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The world wants peace, light needs light,
If you are a singer or composer in the soul,
Let the collective farmer or student,
In the country of the Soviets you will become famous.
Send your letters to the address: Kiev-001, Khreschatik Street 26, Gosteleradio. Competition – "Anthem of the World"»
The voice of the announcer drowned out some unpleasant sounds, after which the broadcast resumed from the Bolshoi Theater, where the party of Attila was already heard, from the opera of the great Verdi of the same name.
With genuine interest after listening to the message on the radio, Navalyaev looked at the pile of rubbish lurking beneath a thick layer of dust on the old closet, which was set in the corner of his room. Looking at the worn case of the trophy German accordion "Hohner", which my grandfather brought back from the war, our hero involuntarily opened his mouth, thrust his finger into his nostril, thinking about the eternal. Eternal, which included music, painting, sculpture, literature and architecture, something that, according to Kallistrat Ippolitovich, was not subject to time.
Not being a person who has the ability to write, whatever, our hero decided to replace the lack of talent – inspiration, and everything else that can be scooped everywhere, where they sound, exhibit and demonstrate masterpieces of world culture. Having worked out the plan of events, Comrade Navalyaev immediately started the business, rushing along the route, where it was possible to scoop up inspiration or even ideally to catch a muse that guarantees the desired result.
The most affordable, based on the modest means of our hero – the junior accountant, were museums, often providing interested masterpieces, without requiring for their viewing with fans of painting a penny, which immediately outlined the priorities of Comrade Navalyayev. Without analyzing the difficulties and not going into the exposition in particular, our hero rushed to plow museums, exhibitions and all the accessible vernissages of his native city without exception.
Having visited many such establishments, Callistrat Ippolitovich made a rather unexpected discovery, noticing something he had not paid attention to before, admiring the pictures of famous masters aimlessly, staying in tranquility and contemplative complacency. He suddenly realized that around world masterpieces another, full of poisonous hypocrisy and frank ignorance is boiling, in which the first violin is played not by the creators of the creation, but the so-called specialists and the average ignoramus, not related to their creation, but frantically discussing and mercilessly criticizing every smear of the author. They are like flies, not taking the slightest part in cooking, are trying to actively invade the process that results in any catering enterprise. And though flies separately, and cutlets separately, from harmful and importunate insects it is impossible to get rid. But in order to understand the essence of this problem, one should go back to the origins and remember where it all began.
"Let's deliver art to the masses," this epoch of Soviet enlightenment began with this remarkable slogan. Here and then started up, an important philistine, spared the people's power from the shackles of illiteracy, through the temples of art, in order to see, distinguish and pronounce a verdict, what is the true masterpiece, and what is so – daub. And now, fanning his cheeks, the proletarian, the collective farmer and the official, they prowl through the deserted rooms of the museums, rounding their eyes and twisting their lips, hissing into each other's ear: "But this Monoliza does not grow. Aunt yourself any, sho in her this? ". Looking at the canvases of the masters, each of the eye-witnesses, without fail, assesses how much work and time the artist spent, "shob otto nayvat," trying to find out whether the labor was worth the years and years of this misfortune. No, of course, money is recognition and fame, they have not bothered anyone yet! But it would be good to be like this right away, without these creative tortures and procrastination with the execution, the masterpiece itself. And then just like that, paint, sculpt, write hundreds of pages, and it's not known what's going to happen in the sho? Of course, looking at some kind of gray, feathery and other monet, there appears his own triumphal procession in the rays of glory, to the sound of fanfares and timpani. And it's nice and quite acceptable. But here's the Schaub here so, alone, for years, without exclamations and kisses of recognition, in some poor basement to sit and day after day to scrape! Nope, it's not it. Such thoughts lead to the inability to spend years on an absurd occupation, proving only the wretchedness of creators, utterly insane, unadapted to the normal life of insane people. All this is so. But it burns a cursed ambition. And so, lined up in front of the wall of the picture gallery, the philistine rises above the authors, showing his importance, favoring choosing the one that has attracted. "Do you like this one?" Who is it, Repin? Well, you, it's a decadence. I prefer Van Dyck. Painter your Van Dyck! Only Rubens, Rubens and Rubens. And you're just a fool, no better than Levitan! Левитан мазила! I want Velasquez! "Everyone who touched the mention of the work and the name of the author can consider himself to have contributed to the creation of a world masterpiece – a painter, sculptor, writer. Much nicer, and most importantly, faster, shake the air of museums and galleries, and even better at the festive table, authoritatively declare the greatness and worthlessness of this or that master. And do not need long winter nights, standing at the easel, in an unheated workshop, warming your stiff fingers with hot breath. Do not cut the stone, building the desired set of lines. To sculpt a master model from plasticine, working the finest details with the finest stack. All this is not required. The main thing with your eyes closed, authoritatively and categorically argue about art in yourself, in the presence of the crowd, citing the example of some wretched and gray Van Gogh, always haughtily scoffing at the unhappy. And the phrase "I will not cut myself with my ears" is to point out my own undeniable genius, having risen one moment above those who have laid the whole life on the creation of the masterpiece.
