In which we find out how that Beethoven concerto movement ends, and recall a story about David Oistrakh

Yes, that night at the Royal Albert Hall David Oistrakh and Sir Adrian Boult really did get through the first movement of the Beethoven Violin Concerto. (You can access the clip of the first half of the movement here.)

by Ken

In this week's Sunday Classics I offered a clip of the first half of the first movement of the Beethoven Violin Concerto as performed by the great Soviet violinist David Oistrakh with Sir Adrian Boult conducting, in London in 1968 -- the year Oistrakh turned 60. I hadn't intended this as a cliffhanger, but I was pleased to hear some expression of interest in the clip. It's a genuinely lovely performance of one of Beethoven's loveliest creations. The second half of the movement is posted above.

Oistrakh was, obviously, one of the great violinists of the 20th century. It's hard to point to any aspect of the violinist's art in which he reigned supreme among his peers. At the same time, there was no aspect in which he was in less than the top group, and he may have been the complete package -- a comfortable blend of technical and interpretive excellences.

And as I think can be heard in his sweet, supple phrasing in the Beethoven concerto, he had a good soul. Which set me to remembering a story told by another Soviet-born violinist, and another of the 20th century's finest musicians, Rostislav Dubinsky, the founding first violinist of the string quartet formed in 1946 by four students at the Moscow Conservatory, which eventually, many years and two personnel changes letter. Despite a great deal of internal turmoil, the Borodin Quartet remained one of the great string quartets the world has known until Dubinsky and his wife, the outstanding pianist Luba Edlina, emigrated from the Soviet Union in 1976. (Dubinsky and Edlina settled rather comfortably at Indiana Universty School of Music in Bloomington. With a fellow émigré based in Montreal, cellist Yuri Tulovsky, formed the Borodin Trio, which also ranks among the finest chamber ensembles of which we have recorded evidence. You may have noticed how frequently I recommend recordings of theirs.)

It's impossible to appreciate the lives of Soviet artists without some understanding of the conditions under which they were controlled by the Soviet regime. In 1989 Dubinsky published a remarkable book called Stormy Applause: Making Music in a Worker's State. It's a book so filled with invaluable information, not to mention remarkable stories, that I'm appalled to find that it has been out of print for eons. Worse still, at the time of my last move eight years ago, my copy disappeared and since then I've been forced to repeat some of those stories from memory. Now I've found a reasonably priced replacement copy, so I can give you this story about Oistrakh as Dubinsky told it in the book.

While still a student at the Moscow Conservatory, Dubinsky in 1946 formed a string quartet with three fellow students. Upon graduation they faced the arduous ordeal, as a quartet made up of three Jews and a half-jew (the cellist Valentin Berlinsky), of establishing themselves in the climate of virulent anti-Semitism of the postwar Soviet Union. In 1950, Dubinsky writes, the quartet concentrated on preparation for the auditions for an international quartet competition in Prague.

Four quartets were entered in the competition, from which the top two finishers would go to Prague. There was an all-female quartet, which Dubinsky and his mates knew had to be taken seriously because of the patronage of the members of the celebrated Beethoven Quartet, who -- although they were not Communist Party members -- had strong ties to the government cultural apparatus, which ruled all aspects of Soviet culture, including the careers and lives of Soviet artists. Then there was a quartet from Leningrad which faced the same handicap of being made up of four Jews, and another from Georgia, which although an unknown quantity wasn't thought to be serious competition. The 20-member jury, made up of musical figures from Moscow and other parts of the Soviet Union, including several Moscow Conservatory professors known to the quartet and the members of the Beethoven Quartet, would be controlled by the chairman, "the cultural tsar Anisimov."

On the day of the competition, there were curious no-shows among both the jurors and the competitors. "The Georgians, we were told, would not be coming to Moscow." And one of the conservatory professors scheduled to be on the jury, none other than Oistrakh, was reported sick.

Dubinsky's quartet played first, then had to remain while the other two participating quartets played. Dubinsky, in a state of high nervousness, returned to the auditorium in time to hear the last of them, the women's quartet. He provides a vivid description:

Their manner of playing was familiar, even though I was hearing them for the first time. It was (as we called it) a "coarse-ground" style. It came into fashion in Moscow after the war, when traditional playing was branded "non-Slavic" (read "Jewish"). This new style neglected everything that is so attractive in quartet playing: flexible ensemble, refined phasing, variety of colors. In their place was something else, insolent and smug. You wanted to cover your ears.

(This description, by the way, covers all the recordings I've heard by the lionized Beethoven Quartet.)

Once the playing was concluded, the players remained while the jury deliberated upstairs. In time, two of their professors came down. "It's all right. You are the best," one whispered to Dubinsky and Berlinsky. The other was equally reassuring.

Then the quartet's violist, Rudolf Barshai (by the time the quartet officially became the Borodin Quartet he would have been lured away, but went on to become one of the world's best-known solo violists and then an admired conductor), brought news. The professors had spoken to them during what turned out to have been a break called by the jury chairman Anisimov.

That's when Aslamazyan and Gusikov came down and congratulated us. But Anisimov and the Beethovens remained upstairs for a consultation. When everyone got together again, Anisimov made a speech. About how the Ministry of Culture and the conservatory serve Soviet art, that their aims are mutual, that in the future there will be other competitions and, therefore, a mutual understanding is required . . . on and on, the same old stuff. In short, he suggested a new vote. Everyone got the message: now the girls get first place and we're second.

Barshai also reports that Professors Aslamazyan and Gusikov disagreed, "but the Beethovens did their job." It's all puzzling, but seemingly trivial in the long run. After all two quartets are going to Prague, and they have finished in the top two.

However, in the morning Barshai shows up at Dubinsky's home with news that explains the curious second vote that reversed the order of finish. "Anisimov called the jury together again, but this time he spoke about the friendship between all our nationalities." Going instead of their quartet would be the Georgians, who didn't even play. But they have a powerful patron in "the lousy film director" Mikhail Chiaureli, who "makes movies about Stalin, drinks wine with Beria, and, by the way, is the Georgian first violinist's uncle. Presumably nobody needs to be reminded of the particular connection at the very top that a Georgian quartet might have.

Barshai explains that "yesterday all Moscow was talking about us, and Oistrakh was looking for us all evening."

I thought he wanted to congratulate us. Far from it! He didn't even mention the competition. He invited us to play the Chausson concerto [Chausson's Concerto for Violin, Piano, and String Quartet] with him and [pianist Lev] Oborin. He said they would change the program and print up a new poser. "Right now," Oistrakh said, "I just want your names to appear on posters. Give my regards to the whole quartet." I understood everything. That's why he wasn't on the jury -- he didn't want to be mixed up in this dirty business.

Famous as Oistrakh was, all aspects of the professional life of a musician in the Soviet Union depended on the good will of the Culture Ministry, making this act, or rather a series of acts (his withdrawal from the jury would certainly have been noticed) on his part of almost unimaginable defiance, one might even say of aggravated effrontery against the cultural dictatorship, and an act of considerable courage. Not surprisingly, Dubinsky never forgot it.

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