Myth #182: Stalin didn't like to interact with members of the intelligentsia.
Myth #182: Stalin didn't like to interact with members of the intelligentsia.
Myth #183: Stalin despised and hated the intelligentsia, especially the creative ones.
Myth No. 184. Stalin did not provide serious support to the intelligentsia and harassed them in every possible way.
Myth #185: Stalin had no understanding of literature, art, or music.
Myth #186: Stalin loved to pit members of the intelligentsia against each other.
It's impossible to say who personally concocted these silly myths. However, who invented them and when is beside the point. The crux of the matter lies elsewhere: was Stalin's contempt and hatred for the intelligentsia in general, and the creative intelligentsia in particular, and did he or didn't he provide assistance to the intelligentsia, etc. There are two ways to answer these questions. Either bore the reader with citations of all sorts of party and government documents attesting to Stalin's (and his comrades') particularly tender, respectful attitude and constant concern for the intelligentsia, including the creative intelligentsia. Or cite the opinion of a representative of the creative intelligentsia who, on behalf of the entire Soviet creative intelligentsia of the Stalin period, experienced Stalin's true attitude toward the intelligentsia firsthand, and who would simultaneously serve as an unquestionable authority for many generations of the domestic intelligentsia, and beyond. Frankly, I personally prefer the second approach. Not only is it more objective and less boring, but it's also more familiar to many readers. After all, in everyday life, we often resort to citing the authoritative opinion of this or that expert on a particular issue. And then everything becomes clear to everyone. Besides, the brilliant Russian poet Alexander Pushkin, I remember, once said that "oral testimonies about historical figures speak more accurately about the times than the works of the most conscientious historians."
On May 13 (1947 – A.M.) , Fadeyev, Gorbatov, and I were summoned to the Kremlin to see Stalin at six o'clock in the evening. We gathered in his reception room at five to six on a very warm May day; the sun-baked window was even hot. In the middle of the room stood a large table with foreign press – weeklies and newspapers – spread out on it. I was so nervous that I drank water.
At three or four minutes past six, Poskrebyshev entered the reception room and invited us in. We passed through another room and entered a third. It was a large office, finished in light wood, with two doors—the one we entered through and a second door at the very back, on the left. To the right, also at the back, stood a desk, well away from the door, and along the left wall was another table—a fairly long one, suitable for meetings, seating about twenty people.
At the head of the table, at the far end, sat Stalin, Molotov next to him, and Zhdanov next to Molotov. They rose to greet us. Stalin's face was serious, unsmiling. He extended a businesslike hand to each of us and walked back to the table. Molotov greeted us warmly and congratulated Fadeyev and me on our return, apparently from England, where we had recently returned after spending about a month there as part of our parliamentary delegation. After that, the three of us—Fadeyev, Gorbatov, and I—sat next to each other on one side of the table. Molotov and Zhdanov sat across from us, not directly across from us, but a little further back, closer to Stalin, who sat at the head of the table. None of this is particularly important, of course, but I want to remember this meeting in every detail.
Zhdanov had a red report folder in front of him, and Stalin had a thin folder, which he opened immediately. It contained our letters about writers' affairs. He read the heading aloud: "To the Council of Ministers of the USSR"—and added something I didn't catch, something like, "We received a letter from you; let's talk."
The conversation began with a question about the fee.
"You're raising the issue of revising fees," Stalin said. "It's already been considered."
"Yes, but it was decided incorrectly," Fadeyev said, and went on to explain that under the current royalty system, writers soon stop receiving anything for their good books, which are reprinted and reprinted. From there, Fadeyev moved on to the issue of the discrepancy in payments for small and large print runs, which are also vastly underpaid. In conclusion, Fadeyev reiterated that the royalty issue had been incorrectly resolved.
After listening to him, Stalin said:
"We're positive about reconsidering this issue. When we set these fees, we wanted to avoid a situation where a writer would write one good work and then live off it without doing anything else. Otherwise, they'd write a good work, build themselves a dacha, and stop working. We don't begrudge the money," he added, smiling, "but we need to prevent that. In literature, we need to establish four categories of evaluation, grades. The first category is for excellent work, the second for good work, and the third and fourth categories—establish a scale, what do you think?"
We replied that this would be correct.
“Well then,” said Stalin, “I think that this issue cannot be resolved by a letter or a decision, but we must first work on it, we must create a commission.”
“Comrade Zhdanov,” he turned to Zhdanov, “what is your proposal regarding the composition of the commission?”
"I would join the commission," Zhdanov said. Stalin laughed and said:
"A very modest proposal on your part." Everyone burst out laughing. After this, Stalin said that the writers present here should be included in the commission.
“Zverev, as the Minister of Finance,” said Fadeev.
"Well then," said Stalin, "he's an experienced man. If you want," Stalin emphasized the word "you," "we can include Zverev. And someone else," he added, "Mekhlis," he added, looking at us searchingly. "But he'll disperse you all right away, huh?"
Everyone laughed again.
“He is, after all, an old writer,” said Zhdanov.
I'll jump ahead and say that when the commission established that day subsequently met two or three times, Mekhlis disregarded our genuine misgivings about him, which stemmed from his well-known sternness. On all matters of fees, he supported the writers' proposals, but when the financiers proposed a proposal—starting at a certain level of annual earnings, and above that, to levy a fifty-one percent income tax on writers—Mekhlis literally boiled over:
" You really have to think before you propose such things. Do you really want to tax literature as a private enterprise? Or are you going to treat the individual writer as a artisan without a motor? Are you really going to fight writers as a private sector, in the name of some other form of literary organization—one where writing isn't done alone, at your desk?"
Mekhlis's tirade at this commission was one of those that will be remembered well and for a long time. With this vitriolic tirade, he immediately demolished the entire tax superstructure proposed to be erected over literature. As far as I could tell, Mekhlis had no passion for either literature or writers, but he was a politician and considered literature part of ideology, and writers to be Soviet employees, not solitary artisans.
A brief comment. Stalin was very sensitive to the issue of material support for the creative intelligentsia, including, naturally, writers. The essence of his position was very simple: never, under any circumstances, should the creative intelligentsia be financially constrained. And this was indeed the case. During Stalin's time, the creative intelligentsia, writers in particular, received more than substantial royalties for their work. So substantial that many easily, without any strain, bought themselves dachas, cars, apartments, and were able to support domestic servants. And during the war, a number of writers even used their own money to purchase military equipment and send it to the front.
