Lazar Naumovich Berman. Berman, Lazar Naumovich Excerpt characterizing Berman, Lazar Naumovich

Lazar Naumovich Berman is one of the great names that makes up the glory of the Russian pianistic school. Starting his career as a child prodigy, he delighted audiences throughout his life.

A native of Leningrad, Lazar Berman came from a Jewish family. His father was a worker, and his mother was a graduate of the Leningrad Conservatory. Thanks to her, he became familiar with the art of music very early. According to the musician, the piano keyboard is one of his earliest childhood memories, and he began pressing the keys before speaking. He was only two years old when his mother began teaching him the art of piano playing, and after two years, Samariy Ilyich Savshinsky, a professor at the conservatory, became his mentor. But even then the mother continued to help her son, supervising his homework. From an early age, long hours of work at the instrument became a natural form of existence for the pianist. Four-year-old Lyalya Berman (as he was then called) amazed even his teacher, freely performing very complex works by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky and Johann Sebastian Bach. The miracle child also showed talent as a composer, writing a March in memory of S.M. Kirov.

When Lazar was nine years old, the Berman family moved to Moscow, and the young musician entered the Central Music School. He was accepted into the class of Alexander Borisovich Goldenweiser. When working with his students, Alexander Borisovich paid special attention to the relief delineation of phrases, instilling in him that the main task of the performer is to unravel the composer's intention, which is only partially recorded in the notes. He really loved working with his students on the works of composers with whom he was personally acquainted - Sergei Vasilyevich Rachmaninov, Alexander Nikolaevich Scriabin. Berman continued to study with the same pianist at the conservatory. During his student years, Berman won a victory in Berlin at the Festival of Youth and Students. Having completed the conservatory course in 1953, he continued his education as a graduate student. During his postgraduate years, he took part in two prestigious international piano competitions - in Budapest (Ferenz Liszt Competition) and in Brussels (Queen Elisabeth Competition). In Budapest he was awarded third prize. In Brussels, many predicted victory for Berman; perhaps this would have happened, but in the last round he replaced one of the works that were part of his competition program (he later called this his grave mistake), and as a result took only fifth place. Nevertheless, these competitive performances brought him fame - the pianist began touring outside the USSR, recording a number of works abroad, in particular, Ludwig van Beethoven’s “Appassionata” and Franz Liszt’s Sonata in B minor.

Berman's main feature that attracted audiences was always his phenomenal virtuosity. He included in his repertoire the most complex examples of piano music - such as “The Forest King” by Schubert-Liszt, “Ondine” by Maurice Ravel, Toccata by Sergei Sergeevich Prokofiev - and performed them brilliantly, while the difficulty of performing was never emphasized, his playing always looked at ease. He also did not have any deliberate exaggerations with a “thunderous” sound, which was not so much impressive as irritating the listener - Berman had an exceptional sound culture. The musician paid great attention to timbre, tirelessly experimenting with it.

In 1959, Berman married a French woman. The marriage was not particularly happy and soon broke up, but it managed to complicate the life of the musician, who became “restricted from traveling abroad” for a long time. However, this did not stop him from touring and recording in the USSR. Berman's recording of Liszt's Transcendental Etudes became one of the first stereo recordings in our country. Lazar Naumovich began traveling abroad in 1971, but after nine years, a book by an American writer, whose work was then banned in the USSR, was found in his luggage during an inspection, and the possibility of foreign tours was again closed until the start of Perestroika.

Berman's second wife was pianist Valentina Viktorovna Sedova, their son Pavel Lazarevich Berman is a talented violinist. Like his father, he showed musical talent early on. However, Lazar Naumovich, being a former “miracle child,” was very restrained about the phenomenon of child prodigies. According to the pianist, excessive loads and early training in competition bring more harm than benefit to talented children.

Berman left his homeland in 1990. He first lived in Norway, then in Italy, and later taught in Weimar at the Hochschule für Musik. Father and son Berman often performed in a duet. The Russian writer Pavel Vladimirovich Sanaev was inspired by their images when creating the novel “The Chronicles of the Razdolbaya”, among the heroes of which are the violinist Misha Morozov and his pianist father.

Lazar Berman passed away in 2005, never returning to Russia. The musician is buried in Florence.

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For those who love the concert stage, reviews of Lazar Berman's concerts from the early and mid-seventies will be of undoubted interest. The materials reflect the press of Italy, England, Germany and other European countries; There are quite a few newspaper and magazine clippings with the names of American critics. The reviews are one more enthusiastic than the other. They talk about the “stunning impression” that the pianist makes on the audience, about “indescribable delight and endless encores.” A musician from the USSR is “a real titan,” writes a certain Milanese critic; he is a “keyboard wizard,” adds his colleague from Naples. The Americans are the most expansive: a reviewer of one of the newspapers, for example, “almost choked with amazement” when he first met Berman - this way of playing, he is convinced, “can only be done with a third invisible hand.”

