Chapter Eight
"From the very first moment of the opera the listener is flabbergasted by the deliberately dissonant, muddled stream of sounds. Snatches of melody, embryos of a musical phrase drown, struggle free, and disappear again in the din, the grinding, the squealing. To follow this 'music' is difficult, to remember it is impossible..."
—Pravda, 28 January, 1936
It wasn't until very recently that I got to actually experience my opera Broken-Sword Warrior in a waking state and a safe one. I had to wait until the problems with Zlaya were through, and then further still for another group to perform it. I'd expected I wouldn't hear it right away. As I may have already said, I worked intensely on the opera at Redwall, literally on the ride back to Mtsensk, and then secretly by nights in the old study until I was finished. It took me a great deal of time, not for straining memory, but for sheer length and intensity of the work. I lost much sleep trying to complete such a large project while still supplying enough "official" pieces to keep Zlaya content. Actually, I did start producing less in that genre, and at the time, I thought perhaps she was a little crabby, so to speak. That aura got worse later.
To the point again, I knew very well I wouldn't get to hear my opera. I recognized my own tone patterns as the type that were banned in the Mtsensk district. Loyal Volklov once again took that risk to get the papers out of the district once they were complete. I'll assume that he, as before, delivered the parts to Evgeny and Venyamin, letting them run their organization also as before. I know for a solid fact, I found out unfortunately, you know, that the production made its way back to Redwall and enjoyed several performances. But as I was only at Redwall mostly by chance for my last such premiere, I didn't expect another such opportunity to go; I even less expected a correlation between that hypothetical visit and the performance dates. And so I was content to let my chance to hear the work again be held off indefinitely. Thoughts of the opera once it was done, I must say, dwindled as I took up new projects. As it were, I would have stayed so disconcerned if other concern hadn't surfaced.
As for the other effects of my Redwall visit, I'm not certain. I know there was supposed to be some sort of "negotiation" between Marshal Raikh and the Abbot of Redwall. As it were, I saw nothing of the negotiations, nor anything in the form of a result. One might say that, for what I saw, the trip had no political intentions and was actually made for the purpose of a concert. Not very far off for me, anyway, but that facade was less such than I initially realized.
Even after I was done with Broken-Sword Warrior and Volklov had spirited the music away, the essence of Redwall lingered with me. I only spent not even two days there, you know, and they were remarkably closed in ones, to think of it. I was either engulfed in nervous anticipation, walled in by a pulsing mob of cheering woodlanders, or holed away in the gatehouse. Closed off, so to speak, but not in comparison to Mtsensk. You can leave Redwall if you want to when you want to, you're not confined by lawpapers there, you can write, compose, draw whatever you want. There's no fear of what creatures call "messing up," and the concept of being whipped and dragged away for it is simply inconceivable. No, I didn't experience that freedom, but it was there in the very atmosphere. I could feel it. It was a wonderful feeling, but an unfair one, unfair in that I couldn't stay there. Even my dear old town, from which I'd been dragged long ago by then, had held the subtle stifling pressure in the air from Mtsensk's looming paw.
I wrote more songs about Redwall; there was no way I could just stop after Broken-Sword Warrior. Songs that were reconsiderations of Recorders' logs, impressions of the life I'd witnessed, and, of course, reflections and fantasies of longing for that elusive yet expansive feeling of freedom. When I found out later that Zlaya herself was paying a visit to the Abbey, my music took on tonalities of fear, so to speak. Hopes that the likes of Zlaya Trudnaya would not pollute the pristine centers of the free world.
You can add fear to that list of strange things; to the lineup of the unpredictable and quirky, not to mention treacherous. Many a creature has logical fears, of death and battle and blood, of imprisonment, pain, loss. There's a great long list of those also. Another common complaint of the old and young is the deranged phantoms of nightmare. Those come in almost any package, the embodiment of a term on that list of fears. One might say that I'm a very fortunate one to be dulled to so many of those problems; the circumstance as to how that came about is less than comfortable, though. My life brought the physical realities of many of those fears, often enough to blur my figurative vision as to their real pure horrors. Nights were when I found most satisfaction and joy, locked away in a more liberating confined room, writing whatever I wanted to write. And so I'm taken care of for the common plague of fears and nightmares. But as no life can really be free—mine was, clearly, not—there have to be problems.