Stalin placed particular emphasis on the intelligentsia's financial security when they traveled abroad on business as representatives of the Soviet Union. In such cases, Stalin acted in a manner that the Soviet intelligentsia never again encountered. Konstantin Mikhailovich Simonov once recounted how, shortly after the war, he visited the United States as part of a small delegation of Soviet intellectuals. This was the first official trip by a group of Soviet creative figures to America. Of course, there were the usual Soviet-era briefings about enemy intrigues and the like. But there was something more important.
Just before the trip, its participants were unexpectedly given very large sums of money, approximately 20,000 dollars each (equivalent to $200,000 today). For personal expenses, so to speak. Moreover. Contrary to previous instructions, everyone was advised to spend generously, stay in the best hotels, invite the right Americans to restaurants, and make gifts and purchases. This was a personal order from Stalin, who was personally involved in preparing the trip. This order was based on his conversations with the Soviet Ambassador to the United States, A.A. Gromyko, and other "knowledgeable individuals," whom Joseph Vissarionovich had asked how much cash a person traveling to America for 20 days to live there "in style" should have. The "knowledgeable individuals" named a sum of 10,000 dollars, but Stalin ordered it doubled. Moreover, Stalin told the USSR Minister of Finance, A.G. Zverev, that "it's not right for our writers to be seen as poor relations." Incidentally, the 1946 dollar is many times stronger than today's.
This is how Stalin treated the intelligentsia. And I want to emphasize once again that never again in Soviet times did any of Stalin's successors display such an attitude toward the intelligentsia. People of the older generation remember well how, when traveling abroad, they were given such meager amounts of foreign currency that they had to fill their suitcases with smoked sausage, canned fish, black bread, and a kettle to warm up tea in their ultra-cheap hotel rooms. People skimped on literally everything, especially their own health, to buy themselves and their loved ones a few cheap souvenirs. And they didn't even mention going to foreign restaurants with their own money.
You'll say that Stalin was making politics this way?! Yes, primarily politics. You're absolutely right. Yes, it was politics, the highest form of politics, based on everyday trivialities. And Stalin was absolutely right. You can't humiliate your own people in comparison to those abroad, especially members of the creative intelligentsia. But his successors never had the sense to understand such a simple thing. Although they weren't exactly gardening either...
Incidentally, Stalin had the same attitude even before the war toward representatives of the USSR traveling abroad, especially those of high standing—in the sense that they symbolized the USSR's achievements. Everyone, obviously, had seen the documentary footage of Chkalov's crew's farewell before their famous flight to America via the North Pole. But I guarantee that virtually no one noticed the sizable package tucked under Baidukov's arm. And yet, this package, delivered directly to the plane, contained $150,000! That's half a million dollars today! On behalf of the Party and government, Stalin handed this money over to the crew so they would feel comfortable in America and be able to buy themselves and gifts for their families, not to mention the fact that Stalin personally specified one purchase—that they buy nice cars. This is how Stalin treated Soviet citizens, in this case, representatives of the military-technical intelligentsia who were solving problems of high world politics.
Now judge for yourself how Stalin really treated the intelligentsia.
"So, who's on the commission?" Stalin asked. Zhdanov listed everyone they intended to include on the commission.
"Good," Stalin said. "Now the second question: you're asking for more staff. They'll need more staff."
Zhdanov countered that the Writers' Union's proposed staffing levels were inflated: 122 people instead of 70.
“They have a new volume of work,” Stalin said, “they need to increase their staff.”
Zhdanov reiterated that the states planned by the Union still need to be cut.
"We still need to increase it," Stalin said. "There are new industries where we not only need to increase it, but also create staff. And there are industries where staffing levels have swelled; they need to be cut. We need to increase their staffing."
This concludes the question of the states.
The next question concerned writers' housing issues. Fadeyev began explaining how dire the current housing situation is for writers and how they need assistance, especially since a writer's home is essentially their workplace.
Stalin listened attentively to all of Fadeyev's explanations and said that the Chairman of the Moscow City Council should be included in the commission and that this issue should be sorted out.
A quick comment. Stalin was also extremely sensitive to the needs of the intelligentsia in this regard. Few people know now that in Moscow, for example, entire buildings were made available to members of the creative intelligentsia. There were buildings primarily occupied by writers, others by members of the Composers' Union, artists, and so on. Moreover, all the buildings were in the most luxurious areas of the capital, the apartments were enormous, with all the necessary amenities, and so on.
None of Stalin's successors ever addressed these issues with the same scope as Joseph Vissarionovich did. I emphasize, no one, right up until today. After Stalin, the intelligentsia was forced to bend on its knees to achieve even the slightest improvement in its living conditions after years of humiliating petitions. And now, its needs have fallen completely outside the authorities' purview.
Then, after a pause, he asked:
- Well, it seems that's all for you?
Up to this point, our meeting with Stalin had lasted so briefly that I suddenly felt terribly sorry: now everything would be cut short, would end, and, in fact, it had ended.
- If that's all for you, then I have a question for you.
What themes are writers currently exploring?
Fadeyev responded that war remains a central theme for writers, while modern life, including production and industry, is still much less reflected in literature, and when it is, it is usually in the works of mediocre writers.
“It’s true,” said Fadeyev, “we sent some writers on creative assignments, we sent about a hundred people, but for the most part they were also mediocre writers.”
"Why don't the great writers come?" Stalin asked. "They don't want to?"
“It’s hard to get them going,” Fadeev said.
"They don't want to go," Stalin said. "Do you think there's any point in such missions?"
We responded that business trips make sense. To prove this, Fadeyev cited the first five-year plans, Shaginyan's "Hydrocentral," "Time Forward!" and several other books.
“But Tolstoy didn’t go on business trips,” Stalin said.
Fadeev objected that Tolstoy wrote precisely about the environment in which he lived while in Yasnaya Polyana.
"I thought that when a serious writer works seriously, he'll travel himself if he needs to," Stalin said. "Like Sholokhov, he doesn't go on business trips?" he asked after a pause.
“He’s always on business trips,” Fadeyev said about Sholokhov.
"And he doesn't want to leave?" Stalin asked.
“No,” said Fadeyev, “he doesn’t want to move to the city.”
“He’s afraid of the city,” Stalin said.
There was a silence. Earlier, while talking about business trips, Fadeyev had given several examples of the difficulties of sending major writers on assignments. Among others, he had mentioned Katayev's name. Apparently recalling this, Stalin suddenly asked:
- What, Kataev doesn’t want to go?