Meanwhile, the public, familiar with Berman since the early fifties, got used to treating him, frankly, more calmly. He (as it was believed) was given his due, given a prominent place in the pianism of today - and that was what he limited himself to. No sensations were made from his clavirabends. By the way, the results of Berman’s performances on the international competition stage did not give rise to sensations. At the Brussels Queen Elisabeth Competition (1956) he took fifth place, and third at the Liszt Competition in Budapest. “I remember Brussels,” Berman says today. “After two rounds of the competition, I was quite confidently ahead of my rivals and many predicted first place for me then. But before the third final round, I made a grave mistake: I replaced (literally, at the last moment!) one of the works that was on my program.”

Be that as it may - fifth and third places... The achievements, of course, are not bad, although not the most impressive.

Who is closer to the truth? Those who believe that Berman was almost “rediscovered” in the forty-fifth year of his life, or those who are still convinced that discoveries, in fact, did not happen and there are no sufficient grounds for the “boom”?

Briefly about some fragments of the pianist’s biography, this will shed light on what follows. Lazar Naumovich Berman was born in Leningrad. His father was a worker, his mother had a musical education - at one time she studied at the piano department of the St. Petersburg Conservatory. The boy discovered his extraordinary talent early, almost from the age of three. He picked things out well by ear and improvised well. (“My first impressions in life are connected with the piano keyboard,” says Berman. “It seems to me that I have never parted with it... I probably learned to make sounds on the piano earlier than to speak.”) Around these years, he accepted participation in a competition competition called the “citywide competition of young talents.” He was noticed and singled out from a number of others: the jury, chaired by Professor L.V. Nikolaev, stated “an exceptional case of extraordinary manifestation of musical and pianistic abilities in a child.” Four-year-old Lyalik Berman, considered one of the child prodigies, became a student of the famous Leningrad teacher Samariy Ilyich Savshinsky. “An excellent musician and efficient methodologist,” Berman characterizes his first teacher. “The most important thing is that he is an experienced specialist in working with children.”

When the boy was nine years old, his parents brought him to Moscow. He entered the Central Ten-Year Music School, in the class of Alexander Borisovich Goldenweiser. From now on until the end of his studies - a total of about eighteen years - Berman almost never parted with his professor. He became one of Goldenweiser’s favorite students (during difficult war times, the teacher supported the boy not only spiritually, but also financially), his pride and hope. “I learned from Alexander Borisovich to really work on the text of a work. In class we often heard: the author's intention is only partially translated into musical notation. The latter is always conditional, approximate... The composer's intentions need to be unraveled (this is the mission of the interpreter!) and reflected as accurately as possible in the performance. Alexander Borisovich himself was a magnificent, amazingly insightful master of analyzing musical texts - he introduced us, his students, to this art...”

Berman adds: “Few could compare with our teacher in knowledge of pianistic technology. Communication with him gave a lot. The most rational playing techniques were adopted, and the innermost secrets of pedaling were revealed. I gained the ability to clearly and concisely outline a phrase - Alexander Borisovich tirelessly sought this from his students... While studying with him, I played a huge amount of the most varied music. I especially liked to bring works by Scriabin, Medtner, and Rachmaninov to class. Alexander Borisovich was the same age as these wonderful composers; in his youth he often met with them; I showed their plays with special enthusiasm...”

Goethe once said: “Talent is diligence”; From an early age, Berman was exceptionally diligent in his work. Long hours of work at the instrument - every day, without relaxation or indulgence - became the norm of his life; Once in a conversation he threw out the phrase: “You know, I sometimes wonder if I had a childhood...”. The classes were supervised by his mother. An active and energetic nature in achieving her goals, Anna Lazarevna Berman actually did not let her son out from under her care. She regulated not only the volume and systematicity of her son’s activities, but also the direction of his work. The course was mainly aimed at developing virtuoso technical qualities. Drawing “in a straight line”, it remained unchanged for a number of years. (We repeat, familiarity with the details of artistic biographies sometimes speaks volumes and explains a lot.) Of course, Goldenweiser was also involved in the development of the technique of his students, but specifically problems of this kind were solved by him, an experienced artist, in a different context - in the light of broader and more general problems . Returning home from lessons, Berman knew one thing: technique, technique...

In 1953, the young pianist graduated with honors from the Moscow Conservatory, and a little later - graduate school. His independent artistic life begins. He tours throughout the USSR, and later abroad. Before the audience is a concert performer with an established stage appearance that is unique to him.

Already at this time, no matter who spoke about Berman - a professional colleague, a critic, a music lover - one could almost always hear the word “virtuoso” being used in every possible way. The word, in general, has an ambiguous sound: sometimes it is pronounced with a slightly dismissive tone, as a synonym for insignificant performance rhetoric, pop tinsel. Bermane's virtuosity - we must be clear about this - leaves no room for any disrespectful attitude. She - phenomenon in pianism; This happens on the concert stage only as an exception. When characterizing it, willy-nilly one has to draw from an arsenal of superlative definitions: colossally, enchantingly, etc.

A.V. Lunacharsky once expressed the opinion that the term “virtuoso” should be used not in a “negative sense,” as is sometimes done, but to designate “an artist of enormous power in the sense of the impression that he makes on the environment that perceives him...” (From the speech of A.V. Lunacharsky at the opening of a methodological meeting on art education on April 6, 1925 // From the history of Soviet musical education. - L., 1969. P. 57.). Berman is a virtuoso of enormous power, the impression he makes on the “perceiving environment” is truly great.

