Alan Walker

Ernst von Dohnányi (1877-1960): A Tribute

 

Dohnányi was born in Pressburg, Hungary, July 27, 1877. He first studied music with his father, a professor of mathematics at the gymnasium, and an outstanding amateur cellist, but afterwards became a pupil in pianoforte and composition of Carl Förstner, organist at Pressburg Cathedral. Those last two sentences could begin almost any entry on the life of Dohnányi, but they would overlook one of the most important things of all. In 1877 Pressburg was one of the most musical cities in Europe. To Hungarians the place was always known as Pozsony, the coronation city. For three hundred years the Hungarian kings had been crowned there. The Hungarian legislature had also held its sessions there. In the 19th century it was a vibrant place brimming with music, and it was invariably included in the concert tours of the greatest performing artists. How fortunate for Dohnányi that he was born there! He soaked up the history and the culture of his native city like a sponge. It was a loss that he would have felt most keenly when, at the Treaty of Trianon, after World War One, the victorious British, French, and American politicians re-drew the map of Europe and gave Pozsony to the newly created state of Czecho-Slovakia, which promptly renamed the city Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia.
In 1894, when he was only 17 years old, Dohnányi moved to Budapest and enrolled at the Royal Academy of Music (later to become known as the Liszt Academy), where he became a pupil of István Thomán for piano and of Hans Koessler for composition. Thomán had been a pupil of Franz Liszt (he was actually a pallbearer at Liszt's funeral), while Koessler was a follower of Brahms. It was an interesting combination of influences, and throughout his life Dohnányi reflected them both-Liszt in his piano playing, Brahms in his composing. Hitherto, gifted young Hungarian musicians had gone abroad in pursuit of their higher studies. Dohnányi was the first major Hungarian musician to prefer Budapest and the Academy; and his decision influenced both Kodály and Bartók, who followed him to the Academy as well. When Dohnányi arrived in Budapest he brought with him a portfolio of more than sixty compositions, many of which he later discarded. But in 1897 one of them, a symphony in F major, was rewarded with the King's Prize. In a letter dated June 10, 1897, the 19-year-old Dohnányi addressed a special request to the Directorate of the Academy. He asked permission to skip the rest of his studies and take the final exams, both as a composer and as a pianist, in order to obtain his artist's diploma immediately. Permission was granted and a few days later he passed with flying colours. His graduation concert included a performance of Liszt's Operatic Paraphrase on Mozart's "Don Juan"-a telling indication of the young man's ability at the keyboard.

III

What to do next? And where to go? Such questions afflict many young music graduates. Dohnányi followed his star as a pianist. After a few lessons with Eugéne d'Albert, another student of Liszt, he made his debut in Berlin, in 1897, and was at once recognized as an artist of the highest distinction. A similar success followed in Vienna. He made his London debut at a Hans Richter concert in the Queen's Hall, where he gave a memorable performance of Beethoven's G Major Concerto. Dohnányi was still only 19 years old. The following year he undertook some concerts in America. When he returned home, it was as the most celebrated Hungarian musician since Franz Liszt.
During the next few years Dohnányi established himself as one of Europe's leading concert pianists. He was openly compared with Rachmaninov, Paderewski and Ignaz Friedman. Although still in his 'twenties, he was appearing with major orchestras all over Europe and the United States-including New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and St. Louis. His repertoire at this time included a lot of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms, and the three concertos he played most frequently at this time were Beethoven's Fourth, Brahms's Second, and his own Piano Concerto in E minor. Soon he would be playing complete cycles of all the Beethoven Sonatas and all the Mozart Piano Concertos-for which he wrote a number of cadenzas, the manuscripts of which are kept in the Dohnányi Collection at Florida State University.
One intriguing piece that cropped up all the time in Dohnányi's recitals was his "Variations and Fugue on a Theme by G. E.". It dates from 1897, the year of his graduation from the Music Academy. Who was "G.E."? Her full name was Gruber Emma (as the Hungarians would say: or "Emma Gruber" to English readers) and she was a fashionable art benefactress. She was immensely rich and highly talented. Emma was not beautiful, but she compensated for this through her sharp intelligence and her magnetic personality. She was a gifted amateur musician (in the best sense of that word), and was enormously helpful to younger artists in whose company she obviously felt much at home. It was István Thomán who arranged for the 17-year-old Dohnányi to give Emma some piano lessons. She was born Emma Schlesinger, and enjoyed all the wealth and prestige of one of the most prominent Jewish families in Hungary. Later on, the family changed its name to the Hungarian "Sándor", to obscure its Jewish links, and later still Emma married a wealthy Hungarian named Henrik Gruber. Emma Gruber was thirty-five years old when she first met the handsome young Dohnányi. That she became enamoured of the attractive young man cannot be doubted and there is circumstantial evidence that much more than piano lessons took place in her salon. To her fashionable soirées in Budapest she also invited Béla Bartók and Zoltán Kodály, and I am reliably informed that Emma had intimate liaisons with these young men as well.¹ After the death of her husband, and Emma became the wife of the much younger Kodály, she continued to refer to Dohnányi, Bartók and Kodály as "my three men". Why mention such personal matters, which appear to be of little relevance in a lecture on Dohnányi's place in musical history? For one simple reason. This quartet of outstanding human beings-Dohnányi, Bartók, Kodály, and Emma Gruber-contained within it some psychological dynamite which lay dormant for forty years, but then exploded with force, and came close to destroying Dohnányi's life at a time when he had just entered old age. I shall return to this point later.