Fadeev replied that Kataev is currently working on a novel that will be a continuation of his book, “The Lonely Sail Glows White,” and that Kataev’s new work is also connected to Odessa, with Kataev’s core theme.
"So he's working on something serious?" Stalin asked.
“It’s serious, it’s fundamental for him,” we confirmed.
There was silence again.
"But there's a very important topic," Stalin said, "one that writers need to be interested in. It's the topic of our Soviet patriotism. If you take our average intelligentsia, the scientific intelligentsia, professors, doctors," Stalin said, constructing his sentences with that peculiar, characteristic intonation that I remembered so clearly that I think I could have reproduced it verbatim, "they haven't developed a sufficient sense of Soviet patriotism. They have an unjustified admiration for foreign culture. They all feel immature, not 100 percent, accustomed to considering themselves eternal students. This is a backward tradition; it stems from Peter the Great. Peter had good ideas, but soon too many Germans crowded in; it was a period of German admiration. Look how difficult it was to breathe, how difficult it was for Lomonosov to work, for example." "First the Germans, then the French, there was a reverence for foreigners," Stalin said, and suddenly, squinting slyly, he rhymed in a barely audible patter: "assholes," grinned, and became serious again...
"A simple peasant wouldn't bow down for trifles, wouldn't take off his hat, but such people lack dignity, patriotism, and an understanding of the role Russia plays. The military used to have that same admiration. It's lessened now. Not anymore; now they've even turned their backs on us."
Stalin stopped, grinned, and with some subtle gesture indicated that the soldiers' tails were raised. Then he asked:
"Why are we worse? What's the matter? We need to hammer this point home for years, for ten years, for ten years. It happens like this: a person does great things and doesn't even realize it," and he returned to the professor he had already mentioned. "Take this person, not a lowly one," Stalin repeated emphatically, "but he bows down to some foreign scoundrel, a scholar three heads shorter than him, and loses his dignity. That's what I think. We need to combat the spirit of self-abasement that so many of our intellectuals harbor."
Stalin turned to Zhdanov:
— Give me the document.
Zhdanov pulled several sheets of printed text from a folder, bound together. Stalin leafed through them; the document was four or five pages long. After leafing through them, Stalin rose from his desk and, handing the document to Fadeyev, said:
- Here, take it and read it out loud.
Fadeyev began reading the letter Stalin had handed him. Stalin had previously, at the beginning of their conversation, been standing rather than sitting, or pacing back and forth behind Fadeyev's chair. As Fadeyev began reading the letter, Stalin continued pacing, not there anymore, but rather taking a few steps back and forth along the table on our side, glancing at us. Many years have passed, but I remember my unwritten sensation very clearly. To avoid sitting with his back to Stalin, Fadeyev instinctively half-turned toward him while continuing to read the letter, and Gorbatov and I turned as well. Stalin paced, listening to Fadeyev read, listening with a tense expression. He listened to Fadeyev's intonations; he wanted to know what Fadeyev felt as he read the letter, and what we felt as he read it. Continuing to pace, he glanced at us, observing the impression the reading was making on us.
Until then, from the very beginning of the meeting, I had felt different, quite free in the atmosphere that depended on Stalin and which he had created. But here I felt tense and uncomfortable. He looked at us and listened to Fadeyev's reading in such a way that there was a hint of danger behind it—not in general, but specifically for us sitting there. He was testing us—apparently on the leading figures in this category, one famous and two well-known writers—to see what impression his dictated letter about Klyueva and Roskin, also about two intellectuals, would make on us, intellectuals, communists, but also intellectuals. Perhaps he dictated it, or quite possibly he wrote it himself. In any case, this letter was dictated by his will, and no one else's.
When Fadeyev finished reading the letter, Stalin, convinced that what he had read had made an impression on us—and indeed it had—apparently considered it unnecessary or unnecessary to ask our opinion about what he had read.
As my entry from May 14, 1947, shows, when the letter was read, Stalin only repeated what he had started with:
“We must destroy the spirit of self-abasement,” he added, “We must write a work on this topic. A novel.”
I said it was more of a theme for a play.
A brief comment. This concerns the case of Professors N.G. Klyueva and G.I. Roskin. In the pre-war years, these professors developed the anti-cancer drug "KR" ("crucin," the French equivalent of "tripazone"), the effectiveness of which still causes heated debate among specialists. At the authors' request, Academician-Secretary of the USSR Academy of Medical Sciences V.V. Parin, during his visit to the United States in 1946, handed over the manuscript of their monograph "Biotherapy of Malignant Tumors," published in the Soviet Union (Publishing House of the USSR Academy of Medical Sciences, Moscow, 1946), to American publishers as scientific information. When this became known in the USSR, Stalin regarded this fact as the disclosure of an important state secret. V.V. Parin was sentenced to 25 years in prison on charges of espionage. N.G. Klyueva and G.I. Roskin, as well as the Minister of Health G.A. The Miterevs were brought before a "court of honor." A nationwide campaign condemning their actions was launched. After the 20th Congress of the CPSU, they were all fully exonerated.
How should we evaluate Stalin's actions? One could, of course, view them from the standpoint of "democracy" and "universal human values." In that case, it would seem that Stalin treated medical researchers too harshly. But is that really true? After all, the problem of treating cancer was already at that time one of the leading medical challenges facing humanity. And why, without written permission from the USSR Academy of Medical Sciences and other relevant Soviet authorities, were the results of such important research and data on a new anti-tumor drug transferred abroad to the United States?! If anything, when publishing this work in the USSR, the Americans themselves could have copied the materials officially published in the Soviet Union, and then there would have been no complaints against the scientists. Because the priority of Soviet science would have been clearly established in writing.
Apparently, Stalin's righteous anger was primarily provoked by two circumstances. First, all of these professors' research was conducted with Soviet budget funds. No private research institutions, especially in the field of medicine, existed in the USSR at that time. Their work was carried out in accordance with the approved research plan of the USSR Academy of Medical Sciences. And, I emphasize again, with budget funds. Consequently, the final results of this research should have belonged to the Soviet Union. After all, even in the USSR, the problem of treating cancer patients was already acute. Second, Stalin quite rightly suspected that more detailed research results from these professors had been transferred to the United States. Not to mention that he, who was always concerned about every penny of Soviet money but spared no expense for the development of Soviet science, was deeply outraged by the actions of these professors, who conducted their research with Soviet funds and then transferred the results to the United States without patenting their invention. In other words, they were truly doing so to the detriment of not only themselves but also the state. Stalin's reaction was absolutely justified, both from a human perspective and from a national perspective—it was a clear manifestation of self-abasement. To achieve a scientific success that was remarkable for its time, which, incidentally, required further verification, and then so easily hand it over to the Americans! In other words, these professors didn't value themselves. That's why Joseph Vissarionovich reacted so strongly. And how many of these, so to speak, "broad-minded and democratically minded" scientists have we had and still have, who don't value the interests of the state, whose funds they use to conduct their scientific research, even a penny!