Real, great virtuosos have always been loved by the public. Their playing impresses the audience (in Latin virtus - valor), awakening the feeling of something bright and festive. The listener, even the uninitiated, realizes that the artist whom he now sees and hears is doing at the instrument what only very, very few can do; this is always met with enthusiasm. It is no coincidence that Berman's concerts most often end with thunderous applause. One of the critics, for example, described the performance of a Soviet artist on American soil as follows: “at first they applauded him while sitting, then standing, then they shouted and stamped their feet with delight...”.

A phenomenon in terms of technology, Berman remains Berman in that What he plays. His performing style always looked especially advantageous in the most difficult pieces of the piano repertoire, “transcendental” in their complexity. Like all born virtuosos, Berman has long been drawn to such plays. The central, most prominent places in his programs include the B minor sonata and “Rhapsody Espagnol” by Liszt, the Third Concerto of Rachmaninov and Prokofiev’s Toccata, “The King of the Forest” by Schubert (in the famous Liszt transcription) and “Ondine” by Ravel, octave etude (Op. 25 ) Chopin and Scriabin's C-sharp-minor (Op. 42) etude... Such selections of pianistic “super-complexities” are impressive in themselves; Even more impressive is the freedom and ease with which all this is played by the musician: no tension, no visible hardship, no effort. “Difficulties must be overcome with ease and not flaunted,” Busoni once taught. Berman has no traces of labor in the most difficult...

However, the pianist wins sympathy not only with fireworks of brilliant passages, sparkling garlands of arpeggios, avalanches of octaves, etc. His art attracts more - a truly high culture of performance.

Listeners remember different works interpreted by Berman. Some of them made a truly vivid impression, others were less liked. I can’t remember just one thing - that a performer somewhere or with something would shock the most stern, picky professional ear. Any of his program numbers is an example of strictly accurate and careful “processing” of musical material.

The correctness of the performing speech, the purity of pianistic diction, the extremely clear rendering of details, and impeccable taste are everywhere pleasing to the ear. It is no secret: the culture of a concert performer is always seriously tested in the culminating fragments of the works performed. Who among the regulars at piano evenings has not had to encounter annoyingly rumbling pianos, wince from the frenzied fortissimo, and see the loss of pop self-control. This doesn't happen at Berman's performances. One can cite, as an example, its culmination in Rachmaninov’s “Musical Moments” or Prokofiev’s Eighth Sonata: the sound waves roll up to the pianist’s point of view, beyond which the danger of playing knock begins to emerge, and never splash out one iota beyond this line.

Once in a conversation, Berman said that he had been struggling with the problem of sound for many years: “In my opinion, the culture of piano performance begins with the culture of sound. In my youth, I sometimes heard that my piano didn’t sound good - dull, faded... I began to listen to good singers, I remember playing records on the gramophone with recordings of Italian “stars”; I began to think, search, experiment... My teacher’s instrument sound was quite specific, it was difficult to imitate. I adopted some things in terms of timbre and sound color from other pianists. First of all, Vladimir Vladimirovich Sofronitsky - I loved him very much...” Now Berman has a warm, pleasant touch; silky finger touches, as if caressing a piano. This imparts attractiveness to his delivery, in addition to bravura, and lyrics, to plays of a cantilena style. Warm applause now erupts not only after Berman’s performance of Liszt’s “Wild Hunt” or “Blizzard,” but also after his performance of Rachmaninov’s melodically chanted works: for example, the preludes in F sharp minor (Op. 23) or G major (Op. 32); it is closely listened to in music such as “The Old Castle” (from Pictures at an Exhibition) by Mussorsky or the Andante sognando from Prokofiev’s Eighth Sonata. For some, Berman's lyrics are simply beautiful, good for their sound design. A more discerning listener will recognize something else in it - a soft, kind-hearted intonation, sometimes simple-minded, almost naive... They say intonation is something how to pronounce music, - a mirror of the performer’s soul; people who know Berman closely would probably agree with this.

When Berman is “at his best,” he rises to great heights, acting at such moments as the guardian of the traditions of a brilliant concert virtuoso style, traditions that make one remember a number of outstanding artists of the past. (Sometimes he is compared with Simon Barer, sometimes with any of the other luminaries of the piano scene of past years. To awaken such associations, to resurrect semi-legendary names in memory - how many people can do this?) When a pianist is out of shape or not in the mood, they begin to notice and some other aspects of his performance.

Berman, needless to say, at one time suffered more from criticism than many of his colleagues. The accusations sometimes seemed serious - even to the point of doubting the creative content of his art. There is hardly any need to argue with such judgments today - in many ways they are echoes of the past; Moreover, musical criticism is sometimes let down by schematism and simplified formulations. It would be more correct to say that Berman lacked (and lacks) a strong-willed, courageous beginning in the game. First of all, this; meaningfulness in performance is something fundamentally different.