V

Dohnányi was one of those pianists who were entirely at home on the concert platform. There are certain artists who undergo a kind of purgatory before walking onto the stage. They live their lives in almost perpetual agony, fearing they will play badly, have a memory lapse, lose muscular coordination, and so forth. These artists are elated only when they walk off the platform. Dohnányi was the opposite. He was elated to be on the platform. He was like a fish in water, someone in his natural element. What matter if he sometimes failed to give of his best? What matter if he had an occasional memory lapse? He was musician enough to improvise his way out of it. Nothing could stop the sheer joy of making music and communicating that joy to his audiences. And his audiences, particularly the Hungarian ones in the 1920s and 30s, adored him.
First there was his fabulous tone-quality, which made the piano sing. Then there was his composer's grasp of musical structure, which prompted him to lay out the details of a Beethoven sonata like a map. Finally there was his innate ability to turn his interpretations into a form of mass communication. Not for him the secret performance almost ashamed to be heard, which turns the audience into eavesdroppers, or worse, voyeurs. The moment he walked onto the platform you were aware of a musician presiding at the piano, and the only reason he was there was to give you pleasure and musical enlightenment.
Dohnányi's playing was always marked by technical brilliance, a bel canto line (one is never in doubt where the melody lies), generous pedalling, and a well-nourished tone-which even the technical imperfections of his early recordings do little to diminish. One of his main expressive tools was tempo rubato (and its first cousin, the agogic accent) which he used to telling effect in his interpretations of Romantic composers. Above all, Dohnányi was a master of the nuance. He had few connections to the "blood and thunder" school of piano-playing. His occasional departures from the printed text, while they may worry the modern scholar, evoke an old-world charm and mark him as a child of his time. Dohnányi's piano playing has been criticized in modern times for its self-indulgence, its exaggerations, and its departures from the strict letter of the printed text. This opens the door to a large topic which would require a book to do it justice. In the absence of a book, let me address the problem in a single paragraph.
We often hear the question: "What sort of success would such a pianist as Dohnányi have today?" It is a condescending inquiry which contains within it its own condescending reply: "Not much". I would like to reverse the question, and ask: "What sort of success would today's pianist have had then?" By most accounts scarcely any. He would be unable to improvise. He would be unable to transpose. He would be unable to read fluently from full orchestral score. He would almost certainly be inept as a composer. Is there anything left that he would be able to do? He would be able to play the piano after his fashion, and probably be roundly condemned by our musical forefathers for his slavish adherence to the printed text, his ignorance of the singer's art of bel canto, and his possession of a rubato that was so parsimonious as to make a stop-watch sound erratic. Above all his tone-production would lack personality, so he would be condemned to occupy the ranks of the anonymous.
Dohnányi's ability to sight-read from full orchestral score was legendary, as were his capacity to improvise and transpose instantly from one key to another. He also had a phenomenal memory, and his pupils tell of him being able to sit down and play works he had not touched for years. Perhaps he relied too much on these gifts, but what gifts to possess! They place him squarely in the tradition of Franz Liszt, who possessed them in even greater measure.³ It is perhaps not generally known that when Liszt became the first Director of the newly established Royal Hungarian Academy of Music, in 1875, he was able to set up the first curriculum. He insisted that all composers take piano lessons, and all pianists take composition lessons. The entrance exams contained tests in sight reading, sight singing, memory-work and improvisation. Those students who failed were shown the door. This was the environment in which the young Dohnányi flourished.
It was the One-ness of music that mattered to him, not its separate parts. For the rest, time turns everything into treasure. Dohnányi's piano-playing is often described as historical, typical of its time and place. But that, too, is misleading. What is historical about his playing is not there because it is historical.
Dohnányi's master-class at this time included Annie Fischer, Andor Földes, Edward Kilenyi, Endre Petri and Péter Solymos. That he was absorbed in the well-being of his gifted young charges goes without saying. Dohnányi does not appear to have been interested in teaching technique. Because he himself had few technical problems, he either did not understand, or did not really care, that other people had them. What he taught was interpretation, passing on the great traditions of the past, and in this field he had few peers. He would often teach by direct example, and sit down at the keyboard to show the pupil how the work in question ought to be played. His fingerings were always revelatory, and his "Essential Finger Exercises" for pianists (meant to save time with a short "workout" at the beginning of each practice session) are widely used and have become legendary.⁴ It was Dohnányi who organized the first Franz Liszt International Piano Competition in 1933, which has meanwhile become part of the national pride. There have been eleven such competitions since then. As everyone knows, the first one was won by the eighteen-year-old Annie Fischer.
It is an indication of his curiosity in the mechanics of piano playing that Dohnányi had the firm of Bösendorfer make two experimental pianos for him, with semi-circular keyboards. One he kept in his studio at the Academy; the other he kept at home. He practised on them for about two years during the early 'thirties. The practical advantage of such an unusual piano is that no matter where the fingers are placed on the keyboard the distance between the shoulder and the hand always remains the same. The arms naturally describe an arc, so why not match them to a circular keyboard? Dohnányi abandoned this piano when he had to play a Mozart concerto in public on a normal keyboard, and found that he could not adjust to it in time.

