Zoltan Kodaly's World of Music 9780520971608

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Zoltán Kodály’s World of Music

Zoltán Kodály’s World of Music

Anna Dalos

UNIVERSIT Y OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

University of California Press Oakland, California © 2020 by the Research Centre for the Humanities of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Dalos, Anna, 1973- author. Title: Zoltán Kodály’s world of music / Anna Dalos. Description: Oakland, California : University of California Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2019054877 (print) | lccn 2019054878 (ebook) | isbn 9780520300040 (cloth) | isbn 9780520971608 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Kodály, Zoltán, 1882–1967—Criticism and interpretation. Classification: lcc ml410.k732 .d37 2020 (print) | lcc ml410.k732 (ebook) | ddc 780.92 [B]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054877 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054878 Manufactured in the United States of America 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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c ontents

Illustrations and Tables Acknowledgments Introduction 1. Zoltán Kodály’s Path

vii ix 1 6

2. Kodály the Brahmin: The Beginning of the Composer’s Career

16

3. A Paradigm Shift: The Reinterpretation of the Folk Song Concept

30

4. Finding the Voice of His “Deepest Inner Self ”: The Case of String Quartet No. 1

45

5. Commentaries on Debussy: Kodály’s Turn toward Western Modernity

56

6. Nausicaa, Sappho, and Other Women in Love: Women and Modernism in Kodály’s Songs

65

7. “From These Times of War”: The Case of String Quartet No. 2

75

8. Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man: Kodály after the Trianon Treaty (1920)

86

9. An Encounter with a Young Man: The Peacock Variations

115

10. Palestrina in Budapest: Kodály’s Views on Church Music

128

11. Why Jeppesen?: Kodály’s Readings on Counterpoint

139

12. Hungarian Counterpoint: Contrapuntal Technique in Kodály’s Works

153

13. The Art of Fugue: About Kodály’s Concerto

167

14. A Symphonic Self-Portrait: The Last Years

182

Epilogue Chronology of the Life of Zoltán Kodály Notes Bibliography General Index Index of Kodály’s Works

195 197 205 251 273 277

illustrations a nd ta bles

FAC SI M I L E S

1. Kodály’s bilingual analysis of Brahms’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor (op. 108) 22 2. Kodály’s analysis of Brahms’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor (op. 108) 25 3. Sketch for a string quartet in C major referring to Ervin Lendvai (ca. 1902) 51 4. Kodály’s sketch for a modulation process with seventh, ninth, and eleventh chords built on thirds (ca. 1906) 63 5. Manuscript of Méditation with French inscription (1906) 64 6. Jeppesen, Palestrinastil, pp. 46–47 142 7. Jeppesen, Kontrapunkt, p. 80 152 8. Sketch for the Concerto (1939–40) 170 9. Sketch for the Concerto (1939–40) 171 TA B L E S

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Kodály compositions in rondo form 41 Kodály’s songs 70 Kodály’s works written between 1916 and 1918 78 The form of Psalmus Hungaricus 99 The numbers of Háry János 103 The collection sites of the folk songs in Háry János 108 vii

viii

7. 8. 9. 10.

Illustrations and Tables

“The Peacock” by Endre Ady 124 Kodály’s religious compositions (1925–66) 135 Kodály’s readings on counterpoint 145 Kodály’s compositions between 1945 and 1966 185 EXAMPLES

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

String Quartet No. 1, fourth movement, opening theme and bass theme 46 Folk song theme of String Quartet No. 1 and its variations 53 Theme of Debussy’s String Quartet and opening theme of Méditation 62 Nausikaa, pentatonic turn in the melody and chromatic bass line 72 Sappho’s love song, pentatonic turn 72 Sappho’s love song, section without tonality 74 Serenade for String Trio, second movement, E–A tones 83 Second String Quartet, first movement, E–A tones 84 Háry János Suite, Funeral March with saxophone 92 Dances of Galanta, Finale 93 Psalmus Hungaricus, opening theme of the orchestra 99 Psalmus Hungaricus, opening theme of the chorus 100 Psalmus Hungaricus, harp interlude 101 Peacock Variations, Funeral March, Var. 13 111 Huszt, homophonic section 114 Peacock Variations, transformations of the motivic seed 125 Pange lingua, bars 1–3 and 24–26 156 Ének Szent István királyhoz, bars 24–32 157 Bicinia Hungarica, no. 42 162 Bicinia Hungarica, no. 46 163 55 Two-Part Exercises, no. 7 163 55 Two-Part Exercises, no. 4 165 The eighteen themes of the Concerto 173 Concerto, set of counter-melodies 175 Symphony, first movement, secondary theme 188 Symphony, third movement, C major scale 192

