances around the characters at strategic points) weakens the drama and looks like another nod towards Socialist Realist principles. But at least The Madonna and the Soldier was staged, albeit not after a minor scandal in which Bogomolov accused the libretto of plagiarism (he might have had a better case on grounds of narrative distortion) and Shostakovich had to straighten things out by a visit to the Ministry of Culture.
After these two operatic denunciations of war, Weinberg turned to less heavyweight subject matter. With its extensive spoken dialogue, D'Artagnan in Love, is in fact more operetta than opera. For its required succession of tuneful set pieces Weinberg could draw on his early years as a theatre musician, and on his experience with film and theatre scores. With the best will in the world, it is hard to find any show-stopping numbers in the surviving material of D'Artagnan in Love, though it has to be said that the chaotic nature of the sources makes it hard to know precisely what was intended or actually performed at its premiere in December 1974. D'Artagnan in Love certainly bears less resemblance to Weinberg's two other comic operas than to his only operetta so designated, The Golden Dress, likewise to a libretto by Ėleonora Galperina, this time written in collaboration with her husband Yuly Annenkov. Set once again during the Second World War, the story-line consists essentially of the marriage, separation and eventual reuniting of a naval officer and his sweetheart. In a similar way to Weinberg's ballets, the golden dress of the title is a symbol of youthful hopes and dreams. The musical setting is concise, modest and tuneful, in a manner appropriate to performances in the provinces or perhaps by students; but once again the state of the source material is problematic, since only a vocal score without dialogue is currently accessible.
Weinberg's operas can be thought of in pairs. Apart from the two tragic commemorations of War and the two (in effect) operettas, there are two short comic operas from the mid-1970s, which may even have been conceived as a double bill. Mazl tov! (the traditional toast at Jewish weddings and other celebrations) takes a turn-of-the-century tale by Sholom Aleichem (best known for the story that would be turned into Fiddler on the Roof) of a cook and a serving-girl on a country estate, who after much gentle banter and reluctance pair off with a hawker of books and a lackey. All this gives scope for Jewish dance idioms of the kind Weinberg had grown up with in his father's theatre band. Acceptability in Socialist Realist terms is ensured by the caricature of the exploitative mistress of the house (heard but not seen in the opera) and by a preachy conclusion that tells us that the social order is changing in favour of the peasants and workers.
Edgier in its satire, and probably more appealing to 21st-century tastes in its humour, is Lady Magnesia, based on George Bernard Shaw's Passion, Poison and Petrifaction. This somewhat heavy-handed send-up of late-Victorian melodrama shows Lady Magnesia's lover, the lackey Adolphus, poisoned by her husband by means of a soda syphon; the married couple having thus been reconciled, they administer an antidote (quicklime), which has the unfortunate effect of turning Adolphus into a statue. Weinberg's pacey score mixes near-atonal jazz with some delicious self-parody, made all the more piquant by the scoring for chamber ensemble including two electric guitars. Apart from the possibility of a double-bill with Mazl tov!, Lady Magnesia (which went down well at its Liverpool concert premiere last November) would make a near-ideal partner for William Walton's Chekhov one-acter, The Bear.
For his last two operas, Weinberg turned to the novels of Gogol and Dostoyevsky for The Portrait and The Idiot, respectively. Medvedev had begun drafting The Portrait for Shostakovich, then after the latter's death offered the completed libretto to Weinberg. The story concerns the painter Chartkov who achieves fame and fortune under the malign influence of the portrait of a moneylender that mysteriously comes to life, but who ultimately loses his artistic soul and his sanity. Apart from its inherent horrific fascination, the subject matter is obviously relevant to all societies and all times, not excluding the officially approved and therefore richly rewarded artists of the late-Soviet era.
As elsewhere in his operatic output, Weinberg seizes the attention as much by his cannily arranged oases of lyricism as by his depiction of the macabre (which admittedly rather pales beside the likes of Schnittke or Karetnikov). Key moments include the Professor's eulogy to art and beauty, set to a chorale that is one of the few instances of tonal language in the opera not being used for satirical purposes. The chorale returns to haunting effect when Chartkov prays for restoration and relief, then again shortly before his death, where he begins to hear voices from the past.
