Bartok's Viola Concerto: The Remarkable Story of His Swansong (Studies in Musical Genesis and Structure)

Bartók’s Viola Concerto:

The Remarkable Story

of His Swansong

DONALD MAURICE

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

Bartók’s Viola Concerto

studies in musical genesis and structure Debussy’s ‘Iberia’ Matthew Brown Mendelssohn’s ‘Italian’ Symphony John Michael Cooper Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony Alain Frogley Mahler’s Fourth Symphony James L. Zychowicz Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E, Op.  Nicholas Marston Webern and the Lyric Impulse Anne C. Shreffler Wagner’s Das Rheingold Warren Darcy Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata’ Sonata Martha Frohlich Richard Strauss’s Elektra Bryan Gilliam Euryanthe and Carl Maria Von Weber’s Dramaturgy of German Opera Michael C. Tusa Robert Schumann and the Study of Orchestral Composition: The Genesis of the First Symphony, Op 38 Jon W. Finson Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations William Kinderman Anna Bolena and the Artistic Maturity of Gaetano Donizetti Philip Gossett

Donald

Maurice

Bartók’s Viola Concerto

The Remarkable Story of His Swansong

1

2004

1

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Maurice, Donald.

Bartók’s viola concerto : the remarkable story of his swansong / Donald Maurice.

p. cm. — (Studies in musical genesis and structure) Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. ISBN 0-19-515690-0 1. Bartók, Béla, 1881–1945. Concertos, viola, orchestra. I. Title. II. Series.

MT130.B34 M28 2004

784.2'73—dc22 2003026914

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

Dedicated to Rupa for her love and patience

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acknowledgments

The gathering and preparation of the material in this book has spanned over twenty years and includes many interviews (formal and informal) in Europe, North America, and Australasia, extensive correspondence, examination of hundreds of documents, a survey of relevant literature, and a detailed examination of copies of the original manuscripts of the Piano Concerto No.  and the Violin Concerto No. 2 (both at the Budapest Bartók Archives) and the Viola Concerto (facsimile edition). Specific acknowledgment must be made of the groundbreaking work of Tibor Serly (preparation of the first edition), David Dalton (interviews with Tibor Serly and William Primrose), Atar Arad (early attempts to rectify discrepancies), Peter Bartók (gift of the facsimile edition and revised score, preparation and publication of the 1995 revision, and willingness to share much historical information with the author and to grant copyright permission for the reproduction of letters from his father and musical excerpts), Csaba Erdélyi (gifts of revisions since the early 1990s that culminated in his 2001 edition), and Boosey & Hawkes (copyright permission for various letters and musical examples from various publications). I am indebted to the eminent Bartók authorities Elliott Antokoletz, Malcolm Gillies, and Lázsló Somfai for their expertise, which they have shared extensively with the wider musical community through their own publications and with me personally at various stages along my journey. Special thanks are due to Malcolm Gillies, whose very detailed scrutiny of my work in the earlier stages guided me and focused the overall shape of this study, and to Elliott Antokoletz for contributing the section in chapter 8 on pitch organization. Finally, I must acknowledge the contributions of my brother, John Maurice, for preparing the reproductions of documents, and of my student, Nicholas Hancox, for his work in electronically preparing the musical examples.

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Editor’s

Preface

Several volumes in this Studies in Musical Genesis and Structure series have confronted the question of how final a composition was when its composer departed these earthly shores. Despite numerous versions, premières, and “definitive” editions, composers have been wont to tinker with their compositions and even to express profound dissatisfaction with what fate then sanctions as the final version of the work. With Donald Maurice’s study of Bartók’s Viola Concerto, this series enters into a realm of much more basic questions of compositional identity: Whose work is it that we hear so frequently under Bartók’s name in the concert hall? Can there possibly be a definitive edition of a work so substantially incomplete at its composer’s death? If so, might it not yet be written? The genesis of this Viola Concerto, between 1945 when the ailing Bartók sketched an ambiguous continuity draft and 1949 when it was first performed in a version crafted by Tibor Serly, is an intriguing tale of half-truths, distortions, and manipulations amid many good intentions. As Maurice’s study shows, the work even looked during these years to be heading for reconception as a cello concerto, but it did finally end up as William Primrose had commissioned it: a viola concerto. Because the documentary and contextual evidence is so important in establishing the chief landmarks as well as the details of this work’s multiple geneses, many of the earlier sections of this book read as a sourcebook. Layer upon layer of testimony is introduced, from the work’s commissioner, the composer, his heirs, his trustee, Serly (who “prepared [this concerto] for publication from the composer’s original manuscript” but actually did much more than that), the violist and cellist who first tried out Serly’s competing versions, the performer and conductor of the première, the publisher, and many more. This hitherto untold story of the work’s evolution up to its 1949 première is, however, only half the story of the genesis and interpretation of “Bartók’s” Viola Concerto. Not all, even in 1949, were satisfied that Serly’s workmanlike score adequately represented Bartók’s intentions. Viola soloists themselves were among those with the longest lists of queries. But where was the original manuscript? Who could see it during the 1950s to mid-1990s, when its facsimile edition was unexpectedly published? And what, given copyright laws, can any potential revisers do about playing or publishing their versions, even today? The second half of Maurice’s study is devoted to the genesis of several other “Bartók” viola concertos, including the new, official edition prepared by the composer’s younger son, Peter Bartók, and Nelson Dellamaggiore in 1995. Yet, as Maurice explains, these latter-day versions, which include his own unpublished one, still

x : Editor’s Preface

exist within the frame of Bartók’s initial draft and Serly’s initial version. Study of the composer’s wider working method, especially as used with his Violin Concerto of 1937–1938, suggests how he might creatively have transformed his initial draft and suggests that his approach to orchestration may have been quite different from Serly’s. Does, then, a more thoroughly Bartókian Viola Concerto still remain to be written? And if it does, will we be able to hear it? Maurice’s painstaking research ends with a sobering addressing of the question: Whose work is this Viola Concerto now? The answer is different in different parts of the world, hence Maurice’s chapter on the legal history and probable futures of the various versions of the work. Donald Maurice’s study is an important contribution to the Studies in Musical Genesis and Structure series. It is unorthodox in going beyond the strict confines of the series to provide a sourcebook of relevance to historians of the creative process and a guide for all virtuoso string players who seek to understand better this work, which — in whatever version — has become one of the mainstays of the string repertory. Malcolm Gillies The Australian National University

Contents

3

Introduction Outline of the special problems associated with this work

7

Chapter One. Genesis Circumstances, commission, composition, influences, and the manuscript

35

Chapter Two. The Reconstruction A critical examination of the work of Tibor Serly

53

Chapter Three. Première and Publication An account of the events of ‒ that led up to the first performance

71

Chapter Four. Reception Reaction to the first fifty years of the Bartók/Serly Viola Concerto

85

Chapter Five. Some Aspects of Structure Examination of form and possible presence of the Fibonacci series

99

Chapter Six. Revisions The revisions of Atar Arad, Csaba Erdélyi, Peter Bartók, and Donald Maurice

119

Chapter Seven. Authenticity Future attempts to achieve a more authentic Bartók Viola Concerto

127

Chapter Eight. Compositional Interpretation Focus on structure, melody, pitch organization, rhythm, and orchestration and texture

141

Chapter Nine. Performance Interpretation Focus on tempi, dynamics, phrasing, and articulation in the solo viola part

149

Chapter Ten. The Future and Legal Issues Bartók’s will and estate and matters of copyright

155

Conclusion

xii : Contents

Appendixes 159

Appendix One. Correspondence from Tibor Serly to Benjamin Suchoff

160

Appendex Two. Correspondence between Tibor Serly and Victor Bator

163

Appendix Three. Boosey & Hawkes Correspondence

177

Appendix Four. Burton Fisch

179

Appendix Five. Extracts from the Program of the World Première

184

Appendix Six. Reviews of the Early Performances

191

Appendix Seven. Tibor Serly’s Response to Halsey Stevens

198

Appendix Eight. Recording Review Summary from Strad Magazine

200

Appendix Nine. “The Thirteen Pages” by Atar Arad

205

Appendix Ten. Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore

207

Notes

213

Bibliography

219

Index

Bartók’s Viola Concerto

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Introduction

Outline of the Special Problems

Associated with This Work

Since the Bartók Viola Concerto first appeared in Tibor Serly’s realization in 1949 it has remained a controversial work, with opinions that range from its outright dismissal as a work of Bartók to its being a fine but incomplete example of his final period. The inaccessibility of the manuscript sketches over the decades since 1945 prolonged the uncertainty about the authenticity of the work. In the meantime much of the general musical world came to accept the work as being genuinely that of the composer. It has become one of the most performed and recorded viola concertos and is standard repertoire for auditions for the world’s leading orchestras and competitions. As time passes, Tibor Serly’s involvement becomes less well known, and to many concertgoers his name would now mean little, if anything. While for most of the musical community the work has established its place in history, there have been a significant number of musicians and musicologists, especially Bartók scholars, who have become more and more convinced that the work, as it has become known, is not acceptable as a complete work of the composer. Despite this, it was probably the most performed and recorded viola concerto in the latter half of the twentieth century. In view of the three revisions discussed in this book, which have appeared since 1992, it is important that informed decisions can be made, by performers and musicologists, as to the authenticity and appropriateness of the material available in published form and also to be acquainted with the views of other analysts whose work is not or cannot be published. The three revisions include the published versions by Peter Bartók (available worldwide) and Csaba Erdélyi (available only in New Zealand and Australia) and the unpublished version by the author. It is possible to claim that all three revisions are significantly closer to the sketches than is the Serly reconstruction and in fact that all represent closely the sketches as they were left, with no compositional additions and only minimal attempts to fill in what might have happened, had Bartók taken the work through to publication. Even so, the three revisions have significant differences, which reflect, no doubt, the

4 : Introduction

very different cultural, stylistic, and professional backgrounds of those involved in their preparation. Research of recent decades into the compositional processes of Béla Bartók indicates that the sketches, taken at face value, are not adequate as a basis for a completed work worthy of inclusion as a masterpiece of his final period. This does not preclude the possibility that, with further work by a very skilled musician, a more authentic version could be created by extrapolating from the compositional processes in other finished works. It is for this reason that this author’s revision is evaluated alongside the other two revisions as an exercise in translating the manuscript in a more or less literal sense. During the time of its evolution, which took several years, it was viewed as a new “definitive” version. As a direct result of the research carried out since the revision, it is now viewed as one of three honest attempts to reveal the manuscript in its pure form, without reference to the compositional processes that invariably occurred in Bartók’s works beyond his first drafts. An issue, regarding the three revisions, that must be addressed is that of crossinfluence. The performance by Csaba Erdélyi of his revision in 1992, the performance by the author of his revision in 1993, and the revision published by Peter Bartók in 1995 represent versions without cross-influence. However, the 1996 and 2001 versions of Csaba Erdélyi have evolved partially because of exposure to the other revisions and partly due to his own continuing research. The author has not performed his revision since 1993 because of a ban imposed by Boosey & Hawkes late in that year, but there is no doubt that should that ban be lifted the revision would undergo further refinement, partly due to cross-influence and partly resulting from further research. The Peter Bartók revision, published without reference to the other revisions, is the only one that can now claim to be without cross-influence. The first five chapters of this book are devoted to the genesis, reconstruction, reception, and structural aspects of the work. Chapter 1 looks briefly at Bartók’s adaptation to life in the United States and traces the story of the concerto from its inception through to his death in September 1945. It also investigates possible influences in the work, then looks closely at the manuscript in terms of its content and physical appearance and the story of its first fifty years. Chapter 2 examines the work undertaken by Tibor Serly in his reconstruction of the concerto and discusses his own account as given in an interview with David Dalton. Chapter 3 continues the work’s history from Bartók’s death through to the first performance of the concerto in December 1949, with William Primrose as soloist, and the events that surrounded the reconstruction by Tibor Serly. Chapter 4 gives a survey of the reception the work received in concerts, in recordings, and by musicologists generally since its first performance in 1949 and the reviews of recordings up until 1995. Chapter 5 looks closely at structural aspects and includes a search for evidence of the Fibonacci series, which has been identified in other Bartók works. The next five chapters examine the issues that arise in the post-Serly era. Chap-

Introduction : 5

ter 6 examines and compares the revisions of Atar Arad, Csaba Erdélyi, Peter Bartók, and the author. Chapter 7 suggests areas in which further investigation is required in order to achieve a more authentically Bartókian sound world, and chapters 8 and 9 address specific matters of interpretation and stylistic concerns that are in the domains of the revisionist and performer. Chapter 10 presents some of the legal issues that confront the future possibilities of this work. The volume of documentary material on this work has grown to enormous proportions, totally disproportionate to its significance beside other late works of Bartók. This has been a result of the controversy caused by its tantalizing incompleteness. Because of the volume of material on the subject, many references are made to the work of others and extended quotations included, especially in the opening chapters. No apology is made for this, as the scholarship of others has provided much valuable information relevant in helping to produce a comprehensive account of the remarkable circumstances that surround this work.

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Chapter

One

Genesis

Circumstances, Commission, Composition,

Influences, and the Manuscript

Circumstances Béla and Ditta Bartók arrived in New York on October 30, 1940, and remained American residents until Béla’s death in September 1945. It is not intended here to provide a day-by-day account of their five years in the United States, but in order to establish the background against which the Viola Concerto was conceived it is worthwhile to consider briefly the reactions and attitudes of Béla to the circumstances in which he found himself as a reluctant resident of New York during the war years. To gain a comprehensive profile of Bartók, the man, during these years, we rely on the impressions of those who knew him well and on his correspondence to close friends and family.1 Sándor Veress observed: Was he happy in the New World? Was his financial situation satisfactory? Was he successful as a composer and pianist? It is needless to ask whether he was happy in America because he certainly was not. Can one imagine a man like Bartók who once said about himself that the happiest days of his life were those he spent in villages among peasants, who lived in and with nature (dozens of his compositions have titles referring to nature), who whenever there was a chance went to Switzerland to climb mountains, being shut in a flat of a New York skyscraper in a noisy mid-town street? Certainly, there were some luminous spots in this respect when friends—and also the magnanimous actions of ASCAP—made it possible for him to spend some time in rural environments, but these were temporary occasions not altering his everyday life in New York, his permanent site.2

As to his decision to take refuge in the United States, this clearly troubled him, and his letter to Sándor Veress written in the summer of 1939 seems almost to be the private thoughts of one trying to justify to himself his pending departure: Of course it is another question whether one should emigrate (if possible) or not. One could speak on this subject from different points of view. If someone stays, albeit could

8 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o leave, people might say that he agrees tacitly with everything happening here. And one couldn’t even deny this because it would only cause trouble and staying thus would lose its purpose. On the other hand, one could also say that into whatever tangle the country gets, everyone should remain and try to help as he can. The question is only whether one could hope that within a measurable space of time an efficacious effort of help could be possible. Hindemith tried this in Germany for five years but then, it seems, he lost confidence. I—but this is purely a personal matter—have no confidence at all. But certain works I can do only here (for at least one more year) because they are connected with materials in the Museum. Conversely I see nowhere a country where to go would be worth while if one expected more than sheer vegetating. So for the time being I am entirely without counsel although my feeling tells me that anyone who can should go.3

Much has been written of Bartók’s reactions to the circumstances under which he found himself in New York, and it is clear that he felt himself to be a misfit in American society. The following comments in his letters to his elder son, Béla4 (reprinted by permission of Peter Bartók), indicate difficulties with the most ordinary things, such as food, and minor (local) language problems: [December 24, 1940] We are beginning to become Americanised, e.g., with regard to food. In the morning grapefruit, puffed wheat with cream, brown bread and butter, eggs or bacon or fish. In the afternoon, some time between 2 and 4, coffee with bread and butter or something else (this is not American because the people here take a quick lunch at 1 o’clock); in the evening between 8 and 10, we have our main meal: raw carrots, lettuce, radishes, olives and other things with bread and butter, perhaps soup, meat, possibly pastry. . . . We had some language problems with words like “yeast” and “caraway seeds,” but now we have got over that too. My head is bursting with new words of every kind: the names of subway stations and of streets; subway maps, scores of possibilities of changing from one line to another—all absolutely necessary for living here but otherwise futile.

Added to these basic difficulties were those associated with routine daily activities such as cooking and getting around the city and, on a lighter note, some of the habits of the citizens of New York. No doubt many today who are fully conversant with English would share the following frustrations, so it is easy to empathize with a newly arrived Hungarian émigré in 1940: We had a certain amount of trouble in learning how to use various electric and gas appliances—cork screws, tin-openers etc., also with the means of transport; but we manage fairly well now. Only occasionally do we find ourselves in a difficulty, for instance, the last time we wanted to go to the southernmost part of New York, I did not know exactly where to change (the sign-posts are not exactly conspicuous enough, rather too few, and confusing), so that we travelled for 3 hours to and fro on the subway. At last, simply because we had no more time, we went home again, rather sheepishly and without having done what we set out to do—underground all the way back, of course. . . .

Genesis : 9 [April 2, 1941]

I have been unable so far to get used to: human beings ruminating like cows (every second

person is chewing gum); railway carriages in semi-darkness; the cheque book system.

Béla’s account of the receipt of an honorary doctorate from Columbia University, while not in any sense indication of a serious disorientation, provides an example of his dry sense of humor, and sarcasm, toward what was undoubtedly a ceremony of great pride and importance to the university: On Nov. 25th I was “doctorated.” It was some ceremony. Before it could take place, I had to be measured in yards, feet and inches, so that they would know the size of my head, width of my shoulders, etc., and send in the details. At the University we all had to put on our academic gowns and hoods and to march in solemnly two by two to the sound of discreet organ music. We had been given exact instructions. When my name was called, I had to stand up, when the president addressed me, I had to take off my gown, and when he came to the end of his speech, I had to proceed towards him, so that he could hand me my diploma, while the pink velvet sash of the Order of Music was placed on my back; and then I could go back and sit down. And that is exactly what happened.

It was clear in a letter written in May 1941 that the living conditions at the Forest Hills apartment had become intolerable. He noted that “we were piano-played and radio-blasted from right and left; a lot of noise came in from the street night and day; every 5 minutes we heard the rumble of the subway which made the walls shake.” The dislocation from his beloved Hungary was an ongoing stress, and in spite of the good efforts of respectful colleagues, his continuing work prospects at Columbia University, beyond mid-1942, were not promising: “It’s unlikely that my work at Columbia University can be extended. This is all the more annoying because it means that in July, 1942, I shall thus be compelled to leave this very interesting work unfinished.” In this same letter, of October 1941, the possibility of an appointment in 1942/43 at the University of Washington, in Seattle, was clearly not appealing: “That really is at the end of the world. It is a lovely place, of course—I won’t say it isn’t. But we are not too pleased to have to move on again like wandering gypsies.” As the following summary of his compositional output demonstrates, Bartók’s first period in the United States was not productive in this respect. This resulted from a combination of factors, which included the need to produce income, the lack of direct commissions, and, no doubt, a lack of inspiration due to the uprooting from his familiar cultural surroundings. However, a commission from Serge Koussevitsky in 1943, which resulted in the Concerto for Orchestra, was soon followed by a request for the Solo Violin Sonata from Yehudi Menuhin. Late in 1944 William Primrose approached Bartók with his request for the Viola Concerto, and this, together with the Piano Concerto No. 3, was Bartók’s main creative outlet until his death in 1945. Details of the compositions from this period are as follows:

10 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o Suite for Two Pianos, Op. 4b. (1941). BB 122. Concerto for Orchestra (Saranac Lake, August 15— October 8, 1943). Written for the Koussevitsky Music Foundation in memory of Mrs. Natalie Koussevitsky. First performance: Boston, December 1, 1944, Boston Symphony Orchestra, Serge Koussevitsky conducting. Sonata for Solo Violin (completed Asheville, March 14, 1944). Dedicated to Yehudi Menuhin. First performance: New York, November 26, 1944, by Yehudi Menuhin. Ukrainian Folksongs (1944–45). Incomplete, unpublished. “The Husband’s Grief ” (A ferj keserve). Ukrainian folk song, for voice and piano (February 1945). Dedicated to Pál Kecskeméti. Unpublished. Piano Concerto No. 3 for piano and orchestra (1945). Unfinished, orchestration of last seventeen measures completed by Tibor Serly. First performance: February 8, 1946, by Gyorgy Sándor with the Philadelphia Orchestra, Eugene Ormandy conducting. Viola Concerto (1945). Unfinished, reconstructed and orchestrated by Tibor Serly. Written for William Primrose. First performance: December 2, 1949, by William Primrose with the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, Antal Doráti conducting.

Commission In late 1944 the eminent Scottish violist, William Primrose, approached Béla Bartók with the request for a viola concerto. The precise date on which the approach was made has not been documented, but we know from an unsent letter by Bartók to Primrose of August 5, 1945, that the initial contact was before or in early December 1944. Bartók states in the course of this letter: “When you came to see me we did not mention the commission fee ($1000) which, however, I mentioned as early as Dec. to Mr. Heinsheimer.” The process by which this commission took place is detailed in Primrose’s autobiography (reprinted by permission of Eiji Primrose)5: Perhaps the best known of my commissions is the Bartók concerto. In two respects, one of my most rewarding endeavours has been to get composers to write for the viola. Musically the Bartók concerto has had a great success. I have played it more than any other concerto, even the Walton. When I commissioned it, Bartók, incredible though it seems, was an obscure composer. He was known to musicians, but to the great public was “a dismal universal hiss, the sound of public scorn.” Aside from performances of the Concerto for Orchestra given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra under Koussevitsky, I don’t recall many other performances of Bartók’s works. When I commissioned the concerto, most people, including my manager’s office, thought I had made a great mistake. Who on earth was going to ask me to play a concerto by Béla Bartók? I eventually paid his estate what he so modestly asked, and I played the concerto well over a hundred times for fairly respectable fees. So it was like getting in on the ground floor when Xerox stock was issued. Hindemith might have been the more logical

Genesis : 11 choice for a commission, and Stravinsky was certainly far better known. But my strong motivation was Bartók’s second violin concerto. The Menuhin recording came to my attention and really planted the seed in my mind.6 In the case of Hindemith, I knew that he was a difficult man to enlist and probably was influenced by the fact that he had already written four works for viola and orchestra. The Festival Quartet—two of the members were old and close friends of his—solicited a piano quartet from him, something that he had never essayed. But he was not inclined at that time, and shortly afterward he died.7 Stravinsky I did request, but he turned me down, saying that he was much too occupied with other commissions. I had known Bartók no more than casually from the mid-twenties. I met him when we visited London during that period and only occasionally after that. I didn’t know much of his music, but few did then. In the late spring of 1945 I sought an interview with him in his New York apartment and told him what I was seeking.8 He was reluctant at first because he felt he didn’t know enough about the viola as a solo instrument. I admired his integrity, for at that time he sorely needed the money. I asked him not to make an irrevocable decision until he had heard the Walton concerto, which I was playing a couple of weeks later in New York with the late Sir Malcolm Sargent. He planned to come to the concert, which was on a Sunday afternoon, but it so happened that that was a day he felt particularly indisposed and did not attend. He did hear the broadcast, however, and was struck with the concerto and Walton’s use of the instrument. He subsequently told me he would definitely accept my commission.9 Late that summer I left on a tour of South America and returned with the hope of enjoying the cool of early fall in New England. In Philadelphia, where I was living at the time, I found a letter from Bartók awaiting me, in which he said that the concerto was finished in draft and “all” that remained to be done was the orchestration, which was routine work (this is reprinted in the preface to the score of the concerto). He wanted to see me, however to discuss the concerto for reasons that he outlined. It was my intention, therefore, to stop on my way north to see Bartók in New York City. But as it was raining heavily on that day and parking was an insoluble problem, I decided to proceed to my destination and see him on my return. It was a deplorable decision, one which we all experience when we put off until tomorrow. . . . On a beautiful day about two weeks later, on my way back from Maine, I stopped outside New York for lunch, picked up the New York Times, and read that Bartók had died the preceding day.

Further correspondence regarding the commissioning is very limited. Inquiries to Peter Bartók, Boosey & Hawkes, and the Primrose Archives have failed to yield any additional letters to those that are included here. The first available correspondence between Primrose and Bartók is the letter of January 22, 1945 (figs. 1.1a and 1.1b). It is the response to either a phone call, a personal conversation, or a letter that has not been preserved, from Mr Heinsheimer of Boosey & Hawkes.

Figure 1.1a

Figure 1.1b. Reprinted by permission of Eiji Primrose

14 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

Composition Although the actual composition did not begin in earnest until August 1945, no doubt Bartók had been forming ideas since agreeing to the commission earlier in the year. The following passage from a letter, which is dated January 27, 1945, from Mr. Heinsheimer of Boosey & Hawkes to Bartók, is noteworthy: “I am unable to find a copy of HAROLD IN ITALY for you. There are no scores for sale. It is, of course, in the Library and I am sure they would let you take a copy out for sometime. If you want me to do something about it, please advise.” Presumably Bartók eventually did get hold of a copy, and we must assume that he wanted to familiarize himself with the treatment of the viola as a solo instrument. It seems that the four-movement structure of the Berlioz may also have influenced Bartók, as he refers to this possibility in the unsent letter of August 5, 1945. Of this letter only one page has survived, but as it was apparently never actually sent, it could be that this is all that Bartók completed. While it did not form part of the dialogue between the two men, it is nevertheless an extremely important document in that it gives the only available detailed account by Bartók of work in progress during the compositional period (fig. 1.2). Dear Mr. Primrose: about mid July I was planning to write to you a rather desponding letter, explaining you the various difficulties I am in. But then, there stirred some viola concerto ideas which gradually crystallised themselves, so that I am able now to tell you that I hope to write the work, and maybe finish at least its draft in 4–5 weeks, if nothing happens in the meantime which would prevent my work. The prospects are these: perhaps I will be able to be ready with the draft by beginning of Sept., and with the score by end of the same month. This is the best case; there may be, however, a delay of the completion of the work until end of Oct. So, about end of either Sept. or Oct. you will get from me a copy of the orch. and the piano score—if I am able to go through the work at all. Then, certain time must be given for the copying of the orch. parts; this of course, will be done by B.&H. who are, as far as I know, short of copyists. I must ask you to make no plans yet and not yet divulge the news about this work as long as the draft is not completed. I will send you news about the completion without delay. However embrionic the state of the work still is, the general plan and ideas are already fixed. So I can tell you that it will be in 4 movements: a serious Allegro, a Scherzo, a (rather short) slow movement, and a finale beginning Allegretto and developping [sic] the tempo to an Allegro molto. Each movement, or at least 3 of them will [be] preceded by a (short) recurring introduction (mostly solo of the viola), a kind of ritornello. As you perhaps know, I was ill with a kind of pneumonia when you came to take me to that Saturday rehearsal. This illness caused a considerable disturbance in our home, and prevented me to make arrangements at least to returne [sic] you the umbrella (which we still keep!), or to let you know in advance about my sickness.

Genesis : 15

Figure 1.2 Reprinted by permission of Peter Bartók When you came to see me we did not mention the commission fee ($1000) which, however, I mentioned as early as Dec. to Mr. Heinsheimer who . . .

The next letter, written five weeks later, also indicates that the previous one was not sent, due to some restating of personal information. This is the letter from which extracts are quoted in the front of the Serly score, where there is an editorial “improvement.” Here the letter is reprinted in full and unedited. In his letter Bartók refers to the orchestration being more transparent than in “a” violin concerto. In

16 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

the Serly score this is printed as “the” violin concerto. This attempt to correct Bartók’s grammar actually changed its possible implications (figs. 1.3 a, b, and c): Sept. 8, 1945 309 West 59th St.

New York 19, N.Y.

Dear Mr Primrose I am very glad to be able to tell you that your viola concerto is ready in draft, so that only the score has to be written which means a purely mechanical work, so to speak. If nothing happens I can be through in 5 or 6 weeks, i.e. I can send you a copy of the orchestra score in the second half of Oct., and a few weeks afterwards a copy (or if you wish more copies) of the piano score. I had immense externe [sic] difficulties in writing it. I could not do any composing work in this unfortunate and inadequate apartment of mine in New York. In addition a sequence of various illnesses visited us: not only I was ill several times but also Mrs. Bartók! You knew when you came to fetch me for that rehearsal I was just in bed developping [sic] a pneumonia. Finally end of June we went to our summer place on Saranac Lake quite exhausted and with little hope of being able to do there some work. However, we had such a nice quiet place there, that about mid July some ideas came to me which I did not hesitate to grasp and develop. Alas, the quiet and undisturbed period did not last very long! About mid August, Mrs. Bartók fell again ill (with a common but obstinate sore throat). But with the main work—the rather detailed draft—I am through; and the remaining work is a rather mechanical one, I repeat it. When you came to see me we did not mention the commission fee ($1000) which, however, as Mr. Heinsheimer told me was already settled with you or Mrs. Primrose earlier. Now another question must be settled: how long do you want to retain the exclusive performing rights? It is up to you to fix this period. However, it should be fixed, because as long as it lasts the work should not be published.— As for the use of orchestral material, you have to settle this question with Boosey & Hawkes. Many interesting problems arose in composing this work. The orchestration will be rather transparent, more transparent than in a violin concerto. Also the sombre, more masculine character of your instrument exerted some influence on the general character of the work. The highest note I use is [A"] but I exploit rather frequently the lower register. It is conceived in a rather virtuoso style. Most probably some passages will prove to be uncomfortable or unplayable. These we will discuss later, according to your observations. There developped [sic] an unfortunate circumstance about my New York apartment. Maybe we will be turned out on Oct. 1. This will then mean a few weeks delay, which I can not help. Looking for a new place to live in when no such places are available, and moving etc. are not very favorable for yielding up even a mechanical work. Maybe we will have to go back to Saranac Lake, if we do not find anything here. My best regards to Mrs. Primrose and to you. Yours very sincerely Béla Bartók

Genesis : 17

Figure 1.3a

There is some confusion over whether it was Béla or Ditta whose illness caused the sudden return to New York from Saranac Lake. In the preceding letter the implication is that it was Ditta’s health that was responsible. In spite of the reference to his own health in paragraph 2 of the letter, Bartók does not mention any problem with his own health as being connected with the sudden return to New York. It becomes clear, however, from several other accounts that he was clearly the cause. The account of Bartók’s final two months as told by his wife, Ditta, and the recol-

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Figure 1.3b lections of his son Peter would tend to confirm this.10 Ditta’s account also throws some light on the progress of the viola and piano concertos while at Saranac Lake: Towards the end of June [1945] he sought to take a vacation, as his doctors advised and he himself wished. We travelled to Saranac Lake, where we stayed in a small cottage. The owner of this little house lived next door in a bigger dwelling. Béla found peace and quiet here and worked simultaneously on the Third Piano Concerto and the Viola Concerto. I do not remember when he began these works—unless he himself noted such a thing down

Genesis : 19

Figure 1.3c Reprinted by permission of Peter Bartók

it was difficult to find it out, as he did not talk about things like that. He once told Péter that he was writing the piano concerto for me, and wanted to present it to me for my birthday on 31 October. He did not hurry with this work: he rested a lot, read many newspapers—as always—and books, too, especially ones in English which he had brought with him from New York. He always had several dictionaries to hand, because he wanted to know the exact meaning of every word. Occasionally he played passages from his new composition on an upright piano that we had there. I remember that I had to turn the pages a

20 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o number of times, as he played passages from the sketches. Since the composition appeared to be finished and the sheets followed one another in order, I thought that these were sections of a piano concerto, although he did not talk about it. At Saranac Lake he also went walking a little, but he took care not to tire himself out. After about 10 August the situation began to deteriorate: he felt unwell and started running a temperature. It disturbed him greatly that his fever would not go away, and though we had planned on staying at Saranac Lake until the end of September we returned to our flat in New York on the last day of August. Immediately we called Dr Israel Rappaport, who was treating him. Béla felt very depressed at the state of his health. He no longer wanted to be alone, and loved it if one came and chatted with him. He was very patient; during the day he lay fully dressed on his bed for hours, walked around a little in the flat, and worked, too, at his desk. But it did not last long. After 15 September the situation suddenly deteriorated to such an extent that the doctor had him taken to the West Side Hospital, where he passed away on the sixth day [in the hospital]. . . . Béla did not work anymore, and did not even read.

Agatha Fassett refers to a letter written some time after the event by Peter Bartók that is notable for his recollection of events of the final month. Only an excerpt of this letter is quoted and no date is given (reprinted by permission of Peter Bartók): Soon after I was discharged from the Navy, on or about August 15, I arrived at Lake Saranac very early in the morning and walked to the little hut my parents rented for the summer in the backyard of Mr. Max Haar. It was a tiny house with two rooms and a kitchen with ceilings barely higher than the top of our heads, a wooden outer shell with cardboard inside walls. Since it was very early I did not know if anyone was up, and I walked about to look in through the windows and found my mother sufficiently light-sleeping to wake up as I looked in. Of course we were very happy at being together, also at the end of the war news. But what was most important to me was that I found my father in such excellent health; at least it appeared to be so. We took many walks together, almost like the time when we spent summers in the Alps. Once we even climbed quite far up on a nearby hill, taking lunch with us. Father seemed to be able to do it very well, and it appeared that in another few months he should have regained all his former strength. In spite of such an improvement, just at the time when there seemed to be the least reason for it, my mother was sad almost at all times. Looking back later one is compelled to think as if she already knew what was to happen one month later. During this time at Saranac Lake, Father was very busy with some musical work, composing; there were two compositions in progress simultaneously. One of them was the Viola Concerto written for Primrose, and the other was something Mother should not know about. I am not sure why, but as I remembered him telling me that it was a surprise for her (the Third Piano Concerto). At the end of August or the beginning of September, Father again had occasional higher temperature in the evenings and so we decided to come back to New York a little earlier

Genesis : 21 than planned. Our trip was a nightmare—it seemed to be about Labour Day and that year everyone seemed to pick the same time to arrive in Grand Central, and at one point after searching for porters in vain Father carried a piece of luggage for quite a long distance before I was able to prevent him from doing so. In New York he did not get much better. I had to learn to give him penicillin injections. Father protested against having a nurse for this purpose — the penicillin had to be given every four hours at that time—for nurses always talk silly things, like “How are you this morning?” and things like that, even though the answer to that question does not in any way affect the patient’s treatment, nor is a memorandum of it kept for the doctor; in other words, it would be unnecessary talk and Father did not like that. On top of everything, our apartment lease was to expire that month and our landlord showed no willingness to let us stay any longer. Could not have happened at a worse time. One evening Father asked me to his bed and told me of the whereabouts of various manuscripts and about the will. I was horrified and assured him that this would be quite unnecessary, because he was getting better. His temperature suddenly did go down, and that was worst of all. Dr. Rappaport decided that Father should go to the hospital immediately. There was an argument. Father did not like hospitals. What could they do to help? Besides he had some important work to finish. (An extra day would have given him the chance to orchestrate the last seventeen or so bars of the Third Piano Concerto, which was practically completed at that time. As the extra day was not allowed, he marked on the score the number of bars still to follow.) I can still see Father beg the doctor to let him stay home another day, and now, knowing what had to happen, I realize it would not have made any difference. Dr. Rappaport was adamant; the ambulance came and went. At this time already Father was very sick. We were there almost all the time, going home only to sleep. One morning early—about two or three A.M.— the hospital called. We went over. Father was getting a blood transfusion and was begging the nurse to take it away. Asked us to have the nurse with her needle taken away. He knew it could not help. “In my last moment they cannot leave me in peace.” Dr. Lax was in the hospital and paid Father a visit. We were not in the room at that time. It was later reported: Father mentioned to him “I am only sad that I have to leave with a full trunk.” (What was in the trunk was indicated by the works written in the last few years, like Concerto for Orchestra, Violin Concerto, Viola Concerto and the Third Piano Concerto; which indicated the beginning of a new period in his writing, his crystallized period, as I like to refer to it.) We were in the room when he died, when his eyes lost their conscious look and they slowly became like ice. I could not then realize what it was that happened, and still cannot fully accept it.11

Perhaps the final word on these events should be that of Peter Bartók, as expressed in a letter to the author on September 4, 1995: Toward the end of August, 1945, my father became aware of somewhat elevated temperatures. As my mother had been appearing highly depressed at these times, he wanted to

22 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o go to New York and seek for her psychiatric care. He then could consult his own doctor about the elevated temperatures which, however, were not too unusual. However, after arriving to New York, his temperatures kept going higher which began to alarm both the doctors and us. Thus, it was only after arriving to New York that he considered himself to be again ill (my mother had been told considerably earlier of my father’s terminal condition, so she was aware of it that his apparent good health in the summer of 1945 was but an illusion; something she was asked to keep to herself. This knowledge could explain her depressed state also). What my father wrote on September 8, 1945, to Primrose is correct. In August he did not know that he was becoming seriously ill again.

This letter tends to support all of the accounts in spite of the fact that independently they appear to be contradictory. It also supports the theory that some of the markings on the Viola Concerto manuscript are in fact his record of his temperature readings. Whatever the exact circumstances were, it seems clear that the work on the Viola Concerto was to all intents and purposes completed at Saranac Lake and that what energy Bartók had after his return to New York was devoted mainly to completing the Third Piano Concerto. According to his wife’s account, after he was admitted to the hospital no further work was done on either concerto. It is not possible from the evidence available to know precisely how the composition developed, although it would seem from the preceding letters that at August 5 the ideas were still in a state of flux and over the following four or five weeks the work crystallized. By September 8 the idea of a fourth movement had been abandoned. Some might argue that the manuscript did in fact leave a hint of the beginning of another independent movement. It is the author’s view, however, that this fragment is too brief to suggest a movement, bearing in mind that Bartók stated that the concerto was completed in draft form and that the three known movements were structurally complete. Also, one must remember that the fourth movement Bartók alluded to was to have been a Scherzo and the small fragment that is omitted from the Serly, Erdélyi (1992 recording), and Maurice versions arguably does not suggest a Scherzo character. Incidentally, Peter Bartók absorbed this fragment into his revision as part of an extended introduction to the third movement and this has also been subsequently included, though in a quite different way, in Erdélyi’s revisions of 1996 and 2001. This issue is discussed fully in chapter 7. The detailed description of the manuscript by László Somfai in Peter Bartók, Bela Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft gives suggestions of the order of the ideas being put to paper, but it is impossible to put precise dates on this process. A most noteworthy factor is that, in a most atypical fashion, Bartók was composing two works concurrently. While the Viola Concerto was officially his project at the time, he was apparently working secretly on the Piano Concerto No. 3 as a gift for his wife.

Genesis : 23

While it is tempting to search for common musical ideas to these two so closely connected works, chronologically speaking, apart from the obvious comparisons of the three-movement structure, the works are thematically independent. It should be noted at this point that the often-quoted “night music” common to both slow movements was, in the case of the Viola Concerto, inspired by Serly, in that he borrowed the idea from the Piano Concerto and added it to the Viola Concerto. There is certainly no possibility that any of the material of either manuscript found its way accidentally into the wrong work, as the bifolios are each clear as to which work they belong. The loose sheets sometimes referred to are not loose sheets at all. All the material for the Viola Concerto is contained on four bifolios and could not be confused with Piano Concerto No. 3 material. The following tribute from Tibor Serly appeared in the New York Times on December 11, 1949, over four years after Bartók’s death, to coincide with the world première with William Primrose as soloist: Story of a Concerto: Bartók’s Last Work The author of this article, a close friend of Bartók, completed the viola concerto, which had its première in Minneapolis about a week ago. On the evening of Sept. 21, 1945, when I last talked with Béla Bartók, he was lying in bed, quite ill. Nevertheless, on and around his bed were sheets of score and sketch manuscript papers. He was working feverishly to complete the scoring of his Third Piano Concerto. While discussing the concerto with him, my attention was drawn to the night table beside his bed where I noticed, underneath several half-empty medicine bottles, some additional pages of sketches, seemingly not related to the piano concerto. There was a reason for my curiosity, for it was known to several of Bartók’s friends that earlier in the year he had accepted a commission to write a concerto for viola and orchestra for William Primrose. sketches Pointing to these manuscript sheets, I inquired about the viola concerto. Bartók nodded wearily toward the night table, saying: “Yes, that is the viola concerto.” To my question as to whether it was completed, his reply was, “Yes and no.” He explained that while in sketches the work was by and large finished, the details and scoring had not yet been worked out. The following day he was taken to the hospital, where he died Sept. 26. During that last spring and summer of 1945, Bartók had worked simultaneously on two major compositions. The question as to which of the two works was the “last” may never be determined. Mme. Bartók, who spent the entire period at his side, corroborated the fact that while he never before had worked on two major compositions at one time, on this occasion he had worked some days on the piano concerto and on other days on the viola concerto.