acknowled g ments

Numerous friends, colleagues, and institutions have helped me in producing this book; I cannot express my gratitude to them enough. First of all, I owe thanks to Sarolta Péczely, the widow of Zoltán Kodály, not only for allowing me to publish the facsimiles in this book but also for enabling me to spend years on research at the Kodály Archives in Budapest. My thanks go to Teréz Kapronyi of the Archives staff for the ready assistance she invariably provided. I am grateful also to students of Zoltán Kodály who are no longer with us—István Anhalt, Zoltán Pongrácz, Imre Sulyok, and András Szőllősy. They shared with me their recollections of their master. To Richard Taruskin, a great friend of Hungarian music, I owe special thanks for his support and the attention he gave to my manuscript, which he read several times. Without him this English-language volume would certainly not have appeared. I must also express gratitude to the volume’s translators, Júlia Vajda and Brian McLean, for their wholehearted enthusiasm and devotion, and to Miklós Bodóczky for allowing me to use translations of his in my work. Thanks also go to many of my colleagues: notably, to my institute director Pál Richter for his encouragement; to older colleagues no longer alive—János Breuer, László Dobszay, Mihály Ittzés, and Mihály Szegedy-Maszák—for their critiques and advice; to my former professors—Hermann Danuser, László Somfai, and Tibor Tallián—for their invariable support; to friends Rachel Beckles Willson, Péter Halász, Lynn Hooker, Simone Hohmaier, Péter Laki, Lóránt Péteri, and László Vikárius for their critical reflections; and to staff of the Archives for 20th–21st Century Hungarian Music for ensuring me an ever genial and secure working environment. I am grateful to Beáta Meszéna for preparing the scores for the book. Also of considerable assistance were the staff of the Liszt Academy of Music library when I sought ix

x

Acknowledgments

required documents held there. The volume could not have reached its final form without the reports of my publisher’s readers and the help of staff at the University of California Press, especially Raina Polivka, Paul Tyler, and Francisco Reinking. Publication of this English volume has been supported by generous funding from several sources. The book could not have appeared without financial support from Hungary’s Ministry of Human Resources to mark the Kodály Year in 2017. Further support came from the National Research, Development and Innovation Bureau (K123819) and the Institute for Musicology of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences’ Research Center for the Humanities. I am grateful to Zoltán Kodály’s publishers—Universal Music Publishing, Editio Musica Budapest, Universal Edition Wien, and Boosey and Hawkes—for allowing their scores to be reproduced, and for reproduction permits from earlier publishers of several chapters in study form: Universal Edition Wien, Hellenic Music Centre, Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, and Cambridge Scholars. Last but not least, I owe thanks to my family: my husband and daughter, Kristóf and Júlia Csengery, and my parents, Rimma and György Dalos, for their patience and unvarying support. I dedicate this book to them. Budapest, January 30, 2020

Introduction

When I began writing on Zoltán Kodály in 1998 as a PhD student at the Liszt Academy of Music in Budapest, I was very fortunate to have access to the Kodály Archives in Budapest, which is funded and run by Kodály’s widow, Sarolta Péczely. I first reported on the findings of my research in a doctoral dissertation completed in 2005 and published in 2007, and then in a separate volume of essays published in 2015.1 The more comprehensive monograph that I now introduce draws on these two works. It does not aim to be a biography in the fullest sense; rather, its primary purpose is to illuminate Kodály’s thinking as a composer through a chronological discussion of his oeuvre. This monographic focus reflects a conscious and deliberate decision to omit Kodály’s educational method, internationally influential and widely adopted though it is, for his educational legacy has tended, in Hungary and elsewhere, to eclipse his work as a composer and scholar.2 Kodály saw himself principally as a composer, not as an educationist, but he was steered toward the methodology of teaching music by a pressing need to educate audiences.3 The publication of such a study has been long overdue. This is the first Englishlanguage work on Kodály to be issued by a non-Hungarian publisher since Percy M. Young’s monograph on Kodály written during the composer’s lifetime, under his supervision and with his introductory letter.4 Young’s, incidentally, is the only such work by a non-Hungarian author. The German-language book on Kodály’s youthful chamber music—published in 2015 in the Studien zur Wertungsforschung series by Universal Edition of Vienna—is unique in presenting international conference material on Kodály by Hungarian, Austrian, and German musicologists.5 English-language work on Kodály published by Hungarian publishers—among them A Guide to Kodály by János Breuer, László Eősze’s illustrated volume, and the 1