For example, the pianist’s interpretation of Beethoven’s “Appassionata” is widely known. From the outside: phrasing, sound, technique - everything is practically faultless... And yet, some listeners are sometimes left with a residue of dissatisfaction with Berman’s interpretation. It lacks internal dynamics, springiness in the reversal of the action of the imperative principle. While playing, the pianist does not seem to insist on his performance concept, as others sometimes insist: it must be this way and no other way. And the listener loves when he is taken in full, led with a firm and authoritative hand (K.S. Stanislavsky writes about the great tragedian Salvini: “It seemed that he did it with one gesture - he extended his hand into the audience, without looking, grabbed everyone into his palm and held it in it, like ants, throughout the entire performance. If he clenches his fist - death; if he opens it, breathes with warmth - bliss. We were already in his power, forever, for the rest of our lives." (Stanislavsky K. My life in art. Collected works. - M., 1954. Vol. 1. S . 163).).

At the beginning of this essay, we talked about the admiration caused by Berman’s performance among foreign critics. Of course, you need to know their writing style - it is not short on expansiveness. However, exaggerations are exaggerations, manner is manner, and the admiration of those who heard Berman for the first time is still not difficult to understand.

For for them it turned out to be something new that we had ceased to be surprised by and, to be honest, to be aware of its real value. Berman's unique virtuoso-technical capabilities, lightness, brilliance and freedom of his playing - all this can really influence the imagination, especially if you have never encountered this luxurious piano extravaganza before. In short, the reaction to Berman's speeches in the New World should not be surprising - it is natural.

However, that's not all. There is also a circumstance that is directly related to the “Berman riddle” (the expression of overseas reviewers). Perhaps the most significant and important. The fact is that in recent years the artist has made a new and significant step forward. This went unnoticed only by those who had not met Berman for a long time, content with the usual, established ideas about him; For others, his successes on the stage in the seventies and eighties are quite understandable and natural. In one of his interviews, he said: “Every touring artist once experiences a time of heyday and take-off. It seems to me that now my performance has become somewhat different than in the old days...” That’s right - different. If before he was primarily noticeable for his excellent handiwork (“I was their slave...”), now you see at the same time the artist’s intellect, which has established itself in its rights. Previously, he was drawn (“almost uncontrollably,” as he says) by the intuition of a born virtuoso, who selflessly bathed in the elements of pianistic motor skills; today he is guided by mature creative thought, a deepened feeling, and stage experience accumulated over more than three decades. Berman's tempos have now become more restrained and meaningful, the edges of musical forms are clearer, and his interpretative intentions are clearer. This is confirmed by a number of works played or recorded by the pianist: Tchaikovsky’s B-flat minor concerto (with an orchestra conducted by Herbert Karajan), both Liszt concertos (with Carlo Maria Giulini), Beethoven’s Eighteenth Sonata, Scriabin’s Third, “Pictures at an Exhibition” Mussorgsky, preludes by Shostakovich and much more.

Berman willingly shares his thoughts on the art of performing music. The topic of so-called child prodigies especially touches his heart. He touched on her more than once both in private conversations and on the pages of the music press. Moreover, he was concerned not only because he himself once belonged to the “miracle children”, personifying the phenomenon of a child prodigy. There is one more circumstance here. He has a son, a violinist; According to some mysterious, inexplicable laws of inheritance, Pavel Berman in his childhood years repeated his father’s path in some ways. He also discovered his musical abilities early and amazed connoisseurs and the public with his rare virtuoso-technical abilities.

“It seems to me,” says Lazar Naumovich, that today’s child prodigies are, in principle, somewhat different from the child prodigies of my generation - from those who were considered “miracle children” in the thirties and forties. In the current ones, in my opinion, there is somehow less of the “kind”, and more of the adult... But the problems, in general, are the same. Just as we were disturbed by the hype, excitement, and excessive praise, so it interferes with children today. Just as we suffered damage, and considerable damage, from frequent performances, so did they. In addition, today's children are hampered by frequent employment in various competitions, tests, and competitive selections. After all, one cannot help but notice that everything connected with competition in our profession, with the struggle for a prize, it inevitably results in great nervous overload, which exhausts both physically and mentally. Especially a child. What about the mental trauma that young competition participants receive when, for one reason or another, they do not win a high place? What about wounded pride? And the frequent travel and touring voyages that fall to the lot of child prodigies - when they are essentially not yet ripe for this - also do more harm than good." (It is impossible not to notice in connection with the above statements by Berman that there are other points of view on this issue. Some experts, for example, are convinced: those who are destined by nature to perform on stage must get used to it from childhood. Well, an excess of concerts - undesirable, of course, like any excess, is still a lesser evil than a lack of them. For the most important thing in performance is still learned on the stage, in the process of public music playing... The question, it must be said, is very difficult, debatable in nature In any case, no matter what position you take, what Berman said deserves attention, because this is the opinion of a person who has seen a lot, experienced it from his own experience, and thoroughly knows what he is talking about. - Author's note).

Perhaps Berman also has objections to the excessively frequent, condensed “tour voyages” of adult artists too - not just children. It is possible that he would willingly reduce the number of his own performances... But here he is no longer able to do anything. In order not to leave the “distance”, not to let the interest in him from the general public cool down, he - like every concert musician - must be constantly “in sight”. And this means - play, play and play... Take, for example, only 1988. The trips followed one after another: Spain, Germany, East Germany, Japan, France, Czechoslovakia, Australia, USA, not to mention various cities of our country.