With The Idiot, Weinberg tackled one of the pinnacles of Russian literature, perhaps drawn to tackle it by resonances with his own life-story. Returning from treatment for epilepsy in Switzerland, Prince Mïshkin brings his naïve, compassionate nature to St Petersburg society, only to be dumbfounded by the way everyone he encounters there takes advantage of him and/or of each other. Not contained in the book, but added by Medvedev and Weinberg, are the Prince's philosophisings, which pick up the obsession with "truth" from The Portrait and declare, in a crucial line, "Sympathy is the only law for mankind". Such passages, along with Mishkin's description of his homesickness in Switzerland and the fact that children were the only people he felt comfortable talking to, are the nearest things to arias in the opera. And Mishkin's experiences as an exile, learning an unfamiliar language, cut off from a family he was never to see again, and increasingly infirm, must surely have touched a chord with the composer. They certainly inspired some of the subtlest, most sympathetic character delineation in all his operas.
It is somehow emblematic that The Idiot was premiered on 19 December 1991, at the Chamber Opera Theatre in Moscow under the direction of Boris Pokrovsky, just two days before the official end of the Soviet Union, and was consequently lost in the noise of time. Good fortune has come the way of Weinberg's operas only a decade after his death, and if the current trend of new stagings continues, Russian audiences' loss stands to be Western ones' gain.
Retreat and withdrawal
From his fifties on, progressively enfeebled by Crohn's disease, Weinberg was seen less and less in public. True, he received recognition of an official kind, more or less with the turn of each decade: in 1971 he was made Honoured Artist of the Russian Republic, in 1980 People's Artist of the Russian Republic, and in 1990 he received the State Prize of the USSR. But as Shostakovich himself had also found, professional and public interest was shifting even during the Thaw years away from their humanist realism towards the kind of alienated Western-style modernism that had been taboo under Stalin. Weinberg himself was not entirely unaffected by that trend. His Requiem (1965-7) is a good example of a work that seeks to ally an idiom of tortuous linear polyphony – not unlike that of the young Schnittke – to the same moral-ethical imperatives underlying his symphonies and cantatas, and soon to burst through in his operas. His later string quartets and sonatas (especially the increasing number composed for solo instruments) suggest an interest in the idioms of Bartok and Britten, and to a modest degree in the 'sonoristic' innovations of the modern Polish school.
But that was as far as Weinberg went. Not for him the exhibitionist 'polystylism' that Soviet composers, led by Schnittke, adopted in droves as a distinctively Eastern take on the avant-garde, nor the religio-symbolist-minimalism that proved so productive for the likes of Gubaidulina, Silvestrov, Ustvolskaya (YouTube), Kancheli and Terteryan. Indeed the most distinctive feature of Weinberg's later years is to found in his turn to the "chamber symphony". When he joked that he had only taken this direction because he thought that 19 full-sized symphonies was enough, many took him seriously. In fact he continued to added to that main cycle, eventually reaching No. 22 (which remained unorchestrated). And what he neglected to mention was that the first three chamber symphonies are all arrangements or reworkings of his early string quartets (Nos. 2, 3 and 5, respectively). Like Shostakovich and Prokofiev in their last years, Weinberg's returned to youthful topics and even music from his own youth, now re-imagined as objects of wistful longing.
On his 75th birthday in December 1994, bedridden and in severe discomfort, he received telephone calls from all over the world. But he could hardly have been unaware that the occasion drew no musical celebration. Such tributes came only after his death: notably in Moscow for the 80th anniversary of his birth in 1999, at the Eastman School, Rochester N.Y., in September 2006, as part of the Shostakovich centenary celebrations, and in Manchester and Liverpool in November 2009. So the festival at Bregenz in the summer of 2010 - with two operas, the Requiem, sundry other pieces and a conference - comes on the crest of a wave of rediscovery. After that, the question will surely not be whether Weinberg's music was worth it, but how it could have taken so long for it to receive its true desserts.
(1) Letter from M. Weinberg to Krzysztof Meyer (received 25 November 1988), forwarded to Per Skans 24 April, 2000.
(2) Pisma o lyubvi ('Love Letters'), Muzikal'naya zhinzn', 2000/2, p.18
(3) Sofya Khentova: V mire Shostakovicha. Moscow 1996, p. 185-189
(4) Re-mi [= Grigorij Bernandt]: Notograficheskie zametki, in: Sovetskaya muzyka, 2/1948, p. 157-158
(5) Letter to Per Skans, 18 May 2000