2

Introduction

doctoral dissertation by Mihály Ittzés—has failed to enter the mainstream of international musicological scholarship, as Kodály’s non-Hungarian correspondence has also failed to do.6 Only a fraction of Kodály’s writings are available in English.7 He indeed remains a composer less accessible than most to international scholarship. Interest in twentieth-century Hungarian music history, meanwhile, has been increasing in English-language musicology over the last two decades, albeit focused primarily on Béla Bartók’s music. Scholarly works by Judit Frigyesi, David E. Schneider, and Lynn M. Hooker sought to reveal his music’s inspirations and cultural-musical contexts, while Danielle Fosler-Lussier examined the reception of it during the Cold War period.8 Rachel Beckles Willson’s work is closely linked to the reception of Bartók, although her main subject is the music of György Ligeti and György Kurtág.9 These works clearly relied on study of the Hungarian cultural, social, and political environment in explaining the music of Bartók (and of Ligeti and Kurtág). This burgeoning scholarly interest makes it all the more surprising that Kodály and his output should be mentioned only in passing, particularly when one considers that the work of Bartók—at least from the beginning of his acquaintance with Kodály in 1905 to the early 1920s—cannot truly be gauged in isolation from the latter’s efforts and ideals during the same period. Despite the two composers’ differing dispositions, their efforts were closely tied in those fifteen-plus years; moreover, the dominance of Kodály as a composition teacher made his influence indisputable in matters of compositional technique and aesthetics.10 His impact also profoundly affected the historical development of twentieth-century Hungarian music, from composition, musicology, and performance to Hungarian musical life and the teaching of music. It was specifically felt in various significant ways: the reception of Bartók’s works and his changing image; the more general discourse concerning modern Hungarian music and folk music; the development through the choral movement of an institutional system for primary musical education; the curriculum of the composition faculty at the Academy of Music; and the institutionalization of musicology in Hungary. This unique and wide-ranging influence was due in part to his high level of activity and involvement, which was comparatively rare for a composer. Not only had his works achieved recognition in his home country and in the world since the second half of the 1920s, but he was also a writer on music, a researcher on Hungarian folk music and music history, and the creator of an internationally renowned music pedagogical concept that transformed the entire Hungarian system of musical education. Kodály’s presence in the Hungarian music scene remained influential right up until his death in 1967. It had first become noticeable after the successful première of Psalmus Hungaricus in 1923, which brought him prestige that only grew over the years, partly through his ability to retain his creative and civic autonomy in the

Introduction

3

face of rapidly changing political systems and regimes in the twentieth century.11 From the 1930s onward he had pupils and followers in leading posts in Hungarian music and the press, who propagated his views on Hungarian music and musical culture.12 Their support in turn swayed the reception of his music on the concert stage and among the Hungarian intelligentsia, including its scholarly evaluation. A basically apologetic interpretation of Kodály’s output can be traced to three major critics of Kodály and his pupils in the 1920s: Antal Molnár (1890–1983), Bence Szabolcsi (1899–1973), and Aladár Tóth (1898–1968). I noted in my study on Kodály’s composition school that rhetorical devices in these writings and those of other Kodály pupils such as György Kerényi (1902–1986) make reference to the Gospels of the New Testament and the Acts of the Apostles.13 Along with this association to Christianity came a number of other basic topoi for interpreting Kodály’s oeuvre in the 1930s. Szabolcsi formulated an influential theory that Kodály composed in ways that recalled the past in an effort to compensate for missing links in Hungarian music history.14 Molnár developed the concept of classicism in Kodály’s oeuvre.15 Kerényi evoked Palestrina in formulating an image of Kodály as a reformer of modern church music that then entered into the musicological discourse.16 These topoi retain their dominance in writings on Kodály to this day. Although their legitimacy is doubtful in many ways, it must be remembered that each of these early analysts sought to highlight Kodály’s relations with the past, in keeping with their view that Kodály’s achievements could be best understood retrospectively. This book too will emphasize such connections: how Kodály drew from and reflected upon his unparalleled knowledge of music history; the models that he adopted from past musical epochs; and the means by which he integrated those models into his works. But I also intend to show Kodály as part of a “neoclassical family” of composers in the twentieth century, and to determine carefully how far his oeuvre can be seen as a unique reading of neoclassicism.17 This approach allows Kodály the composer to be seen within the broad context of twentieth-century music history, whereas Hungarian literature on Kodály has hitherto underlined his uniqueness, i.e., his Hungarianness, without gauging his active participation in international musical developments. Perusing the Kodály literature of recent decades shows that the interpretations of Kodály’s work have fallen short of achieving a critical evaluation of existing sources and documents, but have instead expounded myths that arose out of the first period of Kodály research. Excepting only a few studies by János Breuer, the literature offers a schematic, almost inert representation of Kodály as an isolated, exceptional, incomparable hero.18 So the endeavor here is to render a more viable image, in which he shares in many ways traits common to his contemporaries, and in which he emerges as an active, sentient, receptive creator who, like any other composer, is defined by his own age and environment, the realities of musical life in his time, and his continual interaction with the world around him. It is impossible to grasp