"We must contrast the attitude of people like these on this issue," Stalin said, nodding at the documents lying on the table, "with the attitude of ordinary fighters, soldiers, ordinary people. This disease is ingrained, it's been instilled in people for a very long time, since the time of Peter the Great, and it still lingers in people today."
“Being is new, but consciousness is old,” said Zhdanov.
"Consciousness," Stalin chuckled. "It always lags behind. Consciousness comes late," and he returned to what he had already said. "We need to work on this issue..."
A quick comment. Was Stalin really so wrong? To this day, we still have an unbounded admiration for so-called civilized countries—we copy every piece of trash, and I emphasize, trash, from the West. Day after day, all the so-called democratic media, and even official authorities, pour forth praise for the so-called Western civilization! How much longer can we indulge in this spirit of self-abasement? We hear almost constantly: "...but in civilized countries..." Doesn't Her Majesty Russia possess its own unique civilization? Hasn't Her Majesty Russia's subjects proven to the world that they are capable of unique breakthroughs in any field of human knowledge, any branch of science, technology, and culture? Why so zealously humiliate yourself and your Great Motherland by bowing down to a "civilization" of Big Macs, Tampex, Snickers, incurably obese idiots obsessed only with animal sex and tooth decay, where green toilet paper reigns supreme at just three cents a piece—a dollar? Let me quote an excerpt from a poem by the great Russian poet N.A. Nekrasov.
"Dollar": A penny for the newest lords ("newest" at all times. - A.M.) is above shame and law. Nowadays (and, generally speaking, always. - AM) only he who hasn't stolen a million yearns. Whatever they can find, they steal. "Our ideal," they say, "is the Transatlantic brother: His God is also a dollar."
How strikingly precise and apt are the poet's words! How accurately the essence of the spirit of self-abasement is captured: "Our ideal is the transatlantic brother// His God is also a dollar!"
When will the ideal in Russia finally become Russia itself, its Greatest and Most Unique Civilization, its Great Peoples and its Mighty, but so fiercely treated His Majesty the Ruble?
"We are thinking here," he (that is, Stalin—A.M.) said, "that the Writers' Union could begin publishing a completely different Literaturnaya Gazeta than it does now. The Writers' Union could, with its own resources, publish a newspaper that would address international issues sharply, more sharply than other newspapers, and, if necessary, domestic issues as well. All our newspapers are, in one way or another, official newspapers, but Literaturnaya Gazeta is the newspaper of the Writers' Union; it can raise issues unofficially, including those we cannot or do not wish to raise officially. Literaturnaya Gazeta, as an unofficial newspaper, may be sharper and more left-wing on certain issues than we are; it may diverge in the sharpness of its approach to issues from the officially expressed point of view. It is quite possible that we will sometimes criticize Literaturnaya Gazeta for this, but it should not be afraid of this; despite the criticism, it must continue to do its work..."
"You must understand that we can't always officially express our opinions on what we'd like to say. Such situations happen in politics, and Literaturnaya Gazeta must assist us in these cases. And in general, it shouldn't look too far over its shoulder; it shouldn't consult the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on its articles on international issues. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs shouldn't read these articles (Stalin clearly meant "read them beforehand." – A.M. ). The Ministry of Foreign Affairs minds its own business, and Literaturnaya Gazeta minds its own. How many copies of the newspaper do you currently publish?"
Fadeev replied that the newspaper's circulation was around fifty thousand.
— We need to make it ten times bigger. How many times a month do you publish the newspaper?
“Four times, once a week,” answered Fadeev.
"We'll need to publish the new Literary Gazette twice a week, so it's read not once, but twice a week, and by ten times as many people. Do you think you, the Writers' Union, could publish such a newspaper?"
We replied that we probably could.
- When can you start this business?
I don’t remember which of us, maybe even I, remembering how I had accepted the magazine in a hurry, replied that the release of such a completely new newspaper would probably require several months of preparation and that it would obviously be possible to begin publishing it somewhere around the first of September, at the beginning of autumn.
"That's right," Stalin said. "Preparation is certainly necessary. There's no need to rush things. As for what you need to publish such a newspaper, you'll have to ask for it, and we'll help you. And we'll think about it some more. Once you've started publishing the newspaper and gotten the hang of it, we might suggest that you create your own unofficial news agency to receive unofficial information..."
Stalin, as always, spoke very leisurely, occasionally repeating what he'd said, pausing, remaining silent, thinking, and pacing. He'd apparently thought through the question in advance, but certain details and twists and turns kept popping into his head as the conversation progressed. For example, it seemed to me that the idea of creating a telegraph agency arose suddenly and precisely then, after a long pause during which he'd pondered it, and he expressed it with pleasure, delighted by it.
Stalin ended his conversation about the Literary Gazette by saying that, obviously, for the new newspaper we would have to think about new people, new workers, a new editorial board, and perhaps even a new editor, but we would have to think about all of this ourselves; it was our business.
Thus—not on the idea of the Writers' Union, as is often assumed, but on Stalin's—a few months later, a completely different "Literary Gazette" began publication, albeit without its official news agency. APN (the famous Soviet-era Press Agency Novosti—A.M.), the initial idea for which was expressed then, on May 13, 1947, was created many years later and after Stalin's death.
A quick comment. Is it disdain for the needs of the creative intelligentsia when Stalin himself proposed creating a virtually new printed publication?! After all, it was precisely under this Stalinist status that Literaturnaya Gazeta gained nationwide authority and respect, both within the USSR and abroad. Moreover, it had circulation in the millions during Soviet times. And it was senselessly lost that status after 1991.
Is it contempt for the intelligentsia when the head of state openly suggests they even create a special news agency to address the needs of the creative intelligentsia? Only years later was such an agency created—the Novosti Press Agency, now known as RIA Novosti! It's all Stalin's legacy!