By the way, about Berman’s visit to the USA in 1988. He was invited, along with some other well-known artists in the world, by the Steinway company, which decided to commemorate some anniversaries of its history with gala concerts. At this unique Steinway festival, Berman was the only representative of USSR pianists. His success on the Carnegie Hall stage showed that the popularity he had previously won among American audiences had not diminished at all.

If in terms of the number of performances in Berman’s activities little has changed in recent years, then the changes in the repertoire and in the content of his programs are more noticeable. In earlier times, as noted, the central place on his posters was usually occupied by the most difficult virtuoso opuses. Even today he does not avoid them. And he is not afraid in the slightest. However, approaching the threshold of his 60th birthday, Lazar Naumovich felt that his musical inclinations and inclinations had become somewhat different.

“I am increasingly drawn to play Mozart today. Or, for example, such a wonderful composer as Kuhnau, who wrote his music at the end of the 17th - beginning of the 18th century. Unfortunately, it has been thoroughly forgotten, and I consider it my duty - a pleasant duty! - remind our and foreign listeners about it. How to explain the desire for antiquity? I guess it's age. More and more people are now attracted to music that is laconic, transparent in texture - the kind where every note, as they say, is worth its weight in gold. Where a little says a lot.

By the way, some piano works by contemporary authors are also interesting to me. In my repertoire, for example, there are three plays by N. Karetnikov (concert programs of 1986-1988), a fantasy by V. Ryabov in Memory of M. V. Yudina (same period). In 1987 and 1988 I performed A. Schnittke's piano concerto several times in public. I only play what I unconditionally understand and accept.”

It is known that two things are most difficult for an artist: to gain a name and to maintain it. The second, as life shows, is even more complicated. “Fame is an unprofitable commodity,” Balzac once wrote. “It is expensive and poorly preserved.” Berman walked long and hard towards recognition - wide, international recognition. However, having achieved it, he managed to keep what he had won. That says it all...

, THE USSR

Lazar Naumovich Berman(February 26, Leningrad - February 6, Florence) - Soviet and Russian pianist, Honored Artist of the RSFSR.

Biography

Creation

Berman is one of the greatest Russian pianists, music critics often included him in the top three Soviet piano performers, along with Emil Gilels and Svyatoslav Richter. His interpretations of the music of Liszt, as well as Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, Scriabin and other composers were a great success both in the USSR and abroad. Berman's performance was distinguished by high virtuosity and a deep sense of style.

Pavel Lazarevich Berman and Lazar Naumovich Berman served as prototypes for the heroes of Pavel Sanaev's novel "The Chronicles of Razdolbay" - violinist Misha Moroz and his father, a talented pianist.

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Excerpt characterizing Berman, Lazar Naumovich

Kutuzov, accompanied by his adjutants, rode at a pace behind the carabinieri.
Having traveled half a mile at the tail of the column, he stopped at a lonely abandoned house (probably a former inn) near the fork of two roads. Both roads went downhill, and troops marched along both.
The fog began to disperse, and vaguely, about two miles away, enemy troops were already visible on opposite hills. To the left below the shooting became louder. Kutuzov stopped talking with the Austrian general. Prince Andrei, standing somewhat behind, peered at them and, wanting to ask the adjutant for a telescope, turned to him.
“Look, look,” said this adjutant, looking not at the distant army, but down the mountain in front of him. - These are the French!
Two generals and adjutants began to grab the pipe, snatching it from one another. All the faces suddenly changed, and everyone expressed horror. The French were supposed to be two miles away from us, but they appeared suddenly, unexpectedly in front of us.
- Is this the enemy?... No!... Yes, look, he... probably... What is this? – voices were heard.
Prince Andrey with a simple eye saw below to the right a dense column of French rising towards the Absheronians, no further than five hundred steps from the place where Kutuzov stood.
“Here it is, the decisive moment has come! The matter has reached me,” thought Prince Andrei, and, hitting his horse, he rode up to Kutuzov. “We must stop the Absheronians,” he shouted, “Your Excellency!” But at that very moment everything was covered with smoke, close shooting was heard, and a naively frightened voice two steps from Prince Andrei shouted: “Well, brothers, it’s a Sabbath!” And it was as if this voice was a command. At this voice, everything started to run.
Mixed, ever-increasing crowds fled back to the place where five minutes ago the troops had passed by the emperors. Not only was it difficult to stop this crowd, but it was impossible not to move back along with the crowd.
Bolkonsky only tried to keep up with her and looked around, perplexed and unable to understand what was happening in front of him. Nesvitsky with an embittered look, red and not like himself, shouted to Kutuzov that if he did not leave now, he would probably be captured. Kutuzov stood in the same place and, without answering, took out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrei pushed his way up to him.
-Are you injured? – he asked, barely keeping his lower jaw from trembling.
– The wounds are not here, but where! - said Kutuzov, pressing a handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing at the fleeing people. - Stop them! - he shouted and at the same time, probably making sure that it was impossible to stop them, he hit the horse and rode to the right.
The newly surging crowd of fleeing people took him with them and dragged him back.
The troops fled in such a dense crowd that, once they got into the middle of the crowd, it was difficult to get out of it. Who shouted: “Go! Why did you hesitate? Who immediately turned around and fired into the air; who beat the horse on which Kutuzov himself was riding. With the greatest effort, getting out of the flow of the crowd to the left, Kutuzov, with his retinue, reduced by more than half, rode towards the sounds of close gun shots. Having emerged from the crowd of those running, Prince Andrei, trying to keep up with Kutuzov, saw on the descent of the mountain, in the smoke, a Russian battery still firing and the French running up to it. The Russian infantry stood higher up, moving neither forward to help the battery nor back in the same direction as those fleeing. The general on horseback separated from this infantry and rode up to Kutuzov. Only four people remained from Kutuzov’s retinue. Everyone was pale and silently looked at each other.
– Stop these scoundrels! - Kutuzov said breathlessly to the regimental commander, pointing to the fleeing; but at the same instant, as if in punishment for these words, like a swarm of birds, bullets whistled through Kutuzov’s regiment and retinue.
The French attacked the battery and, seeing Kutuzov, fired at him. With this volley, the regimental commander grabbed his leg; Several soldiers fell, and the ensign standing with the banner released it from his hands; the banner swayed and fell, lingering on the guns of neighboring soldiers.
The soldiers began to shoot without a command.
- Oooh! – Kutuzov muttered with an expression of despair and looked around. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered, his voice trembling from the consciousness of his senile impotence. “Bolkonsky,” he whispered, pointing to the disorganized battalion and the enemy, “what is this?”