4

Introduction

the essence of a composer’s oeuvre without such an understanding of the particular environment of creation, which provokes creative thinking and reflection on it. In particular, Richard Taruskin’s two-volume monograph on Stravinsky serves as a model for the approach adopted here.19 This book moves away from critical evaluation of the literature on Kodály in recent decades, which was informed by a methodology based in the first instance on the reception theory that arose from Hans-Robert Jauss’s literary research in the 1970s and 1980s20 and gained ground in German musicology in the late 1990s,21 and was in turn influenced by Harold Bloom’s theories of “anxiety of influence” and “misreading.”22 Taruskin rightly warns that Bloom’s theory can only be applied to music with reservations.23 I have found Bloom’s remarks on the behavioral patterns of creative artists useful in interpreting Kodály’s writings and statements on himself and on his poetics when I was striving to read beyond the documents to identify the specific historical situation and ideological orientation that lay behind the composer’s words. Such a critical evaluation is all the more necessary because Kodály’s various statements—like those of many creators—are often made with the benefit of hindsight, and can come across as skewed self-assessments in which the composer shifts his emphases to accord with later ideals. It is always important to contrast the constructed later image with documents that may contradict it. This explains why, in seeking to follow Kodály’s career in chronological order, I also must go forward or back in time on numerous occasions, so as to provide the broadest context possible. Because Kodály’s ideas are reflected in his music as well as his writings, my analyses follow a dual trajectory: they uphold the works’ ontological independence—their detachment from the composer once completed—but they also seek to decipher the works’ meaning in the context of Kodály’s intentions and creative / philosophical path. Linking Kodály’s writings and his compositions is a major objective of this book. I follow Edward T. Cone’s concept of the composer as a “persona” in interpreting the works as a projection of the author, a selfportrayal.24 So I seek to present his path by seeking out the biographical / autobiographical instances perceptible in his works. The common purpose behind this deep analysis of the most significant, or rather, paradigmatic works of Kodály is to reveal their poetic context. The critique of earlier literature on Kodály and the analysis of his works here have been supported by access to hitherto-unresearched primary sources found among Kodály’s papers. Relying on notes and lists prepared by the late István Kecskeméti for the planned and (as of this writing) unfinished thematic catalog of Kodály’s works, I found—among the source materials in the Kodály Archives in Budapest relating to Kodály’s library of books and musical scores—some of his drafts and sketches as a composer, other notated records, and sources used for teaching composition. All of these documents provided insight into Kodály’s

Introduction

5

composing method, a topic that had received attention in only a few publications,25 unlike the composing workshop of Bartók, which has been explored in great detail thanks to László Somfai’s research.26 Kodály’s drafts, sketches, and fragments reveal much about his composing practice and aesthetic thinking, and even some probable hidden programs in his works. The sources preserved in the Kodály Archives—not only compositional sketches, whole manuscripts, printed works, documents on the reception of Kodály’s works, and his complete library but also his notes on the books he had read, in particular those notes and musical notations he used for teaching—allowed me also to uncover Kodály’s method of reading and his way of thinking. In addition to these invaluable sources, I made use of documents in the library of the Liszt Academy of Music. The hitherto unexamined sources, along with Kodály’s published works and writings, the private documents published by Lajos Vargyas, and the reflections of contemporaries, all lead ultimately to a better understanding of Kodály the man.27 His legendary laconicism and reserve, affirmed by a myriad of oral-history documents, are in striking contrast to the abundance and diversity of the extant documents.28 Starting from his earliest youth, these conjure up a creator whose unparalleled intellect, whose familiarity navigating the realms of music and the mind, and whose extraordinary receptivity reveal deep and subtle connections. They show Zoltán Kodály to have been an infinitely inspired and sensitive composer and an exceptional figure in twentieth-century Hungarian music, and it is this Kodály whom this book aspires to illuminate.