Note also how lightly, yet respectfully, Stalin approached the issue of freedom of speech and the press. After all, both the new "Literary Gazette" and the new telegraph agency were, according to his plan, to enjoy significant independence from government authorities and publish the essential facts of life, without embellishment. That is, to raise pressing issues so that they could be resolved more quickly, thereby improving life in the USSR and its international image. In the post-Stalin era, none of his successors pursued such matters, but APN was founded on his ideas, although, of course, it lacked Stalin's boldness in publishing. True, there are attempts to copy Stalin's brilliant ideas today, but the results are far too meager.
So, dear readers, you've read a rather lengthy excerpt from K.M. Simonov's book. And now I have a simple question for you. Hand on heart, can you, after all you've read, assert, or at least adhere to, the myths mentioned in the title—that Stalin despised and hated the intelligentsia, especially the creative ones, that he didn't provide serious support to them and instead mistreated them in every way?! I'm convinced that honest people, and they constitute the majority of Her Majesty Russia's subjects, would never dare to claim such a thing under any circumstances!
Now, take a look at how the intelligentsia handled the issue of bonuses and how Stalin resolved the issue. So, let's continue quoting K.M. Simonov.
June 1-3, 1947. The film "Admiral Nakhimov" was discussed. When Zhdanov, as chairman of the committee, reported that the film had been awarded first prize and listed all the people who were supposed to receive the award, Stalin asked him if everyone had already reviewed the film.
“No, not all,” said Zhdanov.
- What?
- Here is a letter, Comrade Stalin.
— From whom?
Zhdanov named a very famous and very good actor. He wrote, Zhdanov said, that it would be politically incorrect not to include him among the actors awarded for this film, since he plays the role of a Turkish pasha, our main adversary, and if he is not awarded, it could be seen as an inaccurate assessment of our adversary's role in the film, a distortion of the balance of power.
I can't vouch for the exact words, but that's roughly how Zhdanov phrased the letter. Stalin chuckled and, still grinning, asked:
— Do you want to receive a bonus, comrade Zhdanov?
- He wants to, Comrade Stalin.
— Does he really want to?
- He really wants to.
— Is he asking for too much?
- He asks very much.
"Well, if he wants it so much, if he asks for it so much, we should give the man a bonus," Stalin said, still grinning. And then, suddenly becoming serious, he added:
— And the actor who played the sailor Cat, didn’t ask for a bonus?
- I didn’t ask, Comrade Stalin.
"But he plays well too; he just doesn't ask. Well, the guy doesn't ask, so we'll give it to him, what do you think?"
A quick comment. Consider the following circumstances. First, the actors were quite brazen in demanding a prize for themselves. And under a far-fetched pretext, at that. Simonov's description reveals all the calm, Stalinist sarcasm regarding the unnamed actor's greed for a prize. "He wants it? He begs for it? He wants a prize? Well, if he wants it so much, he begs for it, so he should give it to you..." And yet, this actor's role was a bit part. And, lo and behold, he wasn't shy about filing a complaint with the Central Committee and the Prizes Commission to get something he didn't deserve. His "toad," you see, was getting to him. And almost on the principle of "here you go, choke on it," Stalin agreed to give him the prize. Most likely, because Zhdanov reported on the matter.
It's worth noting here that in such cases, Stalin would erase such people from the circle of people he had previously regarded with sympathy. He had absolutely no tolerance for greed. Without resorting to any other methods or even rebuking them for their greed, he would simply dismiss such a person as worthless. Numerous writings about Stalin have repeatedly encountered instances such as the following. In his notes of conversations with Chief Marshal of Aviation Alexander Yevgenyevich Golovanov, the renowned writer, now sadly deceased, Felix Chuyev, with a direct reference to the former's account, cites the following example:
"There are some people who perceive care for them according to the well-known saying: when they give, take it. One comrade was appointed to a very important post, and, naturally, his contact with Stalin became frequent. One day, Stalin inquired about his comrade's well-being, whether he needed anything, and what his living conditions were. It turned out he needed an apartment. He received one, of course, and soon Stalin asked him again if he needed anything. It turned out that either his mother-in-law or some other relative also wanted living space. Such space was obtained. The next time, the comrade, seeing that nothing was refused, himself raised the question of providing housing to another of his relatives. This, in fact, was the end of his career, although Stalin instructed his assistant to consider the possibility of satisfying this request as well. I don’t know if he received another apartment, but I didn’t meet him at Headquarters anymore, although I knew that he was continuing his service in the army…”
Secondly, the award's selectors were truly good if they didn't even think to nominate the actor who played the role of the sailor Koshka, the folk hero of the defense of Sevastopol in the Crimean War. After all, his name was as celebrated in his day as the names of Gastello, Matrosov, Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, and many others shone in the history of the Great Patriotic War. Stalin clearly viewed this as a clear sign of disdain for ordinary people, even if the film portrayed a long-dead folk hero. Stalin couldn't stand such treatment of ordinary people, let alone folk heroes, even if it was just a film. And, note Simonov's note: Stalin, suddenly becoming serious, raised the question of awarding the actor who played the sailor Koshka.
Thirdly, what Simonov described is Stalin par excellence. A thorough knowledge of the subject matter and a genuine, sincere concern for the common man, especially the people's hero of bygone battles.
Incidentally, it's worth continuing the question of prizes, again drawing on K.M. Simonov's diary entries for March 31, 1948. Simonov's diary entry is highly characteristic, primarily because it demonstrates both Stalin's utmost attention to matters of literature and art and his desire to provide maximum support to distinguished literary and artistic figures.
So, we quote again: "This time, Fadeyev and the editors of the thick journals—Panferov, Vishnevsky, myself, and Druzin—were summoned to Stalin. During the discussion of the works nominated for prizes, Stalin mentioned that the number of prizes was a formality, and that if more works worthy of prizes emerged than the established prizes, then the number of prizes could be increased. This was practically done immediately, including by introducing a previously non-existent third-degree prize.
Stalin reiterated his idea that formal considerations should not be decisive several times, and later, during the meeting, and in his general conduct of the discussion, a clear tendency emerged—to expand both the range of works and authors discussed, and if a sufficient number of worthy works were found, to award them more generously. I believe it was probably in connection with this expansion of this range that the editors of all the major journals were summoned to this meeting for the first time.
During the discussion of a number of issues, Stalin expressed his opinions of general literary significance. When discussing Ehrenburg's "The Tempest," one of those present (D.T. Shepilov, reporting on behalf of the Central Committee's Commission on Prizes in Literature and Art – K.S. ), explaining why the commission had proposed changing the Committee's decision and awarding the novel a second-degree prize rather than a first-degree one, began to discuss the book's shortcomings, considering the book's main flaw to be its superior portrayal of the French compared to the Russians. Stalin objected:
— Is that really true? Are the French portrayed better than the Russians in the novel? Is that true?