Weakened by such buzz and hiss, in the dusty halls of museums, which never allowed our hero to scoop up the necessary amount of inspiration, Comrade Navalyaev turned his aspirations to the theaters and the philharmonic society in order to plunge into the enchanting world of music.
And so, one day, Callistratus Ippolitovich put on his best three-piece suit, a variegated tie of a tie, kis-kis, diluting the white shirt, appeared in front of the mirror in the wardrobe, in the children's room. In general, he was quite pleased with his appearance, if not for the size of the costume, because he was sewn for a long time, which demonstrated a very substantial inconsistency of the dress with what was lurking inside. But this, in the opinion of Navalyaev, a minor fact could not grieve our hero, because in the inner pocket of his jacket was a ticket to the opera house, where tonight they gave the "Nutcracker" of Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky – Kallistrat Ippolitovich's favorite ballet.
Under the drizzling rain, covering the walk from house to theater, our accountant, two quarters of an hour later, stood at the central entrance to the Academic Opera and Ballet Theater of the Ukrainian SSR, brightly lit by splendor and electric light, from the 1939 name of Taras Shevchenko. With a special mood, Comrade Navalyaev made his way to the hall, feeling in his heart that it was he who was going to dance the Nutcracker's party tonight. Caught under the majestic vaults, Callistratus Ippolitovich took a deep breath. He was overcome by the incomparable odor of the theater, the muffled light, the velvet velvet of the seats, the parterre, the lodges, the first floor, the soft cacophony coming from the orchestra pit. Clutching in his hands a ticket, flushed Navalyayev, rose to the second tier, where he found his place in the right wing. His chair turned out to be extreme, and next to him, on the left, was a married couple, evidently from the periphery, as they ate the ice cream with appetite, putting their hands up so that the melted dessert did not leave stains on clothes.
"It's good,at list we'll eat in the dry warm place."
A woman with a fleshy face said, looking over the drenched from the rain Navalyayev, advancing to the edge of the balcony. Having finished with "Chestnut", in the hands of the head of the family appeared a large leather case, on the shoulder strap, from where the field army binoculars of the command staff of the Red Army and the RKKF appeared, threateningly directed at the will of the host towards the stage.
At that moment, the audience burst out applauding the conductor who had appeared in the orchestra pit and answered the audience with bowing.
– And what this is?
The woman asked.
"Hwo knows." Looks like someone important here, maybe director, or even a comunist party representative.
Without pulling from the binoculars, her husband explained, reverently deducing the word " comunist party represantative".
"Fedya, I'm still fill hungry." Can we eat chicken now?
– Mgh.
Fedya, the red-faced man, was waving, chewing on the wooden stick left over from the ice cream. The burly wife, taking advantage of the noise in the hall, undertook to unfold a partially eaten carcass of the chicken that was stored in a fat-saturated newspaper "Country Life", along with a few boiled eggs, a piece of fat, a ring of home sausage, fresh cucumbers and green onions. The family, not embarrassed by oblique glances, entered the chewing process, as if at the command of a conductor, simultaneously with the sound of tender violins, even before the curtain was raised. Overture was accompanied by a loud and intense champing, during which the woman asked.
– How long will they pull strings and make all this noices?! When are they going to dance?
"Galya, give some garlic."
At the end of the instrumental entry, it smelt of the persistent smell of garlic when the curtain suddenly rose.
– Look, look the curtains have popped!
Galina exclaimed, poking her thumb in the direction of the scene.
– Mg.
Responded indifferently chewing Fedor.
In the back of the stage, the scenery was visible – the street of an old German town, covered with snow.
"Oh my look Fedor the snowing.”What are they using? Flawour or what? Real snow would melt, May is outside.
Soon actors appeared on stage.