1

Zoltán Kodály’s Path

A year after Zoltán Kodály’s death in 1967, the music historian Bence Szabolcsi published a poetic essay on him entitled Kodály és a hegyek (Kodály and the mountains), focusing on the 1920s and the composer’s stature as a young man. Looking back, he saw how Kodály’s career “was so complete that its examples, beginnings, discoveries and initiatives were left without continuations, and in fact impossible to continue.”1 Szabolcsi’s critical formulation shows both his commitment as a music historian to Kodály’s life’s work and his recognition that Kodály’s humanistic, idealistic concept was doomed in light of the geopolitical, social, and cultural conditions of twentieth-century Hungary. Szabolcsi concluded that Kodály’s pursuit of so many challenging aspirations in adverse circumstances conspired to drain his creative energy, and in the end led to the sacrifice of an outstandingly talented composer on the altar of his country. There may have been several reasons why Kodály’s career, as viewed by Szabolcsi, failed to match his genius, even though the flourishing enrichment of the AustroHungarian monarchy appeared to offer him every chance to do so. Born in the small city of Kecskemét on December 16, 1882, Kodály’s development was typical of his generation of rising artists and scholars in many respects. His father, Frigyes Kodály (1853–1926), worked for the modernized Hungarian railroad corporation and rose rapidly to stationmaster of Szob and Galánta (now Galanta, Slovakia), where his son began school, and then reached the high point of his career in Nagyszombat (now Trnava, Slovakia). This city, adjacent to Pozsony (now Bratislava, Slovakia), had a major arts and music scene and an excellent parochial high school. There Kodály encountered the practice of nineteenth-century church music, and through his music-loving parents—a violinist father and a mother, Paulina Jaloveczky (1857– 6

Zoltán Kodály’s Path

7

1935), who sang and played piano—was exposed to classical chamber music, while teaching himself piano, violin, cello, and the rules of harmony. As was usual for a musical young man in a smaller city, Kodály played in his high-school orchestra and sang in its choir. Meanwhile, fellow students publicly performed his early works.2 This early composing activity was coupled with an extensive study of the Latin, Ancient Greek, and German languages and literature.3 His top grades and excellent test results meant he could move to Budapest to continue his studies: at the Hungarian department of Péter Pázmány University (Hungarian and German language and literature) and the Academy of Music founded by Franz Liszt in 1875. Certainly there was parental pressure behind his coupling of composition and the humanities.4 His university studies allowed him, like many exceptional future scholars, to join Eötvös Collegium, a college established in 1895 and modeled on the École Normale Supérieure in Paris to produce for the Hungarian state a wellrounded and modern intelligentsia receptive to Western scholarship and art.5 There Kodály studied history alongside Hungarian and European literature and linguistics and the English, French, and German languages. His years at Eötvös Collegium laid the groundwork for his later scientific methods and provided him with a comprehensive literary training, including in early Hungarian literature. He himself asserted that without the latter he could never have written his important work Psalmus Hungaricus (1923).6 There too he befriended scholars and artists, including the future writer and film analyst Béla Balázs (1884–1949), who would pen the libretto for the opera Bluebeard’s Castle and the scenario for the ballet The Wooden Prince, both by Béla Bartók (1881–1945). At the Academy of Music Kodály became a student of the Bavarian Hans Koessler (1853–1926)—himself once a student of Josef Rheinberger and a member of Johannes Brahms’s circle of friends—whose approach to teaching composition had a decisive influence on Hungarian music at a time when it rose to a standard on par with the major European centers. In addition to Kodály and Bartók, Koessler also taught other important Hungarian composers such as Ernő Dohnányi (1877– 1960) and Leó Weiner (1885–1960), and the operetta composer Imre (Emmerich) Kálmán (1882–1953). At that time, Kodály had yet to meet Bartók, who was a year ahead of him at the academy.7 Their first contact came much later, in 1905, through the efforts and in the salon of Emma Gruber (1863–1958), later to be Kodály’s wife. The friendship of the two composers developed rapidly into one of mutual support and defense, each having already begun intensive research into Hungarian folk music. By 1906 Kodály was working on a doctoral dissertation concerned with the strophic structure of Hungarian folk song.8 It became clear from phonograph recordings by Béla Vikár (1859–1945) and Kodály’s own first collection tour in Mátyusföld (now Matúšova zem, 1905)9 that the authentic examination of Hungarian folk music

8

Chapter 1

presupposed exploring peasant culture and gathering the material directly from the peasants themselves. This discovery of Hungarian folk music was of decisive importance to the careers of both Kodály and Bartók. It did not merely represent an ancillary study for Kodály; rather, he saw in folk music the sole authentic tradition of Hungarian musical culture, upon which a new national art of music might be built. Kodály took into consideration that valuable resources regarding the history of Hungarian music were missing, either lost or destroyed amid the country’s stormy past. Traces of its once-flourishing musical culture could be mined only from its folk music. As Kodály put it, Knowledge of Hungarian folk music is far more vital and fruitful to a Hungarian composer than the study of German, Italian or French music could be to their composers. Their age-old cultural traditions mean that the substantive essence of their folk music has long since imbued their higher, composed works. This is not the case with Hungary, where folk music is the single tradition. Of course that is not to say for us it is a substitute for Bach, but it gives us the opportunity for this music to be compressed into a great creative phenomenon.10