Today Lazar Naumovich Berman would have turned 81.

Berman is one of the greatest Russian pianists; music critics often included him in the top three Soviet pianists along with Emil Gilels and Svyatoslav Richter. His interpretation of the music of Liszt, as well as Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky, Scriabin and other composers, was a great success both in the USSR and abroad. Berman's performance was distinguished by high virtuosity and a deep sense of style.

Lazar Naumovich loved Kislovodsk very much and often came here on tour.

LAZAR NAUMOVICH BERMAN

Chopin.Etudes
Moscow, June 1950

Grigoriev L., Platek J. "Modern pianists". Moscow, "Soviet Composer", 1990

“Today at the Leningrad State Conservatory public tests began... of a group of young musicians. The youngest performer among the examinees is Lyalya Berman, 4 years and 9 months. The child freely performs works by Bach, Tchaikovsky and other composers. He wrote a march in memory of S. M. Kirov". This first “review” of Professor S.I. Savshinsky on Berman’s speech was published in Leningradskaya Pravda.

Yes, he started out as a child prodigy, and this, apparently, left a certain imprint on the artistic formation of the pianist. During his student days (Berman graduated from the Moscow Conservatory in the class of A. B. Goldenweiser in 1953) and during his graduate studies (1953-1956), he amazed both specialists and amateurs primarily with his phenomenal virtuosity. The talent of the young musician was also noted by competition regalia: Berman became the winner of the pianist competition at the World Festival of Youth and Students in Berlin (1951), won fifth prize at the Queen Elisabeth Competition in Brussels (1956) and third prize at the Liszt Competition in Budapest (1956). ).

Concerting in different cities of our country and abroad, Berman gradually enriched his repertoire, which now represents a wide stylistic panorama from Bach, Handel and Kuhnau to S. Prokofiev, D. Shostakovich and A. Khachaturian. This allowed the pianist to present to the audience the “dotted” history of the piano sonata (Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schumann, Schubert, Liszt, Prokofiev) in two clavierabends. At the same time, the specific traits of his talent determine Berman’s special commitment to Liszt’s music with its rich pianistic texture. In the musician’s own words, his repertoire practically does not go beyond “romantic coordinates.” With the orchestra, for example, he most often performs the concertos of Beethoven (No. 4), Liszt (both), Brahms (No. 1), Tchaikovsky (No. 1), Rachmaninov (No. 2 and 3).

In the past, reviewers have repeatedly chided Berman for his self-sufficient virtuosity. And it seems that the artist listened to the friendly criticism, or maybe just time had its say. In any case, earlier he would hardly have dared to undertake some pronounced “anti-virtuoso” programs. So, one of them consisted of two large sonatas by Schubert - in D major and B-flat major. Rare self-restraint! Berman is generally very demanding of himself as a musician. “For myself, for example,” he says, “I will never consider myself fully formed. I always play as if under a question mark, not being completely sure whether what I am doing is good.”

Such internal dissatisfaction has a beneficial effect on the pianist’s very manner, brings him interesting achievements, and brings memorable, sometimes unexpected impressions to his listeners. “If before,” writes G. Tsypin, “his predominantly magnificent work of hands was noticeable (“I was their slave!” he complains), now you can clearly see the artist’s crystallized mind, his mature, established in his the rights of creative thought. If earlier he was driven (“almost uncontrollably,” as he says) by the intuition of a born virtuoso, selflessly basking in the elements of pianistic motor skills, today he is guided by a serious feeling, accumulated over two decades of stage experience. Berman’s tempos have now become more restrained, clearer edges of musical forms, more meaningful, clearer interpretive intentions. Evidence - Beethoven's Eighteenth Sonata, Scriabin's Third, Mussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition", Shostakovich's Preludes, as well as other works included in the pianist's programs of recent years. Everywhere here is a rejection of virtuoso excesses, artistic "reasoning" of performing statements."