24 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o What inspired Bartók to abandon the almost completed sketches of the commissioned viola concerto when it was known he was sorely in need of funds? Why was he turning to the task of composing a concerto for piano which was neither commissioned nor presumably dedicated to any particular person, and thereby relinquishing all chances of immediate financial renumeration? Mme. Bartók suggested a possible answer: In America, Bartók’s main source of a steady income had been through lecture and concert engagements. But for two years he had been too ill to take on either and now feared he might never be well enough to return to the concert stage. He considered his talented wife and former pupil, Ditta Pásztory Bartók, to be among his most representative disciples and greatly admired her interpretation of his piano works. Sensing the seriousness of his illness, Bartók determined to leave her the only inheritance within his power, a concerto for piano and orchestra made to order for her style, a work that would give her an opportunity to exhibit her talents and at the same time carry on as a disciple of the Bartók tradition. That he was fighting against time seems to be confirmed by the curious fact that he had prematurely scrawled in pencil the Hungarian word “vége”— the end—on the last bar of his sketch copy of the concerto. Since he had never written this word on any other work, it indicated how desperately he had aimed to finish the score. drawn on There is no doubt that something drew him on exorably to the task of completing the details and scoring of the piano concerto first while the viola concerto was left solely in sketches. Thus from a theoretical point of view, the viola concerto may be regarded as Bartók’s final work. Early in September Bartók wrote a letter to Primrose telling him that the viola concerto was ready in draft and that only some details and the scoring had to be written: if his health permitted it would be ready within six weeks or so. What for Bartók would have been a matter of working out the details and scoring involved for another person a lengthy task that required infinite patience and painstaking labor. First, there were many problems in deciphering the manuscript itself. Bartók wrote his sketches on odd loose sheets of paper that happened to be at hand, some of which had parts of other sketches on them. Bits of material that came into his mind were jotted down without regard for sequence. The pages were not numbered and the separations of movements were not designated. The greatest difficulty encountered was deciphering his correction of notes, for Bartók, instead of erasing, grafted his improvements onto the original notes. delicate task Then there was the delicate task of completing unfinished harmonies and other adornments that he had reduced to a kind of shorthand. Technical passages for the solo viola also had to be worked out, for Bartók had told Primrose in his letter: “Most probably some passages will prove too uncomfortable or too unplayable.”

Genesis : 25 Finally, there was the orchestration itself to be done, for there were virtually no indications of the instrumentation. No story concerning Bartók’s last two works composed in America would be complete without mention of the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers. For in 1943 it was apparent that Bartók had a serious illness and that proper care and treatment were a matter of life and death. Since the Bartóks were virtually without funds, musician friends brought the matter to the attention of ASCAP executives who, despite the fact that Bartók was not a member of the society, voted without hesitation to provide unlimited funds for specialists, hospitalization and, during periods of improvement, private convalescent homes. It was this care, according to Mme. Bartók, that made it possible for her husband to continue to compose to the very end.

This tribute by Serly alludes to a number of issues related to his reconstruction of the Viola Concerto. These issues will be considered in depth in chapter 2.

Influences It has been suggested that Bartók may have developed a theme derived from a Scottish melody as a kind of secret tribute to William Primrose. Peter Bartók acknowledged that possibility in a letter to the author of September 4, 1995, in which he states: I do not recall my father having told me about the Scottish melody. In recent research we found the song “Gin a Body Meet a Body, Comin’ thro the Rye” that has a phrase almost matching the Scottish theme in the Concerto’s third movement. I do not believe that my father copied any section of a Scottish song, rather, he made this phrase up to resemble the Scottish character or perhaps vaguely recalled something he had heard.

In his letter, Peter Bartók omitted to mention his article “The Principal Theme of Béla Bartók’s Viola Concerto” (Studia Musicologica, Volume 35/1-3, 1993–94, pp. 45–50). In this article he discusses in depth his thoughts on the possible Scottish influence. The whole question of both Hungarian and Scottish influence in the Viola Concerto deserves closer examination. Belá Bartók readily admitted that, unlike Kodály, he did not restrict himself to the music of the Hungarian peasants as his source material. In one of his Harvard lectures he stated: Kodály studied, and uses as source, Hungarian rural music almost exclusively, whereas I extended my interest and love also to the folk music of the neighbouring Eastern European peoples and ventured even into the Arabic and Turkish territories for research work. In my works, therefore, appear impressions derived from the most varied sources, melted—as I hope—into unity. These varied sources, however, have a common denominator, that is, the characteristics common to rural folk music in its purest sense.12

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In these statements about his more global outlook, which appear at various times in his life, he does not specifically refer to Scotland as a source. However, there are two pieces of information that are relevant to the issue. First, in the fourth Harvard lecture of 1943, while discussing the characteristics of Hungarian rhythm, he made the following observation: The third kind of rhythm is the so-called “dotted” rhythm especially characteristic for certain types of Hungarian rural music. Our dotted rhythm is a combination of the following rhythmic patterns: x
e. and e.x. Among these, the first one, with an accented short value and a non-accented long value, is the most important. It is this rhythmic pattern which gives that well-known rugged rhythm in many Hungarian pieces. Incidentally, it seems to be used also in Scotch melodies although it is less frequently used there than in Hungarian folk music.

It is noteworthy that a little later in this same lecture he states: “The combination e. x
.x
e
, however occurs very rarely in genuine Hungarian folk music; I would call this combination an ‘anti-Hungarian’ pattern.”13 Bartók then continues to explain that the high incidence of the short–long rhythm in Hungarian music results from characteristics of the Hungarian language, in which the first syllable of each word is accented. Although it is beyond the scope of this investigation, a study of the language in use in Scotland in the last few centuries may well provide clues as to the similarities in the folk musics of Hungary and Scotland that were noted by Bartók. Second, Bartók’s interest in Scottish folk music was experienced first hand by the Chisholm family of Glasgow: While in Glasgow Bartók stayed with the Chisholms. They found that his natural reserve could quickly be overcome and that when he started to relax he revealed the forceful personality behind that quiet, unassuming façade. Chisholm spoke about Scottish folk-music and his pioneering research in the field. This encouraged Bartók to listen to his folk-recordings for hours on end, and even, on the following day, to buy a tartan rug, chanter, and all available Piobaireachd music. Bartók’s enthusiasm went as far as to arrange for a well-known bagpipe player to perform for him.14

Having established that Bartók had taken more than a casual interest in Scottish music, and was equipped with source material, the assertion that there is a Scottish melody hidden in the Viola Concerto would seem to be a real possibility. It remains unclear why Peter Bartók was looking for a Scottish tune, if he can not recall his father having told him about it. However, working on the assumption that there is some substance to the rumor, the following suggestions are made for consideration. First, consider the melody The Wife, She Brewed It, which arguably is represented in the first and last movements and which, through Bartók’s use of intervallic imitation, pervades the whole work.

Genesis : 27

Figure 1.4 The Wife She Brewed It —traditional. Geoff Bowen. How to Play Folk Fiddle. Ilkley. 1993. Reprinted by permission. Second, consider the melody “Gin a Body, Meet a Body, Comin’ thro the Rye” suggested by Peter Bartók, which he believes may be represented in the middle section of the third movement. Third, consider what is probably the most famous of all Scottish melodies, “Auld Lang Syne” (Fig. 1.6), fragments of which can also be identified in this third movement theme. It would be fair to say that a very large number of Scottish tunes will resemble this last theme simply because of the nature of the scale, which is restricted by the inherent modal qualities of the bagpipes, the result being that certain melodic characteristics will inevitably be present in most Scottish melodies. Of particular note from a rhythmic viewpoint is the presence of the e. x
e. x rhythm. This is of course the “anti-Hungarian” pattern referred to by Bartók but

Figure 1.5 Gin a Body, Meet a Body, Comin’ thro the Rye —traditional

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Figure 1.6 Auld Lang Syne —traditional

is very common in Scottish folk music. Examples can be found in the Viola Concerto in measures 21–24, 183–88, and 195–200 in the first movement and in measures 30–39 in the second movement. In the third movement there are no examples of this “anti-Hungarian” pattern. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that contributed to Halsey Stevens’s comment: “It is only in the finale that one feels a trace of authenticity.”15 The characteristics worthy of note in “The Wife, She Brewed It” are: 1. The short–long dotted rhythm common to both Hungarian and Scottish folk music. 2. The long–short rhythm that is “anti-Hungarian” but a feature of Scottish music. 3. The falling motive through A, Gs, Fs, and E and rising back to A, which very closely resembles the second subject in the first movement of the concerto (mm.61–64) — the recapitulation of this melody also adds the “anti-Hungarian” rhythmic pattern (mm. 183– 87). 4. The octave displacements employed here by Bartók, which result in the rather unusual leaps of ninths and tenths — while not part of this particular melody, they are nevertheless a common practice for Scottish folk instrumentalists, especially noted in the Cape Breton area of Nova Scotia, where a strong tradition of Scottish fiddling continues.16 5. The eighth measure that very closely resembles the third measure of the theme in the middle section of the third movement. 6. The ninth measure that resembles the opening of the melody in the middle section of the third movement. 7. The bagpipe drone effect produced by the frequent use of double-stops with the open A string is also present in the orchestra during the melody in the third movement.

Peter Bartók suggests “Gin a Body, Meet a Body, Comin’ thro the Rye,” as a source for the melody in the middle section of the Finale. Certainly there are intervals here that can also be found in Bartók’s melody and some fragments are even the same. The characteristics of “Auld Lang Syne,” actually very close in melodic

Genesis : 29

line, also typify the spirit that Bartók captured in this melody, but it is difficult to insist that an intentional direct quotation was implied. Although the melody used by Bartók does not demonstrate the “anti-Hungarian” rhythm, it does introduce the only melody in the concerto that begins with an upbeat. Once again, this is a characteristic of much Scottish folk music but unusual in Hungarian folk music, due to the language requirement that every word has its first syllable accented. In the fourth Harvard lecture of 1943, Bartók commented as follows: Here again we must turn our attention first to the Eastern European rural music. First of all, there are no upbeats; it is a music rhythmically based on starts with an arsis, as a contrast to Western European, Russian, modern Greek, and Arab music—all based rhythmically on starts with a thesis (but, of course, with numerous exceptions).17

No doubt one could search further and find many more Scottish melodies with characteristics that resemble sections of motives in this concerto. It is not my intention to imply that the three melodies quoted were utilized directly but rather that they contain characteristics that are also identifiable in melodies in the concerto. I agree with Peter Bartók’s comment stated earlier: “I do not believe that my father copied any section of a Scottish song, rather, he made this phrase up to resemble the Scottish character or perhaps vaguely recalled something he had heard.” It would be misleading to leave this subject having given the impression that this is a work dominated by Scottish influence. This aspect was highlighted because of the special circumstances of the work’s commissioner. The work is of course dominated by Bartók’s Eastern European heritage. The tonal language, rhythm, and melodic sources are full of the flavor of Eastern European peasant music. It is only through the supreme artistry of a great composer, such as Bartók, that the elements of a culture seemingly so unconnected as Scotland can be interwoven into the texture of what is essentially a work inspired by the music of Eastern Europe. Two other themes are worthy of comment. In the first movement in bars 112–17, the Bf–Df–Ef–G motive is explored, and this seems reminiscent of the opening theme of the second movement of the Violin Concerto No. 1, which begins Ds–Fs–As–C. As this is an obscure variation of the Stefi Geyer motive D–Fs–A–Cs, it is not unexpected to find this theme in this final work, given the frequency with which it appeared throughout Bartók’s life in other works. Stefi Geyer was the young violinist with whom Bartók, as a young man, had become totally besotted. While composing his Violin Concerto No. 1 he was clearly deeply in love with her, and this work, dedicated to her, is undoubtedly the musical expression of his feelings. Geyer was later to describe the first movement as “the young girl whom he had loved” and the second as “the violinist whom he had admired.” Bartók himself described the first movement as his “most direct” music, “written exclusively from the heart.” The opening D–Fs–A–Cs motive is the germ of the work and is alluded to in many instances in later works. In its minor form,

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Cs–E–Gs–Bs, Bartók described it in a letter to Geyer of September 1907 as “your leitmotif.” This motive was also used, probably coincidentally, by Vernon Duke in “I Can’t Get Started” (1935). Finally, it can be argued that the first theme of the concerto is the basis of all the other main themes. The pitches A–F–Ef–C–B–Ef represent part of the scale A–B–C–D–Ef–F–G–A. It is well known that Bartók was fond of this scale and that it is a scale that appears in ancient folk music.18 As an example of its presence in nature, the tui (a native bird of New Zealand) was heard singing the pitches of the opening theme of the Viola Concerto. On the occasion when the author noted this phenomenon, the tui sang the notes A–F–Ef–B–C–F with an upward inflection toward the final F and in a rhythm almost identical to the opening of the Viola Concerto, the only difference being that the B–C (in reverse order in the concerto) was converted into a dotted eighth note and sixteenth note instead of two eighth notes. The reader may be assured that the bird was not “taught” this melody, nor is it likely that Bartók ever heard a New Zealand tui or even know of its existence. This is a tonality that occurs in nature and may well have been heard by Bartók, and its appearance in his music should not therefore be viewed as surprising. Peter Bartók comments: “At the first opportunity—beginning of the summer at Saranac Lake, New York—he started drafting the piano concerto, for which ideas were already chosen, such as bird calls noted down the previous year in Asheville, North Carolina.”19 The idea of a recurring motive is perhaps more easily recognizable if one takes the melody from the middle Ab section of the third movement as the most likely reference to an actual folk melody. This is the melody Peter Bartók identifies as having a Scottish flavor. In its pure form it does not appear to be Hungarian, due to the anacrusis—however, its origin is probably Eastern European rather than Scottish. Once the melody has been fully revealed it provides an ambiguity between a modulation to F minor and a scale that comprises Af–Bf–C–D–Ef–F–G–Af. This scale with its sharpened fourth is among those that filtered through Romanian folk music, where it can also be identified in the music of Gheorghe Enescu. When one compares its shape with the opening melody of the first movement, there is clearly some resemblance that even the reconfigured pitches and resulting tonality cannot hide. A similar shape can also be detected in the opening melodies of the second and third movements. The expansion and contraction of melodic intervals was a well-utilized technique of Bartók and indeed was one of his most important compositional devices for providing thematic unity and economy within a work.

The Manuscript The Viola Concerto of Béla Bartók was notated on four bifolia, a bifolium being a double-sized sheet that enables two pages to be written on each side or, in other

Genesis : 31

words, four pages per bifolium. In all there were fourteen pages of sketches written. Two different bifolia were left with half of one side blank. Some confusion has arisen over the years as to whether the manuscript contains thirteen or fourteen pages. This confusion was no doubt fueled by the fact that when, in 1963, Tibor Serly gave a copy of the manuscript to the Bartók Archives in Budapest, he supplied only thirteen pages. The missing page was brought to the attention of the staff at the archives, in 1983, by Malcolm Gillies, who pointed out that part of the sketches, shown on the record cover of the Bartók Records 1950 recording of Primrose, Serly, and the New Symphony Orchestra, was not among the thirteen pages that Serly had supplied. The confusion was compounded by the publication, in 1988, of Atar Arad’s article in the American String Teacher titled “The Thirteen Pages.” (This article is discussed in chapter 6). In both cases the missing page was one that contained a series of early sketches of the opening section of the first movement. It seems that Serly either had never been given this page or had decided it was unnecessary to include this page, as it was apparently an early sketch, superseded by the sketch that continued on to the main body of the first movement. Arad’s copy of the manuscript originated from William Primrose, which implies that Serly also did not give him this page. Serly added further confusion by stating, in his interview with David Dalton, “As you can see—we have here a replica of the manuscript of the Viola Concerto in front of us consisting of thirteen pages.”20 While there is the possibility that Serly never received the fourteenth page, this does seem highly unlikely, given that he was familiar with the sketches from soon after Bartók’s death. It is also extremely unlikely that either the Bartók family or Victor Bator would have decided to withhold it on the basis that it was superfluous. In any case, even if Serly’s official copy was a photostat, we know that the full four bifolia were in his possession as he worked on the reconstruction, as he marked directly onto them. The full manuscript is referred to in a letter from Victor Bator to Serly of November 7, 1947, but even here this information is confusing, as Bator refers to “the photostats of the viola concerto that is called the complete score, plus extra score page of some fragment not connected with the concerto. Altogether there are six sheets.” This implies that either thirteen or fourteen pages were included on five sheets and that the sixth sheet was not part of the concerto.

whereabouts This original manuscript has perhaps had a more interesting life than those of Bartók’s other works. It was at his bedside in his last days before he went into the hospital for the final time. After Belá’s death, Peter Bartók reports finding a brown envelope with the words “Viola Concerto and Song” written on it.21 It is not clear what the song was, but it is clear that the Viola Concerto was all together in one place and not in any way entangled with the manuscript of the Piano Concerto No. 3.

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In the early stages, Peter Bartók took responsibility for the safekeeping of the manuscript. According to him, the sketches and final score of the Piano Concerto were given to Serly very soon after his father’s death and the sketch of the Viola Concerto only some time later, probably after Serly had completed the orchestration of the last two pages of the Piano Concerto. For the time being, the Viola Concerto sketch remained in the black trunk where Peter put all of his father’s papers. It is possible that Serly saw the manuscript before Bartók died, but he clearly did not study it. After his father died, at first Peter Bartók was not aware that the estate’s executor’s powers extended to musical matters. In the case of the Piano Concerto No. 3, he assumed that this was not a matter for the estate to deal with as, under his father’s general agreement with Boosey & Hawkes, he was obliged to turn over for publication any work he wrote and completed and there was no thought of there being any reason not to allow the publication of the Piano Concerto. Peter recalls that the completed Piano Concerto was given to Boosey & Hawkes promptly, probably by Serly, and assumed that the business end of it was attended to by the executors. In the case of the very incomplete Viola Concerto, the estate clearly became fully involved, as is documented by correspondence between Tibor Serly and Victor Bator. In his interview with David Dalton, William Primrose recalls seeing the manuscript at Tibor Serly’s apartment “shortly after Bartók’s death.”22 Tibor Serly confirms this in his “A Belated Account of a 20th-Century Masterpiece” in the following words: “after I had examined the manuscript thoroughly (October, 1945 and into 1946).”23 It is in retrospect very difficult to establish exactly who held on to the manuscript between Bartók’s death and the formal approach of Victor Bator in late 1947, but it seems clear that the work was some of the time with Peter Bartók and some of the time with Tibor Serly and somehow was returned to Peter Bartók or Victor Bator in time to be formally sent to Serly in 1947. It is also probable that Serly had the original in his possession soon after Bartók’s death and made a copy before returning the manuscript to the estate. It is clear, however, that when his work in earnest began on the reconstruction, Serly worked from the original, as he added a few markings of his own directly onto the manuscript. These are identified by László Somfai in his commentary on the facsimile edition.24 Some years later the New York Bartók Estate was established for the safekeeping of materials. For some reason the Viola Concerto manuscript was missing. Peter Bartók’s explanation was that “this loss supposedly occurred when the record cover was about to be printed and the manuscript was taken out of the estate’s archive to be photographed. That was sometime between 1951 and 1953.” In any case, this was rather fortunate, as it did not suffer the same fate as other manuscripts in being cut up from the bifolium format so as to be stored in more conveniently sized envelopes.25

Genesis : 33

From letters to David Dalton from Tibor Serly (November 1968), Benjamin Suchoff (January 1969), Henry N. Ess III (November 1969), Peter Bartók (December 1969), and Benjamin Suchoff (February 1970) 26 it is clear that the manuscript was considered lost even at these late dates. The whereabouts of the manuscript from 1953 until 1972 are unknown. According to Peter Bartók, the family tried unsuccessfully to find out this information from Victor Bator, the trustee of the estate. Apparently at one time he claimed that he knew where the manuscript was but refused to disclose this to the family. Eventually the manuscript did reappear and subsequently became securely held at Bartók Records in Florida. In the early 1990s Peter Bartók, in collaboration with Nelson Dellamaggiore and violist Paul Neubauer, began work on a revision. To coincide with this publication, Peter planned to publish a full-color facsimile of the manuscript to settle once and for all the disputes over what information it really contained. Although a number of photocopies had proliferated over the years, the opportunity to be able to refer to the original or, the next best thing, a color facsimile, was in the case of the Viola Concerto long overdue. We must be very grateful to Peter Bartók for having the foresight to release this document and also to László Somfai for the most illuminating commentary that he provides in the publication. Released in late 1995, this is undoubtedly the most important document ever published on the concerto. The reproduction is of the highest quality, with every detail revealed, showing the differentiation between pencil and ink and of course the different-colored markings. It is published by Bartók Records, with the actual facsimile being produced by Nelson Dellamaggiore.

contents of the document These fourteen pages of sketches have caused controversy since the outset, not so much through their contents as through the lack of access to them. No doubt the “secrecy” that surrounded them was encouraged by Serly to protect his reconstruction from scrutiny by those determined to prove that the work was not authentic Bartók. The somewhat sharp exchange of letters between Tibor Serly and Benjamin Suchoff in July 1975 highlights the extreme sensitivity of this matter.27 In hindsight, an early release of the manuscript would probably have assisted the work’s acceptance more than hindered it. It would have dispelled the rumors that Serly composed much of the work and, with the limited scholarship available in 1949 of Bartók’s compositional process, may well have satisfied many of the critics that it was a fair realization of the sketches. However, during the fifty years’ delay from 1945 to 1995 in making the sketches officially available in color facsimile Bartók scholarship developed to a very sophisticated level. It is now almost universally accepted among Bartók scholars that, when viewed beside his other late works, the draft of the Viola Concerto represents only the first layers of the compositional process of mature Bartók. Thus it is important

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to note that even with the most faithful transcription of the material in the manuscript, it is still only the realization of a first draft, which would have developed significantly had Bartók lived to take it to its final form. Indications for orchestration were only occasional, and it was texturally far from complete. When Tibor Serly was asked by David Dalton if the work was completed by Bartók, he replied, “Well the answer to that would have to be yes and no.”28 It was a fair answer and worthy of comment. Anyone who has scrutinized the sketches in any detail will agree that there are three movements, which are structurally complete, plus some extra bars, which may or may not be an integral part of the work. Bartók provided precise timings of the three movements and a total timing, being the sum of the three markings. This would imply that any linking sections are to be included within these timings. The main problems that relate to this are in the placement of the beginnings of movements. It is unclear, for instance, whether the Lento parlando (Serly’s choice of marking) should be included in the first movement timing or the second movement timing or left out altogether. It is also unclear whether the last movement begins at the Moderato or the Allegro. These decisions affect the timings and therefore the tempi of all three movements. As mentioned earlier, the facsimile edition contains an extensive commentary by László Somfai, who is the most respected authority on Bartók’s compositional process. As well as providing insight into the order of the intended sequencing of the sketches, Somfai speculates on the order in which the various layers were added, showing how Bartók went back and forth between the pages. This is musical detective work of the highest sophistication, accomplished with expertise gained through extensive experience with other original Bartók manuscripts. The ordering of the writing is vitally important for two reasons. First, it shows how the layering of the work developed, and second, where sketches of material appear in more than one place, it helps clarify which is the final version.

Chapter

Two

The Reconstruction

A Critical Examination of the

Work of Tibor Serly

Before I discuss in detail the work of Tibor Serly, the issue of Kodály’s possible involvement in the reconstruction must be addressed. In response to an inquiry by the author on this matter, Peter Bartók replied in a letter dated August 5, 1995: After my father’s death in 1945, there was not yet normal communication with Hungary. Tibor Serly was in New York, he had collaborated with my father (Mikrokosmos Suite), he was willing to compare the completed portion of the Third Piano Concerto orchestra score with the corresponding sketches, thus learned my father’s shorthand, orchestrated the last two pages of that concerto; it was then a natural continuation of his work to study the Viola Concerto sketches so he could be asked, and he agreed, to reduce [sic] the realization. While Tibor Serly was at work and travel between Europe and America became possible and Zoltán Kodály visited New York, I asked him if he would undertake to prepare another realization of the Viola Concerto independent from that of Mr. Serly, but he declined. I do not know whether this implied approval of what he was already able to see of Serly’s work, or simply wanting to not interfere.

During an interview between the author and Atar Arad in June 1995, Arad recalled a conversation with Ron Golan, former principal violist of the Suisse Romande Orchestra. According to Arad, Ron Golan had held a conversation with Zoltán Kodály in which he claimed to have discussed this matter and it was his recollection that he offered early in the picture to undertake the work on the Viola Concerto but was turned down by the Bartók family. It is possible that Peter Bartók was not aware of this, as the approach may have been to Ditta, and the subsequent request by Peter would then, not surprisingly, have been turned down. It is also possible of course that the conversation between Ron Golan and Zoltán Kodály has not been remembered accurately.

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The stages in Tibor Serly’s reconstruction of the Viola Concerto have been well documented. It is the intention here first to outline the circumstances that brought about his involvement and second to review his actual work.

The Circumstances The following article originates from the 1970 Ph.D. dissertation by David Dalton at the University of Indiana at Bloomington and was published in April 1976 as “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto” (Music and Letters, Volume 57, No. 2, pp. 117–29). It is the most comprehensive firsthand account of the circumstances under which Tibor Serly became involved in the project of bringing the Viola Concerto to a publishable form. Many aspects of this interview with Tibor Serly require comment; hence it is produced here in full, with annotations by this author in footnotes. Comments in brackets are those of David Dalton, which appeared as footnotes in the original published article. The transcript of the interview is reprinted by permission of David Dalton: 3 December 1969 dalton: Would you review the circumstances that brought you into an active and most important role regarding the Viola Concerto? That is, how did the manuscript eventually come into your hands? serly: As you may recall, Bartók was on his deathbed on 21 September, 1945, although we were not quite aware of it. [He died on the 26th.] That evening I visited Bartók at his home; he had just returned from Lake Saranac. He was obviously quite ill. When I spoke to him, he was lying in bed. By that time it was very well known that he was close to having completed the Viola Concerto for Mr Primrose. But, strangely, a totally different manuscript was in his lap. This was the Third Piano Concerto. I had some vague notion that he had been writing a piano concerto, but no one else knew about it. So I asked him, “What about the Viola Concerto?” He pointed toward the other side of the bed where another pile of manuscripts lay. That was evidently the Viola Concerto. It was then that I asked, “Well, what is the situation with it?” He sort of shrugged his shoulders and then made some remark more or less as he had written to Mr Primrose: the concerto was quite finished except that he had to orchestrate it and talk over some technical passages that he wasn’t quite certain about. dalton: Who was responsible for giving the manuscript over to you and asking you to complete the concerto? serly: I think that came out of a natural association. I had known Bartók ever since my student days, specifically, 1923. Some years after that, I was a member of the Cincinnati Orchestra under Fritz Reiner. [Tibor Serly was born in Losonc, Hungary, on 25 November 1901. He was taken to America as a child. Returning to Hungary, he studied composition

The Reconstruction : 37 with Kodály at the Royal Academy of Music, Budapest, and violin with Hubay. He became violist with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, the Philadelphia Orchestra under Stokowski, and the N.B.C. Symphony Orchestra under Toscanini. In the latter, he was a member of the viola section of which William Primrose was principal violist. In 1937 he settled in New York as a teacher of composition and now resides in Washington State.] During Bartók’s first visit to the United States in 1927, he spent about two weeks in Cincinnati. As he didn’t speak English well at the time, and had neither acquaintances or friends, we were almost constantly together. I was still in my twenties at the time, and a sort of teacher-disciple, almost father-son, relationship developed. From then on, every time I visited Hungary, which I did fairly frequently, I always visited him. In 1935 when I had my great day in Budapest, conducting a series of my own works with the Budapest Philharmonic, Béla Bartók came to my concert. [He went to about one concert in five years in those days.] I also became very well acquainted with his young wife, Ditta. So, the most natural thing happened when he came to America, first in 1939 [sic], and subsequently in 1940 to stay, his managers had contacted me that Bartók had written to inform me that he was coming. I was there at the boat when he arrived. From the very start we lived close to each other. dalton: Do I understand you correctly, that you were not officially or formally approached by the Bartók family to reconstruct the concerto? This more or less devolved upon you because of your close association with the composer? serly: No, that would not be quite right. I was approached. Let me go back to 1940. You know from history that Bartók was not doing too well at the time. There was an occasional chamber concert, sometimes with his wife, sometimes with Joseph Szigeti; a little solo playing, and here and there an invitation to a university for a day or two. Aside from that, he had practically nothing. He even gave a few piano lessons.1 I knew of his plight. I had been very much fascinated with the first drafts of the Mikrokosmos cycle of piano works. I became quite excited finding a number of pieces among them that looked quite daring, and possibly would be very pleasing to the public. I scored five of the pieces for string quartet and Bartók immediately recommended it to Boosey & Hawkes, and it was published. I thought that by circulating a few of the less serious works, especially at that time of many radio performances, Bartók would become more popular with the public so that they might later become more interested in more serious and larger works. This was done to a degree, and then I became even more excited thinking: “Why not make a larger cycle?” Then came the suite which is still known as the “Mikrokosmos Suite” for Orchestra. At the time I was working on the suite, we spent about ten days together at Cape Cod. After it was completed, I went to Bartók. I hadn’t just arranged the pieces from the piano, but I had enlarged upon them and put in contrapuntal voices, actually voices that had not existed there. I’ve always

1. In fact, in November 1940 Bartók was awarded an honorary doctorate from Columbia University and in March 1941 he began work there on the collection of Yugoslav epic songs. This employment lasted theoretically through 1942, although not continuously, as he was plagued by illness through part of this time.

38 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o made a point of this: not one bar was used that was not his music. In other words, even the insertion would be either some kind of canonic imitation, or something that came exactly out of the motivic material of the particular movement. I had much trepidation when it came to showing him this. Not only that, but at least three of the movements were enlarged to about twice as long. He examined them carefully, and all he said was, “Fine, good.” He did make one remark when I told him that in the “Diary of a Fly” I thought it should be at least doubled in length with a different orchestration: he said, “Yes, I had not finished that one yet. I would recommend only one thing”— that was his only remark —“that it come a third higher the second time.” That, I should think, would have once and for all set the precedent. He himself allowed me to do anything I wanted, which I wouldn’t have done anyway. I did what I thought he would like to do if he were doing it himself. I had, so to speak, carte blanche. Everybody that was close to Bartók, his family included, was aware of that.2 The suite was performed with considerable success. Bartók was not an easy person for many, because he stood for only the absolute truth; he had no small talk. I wanted to make sure that there would be no kickback or any kind of recrimination against what I had done, so it states in the printing that everything contained in the “Mikrokosmos Suite” was done with collaboration, and approval, of the composer. There was no collaboration, but I wanted to do that as a gesture. So there you have it. It was therefore natural that after the bereavement and tension of Bartók’s death had lessened, the first things that I received were the two manuscripts; the Viola Concerto and the Third Piano Concerto. There was no question about it; they [Bartók’s son, Peter, and his mother] simply said, “Please ask Tibor to look these manuscripts over carefully.”3 Well there’s your answer. Nobody questioned anything. There would have been absolutely no one around. They spoke of the possibility of Kodály doing it. I can tell you without any hesitation that Kodály would not have done it. He would not have taken on such a responsibility. He probably would have either asked me, if I had been in Europe, or one or two students of my generation who were there. They might have done a fairly decent job. dalton: May I ask a somewhat personal question? How did you feel about this responsibility of seeing both concertos through to their completion, in view of the fact that Kodály wouldn’t have done the same? serly: I can’t really say how I felt. I think it all happened almost automatically and naturally. Who else was there to do it? Who else would or could have possibly done it? And so I felt myself more or less duty-bound. I didn’t even question that they were great compositions because I knew that any work that was a large work of Bartók was going to be a great

2. This carte blanche presumably applied to Serly’s work on the Mikrokosmos but would hardly seem justified in a general sense, considering Bartók’s fastidious nature and attention to detail. 3. The formal letter of approach from Victor Bator to Tibor Serly dated November 7, 1947, is included as appendix 2.

The Reconstruction : 39 work. At least, that was my opinion. There wasn’t a question at all. Of course I was doubly fascinated because the main manuscript entailed the Viola Concerto, which was my main instrument, though by that time I had quit playing it. Incidentally, the mistaken notion many people have is that I was a pupil in composition of Bartók. From his professional days on, Bartók never taught composition. dalton: Did he not decline a position in composition at the Curtis Institute? serly: That is correct. The only way I could consider myself his student was that during the time I was still young and frequently together with him, I certainly asked him questions about musical matters. While he lived in New York, we often played scores together. We played Bach chorales and organ works, four hand, and discussed them. But, of course, that was more—if I may be permitted to say—as colleagues than as student and professor. dalton: Actually, Bartók was at work on the concerto for about six months, from April until his death in September.4 serly: Yes, and as pointed out, for the first time that I know of, he worked simultaneously on two major works. dalton: What assurance do you have that you received all the sketches of the Viola Concerto that were made by the composer? Was it simply your reliance on his word that they were all at his bedside when you last visited him? serly: I think so, because during the last years especially, Bartók worked in such a remarkably tight fashion, that, as you can see — we have here a replica of the manuscript of the Viola Concerto in front of us consisting of thirteen pages—no bar or space was spared or wasted. He used the method of writing immediately in ink, no pencil. That is what makes working on such a manuscript so difficult. There is a scratch here and a scratch there in the manuscript, then Bartók would go to some other spot and make marks. But the work was done so tightly that the sketches were put down between two to four staves, and in rare instances, even overlapping four or five staves. Therefore, very few pages were used.5 dalton: Is this typical that he would compose in a—I suppose you would say, because of its appearance—reduced score? He didn’t compose it in full score as, say, Schoenberg did with Moses and Aron? serly: It is not quite the way you have expressed it. Bartók never worked in a reduced score, or a piano reduction. He did not like to make piano reductions; he always refused to do that. Bartók was one of those rare composers who thought orchestrally. He tried to put

4. Bartók’s letter to Primrose of August 5, 1945, would suggest a starting date possibly as late as early August. 5. In László Somfai’s analysis of the manuscript it is made very clear that Serly received all the material related to the concerto, as it was contained within the sixteen sides of four bifolios with no reference to any other work.

40 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o down the orchestration as best he could so that it would be visible and possibly playable. He did not think in terms of just writing down the harmonic content, then the melody, and then going on from there. This manuscript is not a reduced sketch in any sense of the term. Where it was completed, every single particle has been put in. However he did not mark the instruments; he made very few designations. If you could once decipher those parts, the orchestration was complete as it is. I had to clearly decipher the sketches so that everything went into place; skipped bars, additions, and other alterations. Now there are a few little places, for instance in the slow movement, where he knew exactly what he wanted to do, but put in only touches of the orchestration. There are other parts, as in the last movement, where only the melodic line comes up, but he knew what was going on there; he had just not put it in.6 I did not make the piano reduction of this work. That was done by somebody else much later.7 dalton: So we might say that there were at least two phases to your work: the assembling of the sketches, and then deciphering exactly what he meant. You have written in the preface to the published score about a certain shorthand which Bartók employed. This would be more typical of the last movement perhaps? serly: No, it’s typical of each of the movements. There are certain markings, and certain signs, and arrows which indicate that he would skip from one page to another. That was the most difficult part. Sometimes he didn’t even mark where it was done. It took many, many hours and sometimes many, many days to try to decipher that. Far too long a time has passed for me to be able to give you details of such things. The signs weren’t really many, but he did make skips. Rather than write in, he would skip on to another page. Often he wanted to save paper, or space, or some idea came to him, something that was either not used, or used in a different way later. I didn’t know this when I first had the score. I wondered, “Where does this, and where does that come in?” It was only subsequently, much later, that the whole thing became clear.8 What I had to do was really this: I had to rewrite the sketch completely, then find the empty holes, or what I thought were holes. At times the orchestration was so light, so spar-

6. The compositional process is analyzed in considerable detail by László Somfai in Peter Bartók, Belá Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft, with commentary by László Somfai (Homosassa, Florida: Bartók Records, 1995) and is referred to in chapter 1. 7. Serly’s recollection here raises an interesting point. This author has a copy of the piano part that was given to Primrose to study from and from which changes were made before the first performance in 1949. Serly refers to his piano reduction in his letter to Victor Bator of January 29, 1948. Clearly Serly did make a piano reduction in order for the early read-throughs with Burton Fisch and David Soyer to take place (Lucy Brown was the pianist). The issue appears to be that the printed reduction of Boosey & Hawkes, copyrighted in 1949, has discrepancies with the reduction produced by Serly. After careful examination of the various materials at the Bartók Archives in Budapest, it was concluded, in agreement with László Somfai, that Serly’s reduction was amended by Erwin Stein, chief editor of Boosey & Hawkes at the time, before going to publication. 8. It is the general opinion, not only of this author, that the implied continuity in the manuscript is not as difficult to decipher as Serly indicates.

The Reconstruction : 41 ing, with so few notes, I had to surmise whether he had left out any parts or not. Where I thought he would have included them, I put them in. There were quite a few spots like that, so sparing that there might be only one single note against the solo viola. dalton: Where these spots become so lean, did you ever resort to composing yourself ? I’m not talking about orchestrating, I mean actual composing. serly: Well the answer to that would have to be yes and no. I have tried to express this many times in conversations with musicians. That is most difficult to answer. There had to be certain bars put in, and there had to be alterations made. Bartók, although he knew what he was going to do, didn’t always put it in. Let’s put it this way: I did not use one solitary bar of original music. Take the first movement for instance: Bartók, no matter how modern his style, generally stuck to sonata form. In these last works, there is almost a Mozartiantype of pure classical form. He had the usual main and second subjects, development, and recapitulation. But in the first movement the recapitulation is left blank. He did, however, include the melodic line returning on the tonic, whereas the second subject is on the dominant. What I did at that point was to fill in the parts which were left blank. I was tempted to make a few deviations. If I had my own choice, I would have, but I did not do that. What I did was to make a few different decorations on the thematic material of the recapitulation and the tutti which followed, and rescored it so that it has a greater rise than it had before. The return of the subject matter, both themes, is clearly indicated, though with some variation. Those bars that included a grand tutti, so to speak, were placed in by me with a different orchestration. I was tempted, but made no deviations.9 dalton: Because of the brevity of the final movement, do you feel that there might have been more music that perhaps was not given you, or was lost? serly: I’m not so sure about that; I cannot answer, I think that I pointed out a little part in the manuscript in which he may have intended something, either a much longer introduction or something of that sort. But that part is so skimpy that I am quite certain Bartók himself was not sure whether he would have included such a portion or not.10 I cannot see any indication in the manuscript for anything beyond what there is because the lines are quite clear. There are no indications that there would be some more music in empty bars, as he indicates in the first movement. dalton: By introductory material, do you mean to the last movement? serly: Yes, or at least some part with different thematic material as occurs just before the rondo proper in the last movement of the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto.

9. In the recapitulation that Serly refers to he did, in fact, extend the material as it was presented in the exposition. The issues of structure are discussed in chapters 5 and 8. 10. The material referred to here is in fact incorporated into the Peter Bartók and Csaba Erdélyi revisions as part of the introduction to the last movement.

42 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o dalton: I have heard stories, probably apocryphal, that in this manuscript, there are numbers in the margin that were unexplainable until someone came up with the answer that these were temperature readings which the composer had been taking of himself. serly: No, I don’t think so.11 There is a page, however, that has the entire timing based on the metronomic markings. I forgot to mention that to you. So I cannot go along with the others’ views that the last movement is too short. Here it is. And it is quite clear and definite; the entire three movements. dalton: You mean this is Bartók’s own timing of the concerto? These indications are accurate almost to the second of the performance today? serly: The longest, of course, is the first movement, which is 9 minutes 20 seconds.12 dalton: The second is marked 3 minutes 10 seconds, and the last, 4 minutes 45 seconds.13 serly: Making 20 minutes 15 seconds in all, which is quite close. I don’t know if I pointed that out to Mr. Primrose. I’m not certain.14 dalton: I don’t believe so. At least he never mentioned it to me. I take it that the problems which you have recited in the reconstruction of the Viola Concerto were not encountered in completing the Third Piano Concerto. serly: No, no problem of that kind at all. There were actually only seventeen bars missing.15 I had some clues in the early part of the last movement which gave indication of how he would have finished the piano part, and some other passages. Nobody has yet remarked, “We can tell where Bartók left off, and now we can hear Serly.” No one has complained about it, so that is my greatest pride. I finally decided in the Viola Concerto to take the indications that were there, keep to his statement that the orchestration would be light and slim, and simply do the best I could to orchestrate it myself.