– Oh, finaly there will be dancing.
Galya began to grumble. But noticing that everyone who comes on the scene rushes to one of the houses, disappearing behind it's doors, again became agitated.
– Fedor why are they going in to that house? I don't understand! They going to party there and we will be watching?! Fedor what have we paid money for?!
I don't understand why are they spining silently?! Are they ever going to sing?! Or what?!
The last phrase finally misled Kallistrat Ippolitovich, who, bending over to the indignant "lovers of the ballet," whispered: "I ask you to forgive me most humbly, but here you will not hear a song or a poem, it's a ballet…"
Having measured the silly neighbor with an absent-minded look, the arrogant Fedya remarked:"They could of sing for such money!"
Such a remark caused tides of unrestrained gibberish among provincial " theater lovers". But noticing the displeased glances of the spectators, who were on the left, as on the right was only Navalyaev, the couple was forced to calm the heat. But hardly having sat down, more accurately having finished, before a scene of an ornament and ignition of a Christmas tree, Galja has entered again:
– Fedor, I'm filling kind of weird in my stomack. I tald you that chicken wasn't fresh because it was kind of smelly.
– Nothing was wrong with the chicke, sit down already!
– Oh, No I can't sit any longer! I'll run to the restroom, you'll tell me later what I've missed.
Having dropped the last words, Galya hastily left in the direction of the door. During her absence, the march, the children's gallop, the exit of the parents, and only to the appearance of Uncle Drosselmeyer, the breathless Galina burst back.
– Oh, good, now I feel much better, even washed my feet and changed my shoose. All this walking today, can't feel my feet.
She sat down in the armchair and finally looked at the stage.
– What's happening? Strictly asked a woman.
– Some kind of foolishness! They put it up Christmas tree, dressed it. All jumping, jumping, I do not understand! Who's in charge here?! Who is responsible for this disgrace?
– – And who is this?
She jabbed a finger at Drosselmeyer.
– Who know's some kind of idiot! Jumps like a neighbor's goat!
Carefully peering at a man in black, giving toys to children, Galina hissed.
– Ah, so that's probably a toy seller.Well, those who brouse on the trains.
Suddenly, noticing the dancerr who portrayed the Nutcracker, she clasped her hands.
– What kind of hidies big headed creature that is?
Unable to withstand the tension, Navalyaev again resorted to explanations.
"But that, I'm sorry, is the Nutcracker."
– What Nutcracker? Galina asked incredulously.
– Well, the main character. After all, this is the name of the ballet.
– He is right,some thing lie that was on the ticket.Confirmed the words of his neighbor vigilante Fyodor, after which the spouse calmed down for a while.
– Why is she laying down now?! Who is going to dance?! And why is it so dark?!
Galya exclaimed, biting the sausage with excitement.
– Look Fedor! Look, look there! It's mices! Lot's of them!
A woman screamed, almost choking on sausage.
– Oh, way to many mice!" Like in a collective farm barn. Is this a movie about the village?
Galina revived, seeing the native elements. Already ignoring the discontent of the people sitting next to her, she commented on the behavior of cunning and malicious rodents.
– Of cource there will be mice! If they'll not going to use a poison!
After that, Galya in all details revealed the secrets of the woman Limykhy, who skillfully struggles with rodents in her possessions, who does not tear himself away from binoculars to Fedor, which did not save those sitting next to the intrusive morals.
Waltz of snow flakes completed the first act, which allowed viewers to rush into the buffet. Cognac, champagne, port, coffee, sandwiches, chocolate were instantly torn and absorbed behind the coffee tables, marking the end of the intermission. The audience again poured into the auditorium. After the visit of the buffet, the collective farmers, who were flattered after the visit, Fedor and Galina took their seats with undisguised pleasure.
– Oh now I can watch this, befor with sober head it didn't worked.
Tranquilly pronounced her drunken husband, staring through binoculars. During the divertissement, Galia again retired to the toilet, muttering in displeasure, in the ear, of her dozing husband with binoculars on his chest.
A long time passed. The Waltz of Flowers already sounded when Galya joined her sleeping husband.
– Oh, Fedya, I'm all empty! Good that theater's washroom is warm, not like the street.
She suddenly giggled.
– And I got lost on the way back. The devils will find out where to go. The balconys are all looks the same. Well, the old woman helped, or else I would have been wondering here until night.