To most creatures, sunrise is a gentle hour, of reflection on nature's beauty. Or of sleep. My sunrises, however, will always be bothered by one black streak of cloud, set in place one morning a very good length of time after Broken-Sword Warrior had been left to Redwall's care. I was asleep, as intended by nature, or rather in that half-state between slumber and wakefulness. To be rudely thrown from the bed, so to speak, by three knocks on the door, loud, sharp, and very purposeful. I waited, hoping perhaps the knocks had been in rare nightmare, but they came again in the same hard sequence. I still hear the echo, it still terrifies me.
Agitatedly slipping on real clothes and placing my spectacles on my face, I stumbled toward the door and opened it to avoid the knocks again. As it were, the knocks could have become bearable, though the knocker would have grown angrier. And that would have been bad, very bad, for behind the door was none other than Zlaya Trudnaya, as of then expressionless. Door open or closed, I would have lost.
"I've been to Redwall," Zlaya announced, pacing crisply into my quarters.
"You have?" I asked, trying my best to sound conversational. "You have?" I know I must have been fidgeting with something—shirt hem, spectacles—and I must have looked considerably less easygoing than one just exchanging pleasantries. Though there I wonder, is there ever a time when one would exchange pleasantries with an oppressive criminal dictator?
"Indeed." Zlaya nodded curtly, as if to continue with the play on normalcy. "And I heard a concert."
If before I likened Zlaya's voice to a blade, until this point it had been sheathed. On the word "concert," a bit of the steel was exposed.
I nodded awkwardly in return. "A concert? What sort of music, what sort?" A perfectly logical question for a composer to ask.
"Oh, it was very interesting." Zlaya had taken the liberty to seat herself and was combing her tailfur with her claws as she continued. "I'm not certain it really was music they exhibited. It was announced as some sort of opera, but to actually call it that would not be only stretching but tearing the meaning of the word. It was grinding and squealing and clashing, and any chances that the sounds might decide to form a melody were killed in the battle that the scandalous lyrics cover at the end."
Though her blade (so to speak) was only half drawn now (half a blade, fancy that!), I knew exactly what Zlaya was talking about. Only a creature so ignorant of music could use such terms to describe it. And only an ignorant beast could so misinterpret. The term "opera," stretched and torn or not, gave away what she was referring to, and at its mention, my heart, pounding harder than a cadence drum, sank to my footpaws.
"Oh," I managed to squeak.
"The characters, too, were simply horrible," Zlaya continued. "They made no sense. Think, a mouse, a puny little rodent with no past and a broken sword comes from nowhere to throw down a mighty empire with the limited assistance of a pipe-playing clown and a halfwit-by-nature mole? Preposterous!"
At that point, I didn't dare tell her the opera was based on a true story.
The dictator wasn't finished, figurative blade nearly out. "But the crowning achievement, I must say, was the villain. Or so she was called. A successful wildcat empress with a huge palace and a far-reaching empire, stronger species rightly on top and goods of the lower trash going to the benefit of the state. For expansion. I see a beautiful system, remarkably familiar, and shown in the guise of villainy. Wouldn't you say, Mister Shostak?"
By this point, I had removed my spectacles and was nervously overpolishing them on the hem of my shirt. "Depends on interpretation, you know. Interpretation. Most things do." Perhaps I was too bold in saying that.
Zlaya stood up furiously, bladed voice at stance to strike. "It's muddle instead of music, scandal instead of song! It's blasphemy, and I don't know how you got it there, Mitya Shostak, but you're through with that institution! I'll see to it! Your quarters are open to me, I don't have to knock! I'll search your papers routinely, and if I find one more offending...sound, you're through!"
With her slicing words, Zlaya strode out, slamming the door as a final sforzando to her accented phrases. I stared after her, wide-eyed in shock, before collapsing to silent suffering, head between my knees.