11. The markings mentioned as possible temperature readings are in fact almost certainly that. On the sixth page of the manuscript the numbers 37.3/99.2 are Centigrade to Fahrenheit conversions and would certainly suggest the kind of elevated temperatures Bartók was experiencing during the early August period while at Saranac Lake. 12. Bartók’s marking is clearly 10'20". 13. Careful study of the manuscript reveals the second movement timing to be 5'10", which would suggest a much slower tempo marking than Serly’s q = 69. 14. By Serly’s figures we get a total of 17'15", but with the corrected 3 to 5 minutes and 9 to 10 minutes we get Bartók’s total of 20'15". 15. This comment from Serly is most misleading. We know from looking at Bartók’s first draft of this work, for two pianos, that these seventeen bars were already composed by him. It was only in the orchestral score that the seventeen bars were left blank. Serly’s task was only to orchestrate them, and that should not have provided any challenge, as there was much information from the remainder of the work to draw from, especially from the immediately preceding bars in the third movement.

The Reconstruction : 43 dalton: In his letter to Primrose, Bartók raises the question of the playability of certain passages. Why do you suppose he would bring this up, in view of the fact that he had already had six quartets behind him in which he wrote idiomatically, and beautifully for the instrument? serly: I think the answer is very simple. I answer it from the point of view of a composer. Having been a viola player, I have often written works for either the violin or viola. As strange as it may seem, one still has to check certain passages no matter how much one knows about an instrument. I think that any composer worth his salt is always going to do something a little differently than he did before. In the case of Bartók, we are dealing with a first-class creative person; a genius, we would have to say. He wanted to get new sounds and new technical effects in the concerto. When one does that, one is bound to write passages which certainly may be awkward. dalton: Mr. Primrose said that there were indeed some passages which he considered awkward. He also remarked that he might have made some changes, but felt he was discouraged from doing so. serly: Yes, I, too, felt that in places some changes, or even additions—let’s say of double stops—should have been made. In that case, I was prompted by my knowledge of the instrument, or tried to determine what the awkward jump or double stop was intended to be. Though it is now very vague in my mind, Primrose and I did work simultaneously on a number of these spots that we had picked out together. He gave his views; I gave mine. Naturally, I was responsible for the entire production of the work, and consequently in the final analysis, my views had to take precedence.16 dalton: Halsey Stevens has a somewhat demeaning opinion of the concerto in comparison with other works, notably the Second Violin Concerto. Do you share this opinion? serly: I can only say that the work is now a standard repertoire piece. About three years ago I asked Boosey & Hawkes how many performances there were of the Viola Concerto in that particular year. The number of live performances went far above one hundred. These were live performances, not counting the recordings. Evidently each year, if anything, it is being performed more, rather than less. So I would say that actions speak louder than words. dalton: Are you personally acquainted with the new recordings, for instance the Menuhin recording? Do you feel these capture the intent of the composer as well as Mr. Primrose’s recording with your collaboration? serly: Less than a year ago I read a review of a recording, and it ended approximately with this phrase: “Some day we may get a better recording of the Viola Concerto, but until such a time, the Primrose-Serly version stands as the best, and this despite the newer and better recording techniques.” 16. The reader’s attention is drawn to the summary of discrepancies between the manuscript and Serly’s realization that is discussed in chapter 3.

44 : b a rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o dalton: I might add that I am not aware of any viola technique that matches that of Mr. Primrose’s, not to mention his insight and great imagination. serly: Well that’s about your answer to the old question. I only wish that we could have recorded it once again. dalton: I believe he has expressed a wish similar to that. serly: Because, you know, the work was all very new and very close to us at that time, and there was a question of money. Nobody was supporting it particularly. Boosey & Hawkes didn’t say, “Give us a wonderful recording. Money is no object.” Peter Bartók had to get his own money from the very little that was coming in from the estate. We didn’t exactly have the time or the proper facilities that we might have had, had there been more money. dalton: In looking back on the première of 25 years ago, the culmination of four years work on your part, can you say that you are satisfied with your unique contribution, which was the bringing to life of this work?17 serly: Well . . . I think it is one of the truly great works of Bartók. It is said that Bartók during those last years had mellowed, and maybe felt that he was close to the end of his life, and would now just do more conservative and less iconoclastic writing. I do not believe that to be the case. I think that if a close examination is eventually made years from now of the last three or four works of Bartók, it will be found that he was once again going towards another new discovery, as he had done before: a continuation of musical style. This work was the beginning of that, but not only the Viola Concerto; the Third Piano Concerto, and to a great degree the Concerto for Orchestra. He went back to the triadic order in some form; there is no question about that. This entire concerto is based on the dominant-seventh chord.18 Some day we will get a much closer analysis and examination of what he was heading toward. The dominant-seventh chord was to all of us, including myself, the great enemy, the hatred of the twentieth century. “Just get off that dominant chord!”

17. There is some doubt as to how long Serly actually worked on the Viola Concerto. Although the manuscript was not officially sent to him by Victor Bator until November 1947, Serly must have already been working on the score for some time. He at one point referred to four years when his own work lay fallow due to the Viola Concerto. However, it seems clear from correspondence from him to Victor Bator dated December 19, 1947, and January 29, 1948, that by December 1947 he had completed a version for both solo cello and solo viola with piano reduction. The piano score he sent to Primrose had “1945–47” written at the top. 18. This statement seems to demonstrate a surprising lack of understanding of the tonal implications of this work, which draws on several unusual modes, especially in the first movement. Apart from the opening four notes, the reference to a pervasive dominant seventh is difficult to identify.

The Reconstruction : 45

Serly’s Work It is to Tibor Serly that credit must be given for bringing into the viola repertoire Bartók’s Viola Concerto, possibly the most performed and recorded work for solo viola and orchestra of all time. The task that faced Serly was immense, much more difficult than actually writing a new work, as he had to attempt to put himself inside the mind of another. In Serly’s “A Belated Account of the Reconstruction of a 20th-Century Masterpiece” article,19 the second section (pp. 13–23) is devoted to the actual reconstruction. That section is reproduced here. Musical examples are not included here but may be located by measure number in the Boosey & Hawkes score of 1950. This article represents Serly’s views on his work and as such is an important historic document. The intention here is simply to look at the work of Serly in an objective manner to enable the reader to understand precisely what he did in creating his reconstruction. Here Serly’s account is reviewed, with this author’s comments in footnotes as the text unfolds. (The excerpt is reprinted by permission of the College Music Society, College Music Symposium © 1975.)

A Measure by Measure Exposition of the Reconstruction of Béla Bartók’s Viola Concerto First Movement From the beginning of the first movement, m. 1 to m. 168 (slightly more than two-thirds of the longest movement in the concerto), every note including the melodic, harmonic, and contrapuntal parts was completed by Bartók, with the exception of two separate measures.20 M. 73 is a repetition of m. 74, an octave lower. This extension was added to provide more brilliance in the viola’s climb to the high G-sharp. Bartók’s manuscript indicates some indecision here.21

19. Tibor Serly, “A Belated Account of the Reconstruction of a 20th-century Masterpiece,” College Music Symposium, Volume 15, 1975, pp. 7–25. 20. While it is true that Bartók had completed the music as stated, it is not true that Serly did not alter notes and octave registers. For instance in the first movement, in the solo viola part alone, there are discrepancies at mm. 21, 22, 37, 39, 43, 44, 45, 70, 89, 103, 105, 106, 107, 112, 116, 117, 127, 131, 162, 163, 164, 165, and 167. 21. The “indecision” referred to here is questionable. Certainly there are some corrections to the first idea, but the final intention appears clear and the leap from one octave to the upper one should occur between the first two notes (D–E) of m. 73 and the following measure of Serly should be omitted. The revisions by Peter Bartók, Csaba Erdélyi, and the author all agree on this point.

46 : b a rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o And m. 143 is a partial repeat of m. 142. Both William Primrose and I felt the necessity of an extra measure of timing to resolve into the tranquil re-entrance of the orchestra after the long viola cadenza.22 M. 168 to m. 184 with one different measure, the 4/4 m. 172 added by Bartók, are obviously the recapitulation (slightly modified) of m. 48 to m. 60. This includes the reprise of the orchestra tutti, now a fifth lower, in conformity with the classical tonic and dominant relationship. The contrapuntal voices, however, had not been put in, and the reprise of the tutti, m. 175 to m. 183, though clearly implied, had to be orchestrally filled in. True, the second time Bartók might have altered this tutti more than I dared to chance. But an essential goal in the reconstruction of the entire concerto was to avoid, if possible, any original music of mine. Happily, except for a few repeated or modified repeat measures, this turned out to be unnecessary in any of the three movements. So, for example, the sixteenthnote figure ending the recapitulation of the tutti was extended from seven to nine measures, in order to slacken the speed (see mm. 182–184), but the figure remains precisely the same.23 Mm. 185–186 were empty except for the viola melody and a whole-note “A” in the lower staff. Therefore, m. 184 was added to enable the unobtrusive return to the now more poignantly varied reprise of the second theme, which is also more elaborately worked out by Bartók than before.24 From m. 185 to m. 220, all is exactly as written by Bartók.25 It is interesting to note that, despite the ultra-chromatic guise of the second theme recapitulation, the only time in the entire concerto the orchestral background progresses downwards through the complete chromatic scale is starting on E-flat, m. 197, and ending on the low E-flat at m. 200. The most daring adjustment was made near the end of the movement. M. 221 and m. 222, originally written for viola solo alone in Bartók’s sketch, were converted into a combined orchestra and viola passage and extended one more measure to m. 223. On this my judgement may be faulted, but the original figure for solo viola seemed to me abrupt and uncertain.26 Again, however, there are no changes in the actual notes in the passage. The extra measure was slowed down from sixteenth to eighth notes (m. 223), which leads into the threemeasure tutti on muted trumpets and strings. Four more measures on the solo viola

22. The three revisions all omit this added measure. 23. The Peter Bartók and Erdélyi revisions leave this section more or less as resolved by Serly. In my revision the same length of bridge is retained as in the exposition, avoiding extending the material for the two extra bars. While I acknowledge that Bartók may have altered the material in the recapitulation, it is more faithful to the manuscript to leave the material alone. This issue is discussed more fully in chapters 5, 6, and 8. 24. This countermelody in the bassoon, added by Serly, has been removed in all three revisions. 25. This is not strictly so, as in m. 188 Serly chose to revise the octave placements in the solo viola part. They are restored in all three revisions. 26. Csaba Erdélyi’s 1992 revision accepts Serly’s solution here, but Peter Bartók’s and my versions opt for the original version, which, while extremely difficult to play, is possible and arguably the most effective. Erdélyi has adopted this original version in his 2001 revision.

The Reconstruction : 47 accompanied by the woodwind chord above brings the movement to a close on a pure C-major triad. Reviewing the first movement, all told only four measures in four different places were subjoined (74, 143, 184, 223).27 Thus, of the 230 measures which complete the first — and longest — movement (excluding the nine repeated tutti measures), 226 measures are Bartók’s; 4 are mine. This can hardly be called an unfinished or incomplete movement. I think it most essential to bear in mind that not one single bar of Bartók’s was omitted.

The Questionable Interlude—So Called—

Preceding the Second Movement

The Lento (Parlando) which follows immediately after the initial movement is a brief, lugubrious but powerful “Interlude” of fourteen measures. Still based partly on the main theme in the first movement, this passage ends with a brilliant, rapid chromatic-scale cadenza coming to a halt on the viola’s open C-string. At this point there is a bar line marked 2/4 (in Bartók’s sketch), followed by a blank space which also terminates page seven in the original manuscript. This corresponds to the low C one bar before the four measure introduction to the second movement proper in the printed reduced score. For me to have omitted these forceful fourteen measures from the concerto, reproduced precisely as written by Bartók, would have been unthinkable.28 (Even a brief glance at the original manuscript confirms that there is no relationship to the “motto” theme of the 6th Quartet.) But the decision to include these measures caused the most vexing problem in the concerto, as it involved all three movements. I should mention at this point that it may have been my description of this vexatious enigma which could have created the false rumour that Bartók intended to add a fourth movement to the concerto. In any case, the second movement proper, which follows immediately (p. 8 in the manuscript) contradicts any thought of the Interlude part being intended as an independent movement. (More on this later.)

Second Movement (Adagio Religioso) The Adagio commences on an E-major chord (p. 32 in the printed score) without any indication apparent. Otherwise, the entire movement is complete in both viola solo and the orchestra background from beginning to end of its 57 measures. In fact, until m. 30 not a single fill-in of any sort was necessary. From there on, for the next nine measures (m. 30 27. Strictly speaking, in creating the bridge to the second theme in the recapitulation Serly created two new measures at m. 184. 28. This of course has been the biggest structural problem for everyone who has attempted to present a performing edition of this work. My version is the only one that does in fact leave this section out, based on the theory that it was the first draft of a slow movement but rejected later as being too short and subsequently replaced by the slow movement proper as we know it. This is discussed in detail in chapters 6 and 8.

48 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o through m. 38), Bartók’s sketch of the accompaniment to the melody in the viola consists simply of a descending sequence series of consonant triads. These are replenished with orchestral embellishments of my own invention, which were to me remindful of the “out-ofdoors” mood in the trio part of the slow movement in the Third Piano Concerto, written at the same time. (Here is the one place Halsey Stevens came close to alluding to the “outof-doors” idea. It so happens, aside from the Third Piano Concerto, I had in mind several similar passages, such as in “Musique Nocturnes” (from Out-of-Doors Suite), “Minor Seconds” (Mikrokosmos). I could cite others, but these will suffice. At that, I should feel complimented that my planned likeness at least received recognition. I might add also that the embellishments used were modestly scored deliberately, so as not to interfere with the purity of the melody line.) But not one note of the basic harmony is altered, only the orchestration lightly filled in. At m. 40 a curtailed reprise of the beginning Adagio motive connects into an echo-like recall of the main theme of the first movement (m. 50). From there, the movement accelerates gradually into the brief but brilliant cadenza which leads with stunning impact directly into the introductory Allegretto part. Thus the entire slow movement, including the bridge connecting into the introduction to the last movement, is set down complete and exactly as Bartók wrote it. We return now to the enigmatic bar line at the end of the “Interlude,” which corresponds to the viola’s low C five measures before the second movement (p. 31 in the printed score). The two-fold question arises: (1) Did Bartók intend to omit the “Interlude” portion between the first and second movements? If so, it seemed strangely unlike him to have commenced the 2nd movement on a bare E-major triad.29 (2) Contrariwise, if Bartók wanted to retain the “Interlude,” did he intend to proceed at once to the 2/4 Allegretto introduction to the Finale? But then there would have been no place at all for the 2nd movement proper to be established. Perhaps Bartók had some simple solution in mind. If so, in this one place it escaped me.30 Therefore, I was obliged to use the prerogative of the composer in order to preserve the interlude verbatim. I decided to insert a connecting part which would lead smoothly into the 2nd movement. But the question was how to do so without upsetting the balance. After much searching, I decided to borrow the melody line at m. 154 to m. 157 from the first movement in the orchestral interlude but to transfer it to the solo bassoon and omit all accompaniment. (In the first statement, this passage is played on the oboe.) The shift to a

29. It is unclear why Serly would have considered this strange. Examples of very similar change of key between movements can be observed in the Piano Concerto No. 3, where the first movement ends on an E major triad and the second movement begins in C major, an exact reversal of the Viola Concerto’s situation. The first movement of the Violin Concerto No. 2 ends in the key of B and the second movement begins in G, again a third away. The String Quartet No. 4 moves from a tonal center of C to E between the first two movements, providing an identical key shift. Serly’s assertion that it seemed strangely unlike Bartók is weak but undoubtedly seemed necessary to justify his inclusion of his own linking bassoon solo to make the modulation from C major to E major. 30. This author’s assertion that the Interlude was a first draft of a slow movement would explain the dilemma regarding the 24 (see chapter 6).

The Reconstruction : 49 third above at m. 157 allows the bassoon to gently modulate into the second movement proper.31 Thus, by the simple process of adding four unison measures borrowed from a previous passage, I solved what was to me the knottiest problem in the concerto — and this without a single bar of Bartók’s music having been omitted from the original manuscript, either in the first or second movements, including “Interlude.”

The Enigmatic Introduction to the Third Movement With the above dilemma solved, the one unresolvable riddle occurs between the “Allegretto Introduction” and the third movement proper. It is the only place in the concerto where I found it unavoidable to omit eight measures. To attempt to give the details of these leftout measures cannot be done without a minute analysis of the original manuscript (pp. 8 and 9) before and after the eight mysteriously unaccountable measures. Suffice it to say that countless attempts were made but each clue led nowhere. And since the rest of the twentyfive bars of introduction led perfectly into the Allegro Vivace Finale, there was no alternative but to omit these measures. This is just a guess on my part, but it is my conviction that Bartók himself would not have included the bit.32 (I should mention that there were odd motive bits elsewhere jotted down. Some were used, others, not. But in most instances the indications were clear.)33

Third Movement, Allegro Vivace It must be conceded at the start that the last movement proved to be the most bafflingly arduous. This is not due to its incompleteness, as it was finished to the very last measure, but rather on account of its bareness. The two previous movements were in comparison harmonically, melodically, and contrapuntally complete in the sketches. Apart from deciphering the many strange signs and symbols and trying to locate partially-written measures sometimes hidden elsewhere, the main task was in the orchestration which, as stated in the printed score, is entirely mine. In the third movement the problem was quite different. Frequently there was only a single melody line to go by, with a few chordal or contrapuntal

31. While it certainly provided a link, it does not in my opinion “gently modulate.” Csaba Erdélyi’s 1992 revision left the link as Serly provided, Peter Bartók has provided a new but shorter link, and my revision does not require any link at all because the Interlude is not included. Erdélyi has since dispensed with the link and simply pauses on a low C before commencing the second movement. 32. Erdélyi and Peter Bartók include these measures as an extension to the Allegretto, which leads to the third movement. Another theory is that these measures could have formed part of the fourth movement, which was abandoned during the August–September period of 1945. I favor Serly’s decision to omit them altogether. 33. All the other “odd motive bits” are connected in some way to material actually used in the concerto.

50 : b a rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o indications at intervals. Hence, from m. 5 to m. 80 (except here and there a bar or two of a counter melody), the manuscript consists solely of the melody line. This includes fourteen measures (51 to 64), which I deduced to be the first orchestra tutti. This tutti passage had to be fully orchestrated and harmonically filled in.34 However, from m. 80 to m. 114 the basic harmony and contrapuntal parts to the solo viola—written on two, sometimes three staves—are followed exactly as noted by Bartók.35 So too, from m. 114 to m. 230 everything is as set down in Bartók’s sketches, with the exception of nine measures which were added by me. For these nine measures (197–205) I accept full responsibility, for this reason: after the sparkling and ingeniously contrapuntal, though classically lucid orchestral climax at m. 150 to m. 177, it seemed to me that some sort of a very virtuoso-like passage was needed on the solo viola. This is indicated by Bartók, but was not in my estimation quite fulfilled. The nine-measure extension afforded me the opportunity to utilize the total range of the viola with utmost brilliance. However, I should again point out that this was accomplished by simply repeating m. 206 to m. 211 a fifth higher and extended from six to nine measures.36 As I recall it, Mr. Primrose, too, suggested some technical improvements on this score. Nevertheless, from m. 81 to m. 230 (which includes the nine measures) everything is realized in Bartók’s original sketches written, for the most part, on two, sometimes three, staves. The final measures (230 to 258) were quite a different situation. Here the lower half of the final page (p. 13) in the manuscript is a mass of hastily scribbled and blearied sketches, notated mostly on four, occasionally five, overlapping and confused zigzagged staves. Yet, strangely enough, the “last four bars”— perhaps not so surprising considering the circumstances—are as transparent as are the opening measures of the first movement. Before closing this exposé of how and what was done in the reconstruction of the concerto, I have one more transgression to confess. The five closing measures of the finale, with their four different tonal resolutions, emerge with such a shocking abruptness that I could not resist interjecting a short tutti of four measures, preceding to the low entrance of the viola. Hence bars 255 to 258 were repeated fortissimo for full orchestra with my own harmonization. (May I say regarding these light encroachments, if such they be, that in my Mikrokosmos Suite transcription for large orchestra, done when Bartók was still alive (1942),

34. It is the opinion of this author that Serly made a serious error of judgment here. At m. 51 in the printed score Serly harmonized what is most likely a folk music–inspired melody with a diatonic-type accompaniment. This predictably gives the melody a somewhat Western flavor. With the implications of major thirds removed and the countermelody of the half-bar canon begun at the outset of the tutti, the effect is dramatically different and certainly more “Oriental” in its modal language. 35. Two exceptions are m. 89, where the pizzicato chord of Serly should be a sustained half note, and mm. 103 and 104, where the second violin part notes Cs to Cn should probably be Gs to A so that the orchestral texture moves up in bare consecutive fourths as indicated by Bartók. 36. This was unjustified. None of the revisions include Serly’s extended measures. As well as extending the material and modulating, Serly also redistributes the notes in the solo part so as to produce simultaneous octaves, rather than the broken octaves indicated by Bartók. Evidence is given in chapter 3 to show that Primrose played a significant role in altering this passage.

The Reconstruction : 51 several repetitions of passages and extensions were added by me in the orchestra version with his full sanction.37 Let us also recall Bartók’s letter to Primrose about certain adjustments he was prepared to make. See letter to Primrose in printed score.38 For this I hope I may be forgiven, although I ponder what the reaction would now be, were these four measures to be omitted.39 Thus, without intent to over-dramatize this final portion of Bartók’s posthumous Viola Concerto, here truly, the manuscript indicated to me beyond question Bartók’s desperate effort to get on with the end. One needs only to glance through the lower half of the manuscript’s final page (p. 13) to note the feverish urge that seemed to drive Bartók ineluctably on to the successful completion of the last five bars.

37. It is of course speculative to assume Bartók would have approved of this particular transgression, but given the circumstance at the very closing phrase and the interruptive nature of the insertion, it would seem highly unlikely that Bartók would have approved of this solution. This is discussed more fully in chapters 6 and 8. 38. In the letter referred to here (shown in chapter 1), the adjustments Bartók mentioned would have been related to technical difficulties for the violist, not aspects of the concerto’s structure, in which Primrose would certainly have been of no help. 39. In all three revisions these measures have been omitted, and to date every violist and reviewer encountered by the author has noted that the ending is far more convincing without Serly’s added measures.

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Chapter

Three

Première and Publication

An Account of the Events of 1945–49

That Lead up to the First Performance

This chapter is presented in four parts. First, the issue of the cello version is examined. Second, the administrative matters that pertain to this period are outlined. Third, the circumstances that surrounded the read-through by Burton Fisch and David Soyer are examined. Fourth, the involvement of William Primrose in the finalizing of musical details is investigated in depth.

The Cello Version After completing his work on the Viola Concerto, Tibor Serly notified the trustee of the Bartók Estate, Victor Bator, in a letter on December 19, 1947, that the work was completed and written out for either viola or cello.1 The circumstances of the existence of this cello version have often been misunderstood. In his “Belated Account . . .” article, Serly throws some light on this issue (extracts from this article are reprinted by permission of the College Music Symposium, © College Music Society 1975): Now, to rectify the question of the “cello version,” referred to as follows in Stevens’ biography (p. 253): “Although it had been commissioned by William Primrose, because of ‘apparently insurmountable difficulties’ with the Bartók estate, he had given up hope of receiving it when, in January, 1950, Ernest Ansermet told him that the Concerto was being rewritten for violoncello.” But the facts behind the rumour of a cello version of the Viola Concerto are more involved than this brief statement implies. After I had examined the manuscript thoroughly (October, 1945 and into 1946), it occurred to me that, in view of Bartók’s statement to Primrose, “Most probably some passages will prove uncomfortable or unplayable” (and indeed here were such), and remembering Bartók’s setting of his own Rhapsody No.1 for both violin and cello (1928), I decided from the start that I would work on a double version, one for viola and another for violoncello. And so, when both versions were simultaneously completed in the fall of 1948, I immediately arranged for a violist and

54 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o cellist among my friends to learn the concerto. The two fine young artists who volunteered turned out to be Burton Fisch, violist, and David Soyer, cellist, with the excellent pianist, the late Lucy Brown, providing the reduced orchestra accompaniment. An evening was arranged at my New York studio to which sixteen relatives, friends, admirers, and musicians, all of whom were close to Bartók, were invited to listen and give their views. They were requested to jot down on a piece of paper which version they favored, the viola or cello. If my memory serves me well, surprisingly the vote was eight to six in favor of the cello version, and two did not wish to commit themselves. In any case, though this may now seem paradoxical the cello received the slightly higher vote. Nevertheless, it was later rightly decided that the original agreement with William Primrose be honored.

The reader is also reminded of Serly’s letter to Victor Bator in which he states: In my opinion, this Viola Concerto is in some respects the greatest work that has come from the master’s pen and I think superior to the last Piano Concerto. It is only fair, however, to warn you that a concerto for Viola Solo is not very popular with conductors nor from a practical standpoint, with publishers. It is a tragic shame that the same masterful genius of Bartok’s last months was not put into a more popular instrument such as a violin or cello.

Primrose remembers things quite differently in an interview with David Dalton (printed in full and annotated later in this chapter): I don’t recall Ansermet’s having told me this. I remember having heard it through the grapevine. The concerto was being peddled around; I think the estate was simply looking for a larger commission. They approached a very well-known cellist who could afford to pay a higher sum. It was only because I had the letter that I could force them to stick to the original bargain.

To an inquiry to David Soyer regarding this matter the author received the following response: “Gregor Piatagorsky heard the recording and offered a larger sum for the first rights than Primrose had, but Primrose objected strongly and threatened to sue. He (Primrose) was given all rights for, I believe, one year.” On February 2, 1951, William Primrose wrote to Peter Bartók, requesting an extension to the exclusive rights to performances. The letter in response to this, from Victor Bator (trustee of the Bartók Estate), dated February 20, 1951, indicated that the original exclusivity lasted until the end of 1951. In this letter, Bator agreed to extend the rights to the end of the 1953/54 season. This agreement excluded performances in Europe but did extend recording exclusivity everywhere. Before I leave the subject of the cello version, the letter from Bator to Primrose dated April 30, 1953 (figs. 3.1a and b), is worthy of inclusion. This clearly puts on the record the position of the Bartók Estate on this matter and highlights a number of apparent misunderstandings that surround the cello version:

Première and Publication : 55 30 East 72nd Street New York City April 30, 1953 Dear Mr Primrose, I assume that you have seen the book of Halsey Stevens, THE LIFE AND MUSIC OF BELA BARTOK. In that book on page 253 I read the following passage. “Although, it had been commissioned by William Primrose, because of apparently insurmountable difficulties with the Bartok estate he had given up hope of receiving it when, in January 1949, Ernest Ansermet told him that the concerto was being rewritten for violoncello. Through the efforts of Ralph Hawkes, who assured him that “morally” the work was his, Primrose had the score in his hands in the early summer of 1949, and gave the first performance in Minneapolis the following December with Antal Dorati conducting.” I immediately wrote to Halsey Stevens and asked him where he got that information. His answer was that he got it from you, more specifically out of a letter written by you on May 16, 1950, as follows: “A few days later I heard from Ralph Hawkes that Tibor Serly, Bartok’s great friend and closest musical associate, had undertaken to decipher the manuscript and make a score . . . I need not say how faithfully and with what loving care he accomplished this self-imposed task. Six months passed and Ralph Hawkes wrote and told me that the score was finished, but sundry and apparently insurmountable difficulties had arisen with the Bartok estate, and I confess when I heard this I lost heart and let the whole matter drop. . . . In January 1949 my train schedule demanded that I spend some hours in Boston, where I saw . . . my friend, M. Ansermet . . . In the course of conversation he told me that the Bartok Viola Concerto was being rewritten for cello; I was amazed to hear this . . . But M. Ansermet assured me it was a fact, and advised me to get in touch with Ralph Hawkes as soon as possible. This I did and he confirmed M. Ansermet’s statement; but he said and I quote him: “morally the work is yours, and if you still want it I will do everything in my power to see that you obtain it.” This he did. In the early summer of 1949 the work was in my hands and I spent most of that summer working (on) and memorizing this concerto which I found to be a sensitive and inspired work, and a real contribution to the literature of the viola.”

56 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o I went through my correspondence with you and with Boosey & Hawkes, permissions kind. I went through the entire correspondence between the Bartók Estate and Boosey & Hawkes. Nowhere did I find the slightest sign of any disagreement or any difficulty raised by me, representing the Estate, regarding the Viola Concerto. From the time when the editing was done by Serly and was ready, and more especially from the time when we received the letter of Bartok written to you and you expressed your willingness to execute the contract between you and Bartok, I had never had the slightest doubt in my mind that the work was yours if you wanted it. As a matter of fact, though Serly felt that the work would be just as well edited and orchestrated for cello, I myself was very firm in my mind that this should not be done, that we shall continue to act the way as Bartok intended, that is to have it only as a viola concerto . . . and that was the answer I gave to a very outstanding violin-cellist who came to see me regarding the first performance of the work. Using the word “morally” was first done by me toward Ralph Hawkes. Whatever information Ansermet got regarding the work being rewritten for violoncello was erroneous. Serly himself never decided in favour of violoncello, and nobody else did. However he edited it and prepared it for both, and at a rehearsal at his home he wanted to hear some other people’s opinion including mine. I had no objection against all this, but from the beginning I was firmly of the opinion that I would never give my consent to anything other than viola. It is true that there were serious difficulties in the relationship of Boosey & Hawkes to the Estate and I sued on behalf of the Estate for the dissolution of the contract. That had, however, nothing whatsoever to do with the Viola Concerto and your relationship to the Estate. This is the way I know the facts. I would like to see a letter of Ralph Hawkes or any other fact refuting this. I hope you will help me straighten out the facts. I hope you are well and I hope that soon you will be coming to the United States again and give me the opportunity to see you here. With best personal regards. Sincerely Victor Bator Mr. William Primrose c/o Ibbs & Tillet 124 Wigmore Street London W.1., England

Figure 3.1a

Figure 3.1b

Première and Publication : 59

Administrative Matters Having decided that the work was a viola rather than cello concerto, Serly continued, in his “Belated Account . . .”: Subsequently Primrose and I got together. After many sessions spent ironing out technical details, for which we must all be grateful to him, the premiere was arranged and took place with the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra in December of 1949; and, shortly after, the radio broadcast took place with the NBC Symphony. But previous to the premiere performances, another delicate question had come up between the Bartók Estate, Boosey and Hawkes and myself. This was the problem of how the publication should be inscribed. Was the printed score to read: “Reconstructed by Tibor Serly”?, “Arranged by —”?, “In collaboration with —”?, “Posthumously Completed by —”?, etc. It is well known that an arrangement of another composer’s work commonly receives equal credits such as: BachStokowski, Moussorgsky-Ravel, etc. In this instance no name recognition is allotted except in program notes, and radio performances simply list Viola Concerto — Bartók. Be that as it may, after a number of conferences I was persuaded to accept the phrase, “Prepared for publication by Tibor Serly.”

The period from July through to December 1949 became somewhat intense with the associated preparations for presenting the world première. There were logistical matters of deciding who should conduct, finding an orchestra, finding a suitable date, promoting the work, and, last but not least, tidying up the score and parts in preparation for publication after the première performance. A series of letters between Tibor Serly and various representatives of Boosey & Hawkes form a valuable source of information through this period.2 Some particular points of interest are raised by these letters. The original negotiations for the première would have resulted in Eugene Ormandy conducting the Philadelphia Orchestra in late November 1949. The actual première took place on December 2 and was given by Primrose and the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra with Antal Doráti conducting. There was considerable difficulty in finding a wording in the credits on the printed copy to recognize the contribution of Serly. In particular, the difficulty over using the word “sketches” is highlighted in the letters to Victor Bator and Tibor Serly of July 28, 1949, from Betty Bean, at Boosey & Hawkes.3 She rejects Serly’s suggestion of “Reconstructed and Orchestrated by Tibor Serly” as “extremely questionable.” She also rejects the use of the word “sketches” and replaces it with “manuscript” in her choice of “Prepared for publication from the composer’s original manuscript by Tibor Serly.” In Bean’s letter to Serly of July 28, the issue of Mrs. Bartók’s health is raised, implying that it would be unwise to make mention of her psychological state in any published material: “Unless she is actually certified as being in a complete state of mental unbalance, it is quite possible that suit for libel could be brought at some time if it were said that she was not yet recovered from a mental collapse.”

60 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

In Bean’s letter to Bator of August 17, 1949, she alludes to the decision by Boosey & Hawkes to delay publication until well after the première, in anticipation of errors being discovered during the orchestral rehearsals, and also to allow for general reaction to be taken into account before proceeding: “we are, in a sense, faced with rather an experiment many points of which will undoubtedly be proven in rehearsal and performance.” In Bean’s letter to Bator of September 12, 1949, she refers to the fact that the solo part in Serly’s full score was still written for solo cello at this late date and expresses the need for Serly to substitute the solo viola part in the full score. In a letter from Erwin Stein, chief editor of Boosey & Hawkes, to Betty Bean of September 22, 1949, reference is made to the addition of Serly’s extra measure of solo viola (presumably m. 73 in first movement of the B&H 1950 version). This is of some significance, as it tends to support the view that the late addition of this measure was strongly encouraged, if not actually suggested, by William Primrose, who would have been well inside the learning phase of the work at this point in time. Other comments in this letter refer to discrepancies between the solo viola part edited by Primrose, the piano reduction, and the full score, the implication being that Primrose added expression marks, as well as bowing indications.

The Read-through by Burton Fisch and David Soyer It would appear from a letter from Serly to Bator of January 29, 1948,4 that this read-through took place on February 7 or 8, 1948. We now also know that a second session was held at Peter Bartók’s apartment a short time later and both versions were recorded by him onto a 78 rpm disk. Burton Fisch has supplied the author with a copy of his rendition on cassette tape and of the solo viola part from which he performed. It is now possible therefore to establish exactly the form the work was in before Primrose received it from Serly. It was at this first gathering that a vote was taken on whether the work should become a concerto for viola or cello. David Soyer, cellist, in a letter to the author of November 16, 1996, could not recall the date but remembered the location as “Tibor Serly’s apartment on W 58 St N.Y, N.Y.” Soyer could not recall all of the audience but did remember Peter Bartók, Tossy Spivakovsky, Felix Greissle, Ditta Bartók, and Serly & his wife. He remembered that it was recorded and thought Peter Bartók had a copy (according to Burton Fisch it was recorded later at Peter Bartók’s apartment). Soyer still had a copy of the solo cello part from which he played and recalled: “I probably had the music a few days before the reading.” Violist Burton Fisch (photo 1) has provided a clear and comprehensive account of the events that surrounded the read-through. (Biographical notes about Fisch are supplied in appendix 4.) The following recollections have been drawn from a series of letters and an interview recorded by the author at his home in California in 1997 (used by permission of Burton Fisch):

Burton Fisch

62 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o In 1948 I was a studio violist at the CBS Radio and TV studios. Dave Soyer was the cellist working with me. We were both friends of Tibor Serly, whose music studio was only about a half a mile from CBS. I was approached by Tibor to see if I would like to learn a new concerto that he was finishing but for which there wasn’t any financial renumeration. It was a challenging project and he said it was a première, that no-one had ever played it before. He said there were a lot of options where you have a chance to do things on your own without worrying about former performances. I was honoured to have been selected to learn this new concerto. There were many other fine violists working in New York City who were not chosen. He told me he was finishing a work that had never been finished before and I remember he had all kinds of sheets of music out and he was still working on it. As we were learning the first movement, he was still working on the last movement. Bartók was not famous at this time, his quartets only became famous when the Juilliard Quartet started to play them and added them to their repertoire. I don’t remember ever playing anything by Bartók until that time.

At the time Bartók was becoming slowly established in New York, Burton Fisch was away in Germany with the armed forces. If my memory serves me, Dave and I were both given the music in manuscript at the same time, and we practiced the concerto in our leisure time inasmuch as we worked for five days at the studio and had families, etc. Separately we went to Tibor to be coached on most of the work. At the beginning I had no piano accompaniment. He would pick the viola music apart saying you know, “let’s hear this and let’s try that,” and technically he didn’t offer any suggestions, just interpretation maybe. He would demonstrate on his own viola to show the character of the music but didn’t give any fingerings or bowings. He wrote in the slurs but no fingering. I probably wouldn’t have used it anyhow! I learned from playing and listening to a conductor asking people in the orchestra what fingering they were playing. They would answer “well whatever is printed in the score” and he would say “well do you know who put them in” and the guy would say “no” and the conductor would say “then why play them, play your own fingering.” Serly gave just the notes, just the nuances and phrasing, I think phrasing was more important to him. I remember trying things out maybe an octave higher or an octave lower, just to see, but I realize from listening to the performance that some of the passages that go very high, that if it wasn’t possible to do it, we would have probably moved it, at least to satisfy me, even if not for somebody who might eventually have played it. I remember I liked the way Dave Soyer played at the very beginning, the downward flourish. At the end of the first phrase in the very first movement, he made a crescendo with a little accelerando and whipped off the last note, which to me was very effective. We didn’t really work together but I remember we played to each other. He would play a part of it and then I would play part of it and we would listen to one another. After several sessions, Lucy Brown would accompany us a movement at a time. She was very calm and patient. Tibor’s studio was like a large living room with a grand piano, overstuffed furniture, throw rugs, high ceiling. He

Première and Publication : 63 would occasionally demonstrate how he perceived a passage should be played and when he finished a phrase playing upbow, he would let his bow fly through the air and land on the closed piano. It never broke, by the way! He was not then a great violist but his interpretation of Bartók was terrific. He spent much time composing. I remember also rehearsing somewhere in mid-town Manhattan at Lucy Brown’s apartment. But it would be only the two of us. I imagine that Dave did the same thing when time permitted. We had never compared notes or discussed this. I would guess that we had the music about 8 weeks. I don’t recall ever seeing Tibor more than once a week at the onset. The technical passages were different from any other literature violists had in that day. However, they fit well in the left hand and the high areas on the A string were no problem once they were practised. I remember an impressive guest attendance at the playing which made me a bit nervous. Names elude me after so many years. However, there was a famous orchestral conductor present. It may have been Ernst Ansermet. If I recall, Dave and I were both asked to repeat certain sections so that the music could be heard a second time . . . I don’t think the performance was recorded at that time. I do recall going to Peter Bartok’s apartment at 309 West 57th St., New York, which was in the same area, to make recordings there with Lucy Brown. I believe we recorded on 78s. To answer your question about voting procedure, I don’t think the guests at the performance would have voted at that time because the vote might have reflected on our playing or musical ability. It was probably decided later on, although I remember more guests liked it for cello.

Of the recording of Burton Fisch and Lucy Brown, it is noteworthy that this rendition is pre-Primrose, in that not only had Primrose not yet received a copy of the work, but it was also still undecided whether the work was to be released as a viola or cello concerto. One can conclude that all interpretive matters were decided between Fisch and Serly and differences between this recording and that of Primrose were as a result of Primrose’s involvement. In general one can observe from the Fisch recording that the viola part, as performed by him, is more accurate to the manuscript than that of Primrose. Of particular note is the use of pizzicato in the three- and four-note chords in the Allegretto section, presumably an instruction from Serly, as this is not specified in the manuscript. Fisch’s playing is generally of a high order, and while it might not be of the same technical caliber and polish as that of Primrose, it does convey a well-crafted interpretation, perhaps less suave and romantic, but with a convincing understanding of the folk element in the music. After the performance and recording, Fisch’s involvement with the Bartók Viola Concerto was complete. Apart from occasionally playing through the work in his private practice, he never performed it again or used it in an audition. Not only did he not play it again, but also at the time of the interview in 1997 he had not ever heard the work live or on record performed by anyone else. He had also never seen a printed part. As such, he is arguably the only violist in the world, who has played this work, who has not been influenced by William Primrose, even subconsciously,

64 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

in his concept of the work: “I never bought a recording, otherwise I would have compared and found the differences. If I wanted to play it again I would do my own version with my own music and play it better and more musical as I am older and more mature than in 1948.” It is important here to pay a tribute to a truly remarkable man whose role in the history of the Bartók Viola Concerto has been very understated to the point of almost total neglect. This understatement, while it reflects the modesty of Burton Fisch, must now be rectified, and the viola community needs to be made aware that we have here an international treasure, a man who was in the very heart of the circumstances of the Viola Concerto between Bartók’s death in 1945 and the first public performance by William Primrose with the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra in 1949. Burton Fisch’s rendition should stand as the only interpretation influenced only by his own instincts and those of Tibor Serly and David Soyer.