His wife's impressions did not disturb the peace of Fedor, who had fallen asleep. Galina, in the intervals between the Pas de deux and Coda, ran to the toilet again four times, and every time she returned, she pushed her sleeping husband into the side, which was a miserable attempt to interrupt his rolling snoring.
– I don't understand the same twist, every time I'm back!
Under the thunder of the instrument of the Apotheosis, the "master" finally woke up, as Galina called her husband.
– Did I miss the shot?
He asked, opening his eyelids.
"There is nothing that you've missed!" Same barrel organ as at the beginning! And they all twich and jump and spin until the curtain fell. Solid deception. For what money was paid?!
At that time, the curtain rose again, and the troupe bowed.
– Oh, they have no shame, they bowing, what kind of dancers it is?! Different story us in the collective farmers club, last year, on the Day of Astronautics, me and other women collictive farmers danced "Dance of Harvest", much better then this pipettes! And look how skinny and thin they are, like the hangers from my closet, oh my nothing to look at!
The collective farmer hissed angrily, suddenly thinking.
– I can't get it how did they got rid of mice?"
– What mice?
– Oh, be quite! With you only to go to the cinema…
A woman, in the hope of at least taking something out of what she saw, found Navalyaev's gaze.
– Comrade. Yes you…
Callistrat Ippolitovich obligingly bowed his head.
– I skipped out the… I went out on business, sho there from mice?
Stunned, Navalyaev stared at the woman in perplexity.
– Mice were defited.
– How defited?! And I've missed that. Have they poisoned them?
– No, they were defeated in the battles.
– What?!
Explanations of a silly neighbor caused misunderstanding, and with him a storm of indignation among the peasants, which obviously discouraged the desire to ask questions, and therefore to continue the conversation. But Navalyayev had already started up.
– But you understand, it's not at all about mice! Are you unfamiliar with the plot of the tale by the great Hoffmann?!
– – And what about tales? This time Fedya could not stand it.
– – Because Peter Ilyich composed his ballet based on the fairy tale of Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann.
– "And who is that Hoffmann?" Some kind of Jew or somethng?
– "No, Mr. Hoffmann is a German, or rather a Prussian, because he was born in Koenigsberg."
– – Oh my, that explaines! So he is a fascist?! Fedya exclaimed, suddenly guessing the reason for the lack of talent in the author's work.
– – Yak, if we would know, that it is all the fascist gain, we wouldn't come here! Summarized the indignation of her husband Galina, disdainfully twisting her mouth.
– – This is redicules! It's a discrase, not the ballet! No singing, no real dancing! I don't get it! They only know how to reap a penny from a hard working people! One word is a fascist gang!
The words of the dissatisfied Fedor wounded the soul of Callistratus Ippolitovich. He became terribly insulted, which prompted him to stand up for the incomparable Hoffmann, wonderful Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and the Nutcracker himself.
– "Please forgive me, but you obviously do not understand a lot, by your own… how can I say it." You, as workers, people who do not often visit theaters, probably…
– – Who are you calling workers?!
– Screamed Galina trying to show her hurted feelings.
– "By the way, I'm already another year, have been Assistant of Deputy First Secretary of the District Party Committee!"
– With unconcealed superiority, Fedya declared, in an instant, as if in a fairy tale, turned from a blunt spectator to an important official, although certainly not without clearly overstating his own status.
– I'm not here for any of your stupid parchment-skinned Nutcracker in the tutu, I'm here in the service! And the tickets was given to us not for the pretty eyes… Tickets was given to us by the regional committee, so we were just like that… so we can implement all this art and high culture in our local clubs, at the villages and district centers. So we can rise up the culture in the village. Who else if not us the Communists-Leninists-that will help the people to cultivate and lead the bright future of communism!
Squinting from the poster-transparent speeches and the rally-meeting ritual, and even from the mere thought of what such "connoisseurs of culture" can "implement in art", Kallistrat Ippolitovich walked back to the exit.
