Béla Bartók

Bartók was born on 25th March, 1881 in an area which, following the terms of the Treaty of Trianon of 1920, is now in Romania. His father, the director of a school of agriculture, was a keen and gifted amateur pianist, cellist and composer. He died when Béla was seven; as a result, the chief intellectual and musical influence on the boy came from his mother, who, after her husband’s death, taught piano. Béla suffered many bouts of ill-health in his childhood and adolescence; at one time it was feared that he would not live.

Bartók was a professional musicologist as well as an eminent composer and virtuoso pianist. He and Kodály (born 1882) became intensely interested in the rhythms and scales of the peasant music of Hungary and surrounding countries. As they moved from village to village, using wax cylinders, they recorded, then analyzed and classified, thousands of songs and dances, which they found to be essentially different from the folk music of Western Europe.   Many were later published, together with rhythmic, scalar and harmonic analysis. As a result, much of Bartók’s music is based on the elements of the indigenous music of the region.

Bartók was never wealthy; at times, particularly in his later years, the future for him and his family was uncertain. As a result, much of his output was dependent on commissions. He wrote concertos for piano as well as violin, but no symphonies. His six string quartets are considered by some to be a logical sequel to Beethoven’s late quartets. His music is intense and concentrated; padding of any kind is absent. His works create an impression of uncompromising integrity and sincerity, which seem to reflect the man himself. This impression is reinforced by anecdotes and extracts from his letters as well as by personal photographs displayed in various biographies. He detested the Nazi-oriented government, which had allied Hungary to Hitler’s Germany. In disgust, he left Hungary for America in 1940, expecting to return in more liberal times. An extract from his will, quoted by Halsey Stevens in The Life and Music of Béla Bartók (1938), reveals much about his character and attitudes: “My burial is to be the simplest possible. If after my death they want to name a street after me, or to erect a memorial tablet to me in a public place, then my desire is this: as long as what were formerly Octogon-tér and Körönd in Budapest are named after those men for whom they are at present named (i.e., Hitler and Mussolini), and further, as long as there is in Hungary any square or street, or is to be, named for these two men, then neither square nor street nor public building in Hungary is to be named for me, and no memorial tablet is to be erected in a public place”.

In New York, apart from some sections of the music community, he was almost unknown and unrecognized. In addition, he fell ill with cancer. He was materially but discreetly helped by commissions from Koussevitzky and Yehudi Menuhin.

As a way of coming to terms with the complex and often challenging music of Bartók it may be useful to examine characteristics of three of his best-known works; the first in some detail, the other two much more briefly.

Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, from 1936, was commissioned by Paul Sacher for the Basle Chamber Orchestra. The placing of the players is important. For the creation of the required stereophonic effect, there are two self-complete string ensembles, separated by two diverse groups of percussion players, consisting of timpani, tambourine, pianoforte, bass drum, cymbals and xylophone. These latter produce a startlingly diverse range of tone-colours, some mysterious and some sheerly magical.

Rhythm and meter are of great interest. The function of bar lines is to indicate phrasing, rather than rigorous metrical division. Time signatures change constantly; they include five, seven and ten quavers per bar, as well as eight, nine and twelve. The result is a pattern of phrasing which, in its freedom and flexibility, is closer to Gregorian chant and Medieval and Renaissance compositions than to the standard repertoire from Bach to Shostakovich and beyond. The work displays supreme balance and poise in a context of extraordinary ingenuity.

There are four highly individualistic movements. The first is an elaborated fugue. The subject is a semi-chromatic theme in four sub-phrases. It has an organic wholeness, rising to and retreating from a point of climax. Each entry of the total subject has a logical pitch relationship with its predecessor. At the same time, each of the sub-phrases has its own climactic point, approached and followed by ascending and descending passages. The whole subject reveals symmetry within a larger symmetry. The apogee of the movement occurs about three fifths of the way through the whole movement, at a point which defines the ideal proportions of the Classical Golden Section. Here, Bartók inverts the subject of the fugue, creating a mirror image, such that melodic intervals which were rising now fall by the same degree. Thus, symmetry within symmetry is reinforced. Near the movement’s end, parts of the original fugue subject are played directly against their inversion. In the final three bars the theme’s last sub-phrase, pitted against its inversion, resolves on the pitch with which the movement began.