VII

In 1941 Dohnányi's world started to collapse around him. In that year Hungary signed a treaty with Germany, and the country was officially aligned with the Nazis. Hungary was now compelled to implement the racial laws that had been introduced into Hitler's Germany years earlier. Dohnányi was ordered to fire two of his colleagues at the Music Academy, Ervin Major and György Faragó, because of their Jewish origins. He refused to do it. Then came the forced dismissals. Leó Weiner and György Kósa were obliged to retire, simply because they were Jews. Dohnányi saw the writing on the wall and he resigned his position. The statistics speak for themselves. In 1940 there were 85 Jewish students at the Academy; in 1942 there were 59; in 1943 there were 32; and in 1944 there were 25. The Nazis occupied Hungary on March 19, 1944 and Jews were expunged from the Academy altogether. Not a single Jewish student or faculty member remained in the building. By then Dohnányi had been away from his post for all practical purposes for three years (he was officially replaced by Ede Zathureczky in 1943), a fact of which we should take careful note in light of what was about to happen. The two months that followed must have been a nightmare for Dohnányi. During the spring of 1944 the Nazis insisted that he get rid of all the Jewish players in the Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra. He refused to carry out the order, putting himself at risk. The Nazis then gave him an ultimatum: carry out the order, or face the consequences. Dohnányi gave them his reply on May 11, 1944, by disbanding the entire orchestra. The Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra no longer existed. This would have created grave difficulties for the Gentiles in the orchestra, let alone the Jews, and may well have been the starting-point for some of Dohnányi's problems later on. Dohnányi was now without any official position whatsoever in Hungary. He himself had cut the links that bound him to the politics of his country, politics that he abhorred.
Personal tragedy now followed. He learned about this time that his son Matthew, a Captain in the Hungarian Army, had been captured by the Russians and had been marched to his death in a POW camp while suffering from typhoid fever. Not long afterwards Dohnányi learned that his other son, Hans, had been hanged by the Nazis for his involvement in a coup against Hitler. The case of Hans is particularly poignant. He had remained behind in Germany, we recall, after Dohnányi's first marriage was dissolved. He had become a brilliant jurist in Germany, who had gained the trust of the Nazi party. Unknown to them, how-ever, he slowly and methodically built up a dossier against the German Fascists, including Adolf Hitler, which provided evidence of their crimes against humanity. It was uncovered by the Gestapo when the assassination plot against Hitler on July 20, 1944 failed and the conspirators were rounded up. Hans was undoubtedly tortured before his execution-all such prisoners routinely were-and Dohnányi himself would have been acutely aware of that fact.
By now Dohnányi's despair was complete and he decided to leave Hungary, to leave the country where he had enjoyed his greatest fame. The Russian army was already advancing across the Hungarian Plain from the east, and the German gun emplacements on the hills to the west of the city gave the German artillery commanding views of the countryside for miles around-and of the advancing Russian army. The siege of Budapest was soon to begin, and Dohnányi must have sensed the impending catastrophe. Not long afterwards the Russians and the Germans began blowing Budapest to pieces, destroying more than half the city in the process, while the citizens shivered in the cellars