Edward Alexander

Béla Bartók-A Memoir

 

When Béla Bartók arrived in the United States in 1940, he was following in the footsteps of many famous self-exiled Europeans fleeing the Nazi invasion of their countries. While most of them were writers, scholars, academics and intellectuals of every variety, many were famous musicians, and Bartók soon found himself in the same artistic milieu as other famous composers of our time.
That, however, was short-lived because most of them moved on to teaching positions at universities in different parts of the United States - for instance, Paul Hindemith to Yale and Arnold Schoenberg to the University of Southern California. But most of the exiles aggregated in Los Angeles, which became a colony of European intellectuals, among them Thomas Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Aldous Huxley and Igor Stravinsky. Bartók chose to remain in New York and his presence in the city was quickly given recognition in various ways.
Shortly after his arrival - accompanied by his wife, the pianist Ditta Pásztory, and their son Péter, his first son Béla, Jr. remaining in Hungary - the League of Composers organised a programme in his honour in April at the Museum of Modern Art, and in October Bartók and Pásztory performed together at Town Hall in a two-piano recital. Then in November Columbia University conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Music and gave him a commission to transcribe a huge collection of Yugoslav folk music, much as he had already done with Zoltán Kodály when researching Hungarian, Romanian and Turkish folk music. Because of his dire financial need, Bartók was particularly grateful for the research post, especially since his music was still not being sufficiently performed to earn him royalties.
This underwent a radical change when the eminent conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Serge Koussevitzky, at the instigation of Joseph Szigeti, commissioned Bartók to write a major work for orchestra that became the Concerto for Orchestra, which was given its world premier in 1944 with enormous success.
This commission was not, however, the very first expression of American largesse. A few years earlier, while he was still in Europe, the Coolidge Foundation had commissioned his Fifth String Quartet, and shortly thereafter, a rather surprising commission had come from the swing music bandleader Benny Goodman - again at Szigeti's urging - which resulted in 1938 in Contrasts for clarinet, violin and piano, with Goodman and Szigeti in performance.
Although he was not as yet known worldwide, Bartók's strong political stance in the 1930s had attracted international attention when he had refused to perform or have his music played in Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. In consequence, commissions came to him from, among others, Paul Sacher, the eminent Swiss conductor, which in 1937 produced the Music for Strings, Celesta and Percussion (used by Stanley Kubrick in his suspenseful film The Shining), and the Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion, both critically hailed wherever performed as masterpieces.