Here he paused, waiting for the others present at the meeting to speak. While the speakers' opinions differed on other points, they mostly agreed that the Russians are portrayed strongly in the novel, and that when depicting France abroad, it shows the love of French partisans and communists for the Soviet Union, the role of Soviet victories in these people's consciousness and work, and the active role of Russian Soviet citizens, who found themselves fighting the fascists in the ranks of the French Resistance, is also depicted in the character of the Bear. After waiting for everyone to speak, Stalin generally endorsed these considerations, saying:
"No, I don't think it would be right to say that the French are portrayed more strongly in Ehrenburg's novel than the Russians," he added thoughtfully after a pause. "Perhaps Ehrenburg knows France better; that's possible. He has his shortcomings, of course; he writes unevenly, sometimes in a hurry, but The Tempest is a great work. And the people, well, he portrays ordinary people. There are writers who don't portray great people, but rather average, ordinary people. Ehrenburg is one of those writers." Stalin paused and then added again. "He portrays well in his novel how people with flaws, petty people, sometimes even bad people, found themselves, changed, became different during the war. And it's good that this was shown."
In connection with Ehrenburg, Stalin, speaking of writers who portray ordinary people, recalled Gorky. He recalled him in general and his novel "Mother" in particular:
"Here's Gorky's 'Mother.' It doesn't depict a single prominent figure, just ordinary people."
An even more detailed discussion than that of "The Tempest" arose when they began discussing Vera Panova's novel "Kruzhilikha." Fadeyev, explaining the reasons why the Stalin Prize Committee rejected this novel, originally nominated for the prize, began to discuss the author's inherent objectivity in portraying the characters and the fact that this objectivity had been criticized in the press.
Vishnevsky, defending the novel, said at length that the critics simply pounced on this thing and did nothing but criticize it.
"I think they did praise him!" Stalin objected.
I have read positive articles as well.
[(I'll say parenthetically that on all literary issues, even the most insignificant ones, Stalin demonstrated a knowledge that completely astounded me.) — I ask you to pay special attention to these words of Simonov. They are evidence that Stalin was well versed in literary matters. — A.M. ]
"What's wrong with that?" Stalin asked Fadeyev, objecting to Vishnevsky. "An objectivist approach?"
Fadeev said that the objectivist approach, in his opinion, is definitely bad.
"Tell me," Stalin asked, "how do you rate 'The Town of Okurov'?"
Fadeyev said that Gorky, with his subjective views, is behind everything that happens in "The Town of Okurov." And, in general, it's clear to whom he alludes and to whom he alludes.
“But,” added Fadeyev, “it seems to me personally that in this work too much is depicted in too dark colors, and Gorky’s authorial tendency, his subjective view, is not sufficiently felt everywhere.”
— Well, what about the Artamonov Affair? Whose side is Gorky on? Is that clear to you?
Fadeyev said it was clear to him whose side Gorky was on. Stalin spread his arms slightly, smiled, and half-questioned, addressing everyone and no one in particular:
"Is that clear?" and before returning to the discussion of "Kruzhilikha," he made a vague, humorous gesture with his hands, which, it seemed to me, meant: "For example, it's not so clear to me whose side Gorky is on in "The Artamonov Case.""
Someone present began to criticize Kruzhilikha for the way the chairman of the factory committee, Uzdechkin, was portrayed in it.
“Well then,” said Stalin, “we still have the Uzdechkins.”
Zhdanov remarked that Uzdechkin is one of those in whom the discord between being and consciousness is especially evident.
“One of many, many,” said Stalin.
Everyone criticizes Panova for the lack of unity between the personal and the social in her novels, criticizing her for this conflict. But is it really that easy to resolve in real life, to combine so easily? Sometimes it doesn't even combine. Stalin paused, and, settling the debate about "Kruzhilikha," said of Panova: "Her portrayals of people are truthful."
Then they moved on to discussing other works. Suddenly, during this discussion, Stalin asked:
— And what about Polevoy’s latest stories—what do you think of them?
They responded to him that Polevoy’s stories were not bad, but significantly weaker than his “Tale of a Real Man.”
"Yes, listen," Stalin said, "what is this? Why is this story labeled 'literary editing by Lukin'? The editors are supposed to edit the authors' manuscripts... That's their responsibility."
Why specifically put “literary edition of Lukin”?
In response, Panferov began to explain that in all book-type publications, the editor's name is always indicated. When a work is published in a magazine, however, the editor's name is usually not indicated. If a literary editor is listed during publication, it has a special meaning, as a form of gratitude for the editor's extensive work.
Stalin did not agree.
"Every journal has an editorial board. If the author has serious shortcomings and is young, the editorial board is obliged to help him, obliged to edit his works. This is already their responsibility," Stalin emphasized sternly. "Why these words 'literary editing'? For example, in the third issue of 'Znamya' it was printed: 'Pokryshkin's Notes with the participation of Denisov.' Also literary editing by Denisov, and thanks for Denisov's assistance?"
Vishnevsky began to explain to Stalin how this book was born: Pokryshkin wanted to tell episodes from his life, but the book was written from beginning to end by Colonel Denisov, and together they chose the most delicate form: Pokryshkin thanks Denisov for his help.
“If Denisov wrote it,” said Stalin, “then let it be written: Denisov about Pokryshkin.”
After a conversation about Polevoy's stories, the topic of Vasily Smirnov's book "Sons" came up. Fadeyev described it and explained why it had been rejected at the Committee meeting: due to its currently unpopular subject matter, its depiction of a village at the beginning of this century. Stalin said thoughtfully:
“Yes, he writes well, he’s a capable man,” he said, then paused and added half-affirmatively, “But do we need this book now?”
Panferov spoke about the books of Babaevsky and Semushkin, insisting that they could be included in the list of prize-winning works, making an exception, awarding only the first, published parts of the novels and thus encouraging young authors.
Stalin did not agree.
"A young author," he said. "What does a young author mean? Why such an argument? The question is, what kind of book is a good book? And what is a young author?"
These words weren't a negative assessment of the books Panferov mentioned. On the contrary, he spoke of them generally positively. And his observation—what does a young author mean?—was, in this case, fundamental.