beneath, subjected to a siege of 80 days, in which many of them died of starvation. Dohnányi is often said to have escaped on the last Nazi train out of the city-that is how his enemies later liked to describe it: "the last Nazi train". The truth was more mundane. He left in the back of a truck with two German soldiers who had been billetted in his house, were well-disposed towards him, and had warned him to get out of the city. It was in this unlikely mode of transport that Dohnányi left Hungary on November 24, 1944, never to return. His abrupt departure was later deemed to be controversial, even "unpatriotic", although it is difficult to see why.⁶ Accompanying him was a much younger lady Ilona Zachár (who later became his third wife) together with her two children by her previous marriage, and her servant known simply as "Fräulein."⁷ His marriage to Elsa Galafrés was by now dead in everything but name. The small party went first to Vienna, but soon left the city for the relatively calm surroundings of Upper Austria, in the village of Neukirchen-am-Walde, and it was here that fate allowed Dohnányi to spend a few brief months, before delivering a final blow. On October 1, 1945, the BBC World Service broadcast a news bulletin in its Hungarian Language Service in which Dohnányi was accused of handing over artists to the Gestapo. Dohnányi was horrified by this broadcast, coming as it did from an organization he admired above all others. Two days later he wrote a letter of protest to the BBC which, to the best of my knowledge, remains unknown. He sent it to his old friend Sir Adrian Boult, the Chief Conductor of the BBC Symphony Orchestra, in London, with whom he had often worked in the past, and to whom he now turned for help. It bears the postmark:

Neukirchen-am-Walde
Ober-Oesterreich
3rd October 1945

Dear Mr. Boult:
I have sent a letter to the BBC as follows:

To the Direction of the BBC. Programme-Department, London
Dear Sirs,
In your Hungarian broadcasting [sic] on the morning of October 1st-as I was told by several people-the speaker mentioned my name in connection with war criminals, saying that I "delivered Hungarian artists to the Gestapo". I do not know from where such information came (surely not from any official place) but I have to declare it a calumny and a complete lie. I never had anything to do either with the Gestapo or with any similar organization. I never belonged to any political party, and nobody can prove that I ever committed an incorrect or unliberal action against anybody. My only fault was-it is strange enough that it should be a fault-that as a member of the Hungarian House of Lords, I signed (like other members of the House who were good patriots) the foundation of the "Nemzeti Szövetség" (National Association) which was directed against Russia. I leave it to your kindness and your sense of what is right, to investigate this matter and to do me justice. I remain, Gentlemen,

Yours faithfully,
E.v.D.⁸

With this letter, Dohnányi enclosed another one, addressed to Adrian Boult himself.

Dear Mr. Boult, I send you the copy of the letter asking you to look after this awkward matter which bothers me because it puts me in a false light. I would be awfully
grateful to you if you could do something in my favour. A few weeks ago, I sent you
a letter through an American soldier [Edward Kilenyi]; I do not know whether you
received it or not. In this letter I asked you to give me some information about
my friends in England, as I have not heard anything from them since this terrible war started. Especially I should like to know whether my dear friends Mrs. Oliverson and Miss Schubert are alive.⁹ If it is possible, I would be very grateful for a few lines.

With many hearty greetings,
Yours very sincerely,
Signed: Ernst von Dohnányi.