It so happened that until recently, the art of Lazar Berman enjoyed relatively limited fame outside the USSR: the pianist was known mainly in Italy, where he gave concerts regularly. However, 1975 became in this sense a turning point in Berman’s biography: the records he recorded in recent years received a wide and favorable response in many countries. At the personal invitation of G. Karajan, he recorded Tchaikovsky's First Concerto with the famous maestro and the West Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra led by him. At the beginning of 1976, the pianist's first big trip to the United States took place, which was a huge success. This was followed by successful tours in many countries (in just four years he gave 130 concerts in the USA), more and more new discs. In a short period of time, he established creative contacts with such famous conductors as Y. Ormandy, C. Abbado, K. M. Giulini, L. Maazel, K. Mazur. In a word, the time has come for widespread recognition: “Every touring performer,” says Lazar Berman, “sometime experiences a time of heyday and takeoff. It seems to me that now my performance has become somewhat different than in the past.” It's right. And numerous listeners can judge this.

Chopin.Polonaise.Or.40 №2C-moll.

1992.

Sheet. Hungarian Rhapsody No 9 Part I

Lazar BERMAN

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF YESENIN

My story about the first meetings with Yesenin (more precisely, with the early Yesenin), published in No. 4 of “Stars” (?), in Konopatskaya’s entry, ends with the cessation of publication of the magazine “Voice of Life”, where these meetings began. After them, Yesenin disappeared from my field of vision, as if Petrograd had become exhausted for him. But soon the trace of Serezhin was found: only two - but still two letters I received from him with the Konstantinovo stamp, and then his name began to appear in Moscow publications. Apparently, in Moscow his sails were finally “inflated, the winds are full.”

At times of historical turning points, turbulent events occur in literature; Poetry also experienced them - with the onset of the twenties. Her features sharpened, tension increased, literary disputes intensified. Some, already established poets, called to “listen to the revolution,” others fenced themselves off from life, retreating into chamber poetry, and adhered to established literary traditions. Still others overturned these traditions and became heralds of the “victorious class.” Poets gathered in diverse, often ephemeral groups. Thus, in one of the collections of poems published in 21, 15 different poetic movements were found. Disputes took place in the auditoriums of the Polytechnic Museum, the House of Press and other public places; Poets also performed in peculiar taverns, in which the orchestra had to share stage time with them.

This war of words reflected deep revolutionary changes and the invasion of the literary environment by new names. The “languageless” street has so far found its voice.

Such was the situation when the “early” Yesenin appeared in Moscow for the second time.

Writing poetry is almost a pattern for adolescence, and everyone is confident in their future as a poet. Meanwhile, even the best literature experts, reading the lines of beginners, cannot reliably predict whether a given author will establish himself in literature or not. There are many called, but few chosen. And youth full of energy wants to help the destinies hidden in the darkness...

One of the means to which she resorted was the proclamation of some literary principles, which were supposedly embodied in their creations. They were proclaimed in loud manifestos, certainly on behalf of some group. At the same time, each group chose a catchy name for itself, and within it its own leader usually stood out. He might have the greatest literary talent compared to the others, but not necessarily: assertiveness could also come in handy. As a result, everyone made some progress.

They did not refuse to achieve success in purely external ways - through stylistic extremes, extraordinary performance of poetry, even the cut or color of their clothes, a yellow blouse, a wooden spoon in their buttonhole, even makeup. I would also like to agree - and this fully applies to Yesenin - that all these tricks for the leader, if he was truly talented, turned out to be useless: he would have achieved success anyway. But this became clear only in retrospect.

In the early 20s I had the opportunity to travel on a business trip from Petrograd to Moscow. I once walked at the level of the telegraph building up Tverskaya... Moscow was not then as crowded as it is now. The houses forming this street were not yet as wide apart as they are now, and the sidewalks were narrow, which is why the flow of pedestrians along it seemed especially dense. If you looked at the street crowd with today's eyes, you would be surprised at the appearance of the people. Prosperity was still far away: the men wore caps, their clothes were worn, their shoes were worn out. The era was not favorable to women either: their clothes were often carefully altered, the textile industry, apparently, could not offer them good materials, and it did not have good dyes.

Suddenly, in a randomly thinning stream, a figure appeared sharply different from the others.

A young man was walking with a bouncing gait. It was clear that he was in excellent spirits. His light coat shone with black silk lapels, his shoes were clearly fashionable and well polished, he had a top hat on his head, and a cane with an elegant knob in his hand. Where did this come from?

I looked at him, and it seemed to me that I had met him once. So it is, but where is the faded and somewhat long autumn coat and crumpled cap on his head that he was wearing then?

Wasn’t it him and I who wandered the streets of Petrograd, not noticing anything around in our conversation? Isn’t this the same guy from near Ryazan who appeared in our editorial office - Seryozha Yesenin? And now he is an established poet.

It turns out that what a transformation happened to him in Moscow! This is what he became, leading a noisy group of poets who dubbed themselves, of French origin, the name “Imagists.” This word comes from the French image, meaning “image” in Russian. Is such a name justified as a sign of a separate group of poets, distinguishing them from other groups, if imagery is a specific sign of any poetry? But the foreign language word, convenient for the manifesto, in itself gave some kind of originality to the Yesenin-Mariengof group of poets. In fact, the difference between the poetry of Yesenin and Mariengof remained as great as the difference between the Ryazan poppy sunset and the eye-harming electric lighting of the capital's literary taverns.