Stalin had a habit—I witnessed this at several meetings, not just the one I'm writing about now—of bringing a small stack of books and magazines with him to the meeting. It lay to his left, within easy reach; what it contained remained unknown for the time being, but the stack not only aroused the interest of those present but also aroused a certain anxiety about what might be inside. It contained literary works, published in books and magazines, that were not included in any of the Committee's lists for the prize. Stalin, as a rule, read what was discussed, or rather, what might have been discussed at the meeting regarding the Stalin Prize Committee's nominations. I can't say he always read everything. I can concede that there were some works he didn't read, although, to my knowledge, this was never directly revealed. He read everything that came to the public's attention during the meeting, including everything that led to disagreements within the Writers' Union, the Committee, and the Central Committee commission—whether to award or not award the prize, whether to transfer it from first to second degree, or vice versa—everything that was in any way controversial or caused disagreement. And every time I attended these meetings, I was convinced of this."
This was, in reality, Stalin’s approach to relations with the creative intelligentsia. He was equally sensitive and attentive to the needs of artists, actors, and composers. He was equally well-versed in matters of art, cinema, and music. In this regard, let me quote another titan of Soviet culture—the outstanding Soviet (Russian) composer, Hero of Socialist Labor, People’s Artist of the USSR, laureate of the Stalin, State, and Lenin Prizes, Tikhon Nikolaevich Khrennikov. [10] In September 2006, he gave a detailed interview to a correspondent for the newspaper Zavtra (No. 39), the content of which is of great interest for a deeper understanding of Stalin’s attitude toward the intelligentsia and culture. Here is what T.N. Khrennikov said (the structure of the interview has been preserved):
"Tomorrow." You arrived in Moscow just as Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin's political rise began. You witnessed Stalin's entire political career unfold before your eyes. You've probably formed some opinion about his years in power and the magnitude of his personality.
T.Kh.: During my time there, in the 1920s, Lunacharsky (People's Commissar for Culture – A.M.) was the patron of culture. Stalin played that role later. Without a doubt, he was a truly remarkable man who transformed our homeland into a state that became the greatest in the world. Speaking of culture, I can't help but recall how our fellow composers would come to us from America and admit that America had nothing comparable to the enormous state support enjoyed in the USSR.
"Tomorrow." Perhaps the difference in attitudes toward culture and, consequently, the life of culture (including materialism) now and in the times you recalled is rooted in the difference in the cultural level of the state's leaders. Stalin attended opera performances and symphony concerts for the sake of protocol. But Yeltsin, as far as I can remember, never attended such events...
T.Kh. Stalin, in my opinion, knew music better than any of us. [Pay attention to this statement by Tikhon Nikolaevich. Himself an outstanding composer and music connoisseur, he nevertheless considered it right to say exactly as he did. And such recognition from a world-renowned musician and composer is worth a lot! – A.M.]
He regularly attended performances at the Bolshoi Theater and often took the Politburo there—training his staff, so to speak. He passionately loved listening to Maxim Dormidontovich Khailov—he had a remarkable bass. Stalin attended my opera "Into the Storm." It was directed by Vladimir Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko; the premiere was in 1939. So, Stalin, Molotov, and Voroshilov were there, and they liked it. Stalin invited Nemirovich-Danchenko and me. I had been warned earlier to be ready—but I was in Kyiv that evening. The same opera was premiering there, conducted by Rakhlin, who never studied the scores in advance, and I couldn't resist being in Kyiv to at least show him the correct tempos. But Stalin wasn't offended. In any case, the next day Pravda published an article stating that the country's leaders had attended the premiere of the opera Into the Storm, and Stalin had expressed his praise for the performance.
I met Stalin four times. Later, when I was already a well-known composer, Stalin knew my music and had a good opinion of it, as Shepilov also mentions in his memoirs. It was Stalin who appointed me General Secretary of the Composers' Union.
...At the same time, Stalin appointed me head of the music section of the Stalin Prize Committee. Fadeyev was the chairman of the entire committee, and I was his deputy. Then Tikhonov replaced Fadeyev, and I became his deputy. So, naturally, I had to talk with Joseph Vissarionovich. But I didn't have any special conversations with Stalin, where I was taught how to act.
I was invited by Zhdanov, a highly educated man. It's only now that they've started making a bogeyman out of him: supposedly he was ignorant, supposedly he sat down at the piano and showed great composers how to compose. They write such nonsense that it's hard to imagine a normal, educated person could come up with the kind of nonsense they're now concocting about Soviet leaders and writers. What, for example, has been done today to Gorky, to all of Soviet literature! They've left us with "The Master and Margarita" as the Gospel. I don't argue—it's a fine, talented book. Moreover, I knew Bulgakov. I wrote the music for his play "Don Quixote," which was performed at the Vakhtangov Theater. But you can't turn everything upside down like that—elevating some, even justifiably, while trampling others into the dirt!
A quick comment. Frankly, without Stalin, Bulgakov would not have become such a famous Soviet writer. Stalin was the first to truly appreciate the depth of Mikhail Afanasyevich's talent and prevent him from being devoured by the Arkharovites of the Repertory Committee. After all, the leader of this quasi-gangster organization—the notorious F.F. Raskolnikov—almost shot Bulgakov for daring to contradict him. Stalin also got him a job at the theater, where they didn't want to hire him. Frankly, he had a rather shaky personality, to put it mildly. But Stalin valued his talent and greatly loved his play "The Days of the Turbins," which he is said to have seen at least 15-20 times. And it is very likely that this play became one of those powerful impulses, invisible to the outside eye, that led Stalin to the idea of the need to democratize the internal life of the USSR, to social reconciliation with those with whom they fought in the Civil War, to the need to restore officer ranks in the Red Army.
When people talk about Bulgakov, many relish the story of how Stalin, albeit mildly, discouraged him from writing a play about the Batumi strike of 1905. When the writer disobeyed and went to Georgia to gather material, he was removed from the train. It's hard to say whether those who revel in this anti-Stalinist narrative know the true background to what happened.
Stalin did indeed oversee all the organizational work involved in preparing and conducting that strike. By that time, he already enjoyed colossal authority in Transcaucasia. However, he was unaware at the time that the leaders of the Central Committee of the RSDLP(b), that is, Lenin and Co., had taken the money for the strike directly from representatives of the famous American oil baron, Rockefeller. At the time, he was at loggerheads with his sworn rivals, the Nobels and the Rothschilds, who, especially the former, dominated the Russian oil market, enjoying a virtual monopoly on the production and export of Baku oil. They also owned the Batumi kerosene pipeline, through which approximately 86% of Russian kerosene was exported, accounting for approximately 50% of world exports. Stalin received the funds for the strike directly from the Central Committee and therefore was unaware of their true origin. He only learned this much later, during the interrogation of the main defendants in the infamous trials of 1937–1938. As for organizing strikes against competitors, either through trade unions or radical political parties, this became virtually commonplace in the capitalist world at the beginning of the last century. Numerous such examples can be found in the history of various countries.