In those days, the BBC's World Service was omnipotent, its reputation for accuracy impeccable. It was like the voice of God. It broadcast the news across the planet in more than fifty languages for twenty-four hours a day, and its record for unbiased reporting, especially during the difficult days of the War, had given it millions of followers in Central and Eastern Europe. Dohnányi was right to be concerned.
Sir Adrian Boult's reply was very formal. In fact it does not appear to have been written by him at all. The political situation after the war was considered to be so delicate that officials at the BBC probably prepared the text of a letter for Boult to sign. At any rate it is very formal in tone, and lacks the friendliness that had marked Boult's relations with Dohnányi so far. The BBC evidently thought that Dohnányi was already under investigation.

VIII

How could such a situation have arisen? From everything that we know of his life and work, it is astounding that Dohnányi could ever have been described as a "war criminal" who elivered artists to the Gestapo". Nothing is simpler to explain, however. Once the Russians had routed the German army and seized control in Hungary they quickly put their own political puppets into power. These Communists lost no time in starting a witch-hunt, labelling as "Fascist" anyone who had been prominent in public life and might prove to be a threat to them in their desperate attempts to gain control of the country. That they used the War Crimes Commission for their own purposes almost goes without saying. It was enough to point the finger for the witch-hunt to start. And Dohnányi's "crime"? Far from being "pro-Nazi" he was "anti-Russian." As he points out in his letter, as a member of the Hungarian House of Lords, he and scores of other delegates had signed as good Hungarian citizens a declaration against Russia, and it was now the turn of Russia to see that these people were punished. Lies were the order of the day, and they created many innocent victims. It may be difficult for us to put this into historical perspective, but we must try. In 1945 Europe was in turmoil, with millions of displaced persons wandering all over the map. Russia was an ally of the West, the Cold War had not yet begun. There was no Iron Curtain, there was no Berlin Wall. Anyone who was "anti-Russian" was almost by definition "pro-Nazi". Within a couple of years, of course, all that was to change; we in the West were all to become "anti-Russian", and spend untold billions of dollars protecting ourselves against the Soviet threat; but that lay in the future. For the time being Dohnányi had signed a formal declaration against one of our Allies. But what of the other charge, that he had handed over artists to the Gestapo? It was clearly intended to make him appear to be anti-Semitic. That accusation is even more grotesque if Dohnányi's lifelong support of Jewish artists is examined. The story seems to have been put about by a small group of disaffected and second-rate musicians in Hungary who felt that their careers had gone nowhere because Dohnányi had blocked them. Perhaps that had indeed happened, but it was based on their musical incompetence, not on their ethnic origins.
Even today it is not uncommon to hear it said that Dohnányi was a War Criminal, and that his conduct was reviewed by a court of inquiry set up by the Allies-both of which statements are totally false. Unlike Richard Strauss and Wilhelm Fürtwangler, there was no formal inquiry whatsoever into Dohnányi's alleged collaboration with the Nazis, for the simple reason that there was no case to answer. There was nothing. Just rumours. His American pupil Edward Kilenyi, who had studied with Dohnányi before the war, had meanwhile become an officer in the American army and was stationed in Bavaria immediately after the conflict, first as an intelligence officer and later as the director in charge of musical culture throughout the American occupied zone. It was Kilenyi who led the way in trying to get Dohnányi cleared of the perception of wrong-doing. He petitioned Otto de Pasetti, the American Music and Theatre Officer for Austria, to allow Dohnányi to pursue a concert career in Austria and Germany, but was turned down with the chilling words: "Ernst von Dohnányi's rehabilitation cannot be considered ...because of his anti-Russian tendencies." Not long afterwards Hungary fell completely under Russian domination, and was run in the main by left-wing thugs who were often no better than war criminals themselves, since they became responsible for countless deaths of their own countrymen, culminating in the bloody reprisals of 1956. Dohnányi's left-wing enemies tried to have him extradited, but in that they failed. Since the Communists retained their grip on Hungary for forty years, Dohnányi became persona non grata in his native land. In the 50s and 60s Dohnányi did not for them exist. His name was officially expunged from the records. It was not until Bálint Vázsonyi, his first biographer, received permission from the Kádár government in Hungary to publish his ground-breaking biography of Dohnányi in Hungarian that the tide started to turn. Dr. Vázsonyi's quest took him to the office of György Aczél, the Deputy Secretary General of the Central Committee of the Communist Party, the second most powerful political position in Hungary. That was in 1967, and it exposed Vázsonyi to some personal risk since he himself had left Hungary illegally in 1957. Since there were still some Hungarian musicologist party hacks, who tried to close down the project, an appeal was made to János Kádár, who opened it up again. The book was finally published in 1971.¹¹ Hungary woke up to the fact that the major genius who had lived among them for fifty years could now be acknowledged. A new generation of scholars emerged who began the serious study of Dohnányi's works, some of whom are in my audience tonight. Dohnányi's music was now played with increasing frequency, both on the state-controlled radio and in the concert halls. In 1982 a street was named in Dohnányi's honour. Again, the initial idea of this tribute came from Vázsonyi, although we cannot hold him responsible for the street that was actually chosen. He would doubtless have preferred a more imposing thoroughfare like Király utca, which runs past the side entrance of the Music Academy building. In the event, the authorities settled for the modest alley running along the back, which leads into Liszt Ferenc Square. But that is not a bad location. And it is a timely reminder to the Academy's many visitors of the man who dominated this institution for so many years. The state itself finally acknowledged its great musical son when it posthumously bestowed on him the prestigious Kossuth Prize, the highest artistic honour that Hungary can bestow on a private citizen.