Surviving documents on the first meeting between Bartók and Kodály speak only of an awkward difference of political opinion.11 Bartók, the great hope for Hungarian music at the time, still held certain chauvinistic opinions, but the younger, more intellectually evolved Kodály would soon have such an influence on him that he forsook his earlier political views and, moreover, his overall approach to life. He came to see Kodály, a fellow at Eötvös Collegium, as someone far more confident in matters of culture, scholarly pursuits, music history, and politics in other words, one whose reflections on the world around him showed greater maturity and awareness, despite his relative youth.12 In 1906 they also began to consult one another about compositional matters. Kodály, later to be a teacher of composition, advised his friend on several technical issues. At the end of 1906, Kodály set off with Béla Balázs on a six-month study tour, using a state scholarship to sample the music scene in two capital cities: Berlin and Paris. He encountered the music of Claude Debussy in Berlin and went on to study it in depth in Paris. Debussy’s modernity stimulated profound changes in Kodály’s thinking as a composer. Kodály in turn shared what he had discovered, above all, with Bartók, who was similarly affected. At their first composer evenings (on March 17 and 19, 1910), both chose to present a first string quartet—an affinity of œuvre around which each would advance his life’s work. Closer to home, Kodály at Eötvös Collegium gained a thorough understanding of modern literature. The poetry of Endre Ady (1877–1919), the most influential poet of turn-of-the-century Hungary, who had revitalized its poetic language using French symbolism as a model while at the same time emphatically promoting the idea of modernizing Hungary’s society, economy, and culture, was to have an ele-

Zoltán Kodály’s Path

9

mental impact on both Kodály and Bartók.13 Ady further influenced the thinking of a generation through his modern mode of speech and his linguistic, figurative, and contextual approach to poetry, but in Kodály’s case the poetry also reshaped his sense of being Hungarian and his ideas about Hungary in general, as a country clearly backward at the turn of the century and yet alive with stirrings of hope for a more modern future. The notes Kodály wrote in his youth—for instance, in his notebook Voyage en Hongrie, which he used during his folk song collecting—14 clearly show that he recognized the social, material, and cultural gulf between rural Hungary and the turn-of-the-century metropolis of Budapest that was developing along the lines of Vienna, Berlin, Paris, and New York. This youthful recognition of what so sharply divided rural and urban life led Kodály, as he grew older, to reach a more sophisticated understanding in the 1930s. On the one hand, he saw rural village Hungary both as an important, uncompromising cultural institution with authentic national features and as a symbol of the backwardness and semifeudal poverty of the nation. On the other, he believed the modern metropolis, with its large German and Jewish sectors, suffered from a significant deprivation of national culture, providing instead mainly a fertile ground for the expansion of the Germanic cultural tradition.15 This contrast of “pure” yet backward village life with “messy” modern city life plays a significant role in Kodály’s own relationship to modernity around 1900. Judit Frigyesi’s study of Bartók’s position in the cultural tradition of turn-of-thecentury Budapest reveals how closely the project of promoting an authentic national culture in Hungary was entangled with the reception of Western artistic modernity.16 Kodály—with Bartók following closely behind—oriented himself toward the progressive aspect of Hungarian modernity and even, through Béla Balázs, to the left-wing progressive intelligentsia, such as the philosopher György (Georg) Lukács (1885–1971).17 Although as a moderate liberal Kodály would likely have had no sympathy for socialist or communist ideology, he nonetheless became in the 1910s a typical progressive / modernistic representative of fin de siècle Budapest. These youthful experiences certainly shaped his later community-building cultural program, which sought, on the one hand, to “Hungarianize” the big cities by making them more conscious of national considerations, while setting out, on the other, to raise the infrastructural and communal awareness of the villages through a modern Hungarian musical culture. Looking back on Kodály’s life course, it is clear that the idea of a national Hungary at various phases of his career drew upon his youthful upbringing and later on his development into a mature creative force, but appeared in successive new frames and sets of emphases, depending on the requirements that the changing political contexts demanded. His biography as manifest in his life’s work therefore cannot be seen as stable, however much its purported stability may have been stressed in the historiography of Hungarian music, in particular by his biographer László Eősze.18