Conversation with the provincial "ballet lovers" plunged Navalyayev into a kind of prostration, however, without getting rid of woeful reflections. All the way to home, he regretfully thought that, it turns out, there are people on earth who are unacquainted with fairy tales and novels of Mr. Hoffmann, and alien to language of music. Throughout his life Callistratus Ippolitovich naively believed that music, this is a unique opportunity to convey his feelings, aspirations and worries without words. After all, on the planet there are many different languages,and dialects on which people speak. But just not knowing these very languages makes a person poorer, closes it in an environment where they speak only in an understandable language for him. And music – music is quite another matter. Do you need to know German in order to listen to Bach and Beethoven. Is Italian necessary for understanding Verdi and Albioni, French for Bizet and Gounod, Polish for Chopin, Hungarian for List, Czech for Dvorak, Norwegian for Grieg and so on. Undoubtedly, music is a unique and universal language of humanity that has no boundaries and knows no barriers. Music is Eternity. Exhausted by such arguments, our hero returned home and for a long time could not sleep, tossing about in a soft bed. But with the onset of the morning, bad thoughts also evaporated, which prompted Comrade Navalyayev to take up the work "The Anthem of the World." Resolutely approached the old piano "Arnold Fibiger", Kalistrat Ippolitovich sat on a chair, lifted the lid and began to knead his fingers, looking thoughtfully at the keys. Hiding his eyes, he, obviously tuning, his head thrown back, for a while, stood still in the chair in front of the instrument. Then, opening his eyes, he menacingly raised his right hand, with a twisted finger over the rows of black and white keys. Finally, the finger rushed down, like a hawk diving at the prey, striking the voiced flat, which foreshadowed the beginning of the work, which is known in Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands and Norway as the "Flea Waltz", in Bulgaria – "The Cat's March", in Finland – " Cat's Polka ", in Korea -" Cat's Dance ", in Japan -" I stepped on a cat ", in Mexico -" Little Monkeys ", in Hungary -" The Donkey March ", in Mallorca – Polka Fools, in China – "Thieves' March", in Spain – "Chocolate Girl", in France, Switzerland and Poland – "Cutlet Waltz", in Denmark – "Meatballs run through the fence", in Sweden – "Kalle Johansson", we also know it as "The Dog Waltz". Drum with one finger on the keys, he with great difficulty performed, even more likely, extorted, widely known work, again turning his gaze to the saving dusty accordion on the closet.Attaching to the closet a wooden staircase, a stepladder, usually on duty at the bookcase, riveted the bookshelves filled with books to the stucco of the high ceiling, Callistrat Ippolitovich rose above the floor to the height of the fourth step. He squeezed his eyes shut from the dust that had risen in the impenetrable clubs over the surface of the cupboard, sneezed several times before collapsing onto the carpet along with the accordion, dragging along a pile of rubbish. There were moans, rumbling, knocking and wailing, circling the room with a gray curtain of dust, which, unlike the lightning-fast falling junk, seemed to sink slowly onto the old parquet, the pile of the path and our hero, who had spread out under the weight of indecent junk.The fall, evidently, shook the budding composer, which made him, before turning to the captured at the second warld war "Hohner", pull out from under the bed a heap of old vinel musical records, in worn envelopes, and to create a network lamp radio "Latvia" piled on the dresser in mother's room. The first, by the arm of Navalyayev, was caught by Wagner, with his "Flight of the Valkyries", which caused a shock, especially the Myasnikovs, who lived behind the wall. Then there were the overflows of the melodies of Stravinsky, Schubert, Glinka, Handel, Rossini, Janacek, Rachmaninov, Strauss, at the solemn moment when Ludwig Van sounded, Mom invaded the room.– And yet Beethoven is deaf in his genius!Doomed, she concluded, nodding her head thoughtfully, looking at the highest disorder that swept the boundaries of their apartment. Piles of rubbish rising from the cupboard; The things pulled out from under the bed, among which, obviously, only the vinal music records scattered around the rooms aroused interest; Discarded by the barbaric hand of her son from the cap of the radio souvenirs: vase; Faience pawls; A metal ashtray with an anchor – "Greetings from Sevastopol"; Old photos… bewildered."You should play a requiem!" That's it! This is the end! And take the trouble to put things in order in the premises, at list in your room!His mother roared, as if she were a retired feldwebel of an infantry. But Navalyaev hardly heard her. Of all that Amalia Apolinarevna said, only the word "deafening" was deposited in his brain, which led the accountant-composer to idea. Without a moment's hesitation, under the overflow of the ninth symphony, he rushed to the secretary's office, where there was a heavy box with medicines. Having found snow-white cotton balls, Navalyayev tightly plugged hir ears, believing that the deafness, even if temporary and false, will invariably lead and and help to compose something worthy of a sonata for piano No. 14, better known as "Moon Sonata". In addition, the mother's violent reaction was a test, which fully confirmed the consistency of the idea. With a smile, watching Amalia Appolinarevna widely