1. Oral communication from Dr. Bálint Vázsonyi, Dohnányi's Hungarian biographer. November 18, 2001, Washington D.C.
3. Dohnányi greatly admired his English friend Donald Francis Tovey (1875-1940), one of the greatest all-round musicians of his time. He particularly respected Tovey's ability to play anything from memory. When he heard that Tovey could play any Bach cantata on demand, without the score, Dohnányi was supposed to have remarked: "Impressive, but not particularly useful"!
4. Its full title is A legfontosabb ujjgyakorlatok biztos technika elsajátítására a zongorán (Essential Finger Exercises for Obtaining a Sure Piano Technique, Budapest, 1929). The piano aficionado cannot afford to overlook these Exercises, and Dohnányi's Preface, with its absorbing ideas on how to practice, will give him a bonus.
6. Just as Dohnányi was criticized for leaving his native country in time of war, Richard Strauss and Wilhelm Furtwängler were criticized for not leaving theirs. There is no logic in such matters. As the old Jewish proverb has it: "If you want to beat a dog, you are sure to find a stick."
7. By the time of their departure from Budapest, Dohnányi and Ilona Zachár (1909-1984) appear to have been lovers for at least four years. Two unpublished love-songs have recently come to light in Tallahassee, which bear the date 1940. Their titles are "Az én édes, drága, egyetlen Icukámnak" (To my sweet, dear, my one and only Icuka) [signed] Ernő; and "Az én drága, egyetlen Szivecskémnek-Icuska verse, Ernő zenéje" (To my dear, my one and only Darling) [signed:]-Text by Icuska; music by Ernő. This second song also provides the intriguing background: "April 8-9, 1940, 3:00 am., Gellért Hotel."
As for "Fräulein", she lived as part of the family, doing most of the domestic chores and preparing the meals. No one was ever sure of her actual name. When I asked Dohnányi's grandson Dr. Sean McGlynn about her, he told me that he and his sister grew up with her from their earliest childhood, but never addressed her by any other name than "Fräulein". Her real name, in fact, was Hermine Lorenz, and after the death of Ilona Dohnányi, she moved out to Baton Rouge with Ilona's daughter, still in domestic service.
8. Hitherto unpublished. Originals in English. Copies of this correspondence are housed in the Ernest Newman Papers, Lila Acheson Wallace Library, The Juilliard School, New York.
9. Mrs. Margaret Clara Oliverson (1850-1941) and Miss Carolina Geisler-Schubert (1856-1951) were lifelong companions who lived together in a large house in the St. John's Wood district of London. Dohnányi usually stayed with them as their house-guest whenever he was in London. Mrs. Oliverson was a wealthy American divorcée who acquired her money from her former husband at the time of their separation. Ms. Geisler-Schubert was the great niece of Franz Schubert and in earlier years she had studied the piano with Clara Schumann at Frankfurt-am-Main.
11. Vázsonyi: Dohnányi Ernő, Budapest 1971.