10

Chapter 1

The progressive flowering of Hungarian arts came to an abrupt end with the outbreak of World War I. Although the years of the war led to one of Kodály’s most productive periods as a composer—numerous songs and piano pieces, his Duo (op. 7, 1914), Cello Sonata (op. 8, 1915), and String Quartet No. 2 (op. 10, 1916–18)— the conflict itself impeded the spread of Kodály’s work abroad. The end of the war ignited a period of rapid political change. The collapse of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy was followed first by a bourgeois regime, then for 133 days by a Soviet republic modeled on the changes in Russia, under which Kodály, Dohnányi, and Bartók were appointed to a Music Directorate. Meanwhile, Kodály also served as deputy director of the Academy of Music, headed by Dohnányi, from December 31, 1918, to September 23, 1919, where he sought to reform the curriculum and recruit a younger teaching staff.19 However, the new conservative / nationalist regime under Miklós Horthy (1868–1957) moved against the heads of the Academy of Music, notably Kodály, who, less known internationally than Bartók and Dohnányi, was suspended from his post for two years.20 Nor were the traumas of 1919–20 solely personal. The Treaty of Trianon, imposed by the Versailles powers on June 4, 1920, left Hungary with just 36 percent of its prewar population and 28 percent of its territory.21 The lost lands included the district where Kodály had spent his childhood, in a region of great importance to his folk music collection: the Felvidék, or Highlands. Both Galánta and Nagyszombat became cities in Czechoslovakia. After 1920 Kodály confined his folk song collecting within the new borders of his country. These personal and political upheavals may help to explain why he composed very little between 1920, when he completed his Trio Serenade (op. 12), and 1923. Another factor was that in 1921, Kodály through Bartók began an association with Universal Edition in Vienna and had to prepare several of his earlier works for publication.22 Returning to his youthful works encouraged him to reevaluate his earlier career. He and Bartók also worked intensively in this period on their first published collection of folk songs: Erdélyi magyarság: Népdalok (Hungarians in Transylvania: Folk songs, 1923). The tragic end of the Great War from Hungary’s perspective led Kodály and Bartók to take divergent paths as composers. Bartók, while not forgetting his starting point, folk music, turned with interest first to Schoenberg’s expressionism, then to the neoclassicism expounded by Stravinsky. Mounting international attention was paid to his work. Indeed, by the end of the 1930s his name was being added to theirs as a third great modernist figure.23 Meanwhile, Kodály reacted to the upheaval of the war and Hungary’s peace treaty with a new kind of traditionalism from 1923 onward that greatly changed his composing style, along with his view of his own youthful progressiveness. There were both political and personal reasons for this reaction. His acknowledgment of Hungary’s truncated identity played a part, as did the traumatic personal experience of reprisals against him in the Academy of Music.

Zoltán Kodály’s Path

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Yet in 1919, Kodály had written an article entitled A székely népdalról (On Székely folk song)24 that followed the ideological strand which he continued in 1927 with Mit akarok a régi székely dalokkal? (What do I want with the old Székely songs?),25 referring in both cases to a specific independent ethnic group with Hungarian identity and language, who lived primarily in Transylvania and whom he saw as a symbol of ethnic togetherness for those minority Hungarians living, due to the new borders, outside of present-day Hungary. Moreover, his prevalent idea that “Hungarian song was once Székely song”26 began to gel after the Versailles treaties, the wording of his writings making it clear that he, who would later compose Székely fonó (The spinning room), saw the people of Székely Land as representing the ancient voice of the Hungarians, toward which his scholarly emphasis shifted. Kodály’s focus on the centrality of Székely folk culture aligns with an existential concern that was occupying Hungarian intellectuals amid the changed geographical, cultural, and political conditions: “Mi a magyar?” (What constitutes Hungarianness?), to borrow the title of a watershed volume of studies edited by historian Gyula Szekfű (1883–1955).27 Kodály considered it a central task to redefine Hungarianness after the Versailles treaties of 1920. While cautious about expressing explicit political opinions, his letters, writings, and compositions after the outbreak of World War I never entirely avoided politics. And after Versailles it became necessary to adapt to a new notion of what it meant to be Hungarian within the newly truncated Hungary. So Kodály’s attention shifted to spiritual unity— creating “unity in the music of the nation” in his music and in his scholarly endeavors in folk music research and music education.28 “When a defeated nation strives to rebuild itself,” he wrote, “it needs every shred of tradition more than ever. To know ‘who I am’ and ‘whence I come.’ ”29 Elsewhere he concluded: “What is tradition? All that guarantees the identity and continuity of a nation’s existence.”30 Kodály’s efforts as a composer, a scholar, and a music pedagogue after 1920 were intended to validate this national identity and continuity. Behind the eventual split between Bartók and Kodály lay day-to-day politics, notably their very different responses to the trauma experienced by Hungary with the imposition of the Treaty of Trianon. Hungary’s identity had been shattered, and attitudes swung toward German Nazism, then toward Italian Fascism, in the newly reconfigured nation’s rejection of the modernization espoused at the turn of the century. The hypersensitive yet strongly individualistic Bartók eventually took shelter in the West: his pained admissions about his own country could be heard in the world’s concert halls, where his works commissioned by the West and aimed toward Western audiences were performed. Kodály, with his inclination toward education and leadership, strove culturally, musically, and historically for a reunified Hungary. His covertly politicizing works, built on the eighteenth-century classics and Enlightenment idealism, sought to contribute to the making of a better world. These new attitudes in their lives and arts ultimately compromised their