The Involvement of William Primrose In the Ph.D. thesis of David Dalton, an interview with William Primrose (photo 2) on April 17, 1970, reveals his own recollections of his role in the reconstruction. Annotation is provided in endnotes where comment is necessary. (The interview is reprinted by permission of David Dalton.) dalton: One almost automatically associates your name with the Bartók Viola Concerto, not only because of the fact that you commissioned the work, but also because of your splendid recording of the work which remains the definitive one. Do you consider the Bartók to be one of your more favourite commissions? primrose: Do you mean musically or financially? In both respects, very much so. Musically the concerto has been a great success. I am quite sure that I have played it more than any other concerto, not excepting the Walton concerto. When I commissioned it, Bartók—if you can believe it—was an obscure composer. He was generally known to musicians, and he was reviled by the public. Aside from the performances of the Concerto for Orchestra given by the Boston Symphony Orchestra under Koussevitsky, I don’t recall many other performances of Bartók’s works. When I commissioned the concerto, most people thought I had made a big mistake, including people in my manager’s office. Who on earth was going to ask me to play a concerto by Béla Bartók? I paid him what he asked, $1,000, and I played the concerto well over a hundred times for fairly respectable fees.5 So it was almost like getting in on the ground floor in investing in Xerox or the Polaroid camera. There are other works that I can think of where the composer asked considerably more, and I have had practically no performances at all. dalton: Hindemith might have been a more logical choice for a commission, and Stravinsky was certainly far better known. What prompted you to approach Bartók?

Première and Publication : 65

William Primrose

primrose: The strong motivation was the Second Violin Concerto. The Menuhin recording came to my attention, and that really planted the seed in my mind. In the case of Hindemith, I knew that he was a difficult man to enlist as far as commissions were concerned, and I was probably influenced by the fact that he had already written four works for viola and orchestra. Stravinsky I did ask; but he turned it down. He said that he was much too busy with other commissions at that time. dalton: Can you then further retrace the steps that led toward the commission, and the writing of the concerto, as to your personal involvement with the composer? primrose: I had known Bartók no more than casually since the twenties. I met him when he visited London, and occasionally after that. I didn’t know much about his music, but then nobody did.6

66 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o (I reflect on the fact, for instance, that although I was a member of the London String Quartet, which along with the Flonzaley was recognized as the outstanding quartet of the period, we never ventured a Bartók string quartet. It was unheard of for anyone to play a Bartók string quartet except, perhaps, the Kolisch Quartet. But they were almost run out of town for doing it.) I sought an interview with Bartók in his New York apartment, and told him what I was after.7 He was quite reluctant, because he felt he didn’t know enough about the possibilities of the viola as a solo instrument. I admired his integrity because at that time he sorely needed the money. I told him not to make a decision until he had heard the Walton Concerto, which I was playing a couple of weeks later in New York with the late Sir Malcolm Sargent. He planned to come to the concert, which was on a Sunday afternoon, but it so happened that that was one of those days when he felt particularly ill, and he couldn’t come. He did hear the broadcast, however, and was struck with the concerto and the way that Walton used the viola. He told me that he would definitely accept the commission and write a viola concerto. Afterwards, in the summer of 1945, I went on a tour of South America, and I returned with the hope of enjoying the cool and early fall of New England. It was my intention to stop on my way north from Philadelphia to see Bartók in New York City. I had received in Philadelphia a letter from him in which he said that the concerto was finished in draft, and that all that remained to be done was the orchestration, which was routine work. But he wanted to see me and discuss it for certain reasons that he outlined.8 It was raining heavily on that day in New York, and parking became a problem. I thought that I would drive on to my destination and see him on the way back. (It was a situation which we all encounter, where we put off until tomorrow . . .) On a beautiful day about two weeks later, on the way back, I stopped outside New York for lunch, picked up the [New York] Times and read that Bartók had died the day before. dalton: If you had had the opportunity to consult with Bartók as he proposed, are there suggestions you would have made which would have altered the concerto in its present form? primrose: There are suggestions which I eventually did make to Mr. Serly. One of them, which he turned down out of hand — and explained very clearly why he did — concerns measures 102–7 in the first movement, where the arpeggios are extremely awkward. I suggested a redisposal of the notes. He felt perfectly sure that Bartók himself would not have accepted the suggestion. (It had to do with the relation of the pitch of the viola accompaniment to the solo oboe in the passage.) There are other minor changes, not more than a half-measure, I believe.9 Of course, in the spirit of performance, I sometimes change a bowing here and there, which I hope doesn’t insult the phrasing as the composer intended it.10 dalton: Would you say that the passage which you cite was one of the few passages that was perhaps unplayable, as Bartók put it?

Première and Publication : 67 primrose: It is not really unplayable, but it is extremely awkward. It takes an experienced player, I would say, to put it across. dalton: Would you describe what you consider to be the proper interpretation regarding the tempos and accelerando of the second theme, first movement, specifically between measures 41–52. primrose: This passage is usually misinterpreted. It is supposed to slow down to almost a doppio movimento. The indication in the score doesn’t show this. A moment’s study will reveal that there is an accelerando which is finalized at measure 52 by a “Tempo primo.” There must be some give somewhere to prepare that accelerando, and a place where it can commence. Most performances go straight ahead without respect given the accelerando. Naturally, I am influenced by the way I play it, and originally understood it should be played.11 dalton: Halsey Stevens writes in his biography of Bartók that Ernest Ansermet in 1949 informed you that the concerto was being rewritten for cello. Through your own and Ralph Hawkes’s efforts, it was supposed to have been saved from becoming another opus in the cello literature. Would you care to add any illuminating details to this incident? primrose: I don’t recall Ansermet’s having told me this. I remember having heard it through the grapevine. The concerto was being peddled around; I think the estate was simply looking for a larger commission. They approached a very well-known cellist who could afford to pay a higher sum. It was only because I had the letter that I could force them to stick to the original bargain.12 dalton: Stevens offers a less than enthusiastic opinion of the work. Do you in any way share this appraisal? primrose: It is difficult to say, as I naturally have a bias toward the Viola Concerto. Certainly not a bias, however that would denigrate the Violin Concerto, a marvellous work in my opinion. Peculiarly enough, the Viola Concerto from the beginning was a work which was very accessible to the public, and probably one of Bartók’s most successful works so far as public acclaim, acceptability, and number of performances is concerned. I often wonder if that sort of thing in itself doesn’t arouse the ire, not to say the hackles, of the musicologist. dalton: I have heard opinions to the effect that one is hard-pressed to know how much of the concerto is actually Bartók’s, and how much is Serly’s. What is your viewpoint in this regard? primrose: That is difficult to answer. I saw the manuscript shortly after Bartók’s death, at Mr. Serly’s apartment in New York. I was appalled; I didn’t know how he could get anything out of it. Fortunately, Serly had had experience with Bartók manuscripts before, and he knew pretty well what Bartók meant by the sort of musical shorthand which he used. It is my belief that Serly did not add a thing. On the contrary, the manuscript was a type of jigsaw puzzle, and in my opinion, Serly bent over backwards to eliminate anything that

68 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o he was not absolutely sure about. The whole matter was a point which, at the time, I did not feel compelled to raise. I was looking at it from the point of view of a performer, and not a researcher. From what I saw, and what eventually did come out in publication, I would say that Serly didn’t add; he probably subtracted.13 dalton: If you were to perform the concerto today, are there any substantial interpretive changes you might introduce as compared with the recording? primrose: I think it is highly likely, but nothing to contravene what I had done originally. I hope there would be certain refinements in the interpretation. There is some difficulty in putting over the ending successfully, because it comes so suddenly.14 I find the audience a little unsure if that is the place to applaud or not. It has to be done in just a certain way, and there has to be a little bit of acting in it, as there should be in all performances. The audience has to know that that is the end, and a very exciting end.

While it has never been clearly established exactly what part William Primrose played in bringing the solo viola part to its published form, the markings of fingerings and to some extent bowings would largely have been his. It has been generally accepted that the actual notes were as dictated by Serly and Primrose was discouraged by Serly from making any modifications. Certainly that is the impression one has after reading the interviews of the two men. While it cannot be claimed that the changes assigned to Primrose in the following breakdown can be definitively attributed to him, it does seem likely that he was involved in decisions to make those changes and in many cases he was certainly the instigator. There is reason to believe that Primrose took a considerably greater role than just adding fingering and bowing and, in fact, altered phrasing and in some instances even notes. At some point in mid-1949, Primrose received from Serly a working copy of the concerto (viola and piano reduction) to enable him to begin learning the work in readiness for the première performance in December of that year. This working copy was written in Serly’s hand and was as he had conceived the part before Primrose began practicing it. While the evidence may be circumstantial, it is likely that many changes made between this working copy and the Boosey & Hawkes printed version of 1950 would have been as a result of Primrose’s suggestions that arose during the learning period of the second half of 1949. Probably most fingering markings on this working copy, which differ from those in Fisch’s part, are supplied by Primrose. It is unlikely that Serly would have added suggestions to the part after he and Fisch had worked through the difficulties. The author of the phrasing or bowing suggestions is less obvious. It is difficult to determine from whose hand a slur originates. It may well be that in some places Serly left a group of notes separate and Primrose added a slur directly onto the copy, or perhaps the slurs may all be from Serly. Phrasing discrepancies between the working part and the final printed version are most likely the result of mutual decisions between the two men that would have resulted from either Primrose’s reactions in

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the learning phase, Serly’s continued efforts to refine the viola part even after giving it to Primrose, and/or changes being made while the two men were working together in the final rehearsals. Discrepancies of notes, however, are more likely to have resulted from Primrose’s experiencing technical awkwardness during the learning period. Such a case is in measures 22 and 23 in the first movement, where Primrose substituted a sixteenthnote rest in place of the Cf, as it is very awkward (but not impossible) to play in the original version. Another case is in measures 198 to 211 in the last movement, where Primrose inverts the arpeggiated figure supplied by Serly. As it turns out, this is a section in which Serly had made considerable changes from the original anyway, so the issue is somewhat redundant. However, the octave displacements in measures 37, 38, and 39 reflect Serly’s anticipation of technical difficulties for the soloist, and he did not even offer Primrose the original version. There are several other such examples of Serly pre-empting Primrose’s ability to play the original version. Attempts to find copies of any correspondence between Primrose and Serly or between Primrose and Boosey & Hawkes during this period have been fruitless. There are some letters between Boosey & Hawkes and Serly (see appendix 3), but they do not discuss these details. Courtesy of Peter Bartók, the author is fortunate in having a copy of the working part sent to Primrose by Serly, and a measure-by-measure comparison of this solo part with the printed Boosey & Hawkes solo part of 1950 has been undertaken. To enable the complete evolution of the solo viola part to be fully studied, first the solo viola part was extracted from the manuscript. Second, directly below this, a fair transcription of this was created to enable immediate comparison with the final version. Third, the working copy that Serly gave to Primrose was added, and fourth, the final printed version of 1950 was added. These four versions were vertically aligned, creating a very clear picture of the discrepancies. Where Bartók crossed out and rewrote the solo part or presented a different version in a different place in the manuscript, both versions were presented. In the case of the opening of the work, there is almost a full page of manuscript (with the number 1 at the top), which appears to be a first draft. This page is the elusive fourteenth page referred to earlier, in chapter 1. It is important to remember that the solo part was extracted from a full sketch and no definitive conclusions could be drawn without viewing it within the context of the full sketch. As far as possible, all markings made by Primrose on the working copy were retained, as they provided an indication of the working process as he was learning the work. As the phrasing, dynamics, and tempo markings came almost entirely from Serly, it would be pointless to bring attention to the fact that almost every bar is different from the original in one or more of these respects. The focus here is on octave displacements, changed notes, enharmonic changes, and added measures. A summary of discrepancies between the Boosey & Hawkes version (1950) and

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the manuscript revealed a total of 241 octave displacements, 185 changed notes, 64 enharmonic changes, and 30 added measures. No figures for octave displacements, changed notes, or enharmonic changes have been included from measures added by Serly or Primrose. A further breakdown revealed the following: In the first movement, 71 octave displacements were attributable solely to Serly. He changed 63 notes and, post-Primrose, a further 15. Serly made 5 enharmonic changes and added 12 measures. One extra measure was added post-Primrose (in the cadenza). In the Lento parlando there are no octave displacements or changed notes, but there are 40 enharmonic changes and 4 added measures (the bassoon link to the second movement), all added by Serly alone. Similarly, all the changes in the second movement are attributable solely to Serly. They comprise 11 octave displacements and 3 changed notes. In the Allegretto section there are no octave displacements or enharmonic changes. There are 4 notes changed by Serly and an additional 3 post-Primrose. The question of added measures is complex. It does not affect the solo part, but this is the point at which the extra measures, included in the Peter Bartók and Erdélyi revisions, were left out by Serly. It is unclear how many measures these amount to because of the ambiguous shorthand used by Bartók, but in any case it is fair to say that there is a discrepancy here between the manuscript and the printed version. In the third movement there are 159 octave displacements, of which very probably Primrose was responsible for 49. There are 97 changed notes, of which 49 were probably from Primrose. These two figures of 49 refer to the same notes, in that they were changed and displaced by an octave. There were 18 enharmonic changes from Serly and an additional one post-Primrose and 13 extra measures added by Serly. It can be concluded from this information that while most deviations from the manuscript can be attributed to Tibor Serly, William Primrose did play a significant role in developing the solo viola part away from that given in the manuscript by Bartók. After Primrose’s involvement, in the first movement a further 15 notes were reassigned different pitches and an extra measure was added, in the Allegretto 3 notes were changed, and in the third movement 49 notes were changed. The remaining part of the story, leading up to the world première, lies in the previews and the program of the first performance in Minneapolis on December 2, 1949.15

Chapter

Four

Reception

Reaction to the First Fifty Years of the

Bartók/Serly Viola Concerto

The Bartók/Serly Viola Concerto will continue to be performed and recorded well into the foreseeable future. Having been performed thousands of times, this version will not easily be pushed aside by revisions, human nature making us creatures of habit. However, it is significant that the revisions of Peter Bartók, Csaba Erdélyi and the author all appeared within three or four years of the fiftieth anniversary of Bartók’s death, this event perhaps having provided an opportunity to air new thoughts on the composer’s music in general. In 1995, many commemorations, seminars, colloquia, special recordings, and concerts were devoted to the memory of Hungary’s most significant composer. Among these special events it was opportune to review many of the works. The Viola Concerto was an obvious candidate for review in that another hand was required to bring the work to a performable state as a complete work. Bearing this in mind, it seems appropriate to review the reception of the Serly version since its first public appearance in 1949 and up until the 1990s, when these revisions began to appear. The following survey of commentaries, which include concert reviews, articles, record reviews, and extracts from books, presents a cross section of reactions to the work, and the deliberate chronological sequence of the references is intended to indicate the effect the passage of time has had on acceptance or nonacceptance of the concerto into the repertoire as a genuine work of Bartók. The survey begins with the reactions to the first performances.1 This is followed by a summary of the commentary by the noted American composer and writer Halsey Stevens,2 from the early 1950s, and the reaction of Tibor Serly to this commentary.3 Following this is a survey of recording reviews up until 2000, which includes an article that appeared in the Strad magazine in 1995, and gave a comparative review of the main recordings to date of the Serly version.4 The chapter concludes with a summary of comments by the Hungarian musicologist Sándor Kovács.5

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Reactions to the First Performances The reaction of American reviewers to the first performances in Minneapolis and New York differ considerably from those of the British reviewers of the first performances in Edinburgh and London nine months later (see reviews in appendix 6). From the glowing praise of the work from the American reviewers, when one is reading some of the less enthusiastic British responses, one wonders if the same work is being discussed. Two factors may help explain the apparent divergence of opinion between the American and British reviewers. First and foremost, the fact that the published viola and piano version became available between the American and British debuts meant that the British reviewers were able to listen in a much more informed manner than had their counterparts across the Atlantic. The British had had the opportunity to study the work at the piano. It is noteworthy that this viola and piano score was accepted as the definitive version and any deviation in performance was seen as a shortcoming. The second factor may simply have been that the Americans saw the work as being a proud symbol of patriotism, coming from their recently adopted Hungarian son, and the British saw it as no more than a work that emanated from a Hungarian refugee, living in New York, whose music had traditionally received a harsh reception in Britain in the 1920s and ’30s. There is also a noticeable difference in tone of music criticism at this time between the more promotional American style and the more dispassionate British style. The world première was given by the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra with William Primrose as soloist and Antal Doráti conducting. In the review that appeared in the Musical Courier (author not identified), the comments are only positive and quite plainly enthusiastic: The work reveals great conciseness . . . The first section is tightly woven, in the characteristic idiom of the later Bartók, pithy, rhythmically intricate, and imbued with a spirit that suggests Hungarian folk music. The second movement is a Lento, calm and lofty, with that withdrawn and almost eerie quality which much of this composer’s music evokes. The finale is a highly complex and spirited one, with infectious rhythms and whirlwind bowing required of the soloist. The work came to a conclusion of great power and brilliance.

The reception by this reviewer is reinforced by that of the writer for Tempo: A Quarterly Review of Modern Music (also not identified) who surveys the reactions of other North American reviewers who go even further in their praise, virtually claiming the work to be Bartók’s crowning achievement: As Bartok’s last artistic testament it pretty well sums up his life work. It has the fertile, primitive folk element which he cultivated so intensively, the technical sophistication of a master, the deep sincerity and integrity of his soul and the tremendous fecundating power of his imagination, which brought forth rich, flowering growths from simple, germinal ideas . . .

Reception : 73 The Concerto itself seems one of Bartok’s most concise and at the same time one of his most communicative works. Its three movements, lasting but 20 minutes, are all muscle, a marvel of compression allowing nevertheless for lyric lines of unusual poignancy, a feeling of space even, and a complete expression and development of what Bartok wanted to say.

Two months later Primrose gave the second performance of the Viola Concerto, this time in New York with the NBC Orchestra conducted by Ernest Ansermet. The review by Olin Downes in the New York Times was totally enthusiastic from the aspect of the performance: He [Primrose] played superbly, not merely with his famed precision and virtuosity, but one would say at a first hearing with the warmest and most penetrating understanding of the composer’s purpose. Fortunate the composition which can benefit by such a protagonist, in combination with such a reading of the score as was afforded by Mr. Ansermet.

However, there are hints of reservations as to the absolute authenticity of Serly’s realization: It is clearly and effectively orchestrated, whether the orchestration is or is not exactly what Bartók intended . . . One does ask whether, in the course of the wholly scrupulous and respectful treatment which Tibor Serly has given the score in putting it together with the orchestra on the basis of the rough draft of the work which Bartók sent Mr. Primrose (for whom he wrote the piece) just before his death in 1945, we have the concerto exactly as the composer intended. For Mr. Serly had a terrible task to make out exactly what Bartók intended from the manuscript which Bartók sent the violist. One has the impression of a highly practical and playable version of the Bartók score, and possibly, of elisions and clarifications which may or may not be precisely in accord with the composer’s innermost intention. What better could have been done under the circumstances? As a result we have a concerto perhaps less radical in its harmony and its instrumentation than Bartók intended, and, possibly for these very reasons, easier to take on at first hearing than the precise concept that he had in mind . One cannot go further on these points, and indeed should not. As the score has emerged, Mr. Primrose has an immediately palatable viola concerto, and Mr. Serly has done a musicianly job.

These comments, while expressing reservation, are not specific criticisms of the work but rather speculation that all might not be as it should, simply because of the circumstances of the reconstruction. Taken in its full context, this is really a quite enthusiastic response, and Downes views the work favorably alongside the Violin Concerto No. 2: The concerto proved pronouncedly agreeable and much less problematic at a first hearing than, for example, the violin concerto, which is a more extended and probably profounder composition. But the first movement of the viola concerto is the biggest and bold-

74 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o est of the three in its harmonic fracture. . . . The second movement is short, poetical, in a romantic vein. In the dance finale Hungarian rhythms share the stage with others which could easily be derived from American jazz.

On September 2, 1950, the Viola Concerto was given its European première at the Edinburgh Festival. This performance was given with by the Hallé Orchestra with Sir John Barbirolli conducting. The review in the Times attributed to “Our Special Correspondent,” while still with some reservation, is notable for its generosity of enthusiastic adjectives: Formally there are distinctions, in that the typically symmetrical ideas proliferate continuously, in such a way as almost to break down the artificial barriers of “first and second group.” The second movement, an Adagio religioso, recapitulates both its sections simultaneously with highly felicitous effect. What is most striking in this concerto is the translucency of the texture which always allows a prominent sound to the soloist, and often approaches the character of chamber music, though the medium-sized orchestra is sonorously exploited. A glowing serenity is the salient characteristic of this concerto, which may not add cubits to Bartók’s artistic stature, but which completes most movingly the tale of his last creative phase.

Three days later, Primrose appeared in London for a performance with Basil Cameron and the London Philharmonic Orchestra. For the first time, the actual quality of performance received criticism: Mr. Primrose gave a dazzlingly brilliant reading—after all, the work was written for him! But one would have wished for less streamlining and more rhapsodical warmth and passion. To both soloist and conductor (Basil Cameron) I would recommend a week’s diet of Szegedin goulash, with plenty of Paprika in it, and bottles of Tokay to wash it down whenever Bartók is in their programme. The L.P.O. was hardly up to its usual standard.

The author of the following extract from the review in the Musical Times, acknowledged only as M.C., had the least enthusiastic formal response to the concerto to date and was the first writer to openly declare the work to be below the standard of earlier works, even going so far as to say that the Piano Concerto No. 3 is also inferior to Bartók’s earlier works: The work cannot be regarded as Bartók at his best and it lets you down in the finale, the technical brilliance of which is unable to conceal the lack of inventive and structural distinction. To my mind it is the sombre eloquence of only parts of the first movement and the deeplyfelt prayer of the second which save the work from being wholly second-rate Bartók. Rightly or wrongly we judge an artist by his best creations, or to vary a saying of Wordsworth’s, a composer creates the values by which he is to be appreciated. These values Bartók has given us, so far as his concerto style is concerned, in the second piano concerto and the violin concerto. From these there is, as every serious admirer of the Hungarian master will have to admit, a noticeable descent to the third piano concerto and the viola work.

Reception : 75

The commentary that appeared in Music and Letters in the January 1951 issue, written by W. S. Mann, gives a well-informed response, based on access to the printed score. However, while the musical observations are perceptive, his knowledge of the circumstances that led to Serly’s involvement is less reliable. His assertion that “in part he [Serly] was persuaded by William Primrose” to take on the project seems highly unlikely, given that there is no known correspondence between Serly and Primrose until the work was more or less completed and also given that Serly was well along the track of turning the work into a cello concerto before Primrose intervened and “saved” the work as a viola concerto. There is no evidence to support the claim that he was involved in the negotiations to persuade Serly to undertake the work in the first instance. Mann suggests that there are three approaches that can be taken when a composer dies leaving an unfinished work: The simplest is to leave it alone, as an object of pious regret. . . . The second is, when possible, to complete the dead man’s design without adding matter not of his own composition. The third is for a musician who was in close contact with the composer’s mind at the time of the composition, to treat the uncompleted manuscript according to the ideals known to have been in that creative mind.

Mann then suggests that Serly chose the second of these options, and indeed that is the impression that Serly would have wished to convey, according to his various statements regarding his work. Certainly his comments in the interview with David Dalton would reinforce this point. However, as the comparison of the manuscript and Serly’s score reveals, the truth of the matter is that his work really reflects his position to be somewhere between the second and third scenarios. Without access to the original sketches, William Mann had no choice but to accept Serly’s word. Mann’s statement that “there must still be gnawing in Serly’s conscience the realization that a composer will go on adding to his work until the last note, the dynamic marking and phrasing have been set down in ink on the definitive score — particularly when the composer is as scrupulously minded as was Bartók” also indicates that Serly had convinced him that the markings of such details were from Bartók, but we know now that in fact Bartók left virtually no phrasing markings and no dynamics. His assertions regarding the relationship of the Lento parlando to the first and second movements and his observations regarding the placement of a particular tempo and rhythm and note corrections are obviously derived from his observations of the discrepancies between the printed score and the live rendition of Primrose. Access to the manuscript reveals that neither version is necessarily accurate. In spite of the reservations expressed by Mann, his overall comment is nevertheless very positive: “Once accepted in the form that has found performance, and the compulsion, the coherence of the music follow like a charm. The solo writing is of great brilliance and lyrical warmth. The orchestration, Serly’s own work, tells superbly. It is a deeply moving work.”

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In summing up the section on reactions to the early performances, the following article is included purely to convey the negative attitude, which was not uncommon in the 1950s, toward the viola as a solo instrument:

First Performances The Viola as Prima Donna and Other Improbabilities The diverse efforts of Mozart, Berlioz, Hindemith, Walton, Arthur Benjamin, “HandelBarbirolli” and others have succeeded in convincing us that the best viola concerto is one which isn’t really a concerto, and that the fingerboard of the viola ought to be cut off, until further notice, at a point to be determined by a Committee of Chamber Musicians, but none too near the regions of the eternal resin. Only thus will the viola cease to lead into temptation. Meanwhile, painstaking musicological research has unearthed the inspirations, primary as well as pre-disposing, which make for a viola concerto. They are precisely four. The first inspiration is that the composer is fond of playing the viola. The second is that Paganini wants a viola concerto. The third is that Primrose wants a viola concerto. The fourth is that nobody. least of all the composer, wants a viola concerto, but that he hopes that once it’s there someone will want it, since there are so few viola concertos. As for “exploring the virtuoso possibilities of the instrument,” there aren’t any, unless you want to change the viola’s character, which nowadays isn’t at all difficult, though Mozart has done far more in this direction than you with your whimpering and whining viola parts, simply by tuning the instrument up half a tone. If, however, you think that exploring impossibilities will give you ideas, you ought to turn to the saxophone, which offers the richest variety of them; or, since these have been dealt with by Ibert and Phyllis Tate, you might try a concerto for cow-horn. At least this wouldn’t tempt you to throw in strings of semiquavers whenever you thought that virtuosity was called for—a game in which almost all modern composers of concertos for the violin family indulge. Beethoven started it, and indeed, with the deepest admiration for the content of the violin concerto, I do not find much reason to consider it a violin concerto. In our own time, the sense of the genuinely virtuosic possibilities of the violin family has largely been lost (for reasons that in my opinion lie ultimately in the development of harmony), which in part accounts for people’s increasing readiness to write viola concertos. I personally would propose to every composer who writes a string concerto, including the greatest geniuses, to re-study the Mendelssohn which qua violin concerto has remained unequalled, and which incidentally goes to support Hindemith’s discerning suggestion to Stravinsky, who is not a violinist, that his lack of executive ability, far from being a hindrance, would actually be “a very good thing” for writing a violin concerto. Bartók’s last work does not seem to lessen the improbability of the viola concerto; even the would-be brilliant semiquavers are all there, in the last movement. At the same time the chief problem of the Concerto, which in places one hardly recognizes as Bartók (let alone the great Bartók), is more fundamental: should this music have been published at all?

Reception : 77 Was the composer’s MS sufficiently complete and clear for Tibor Serly to realize so much as the master’s bare formal intentions? It was one thing for Serly to decipher and score the last 17 bars of the 3rd piano Concerto, and another to attempt surmounting the immense difficulties with which the state of the present manuscript presented him. In his dilemma he chose the honourable alternative of doing too little rather than too much, but to my mind, nothing would have been best. I am well aware of the score’s great moments (such as the opening of the slow movement); my criticism springs from nothing but my respect for Bartók’s genius, convinced as I am that he would not have welcomed the publication of the score as it now stands. To take one blatant example: what is the function of the last movement’s second episode (the one over the A-E drone, based on the first movement’s first subject)? If someone had told me that I would find Elisabeth Lutyens’ Viola Concerto immeasurably more satisfying than Bartók’s, I should have laughed in his face — which goes to warn us of even our most justified prejudices.6

Scholarly Commentary The first and still today considered one of the most authoritative commentaries to appear on the concerto was that of Halsey Stevens. At the time of writing The Life and Music of Béla Bartók in the early 1950s, Stevens had not seen the full manuscript and so one might feel tempted to forgive him for any comments that would change in light of detailed observation. However, in a letter to David Dalton of March 6, 1970, Stevens stated: Before writing about the Bartók concerto I had seen photostat reproductions of a part of the manuscript, but not the whole work. Since publication, of course, I have seen photostats of the entire concerto; my opinion of it was not changed thereby. Please remember me to Mr. Primrose, whose splendid performance of the Bartók concerto should have convinced me — if anything could — that it is comparable to the [second] violin concerto.7

Stevens’s comments on the Viola Concerto came a relatively short time after the early performances and are remarkable for their perception and understanding of the complexities in reconstructing the concerto, considering that he had only Serly’s word on the details of the work involved and the circumstances that led to his involvement (excerpts reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press): Tibor Serly’s task in reconstructing the Viola Concerto from the confused sketches that Bartók left at his death placed upon him a very great responsibility. He has recounted how difficult that task was: although Bartók considered the Concerto complete, needing only the “purely mechanical work” of orchestration with the possibility of slight reconsideration here and there on the grounds of playability, the draft was notated on odd bits of manuscript paper in such a way that the intended sequence was by no means apparent. Earlier

78 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o sketches appeared on some of the same pages; there were no page numbers nor movement indications, and, most discouraging of all, Bartók wrote over passages instead of erasing them, with the result that parts of the score were almost illegible. The printed score bears the notation, “Prepared for publication from the composer’s original manuscript” by Tibor Serly. This is obviously an understatement; in all fairness to Serly he must be credited with not only the editing but the orchestration and, in fact, the reconstruction of the Concerto. Although it had been commissioned by William Primrose, because of “apparently insurmountable difficulties” with the Bartók estate he had given up hope of receiving it when, in January 1949, Ernest Ansermet told him that the Concerto was being rewritten for violoncello. Through the efforts of Ralph Hawkes, who assured him that “morally” the work was his, Primrose had the score in his hands in the early summer of 1949, and gave the first performance in Minneapolis the following December with Antal Doráti conducting.8

Stevens’s now famous statement that “Primrose considers the Viola Concerto a sensitive and inspired work and a real contribution to the literature of the viola. It would be pleasant to record that it is Bartók’s crowning achievement; it is, unfortunately nothing of the kind”— became one of the points Serly seized on when he wrote his “Belated Account . . .” article over twenty years later. Stevens’s comments on specific aspects in the Viola Concerto that failed to display the genius of Bartók took the perception of the work to a new level, well beyond the understanding of most contemporary reviewers. Here was a writer, well steeped in the whole of Bartók’s oeuvre, who was able to identify weaknesses even without direct access to the manuscript and without the wealth of research into Bartók’s compositional processes that is available to scholars today. Stevens’s observations on the first movement demonstrate more than a casual study of the score: Both thematic facture and working-out seem perfunctory. Certain sections are like caricatures of pages written more strikingly elsewhere: the twisting triplet passage, measures 41–50, is a distant relative of similar lines in the Second Piano Concerto and the Violin Concerto, but without their vitality and conviction. Even the canonic writing, so largely entrusted with the elements of suspense and culmination in Bartók’s music, becomes dry and somewhat scholastic here. The architectural integration, always before so carefully calculated, is incomplete and such thematic inter-references as occur seem intrinsic.9

It is noteworthy that Stevens was suspicious of the thirty-second notes in the second movement, yet without the knowledge that in fact these notes were added by Serly or at least borrowed from the Piano Concerto No. 3: The second movement, an Adagio religioso like that of the Third Piano Concerto, lacks the distinctiveness of its counterpart. A simple ternary form, it encloses within two extremely tenuous sections, in which the solo is provided with only the barest essentials of an accompaniment, an agitated outburst in which both the piangendo motive of the viola and

Reception : 79 the supporting thirty-second note scales seem borrowed from the Fifth String Quartet, where they were much more effectively employed.10

In his response to Stevens’s comments, in his “Belated Account . . .” article, Serly asserts that the Finale was the least complete movement in the sketches, yet Stevens claims this to be the most authentic-sounding movement. While these statements are apparently paradoxical, it could well be that both men are correct. The Finale was the least complete in some respects, but that could also reflect the fact that the intention here was clearer than in the first two movements. It is rhythmically and harmonically simpler than the first movement and, due to its dancelike character, was most probably intended to be texturally more transparent. Stevens’s impression that the Finale is truncated may also be as a result of the way Serly rewrote the ending with an orchestral insertion of four bars that interrupts the solo viola, causing a delay in its final statement and leaving it only a fragment of its melody to bring the work to a close. Stevens would not have been aware of this transgression on Serly’s part. (This is discussed at some length in chapters 5 and 6.) It is only in the finale that one feels a trace of authenticity. It is a dance-movement in the flavor of many of Bartók’s last movements, with a character of “moto perpetuo,” folkinspired. Its themes are lively and rhythmic; and here at last Serly has let the orchestra be heard. The Trio is a bagpipe-tune remotely related to the main theme of the first movement. The only really serious fault of the movement is its extreme brevity: the four and a half minutes it occupies leave an impression of truncation, and one would gladly have it continued for as long again, since it is by far the shortest of the three.11

It was Stevens’s view that Serly had possibly taken Bartók’s indication that “the orchestration will be rather transparent” too literally in the first and second movements: “Whether the extremely sparing instrumentation which Serly has provided, taking his cue from Bartók’s statement . . . is responsible for more than a slight overemphasis on this rarefaction is another unanswerable question.”12 With regard to the large-scale structure, Stevens expresses concern about the use of the Interludes: The three movements of the Concerto are connected by interludes, the first in the style of a cadenza (though there is also a cadenza before the reprise), the second with energetic fourth-chords over a waddling quasi-ostinato in sevenths and fourths. Despite this device the movements appear disconnected. . . . The interludes of the Viola Concerto . . . have no cumulative function, and their use appears arbitrary rather than purposeful.13

This reservation is pertinent to the discussion in chapters 5 and 6. In the case of the first Interlude, it is this author’s belief that the section is wrongly placed. In the case of the second Interlude, this is the precise point in the score at which all three revisions differ from one another and from the Serly score. It is not surprising that Stevens found difficulty over this section. In spite of the lack of access to

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the manuscript, Stevens’s contribution to the debate on the Viola Concerto in its early years is truly remarkable and his closing comments are important to bear in mind when evaluating the work alongside Bartók’s masterworks: “The defects of the Viola Concerto—aside from any inadequacies that may have resulted from its completion by another hand — no doubt betray the painful circumstances of its composition.”14 The appearance of Stevens’s book was obviously eagerly awaited by Bartók followers and was naturally of great consequence to Serly. Although it took over twenty years for Serly to respond publicly to Stevens’s comments, he did in fact, in 1975, publish an article under the well-known “Belated Account . . .” title, which was a response to general criticisms over the first twenty-five years but particularly took issue with many of Halsey Stevens’s comments, which Serly obviously considered ill-informed.

The Following Decades From the mid-1950s through until the 1980s the debate about the issues that surrounded the Viola Concerto subsided, and during this period the work became popular with music colleges and among professional violists. This resulted in many hundreds of performances with piano in student recitals and with student and professional orchestras, which led to its becoming standard and, indeed, expected fare at all reputable viola competitions and orchestral auditions. The issue of authenticity again raised its head in 1980, in the review by Tim Alps of Daniel Benyamini’s recording.15 This assessment of the work is among the harshest and is reminiscent of the opinions of Halsey Stevens. While in general the comments are well informed and perceptive, one is left with the impression that Tim Alps did not have the opportunity to view the manuscript in detail. His comments regarding the sequence of the sketches and which sketches belong to which movement show a lack of knowledge of the manuscript. As to his comments that ideas were culled from other works, this cannot be attributed to Serly, as the only new material he introduced was the “night music” from the Third Piano Concerto, a work not mentioned by Alps. Any similarities to other works must be conscious or unconscious devices of Bartók himself and are hardly surprising in any composer who has established a personal language and idiom. With a full knowledge of the manuscript, it is in the opinion of this author a little severe to describe the work as “a viola concerto by Tibor Serly in the style of Bartók, based on Bartók themes,” and in fact gives Serly much more compositional credit than is due. In spite of his somewhat negative attitude to the work, Alps does concede that this new recording by the brilliant violist Daniel Benyamini, ably supported by the Orchestre de Paris under Daniel Barenboim, does the work the best possible service. Benyamini is dazzling in his upper register and has a penetrating tone on the lower strings when he needs it, but in the Adagio Religioso he plays with great warmth and sensitivity.

Reception : 81

The review of Pinchas Zukerman’s recording with Leonard Slatkin and the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra in the December 1991 issue of Classical Music makes no mention of the issue of authenticity. In fact, it almost lays the blame of its only criticism at the work’s previous performances: Deciphered and finished after Bartók’s death by Tibor Serly, [it] often sounds a bit tentative and even incomplete. Not here. This is a simple, moving, and deep performance by a fine violinist turned master violist, aided and abetted by the very excellent Leonard Slatkin and his Saint Louis forces, arguably now one of our first-rank orchestras.16

In his review of Tabea Zimmermann’s recording in 1994, Robin Stowell highly commends the playing but once again focuses on the perceived shortcomings of the work itself: Each of these concertos has strong melodic roots in folk song. Neither work represents its composer at his best. Hindemith’s Concerto is arguably the more successful but has never captured for itself a firm niche in the repertory. Bartók’s Concerto, completed after the composer’s death by his pupil Tibor Serly, is an uneven and unbalanced work whose movements seem disconnected despite the inclusion of interludes for unification purposes. Tabea Zimmermann gives highly commendable, powerful accounts of both works, proving herself more than equal to their considerable demands of technique and interpretation. Her performance of the Bartók is particularly laudable. With her intelligent and sensitive musicianship she imparts to the first movement a convincing sense of architecture, contributes some wonderfully expressive playing in the Andante religioso and responds to the dance-like character of the finale with appropriate rhythmic alertness.17

In 1995 the Strad magazine published an article entitled “A Swan-song never finished,” which was a survey of all the available recordings of the Viola Concerto to date. This survey by David Denton included recordings by violists William Primrose, Wolfram Christ, Tabea Zimmermann, Rivka Golani, Raphael Hillyer, and Pinchas Zukerman and by Yo-Yo Ma (alto violin) and János Starker (cello). This is a purely comparative survey of the actual performances, and the only reference to the work’s authenticity comes in Denton’s brief statement: The task of constructing the work was left to Bartók’s friend Tibor Serly. The result is a masterpiece of the viola repertoire, although Serly was the first to acknowledge that we shall never know what the composer would have eventually made of his sketches. Serly and Primrose subsequently recorded the work for the World Record Club label (not released on CD). The significance of that performance is the number of times it diverged from the score.18

In the July 2000 issue of Gramophone, in a review of Kim Kashkashian’s recording of the Serly version of the concerto, Rob Cowan comments: More controversial was the decision to remove the bird-song woodwind flourishes that had been added to the middle section of the second movement. Having lived with both versions

82 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o for some time, I re-affirm my loyalty to Serly. That he employed a composer’s intuition to delve beyond the notes, adding material wherever he felt the need, increases my confidence in his work. Those flourishes are fully in line with the many wind-topped “night music” passages found elsewhere in Bartók’s concertos and I’m troubled by their absence.19

In The Bartók Companion, Sándor Kovács, the noted Hungarian Bartók scholar, is author of the chapter devoted to the final concertos. No newcomer to the Viola Concerto, Kovács had previously published excellent articles about the work. With the advantage of over four decades of accumulated knowledge since Halsey Stevens’s book, we are treated in those articles to a probing and scholarly assessment of Serly’s work. In this chapter Kovács discusses at some length structural considerations in the Viola Concerto and investigates the problems that faced Serly. As we are now dealing with issues of reception, the following extracts deal with this aspect and also allude to possibilities for the future (by permission Faber and Faber): Grave reservations can certainly be admitted concerning this composition, which was reconstructed by Tibor Serly and premiered four years after Bartók’s death, although it is clear that, whatever its status, this work has irrevocably become part of the concert repertoire over the last four decades. . . . Asked whether the Concerto was ready, Bartók’s answer was laconic, yet puzzling: “Yes and No.” How far it was “yes” and how far “no” remained a puzzle for a long time for musicologists. The manuscript was not accessible for research, and the only information about the reconstruction came from what Tibor Serly wrote in the score’s Foreword and in various interviews and articles. A contradictory picture emerged of the work: on the one hand the composition seemed “strange” and, in many respects, unBartókian; on the other hand, in the absence of decisive counter-evidence, Serly’s declaration that the work was essentially an opus of Bartók had, at least provisionally, to be accepted. Many people tried to resolve the dilemma by suggesting that Bartók’s creative powers had perhaps started to decline towards the end, and that he had used up all his remaining energy on the Piano Concerto, which was nearer to his heart. During a short visit to Hungary in 1963, Serly presented a photocopy of the thirteen-page draft manuscript to the Budapest Bartók Archive and finally, more scientific analysis of the work became possible. Recently, László Somfai’s thorough analysis of the original manuscript safeguarded in the United States has opened a further level of research . . . In summary, the Viola Concerto played in concerts today is not an authentic composition of Bartók. In fact, Serly undertook an impossible task. Given such a contradictory and incomplete manuscript he could not, despite the best of intentions, produce a work comparable to the greatest compositions of Bartók. None the less, he could have produced a more appealing, better-proportioned and more skilful version. Perhaps in the not so distant future the possibility for such a version will present itself. As the hopes for publication of Bartók’s manuscript in facsimile form brighten, it is not unimaginable that a fertile discussion will be provoked amongst musicologists, similar to that of past years in connection

Reception : 83 with Mozart’s Requiem. Just as there continue to be new versions of Mozart’s final work, so too can a new, more convincing version of Bartók’s Viola Concerto be produced.20

As we now are firmly in a post-Serly/Bartók era in which we are able to hear both the Serly/Bartók version and the Peter Bartók/Bartók revision in public concerts worldwide and at least one other revision in Australasia, the complexities of reviewing this work will multiply in proportion to the number of different solutions to the many issues of authenticity.