And so it happened that someone suggested Bulgakov, who enjoyed Stalin's favor, to take an interest in the subject of this strike, and the writer was consumed with a burning desire to write a play about it and glorify Stalin in those years. Stalin, naturally, quickly learned who had suggested this idea to the writer, who understood nothing about politics, much less the underhanded struggles of the Trotskyist opposition, and, most importantly, why. It was a kind of attempt at a remake of the story involving Pilnyak's "The Tale of the Unquenched Moon," which had already been discussed in the second book of this five-volume set. At that time, it had been at the instigation of Trotsky and his comrades. And the same thing happened to Bulgakov—some of the unexposed Trotskyists, who remained at large, suggested to the ignorant writer that he should take an interest in this subject. And if he had dug up this story, and even more so written a play, then there would have been a pretext to once again stage a bacchanalia of attempts to accuse Stalin of something indecent, in this case, collaboration with American capital, and on this wave to once again try to overthrow him.
Stalin understood perfectly well who was behind this plot and, in the most gentle terms, advised Bulgakov to leave the matter alone, as otherwise he would have to be dealt with under the provisions of the Criminal Code. Stalin, however, was unwilling; as I emphasize, he held Bulgakov's talent as a writer and playwright in the highest regard. Unfortunately, Bulgakov ignored Stalin's gentle warnings and prepared to leave for Georgia. When Stalin learned of this, an urgent operation was organized with the help of the NKVD to deliver an urgent telegram recalling him to Moscow directly to Bulgakov's train. That, in brief, is the gist of the story.
"Breakfast. What was Stalin like in conversation: angry, bitter, indifferent, cold, or, on the contrary, warm and friendly?
T.Kh. Stalin was a completely normal person. Fadeyev often argued with him, and I once had to. Fadeyev was arguing about the book "Dauria" by the writer Sedykh. Three of us came to Stalin—Fadeyev, Simonov, who was the head of the literary section, and I, the head of the music section. We reported the situation to the entire Politburo. Stalin never chaired a Politburo meeting. And that day, Malenkov chaired it. Stalin sat on the right and took an active part in the discussion. When Fadeyev expressed his opinion that he was against awarding this work the Stalin Prize because it poorly reflected the role of the Party, Stalin retorted: "This is a literary work, not journalism. Why do we need such political details, such precision?" An argument ensued. Fadeyev said he was categorically against it, saying that at the time he was in the Far East, making a revolution with Sergei Lazo. He was also Lazo's cousin, who was burned in a furnace by the Japanese. Stalin approached the Politburo: "So, should we give Sedykh the prize?" And, contrary to Fadeyev's opinion, the prize was awarded.
Or maybe I had a story. Then Nechiporenko appeared—an incredible balalaika player. I'd never heard such astounding mastery in this field as Nechiporenko's. He made such an impression on me that I decided to nominate him for the award at all costs. And I did. I invited him, he played in front of everyone, and everyone was stunned by his mastery. They called him "Oistrakh on the balalaika" back then, because he played the entire virtuoso violin repertoire on his instrument. It was absolutely incredible. The chairman of the committee was also present at the audition. At the time, it was Nikolai Nikolaevich Bespalov. He decided to kiss Stalin's ass and said, "Comrade Stalin, such a prize—for a folk instrument? How could that be? By doing so, we're diminishing the significance of such a prestigious award." And Stalin seemed to agree... I see my entire structure crumbling. With my usual temperament, I asked Stalin for the floor and began to explain how surprised I was by Bespalov's performance, apparently unaware of the instrument's history. Back in the 19th century, Troyanovsky and Andreyev had visited Tolstoy, played for him, and he had wept and sobbed. Balalaika is taught at the most prestigious music schools. And to suggest that it's still an amateur instrument—I can't stand such nonsense and categorically protest. Then Stalin said briefly, " We'll give it to you." And they did.
A brief comment. Note how T.N. Khrennikov, in unison with K.M. Simonov, describes Stalin's incredible freedom to discuss works of literature and art. He also describes how Stalin delved deeply into various opinions, listened intently to a wide range of viewpoints, and only then offered a summary, without imposing his own. And how respectfully he listened to all sides. So much for a "dictator"!
In general, in the USSR (especially during the Stalin period – A.M. ), music, as in classical Ancient Greece, was a major state matter. The spiritual influence of the greatest composers and performers, shaping intelligent and strong-willed people, was enormous, primarily through radio.
A quick comment. Tikhon Nikolaevich spoke the absolute truth. The influence was enormous. And it's no coincidence that today they're trying to recapture that same influence by staging television concerts known as "Old Songs About the Main Thing." Because modern music can't raise intelligent and strong-willed people—it can only raise morons shaking in animal ecstasy. After all, all modern songs are built on the principle of "two stomps, three claps," both music and lyrics. Incidentally, the content of modern songs simply doesn't stand up to scrutiny, and it's no coincidence that it has come under such fierce attack from today's clever comedians, especially M.M. Zadornov.
Our Composers' Union wielded enormous financial power. We earned 20 million rubles a year! A colossal sum at the time. We built houses and provided free apartments. We created Houses of Creativity. And then there were festivals and concerts! The Music Fund had a special music propaganda department, tasked with organizing and promoting new works. We built our own printing house and our own publishing house, "Soviet Composer." We published works, including those of young composers. Try publishing anything these days! Only do it yourself, with your own money.
This is how the outstanding Soviet Russian composer assesses Stalin's role in art, in particular in the development of music.
Of course, much more could be said about Stalin's true attitude toward the intelligentsia. However, it seems sufficient to understand one simple truth: the myths surrounding this topic have no basis in reality. And the intelligentsia should be ashamed of themselves for concocting, and especially for spreading, lies about Stalin's attitude toward them. Never again did the intelligentsia live so well, so freely, so well-fed, so financially and materially securely as under Stalin. The royalties for artistic works alone were so high that to this day they have no comparison!
This was the true Stalin in his relations with the intelligentsia! And the intelligentsia, as usual—it wasn't for nothing that Tyutchev's daughter called them the rotten intelligentsia—consigned to oblivion everything Stalin had done for them.
Myth #187: Stalin loved to demonstrate his omnipotence.