"From the very first moment of the opera the listener is flabbergasted by the deliberately dissonant, muddled stream of sounds. Snatches of melody, embryos of a musical phrase drown, struggle free, and disappear again in the din, the grinding, the squealing. To follow this 'music' is difficult, to remember it is impossible..."
—Pravda, 28 January, 1936
It wasn't until very recently that I got to actually experience my opera Broken-Sword Warrior in a waking state and a safe one. I had to wait until the problems with Zlaya were through, and then further still for another group to perform it. I'd expected I wouldn't hear it right away. As I may have already said, I worked intensely on the opera at Redwall, literally on the ride back to Mtsensk, and then secretly by nights in the old study until I was finished. It took me a great deal of time, not for straining memory, but for sheer length and intensity of the work. I lost much sleep trying to complete such a large project while still supplying enough "official" pieces to keep Zlaya content. Actually, I did start producing less in that genre, and at the time, I thought perhaps she was a little crabby, so to speak. That aura got worse later.
To the point again, I knew very well I wouldn't get to hear my opera. I recognized my own tone patterns as the type that were banned in the Mtsensk district. Loyal Volklov once again took that risk to get the papers out of the district once they were complete. I'll assume that he, as before, delivered the parts to Evgeny and Venyamin, letting them run their organization also as before. I know for a solid fact, I found out unfortunately, you know, that the production made its way back to Redwall and enjoyed several performances. But as I was only at Redwall mostly by chance for my last such premiere, I didn't expect another such opportunity to go; I even less expected a correlation between that hypothetical visit and the performance dates. And so I was content to let my chance to hear the work again be held off indefinitely. Thoughts of the opera once it was done, I must say, dwindled as I took up new projects. As it were, I would have stayed so disconcerned if other concern hadn't surfaced.
As for the other effects of my Redwall visit, I'm not certain. I know there was supposed to be some sort of "negotiation" between Marshal Raikh and the Abbot of Redwall. As it were, I saw nothing of the negotiations, nor anything in the form of a result. One might say that, for what I saw, the trip had no political intentions and was actually made for the purpose of a concert. Not very far off for me, anyway, but that facade was less such than I initially realized.
Even after I was done with Broken-Sword Warrior and Volklov had spirited the music away, the essence of Redwall lingered with me. I only spent not even two days there, you know, and they were remarkably closed in ones, to think of it. I was either engulfed in nervous anticipation, walled in by a pulsing mob of cheering woodlanders, or holed away in the gatehouse. Closed off, so to speak, but not in comparison to Mtsensk. You can leave Redwall if you want to when you want to, you're not confined by lawpapers there, you can write, compose, draw whatever you want. There's no fear of what creatures call "messing up," and the concept of being whipped and dragged away for it is simply inconceivable. No, I didn't experience that freedom, but it was there in the very atmosphere. I could feel it. It was a wonderful feeling, but an unfair one, unfair in that I couldn't stay there. Even my dear old town, from which I'd been dragged long ago by then, had held the subtle stifling pressure in the air from Mtsensk's looming paw.
I wrote more songs about Redwall; there was no way I could just stop after Broken-Sword Warrior. Songs that were reconsiderations of Recorders' logs, impressions of the life I'd witnessed, and, of course, reflections and fantasies of longing for that elusive yet expansive feeling of freedom. When I found out later that Zlaya herself was paying a visit to the Abbey, my music took on tonalities of fear, so to speak. Hopes that the likes of Zlaya Trudnaya would not pollute the pristine centers of the free world.
You can add fear to that list of strange things; to the lineup of the unpredictable and quirky, not to mention treacherous. Many a creature has logical fears, of death and battle and blood, of imprisonment, pain, loss. There's a great long list of those also. Another common complaint of the old and young is the deranged phantoms of nightmare. Those come in almost any package, the embodiment of a term on that list of fears. One might say that I'm a very fortunate one to be dulled to so many of those problems; the circumstance as to how that came about is less than comfortable, though. My life brought the physical realities of many of those fears, often enough to blur my figurative vision as to their real pure horrors. Nights were when I found most satisfaction and joy, locked away in a more liberating confined room, writing whatever I wanted to write. And so I'm taken care of for the common plague of fears and nightmares. But as no life can really be free—mine was, clearly, not—there have to be problems.