In that same year of 1941, I was completing my studies at Columbia in musicology and had enrolled in a seminar called "Twentieth Century Music," which was a detailed examination of the musical accomplishments of the major contemporary composers. Our professor, Douglas Moore, himself a composer, devoted each session to the work of one prominent artist encompassing his biographical background, the musical influences on him, and the theories which he pursued in his music, following which Moore would illustrate each composer's style with recordings. These weekly sessions had focused on Stravinsky, Shostakovitch, Prokofiev, Schoenberg, Copland, Britten and Strauss, when one day at the end of a lecture, Professor Moore said, "Next week, I shall depart from our normal format and will have a surprise for you. Until now, it has been I doing the talking, but next time, it will be the composer himself. I have invited Béla Bartók, who as some of you may have heard is working here on our campus. I know you will be as thrilled as I."
There was a huge vocal reaction from all of us in the class, for while the wider public may still have been unfamiliar with the Hungarian composer, we were not. The anticipation was great the following week when we assembled and held our collective breath. Word had spread in the music departments of Columbia and Barnard colleges so that the normal attendance of 25 or so students had multiplied three-fold.
The door opened, and Professor Moore entered leading the conservatively dressed, white-haired composer, who seemed tense and absorbed. We all recognized him*, of course, and Moore's introduction was merely a courteous formality. Moore joined us in our seats as Bartók fussed nervously with small bits of paper, then slowly looked up. In fact, throughout the next two hours he never made eye-contact with any of the students. His eyes were either averted from our gaze or transfixed to some point beyond, which gave his distinctive countenance the aura of preoccupation with other worlds.
When he began to speak, his voice was so soft that we all leaned forward to better hear him. His English, while understandably halting, was quite articulate as he thanked Professor Moore for the invitation to discuss and explain his music. He informed us that this was his second visit to the United States, the first having been in 1927 when he had performed with the New York Philharmonic under Willem Mengelberg. The following year he had performed again, this time with Szigeti. He spoke of his early education at the Royal Academy of Music in Budapest, of his friendship with Zoltán Kodály and their joint studies of Central European folk music in the 1900s.
He then sat at the piano to illustrate how these studies had influenced his early piano works, emphasizing that while Kodály's musical language was based almost exclusively on Hungarian folk music, his sought inspiration in the wider field of East Europe. As examples, he performed several of his own piano pieces based on Romanian songs, and followed up with several piano works by Kodály, as well as an excerpt from Háry János transcribed for piano.
While Bartók never disparaged the newest and most revolutionary approach to music in two hundred years, namely atonality, nor Schoenberg, its creator and foremost practitioner, he emphasized his own adherence to the diatonic scale. He revealed a fascination with Stravinsky, suggesting at the same time that the Russian seemed intrigued by the new school and possibly contemplating it. Music, Bartók told us, is filled with huge potential but no amount of experimentalism can ever exclude the classical use of the scale. As an example, he played the one recording of the session, excerpts from his Fourth String Quartet, a remarkable exploration of radical sounds and rhythm as performed by just four string instruments.
Almost the first hour had gone by and more students, and faculty, quietly crept into the classroom. No one wanted it to end, even as the distinguished composer continued to speak from what looked like bits and pieces of paper he occasionally consulted. He held his rapt audience completely in thrall.
In the second hour Bartók, making slight reference to his six string quartets, addressed his own approach to the composing of his larger works, emphasizing that it was in the larger formats that he drew heavily on the influence of Hungarian intonations, modes and rhythms. He spoke at length about his various orchestral works, his two piano concertos (the third was still being composed), his ballets and operas. And then he became very personal, as he approached the finale which was to be the pičce de resistance of the lecture.
Bartók informed us that when his son Péter was born, it was the intention of both parents that he become a musician. Towards that end, when Péter became of age, his father began the boy's musical education by composing a series of very simple pieces which were actually a piano method - each piece progressively more difficult, so that when completed, they would be a kind of A to Z of piano music. Bartók told us that that is what he finally accomplished, completing 153 pieces in all, giving them the title Mikrokosmos. The final piece, as many of us knew, was a devilishly difficult study called Allegro Barbaro, and Bartók said he would like to perform it for us. We all looked at each other in disbelief in anticipation of the rare event, and what ensued was both an aural and visual image that to this day lingers in my memory.
Bartók strode to the piano, without the music, of course, hesitated a few seconds, and then began an attack on the classroom Steinway that no one who was present can forget. His hands flew on the keyboard as the heavily-weighted rhythms and accented chords made the floor tremble, and as the piece approached its conclusion, Bartók lowered his head, turned it sideways, his right ear almost touching the keys, and pounded out the final barrage of sound that reverberated on the walls and windows. When the final chord had died, there was a brief moment of silence, then all pandemonium broke loose as we rose to our feet, clapped and cheered in a thunderous ovation - for the stunning music, the bravura performance, and Béla Bartók.
Seemingly indifferent to our enthusiastic response, Bartók arose from the piano, bowed stiffly, nodded to the also applauding Professor Moore and walked briskly out of the classroom. My fellow classmates all began to engage in animated conversation about this unique experience, but I felt an enormous urge to personally communicate with the composer. I wanted to ask him about Contrasts.
As he walked down the corridor I caught up with him.
"Excuse me, Mr. Bartók, may I please speak with you?"
He turned to me and for the first time I looked directly into a pair of eyes I can only describe as piercing.
"Yes," he said quietly.
I am pleased that I asked my question because after sixty years, I still find his reply revelatory.
"Your entire body of work is so deeply classical, so European, so profound. Can you tell me how you could accept a commission to compose something for a popular musician like Benny Goodman?"
Far from being amused, irritated or condescending, Bartók continued his serious mien, leaned close, seized my arm and said with great conviction:
"Because jazz is America's most important contribution to music," turned on his heel and walked into Professor Moore's office.