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Chapter

Five

Some Aspects of Structure

Examination of Form and Possible

Presence of the Fibonacci Series

This chapter examines large-scale structure, structure within each of the three main movements, and the significance of proportion.

Large-scale Structure In considering any version of the Viola Concerto, the aspects of structure within this work and comparison with other similar works is essential in coming to plausible conclusions regarding some of the problems confronted in deciphering the manuscript. In particular we must examine the large-scale structure in relation to the first, second, and third movements, the sections that link them, and the possible missing Scherzo. A few almost insoluble situations arise. In his unsent letter to Primrose of August 5, 1945, Bartók wrote: However embryonic the state of the work still is, the general plan and ideas are already fixed. So I can tell you that it will be in 4 movements: a serious Allegro, a Scherzo, a (rather short) slow movement, and a finale beginning Allegretto and developping [sic] the tempo to an Allegro molto. Each movement, or at least 3 of them will be preceded by a (short) recurring introduction (mostly solo of the viola), a kind of ritornello.

In his subsequent letter to Primrose, which was sent, as no further reference was made to the structure of the concerto we are left to puzzle how much of the initial plan Bartók intended to keep. Clearly, the idea of the fourth Scherzo movement was abandoned, although some believe that the short fragment from the manuscript, which Serly left out, may have been the beginnings of such a movement. Bearing in mind that Bartók wrote to Primrose, in the second letter, that the concerto was ready in draft form, it seems highly unlikely that he would have sketched only the first few measures of a movement. It is also worth noting that in fact these measures

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are close in character to the allegretto material that forms the ritornello between the second and third movements and were more likely intended to be part of this section. In both the Peter Bartók and Csaba Erdélyi revisions, the material is used in this way. Bartók (Béla) indicated a section of music by writing the letters A and B at the beginning of the last sixteen and eight measures, respectively. In the Peter Bartók version the section between A and B is repeated, then the new material is introduced. In Csaba Erdélyi’s version the section from A and from B is repeated with the new material superimposed over the eight measures after B. After producing my own revision between 1987 and 1993, I became fully familiar with the revisions of Csaba Erdélyi and Peter Bartók. Many of the details were resolved differently, but some of their solutions have since been adopted into my compositional and performance interpretation. This is a perfectly natural result of cross-influence and a willingness to accept a better solution to some of the very complex questions. The reader is also referred to Sándor Kovács’s “Final Concertos” chapter in The Bartók Companion for his views on the possibilities of Bartók’s intentions. However, on the issue of structure I remain convinced that my revision of 1993 is the most cohesive of the revisions. With regard to the large-scale structural problems, the following theory is proposed: In the initial plan Bartók intended for the first movement to include a short introduction; the second movement, a scherzo, to also be preceded by an introduction of recurring material; the third movement, Adagio, to begin without introduction, as in the manuscript; and the fourth movement to begin with an allegretto introduction, which develops into the Allegro. This would satisfy his initial description in the letter of August 5, 1945. A few weeks later when work was in full stride, he dropped the idea of the second movement altogether, leaving a first movement, with introduction of solo viola and timpani, a second movement, with no introduction, that led directly into the Allegretto, which functions as an introduction to the last movement. This leaves us with both the Lento parlando section omitted and the few bars that both Serly and this author left out but which Peter Bartók and Csaba Erdélyi included as part of the transition to the final Allegro. As for the so-called Lento parlando, this may have been either an introduction to the abandoned Scherzo or the first draft of the second movement, which was later dropped, for being too short, and replaced by the second movement proper. There is a stronger case for the second theory, on the grounds that the ending of this section makes a perfect link to the allegretto introduction to the last movement and also because it fits Bartók’s initial description of being a “rather short” slow movement. Assuming the Lento parlando is removed, we are left with a straightforward threemovement concerto in which the first and third movements are preceded by short introductory sections.

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Some parallels may be drawn with the Second Violin Concerto, written seven years earlier. In the Viola Concerto, the solo viola and timpani duo opens the work, before the full orchestra enters, in a similar way to the opening of the Violin Concerto, where the solo violin and harp precede the full orchestra. The introductory allegretto section to the third movement of the Viola Concerto features the soloist, whereas the parallel place in the Violin Concerto features unison strings. Any further structural comparison between the two works is somewhat futile, as the Violin Concerto clearly follows a theme-and-variations concept and the Viola Concerto contains three movements that are structurally and thematically independent. Having said this, the possibility should not be ruled out that connections can be found between the intervallic relationships of the themes in the three movements. As was mentioned in chapter 1, there is a case for claiming that the Af drone theme in the middle section of the Finale is derived directly from the opening theme of the first movement and that the opening theme of the second movement is also connected thematically to this melody. Which is theme and which is variant is ambiguous, although it would appear that the first movement opening was most likely written down before the others.1 The Third Piano Concerto, written concurrently with this work, bears some noteworthy similarities from a structural viewpoint. The first movement, also in a traditional sonata form, opens with the soloist announcing, in the first eighteen bars, the principal theme against a shimmering texture of strings and timpani. The movement is firmly anchored in E major with references to various other modes during its course. Its ending, on an E major triad, is followed without transition by the clear C major tonality of the second movement. This is the reverse of the Viola Concerto, which goes directly from C major to E major and supports the view that a bridge between the movements is not necessary, with or without the Lento parlando. The second movement is in A–B–A' format, with a principal theme remarkably similar to that in the second movement of the Viola Concerto but in a kind of inverted form. The “out-of-doors” music that Serly incorporated into the Viola Concerto (the woodwind flourishes in the middle section of the second movement) was taken directly from here, at his own admission, as was the Adagio religioso instruction. This instruction, in the Third Piano Concerto, has been identified as a reference to Beethoven’s “Heiliger Dankgesang” (Holy song of joy) in his String Quartet No. 15, Op. 132. Unlike the Viola Concerto, the last movement of the Third Piano Concerto starts without any bridge or ritornello theme, just some short introductory material, and is in a rondo plan, being more extended than in the third movement of the Viola Concerto.

Structure within each of the three main movements The first movement clearly has a sonata-form plan. The second movement is an A–B–A' plan, with a shortened A' section. A connecting passage links directly to

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the Allegretto and utilizes the same melody as the introduction to the first movement but in inverted form. The Allegretto then introduces the allegro, which is also in an A–B–A' plan. A detailed analysis of the form follows (Figs. 5.1a, b, and c, 5.2, and 5.3); bar numbers refer to those in the Peter Bartók/ Nelson Dellamaggiore revision. In order to preserve objectivity, no indications of bowing or articulation are included in the examples. The source of the musical examples is Peter Bartók, Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft © copyright 1995 by Bartók Records, and they are included with the permission of Peter Bartók and Boosey & Hawkes.

The Significance of Proportion Much has been written and debated about the influence of the golden section and the Fibonacci series in Bartók’s music.2 It is this author’s view that each work should be viewed independently and if evidence of the presence of the golden section is present then it is worthy of note. Some would argue that any presence is coincidental; others would insist it is the result of careful craftsmanship on Bartók’s part. There is no question that Bartók was intensely interested in structures found in nature and as a result of his reading and observations seems to have been aware of the properties of the Fibonacci series and its presence in organic life-forms. His particular interest in pinecones and sunflowers (in which the Fibonacci series can be observed) is well documented and no better demonstrated, albeit anecdotally, than in the following extract from Agatha Fassett’s The Naked Face of Genius: And the way he’d hold a pine cone to his ear as if it were a fancy sea shell—what on earth could he have heard in it? And they ask me if I know why he should have wanted to pull the pine cone apart and stare at each bit of it, as if he were going to discover some new wonder in every piece . . . While we were preparing a tray of food, I saw Ditta fill a deep bowl with pine cones that were drying in the kitchen, and I looked at her questioningly. “He loves surprises on his tray,” she said, selecting a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. “These will amuse him.” When she brought back the tray of empty dishes, she sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh of relief. “He ate everything but the pine cones! You ought to see him playing with them, and planning to find the mother tree of each kind. I’m sure he will too.”

Ernö Lendvai, in his Béla Bartók: An Analysis of His Music, demonstrates many examples in Bartók’s music of the principles of the golden section and in particular Fibonacci’s series of whole numbers.3 It is certainly interesting to be aware of the principles involved when investigating an unfinished work, such as the Viola Concerto. While it is not within the scope of this study to either explain in full the mathematical qualities of the golden section or quote examples of its usage in other Bartók works, Lendvai has demonstrated both aspects extensively in his book and

Figure 5.1a First movement — exposition

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Figure 5.1b First movement—development

familiarity with his findings is helpful when relating to suggestions regarding the Viola Concerto. It is of particular interest to note Lendvai’s comments on the appearance of the Fibonacci series in the pine cone and in various other organic forms.4 In the Fibonacci series each number is the sum of the previous two, whose proportions approach 0.618 or conversely 0.382 as the numbers increase. In its purest form in the golden section or sectio aurea this may be expressed as 1:x = x:(1–x) where 1 is the total length, x is the length of the larger section, and (1–x) is the length of the smaller section. The series then runs as follows: 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, ad infinitum. In the case of the Viola Concerto the following observations can be made: All

Figure 5.1c First movement—recapitulation

Figure 5.2 Second movement

92

Figure 5.3 Third movement

93

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measure numbers refer to the Peter Bartók revision. Abbreviations used for comparison are TS (Tibor Serly), PB (Peter Bartók), CE (Csaba Erdélyi), and DM (Donald Maurice). In the first movement any calculations are subject to the section between measures 174 and 183 being considered an undefined quantity, as Bartók left this bridge passage incomplete. To those in the pro-Lendvai camp this is a bonus, as the section can be manipulated to satisfy the overall requirements of the golden section. Indeed, they could argue that Bartók left this section blank intentionally, so that in his next draft the development of this flexible section could be “made to order” to perfect the necessary proportions. In the DM and CE revisions, the bridge passage is left at the identical length it occurred in Bartók’s exposition. In the other revisions we have extended versions: DM/CE PB TS

seven measures of 44 time, or 28 beats one measure of 54 and eight measures of 44, or 37 beats ten measures of 44 time, or 40 beats

According to the predictions of Lendvai, an event of some moment should occur at approximately 0.618 of the way through the movement, for instance, the recapitulation or some structural point of similar importance. Using the preceding four possibilities we can establish what happens at 0.618 of the way through the movement in each of the three revisions. This can be done by performing a calculation either on the total number of beats in the movement or on the total number of measures. Each gives a quite different result. First, the “beats” method is examined. Using the formal analysis presented in the previous section it is ascertained that the exposition (mm. 1–80 inclusive) contains 344 quarter note beats, the development (mm. 81–145 inclusive) contains 271 beats, the recapitulation (mm. 146–204 excluding the aforementioned measures) contains 88 beats, and the coda (mm. 205–27 inclusive) contains 94 beats. Therefore, the totals in the various versions are: DM/CE PB TS

797 + 28 = 825 beats 797 + 37 = 834 beats 797 + 40 = 837 beats (ignoring other “added” measures)

Taking the 0.618 calculation, the three versions, rounded to the nearest beat, arrive at the following points: DM/CE PB TS

510th beat or 2nd beat of measure 118 515th beat or 3rd beat of measure 119 517th beat or 1st beat of measure 120

It is clear that none of these points coincides with any structural event in the music and, in fact, all are over twenty-five measures short of the recapitulation. No amount of manipulation of the bridge passage could increase the possibility of the

Some Aspects of Structure : 95

golden section playing a significant role in this movement if beats are used as the basis of calculation. Second, we examine the “measures” method. The totals in the various versions are: DM/CE PB TS

225 measures 227 measures 228 measures (ignoring other “added” measures)

Taking the 0.618 calculation, the three versions, rounded to the nearest measure, arrive at the following points: DM/CE PB TS

measure 139 measure 140 measure 141

Bearing in mind that the recapitulation occurs at measure 146, we are now within reach of proportions that might satisfy the golden section. In order to achieve a perfect result, the bridge passage would have to be increased from that in the exposition by 13 measures. This would give the movement a total of 236 measures, of which 0.618 would be 146. This would be almost a doubling in length of the material in the exposition bridge passage. In summary, it is possible that this movement could be an example of use of the golden section, but such an assertion would be dependent on Bartók’s intention to extend the bridge passage in the recapitulation by almost doubling its length and acceptance that such proportions were based on number of measures rather than number of beats. It is, however, likely that this was probably not Bartók’s plan and that the bridge passage was left unwritten simply through his wish to conserve energy and that it would not have been so drastically modified as to reappear almost twice as long. It is possible that the golden section played a significant role in earlier works, but it is likely that it was not of importance to Bartók in this first movement. In the second movement there is a new problem, this time in defining exactly where the second movement ends. Is the Allegretto part of the second movement or of the third movement, or does it stand alone between them? In his sketch, Bartók gave the timings of the work as follows: 1. 10' 20",

2. 5' 10",

3. 4' 45",

Total: 20' 15".

The implication is that the Allegretto section should be included as being part of the second or third movement. Traditionally it has been included as part of the second movement, but this is an assumption that may be questioned. As it is about twenty seconds in duration, its placement either way can readily be absorbed into Bartók’s timing indications. If the Allegretto is part of the third movement, the second movement would

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need to be marginally slower to last for 5' 10". The correct metronome mark for the average tempo would then become q = 44. If it belongs to the second movement, the average tempo of the slow section would be approximately q = 47. However if the repeat of the Allegretto, which takes about forty seconds, is included, the average tempo of the remaining slow section would become q = 51. All the preceding results are of course far from the q = 69 suggested by Serly. The following calculations of the golden section are applied as though the Allegretto is part of the second movement and its repeat is included. In total there are 57 measures of 44 , or 228 beats, plus the Allegretto’s 36 measures of 42 and 2 measures of 43, or 78 beats, giving a total of 95 measures, or 306 beats: By measure By beat

95 x 0.618 = 58.71 306 x 0.618 = 189

(the Allegretto begins in m. 58) (no significant event)

The following calculations of the golden section are applied as though the Allegretto is not part of the second movement: By measure By beat

57 x 0.618 = 35 228 x 0.618 = 141

(no significant event) (no significant event)

In summary, if the Allegretto is not part of the second movement, then there is no evidence of the golden section. However, if the Allegretto is included in the second movement, then the proportions of the Allegretto in relation to the whole movement do demonstrate the intentional or coincidental presence of the golden section. In the third movement it is assumed that the Allegretto is not part of the movement. All measures added by Serly are removed. The only place left that causes any concern is the introductory measures to the middle Af section. Bartók’s shorthand implied some kind of repeat in the first few measures. Before the entry of the solo oboe we find: TS PB CE DM

two measures of 42 three measures of 42 three measures of 42 four measures of 42

The following calculations of the golden section are applied as though there is a four-bar introduction to the Af section. The choice of a two-, three-, or fourmeasure introduction has neglible influence on the outcome of the calculation. The third movement contains 254 measures of 42 and 2 measures of 43, giving a total of 256 measures, or 514 beats: By measure By beat

256 x 0.618 = 158 514 x 0.618 = 318

(no significant event) (no significant event)

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Further calculations that allowed for the Allegretto to be included in the third movement did not yield any evidence to suggest the presence of the golden section. In any discussion of the presence of the golden section in the music of Bartók, the comments of László Somfai are of particular significance: To summarize this survey of computations in the complete existing source materials of Bartók’s compositions as well as manuscripts of folk-music transcriptions, drafts of articles, and scattered scrap papers in the Hungarian and American estate: there are lots of numbers and little calculations in Bartók’s hand, but not a single calculation of the proportions of a composition—with Fibonacci or other numbers—has been discovered. We observe, on the one hand, the composer’s notorious lifelong habit of keeping and recycling every bit of paper and, on the other, the absence of preconceived calculations for any composition. This is solid evidence against the widespread assumption that the fascinating Golden Section proportions found in several of Bartók’s works by Ernö Lendvai and others must necessarily have been deliberately planned by the composer.5

In overall summary, it has been demonstrated that there are some structural proportions in the first and second movements that could approximate to the golden section but that there is no evidence in the third movement of any intentional employment of this device. Due to the limited significance of the golden section in the Viola Concerto, it is suggested that it is not necessary for any further structural development to occur in a revision so as to achieve the proportions that it dictates.

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Chapter

Six

Revisions

The Revisions of Atar Arad, Csaba Erdélyi,

Peter Bartók, and Donald Maurice

While a limited number of copies of the manuscript were “leaked” into the viola community during the 1950s, probably originating from William Primrose, the musicological world’s first documented contact was in 1963 when Tibor Serly presented a copy to the Bartók Archives in Budapest. While it may seem surprising that no revisions appeared until much later, this may be partly explained by a reluctance on the part of musicologists to become involved in a project that would probably produce more questions than answers and a reluctance by most violists to produce revisions due to their lack of analytical and compositional expertise, preventing them from doing much beyond note corrections. Added to this were the legal problems with the Bartók Estate from the 1950s through to the 1980s, which would also have deterred scholars and performers from trying out new solutions to the work. Before a comprehensive examination of the various revisions can be carried out, a brief statement is necessary of how each relates to the overall scheme and chronology of the revision process.

Atar Arad Currently professor of viola at the University of Indiana in Bloomington, Atar Arad (photo 3) is one of the leading performers from the generation of violists who came into prominence in the 1970s. While he did not produce a substantive revision, his early adaptations in Bartók’s Viola Concerto are of importance in its historical record, as he was most likely the first violist to make significant departures from the Serly version in public performances. During an interview with the author in June 1995, Arad confessed to being somewhat nervous about going onto the stage for the first time with many new ideas on

Atar Arad

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how the viola part should be presented. From as early as 1976, for instance, he had introduced the idea of using pizzicato in the chords in the Allegretto that link the second and third movements. This is of particular interest because we now know that in the recording of Burton Fisch made in early 1948, before Primrose had seen the music, he also played this section pizzicato, presumably on Serly’s instruction. In the Winter 1988 issue of the magazine American String Teacher, an article appeared, titled “The Thirteen Pages,”1 in which Arad gives his reactions to his first encounter with the manuscript, which was made available to him in 1980 in a photocopy held by William Primrose. This article is most important in the historical record of the concerto, as it appeared well before the various revisions of the nineties. Mention is made of the early work of Atar Arad not because it is appropriate to include it in a comparative analysis but rather because many of Arad’s adaptations in performance pre-empted those of the later revisionists. Because Arad’s adaptations are mainly restricted to note corrections and do not affect the orchestration or structure of the work, it is appropriate to exclude it from a comparative analysis and rather to bear in mind its importance as an early contribution to the revision process of the interpretation of the solo viola part. Since the publication of this article, we are fortunate to have been offered the facsimile edition by Peter Bartók. Noting the unavailability of this publication in 1988, Atar Arad offered the following comment in March 2002: The publication of the Facsimile Edition of the Autograph Draft in 1995, by Bartok Records, made my article “The Thirteen Pages” (published in 1988) obsolete, and I am genuinely happy about that. My aim in writing the article had been to give the readers an idea as to how far the then only edition of the concerto was from Bartok’s manuscript, and how far the manuscript itself was from completion. It should be said that only very few violists had the privilege to have a glance at the manuscript at the time, as I did and, in my case, the thirteen pages I was glancing at it were blurry third or fourth generation photocopies. With the publication of the facsimile, I realized, of course, how little and incomplete was the information given in my article. Just as an example—I not only would have had mentioned the “harmonics” in the third movement, but would have had played them as such, as I do today. I hope that future editions of the Bartok Concerto—sooner or later there will be more editions—will take one more step in the right direction in offering under every edited stave an unedited one as well.2

Csaba Erdélyi The initial revision of Csaba Erdélyi (photo 4), which was first performed in 1992 in Budapest, concerned primarily only the viola part’s pitches. Erdélyi’s subsequent work has seen many more changes in the aspects of orchestration and structure, partly as a result of his contact with the revisions of Peter Bartók and the author, partly as a result of his own further research, and partly through contact with var-

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ious Bartók scholars, in particular Elliott Antokoletz of Austin, Texas, with whom he has worked closely in recent years, and Hungarian composer György Kurtág. Erdelyi’s version, revised and reissued in 1996 (published privately and not for public sale), had evolved considerably from the rendition he gave in 1992 with the Budapest Symphony Orchestra and, due to the inevitable cross-influence from other revisions, was, strictly speaking, a summary of all existing revisions. In general the solo viola part provided by Erdélyi in 1996 was as honest an attempt as one may make in revealing exactly what Bartók left in his manuscript. In the few places where Erdélyi changed the material, he supplied the original underneath. Any added slurs or dynamics were bracketed. Thus there is little to comment on. However, it must be stated that this “unedited” solo part was not a performing part, as almost no slurs or articulations were included. As such this should be viewed not so much as a revision but as a fair copy of the manuscript, a kind of urtext version. In his quest for the definitive version, Erdélyi once again revised his work in preparation for a performance at the opening night concert of the Twenty-ninth International Viola Congress in Wellington, New Zealand, on April 8, 2001. This performance with the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra was conducted by Marc Decio Taddei and was recorded two months later for release as a compact disc, along with Harold in Italy by Berlioz. This performance was in many respects a historic occasion. It was the first time a performance of the Bartók Viola Concerto other than the Serly or Peter Bartók versions had ever been performed “legally.” This situation arose because the copyright period of fifty years that is observed in Australia and New Zealand expired in December 1999, that being fifty years after the work was first performed. In Europe and North America the work will remain under copyright until December 2024, as both observe a seventy-five year copyright. In effect, this means that only the Serly and Peter Bartók versions may be performed outside Australasia until 2024. The compact disc and score of the Erdélyi 2001 revision has been available in New Zealand since 2002.

Peter Bartók In mid-1995 Boosey & Hawkes released a new publication of the Viola Concerto with the wording: “Revised Version by Nelson Dellamaggiore and Peter Bartók.”3 This revision was undertaken by Nelson Dellamaggiore under Peter Bartók’s supervision (photo 5) and with the assistance of New York violist Paul Neubauer, as adviser on violistic aspects. Neubauer’s involvement was given impetus by the scholarly work in the Master of Music thesis of Kevin Call at Brigham Young University. In order to restore the work as precisely as possible to the manuscript, Nelson Dellamaggiore began by making a “fair transcription” of the manuscript,4 an easy-

Csaba Erdélyi

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Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore

to-read version of precisely the content of the manuscript. From this he and Peter Bartók made decisions regarding orchestration and structure but for the bulk of the work accepted the orchestration and other markings of Serly. The most obvious areas of concern were in note correction and the removal of added bars by Serly. Phrasing in the solo viola part was added by Paul Neubauer (photo 6). This aspect is not commented on here, mainly on the grounds that it is not of structural significance but also because it will be discussed in detail in chapter 9. Now that the situation regarding the lack of indications from Bartók in the solo part is well known, it is clear that every violist will have his/her own ideas on how things should be done, and it would be pointless to simply list an endless number of possibilities. The printed edition contains a preface by Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore that outlines the processes followed in producing the revision. This is a commentary in general terms with a few specific references. Nelson Dellamaggiore supplied the author with an extensive, bar-by-bar analysis of the work (“Bartók: Viola Concerto, Revisions January 9, 1992”), which has not been released for publication. This is in effect a detailed log of the decision-making process followed by Peter Bartók and himself. A notable feature of this document is the comment made in the introductory note (Mv’t 0, bar 0) that “the initials in brackets, (TS) and (PN), in-

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Paul Neubauer

dicate suggestions by Messrs. Tibor Serly and Paul Neubauer respectively. Additions to the score at the initiative of those preparing the revision are identified by the explanations or (PB/ND) or (Ed.).” These references were not included in the publication of the revision. To all intents and purposes, the issue of cross-influence does not exist in this revision, due to Peter Bartók’s determination to avoid discussion with any third party,

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other than Nelson Dellamaggiore and Paul Neubauer, in the revision process. In response to a letter that offered to compare thoughts on his and the author’s revisions, Peter Bartók replied in a letter dated February 15, 1993, as follows: I would indeed be interested to learn about the conclusions that resulted from your research but, for the moment, I would prefer not to, as I would like not to be influenced by anything other than what I find in my father’s manuscript and my own personal reactions. After our version is published it would be interesting to know how you have interpreted some features in my father’s notes.

The Author—Donald Maurice A brief statement of the relationship of the author’s revision to the overall revision process and chronology is in order at this point. As I began initial work on a revision in 1978, there was no possibility in the early stages of cross-influence, as at that point there were no other known revisions in progress, other than the unpublished work of Atar Arad, of which the author was not aware. It was not until two years after the performance in 1993 that the author had contact with the other revisions. As such, the score and video of that performance are representative of a version without cross-influence. In this context, this revision that culminated in the private performance of 1993 is included for comparison with the other revisions. It is, however, now viewed by the author (photo 7) as a document of historical significance, rather than a definitive version of Bartók’s Viola Concerto. In future performances the author would gladly embrace some of the alternative solutions proposed by the other revisionists, such as the pizzicato in the Allegretto, recorded by Fisch, proposed by Arad, and also adopted by Erdélyi, and would reinvestigate the material that links the Allegretto to the third movement. In a contemporary performance cross-influence would be acknowledged not as a negative quality but rather as further enlightenment of the possible intentions of Bartók. Ongoing research confirms that the definitive Bartók Viola Concerto is yet to be revealed. This will be discussed in greater depth in chapters 7, 8, and 9.

Comparison of the Three Revisions Aspects to be considered include: structure, orchestration, tempi, dynamics, phrasing, and notes in the solo viola part. Unless stated otherwise, all measure numbers refer to those in the Serly score. The following abbreviations are adopted for convenience: TS—the Tibor Serly reconstruction

DM—the Donald Maurice revision dated 1993

PB—the Peter Bartók/Nelson Dellamaggiore revision dated 1995

CE—the Csaba Erdélyi revision dated 2001

Donald Maurice

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structure The first structural issue to arise concerns the measures added by Serly and/or Primrose. In the case of the extra measures in the first movement at measures 73, 143, and 223; in the second movement (in the Allegretto) at measures 62–63; and in the third movement at measures 197–205 and 259–62, all three revisionists agree with their removal. The first problematic place is measures 175–85 in the first movement. This is the place in the manuscript that Bartók left blank. In TS the material from the exposition is developed to increase its length from seven to ten measures. In PB this becomes a nine-measure section with an extra beat in the first measure, making a 54 measure. In CE this becomes a seven-measure section (eight measures in his earlier revision) with a final bar with a newly introduced rhythm of eighth notes. In DM the section is repeated exactly as in the exposition, being seven measures long. It is at this point that one could manipulate the structure so as to make the movement satisfy the qualities of the golden section. This is discussed in detail in chapter 5, but that possibility is rejected. What would have been Bartók’s eventual solution remains a mystery. The second problematic place is probably the most controversial. It concerns the thirteen measures of music labeled by Serly as lento parlando. In PB and CE the section is left exactly as in TS. Following this, in TS there is a bar of open C from the solo viola, followed by a four-measure bassoon solo, which connects the Lento parlando to the second movement. In PB these five measures are replaced by five quarter notes from the viola solo—As, A, Gs, Fs, and Es —followed by a quarter-note rest, which leads directly to the second movement. In CE the five measures are simply replaced by a sustained open C in the solo viola and the second movement follows directly. In DM the whole Lento parlando section and Serly’s five measures are left out entirely. This results in the C major triad at the end of the first movement being followed directly by the E major triad of the second movement. The third problematic area is the link from the Allegretto into the final Allegro. This is the point in the manuscript where Bartók left some seemingly unconnected fragments that could be viewed as possible initial ideas for the missing Scherzo movement. He wrote the letters A and B at the beginning and end of the eightmeasure section in which the solo viola plays the triple- and quadruple-stopped chords. At the point where Serly cuts to the Allegro there is the marking “AB 2 tr. és corni ” (2 trumpets and horns), and an additional eight measures of music follow. In TS the section is left out altogether. In PB the A-B section is repeated and the additional eight measures are added on as an extension to the Allegretto. In CE the manuscript instruction is followed to repeat the section marked A-B and the otherwise redundant eight measures, which Serly excluded, are superimposed. In DM the solution of Serly is retained. Peter Bartók makes a case for the idea of a Scherzo being intended to follow the

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Lento parlando with the descending scales providing the link.5 He contends that his father later decided to have the Scherzo following the slow movement and that the descending scales at the conclusion of the slow movement took over the linking function. He then suggests that the material contained within the aforementioned eight measures provide us with a very abbreviated Scherzo, sandwiched in before the Finale. The fourth problematic area is measures 114–33 in the third movement. Here Serly transposed the entire section up a semitone. This was inexcusable and surprising from a man who claimed to be so close to Bartók’s compositional style. The interrelationships of key centers is crucial in Bartók’s music, and this meddling in such a fundamental structural element makes this probably Serly’s worst transgression. In his “Belated Account. . . .” article, this transgression is conspicuous by its absence. All three revisionists return this section to the original key of Af, but there is some confusion in the opening bars of this “bagpipe” section. Once again Bartók’s shorthand implies some kind of repeat of material. Serly’s two-measure introduction to the melody becomes three measures in PB and CE and four measures in DM. In all other places where there is a structural discrepancy between Serly and the manuscript, the three revisions are in agreement.

orchestration Before discussion of the orchestrations of the revisionists, a short note about the much-noted decision of Serly to dispense with the timpani in the introduction is in order. According to Peter Bartók, this was a decision taken for purely practical reasons: Mr Serly had mentioned to me, after he had lived with the manuscript for a while, that he was disturbed by the number of timpani required. Indeed, the part is difficult and requires the inclusion of the largest (thirty-two inch) instrument for playing a low C, without which the end result would be unsatisfactory. To facilitate performance by orchestras with limited resources, Mr Serly solved the problem by assigning the part to cellos and one bass, pizzicato.6

In DM the horns are reduced to two and otherwise Serly’s specifications remain. The amendments to Serly’s orchestration concern only those specific places where there was a clear indication from Bartók or in which the suggestion by Serly seemed inappropriate for textural reasons, an example being the unorthodox use of the three muted trumpets at the close of the first movement. The specific places in the first movement are: 1. The introduction, where the timpani takes the cello/bass line. 2. Measures 54–55—the line is kept in the viola rather than passing to the first horn.

110 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o 3. Measures 61–63—the countermelody is given to the clarinet instead of the oboe. 4. Measures 70–72—the clarinet line is given to the cellos, minus the fp markings. 5. Measure 127— the chord on the third beat is restored and played by horns, cello, and basses. 6. Measure 165— the flutes are tacet on the second beat from measure 175, where the following seven measures are orchestrated exactly as in the parallel exposition section. 7. Measures 220–22—Serly’s three measures are returned to two measures and the entire descending scale returned to the viola solo. 8. The end of the first movement—the piano chords in measures 224–26 are transferred from the three muted trumpets to three flutes.

In the second movement, the woodwind motives from measures 30–40 are entirely removed, as is the motive in the flutes at measure 48. In the Allegretto the trumpet interjections between measures 71 and 78 are removed. The specific places of difference in the third movement are: 1. Measure 7 and measure 15—the bassoon and clarinet motives are removed. 2. Measures 19–21—the trills are taken from the oboes, clarinets, bassoons, and horn and shared between only the solo viola and piccolo. 3. Measure 29— the flourishes in the flute and piccolo are removed and the glissando in the viola removed and replaced with two pizzicato notes. 4. Measures 48–51—the flute is tacet. 5. Measures 51–64—the clarinets and trumpets are removed from an accompanying role and given the melody in a one quarter-note canon with the violins, flutes, and oboes; also, all implications of thirds are removed from the harmonies in all parts, as none are present in Bartók’s manuscript. 6. Measures 93–96—the strings are instructed to play pizzicato. 7. Measures 236–258— the five-note sixteenth-note motive is returned to a four-note figure.

In PB the instrumentation is amended to increase the horns from three to four, the two trombones are redesignated as trombone, and bass trombone, and in the percussion the small cymbal is dispensed with and a triangle added. In PB the orchestration varies from the Serly score considerably more than in DM, in spite of the joint statement at the front of the revision by Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore: Much of Tibor Serly’s orchestration has been retained. Some of the changes in this revised score apply to the tutti passages where a fuller orchestration is used, and in a few instances, where the solo is playing, fewer instruments accompany. The double bass has been added mainly in portions of the third movement. Some percussion parts have been added; as the sketch does not cover the percussion (except the timpani passage at the beginning), a bit of latitude in this area has been assumed, e.g., the triangle has been added in the second movement at bar 40.

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By way of comment, one could add that while the sketch does not cover the percussion, it does not cover the strings, woodwinds, or brass, either. The aforementioned triangle entry is a questionable decision, as the viola is at this point about to enter on a high piano E, after the soft entry of the low strings. The triangle serves only to disturb the delicacy of this very beautiful moment in the music. While for the most part the use of extra forces in the tutti passages is an honorable endeavour, it is curious that some of Serly’s effective use of percussion to highlight climaxes has been removed as at measures 93 and 94 in the first movement. The use of four horns in the first movement is more to provide “bumper” than to provide necessary added texture, given that there are only two places in the movement where the four horns play more than two notes at once. These occur at measure 130 and measures 209–10 in the first movement, both places where an alternative could easily have been provided. The use of more than two horns is, however, effective in the Lento parlando section (measures 228–34) and in the opening of the Finale (measures 1–4). There are a number of places when all four horns play the same part, such as measures 55–58 and measures 177–79 in the first movement. Contrabassoon is added to the instrumentation partly for added textural depth but also, notably, in measures 23–25 in the first movement, where it replaces bassoon, providing a doubling of the lower octave with the double bass. There are some redistributions of lines in the strings, such as the addition of violins in measures 14–18, and among the winds, such as the transfer of the lines from the two clarinets to oboe and cor anglais in measures 21–23. There are numerous other changes of this nature, often justified on the basis that the manuscript implied a new voice entering the texture, therefore a new instrument being required. In the CE 2001 revision, there are a number of very subtle redistributions of notes within the string family, such as in the pizzicato accompaniment from measure 14. In measure 17 horns enter with a Gf–Bf–C chord to reinforce the low viola C, an entry to be found only in this revision and not notated in the manuscript. The flute melody in measure 21 is transferred to clarinet with staccato introduced into the articulation. Throughout the movement there are subtle shifts of color by transfers of motives between instruments such as the movement of the melody in measure 26 from horn to bassoon and the reverse in measure 31 and from bassoon to bass clarinet in measure 36. Such changes are probably not noticeable to most listeners, but presumably in Erdélyi’s informed opinion they are important in establishing a more Bartókian sound-scape. It is not the intention here to identify any more of these subtle alterations but rather to focus on more substantive modifications. The introduction of woodwinds in measure 41 is notable, and the slurring across the beat is not present in other versions or in the manuscript. The transfer of the countermelody from violin to bassoon at measure 52 makes an effective tonal contrast with solo viola and is equally as justifiable as leaving it the strings. The passage at measure 54 that is continued in the viola in PB and DM is here left as in TS, except it is given to bassoon rather than horn. The busy sixteenth-note motive in

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measures 55–58 is removed from the trumpets and left to the woodwinds and strings. PB made the same decision, but DM stays with the suggestion of TS. Interestingly, at measure 61 all three revisions have transferred the syncopated melody from the oboe, in TS, to the clarinet. In measure 63 CE and PB return it to the oboe. TS stayed with oboe throughout and DM stayed with clarinet. Similarly at measure 71, the countermelody is transferred from violin to bassoon (PB) and to bass clarinet (CE). In DM it remains as in TS, with the violins. At measure 81 CE transfers the contrary-motion countermelodies from bassoon to trombones, and at measure 88 the triplet figure is transferred from violas to the bass clarinet. PB transfers the same passage to the bassoon. DM remains with the TS suggestion. At measure 126 both PB and CE elect to put the clarinet melody an octave higher, and in the case of PB it is reinforced by the entire upper woodwind section. As the viola emerges from the cadenza the horn is added to the string texture. At the beginning of the cadenza section from measure 127, TS employs two bassoons, two horns, and pizzicato strings for all the chords. All three revisions add the extra chord in measure 127, which for some reason is missing in TS although clearly in the manuscript. PB further adds a chord at measure 128, which is not in the manuscript. Of the resulting chords in measures 127, 130, 132/133, and 134, DM remains with Serly’s choice. PB increases the horns from two to four and keeps all involved but without bassoons at measures 127 and 128 and without horns at measures 132/33 and 134. CE removes all but the pizzicato strings at measure 127, adds four horns at measure 130, and instructs the strings to use the Bartók pizzicato (slap effect) for the remainder of the chords. The horns are removed for the chords in measures 132/133 and 134 and are replaced with trombone and tuba. Further study of the recapitulation reveals a similar pattern of differences among the revisions. The treatment of the second movement is very similar in the three revisions, all having removed the much-discussed woodwind flourishes in the middle section. Of note, however, is the decision in PB to utilize only tremolo in the strings through this section. In TS and DM the tremolo effect is added to with rapid trilling between harmony notes in some of the strings. In CE only the trilling effect is used, with sustained chords in the lower strings. The manuscript supports the decision of PB, as only the indication of tremolo is clear. The link between the second and third movements is not discussed here, as each revision employs different material. The third movement is much less problematic than the first in that it is much more lightly scored in general. In PB and DM some of Serly’s additions are removed, such as the bassoons in measures 7–8 and 11–14. CE, however, retains these in a less obtrusive manner. While the additions by Serly were bold, they may well be argued to have enhanced this section. The distribution of the trills between measures 15 and 21 varies considerably among the revisions, in terms of both instruments and octaves. Of particular interest is the treatment of both orchestration and tonality at

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measures 51–65. Both PB and DM remove all references to Cs major or minor from the texture, other than what exists within the canonic melody. In CE the Es (French horn Bs) is retained, as in TS. The clear statement of Cs major at the beginning of this section immediately creates an almost blueslike effect with the En occurring in the melody in the following measure. The difference in effect is dramatic and of some significance. With the major/minor reference removed from the texture, the character changes and creates a more “Eastern” flavour. In this case the manuscript clearly supports the latter choice, and in my view this is the more Bartókian. Minor differences among the revisions continue through the remainder of the movement, but apart from the final measures, none are of particular significance. In the final two measures TS has the strings playing one chord pizzicato and the final chord arco. DM has both chords pizzicato. PB has both chords arco. CE has both chords utilizing the Bartók pizzicato (slap). CE is the only revision that retains Serly’s flourish to the final top note in the piccolo and flutes. PB and DM are closest to the manuscript but not necessarily the most effective. In summary, the revisions differ more in the area of orchestration than any other. One is tempted on one hand to suggest that each revision should clearly indicate decisions that are editorial. On the other hand, as in this area virtually the whole score is based on editorial decisions, it would be more practical to indicate clearly in the front of each published version that the orchestration is, with only a few exceptions, entirely the work of the revisionist, with general acknowledgment of influence from Tibor Serly or other revisions where appropriate.

temp o The issues of tempi are complicated by the fact that Bartók left timings of each of the three movements but did not leave clear directions as to where each movement should be considered to begin and end. It is unclear whether the Lento parlando should be viewed as part of the first or second movement or left out entirely. As mentioned in chapter 5, it is unclear whether the Allegretto should be viewed as part of the second or third movement or whether the so-called Scherzo material should be included in any of the timings. The markings of individual movements as 10' 20", 5' 10", and 4' 45", with a total of 20' 15", provide the only clues to the eventual tempi of the movements. How the tempo is adjusted within the movements for the characters of the various sections is left open to each interpreter and is in the view of this author unnecessary as a definitive instruction in a revision. In idealistic terms it should be adequate to supply no more than Bartók left for us and show at the beginning of each movement what should be its approximate duration and how that translates into an average tempo. The only indication of tempo we are given in the entire work, other than the aforementioned overall timings, is an accelerando in measure 108 in the first movement. Serly placed this marking one bar earlier than shown in the manuscript. It is unclear

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if this was a copying error or the change was intentional for some musical reason. All the other markings in the Serly version are supplied by him, including the Moderato, Adagio religioso, Allegretto, and Allegro vivace markings for the main sections. Csaba Erdélyi has included, in his 2001 revision, many tempo suggestions. These are best perceived as his observation of his own playing and are perhaps too detailed and prescriptive, leaving little for the individuality of another performer. With the subtitle “Critical Restoration according to the Composer’s Autograph” there should also be a note added that all these tempo markings are editorial and that none are found in the original manuscript. No doubt Erdélyi has arrived at these suggestions after a great deal of comparison with similar passages in other works, and there is no question that he brings to the work a wealth of experience of the idiomatic features of Hungarian music. As such, the suggestions are invaluable, but it is nevertheless important for the observer to know exactly what has been added in the editorial process. In the first movement alone Erdélyi has added metronome markings in twenty-four places, usually accompanied with instructions for slowing down or speeding up or a suggestion of rubato. In the Peter Bartók revision, the introductory note states: In determining tempi the composer’s description, as well as estimated timings, have been made use of. Reference has been made also to tempi of Rumanian folk music notations in the composer’s collection, which resemble the Rumanian style portions of the Finale. It is assumed that Béla Bartók combined the two ritornelli with the second movement in establishing his timings. The tempi as specified result in times for each of the three movements, as well as a total duration, differing by only a few seconds from the composer’s estimate. As usual, it is also assumed that these will be regarded as a basic guide, with due allowance for other factors (performer’s interpretation, acoustics, etc.), in the practical time taken up by an actual performance.