To most creatures, sunrise is a gentle hour, of reflection on nature's beauty. Or of sleep. My sunrises, however, will always be bothered by one black streak of cloud, set in place one morning a very good length of time after Broken-Sword Warrior had been left to Redwall's care. I was asleep, as intended by nature, or rather in that half-state between slumber and wakefulness. To be rudely thrown from the bed, so to speak, by three knocks on the door, loud, sharp, and very purposeful. I waited, hoping perhaps the knocks had been in rare nightmare, but they came again in the same hard sequence. I still hear the echo, it still terrifies me.
Agitatedly slipping on real clothes and placing my spectacles on my face, I stumbled toward the door and opened it to avoid the knocks again. As it were, the knocks could have become bearable, though the knocker would have grown angrier. And that would have been bad, very bad, for behind the door was none other than Zlaya Trudnaya, as of then expressionless. Door open or closed, I would have lost.
"I've been to Redwall," Zlaya announced, pacing crisply into my quarters.
"You have?" I asked, trying my best to sound conversational. "You have?" I know I must have been fidgeting with something—shirt hem, spectacles—and I must have looked considerably less easygoing than one just exchanging pleasantries. Though there I wonder, is there ever a time when one would exchange pleasantries with an oppressive criminal dictator?
"Indeed." Zlaya nodded curtly, as if to continue with the play on normalcy. "And I heard a concert."
If before I likened Zlaya's voice to a blade, until this point it had been sheathed. On the word "concert," a bit of the steel was exposed.
I nodded awkwardly in return. "A concert? What sort of music, what sort?" A perfectly logical question for a composer to ask.
"Oh, it was very interesting." Zlaya had taken the liberty to seat herself and was combing her tailfur with her claws as she continued. "I'm not certain it really was music they exhibited. It was announced as some sort of opera, but to actually call it that would not be only stretching but tearing the meaning of the word. It was grinding and squealing and clashing, and any chances that the sounds might decide to form a melody were killed in the battle that the scandalous lyrics cover at the end."
Though her blade (so to speak) was only half drawn now (half a blade, fancy that!), I knew exactly what Zlaya was talking about. Only a creature so ignorant of music could use such terms to describe it. And only an ignorant beast could so misinterpret. The term "opera," stretched and torn or not, gave away what she was referring to, and at its mention, my heart, pounding harder than a cadence drum, sank to my footpaws.
"Oh," I managed to squeak.
"The characters, too, were simply horrible," Zlaya continued. "They made no sense. Think, a mouse, a puny little rodent with no past and a broken sword comes from nowhere to throw down a mighty empire with the limited assistance of a pipe-playing clown and a halfwit-by-nature mole? Preposterous!"
At that point, I didn't dare tell her the opera was based on a true story.
The dictator wasn't finished, figurative blade nearly out. "But the crowning achievement, I must say, was the villain. Or so she was called. A successful wildcat empress with a huge palace and a far-reaching empire, stronger species rightly on top and goods of the lower trash going to the benefit of the state. For expansion. I see a beautiful system, remarkably familiar, and shown in the guise of villainy. Wouldn't you say, Mister Shostak?"
By this point, I had removed my spectacles and was nervously overpolishing them on the hem of my shirt. "Depends on interpretation, you know. Interpretation. Most things do." Perhaps I was too bold in saying that.
Zlaya stood up furiously, bladed voice at stance to strike. "It's muddle instead of music, scandal instead of song! It's blasphemy, and I don't know how you got it there, Mitya Shostak, but you're through with that institution! I'll see to it! Your quarters are open to me, I don't have to knock! I'll search your papers routinely, and if I find one more offending...sound, you're through!"
With her slicing words, Zlaya strode out, slamming the door as a final sforzando to her accented phrases. I stared after her, wide-eyed in shock, before collapsing to silent suffering, head between my knees.