So, leaving an invisible trail, my long-time interlocutor and confidant passed by me. I didn’t bother to catch up with him...

In December 1925, I learned that Yesenin was in Leningrad. He has come a long way since our meetings with him. He could say: “... ten years have passed since then - and a lot has changed in life for me.”

He won our hearts during this period. His fame crossed the borders of the country, and he also experienced peaks and abysses. High inspiration and painful delirium - he experienced everything. I wanted to meet him.

From the editorial office of Lenin Sparks, where I worked, it was not far from Angleterre, where, as I learned, he was staying. Approaching the door of his room, I heard muffled talking and some movement from the room. It was not particularly surprising—which I had not thought of—that I was unlikely to find him alone. After knocking and receiving no answer, I opened the door and entered the room. I remember it as a parallelogram somewhat skewed in plan, a window on the left, an ottoman on the right. A long table stretches along the window, cluttered with various snacks, decanters and bottles. There are a lot of people in the room, completely alien to me. Most walked around the room, forming separate groups here and there and talking to each other.

And on the ottoman, face up, lay the host of the gathering, Seryozha Yesenin, in his former angelic form. Only the stamp of fatigue was marked on his face. The extinguished cigarette was clenched in his teeth. He slept. I stood in chagrin and looked at him.

Some middle-aged man with beginnings of obesity, like some kind of manager, came up to me.

Without listening to persuasion, I left the room.

The next morning, having hastily organized the work of the editorial office, at about ten o’clock, I again headed to Yesenin. By this time I’ll probably find him awake, I thought, quickly running down the stairs. Downstairs, towards me, from the entrance doors, my acquaintance, the Leningrad poet Ilya Sadofyev, appeared.

Where are you hurrying, Lazar Vasilyevich? - he asked.

“To Yesenin,” I told him. Sadofyev clasped his hands:

Hanged himself!

Here the visible traces of our poet are cut off forever.

The years passed. The terrible time of the Patriotic War has come. Following the youth, my generation donned khaki and mastered small arms. I was assigned as a private in a guard company in Moscow, where I stayed for eight months. Everyday life in the rear - while fierce battles were going on - was difficult and depressed me. I submitted report after report to my superiors that I was an automotive specialist and asked to be seconded to the front automobile service, and they returned my reports to me, saying that, as such, I would be needed only after the war! (In the end, I finally made it to the front.)

In another platoon of my unit there was a fighter whose last name I can’t remember, I think it starts with the letter “P.” I often met with him, and we talked, lying on the grass, until the time came for one of us to take up his post. It turned out that we have a common interest.

In these notes he did not say that he was involved in poetry, although he did not make it his professional activity. But I was not a collegiate registrar in the editorial office of “Voice of Life” and in my other editorial classes. Several years after Yesenin left Petrograd, I also happened to be the secretary of the Petrograd Union of Poets. My involvement in poetry probably explains my short but close relationship with Yesenin. Imaget, that is, images, did not leave me even on guard. For example, in my poem “The Milkmaid,” which is typical for the time, a completely unexpected metamorphosis occurs with her image. I quote it:

On a vast expanse

You've been grazing for a long time

From the Don meadows

To the harsh Kholmogory.

The sun of the world was shining

Blessed lands.

From your breasts it used to be

There was a white stream.

But the milkmaid came to you

Not in a printed scarf,

But the milkmaid came to you

With a saber cleaned brightly,

In a warrior's steel helmet.

Ringing into a washed milk pan

Streams of milk flow

And the calf, like a dead man,

Falling from the breeze.

It is clear that for my interlocutor and I, interest was focused on Yesenin. The fact is that this friend of mine turned out to be his fellow villager and peer. During their school years, he said, they all wrote poetry. Exactly poetry! I emphasize that such poems require greater talent - they were at a higher level in comparison even with the masterful composition of ditties, which were also “blurted out” impromptu, widespread among rural school youth. Writing poetry, according to my interlocutor, was some kind of fad in Konstantinov. Here, perhaps, we will find the nutritious environment in which our poet grew up, who later outgrew his comrades. Here, perhaps, is the very beginning of the trace he leaves behind. At that time, public opinion in the village placed Yesenin’s poems no higher than those of his comrades. In these Ryazan Athens, such a preference was hardly dictated by envy: this writing did not bring any advantages to anyone. Initially, Sergei's success in his homeland was attributed only to his luck.

My nameless acquaintance read me some poems by other authors that he remembered. They really were excellent: colorful, flexible, with real lyrical intensity, but contrived. The melody, perhaps inspired by folk songs, also affected them. And of course, there was nothing of what later came to be called “Yeseninism.” Sergei came to her only through complex and confusing paths. Unfortunately, these verses did not survive the double transmission, were forgotten, and perhaps were drowned out for me by the thunder of the military weather.

It’s not entirely too late—perhaps it will be possible to find living witnesses and participants in the Konstantinovsky guild of poets. Literary scholars are accustomed to searching.