In December of that year the attack on Pearl Harbor catapulted the United States (and me) into World War II and during that period Bartók received his Boston commission to compose the Concerto for Orchestra, which brought him further renown but little financial reward. In 1945, I was working in Bad Nauheim in Military Intelligence de-nazifying German officials, when I heard on September 26 that Bartók had died of leukemia. He had been hospitalized for almost a year, the radio report said, in WestSide Hospital in New York. It wasn't until I was discharged and returned home that I learned of his continuing financial problems and that the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers had paid his medical bills. I also learned that he had become an American citizen.

Twenty years later, when I was posted to the American Embassy in Budapest, I was to have two more echoes of my brief experience with Bartók. The first was in 1967, at the funeral of Kodály. I had known that Béla, Jr. had stayed in Hungary the entire time, and that he was an engineer, but I had never met him. At the funeral, as Hungarian friends like Iván Boldizsár and Gyula Illyés pointed out the many prominent personalities attending, I saw someone whose face looked remarkably familiar but whom I did not know. "That is Béla Bartók, Jr.," my friends told me. He was the image of his illustrious father.
The second echo was even more startling when I discovered that Ditta Pásztory was not only still alive but also living in Budapest. Determined to meet her, I cabled Washington and asked that the most recent recording of anything by Bartók be sent me. Soon thereafter, I received the Juilliard String Quartet's newly-issued recording of all six string quartets. I found her phone number and with great anticipation called and, explaining that I was the American Cultural Officer, asked when I might visit her. When the date and time were agreed upon, I drove to her apartment, rang the bell and was admitted by a gentleman who said he was Mrs. Pásztory's lawyer. I walked into a large dimly-lit room packed with innumerable Bartók memorabilia and two grand pianos. Standing before me was a wisp of a woman, stooped and unsmiling. We shook hands and I presented the Juilliard album to her which she accepted with a whispered "Thank you" in English. She then retired to a chair in a corner of the cluttered room and remained silent during the brief time I spent there.
The lawyer, a very friendly gentleman, said that when she had received my call, the fear had arisen in her that I might raise legal problems concerning royalties and the future of a Bartók Archive that was created in New York. "She called me to protect her interests," he said, "but I see there is no such problem." As he escorted me to the door, he whispered that she was not well and to excuse her demeanor. I left depressed by the experience.
In 1970, one final experience in my memories of Bartók took place when the Department of State asked me to represent the United States Government at a ceremony to be held at Bartók's grave in Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York, commemorating the 25th anniversary of his death. In the company of United Nations officials and Hungarian dignitaries, we all paid tribute to this artistic giant whose innovative body of music continues to astonish, inspire and move us.
In 1988, Béla, Jr. had his father's remains moved and interred in Budapest.

It has become almost an axiom that for some creators of great art, fame comes only after death. This has certainly been true in Bartók's case whereby the works he composed largely in the last ten years of his life, works which represented the epitome of his creative powers, have become virtual standards in the repertoire of major orchestras and chamber groups. Recognition may have come late but today Béla Bartók's name graces the pages of music programmes throughout the world.
As for his legacy and his place in history, the music-loving public of the United States has long entertained the belief that the three B's of music should be augmented by a fourth, namely, Bach, Beethoven, Brahms - and Bartók: a Hungarian to the core, but an artist for all mankind.

Edward Alexander
was First Secretary for Press & Culture in the American Embassy in Budapest (1965-69). After retiring from the Diplomatic Service in 1980, he served on the Human Rights Delegation to International Conferences. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, he became an Advisor to the State Department and the Armenian Embassy in Washington concerning developments in the Caucasus. He is the author of three books: The Serpent and the Bees, chronicling his experiences with the KGB; A Crime of Vengeance, describing a 1921 murder trial in Berlin related to the Turkish genocide of the Armenians; and Opus, a novel set in Budapest in the 1960s involving the joint search by the American and Soviet Cultural Attachés for a stolen Beethoven manuscript.