The tempo markings are entered into Peter Bartók’s score unbracketed, but one must assume that the performer will read the preceding introductory note. As stated earlier, the only marking from Bartók is the accelerando in measure 108 of the first movement. There are forty-five tempo suggestions in the first movement, (including ritenuto, accelerando, a tempo, etc.), thirteen in the second movement (including the Allegretto and Scherzo sections), and fourteen in the third movement. For the most part they are the kind of interpretive nuances that a performer would instinctively include, but special mention must be made of two instructions. The first is at measure 41 in the first movement where the tempo is reduced from q = 100 to q = 80 (similarly in CE score). This kind of slowing down was also preferred by Serly and taken even further by Primrose who stated in his interview with David Dalton that slowing to half speed was Bartók’s intention: This passage is usually misinterpreted. It supposed to slow down to almost a doppio movimento. The indication in the score doesn’t show this. A moments study will reveal that there

Revisions : 115 is an accelerando which is finalised at measure 52 by a “tempo primo”. There must be some give somewhere to prepare that accelerando, and the place where it can commence. Most performances go straight ahead without respect given the accelerando. Naturally, I am influenced by the way I play it, and originally understood it should be played.

The second is at measure 249 (PB score) in the third movement where an allargando molto is marked and specified to slow from q = 152 down to q = 72. The following measure is marked a tempo (q = 152). Peter Bartók makes a strong case for justifying this by comparing this ending with those of several other works, notably the Sonata for Violin and Piano, Piano Concertos Nos 1 and 2, Concerto for Orchestra, and the Sonata for Solo Violin.7 In spite of this well-reasoned suggestion, it can be argued that this allargando molto weakens the momentum that has been gathering since the general pause at measure 172. These markings are included in the score without any indication that they are only editorial. In DM the first movement is taken at around q = 100. This tempo is varied only slightly through the movement and without a significant slowing down at Primrose’s doppio movimento instruction. Obviously there is considerable flexibility in the cadenza section and ritenuto and accelerando occur as devices to highlight points of structural significance. It is considered not necessary to add markings to the score, and as such instructions will never be definitive, this is perhaps best left as an interpretive element. In DM, in the second movement, Serly’s marking of q = 69 is reduced to 44 in order to achieve Bartók’s timing of 5'10" (it appears that Serly read this as 3'10", hence his quicker tempo). In PB a marking of 48 is suggested. CE suggests 48–56. In DM the middle section is played only slightly faster. In Serly it is increased to 76, in PB it is increased to 80, and in CE it increases to 88–92. In DM, in the section linking to the Allegretto, an accelerando is introduced to bring the Allegretto to almost the tempo of the third movement. There is no evidence to suggest that in fact the Allegretto and the Allegro vivace should not be the same tempo. Both tempo markings were created originally by Serly. In PB the allegretto marking is removed and replaced by an accelerando, which begins four measures before Serly’s allegretto marking and continues right through the first ten measures of what was the Allegretto, arriving at his Scherzo (the solo viola entry), which is marked at q = 116–120. The extended material mentioned earlier under “Structure” is included here at the same tempo, and the final measure is marked accelerando so as to arrive at q = 132–38 for the third movement. For some inexplicable reason the third movement is then designated as allegretto. Serly marked this allegro vivace q = 126. All three revisions agree with Serly that the middle “bagpipe” section should be taken at a slower tempo. In PB a speed of q = 108–12 is suggested, (Serly suggested the same). CE suggests 92 and DM leaves it up to the performer to decide the actual tempo.

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dynamics It is not the intention to devote any space here to the issue of dynamics. Bartók supplied none. Even with comparison to other works it would be fruitless to propose one suggestion as a definitely superior alternative to another, and this is an area that, as with so much Baroque performance practice, is best left to the integrity of each interpreter. Any suggestions in any of the revisions must be taken only as suggestions.

phrasing It is also not the intention here to include a detailed comparison of phrasing and articulation among the revisions. With a virtually total lack of instruction from the composer, this is the area that has arguably the most scope for difference of opinion. With each performer there will be brought to bear a combination of instinct, influence, and intellect. It follows that those with the greatest exposure to the folk music of Hungary since the earliest age will have the strongest instinct. Those with the greatest exposure to the Serly version of the work will have the strongest sense of influence. Those with the greatest exposure to the music of Bartók in general, and especially his string writing, will bring the strongest “informed” or intellectual approach. A very general observation may be made in comparing the solo viola line in the Serly and Neubauer versions with that in the Maurice and Erdélyi versions in that in the latter versions the slurring generally includes less notes and crosses beats more often. The Serly and Neubauer versions are arguably more Romantic in concept and less conscious of idiomatic Hungarian rhythmic shapes. In addition, as is also a failing in the Serly/Primrose version, the phrasing in the Bartók/Dellamaggiore orchestral parts is often not unified with similar passages in the solo part, a sign that different personalities made decisions independently, without cross-referencing all decisions. An example of this occurs in the first movement where the woodwind phrasing at measures 118–19 is followed by a quite different treatment in the solo viola in measures 120–21 when playing a similar figure. Perhaps there is a good reason for this change of character, but it escapes this author. Phrasing and articulation in the music of Bartók are complex, and in the first draft of a score, in which, characteristically, Bartók did not supply such detail, the solutions must be explored with reference to other works with similar situations. This aspect is examined more thoroughly in chapter 9.

pitches in the solo viola part In comparing these revisions it must be noted that as the revisionists were all working from copies of the same manuscript sketch, the resulting revised viola solo parts are from the point of view of pitches and octave placement almost identical and,

Revisions : 117

apart from five places, comparison among the revisions is pointless. Of the five places worthy of special mention, three are in the first movement. The first place is at measures 54–55. Here the manuscript implies, with an arrow, that the viola solo should continue in quarternotes through the notes D, E, and Fs on the second, third, and fourth beats. In DM and PB this is observed. In CE this is left as in the Serly version. This situation also occurs also in the recapitulation in the section that Bartók left blank. In this recapitulation section PB retains all but the last of Serly’s added ten measures with minor modifications. CE and DM replicate just the seven measures from the exposition, CE with some modifications. The aforementioned quarter notes disappear from the texture completely in TS, PB, and CE but are retained in DM. The second place is at measure 68, where TS has a 64 measure. The manuscript shows an extra triplet with the notes Ds, E, and Fs and the word marad (remains). In DM this is left as in the Serly version. In PB the Es, Fx, and As triplet (TS) is replaced with the Ds, E, and Fs triplet with an ossia (or) instruction and the 64 measure changed to two 43 measures. In CE both triplets are included, starting on the Ds and going through to the As, and the 64 measure becomes a measure of 44 followed by a measure of 34 . This may well be the correct solution but requires the note lengths in the orchestra to be adjusted to allow for the extra beat. The third place is at measure 162, where the manuscript shows a chord that contains the note E in three different octaves. While at first this may seem an impossibility, it can in fact be produced by first playing the lower two Es as a first- and fourth-finger octave and then converting the upper E into a harmonic by slightly raising the finger. In CE the lower E is replaced with an open G and the top two Es are fingered together. This is a practical solution but makes the chord decisively an E minor harmony. In PB and DM the chord is left as three Es. (TS had a single G and E.) The fourth place is in the third movement at measures 19–21. Here the manuscript is quite unclear as to who should be playing what and in which octave. In PB and CE the notes are notated through the use of artificial harmonics that will result in the stated pitches and all in the viola part. In DM the trills are shared with the piccolo, which results in an interchange between soloist and orchestra, similar to what occurs in TS. The fifth place is in the so-called bagpipe middle section (measures 114–70), where Serly presumably justified his action of transposing the section up a semitone on the grounds that the key of A major would provide a better basis for resonance, with the use of open strings and natural harmonics becoming available. It is at this point that Bartók wrote “harmonics” in the manuscript. Certainly the key of A major would allow for natural harmonics to be employed on certain notes, but it would not provide the total solution. In the key of Af major the entire section can be played through use of artificial harmonics, and indeed this is the solution offered by PB and CE. In DM the key of Af is restored, but the melody is left played at

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pitch without harmonics. It is extremely difficult to execute this section with artificial harmonics, as the technique forces one to slow down the tempo such that the musical integrity may be compromised. It may well be that the request for harmonics would have been removed if Bartók and Primrose had held the meeting to discuss the various difficulties mentioned by Bartók.

Chapter

Seven

Authenticity

Future Attempts to Achieve a More

Authentic Bartók Viola Concerto

While it is true that Tibor Serly had some experience in working with Bartók’s works in the past, these were really exercises in orchestration on pieces that were completed in their original form and were already established in the repertoire to Bartók’s satisfaction. Serly’s comments about his work on Mikrokosmos pieces, as recorded in his interview with David Dalton (annotated in chapter 2), are interesting to recall. Knowing Bartók’s fastidious nature, Serly’s assertions that Bartók “allowed me to do anything I wanted” and that he had “carte blanche” with Bartók’s music do raise the question of his integrity. The Viola Concerto was a new situation, and as has been demonstrated by László Somfai and other experts in Bartók’s compositional process, this manuscript was, in spite of its apparent structural completeness, still only an early draft to which minimal layering and development had been added. As Serly’s experiences had been only with completed works and Bartók was unlikely to have shown him early drafts of any other works, he may not even have been aware of how different an early and a final draft of Bartók’s could be.1 Current scholarship suggests that orchestrating the sketches as they stand is inadequate to bring this work to the caliber of his other late works. All three of the revisions have also taken the approach of staying as close as possible to the manuscript, in fact much more so than the Serly version. This caution leads to an overall timbre in the concerto that is not in accordance with Bartók’s other late orchestral works, despite his comment that the orchestration would be “rather transparent.” It is clear that the manuscript left by Bartók at his death was not the final form the Viola Concerto would have taken. Any suggestions put forward as to how the composition may have developed must be viewed as speculative, and no amount of scholarly research or analysis can confidently claim to be able to extrapolate the definitive end result. Some clues may be found by comparing the Viola Concerto to

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a work of similar genre, such as the Second Violin Concerto, with its various drafts available for scrutiny. However, one must always bear in mind that for Bartók every work was a new creation and no two works follow an identical plan. In general terms, it is possible to discuss the kinds of changes that may have developed in subsequent drafts and the factors that would have prompted these changes. In order to move beyond generalities, one would need to be thoroughly familiar with the various drafts of many works of Bartók. Without doubt the person who has the greatest experience and insight in this regard is László Somfai, director of the Bartók Archives in Budapest. For three decades he has developed an understanding of Bartók’s compositional processes by thorough familiarization with many primary source materials. It is with the principles established by Somfai that the potential development in the Viola Concerto is examined here. First it must be clearly established what kind of a draft the manuscript represents and the level of development of the work in relation to other Bartók compositions. Only then is it possible to speculate on the kinds of development that may have occurred in subsequent drafts and refinements. In his Béla Bartók: Composition, Concepts and Autograph Sources (p. 29), Somfai suggests the following diagram (fig. 7.1) as a generalized model of the relation of source types to phases of Bartók’s compositional process. Somfai further explores the chain of sources by distinguishing six chronological periods between which the chain of sources changed. The chain is least complete in the early years up until 1907, presumably because Bartók did not preserve his working sketches. It is most complete between 1907 and 1932. After that it is reduced partly through the absence of a family member being involved in copying and partly by the reduction in recordings made by Bartók. This is also a reflection of the predominance of nonpiano works in the output of his final years. Somfai suggests the following as the normal pattern in these final two periods2: Works lithographed by UE after 1932 1

–

2

–

3b

–

6b

Boosey & Hawkes prints from 1939

1 – 2 – 3b – 5 –

–

7

-

6

6a

–

6

Also relevant to the Viola Concerto is Somfai’s note: During the Boosey and Hawkes period, from 1939 onward Bartók also used india-ink fair copies on Lichtpausen, sometimes with several, differently corrected copies of the tissue master. Occasionally he still wrote the full score on normal music paper and returned to use pencil in drafts when he was at Saranac Lake or Asheville, away from his normal working environment that included a piano.3

Authenticity : 121

Figure . Somfai’s model of the relation of source types to phases of Bartók’s compositional process. Copyright © . Reprinted by permission of The Regents of the University of California.

So the Viola Concerto manuscript lies somewhere between 1 and 2 of the preceding schema but more in the area of 2 , in that its relative completeness in form and continuity places it beyond the category of preliminary sketches. However, there

is enough ambiguity and lack of detail for it to be called only a “preliminary draft.”

Presumably if Bartók had continued he would have moved directly to stage 3b, a fair copy on Lichtpause masters. From there it would have progressed through 5 , corrected proof sheets, and on into the printed first edition.4 In the case studies provided by Somfai, we find that the majority of changes that occur beyond stage 4 are in the nature of refinements other than actual changes in a compositional sense. Such details may include precise markings of tempo, dynamics, or phrasing but would not normally involve major changes of pitch, rhythm, structure, or orchestration. Having said this, there are exceptional examples where much further along the chain a major structural amendment occurred. Of particular note are the alternative endings to the Concerto for Orchestra, the Second Violin Concerto, and the two Rhapsodies and the rejection of a whole movement, as with the Piano Suite (1916). It is in the progression from 1 through to 3 that these latter categories would normally develop to their more or less final form. In order to establish the parameters for the potential development of the Viola Concerto a case study of the first movement of the Second Violin Concerto is presented. First, its development is traced from its first draft through to the engraver’s copy of the violin and piano reduction. It is important to be aware that the Violin Concerto and the Third Piano Concerto began as sketches for solo instrument plus piano accompaniment and the orchestral score followed; that is, the piano reduction came “before” the full score. Second, the implications that may be drawn for the

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Viola Concerto by comparison with the Violin Concerto No. 2 are considered with reference to some of Somfai’s observations of the primary source materials of other works.

Second Violin Concerto The following case study was made possible by access to copies of the draft, the engraver’s copy, the corrected proof sheets, Bartók’s working copy (showing the first signs of intended orchestration), the autograph full score on tissue, and the proofs of the printed full score.5 This full score is marked, presumably by one of the personnel at the Bartók Archives: “This MSS is Bartók’s and is more reliable than the printed f/score.” Also of note is the part given by Bartók to Zoltán Székely, who discussed with the author the changes that he brought to the score by way of making the work more violinistic.6 This was done at Bartók’s request and with his approval. In the following table all markings of dynamics, tempi, and phrasing were added after the first draft unless stated otherwise. The comparison is by no means exhaustive but gives an idea of the sorts of things that might change at this stage of the compositional process. Key to abbreviations: BB: Bartók; ZS: Székely. * indicates a similar place in the Viola Concerto worthy of note. Measure numbers refer to those in the final score. Draft

Engraver’s Copy

No indications of tempo given 4 measures of chords

Added “I, Allegro non troppo

q = 100, Béla Bartók”

6 measures of B major chords, 2

before “pizz.” joins, staccato dots. 2 sixteenth notes added as upbeat to violin melody, p at opening, slurring added as in final version except B–Fs slurred in m. 10. BB had triplet slurred separately; ZS added in with B M.11, BB slurred Fs –B, ZS removed “harp” texture extended through to m. 12 BB slurred dotted quarter note to eighth note; ZS removed slur poco allarg., cresc. hairpin, and timing of 51” to this point a tempo, q = 112–118 non troppo f, espressivo FBDG, EACFs, DsCAB (reordered) DsCAB

“harp” texture only up to solo (19, 20, 21) (21) (22) (26) (31) FDBG, ECAFs, DsCBA (33) 3d beat DsCBA

Authenticity : 123

(33–34) (36) (39)

accel. al q = 136, dim. hairpin, mf slurring added, 1, 3, 2, 3, 3, 3, 2/bow arpeggios slurred in quarter-note beats* accomp. phrasing different tranquillo, q = 94 timing to here of 33” become one half, two quarters Risoluto, q = 120 slur with dot on second quarter becomes 3 slurred, 2 separate texture filled out

(43) (51) (55)

two half notes

(56)

two staccato quarters

(59) 4th beat slur 4, 1

(64–68) much of texture added

in pencil, presumably later

(74) solo BfCsFsG BfFsCsG (76) orch. AFBFs ABFFs (81) solo GsFACsG FGsAGCs (82) orch. DBfEEf, FsBCGs, FACsG becomes DBfEfE, FsBGsC, FCsAG

(90) solo FsFCB FsCFB F half note (92) rest BB sixteenths slurred in pairs, ZS (96) sixteenths unslurred slurs removed on 2d, 3d, and 4th beats sixteenths slurred in twos become (100–101) separate with staccato dots until m. 103 cresc. hairpin, ff (102) dramatically reworked, (105–7) 4 measures added (116) FBfDf FBfC (117) FGBf FAfC, then FGsC (121) 1st chord DfFAf DfFBf, then Bf moves to Af (124) whole-measure slurring* (123–36) BB one-measure slurs, ZS two-measure slurs triplet slurring* (146, 60) dim. hairpin, ’ , ff, vivace, q = 150 (159–60) sul pont., sempre legato in orch. (179) slurring different from similar place (194) in m. 51 bowing variant (198) (204) q = 132 canonic phrasing* (211) allarg. , q = 120 (219)

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(224) 2d beat EfCBfG (225) FAfFEf, CBfGF (226) FEfC 3d and 4th beats CBfAG, FCBfG (227) FEfD-, BfGFEf,C the following 20 measures not in the draft (248) two quarter notes on top, quintuplet on plus quarter note below

CEfBfG FAfEfF, BfCGF FCEf CBfFG, EfCBfG FEfBfC, GBfFEf, C revised half sheet inserted in place quintuplet plus quarter note on top, two quarter notes below, then returned to original, all quintuplets slurred 3 slurred, 2 separate (251) 5 slurred (5th beat) Here follows a three-measure cut and paste over the original, i.e., Calmo at m. 255 (263) BfCfBfAf, DfCf BfAf BfBAsGs, CsBAsG (viola part) (enharmonic change)* at page 12 of the draft 30 measures are deleted, possibly a draft of a cadenza, as the first twenty measures are for violin alone (269, 270) cut and paste over original draft (270) final beat 5 slurred 3 slurred, 2 separate (274) no slur but staccato dots slur added to dots (278) 44 qqh / qhq / h becomes 34 qqd qd/, q h / hd (283–84) comma added (286) sixteenths slurred in twos introduced on 1st and 2d beats only slurring now on all beats (288) added to first draft in margin (289) 1st quintuplet lowered a tone, (297) shorthand after 2d draft, just added over (297) 4th beat trill on Cs 4 sixteenths BsCsCxDsE complete reworking of draft with (298–305) quarter-tone triplet figure introduced at m. 303 (305 and 307) 44 extra two beats inserted to make 32 (309–11) 4 x 44 rebarred to give 3 x 32 with half note added at beginning* (321) final note C final note B (324) single line across three double-stops alternating over three * strings strings (326–28) sixteenths unslurred 2 slurred, 2 separate* (329) only top note shown but more explicit triple-stop implied

Authenticity : 125

Figure .

Figure .

(332–34 ) double-stop D and C (335) becomes

(341–43) measure groupings unclear (346–48) 3 measures of 4 4 (351–53) (360–63) melody in solo violin (364) B---, BCsCsB, B---, BDsDsB (365) B---, BFFB, BGGB, BAAB

(367) B—A, BEFG, BAAB, BCsCsD (374) single line BDB,A,B,B (373) 7 measures

C removed, so only open D

reorganized to give 68 + 2 x 4 4 becomes 4 measures of 44 sixteenths pitches changed on first draft melody in orchestra, soloist tacet* B---, BABD, F---, DEfDC B---, BABD, FCsEEs, GFsGsAs (first correction) &B---, BGsBD, EfCEbFs, GEGAs (second correction) B—A, BEFG, CsFGA, ABBC single-line writing becomes triplestops on all notes* 4 measures as draft, then new material as unaccompanied cadenza for 6 measures, then 6 more measures with orchestra

From the proof sheets just a few examples have been selected of further amendments taken from measures 21–50. This is simply to demonstrate that they really are only refinements and clarifications of the engraver’s copy: (21) (22) (27)

3d note clarinet eighth note, not quarter note f missing in solo violin 3d, 4th note in solo, stems incomplete

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(31) (33) (36) (36–38) (43) (44) (46) (50)

sf on top F cresc. hairpin should finish on downbeat no slur in horns

slurs removed in glissando strings

' at end of measure 1st note in oboe should be B final note in Hn III, IV without staccato Vln 3d note staccato, cresc. hairpin should end on last note

These corrections from Bartók demonstrate the care he took in proofreading the first printed version but also serve to demonstrate that the most significant changes took place between the draft and the engraver’s copy of the piano reduction. The features from this crucial phase that indicate change are: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Structural—added and deleted measures. Melodic—reordering or changing notes. Rhythmic—usually increased complexity. Rebarring—apparently for ease of performance. The remaining features are added details rather than changes. 5. Dynamics, phrasing, tempi, and timings. 6. Initial indications of orchestration.

Chapter

Eight

Compositional Interpretation

Focus on Structure, Melody, Pitch Organization, Rhythm, and Orchestration and Texture Implications for the Viola Concerto In order to focus clearly on the various aspects raised under the examination of the Second Violin Concerto in the previous chapter, the Viola Concerto is examined under the aforementioned headings

Structure In László Somfai’s case studies of recapitulation sections,1 he notes that in works from the Fourth String Quartet onward the reappearance of exposition themes shows a trend to move from the traditional form (i.e., themes in the original shape and order of the exposition, as in the Fourth String Quartet, movement 1), toward more “twisted” schemes. Examples of this kind of variation are given in the Fifth String Quartet, movement 1, Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, movement 2, the Second Piano Concerto, movement 3, and the Second Violin Concerto. Somfai demonstrates by the example of the Fifth String Quartet Scherzo that even after the form appeared to be established in the first draft, the second version introduced a revised concept. In summary, it was as a result of developing the Scherzo material in the recapitulation so as to maintain evolving variation that it became necessary to rework the original Scherzo material itself. There is certainly room for speculation in the Viola Concerto that in the first movement after the cadenza section some refinement of the recapitulation may have occurred, especially as the bridge that led up to the recapitulation of the second theme was left blank. Perhaps the bridge that connected the first theme and the transitional triplet theme could also have been developed in some more elaborate manner in the recapitulation than in the exposition. Discounting the viola and timpani introduction, the first thematic material is twenty-seven measures long. In the recapitulation, when this material is recalled after the cadenza, the corresponding pas-

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sage is only thirteen measures long. The transitional triplet theme that follows is identical in length to its counterpart in the exposition. In the first movement’s second theme at measure 61, the two-measure phrase is developed rhythmically in the recapitulation with the dotted “anti-Hungarian” rhythm and melodically by octave displacements and is augmented by an extra measure after each two-measure phrase. The two measures added by Serly, in consultation with Primrose, deserve special mention.2 While they have been removed without hesitation in all three revisions, it may well be that these are the kinds of situation where Bartók may have decided to augment the phrase for reasons of balance or as a response to the performer’s suggestion. In regard to the Lento parlando section and its placement between the first and second movements, while this has already been discussed at length in earlier chapters, it is proposed, by way of a summary, that we are seeing here, in the draft, a first attempt at the slow movement as referred to in Bartók’s unsent letter to Primrose of August 5, 1945, as a “rather short” slow movement and then a revised, alternative, second attempt to create a more extended slow movement with some thematic independence from the first movement. Both versions provide a smooth link to the 2 Allegretto in C major. Deletions and revised versions are certainly not uncommon 4 at this early stage of the creative process. The main reason for the Lento parlando’s inclusion in the versions of Serly, Erdélyi, and Peter Bartók is simply that it was not crossed out and therefore must be included. Both Serly and Erdélyi admit to it being simply too good to discard, therefore unthinkable. Certainly it is a chance for the soloist to show off a little, but that alone is not a good enough reason for its inclusion. The slow movement proper achieves a good sense of balance in its A–B–A' form, with a gathering of momentum in the concluding ritornello that leads directly to the Allegretto using first movement material. This Allegretto provides a further challenge structurally, and while Bartók probably had a clear idea how this would be resolved, his intentions were not left clear in the manuscript. This aspect is also discussed in chapters 5 and 6. The speculation that this was the beginning of the missing Scherzo is unlikely, due to the lack of material and Bartók’s assertion that the work was ready in draft form. There is certainly room for some real craftmanship here in producing a satisfactory link from the Allegretto into the Finale proper. In the meantime it remains questionable whether the Serly version has not been improved upon by interpreting the manuscript literally. While the third movement has been referred to as truncated and the least complete,3 it has good internal balance and, with Serly’s bars removed, is satisfying from a structural viewpoint. The inclusions of Serly’s extra measures at the broken octave section and just before the conclusion are not necessary and do not suggest themselves as places where Bartók would have made amendments. In the first instance, Serly introduces a new key area and extends the theme an extra nine measures with no variation in the melodic idea. In the second case, the soloist is interrupted mid-

Compositional Interpretation : 129

phrase in order to delay the ending. Of course, Bartók may have completely rewritten the closing of the work, as he was apt to do, but it would have been more than a mere tinkering with the final burst to the last note. In summary, solving the problems of large-scale structure needs further attention and it is possible that further refinement in the first movement could improve its internal structural balance. The inclusion of timings of the movements by Bartók need not preclude the possibilities of deletions and further revisions. It was his practice to provide timings to indicate tempi, and these would more likely have been calculated based on what he had written, rather than on a prearranged master plan of overall length.

Melody In the draft the melodic intention is clear for the most part. There are, however, a few places where some refinements may have been made in the next draft partly from suggestions from Primrose and partly from Bartók’s own initiative. Five places are suggested from each of the first and last movements where some modification may have occurred (figs. 8.1a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, and j). These places are all likely to have been subject to discussion with Primrose. All but the second example present particularly challenging technical problems that, while being within the range of most accomplished violists today, would in 1949 have been beyond the abilities of most.4 The second example is included because

Figure .a First movement mm. 21–22

Figure .b First movement mm. 74–76

Figure .c First movement m. 102

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Figure .d First movement mm. 112–113

Figure .e First movement mm. 219–220

Figure .f Third movement mm. 17–20

Figure .g Third movement mm. 99–102

Figure .h Third movement mm. 125–133

Figure .i Third movement mm. 198–203

Figure .j Third movement mm. 242–244

Compositional Interpretation : 131

Figure .a from Second Violin Concerto—first draft

Figure .b from Second Violin Concerto—final version

it presents the same kind of situation that Bartók continued to rework in the Second Violin Concerto in several places, for example figures 8.2 a and b. It may well be that all the preceding examples would have survived exactly as we know them, but it is also likely that some would have evolved into something else, following the precedents demonstrated in the Second Violin Concerto. From correspondence from Bartók to Yehudi Menuhin dated April 21, 1944, we can ascertain that the he was quite prepared for considerable changes to occur after Menuhin had assessed the playability of the Solo Violin Sonata and that, in fact, such changes did occur: I am rather worried about the “playability” of some of the double-stops etc. On the last page, I give for some of them alternatives. In any case, I should like to have your advice. I sent you two copies. Would you be so kind as to introduce in one of them the necessary changes in bowing, and other suggestions, and return it to me? And also indicate the impracticable difficulties? I would try to change them. The 1/4 tones in the 4th mov. have only colour-giving character, i.e., they are not “structural” features, and therefore—may be eliminated, as I tried to do in the alternatives on the last page, which you may use if you don’t feel inclined to worry about 1/4 tone playing. However, the best would be, if I could hear played both versions, and then decide if it is worthwhile to use those 1/4 tones.5

Menuhin played the sonata for Bartók in New York during October 1944, at which time Bartók found that many more changes were needed.6 When, after Bartók’s death, Menuhin edited the score, he decided not to include the quartertone version. It has, however, subsequently been included in the edition of Peter Bartók published by Boosey & Hawkes. As far as any other development of melodic invention is concerned, László Somfai writes: I risk a general observation: despite his powerful imaginative creation of highly original themes and motives, in the course of the more or less routine compositional process of filling out the full texture, Bartók was not always at ease in shaping the melodic/polyphonic

132 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o fabric. In such cases the correction usually aimed at an emotionally persuasive rephrasing of the progression, focussing on a melodic climax or a dramatic gesture in rhythm, even if it meant simplification of the polyphony.7

Pitch Organization in the Finale of Bartók’s Viola Concerto contributed by Elliott Antokoletz In the unfinished manuscript of Bartók’s Viola Concerto, some questions of pitch organization and content have remained ambiguous. For instance, in the trill figures of the Finale Bartók in some cases provides the necessary accidental signs to indicate the exact pitch of the upper trilled note, whereas in other cases he provides only the trill sign. We may assume in the latter case that the unspecified upper trilled note is self-evident from the larger linear modal configuration to which it belongs. In the former case, the upper trilled note needs to be specified because the larger linear configuration changes its modal pattern, so the upper trilled element acquires a structural function; that is, it articulates the changing linear progression. An understanding of several principles is essential in determining the scalar/ modal meaning of the trill figures in both cases. Bartók referred to the general principle of “diatonic extension” in range of chromatic themes and the reverse, “chromatic compression” of diatonic themes, as fundamental to his music,8 his stated premise of which may serve as a point of departure for evaluating some of the main pitch-set issues in the last movement of the concerto. One of the primary differences between contrasting pieces, movements, sections, or passages within the broad body of Bartók’s music appears to lie in the relative position of the musical materials between modal (diatonic) and chromatic (cyclic-interval or symmetrical)9 extremes. This general principle comprehends a more specific concept that underlies Bartók’s musical language, in which the chromatic scale serves as the basic large-scale referent for various types of scalar and modal partitionings. These subcollections of the chromatic scale range from diatonic to chromatic (octatonic and other symmetrical) pitch constructions. The interactions of diatonic-modal and symmetrical octatonic sets in particular, which are essential in the direction of linear and harmonic progression in the Viola Concerto, establish the ever-changing scalar configurations in both the linear succession and in the contrapuntal combinations.10 These configurations produce a context that can be described as “polymodal chromatic combination,” an approach that plays a role in permitting varying degrees of intervallic expansion and contraction. One of the means by which Bartók was to transform the diatonic modes of folk music into an extreme chromaticism was by simultaneous combination of two or more of these modes on a common tonic, which he referred to as “polymodality” or “polymodal chromaticism.”11 This principle represents an alternative to chromatic compression for achieving chromatic transformation of the diatonic modes. All of these principles—diatonic extension, chromatic compression, and polymodal chro-

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maticism—are essential for understanding the content and function of the trill figures and the larger linear constructions to which they belong in the Finale. Linear diatonic-octatonic combination, which is expressly developed as hybrid scalar patterns in the Finale (in the passages comprised of sixteenth-note and trill configurations), is established as the basis of the opening theme of movement 1. Except for one appoggiatura (E leading tone to F in m. 3), the exclusive scalar content of the theme outlines a six-note octatonic segment, A–B–C–[ ]–Ef–F–[ ]–Af. In the pizzicato accompaniment, the Fs extends this segment to seven notes, A–B–C– [ ]–Ef–F–Fs–Af, whereas the missing octatonic note, D, is added in the next thematic statement (at m. 14). The single pizzicato note, G, in the orchestra suggests a diatonic disruption of the octatonic collection, so theme and accompaniment together form a more chromatic hybrid (octatonic-diatonic) collection, Af–G–Fs–F–[E neighbor note]–Ef–C–B–A: this implies the infusion of a diatonic segment (Af–G–F–Ef–[ ]–C) into the larger octatonic content (Af–Fs–F–Ef–[ ]–C–B–A) of the theme. Such bimodal interactions are essential to the developmental process of the concerto in general. A striking instance of this principle in the Finale is evident in the initial phrases of the viola line, each of which moves from some modal configuration (or combination of modal segments) to cadential articulation by trill figures. The encircling linear motion establishes E as the pitch-class priority of the line itself, the upper (E–G–Fs) and lower (E–Cs–Ds) segments implying the presence of the E melodic-minor tetrachords (E–Fs–G–[ ] and [ ]–Cs–Ds–E). At the same time, this modal segment permits a dual interpretation, in which the five notes can also be interpreted as an octatonic segment (Cs–Ds–E–Fs–G). The first disruption of this dual modal interpretation is introduced by the explicit E–F trill, a change that induces a sense of chromatic compression of the mode by means of a chromatic filling in, G–Fs–[F, upper-trilled note]–E–Ds–[ ]–Cs, the new note D at measure 8 filling in the latter gap. While the direction of the phrase is simply from diatonic/octatonic to chromatic configurations, the second phrase (mm. 11ff.) clarifies the dual modal significance of the chromatically juxtaposed Ds and D, the two notes appearing now as part of two juxtaposed diatonic/octatonic segments, E–Ds–Cs and E–D–Cs. The octatonic significance of the first figure, E–Ds–Cs, is supported by the first note (C) of the new diatonic/octatonic figure, C–B–A. These two figures, which belong to different diatonic or octatonic modes, are again absorbed into a chromatically compressed context by the cadential trill figure, B–C, and Bf. The latter, in which the unspecified trilled C is determined by the preceding diatonic/octatonic figure (C–B–A), establishes the overall chromatic meaning of the entire phrasal content (E–Ds–D–Cs–C–B–Bf–A). The implied octatonic significance of the chromatic trill figure (B–C) is soon established in the violins (mm. 22–24), which unfold the exclusive seven-note octatonic segment, B–C– D–Ef–F–Gf–Af. The implied D of the C–D trill (in retrospect of m. 23) can only be interpreted as an octatonic D (i.e., as opposed to a Df chromatic interpretation).

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While the opening phrases are based on intervallic change from diatonic/ octatonic configurations to a compressed chromaticism, which is induced by the cadential trill figures, subsequent passages tend to fulfill the diatonic/octatonic implications of these phrases. One prominent instance is found (at m. 26) in the diatonic extension (Ef–F–Gf–Af–Bf–Cf) of the octatonic segment, B–C–D–Ef– F–Gf–Af, which together outline the larger hybrid (bimodal) scale figure, B–C– D–Ef–F–Gf–Af–Bf–Cf. In the following measures, both diatonic and octatonic segments are expanded and made increasingly distinct from one another; for example, the exclusive diatonic figure (B–Cs–D–E–Fs–G, at mm. 28–29, violins) is followed by a distinct octatonic configuration in the solo viola, B–C–D–Ef–F–Gf, which is then chromatically compressed (Ef–D–Df–C–B) at the cadence, as in the opening phrases. It is striking that where chromaticism is introduced at the cadence (e.g., m. 27, violin) Bartók indicates the specific trilled note, Ef–En, but where the figure is exclusively in a single mode (e.g., m. 29, violin) the trilled note is not specified. However, some inconsistencies are evident, as in the trill figures in the violin (m. 26) and oboe (m. 27). The explicit trill indications in the chromaticized flute figures (mm. 25–28) are of course imperative. In section B (mm. 65ff.) of the overall ABCBA form of the Finale, the trill figures that follow the sixteenth-note configurations are now extended to longer descending sequences. The first occurrence (solo viola, at mm. 85–88) serves as a cadential extension of the original sixteenth-note pattern, transposed up a fifth to B melodic-minor, the two modal segments (B–Cs–D–[ ] and [ ]–Gs–As–B) also outlining an octatonic segment, Gs–As–B–Cs–D. As in the opening passage, the descending trill sequence establishes the direction toward chromatic compression. In this case, none of the trilled notes is specified, so the decision by the performer must be based on the intrinsic scalar construction of the passage itself. While the descent is entirely chromatic, the strong-beat articulations outline the complete C-Ionian mode, B–A–G–F–E–D–C, the weak chromatic elements simply serving as passing notes. Both intuition and analysis seem to dictate that the unspecified upper trilled notes are determined exclusively by the diatonic mode. It is striking that in the following passage (mm. 90–92) one of the trill figures (on Gf) specifies an Ab upper note, which seems to be indicated only as a reminder that the diatonic structure prevails. At the final return of the A section (mm. 221ff.), the first chromatic trill sequence is intervallically expanded (at mm. 226–28) to a complete octatonic descent, F–Ef–D–C–B–A–Gs–Fs/G–F, the unspecified trills (mordents) obviously being dictated exclusively by the preceding octatonic notes, since the minor third sequence of the strong beats would suggest an unlikely sequence of minor third trills. This study has briefly addressed some of the basic theoretic-analytical issues that have existed in determining some of the primary means of pitch organization in Bartók’s music. Since Bartók’s transformations and syntheses are based on a multiplicity of divergent modal and chromatic constructions, a more comprehensive

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study of the “polymodal” principles discussed herein can contribute to a more meaningful interpretation of the details of Bartók’s musical language and a deeper appreciation of his aesthetics.

Rhythm To speculate on possible rhythmic amendments is much more difficult. While there is no reason to suggest that internal rhythm (within beats) would systematically have been further developed, there are situations where extra beats, extra measures, or redistribution of bar lines may well have occurred, as was the case for example in the Second Violin Concerto and in the Solo Violin Sonata. Possibilities of extra measures have already been discussed under “Structure,” but situations can be observed where extra beats or different deployment of time signatures may have developed. First movement examples are shown in Figure 8.3a and b. This redistribution of bar lines would assist in ensemble considerations between viola and timpani, for example, four measures of 34 instead of three measures of 44. This need not affect the actual outcome for the listener but may help the performer find what is the intended shape of the phrase. Some confusion exists here in the manuscript (fig. 8.4a). There probably are intended to be three beats of triplets with the second orchestral beat becoming a half note. A possibility for barring would then be a 44 that includes all of the sixteenths and a 34 that includes all of the triplets (fig. 8.4b). This 45, 47 (fig. 8.5a) could be clearer in rhythmic intent if reversed; that is, the third

Figure .a First movement mm. 7 –10.