The second movement is notable for its vigour and brilliantly inventive orchestral effects. It begins with plucked glissando, followed by rushing antiphonal unison passages for the string ensembles. Fragments of theme tossed between string sections, combined with sharply etched syncopation and chromatic runs, create an electric and exhilarating sound. After a frenetic climax, harp, piano and other percussion assume a virtuosic role. The writing for timpani is particularly interesting, in that glissando passages are called for, requiring the on-going use of the tuning pedal. The latter part of the movement reveals a seemingly inexhaustible range of devices, including powerful syncopation, frequent changes of time-signature and pizzicato passages in contrary motion. A fugue-like passage leads to a great climax and the beginning of a triumphant final section. Near the end, a moment of serenity precedes a coda of astounding power, brilliance and complexity.

The third movement is even more remarkable. A repeated high note for solo xylophone, glissandi passages for timpani and sequential string entries comprise a mysterious introduction. Five segments follow; the third, powerful and intense, is the keystone of this arch structure. Each is preceded by a short phrase from the fugue theme of the first movement, such that by the fifth segment, the whole theme has been heard. The content of each segment displays an astonishing range of instrumental combinations and techniques. These include rapid glissandi for timpani and violins, very high passages for two solo violins, virtuoso writing for celesta, harp and piano and stopped and natural harmonics for strings. The movement ends quietly and mysteriously, with subdued phrases for strings, glissando trills for timpani, and a recall of the repeated high note from the beginning of the movement, for solo xylophone.

The last movement opens dramatically with two timpani strokes. These are followed by a syncopated Bulgarian melody, accompanied by a restless, thrusting rhythm, interspersed with forceful timpani notes and rapid interaction between the string sections. A spirit of great excitement is created. The piano becomes increasingly prominent; the sense of urgency intensifies. A wildly accelerating honky-tonk passage for piano and xylophone (semitones struck together in sequence) evolves into a noble, singing melody for lower strings, with piano descant, gradually taken up canonically by the higher strings, rising and falling like the waves of the ocean. This is, in fact, an opened-out version of the fugue theme of the first movement, closer to a major rather than minor mode; it emerges as a powerful unifying element and a triumphant summing up of the whole work. The coda begins with a mysterious solo for cello, followed by a sudden rush of strings, a calm passage for celesta and harp and a sudden, dramatic accelerando with an audacious tongue-in-cheek jazzy passage. The conclusion is triumphant and exhilarating.

The Concerto for Orchestra comes from Bartók’s last years. There are five movements. The Introduction opens mysteriously, then evolves into a dazzlingly original and inventive display of the many facets of the orchestral families. The second movement, in ternary form, juxtaposes pairs of solo instruments. A hymn-like theme, presented by horns, with side-drum accompaniment, constitutes one of many memorable passages. The third movement, an example of the composer’s “Night Music”, commences mysteriously with muted strings and solo woodwind instruments, but becomes intensely dramatic. The delicately coloured opening of the fourth movement, Intermezzo Interrotta, evolves abruptly into a satirical, strident burlesque, then just as unexpectedly returns to the serene spirit of the opening. The whole work culminates in an extraordinarily brilliant, energetic and complex Finale, which reaches remarkable heights of emotional intensity. The middle part of the movement is distinguished by a complex and brilliantly orchestrated fugue. The Coda which follows is of overwhelming orchestral colour and force. Composed when the cancer afflicting the composer was in remission, the piece speaks eloquently of Bartók’s courage, determination and integrity of purpose.

Bartók’s last string quartet, the Sixth, comes from 1939. Much of its musical language is rooted in Magyar rhythms and scales; consequently, the work, like many others of his compositions is essentially different from most Western European music. It is both passionate and rhapsodic. Its scale patterns are often closer to medieval ecclesiastical modes than to the familiar major and minor scales of more recent eras. Each of the four movements is introduced by an evolving version of a strangely haunting theme marked Mesto (“sad” or “mournful”).

In the first movement, brief and greatly contrasting melodic and rhythmic figures merge one into another, resulting in a sense of seamless continuity. After a richly elaborated statement of the introductory theme, the second movement, Marcia, displays powerful dotted rhythms, succeeded by a wildly rhapsodic episode, evocative of the spirit of Gypsy music. The jagged rhythms return. Much of the third movement, marked Burletta (a “jest” or “farce”) is derived from a bear dance. It has broken rhythms of greatly varying speeds and much pizzicato. A brief, lyrical middle part is succeeded by a modified return of the broken rhythms and a suggestion of the Mesto motif. The fourth movement is marked, simply, Mesto. It is dark, subdued, and deeply moving; it is imbued with the spirit of the Mesto motif. Despite the mood of desolation at the end of the movement there is, nevertheless, a sense of resolution and restrained hope.

It is hoped that these notes, concerning three of Bartók’s voluminous and multi-faceted output, will provide some insight into the compositional techniques and inward characteristics of this eminent Hungarian composer, who lived through one of the most turbulent periods in the history of modern Europe.

Peter Larsen