Robert Craft (1923–2015) was never merely an observer of Stravinsky’s life in America. Shortly after he joined the Stravinsky household towards the end of the 1940s, he ‘progressed from assistant to adviser, defender, collaborator and – his critics would argue – a resourceful “spin doctor”’;1 and, as Craft himself would claim through one of his monograph titles: a friend. The way in which Craft was ‘adopted’ by the Stravinskys and the influence he exerted on the performances of the composer’s music (and increasingly on his professional and social interactions) caused a degree of suspicion, even jealousy among Stravinsky’s children, friends and colleagues. However, Charles M. Joseph’s take on the Craft/Stravinsky relationship has been censured for telling the story in an almost teleological manner, not allowing either of them sufficient ‘measure of choice [or] of freedom’.2 Such interpretations also have a tendency to neglect the perspectives and influences of other key figures close to Stravinsky such as Ingolf Dahl, Lawrence Morton, Claudio Spies, Sol Babitz, Alex Haïeff, and Aldous Huxley. These were important too in arranging and reviewing performances of Stravinsky’s music, contributing to the creation and management of the composer’s image during and after his lifetime.

Two months after Stravinsky’s death a remarkable publication appeared in the Soviet Union: the first ever translation into Russian of the four Stravinsky/Craft Conversation books.1 Entitled Dialogy (‘Dialogues’) it was a single-volume composite edition and, subject to pressure from the censors, the name of Robert Craft was removed from the title page. As the editorial preface explained: ‘These are Stravinsky’s conversations with his secretary – a conductor, Robert Craft – but essentially it is a monologue: Craft just asks short questions. It is only Stravinsky who expresses an opinion.’ The volume’s editor, Leningrad Conservatoire professor Mikhail Druskin (1905–91), was obliged to make endless changes and omissions reflecting the sensitivities of the Soviet authorities. Druskin’s planned second edition (which remained unpublished) attempted an explanation about the several postponements to the publication of Dialogy: ‘This was not a coincidence but something characteristic of those times. (The dead, as we know, are not able to commit seditious acts!)’2 The delays reflected the very real fears of the publishers and censors that Stravinsky might reiterate his critical views of the Soviet state and, as a result, the book’s distribution might be withheld and those involved with its publication might be punished. The best policy, therefore, was to wait until the composer had died; the authorisation to print Dialogy was issued on 4 June 1971.