Figure .b Suggested alternative

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Figure .a First movement mm. 67–68

Figure .b Suggested alternative beat of measure 106 functions as a strong pulse in both the solo and orchestral lines (fig. 8.5b). Two bars of 44 (fig. 8.6a) could be 43, 45 (fig. 8.6b). There is no cross-rhythm to support a strong pulse on measure 111. Four measures of 44 (fig. 8.7a) would better outline the rhythmic intent if notated 5 as 4 , 2 x 42, 2 x 68 , 54 (fig. 8.7b). The placing of bar lines in contrapuntal textures, where emphasis occurs on beats other than the first, is somewhat arbitrary but can lead to lack of clarity if those entries, occurring on first beats, are overly pronounced. In unconducted chamber works, it is possible to have independent barring for different parts. This device can be observed in No. 33 from the 44 Duos for Two Violins. Bartók also uses, particularly in his string quartets, the dotted internal bar line, a device for showing the player the rhythmic shapes within the large measure format. Zoltán Székely freely admits to adapting his own parts in this respect to make them easier to find the motivic shapes. From Bartók’s draft of the opening of the Fourth String Quartet the barring underwent considerable transformation before arriving at the grouping as we now know it. Zoltan Székely discussed this matter during an interview with the author

Figure .a First movement mm. 105–106

Figure .b Suggested alternative

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Figure .a First movement mm. 110–111

Figure .b Suggested alternative

in May 1996. In the first drafts the time signatures reflected more closely the rhythmic implications. After considering his experiences with musicians of the day and the difficulties he encountered with them in reading music with constantly changing time signatures, Bartók apparently resorted to staying in 44 time and writing across the bar lines. Székely, when learning this movement, rewrote his part with rebarring to reflect the rhythmic shapes once again. One is left with the impression that the bar line is placed for the convenience of the performer and the resultant feeling it will produce, rather than for some obscure, abstract meaning. Normally if the barring does not conform to the shape of the phrase, it is for reasons of a larger ensemble issue where entries are canonic or polyrhythmic. In the aforementioned cases in the Viola Concerto there are no complicating factors of this kind. While, no doubt, these suggestions may be viewed as unnecessary and a compromise to the performer, such amendments do not detract from the end result and

Figure .a Second movement mm. 54–57

Figure .b Suggested alternative

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do in fact lead to a clearer interpretation. Examples of barring according to motivic rhythm are evident in other Bartók works and would not be setting a precedent if adopted in a revision of this work.

Orchestration and Texture By way of clarification of terms, within this context “instrumentation” refers to the composition of the orchestra as stated in the front of the score. “Orchestration” refers to the deployment of the instruments in their various combinations to convey the sound world of Bartók. While development of texture could be viewed independently from orchestration, for the most part they are interconnected. There may be examples of places where Bartók may have augmented the texture by adding additional voicings, more elaborate counterpoint, and enrichment of the harmonic texture, but in this we would be moving into a highly speculative area. In general terms, a draft was usually more or less complete in regard to voicings and contrapuntal intentions. The gaps in the Viola Concerto are in places where such textures can be reasonably extrapolated from existing material elsewhere in the work. The two areas that are perhaps too thin are the outer sections of the second movement and some places in the third movement, where the writing is reduced to only two lines. While there may be room for some fleshing out in these places, this aspect is not overly disturbing. In the second movement Serly openly borrowed from the idea in the second movement of the Third Piano Concerto to provide woodwind flourishes as a foil to the lonely solo viola line. While all three revisions have left out this addition of Serly, some view this as one of Serly’s more inspired ideas. Sándor Kovács comments that “some of Serly’s solutions are definitely fortunate (for example the enrichment of the central part of the slow movement with excited wind flourishes).”12 Indeed, without these flourishes the violist is left to carry the anguished mood alone, as there remains only a shimmering string texture two octaves below. This situation demonstrates well the dilemma faced by a reviser in balancing Bartókian authenticity with Serlyan creativity. One is also reminded here of the observation of Rob Cowen in his review of the recording of Kim Kashkashian in chapter 4: “Those flourishes are fully in line with the many wind-topped ‘night music’ passages found elsewhere in Bartók’s concertos and I’m troubled by their absence.” As this is Bartók’s only “unorchestrated” mature orchestral work (most of his youthful Symphony of 1902 was left unorchestrated), it is worthwhile to take a closer look at the choice of instrumentation of Serly to see if it can be improved upon. As to orchestration by Bartók in general terms, László Somfai comments as follows: It is a general opinion that orchestration is not the strongest side of Bartók’s music . . . Specifically traditional is Bartók’s treatment of winds in many of his scores. Some of the

Compositional Interpretation : 139 safety doublings of wind parts (including a special kind of tutti woodwind unison known from the early to the latest scores) could have been connected with Bartók’s sad experience with Hungarian orchestras. Often the sound of his instrumentation was not sharp and loud, at other times not transparent enough.13

In Serly’s instrumentation he calls for three horns, three trumpets, two trombones, and one tuba, yet Bartók had never used this brass combination before. In the revisions of Peter Bartók and Csaba Erdélyi the horns are increased to four and the trumpets remain at three. In the author’s revision both horns and trumpets are reduced to two. Peter Bartók also adds cor anglais and double bassoon, and Csaba Erdélyi adds bass clarinet. Some examples of wind and brass combinations are: 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,0,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2 2,2,2,2

3,2,0,0, 4,2,2,1 4,2,3,1 2,0,0,0

Second Suite for Small Orchestra (1905–7) First Violin Concerto (1908) Two Portraits, Orchestrated (1911) Rumanian Folk Dances for Small Orchestra (1917) 4,2,2,1 First Piano Concerto (1926) 4,3,3,1 (+ picc. & contra.) Second Piano Concerto (1931) 4,2,3,0 Second Violin Concerto (1938) 4,2,2,1 (tuba doubling 3d trom.) Third Piano Concerto (1945) 3,3,2,1 Viola Concerto (1945), Serly version (1950)

In terms of precedent it would seem that previous to the Viola Concerto four horns were nearly always used and there were never more trumpets than trombones. Possibly a 4, 3, 3, 1 combination would be suitable. The main function of the third trumpet in Serly’s instrumentation is to enable the three muted trumpets to play the closing bars of the first movement and to bolster up the forte tuttis. Perhaps there is an alternative solution here. In terms of percussion, Serly chose a fairly standard combination of timpani, side drum, small cymbal (with choke), large cymbal, and bass drum. Other than the use of choke, this is not unusual. In the works mentioned earlier we also see at times harp(s), celesta, tam-tam, gong, xylophone, and triangle. While the Viola Concerto (Serly) is not lacking in percussion effects, relative to its small-scale texture, it is tempting to introduce a gong or something similar in the last movement in the twopart canon to give more emphasis to the climax points and the “Oriental” flavor of the open fifths texture. Bartók’s legacy that “the orchestration will be rather transparent, more transparent than in a violin concerto,” has perhaps been more of a hindrance than a help in solving the problems of orchestration, in that it has imposed a serious inhibition on fully revising orchestration and instrumentation, which has resulted in all ver-

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sions to date failing to achieve fully the sound world of Bartók’s other late orchestral works. Perhaps this “transparency” intention is more reflective of Bartók’s caution on writing for solo viola and his fear that he might swamp the solo part, a fear that may have been overcome if the normal course of events for preparation of a score had been possible. The thinness of the texture has been a target for commentators since the very earliest performances and is an obvious area for review in a more “authentic” Bartók Viola Concerto. There is no question that the instrumentation and orchestration of Serly pervade all the revisions in spite of the attempts to improve on his decisions. That may reflect the inhibition referred to earlier, or it may simply reflect that Serly was to some degree successful in his attempts to re-create Bartók’s sound world. Of course it is also inevitable that the allocation of lines to particular instruments would have in many cases been the same in the revisions whether or not the Serly version had been available, as many textures are clearly intended for strings or winds. All in all, one may conclude that Serly’s orchestration was tasteful and for the most part Bartókian. Serly’s most serious transgression was in ignoring some of Bartók’s precise markings, such as the indication for timpani at the opening that was innovative and, as we now know from experience, extremely effective. Attempts to resolve whether the revisionists have improved upon this aspect are largely subjective, and the verdict will lie in the reception these revisions receive from musicologists, reviewers, and performers in the early decades of the twenty-first century.

Chapter

Nine

Performance Interpretation

Focus on Tempi, Dynamics, Phrasing, and

Articulation in the Solo Viola Part

These aspects have been grouped together for purely pragmatic reasons in that these markings were generally added at the same stage in the compositional process, that is, while developing the fair copy. As was shown in the development of the Violin Concerto, while no markings were evident in the first draft; they were all included on the engraver’s copy. In the case of the Viola Concerto all markings of tempo and dynamics were added by Serly. Admittedly with respect to tempi he did have Bartók’s overall timings to use as a basis, but the changes of tempi within the movements are entirely based on his own instincts and the characters suggested to him in the music. This whole area needs reinvestigation by comparison with similar types of melodies in other works, in particular Bartók’s later-period string and orchestral works. As is known from the recordings of Bartók at the piano, the exact intention of the composer with regard to tempo and rubato was virtually impossible to notate. The issues of tempi and rubato are inextricably connected. From the recordings of Bartók playing his own compositions on the piano it can be observed that within his own indicated tempi there is considerable flexibility of tempo and considerable use of rubato. If there was a recording of the Viola Concerto with Bartók playing the orchestral part on the piano and Zoltán Székely playing the solo viola part, this would undoubtedly produce a set of tempi and a use of rubato that would be difficult to regiment by a series of accelerandi and ritardandi and definitive metronome markings. Equipped with an overall familiarity with the later-period works for strings and orchestra and a thorough immersion in the recordings of Bartók at the piano and of peasant musicians playing both rhythmic and parlando styles, we may arrive at an interpretation that is closer to his intention. Clearly, William Primrose had very fixed ideas as to what were the correct tempi of each movement and each section within each movement. These evolved quite nat-

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urally from his preparation of the work in collaboration with Tibor Serly and were recorded for eternity on his early recording. Without doubt these are the definitive tempi of the Serly/Primrose tradition. However, they cannot be claimed to represent the exact intentions of Bartók, as, apart from a very few places, he gave no instructions of tempo. In the absence of clear indications from Bartók, Primrose took it upon himself to insist that his and Serly’s decisions were final and must be followed by future generations as the absolute truth. Primrose’s letter to Serly (fig. 9.1) of September 19, 1971, demonstrates well the frustration he felt on hearing “younger” players ignoring his assumed authority on the matter of tempo in the second subject of the first movement (reprinted by permission—Eiji Primrose): WILLIAM PRIMROSE c.b.e., f.g.s.m.

school of music indiana university bloomington, indiana 47401 September 19th, 1971. Dear Tibor, The Bartók Viola concerto is one of the test pieces to be performed at the Carl Flesch competition in London next June. So, now, arises once again the sore point (that is, with me and I feel sure, with you, also) concerning the passage discussed in David Dalton’s very able doctoral dissertation, I enclose a copy of the passage in question discussed on page 27 of his theme. I keep on wondering how many of the present day young violists have ever heard our recording, surely after all the “fons et origo” of correct interpretation. If you and I, with your guidance, don’t know how it should go, who in hell does! The organizer of the competition, Yfrah Neaman, is a good friend of mine and of Menuhin, the chairman of the same. I told him (Neaman) when I was last in London that I would send him proof of the “official” way of playing as opposed to the number of young players who observe little or no reduction in tempo at bar 41. I would like just a short word of concurrence from you. To save you any trouble I am enclosing a p.c. on which you may write “concur,” or should I be wrong after all these years and performances, you then would write, “you’re all cock-eyed.” How is your health these days. I trust you have quite recovered and are enjoying your new location. Warmest greetings to you Bill

The question of dynamics is also very elusive, as we are again dependent on establishing the type of character and mood of the various melodies and responding with an informed instinct. When these issues were raised with Zoltán Székely, he was very much of the opinion that only instinct will dictate how to solve these problems and that looking always for parallels will not necessarily produce the correct

Figure 9.1

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end result. Unfortunately, these instincts, as we call them, are not necessarily something we are born with but to a large degree are cultivated from our environment and cultural heritage. Fluency in Hungarian and familiarity with the indigenous folk music is undoubtedly an advantage in interpreting the rubato, dynamics, phrasing, and articulation in Bartók’s music. It must also be remembered, however, that the final-period instrumental works of Bartók are often also strongly Romanian-influenced. While Bartók was in the United States his ethnomusicological work was mainly on Romanian folk music, plus some Yugoslav and Turkish music. The Yugoslav influences are particularly noticeable in the Concerto for Orchestra. While we are rather left to our own devices in solving the phrasing and articulation in the Viola Concerto, much of this is determined by the nature of the music. The last movement for instance is clearly a moto perpetuo type of dance, and there is little room for employing other than separate bows. In the true Hungarian (or Scottish) style, the bagpipe tune in the middle of the movement (in harmonics according to the manuscript) should be kept on the string with the articulation not too short. The reader is reminded of Zoltán Székely’s comment: “The gypsies do not play with lifted bowing, but rather ‘on-the-string’ and this is what Bartók had in mind.”1 In the second movement the intention is clearly for a serene legato melody in the opening section, and several bowing possibilities will serve this end. The crying motive in the middle section is clearly a contrast to the beautiful legato outer sections, but there is little choice here in bowing and articulation. The Allegretto poses an interesting question. Csaba Erdélyi, and Atar Arad many years previously, proposed that the multiple-stopped notes built on the C-F-Bf-Ef chord should be played pizzicato. They did so without the knowledge that Burton Fisch, presumably on Serly’s advice, did the same in his recording in early 1948. There are two good reasons to support this idea. First, it is actually impossible to play exactly what Bartók wrote with the bow; and second, it has a precedent in the later string quartets, notably in the Fourth String Quartet, where pizzicato is explored extensively in similar situations. Such strummed pizzicatos also appear in the Finale of the First Violin Sonata. The discussion of phrasing and articulation in the first movement has been left until last because it is here that the greatest challenges lie. The widest range of melodic contrast occurs here, and the most complex rhythms and pitch progressions are to be found in this movement. Again it was Zoltán Székely’s suggestion, during the 1996 interviews, that we must each follow our instincts and do what our hearts tell us. While that holds true for much of the movement, there are some places where parallels are not entirely futile. Attention is now drawn to those places where possible parallels may be considered (figs. 9.2a and b, 9.3a and b, 9.4a and b, 9.5a and b, 9.6a and b, 9.7a and b, 9.8a and b, and 9.9a and b). The articulation markings on the solo viola part have been completely removed

Performance Interpretation : 145

except where given in the manuscript. Articulations on the “other works” are from Bartók. The suggestion being promoted here is that there is sufficient similarity in musical intent that the “other” work offers plausible solutions to similar passages in the Viola Concerto.

Figure .a Viola Concerto, First movement m. 21

Figure .b Violin Concerto No. 2, First movement m. 39

Figure .a Viola Concerto, First movement m. 40

Figure .b Piano Concerto No. 3, First movement mm. 27–38

Figure .a Viola Concerto, First movement m. 88

Figure .b Violin Concerto No. 2, First movement m. 310

Figure .a Viola Concerto, First movement m. 103

Figure .b String Quartet No. 6, First movement mm. 222–223

Figure .a Viola Concerto, First movement m. 113

Figure .b Violin Concerto No. 2, First movement m. 100

Figure .a Viola Concerto, Second movement mm. 1–3

Figure .b Piano Concerto No. 3, Second movement mm. 1–3

Figure .a Viola Concerto, Second movement mm. 71–72

Figure .b String Quartet No. 4, Fourth movement mm. 78–79 pizzicato

Figure .a Viola Concerto, Third movement mm. 32–33

Figure .b String Quartet No. 3, First movement mm. 242–243

Figure .a Viola Concerto, Third movement mm. 57–60

Figure .b Violin Concerto No. 2, First movement mm. 107–109

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Chapter

Ten

The Future and Legal Issues

Bartók’s Will and Estate and

Matters of Copyright

In recalling W. S. Mann’s article of January 1951 (see chapter 4), the first response, in which he suggests “the simplest is to leave it alone, as an object of pious regret,” is obviously out of the question, as the work, in whatever eventual form, is firmly in the concert repertoire. The second option, “when possible, to complete the dead man’s design without adding matter not of his own composition,” is more or less what has occurred in the three revisions of the 1990s, although even here the end results have not been as similar as one might expect. Mann’s third option, “for a musician who was in close contact with the composer’s mind at the time of the composition, to treat the uncompleted manuscript according to the ideals known to have been in that creative mind,” is worthy of further consideration. The Serly version falls somewhere between the second and third options. While Serly argues in regard to the first two movements that “both of these movements were completed by Bartók and are his music from the first to the last measures,” the truth of the matter, as has been amply demonstrated, is that Serly did play a significantly larger role than that defined by the second option, in all three movements. While two or three generations of violists have accepted gratefully a concerto that ranks as one of the best for their instrument, the issue of its authenticity has not been important enough to lead to a boycott of the work. It is worth recalling the amended Wordsworth quotation from the Musical Times review of 1950: “A composer creates the values by which he is to be appreciated.” Had this work appeared from Serly’s pen alone or any other lesser composer than Bartók, it would no doubt have been hailed in its 1950 version as a masterpiece from that composer. The bulk of criticism is connected to the fact that this work does not measure up to many of Bartók’s earlier masterworks. Many works by many composers do not match up with the creative genius and skill of Béla Bartók, but it does not mean that they are avoided or in fact automatically compared and criticized as

150 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

having this fault. Is it not because of Bartók’s values evident in compositions that preceded this work that the critics feel dissatisfaction? Clearly the Serly version has not satisfied all in the musical world. However, it is historically important and should stand as the first available version. To assist in its correct placement in history, Boosey & Hawkes, recording companies, and concert promoters should be strongly encouraged to redefine the authorship of the Bartók/Serly score to recognize Serly’s true role more accurately. Perhaps “Viola Concerto arranged and orchestrated by Tibor Serly from sketches of Béla Bartók” would be more appropriate than “prepared for publication by Serly.” It is noteworthy to recall that it was Serly’s original suggestion to Betty Bean to use the phrase “arranged and orchestrated by Tibor Serly.”1 The third option referred to earlier is, of course, the most difficult to achieve, but there would be immense interest worldwide should such an attempt be even moderately successful. Certainly Sándor Kovács’s comment “so too can a new, more convincing version of Bartók’s Viola Concerto be produced,”2 throws down the gauntlet to scholars, composers, and performers alike. From Kovács’s earlier comments it is clear that he is implying that far more needs to be done than just tidying up the work of Tibor Serly and that the manuscript must be taken only as a first layer of a work that would have undergone much further development. These comments have been strongly corroborated in discussions with Bartók authorities Elliott Antokoletz, Malcolm Gillies, and László Somfai. It is in fact because of the influence of these three eminent musicologists that this author has moved beyond his revision that evolved between 1978 and 1993 and was prompted to write chapter 7. This chapter outlined the manner in which a work of Bartók developed in his compositional process after a first draft and suggested implications for the Viola Concerto and its possible development. A number of complex logistical and legal issues arise when considering the production of a more convincing and definitive Bartók Viola Concerto. First there is the issue of access to source materials. Over the years since Bartók’s death, access to primary sources has improved considerably but has not yet reached an ideal situation. Certainly the easing of relations between Hungary and the West over the final decades of the twentieth century improved the sharing of material, both through the possibility of travel and through the large amount of material that has been translated into languages other than the relatively inaccessible Hungarian. Added to the difficulties has been the development of two separate and substantial collections of Bartók manuscripts, correspondence, books, and other memorabilia. These two collections, housed in Budapest at the Bartók Archives, and in Florida at Bartók Records are, at the time of writing, headed respectively by László Somfai, the eminent Hungarian authority on Bartók, and Peter Bartók, the second son and coheir to the Bartók family estate. The establishment of the Bartók Archives in Budapest was a fairly natural and predictable development, Budapest being the capital and former residence of Hun-

The Future and Legal Issues : 151

gary’s most notable twentieth-century composer. It began as a modest collection of manuscripts, books, and articles. Some items were acquired by the founder, Denijs Dille (director from 1961 to 1972), and subsequent staff from (former) publishers and private sources. Other items were donated or loaned by Bartók family members and friends. The “Bartók Archívum” has become somewhat of a Mecca for serious Bartók scholars, with not only an extensive collection of materials but also an associated team of resident experts on all manner of aspects that relate to Bartók’s life and work. It is through this team, led since 1971 by Lázsló Somfai, that many publications have appeared and international forums been held, further enhancing the biographical and analytical literature on Bartók and his music. The basis of the second “source center,” the American Archives, now under Peter Bartók’s custody, is the material sent in 1939 to the United States as part of Bartók’s belongings. This included the most valuable of Bartók’s original manuscripts. This second archive arose mainly due to the fact that Bartók, having made a first will in 1940 in Budapest, before his departure for the United States, made a second will in 1943, when in New York. Following his death the authorities of Hungary and the United States held differing views on which will was to stand. According to the account of Péter Ruffy,3 this conflict continued right through until 1961. In the meantime legal proceedings had begun at the office of the Budapest State Notaries to obtain the administration of Béla Bartók’s will; the case was finally heard in 1958, after it had been adjourned several times. In the final hearing in 1961, probate was granted to the plaintiffs. This judgment gave effect to the general dispositions of the New York will but set aside the trust and the appointment of trustees as an institution unknown to Hungarian law. It therefore awarded unconditional possession of the estate to the three legatees. The decision of the New York Surrogate’s Court that recognized the existence of the trust and trustees was consequently in conflict with the decision of the Hungarian Court of Probate. In order to understand better the conflict, it is helpful to first examine the “Hungarian” will and second follow the chain of events that led to the second “American” will and the establishment of an American Archives. The English translation of the Hungarian will is supplied in Peter Ruffy’s aforementioned article. The second (American) will, while reflecting Bartók’s changed circumstances since arriving in New York, did not automatically provide a simple solution to the distribution of the estate, partly because of the problem already mentioned between the two countries and also partly due to the interests of the appointed American trustees being at odds with those of family members. According to Ruffy: Dr Bátor suggested that Béla Bartók should set up a trust under Anglo-American law, because this would be the most effective method of safeguarding his life-work, both in the interest of his heirs and of European civilization, in the face of all the uncertainties and

152 : ba rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o risks of the war. According to the provisions of such a trust the testator leaves his estate to the two executors in trust for the legatees of the will. They were in fact responsible for the management of the property for the benefit of the legatees during the lifetime of the widow. Upon her death the trust would be dissolved and the estate would pass unconditionally to the two remaining heirs. Bartók agreed to the proposal. His obvious intention was that the trustees as American subjects would hold the copyrights, which would thus be protected from possible confiscation by the fascist dictatorship. In the autumn of 1943 he duly signed the American will setting up the trust which was drawn up by Dr Victor Bátor. In this he set aside the will he had made in Hungary and appointed Dr Gyula Baron and Dr Victor Bátor as trustees, with, however, far wider discretionary powers than was usual. Two years later Bartók died. The widow came back to Hungary, Péter Bartók remained in the States. The New York Surrogate’s Court duly granted probate of Béla Bartók’s will and confirmed the trustees in their positions. Experts in international law all agree that the property was correctly managed by the trustees and in accordance with the terms of the trust, during the first two years. A little later Dr Gyula Baron resigned for health reasons and Dr Victor Bátor was left in sole control of the estate. For eleven years Bátor presented no accounts. When, finally, he produced them, it became apparent that the legatees Ditta Pásztory, Béla and Péter Bartók, had received “barely a quarter” of the very considerable sums amounting from royalties. Three-quarters of the royalties were charged by Bátor to expenses. Neither the US law, however, nor the will itself authorized the trustees to charge the estate with the majority of expenses. (Reprinted by permission of the New Hungarian Quarterly)

Bátor was eventually succeeded as trustee by Benjamin Suchoff. He had begun working in the archives while Bátor was still trustee and took over as trustee following his departure. It has been demonstrated that the surviving Bartók family members were obstructed in the receipt of proceeds from royalties by the determination of Victor Bátor to build a collection of materials second to none. However, with the return of Bartók’s second wife, Ditta, to Hungary, after the composer’s death, it is also probable that with the effects of the Cold War very little of the proceeds would have reached either her or Béla junior (son of first wife, Márta), still a resident of Budapest. It is not surprising, therefore, that Peter (son of second wife, Ditta), remaining in the United States, became involved in a long legal battle over copyright issues and the estate itself, finally resolving after Ditta’s death in 1982, when he was awarded the entire American estate. These difficulties were from time to time aired in the media, a notable example being the case of the battle over the rights for the Concerto for Orchestra, in which Peter Bartók, representing himself, challenged a lower court decision that the work was posthumous. According to Herm Schoenfeld,

The Future and Legal Issues : 153

“Peter Bartók was opposed in the suit by both Boosey & Hawkes and the Bartók estate, representing his mother. If the appelate decision stands, then royalties from ‘Concerto for Orchestra,’ which had been going entirely to Mrs Bartók, will now have to be split between the mother and the son.” The manuscript had been printed and copyrighted in 1946, but it was the view of the appellate court that “since the copyright contract was executed before Béla Bartók’s death and since copies of the composition were distributed to members of the orchestra, the work was, in effect, ‘published’ before Béla Bartók’s death and hence was not posthumous.”4 At the close of the twentieth century, we had the two source centers both determined to leave a legacy of a definitive record of Bartók’s lifework. Led by the archives in Budapest, the mainstream scholars of Europe, the United States, and Australasia support the concept of a Complete Critical Edition. This project remains unrealized at present as much vital material either is located at Bartók Records in Florida or is protected by copyrights that Boosey & Hawkes, in conjunction with Peter Bartók, is unwilling to release. Meanwhile, Peter Bartók, with the assistance of Nelson Dellamaggiore, has been systematically working his way through his father’s music, republishing works where he felt the existing editions were not sufficiently reflective of his father’s intentions. As Peter was not yet, in the mid-1990s, even halfway through this work, it remains unclear what is the long-term scenario for either his project or a Complete Critical Edition. Despite the difficulties between the two Bartók source centers, it has been the experience of this author that both have been extremely helpful in giving access to materials and advice and, in the case of Peter Bartók, recalling information on his father’s final years, some of which is not available in publications. Copyright issues in the field of original composition are very complex and a minefield for the unwary. Not only is there the problem of interpretation of rules, but we also have a situation where different rules apply in different countries. Hungary observed a fifty-year copyright period until recently but now has joined a united Europe in a seventy-five year observation. This is also the period now observed in North America. Australia and New Zealand, however, still observe a fifty-year period. Some points are unclear and no doubt could be interpreted to the advantage of the interpreter. For instance, do these durations apply only to works that originate or are published in the country concerned and do copyright holders hold any jurisdiction in countries that observe different rules? The Australasian Performing Rights Association advises that musical works are out of copyright in Australia and New Zealand either fifty years after the composer’s death or fifty years after a work is commercially exploited, whichever comes later, regardless of the origin of the work. In itself this is a bizarre situation, in that it allows works to be republished and performed in new versions in that part of the world, but presumably neither the scores, performances, or recordings are permitted to be available anywhere else.

154 : b a rt ó k ’s v i o l a c o n c e rt o

For independent operators this situation is workable, if somewhat absurd, but one wonders how a company such as Boosey & Hawkes, with branches in London, New York, and Sydney, will deal with the notification that a revision of one of Bartók’s works has been published independently in Australasia. The copyright of all Bartók’s later works is assigned to Boosey & Hawkes, so without the permission of the living heir(s) no revisions are possible in countries that observe the seventyfive year convention. In regard to the Viola Concerto, the copyright situation in publishing a new version and that in performing and recording a new version are to all intents and purposes identical. It is clear that in North America and Europe it is illegal to publish any new version, the two legal versions being the original Tibor Serly reconstruction and the recent revision by Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore with Paul Neubauer as consultant violist. The situation regarding performance and recording is the same. Either version may be performed and presumably recorded, with the normal proviso of copyright and hirage fees having being paid to Boosey & Hawkes. Presumably minor deviations are tolerable as happens in the interpretation of any musical work, but the all-important factor is that the performance or recording is presented as either the Serly or Bartók/Dellamaggiore version. The situation in Australia and New Zealand would appear to be different. There is a gray area that concerns the expiry of the fifty-year period. According to the Australasian Performing Rights Association, the fifty years begin at the death of the composer or at the time a work is first commercially exploited, whichever comes later. Normally this would be the composer’s death date. However, in the case of the Viola Concerto it would more likely be interpreted as December 1949, when the work was first performed (commercially exploited). This is further compounded by the fact that the work presented in December 1949 was not in fact purely the work of Bartók, due to the involvement of Tibor Serly. One could argue that the revision of Peter Bartók, based more or less meticulously on the manuscript, is the real beginning of the commercial exploitation, which would extend the copyright until the year 2070 in North America and Europe and until 2045 in Australasia. One could also argue that the Viola Concerto of Béla Bartók has never been commercially exploited because we are still awaiting the definitive version! One would hope that common sense would prevail and that December 1999 marks the expiry of copyright in Australasia and 2024 elsewhere. Assuming this to be the case, it would then appear to be legal to publish, perform, and record any new version in Australasia after December 1999, but none of this published or recorded material could be sold in countries bound by the seventy-five year convention until 2024.

Conclusion

This study has sought to present the full history of Bartók’s last work, in order that it may be evaluated in a thoroughly informed manner, both in its first publicly presented version and in the revisions of the 1990s. It is acknowledged that one may also claim the Third Piano Concerto to be the last work. However, due to the relative completeness of the Piano Concerto in relation to the Viola Concerto, it is not unreasonable to award this status to the latter work. The study has also sought to convince its readers that the Viola Concerto, commissioned by William Primrose and drafted by Béla Bartók in 1945, has not been, nor will ever be, heard in a form that could claim to be a totally accurate account of the composer’s intentions, especially with regard to phrasing and articulation, orchestration, and, to some degree, the details of structure. As the ten chapters have shown, much has been written about Bartók’s Viola Concerto, much more than would probably have been the case had Bartók lived to see the work through to publication. While the words have continued to flow and performances and recordings have continued to flourish, statistics confirm that the Bartók/Serly Viola Concerto has, in the words of Sándor Kovács, not only “irrevocably become part of the concert repertoire” but also in fact probably become the most performed viola concerto of all time. The circumstances have been outlined under which the Viola Concerto was conceived and the state in which the manuscript was left at Bartók’s death. The roles of Tibor Serly and William Primrose have been clarified and details given of the many additional factors that influenced the final details of what became the 1950 Bartók/ Serly printed score. Some details have been previously unpublished or unpublicized and in the case of Burton Fisch and David Soyer, have possibly not been known outside their own circle of friends. From the outset this work has been controversial, and as has been shown, the reception over the first five decades demonstrated that while performers may have embraced the work as more Bartók and less Serly, musicologists have moved in the opposite direction. In spite of this controversy or perhaps even because of it, the work’s popularity has been maintained undiminished. The work of the three revisionists of the 1990s has been compared. The most significant conclusion that could be drawn here is that all three can claim to have represented the manuscript of Bartók’s first draft more accurately than did Tibor

156 : Conclusion

Serly. To claim that the revisions moved closer to a more “authentic” version of what Bartók may have eventually produced would be true in some respects but questionable in others. The appendixes brought together some materials in the public domain but not easily accessible and some that have only been made available through the generous support of people such as Peter Bartók and Burton Fisch. These materials have been vital as the source for much of the discussions and conclusions. It is hoped this research may assist a worthy musical craftsperson to produce a more “authentic” Bartók Viola Concerto at some point in the future, when the restrictions of copyright will allow the freedom of musical speech. This would need to be a version that moves beyond a first draft and achieves a balance between scholarly input and Mann’s comment that it should be written “according to the ideals known to have been in that creative mind.” It would require a composer, thoroughly steeped in Bartók’s compositional style and technique, who would dare to add both vertically and horizontally, to recompose, to revise, and to continue to refine the texture and orchestration until the result was consistently representative of Bartók at the height of his creative power.

appendixes

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Appendix One : 159

appendix one Correspondence from Tibor Serly to Benjamin Suchoff

Figure App. 1 Letter from Tibor Serly to Benjamin Suchoff, July 31, 1975

160 : Appendix Two

appendix two Correspondence between Tibor Serly and Victor Bator

Figure App. 2a Letter from Victor Bator to Tibor Serly from November 7, 1947

Appendix Two : 161

Figure App. 2b Letter from Tibor Serly to Victor Bator, December 19, 1947

162 : Appendix Two

Figure App. 2c

Appendix Three : 163

appendix three Boosey & Hawkes Correspondence Reprinted by permission of Boosey & Hawkes.

Figure App. 3a

164 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3b

Appendix Three : 165

Figure App. 3c

166 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3d

Appendix Three : 167

Figure App. 3e

168 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3f

Appendix Three : 169

Figure App. 3g

170 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3h

Appendix Three : 171

Figure App. 3i

172 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3j

Appendix Three : 173

Figure App. 3k

174 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3l

Appendix Three : 175

Figure App. 3m

176 : Appendix Three

Figure App. 3n

Appendix Four : 177

appendix four Burton Fisch

The involvement of Burton Fisch in Bartók’s Viola Concerto has proven to be of enormous significance. The contemporary viola community knows little of him, and as there is no biographical information available in the public domain, the following material is supplied, summarized from correspondence and an interview with Fisch in 1997. A native of New York, Fisch began violin lessons with Constance Seeger (Pete Seeger’s mother). As he recalls: “When I was about six years old, my mother was walking down the street, and she saw a shingle that somebody had hung out — a violin teacher—and she thought it would be nice to get me lessons.” At age eleven he won a scholarship to the Juilliard School, where he continued studies with Conrad Held. Studies at the Juilliard continued for nine years, initially only part-time due to Fisch’s still being at regular school. After graduating as a violinist in 1940, Fisch took up viola, and as he recalls: I got a scholarship to the University of Miami with a friend of mine who was also a violist and we both went down to school, but after less than a year we quit. It was like playboy school. All the teachers that came down to Miami were from northern universities. They were sick and they wanted to live in a nice climate so they came down there. We came to the conclusion that we were not improving our viola capabilities.

On returning to New York in 1941 Fisch took up private viola study with Emanuel Vardi. This was soon followed by a position in the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, which lasted for only a year and a half, as he was then drafted into the armed forces in November 1942. After two and a half years in the United States serving as a medic and bandsman, carrying and trying to play a tuba in the military band, he was transferred to Germany, just one month before the war ended. At this time he recalls that the Allies were surrounding Berlin. At the end of the war Fisch was stationed in Leipzig as part of the military police. His musical outlet through this period was as a pianist, trumpeter, and conductor in dance bands, as there was little demand for a violist. On his release in March 1946, Fisch rejoined his wife, whom he had married just before being sent to Germany, in New York. Then began a twenty-year period of freelance viola playing in New York. He worked with Paul Whiteman in a dance

178 : Appendix Four

band and Hildegard in the Plaza Hotel. After being recommended for the CBS orchestra, Fisch relinquished his position with Hildegard, being replaced by Leonard Davis, who later joined the viola section of the New York Philharmonic. Fisch recalls this period as quite lucrative: Those days we took jobs for the radio and TV stations—you only worked four hours out of the eight hours a day, five days a week, otherwise it was overtime. So it was much better pay than the New York Philharmonic. In the Philharmonic, those days, they started a pension plan. You got to receive 100% of your pension if you were there twenty-five years, but as soon as you were there about twenty years they would fire you, so they didn’t have to pay you all your pension. In the CBS orchestra on Sundays they would put a big library of music on your stand and we had two hours of playing on the radio while people were driving in their cars and they would just talk through the rehearsal and make sure we all had the same cuts. Also, at CBS, Dave Soyer and I played TV shows like Jackie Gleason, Ed Sullivan and Arthur Godfrey, in addition to our Sunday radio stint conducted by Alfredo Antonini.

After ten years with the CBS orchestra and a further ten years playing for recordings for movies, transcriptions, and jingles and in a number of orchestras, Fisch moved out west to California to live near his daughter and son-in-law, who were teachers. For two years Fisch lived in San Diego, where his wife was a professor who instructed student teachers in the Education Department. After two years he decided that even San Diego was too much hustle and bustle. They bought ten acres of bare land in Fallbrook, had a house built, and planted a thousand avocado trees. Israel was experimenting with drip irrigation at that time, and he decided to experiment on his avocados. For six or seven years during the summer he attended a sixweek course at avocado school. Fisch stopped playing viola totally from 1968 until 1986, almost eighteen years. It was on the occasion of his father’s ninetieth birthday that, after some prodding from his second wife, Etta, he agreed to bring the viola out of mothballs. His father had not heard him play since he moved out of his house as a teenager. Etta recalls this performance bringing tears to the eyes of his five granddaughters who had never heard him play, and as Fisch recalls, “I started practicing, and once I got back in shape, I didn’t want to give it up anymore.” Since retiring, Fisch has become very involved in chamber music, attending a summer workshop every year in San Diego and Claremont, California. He also plays with a community orchestra and arranges music on his computer for viola solo and various ensembles.

Appendix Five : 179

appendix five Extracts from the Program of the World Première Program notes of the world première, by Donald Ferguson, appear by kind permission of the Minnesota Orchestra.

Figure App. 5a

180 : Appendix Five

Figure App. 5b

Appendix Five : 181

Figure App. 5c

182 : Appendix Five

Figure App. 5d

Appendix Five : 183

Figure App. 5e

184 : Appendix Six

appendix six Reviews of the Early Performances

Figure App. 6a Musical Courier. January 1, 1950

Appendix Six : 185

Figure App. 6b By permission of Boosey & Hawkes

186 : Appendix Six

Figure App. 6c By permission of New York Times

Appendix Six : 187

Figure App. 6d By permission of The Times

188 : Appendix Six

Figure App. 6e By permission of The Musical Times

Appendix Six : 189

Figure App. 6f

190 : Appendix Six

Figure App. 6g By permission of Oxford University Press

Appendix Seven : 191

appendix seven Tibor Serly’s Response to Halsey Stevens The appearance of Halsey Stevens’s book was obviously eagerly awaited by Bartók followers and was naturally of great consequence to Serly. Although it took over twenty years for Serly to respond publicly to Stevens comments, he did in fact, in 1974, publish an article in Composers and Compositions, under the well-known title “A Belated Account of a 20th-Century Masterpiece,” which was a response to general criticisms over the first twenty-five years. He particularly took issue with many of Halsey Stevens comments, which Serly obviously considered ill-informed. Following is the section from this article that relates to the public debate he took up with Stevens. Reprinted by permission of the College Music Society, College Music Symposium. © 1975.

Figure App. 7a

192 : Appendix Seven

Figure App. 7b

Appendix Seven : 193

Figure App. 7c

194 : Appendix Seven

Figure App. 7d

Appendix Seven : 195

Figure App. 7e

196 : Appendix Seven

Figure App. 7f

Appendix Seven : 197

Figure App. 7g

198 : Appendix Eight

appendix eight Recording Review Summary from Strad Magazine

Figure App. 8a

Appendix Eight : 199

Figure App. 8b By permission of STRAD magazine

200 : Appendix Nine

appendix nine “The Thirteen Pages” by Atar Arad Reprinted by permission of American String Teacher, Atar Arad, and Boosey & Hawkes.

Figure App. 9a

Appendix Nine : 201

Figure App. 9b

202 : Appendix Nine

Figure App. 9c

Appendix Nine : 203

Figure App. 9d

204 : Appendix Nine

Figure App. 9e

Appendix Ten : 205

appendix ten Peter Bartók and Nelson Dellamaggiore

1. Peter Bartók Born in 1924 in Budapest, Peter Bartók studied music with his father. On December 16, 1941, Peter set out for the United States, to join his parents, who had been living in New York since their arrival in late 1940. In 1944 he was enlisted into the U.S. military service. After his discharge from the navy in August 1945, he returned to his parents, who at that point were staying at Saranac Lake. He was more or less with his father from then until his death six weeks later. After his death Peter attended the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York, where he studied electrical engineering. Since his early years he had been fascinated with things electronic, so it was no surprise that a career developed for him in the recording industry and, in fact, he became a leading figure in the development of technology and recording techniques in the early days of long-playing records. Through his recording company, Bartók Records, he began to make recordings of his father’s music, and for the first recording of the Viola Concerto made in 1950, with Primrose as soloist, Tibor Serly as conductor, and the New Symphony Orchestra, he was the recording engineer, and the record was released under the Bartók Records label. Since 1986 he has been reviewing all publications of his father’s music and producing revisions wherever he finds discrepancies between the published version and the manuscript. This determination emanates from his observation that his father always demanded precision and accuracy and became very disturbed when this was not achieved in publications. Peter has also attempted to bring to publication the Slovakian folk music from his father’s collection, but without success due to the impossibility of obtaining engravers’ services.

Nelson Dellamaggiore Born in Córdoba, Argentina, Nelson Dellamaggiore studied harmony and composition in Buenos Aires with a private tutor and at the New England Conservatory in Boston. He graduated in 1976 from the Berklee College of Music, Boston, with a degree in arranging and composition. He was appointed music editor at Bartók Records in 1988. He is also a woodwind player and conductor. At the time of the author’s interview with him in 1995, it was his view that the review of Bartók’s published music was about one-third complete. He acknowledged that the Viola Concerto had been a very complex project due to its incomplete state.

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Notes

Chapter One 1. The reader is referred to Vilmos Juhász, ed., Bartók’s Years in America (Washington, D.C.: Occidental Press, 1981); János Demény, ed., Béla Bartók Letters (London: Faber & Faber, 1971); and Agatha Fassett, The Naked Face of Genius (London: Victor Gollancz, 1970), also republished as Bartók —The American Years (New York: Dover, 1970). 2. Sándor Veress in Juhász, Bartók’s Years in America, p. 13. 3. Béla Bartók in ibid., p. 11. 4. Demeny, Béla Bartók Letters, pp. 292–94, 300, 301, 305, and 316. 5. William Primrose, Walk on the North Side (Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 1978), p. 185. 6. This recollection is clearly incorrect, as there was no commercial recording of the concerto at this time. Menuhin gave his first performance of it in the 1943 season in Minneapolis with Mitropoulos conducting. One can only speculate how Primrose was familiar with a Menuhin performance of this work—perhaps he attended the performance or perhaps he heard a broadcast. 7. Hindemith did not actually die until 1963, almost twenty years later. 8. Primrose’s recollection here of the date is obviously wrong, both because of Bartók’s reference to December 1944 and because of Primrose’s letter to Bartók dated January 22, 1945, which expressed his gratitude that Bartók had agreed to the commission. 9. Once again, Primrose’s recollection of dates is inaccurate. The performance to which he refers was on March 10, 1945, yet his initial approach had been at least three months earlier. Perhaps, having initially agreed to the commission, Bartók was having second thoughts by February/March. 10. Malcolm Gillies, Bartók Remembered (New York: W. W. Norton, 1990), pp. 196-98. Ditta Bartók’s account does not totally agree with the facts, as Bartók died on September 26. According to her, he must have either entered the hospital on September 19 and died six days later or entered the hospital on September 15 and died on the eleventh day. To confuse the issue further, Tibor Serly refers in his interview with David Dalton (David Dalton, “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” Music and Letters, Volume 51, No. 2, April 1976, pp. 117–29) to visiting Bartók at his home on the evening of September 21, 1945, and Hamish Milne in Bartók, His Life and Times (Tunbridge Wells: Midas Books, 1982, and New York: Hippocrene Books, 1982), has Bartók entering the hospital on September 21. When questioned on this matter, Peter Bartók replied to the author in a letter dated September 4, 1995: “Serly probably came to us a few days earlier than he later remembered; or perhaps visited us at the hospital, but this is less likely since the sketch was not there and they could not have referred

208 : Notes to Pages 21–65

to it. I do not have the exact date my father went to the hospital; the check he made out upon his admission is not amongst his papers.” 11. Fassett, The Naked Face of Genius, pp. 354–57. 12. Benjamin Suchoff, ed., Béla Bartók Essays (London: Faber & Faber, 1976), p. 395. The four Harvard lectures were given in 1943 starting in February. Though a series of eight lectures was originally planned, four were canceled due to illness. (See Suchoff ’s footnote on p. 354.) 13. Ibid., p. 384. 14. Malcolm Gillies, Bartók in Britain (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), pp. 103–4. 15. Halsey Stevens, The Life and Music of Béla Bartók, 3d ed. (New York: Oxford University Perss, 1993), p. 255. 16. Information acquired from discussions with Geoff Bowen, fiddler and

publisher from Yorkshire

17. Suchoff, Belá Bartók Essays, p. 383. 18. Ibid., p. 363. 19. Peter Bartók, “The Principal Theme of Béla Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” Studia Musicologica, Volume 35/1-3, 1993–94, pp. 45–50. 20. Dalton, “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” pp. 117–29. 21. Peter Bartók, Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft, with commentary by László Somfai (Homosassa, Florida: Bartók Records, 1995), p. 1. 22. Dalton, “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” pp. 117–129. 23. Tibor Serly, “A Belated Account of a 20th-Century Masterpiece,” College Music Symposium, Volume 15, 1975, pp. 7–25. 24. Bartók, Béla Bartók, pp. 23–24. 25. Ibid., p. 23. 26. Copies of these letters are included as appendixes in David Dalton’s Ph.D. dissertation Genesis and Synthesis of the Bartók Viola Concerto, Indiana University, Bloomington, May 1970. 27. A copy of the letter from Tibor Serly to Benjamin Suchoff dated July 31, 1975, is included as appendix 1. The author was declined permission from Suchoff to reproduce the letter dated July 28, 1975, from him to Serly. 28. Dalton, “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” pp. 117–29.

Chapter Three 1. A copy of the original letter is included in appendix 2. 2. See appendix 3 for Boosey & Hawkes correspondence. 3. See appendix 3. 4. A copy of the original letter is included in appendix 2. 5. The fee was not actually paid while Bartók was still alive but rather later to Victor Bator, the trustee of the estate. 6. In hindsight this seems a very naive suggestion, but it is probable that Primrose actually did believe that no one knew anything about Bartók simply because he didn’t. Bartók’s reputation may not have fully reached the United States, but his profile in Europe was well established, at least in professional music circles.

Notes to Pages 66–78 : 209

7. There is no documentation of this visit available and this is the only statement that implies Primrose actually visited Bartók’s apartment. Bartók’s unsent letter to Primrose of August 5, 1945, implies that a meeting had taken place during or before December 1944. There is no letter of approach, but there may have been telephone conversations. 8. This letter dated September 8, 1945, appears in full in chapter 1. 9. This is an interesting statement coming from one who most likely had a copy of the manuscript from very early on and shows that he must have done little more than glance through it, a situation that is extraordinary for one normally so perceptive. The mm. 102–7 that Primrose refers to are measures in which Tibor Serly changed the notes from the manuscript; notably, the repeated high Cs should be a B. A quick glance at the manuscript should have been sufficient for Primrose to challenge Tibor Serly’s alteration. The changes instigated by Primrose are fully examined later. 10. Primrose would have been well aware that the phrasings were almost entirely added by Serly—and himself! 11. Again these markings are all added by Serly. Bartók gave no indication that the tempo should alter at this point. Primrose only needed to consult his manuscript to see that these markings were, in fact, from Serly. 12. As we now know, this is not quite accurate. 13. This assertion would not have been possible had Primrose looked in any depth at the manuscript. It is unclear when he did acquire a copy, but it would be very surprising if he had not obtained one very early on. Almost all the copies of the manuscript that have “leaked” over the last fifty years can be traced back to a Primrose student who was allowed to make a copy “whilst his back was turned.” It is highly unlikely that copies were proliferated through Peter Bartók or Tibor Serly. 14. It would not have taken a great deal of musicianly research to realize that Tibor Serly’s addition of four bars of orchestral tutti are the cause of this abruptness at the end and that their removal would solve the problem. 15. Extracts from the actual program are included in appendix 5.

Chapter Four 1. Full transcripts of these reviews are included in appendix 6. 2. Halsey Stevens, The Life and Music of Béla Bartók, 3d ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 253–55. 3. The response of Tibor Serly is included in appendix 7. 4. These recording reviews are included in appendix 8. 5. Sándor Kovács, Malcolm Gillies, ed., The Bartók Companion (Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press, 1994), pp. 547–54. 6. Anonymous, “First Performances: The Viola as Prima Donna and Other Improbabilities,” Music Review, Volume 11, 1950, pp. 321–23. 7. David Dalton, Genesis and Synthesis of the Bartók Viola Concerto, Ph.D. dissertation, Indiana University, Bloomington, May 1970. 8. Stevens, The Life and Music of Béla Bartók, p. 253. 9. Ibid., p. 254.

210 : Notes to Pages 79–109

10. Ibid. 11. Ibid., p. 255. 12. Ibid., p. 254. 13. Ibid., p. 254. 14. Ibid. 15. Tim Alps, “Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” Music and Musicians, Issue No. 337, Volume 29, No. 1, September 1980, pp. 32–33. 16. E.S., “Reviews,”Classical Music, December 1991, p. 123. 17. Robin Stowell, “CDs Review,” Strad., Volume 105, No. 1253, September 1994, p. 913. 18. David Denton, “A Swan-song Never Finished,” Strad, Volume 106, No. 1261, May 1995, pp. 535–36. See appendix 8. 19. Rob Cowan, Record Review, Gramophone, Volume 78, No. 929, July 2000, p. 50. 20. Kovács.

Chapter Five 1. The order of composition of the various sections of the work is discussed in detail by László Somfai in his commentary in Peter Bartók’s Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft (Florida: Bartók Records, 1995), pp. 23–26. 2. The reader is referred to Roy Howat, “Bartók, Lendvai and the Principles of Proportional Analysis,” Music Analysis, Volume 2, 1983, pp. 69–95; Ernó Lendvai, “Remarks on Roy Howard’s Principles of Proportional Analysis,” Music Analysis, Volume 3, 1984, pp. 255–64; and Malcolm Gillies, “Re: The Workshop of Bartók and Kodály,” Music Analysis, Volume 5, 1986, pp. 285–95. 3. Lendvai was born in 1925 in Kaposvar, Hungary, and died in 1993. From 1949 to 1956 he was director of the Szombathely-Gyor Conservatoire and subsequently professor at the Music Academy in Budapest. During 1960–65 he was musical director of Hungarian Radio and Television. His theories were developed from the mid-1940s. 4. Erno Lendvai, Béla Bartók: An Analysis of His Music (London: Kahn & Averill, 1971), pp. 27–34. 5. László Somfai, Béla Bartók: Composition, Concepts and Autograph Sources (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), p. 81.

Chapter Six 1. “The Thirteen Pages” is included in appendix 9. 2. E-mail to the author on March 14, 2002. 3. A brief background of Peter Bartók, Bartók Records, and Nelson Dellamaggiore is included as appendix 10. This also refers to the motivation behind Peter Bartók’s involvement in revising the Viola Concerto. 4. Peter Bartók, Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft, with commentary by László Somfai (Florida: Bartók Records, 1995), pp. 47–74. 5. Peter Bartók, “Correcting Printed Editions of Bela Bartók’s Viola Concerto and Other

Notes to Pages 109–132 : 211

Compositions,” in Elliott Antokoletz, Victoria Fischer, and Benjamin Suchoff, eds., Bartók Perspectives: Man, Composer & Ethnomusicologist (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 251. 6. Bartók, “Correcting Printed Editions,” pp. 251–54. 7. Ibid., pp. 254–58.

Chapter Seven 1. László Somfai, Béla Bartók: Composition, Concepts and Autograph Sources (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). The various stages of Bartók’s compositional process are outlined in chapters 4 through 7. 2. Somfai, Béla Bartók, p. 31. 3. Ibid., p. 32. According to information supplied to the author by Malcolm Gillies, there was, in fact, in 1945, a piano both at Saranac Lake and at the New York flat. However, Somfai qualifies this further with his comment in Peter Bartók, Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft (Florida: Bartók Records, 1995), p. 24: “We suppose that the normal routine of his composition—with extensive improvisation at the piano in the isolation of the study in his home, before he went to the desk to fix the developed longer sections onto the paper in ink — was hindered by the lack of the necessary isolation and/or instrument in Saranac Lake, N.Y.” 4. The full score was not produced until after Bartók’s death, although he had seen the proof in mid-1945. Erwin Stein, chief editor of Boosey & Hawkes, probably put the score to press and made last-minute changes, hence the “lesser reliability” referred to in the handwritten comment. 5. The author is grateful to the staff at the Bartók Archives in Budapest, especially László Somfai, for access to photocopies of the various drafts of the Second Violin Concerto. 6. The author interviewed Zoltan Székely at length in 1996 at his residence in Banff, Canada. He discussed in detail his involvement with the development of the Violin Concerto No. 2. Changes to the violin part are also discussed in Claude Kenneson’s Székely and Bartók: The Story of a Friendship. (Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press, 1994), pp. 202–7.

Chapter Eight 1. László Somfai, Béla Bartók: Composition, Concepts and Autograph Sources (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), pp. 163–67. 2. Measures 73 and 143 in the Boosey & Hawkes 1950 score. 3. Halsey Stevens, The Life and Music of Béla Bartók, 3d ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 25. 4. In Burton Fisch’s letter to the author of May 5, 1996, he comments: “The technical passages were different from any other literature violists had in that day.” 5. M. Gillies and A. Gombocz, eds., Bartók Letters: The Musical Mind (Oxford: Clarendon Press, in publication). 6. Béla Bartók, Jun, Apám életének krónikája (Budapest: Zenemúkiadó, 1981), pp. 458–59. 7. Somfai, Belá Bartók, p. 150.

212 : Notes to Pages 132–153

8. Béla Bartók, Essays, ed. Benjamin Suchoff (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976), pp. 381–83. 9. An interval cycle is a series based on a single recurrent interval, for instance, the wholetone scale or cycle of fifths, the sequence of which is completed by the return of the initial pitch class. Combinations of cyclic-interval partitions, e.g., a pairing of two minor third cycles, produce compound cyclic collections such as the octatonic scale. For an outline and discussion of the interval cycles, see Elliott Antokoletz, The Music of Béla Bartók: A Study of Tonality and Progression in Twentieth-Century Music (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984), ex. 70 and chapter 8 (“Generation of the Interval Cycles”), especially. A collection of pitches is symmetrical if the intervallic structure of one-half of it can be mapped into the other half through mirroring, i.e., literal inversion. 10. See ibid., chapter 7 (“Interaction of Diatonic, Octatonic and Whole-tone Formations”). 11. See Bartók, Essays, p. 367. Edwin von der Nüll, Béla Bartók: Ein Beitrag zur Morphologie der neuen Musik (Halle: Mitteldeutsche Verlags A.G., 1930), p. 74, appears to have been the first to discuss this principle in Bartók’s music, in which combined Phrygian and Lydian modes on a common tonic produce the entire chromatic continuum. For more recent discussions of “polymodal chromaticism,” see János Kárpáti, Bartók’s String Quartets, trans. Fred Macnicol (Budapest: Corvina Press, 1975), pp. 126–35, and Antokoletz, The Music of Béla Bartók, especially chapter 2 (“Harmonization of Authentic Folk Tunes, passim”), 64–66 passim, 201–3 passim, and 214–29 passim. 12. Malcolm Gillies, ed., The Bartók Companion (Portland: Amadeus Press, 1994), p. 552. 13. Somfai, Béla Bartók, p. 219.

Chapter Nine 1. Claude Kenneson, Székely and Bartók: The Story of a Friendship (Portland: Amadeus Press, 1994), p. 114.

Chapter Ten 1. A memorandum from Tibor Serly to Victor Bator, dated July 27, 1949. 2. Malcolm Gillies, ed., The Bartók Companion (Portland: Amadeus Press, 1994), p. 553. 3. In 1965, Péter Ruffy wrote “The Dispute over Bartók’s Will,” which appeared in the New Hungarian Quarterly (Volume 7, No. 22, Summer 1966) and subsequently in English in Todd Crow, ed., Bartók Studies (Detroit: Information Co-ordinators) in 1976. According to the editor of the Hungarian Quarterly, the article was translated from a Hungarian newspaper. 4. Herm Schoenfeld, “Court Clarifies Posthumous Work in Key Reversal of Bartók Case,” Music-Records, October 22, 1975, p. 149.

Bibliography

Books Antokoletz, Elliott. The Music of Béla Bartók: A Study of Tonality and Progression in TwentiethCentury Music. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984. Antokoletz, Elliott, Victoria Fischer, and Benjamin Suchoff, eds. Bartók Perspectives: Man, Composer & Ethnomusicologist. New York: Oxford University Press, 2000. Bartók, Béla, Jun. Apám életének krónikája. Budapest: Zenemúkiadó, 1981. Bartók, Peter. Béla Bartók, Viola Concerto, Facsimile of the Autograph Draft. With commentary by László Somfai, Florida: Bartók Records, 1995. Bowen, Geoff . How to Play Folk Fiddle. Ilkley: Yorkshire Dales Workshops in Folk Arts, 1993. Crow, Ted, ed. Bartók Studies. Detroit: Information Co-ordinators, 1976. Demény, János, ed. Béla Bartók Letters. London: Faber & Faber, 1971. Fassett, Agatha. The Naked Face of Genius. London: Victor Gollancz, 1970. Gillies, Malcolm. Bartók in Britain. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989. ———. Bartók Remembered. New York: W. W. Norton, 1990. ———, ed. The Bartók Companion. Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press, 1994. Gillies, M., and A. Gombocz, eds. Bartók Letters: The Musical Mind. Oxford: Clarendon Press, in publication. Juhász, Vilmos, ed. Bartók’s Years in America. Washington, D.C.: Occidental Press, 1981. Kenneson, Claude. Székely and Bartók: The Story of a Friendship. Portland, Oregon: Amadeus Press, 1994. Lendvai, Ernó. Béla Bartók: An Analysis of His Music. London: Kahn & Averill, 1971. Milne, Hamish. Bartók, His Life and Times. Tunbridge Wells: Midas Books, 1982, and New York: Hippocrene Books, 1982. Moreux, Serge. Béla Bartók. New York: Vienna House, 1974. Primrose, William. Walk on the North Side. Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 1978. Somfai, László. Béla Bartók: Composition, Concepts and Autograph Sources. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996. Stevens, Halsey. The Life and Music of Béla Bartók. New York: Oxford University Press, 1953, 2d ed. 1964, 3d ed. 1993. Suchoff, Benjamin, ed. Béla Bartók Essays. London: Faber & Faber, 1976.

Articles and dissertations Alps, Tim. “Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Music and Musicians. Issue No. 337, Volume 29, No. 1, September 1980, pp. 32–33.

214 : Bibliography

Anonymous. “Edinburgh Festival: Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Times. September 4, 1950, p. 6. ———. “First Performances: The Viola as Prima Donna and Other Improbabilities.” Music Review. Volume 11, 1950, pp. 321–23. ———. “The Bartók Viola Concerto.” Tempo—a Quarterly Review of Modern Music. No. 14, Winter 1949–50, p. 1. Arad, Atar. “The Thirteen Pages.” American String Teacher. Volume 28, No. 1, Winter 1988, pp. 83–87. Bartók, Peter. “Commentary on the Revision of Béla Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Journal American Viola Society. Volume 12, No. 1, 1996, pp. 11–33. ———. “The Principal Theme of Béla Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Studia Musicologica. Volume 35/1-3, 1993–94, pp. 45–50. Carner, Mosco. “Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Musical Times. Volume 91, August 1950, p. 301–3. ———. “The Promenade Concerts.” Musical Times. Volume 91, October 1950, p. 399. Cowan, Rob. Record Review. Gramophone. Volume 78, No. 929, July 2000, p. 50. Dalton, David. Genesis and Synthesis of the Bartók Viola Concerto. Ph.D. Dissertation, Indiana University, Bloomington, May 1970. ———. “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” Music and Letters. Volume 57, No. 2, April 1976, pp. 117–29. Dellamaggiore, N. “Bartók: Viola Concerto, Revisions January 9, 1992.” Unpublished, 41 pages, D. Maurice private collection. Denton, David. “A Swan-song Never Finished: David Denton Compares Recorded Versions of Bartók’s Viola Concerto.” Strad. Volume 106, No. 1261, May 1995, pp. 535–36. Downes, O. “Primrose Excels in Bartók’s Work.” New York Times. February 12, 1950, p. 74. F. W. “Bartók’s Viola Concerto Constructed by Tibor Serly.” Musical America. No. 72, April 1, 1952, p. 28. Ferguson, Donald. “Concerto for Viola and Orchestra - Béla Bartók.” Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra Program, December 2, 1949, pp. 211–14. Gillies, Malcolm. Non-fugal Imitation in the Late Works of Bartók. Dissertation, Cambridge University, April 1980. ———. Notation and Tonal Structure in Bartók’s Later Works. Dissertation, University of London, 1987. ———. “Re: The Workshop of Bartók and Kodály.” Music Analysis. Volume 5, No. 4, 1986, pp. 285–95. Howat, Roy. “Bartók, Lendvai and the Principles of Proportional Analysis.” Music Analysis. Volume 2, 1983, pp. 69–95. Kovács, Sándor. “Formprobleme beim Viola Konzert von Bartók/Serly.” Studia Musicologica. Volume 24, 1982, pp. 381–91. ———. “Re-examining the Bartók/Serly Viola Concerto.” Studia Musicologica. Volume 23, 1981, pp. 295–322. Lendvai, Ernó. “Remarks on Roy Howat’s Principles of Proportional Analysis.” Music Analysis. Volume 3, No. 3, October 1984, pp. 254–64. Mann, W. S. “Bartók Viola Concerto.” Music and Letters. Volume 32, No. 1, January 1951, pp. 88–89.

Bibliography : 215

Maurice, Donald. “Bartók’s Viola Concerto: New Light from New Zealand.” Music in New Zealand. Winter 1993, pp. 26–27. Ruffy, Peter. “The Dispute over Bartók’s Will.” In Todd Crow, ed., Bartók Studies, Detroit: Information Co-ordinators, 1976, pp. 141–46. S. E. “Reviews.” Classical Music. December 1991, p. 123. Saunders, L. C. M. “Auckland University Orchestra at the Maidment Theatre Last Night.” New Zealand Herald. May 5, 1993. Schoenfeld, Herm. “Court Clarifies Posthumous Work in Key Reversal of Bartók Case.” Music-Records. October 22, 1975, p. 149. Serly, Tibor. “A Belated Account of a 20th-century Masterpiece.” College Music Symposium. Volume 15, 1975, pp. 7–25. ______. “Story of a Concerto: Bartók’s Last Work.” New York Times. December 11, 1949. Slonimsky, N. “Tibor Serly.” Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians. 8th ed., 1991. Solare, Carlos. “Viola Verve in Illinois.” Strad. Volume 104, No. 1243, November 1993, pp. 1095–96. Stowell, Robin. “CDs Review.” Strad. Volume 105, No. 1253, September 1994, p. 913. T. L. “Minneapolis Premiéres Bartók Work.” Musical Courier. No. 141, January 1, 1950, p. 35. Taylor, Lindis. “Polytech Plays Redraft of Bartók Concerto.” Wellington Evening Post. May 10, 1989. Whittall, A. “At Source.” Musical Times. Volume 137, February 1996, pp. 10–12.

Published scores Bartók, Béla. Piano Concerto No. 3. Full score. Boosey & Hawkes, 1947. ______. Sonata for Solo Violin. Ed. Yehudi Menuhin. Boosey & Hawkes, 1947. ______. String Quartet No. 3. Full score. Universal Edition, 1929, assigned to Boosey & Hawkes, 1939. ______. String Quartet No. 4. Full score. Universal Edition, 1929, renewed by Boosey & Hawkes, 1956. ______. String Quartet No. 5. Full score. Universal Edition, 1936. ______. String Quartet No. 6. Full score. Boosey & Hawkes, 1941. ———. Viola Concerto. Prepared for publication from the composer’s original manuscript by Tibor Serly. The viola part edited by William Primrose. Boosey & Hawkes, 1950. ______. Viola Concerto. Revised version by Nelson Dellamaggiore and Peter Bartók. Boosey & Hawkes, 1995. ______. Violin Concerto No. 2. Full score. Boosey & Hawkes, 1946.

Unpublished manuscripts/scores Bartók, Béla. Piano Concerto No. 3. Various manuscript drafts. Bartók Archives, Budapest. ———. Viola Concerto. Revision by Donald Maurice. Private collection, Dunedin, New Zealand, 1993. ———. Viola Concerto. Critical restoration by Csaba Erdélyi. Private collection, Bloomington, Indiana, 1996.

216 : Bibliography

———. Violin Concerto No. 2. Various manuscript drafts. Photocopies in the Bartók Archives, Budapest.

Discography—Private Recordings Bartók, Béla. Viola Concerto. Burton Fisch viola, Lucy Brown piano. Recorded by Peter Bartók, 1948 ———. Viola Concerto. Csaba Erdélyi viola, Erich Bergel conductor. Budapest Symphony Orchestra, 1992 ———. Viola Concerto. Donald Maurice viola, Uwe Grodd conductor. Auckland University Orchestra. Videotaped performance, 1993

Commercial Recordings (Alphabetical by soloist—Serly version unless stated otherwise) Benyamini, Daniel, viola, Daniel Barenboim conductor, Orchestre de Paris. DG 2531 249, (1980), LP record, 12 in. Binder, Davia, viola, Herbert Kegel conductor. Leipzig Radio Symphony Orchestra. Berlin classics, 0031252BC. 1967 Christ, Wolfram, viola, Seiji Ozawa conductor, Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. DG 437 993-2, CD. Elaine, Karen, viola, Eleazar de Carvalho conductor, Orquestra Sinfonica da Paraiba. Delos DE - 1018 (DDD), CD. Erdélyi, Csaba, viola, Marc Decio Taddei conductor. New Zealand Symphony Orchestra (Erdélyi 2001 revision). Concordance CCD03. 2002 Golani, Rivka, viola, András Ligeti conductor, Budapest Symphony Orchestra. Conifer CDCF 189, CD. 1990 Hillyer, Raphael, viola, Akeo Watanabe conductor, Japanese Philharmonic Orchestra. Nonesuch Records/H 71239, (1970), LP record. microgroove. stereo, 12 in. Also on Albany Troy 076 (AAD), CD. 1970 Karlovsky, Jaroslav, viola, Karel Ancerl conductor, Czech Philharmonic Orchestra. Great Masters of Music/Gmm-49, (1962), LP record, mono 12 in. Also on ALP 199/Artia, (1963) LP record. microgroove, 12 in. 1963 Kashkashian, Kim, viola, Peter Eötvös conductor, Netherlands Radio Chamber Orchestra. ECM New Series. 465 420-2 (50 minutes: DDD) 1999 Koch, Ulrich, viola, Alois Springer conductor, Orchestra of Radio Luxembourg. TV-S 34483/Turnabout , (1972), LP record, stereo 12 in. 1972 Lemoine, Micheline, viola, Louis de Froment conductor, Orch. Louis Fremont. Club Nationale. Disque France CND 6, LP record. 1955 Lukács, Pál, viola, János Ferencik conductor, Staatliches Konzert-Orchester. Deutsche Grammophon Gesellschaft, (1964), LP record, microgroove, stereo, 12 in. Recorded by Qualiton, Budapest. 1964 Ma, Yo-Yo, alto violin, David Zinman conductor, Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Sony SK 57961, CD. 1993

Bibliography : 217

Menuhin, Yehudi, viola, Antal Doráti conductor, New Philharmonia Orchestra of London. EMI 567-754 101-2, CD. 1966 Németh, Géza, viola, András Koródi conductor, Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra. Hungaroton MK1 018, (1976). On side 2 of cassette, stereophonic, 4-track. Also on Hungaroton/SLPX 11421, (1970, 79). LP record. stereo, 12 in. 1970, 1979. Primrose, William, viola, Tibor Serly conductor, The New Symphony Orchestra. BRS 309/ Bartók Records, 1950, 1 side of 1 LP record, microgroove, 12 in. Also on CM 20/Recorded Music Circle/World Record Club, 1960, 1969. ———. Otto Klemperer conductor, Concertgebouw Orchestra. Amsterdam, HEK ARC 101, Music and Arts CD, live performance. 1951 Starker, János, cello, Leonard Slatkin conductor, St Louis Symphony Orchestra. RCA RD 60717-2-RC, (DDD), CD. Also on Cassette 60717-4-RC. Thompson, Marcus, viola, Paul Freeman conductor, Slovenian Radio Symphony Orchestra. Centaur 2150, CD. 1990 Xiao, Hong-Mei, viola, Janós Kovacs conductor, Budapest Philharmonic Orchestra. Recordings of Serly and P. Bartók versions Naxos. DDD 8.554183 CD. 1997 Zidarov, Nikola, viola, Dimiter Manolov conductor, Sofia Philharmonic Orchestra. AVM Records AVZ-3025 (DDD), (1991), CD. 1991 Zimmermann, Tabea, viola, David Shallon conductor, Bavarian Radio Orchestra. EMI 567 54101-2, CD. 1989 Zukerman, Pinchas, viola, Leonard Slatkin conductor, St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. BMG RD 60749-2 RC, (DDD), CD. Also on Cassette 60749-4-RC. 1990

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index

Alps, Tim, 80 Ansermet, Ernest, 63, 73, 173, 186 regarding the cello version. See Viola Concerto, cello version anti-Hungarian rhythm, 26, 27, 28, 29, 128 Antokoletz, Elliott, 102, 132–35 (contribution), 150 Arad, Atar, 5, 35, 99, 100 pizzicato chords, 101,106, 144 “Thirteen Pages” article, 31, 101, 200–204 APRA (Australasian Performing Rights Association), 153–54 ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers), 7, 25 Barbirolli, John, 74, 76, 187 Barenboim, Daniel, 80 Baron, Gyula, 152 Bartók Archives, Budapest, 120, 122, 150, 151, 153 copy of the Viola Concerto manuscript, 31, 40n.7, 82, 99 Bartók Estate, New York, 32, 44, 53–59, 78, 153, 150–56 Bartók Records, Florida (American Estate), 31, 40, 150, 151, 152, 153, 205 copy of the Viola Concerto manuscript, 33, 82, 88, 101 Bartók’s wills, 21, 149–54 Bartók, Bela health, 14–22, 36 impressions of New York, 7–10 Saranac Lake, 16–20, 30, 36, 42, 205 Bartók, Bela junior, 152 Bartók (Mrs.) Ditta, 7, 25, 35, 60, 88, 159 approach to Serly, 37–38

Bartók’s will, 152–53 health, 16–18, 22, 59 Piano Concerto No. 3, 23–24 Bartók, Márta, 152 Bartók, Peter, 11, 105 approach to Serly, 38 biographical notes, 104, 205 Estate. See Bartók Estate Facsimile Edition, 101 Fisch read-through, 60 health of parents (1945), 18, 20–21 Kodály, 35 manuscript, 31 permissions, 8, 15, 19, 88 Primrose’s copy, 69 revision, 3–5, 22, 41n.10, 26, 71, 83, 102, 104, 106, 131 revision comparisons. See revision comparisons Scottish influence, 25–30, 93 Bator, Victor 31–32, 40n.7, 44n.17, 152 correspondence, 38, 53–59, 159, 165, 170, 172 Bean, Betty, 59–60, 150, 163–76 “Belated Account of the Reconstruction . . . ,” 32, 45, 53, 59, 78, 79–80, 109, 191–97 Benyami, Daniel, 80 Berlioz, Hector, “Harold in Italy,” 14, 76, 102 bird calls, 30 Boosey & Hawkes, 4, 11, 16, 32, 37, 121, 153, 154 correspondence 14, 56, 59–60, 69, 163–76 permissions, 88 Viola Concerto, 40n.7, 43–45, 68, 102, 131, 150

220 : Index

Boston Symphony Orchestra, 10, 64 Brown, Lucy, 40, 54, 62–63 Budapest Symphony Orchestra, 102 Call, Kevin, 102 Cameron, Basil, 74, 188 Carl Flesch Competition, 142, 143 Christ, Wolfram, 81 chromatic compression, 132–35 Columbia University, 9, 37n.1 Complete Critical Edition, 153 Concerto for Orchestra, 9–10, 21, 44, 64, 115, 121, 144, 152, 153 Cowan, Rob, 81 Curtis Institute, 39 Dalton, David, 31, 54, 77, 142 Primrose interview, 54, 64–68, 114 Serly interview, 4, 31–32, 34, 36–44, 75, 119 “The Genesis of Bartók’s Viola Concerto,” 36 Dellamaggiore, Nelson, 33, 88, 102, 106, 110, 153, 154 biographical, 206, 104 Denton, David, 81 Diary of a Fly, 38 Dille, Denijs, 151 Dorati, Antal, 163, 170, 172–73, 174, 176 reviews of world première, 184, 185 world première, 10, 55, 59, 72, 78, 179 Downes, Olin, 73, 186 Duos (44) for Two Violins, 136 Edinburgh Festival, 74, 185, 187 Enescu, Gheorghe, 30 Erdélyi, Csaba, 26, 32, 103 revision, 3–5, 71, 101–2 revision comparisons. See revision comparisons Fassett, Agatha, 20, 88 Fibonacci (Golden Section), 4, 85, 88, 90, 94–97

Fisch, Burton, 61, 68, 155, 156 biographical notes, 177–78 read-through, 40n.7, 53–54, 60, 62–64 recording, 101, 106, 144 Geyer, Stefi, 29–30 Gillies, Malcolm, 31, 150 Golani, Rivka, 81 Golden Section. See Fibonacci Hallé Orchestra, 74, 187 Harvard lectures, 25–26, 29 Hawkes, Ralph, 55–56, 67, 78 Heinsheimer, Mr., 10–11, 14–15 Hillyer, Raphael, 81 Hindemith, Paul, 11, 64, 65, 76, 81 Hungarian folk music, 26, 28, 30, 72 Husband’s Grief, The, 10 Kashkashian, Kim, 81, 138 Kodály, Zoltan, 25, 35, 37, 38 Koussevitsky, Serge, 9–10, 64 Kovács, Sándor, 71, 82–83, 86, 138, 150, 153 Kurtág, György, 102 Lendvai, Ernö, 88, 90, 94, 97 London Philharmonic Orchestra, 74, 188 Lutyens, Elisabeth, 77 Ma, Yo-Yo, 81 Mann, William, 75, 149, 156 Maurice, Donald, 106, 107 revision, 22 revision comparison. See revision comparisons Mendelssohn Violin Concerto, 41 Menuhin, Yehudi, 9, 10, 11, 43, 65, 131, 142 Mikrokosmos Suite, 53, 37, 38, 48, 50, 119 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, 10, 59, 64, 70, 72, 169, 176 reviews of world première, 184, 185 program of world première, 179–183 Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, 127

Index : 221

NBC Symphony Orchestra, 186 Neaman, Yfrah, 142 Neubauer, Paul, 33, 102, 104–6, 105, 116, 154 New Symphony Orchestra, 31, 206 New York Times, 11, 23, 66, 186 New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, 102 octatonic sets, 132–35 Orchestre de Paris, 80 Ormandy, Eugene, 10, 163, 167–68 Out-of-Doors Suite, 48 Pásztory, Ditta. See Bartók (Mrs.) Ditta Philadelphia Orchestra, 10 Piano Concerto No. 1, 115, 139 Piano Concerto No. 2, 78, 115, 127, 139 Piano Concerto No. 3, 9–10, 18, 22, 24, 82, 121, 139, 155 comparison with Viola Concerto, 23, 54, 80, 87, 138 completion by Serly, 21, 35, 42, 77 gift for Ditta, 20 as a late work, 44, 74 manuscript, 31–32, 36, 38 material used in Viola Concerto, 48, 78, 80 musical examples, 145, 146 Piano Suite (1919), 121 Piatagorsky, Gregor, 54 PIVA (Primrose International Viola Archives), 11 polymodal chromaticism, 132–35 Primrose, Eiji, 10, 13, 142 Primrose, William, 36, 37, 53, 65, 78, 101, 118, 155 changes to score, 60, 69–70, 108, 128, 129 commission, 9, 155 correspondence, 10–11, 12–19, 24, 39n.4, 55–58, 85

Dalton interview, 32, 54, 64–68

first performances, 4, 10, 25, 59, 64,

72–75, 179

manuscript, 99

performance traditions, 43, 114, 115, 141, 142, 143 recordings, 31, 81 reviews of first performances, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188

Scottish influence, 25

Serly interview, 42, 43, 50, 51

viola part, 40n.7

Promenade Concerts, 188 revision comparisons, 99, 106 cross-influence, 4, 102, 105, 106 dynamics, 116 Fibonacci considerations, 94–99 harmonics, 101, 117–18 orchestration, 108–13, 138–39 phrasing, 116 pitch, 116 pizzicato, 112, 113, 144 structure, 22, 41n.10, 45n.21, 46nn.23, 26, 49nn.31, 32, 70, 86, 108–9, 128 tempo considerations, 113–15 Rhapsody No. 1, 53, 121 Rumanian Folk Dances, 139 Ruffy, Péter, 151 Sargent, Malcolm, 11, 66 Schoenfeld, Herm, 132 Second Suite for small orchestra, 139 Serly, Tibor, 119 acknowledgement in printed score, 164, 165, 166, 172 article in New York Times, 23–25 “Belated Account” article. See “Belated Account . . .” Boosey & Hawkes, 59, 60, 68, 69 comparisons with revisions, 22, 94, 96, 102, 104–6, 108–17 correspondence, 33, 54, 159, 164, 166, 169, 171, 175 Dalton interview, 34, 36–44 Fibonacci considerations, 94–97 Fisch, 60, 62–64, 101 letter from Bator to Primrose, 55–58

222 : Index

Serly, Tibor (continued ) manuscript, 31, 32, 99 orchestration. See Viola Concerto, Serly’s orchestration performance interpretation, 141–44 Piano Concerto No. 3, 10, 23, 138 post-Serly, 83 Primrose interview, 66–68 printed score of Viola Concerto (1950), 15 read-through, 60, 62–64, 162 reception of the Serly version, 71, 73, 75, 81 reconstruction of Viola Concerto, 3, 4, 35–51, 69–70, 128, 149–50, 154–56 Stevens’s comments, 77–80 Slatkin, Leonard, 81 Somfai, László, 33, 40n.7, 119–21, 127, 131, 138, 150–51 Facsimile Edition, 22, 32, 34, 39n.5, 40n.6, 82 Fibonacci, 97 Sonata for Solo Violin, 9, 10, 115, 131, 135 Sonatas for Violin and Piano, 115, 144 Soyer, David, 40n.7, 53–54, 60, 64, 155, 178 Starker, János, 81 St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, 81 Stein, Erwin, 40n.7, 60, 171, 174 Stevens, Halsey, 28, 43, 48, 53, 67, 71, 77–80, 82 correspondence, 55, 77 Stowell, Robin, 81 Stravinsky, Igor, 11, 65, 76 String Quartet No. 3, 147 String Quartet No. 4, 48, 127, 136, 144, 147 String Quartet No. 5, 79, 127 String Quartet No. 6, 47, 146 Suchoff, Benjamin, 33, 152, 159 Suite for Two Pianos, 10 Symphony (1902), 138 Székely, Zoltan, 122, 136, 137, 141, 142, 144 Szigeti, Joseph, 37, 162

Ukranian Folk Songs, 10 University of Washington, 9

Taddei, Marc Decio, 102 Two Portraits, 139

Zimmermann, Tabea, 81 Zukerman, Pinchas, 81

Vardi, Emanuel, 177 Veress, Sándor, 7 Viola Concerto articulation, 141, 144–47 cello version, 44, 53–60, 62–63, 67, 78, 162, 173 commission, 7, 10–12 dynamics, 141, 142 Facsimile of the Autograph Draft, 22, 32–34, 40n.6, 88, 101 Hungarian influence, 25 melody, 129–32 missing Scherzo movement, 22, 47, 49, 85, 86 phrasing, 141, 144–47 pitch organization, 132–35 pizzicato chords, 101, 106, 112, 113, 144 read-through, 40n.7, 53–54, 60, 62–64 reviews, 71–77, 183–90, 198–99 rhythm, 135–38 Scottish influence, 25–29, 91, 93, 117, 144 Serly’s orchestration, 41, 42, 75, 139–40 structure, 89–93, 127–29 tempo indications, 42, 67, 95–96, 141, 142–43 world première, 10, 53, 59, 70, 72 Viola Concerto manuscript, 30, 33–34, 39, 102, 109, 117, 119, 135 whereabouts, 3, 21, 31–33, 36 Violin Concerto No. 1, 29, 139 Violin Concerto No. 2, 11, 65, 78, 127, 139 as a late work, 21 comparison with Viola Concerto, 87, 145–47 manuscript drafts, 120–26, 131, 135, 141 relative popularity, 43, 67, 73, 77 tonality, 48 Walton, William, 11, 64, 66, 76