12

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scholarly alliance in folk music research. When Bartók left the country in 1940, Kodály described the systematic work Bartók left behind as inconsistent. Kodály’s remarkably irritable letter to him reflected a long-standing disagreement on the methodology of folk music systematization.31 Kodály’s short-term response to the 1920 proceedings against him concerning his post at the Academy of Music was internal emigration. This was interrupted when the municipality of Budapest called on Dohnányi, Bartók, and Kodály each to write a work marking the fiftieth anniversary of the unification of the towns of Pest, Buda, and Óbuda under the name Budapest. It took Kodály only two months to compose the resulting chef d’œuvre, Psalmus Hungaricus (op. 13, 1923), based on a paraphrased text by Mihály Kecskeméti Vég, a sixteenth-century Hungarian Protestant preacher. Its première won Kodály his biggest success to date in his composing career. It also opened up to him the international concert scene when it was performed in Zurich on June 18, 1926, conducted by Volkmar Andreae at the festival of the International Society of New Music, as a prelude to additional performances under Arturo Toscanini, Willem Mengelberg, and Hermann Abendroth. The work had its Vienna début with Anton von Webern conducting a workers’ choir.32 The success of Psalmus and the active promotion by his Vienna publisher did much to spread Kodály’s name abroad. He composed for the Budapest Opera a singspiel, Háry János (op. 15, 1926), whose suite version would become Kodály’s most frequently played orchestral work.33 Thereafter Marosszéki táncok (Dances of Marosszék, 1929) was premièred in Dresden, the Peacock Variations (1939) in Amsterdam under Mengelberg, and the Concerto for Orchestra (1941) in Chicago. The Galántai táncok (Dances of Galánta), after a first Budapest performance in 1933, became a success with orchestras around the world.34 Despite his international triumphs, Kodály’s home audience remained his primary concern as a composer. Alongside the presentations he made abroad, Kodály wrote many pieces for women’s, men’s, children’s, and mixed choirs, designed mainly, for linguistic reasons, for the Hungarian public. Indeed there were (and remain) serious difficulties in performing these works abroad. They acted as a barrier to his international progress as a composer, even though they represented the most original line of development in his œuvre. One sign of that international neglect was that his choral works were not issued by his Vienna publisher but by a new Hungarian firm, Magyar Kórus (Hungarian Choir). Some of Kodály’s composition students—Jenő Ádám (1896–1992), Lajos Bárdos (1899–1986), Gyula Kertész (1900–1967), and György Kerényi (1902–1986)—made efforts to renew Catholic and Protestant church music in Hungary. They set up Magyar Kórus in 1931, which published several journals and much sheet music, while establishing a movement called Éneklő ifjúság (Singing Youth).35 In many respects this corresponded to the Jugendbewegung in Germany and to the contrib-

Zoltán Kodály’s Path

13

uting work of Fritz Jöde on music for youth. Many of Kodály’s students were working to revive Catholic church music but soon extended their efforts beyond their original plans. Their broader aim was to raise the level of music teaching, for which Kodály was also a willing partner. The concept, later called the Kodály Method based on ideological support from and agreement by the composer, was apparent primarily in the activity of his students. The government took up his proposal to reform school singing instruction in 1942; the Song Collection for Elementary Schools, which he co-edited with György Kerényi, appeared around that time,36 and together with Jenő Ádám—who would work out the details of the method that would later bear Kodály’s name—produced a series of songbooks.37 Kodály became acquainted with children’s choral singing as a medium at the second Budapest performance of Psalmus Hungaricus, where their voices were used to back up the women’s parts.38 Once he came to know the Wesselényi Street school boys’ choir and its conductor, Endre Borus, he set to work on choral pieces based on the music and text of children’s folk games (Víllő, 1925; Túrót eszik a cigány, 1925; Gergelyjárás, 1926; Lengyel László, 1927). Folk song was also a basis for some of his choral works for adults (Mátrai képek, 1931), although Kodály often turned to earlier or later Hungarian poets (Endre Ady, Bálint Balassi, Dániel Berzsenyi, Sándor Petőfi, Mihály Vörösmarty, Sándor Weöres), or to biblical or other religious texts (Jézus és a kufárok [Jesus and the traders], 1934). Indeed, the choice of text became, at the turn of the 1930s to 1940s and again in the 1950s, an underground watchword for opposition politics.39 Kodály came to be seen by Hungarian society as a symbol of political opposition under the successive dictatorial regimes that burdened the country. His prominent status certainly gave him an opportunity to push against authority through the use of symbolic gestures. As early as 1938, he and Bartók joined leading members of the Christian intelligentsia in signing a statement condemning the law against Jews that made anti-Semitism the official policy of Hungary. Kodály broke with his Vienna publisher after the Anschluss, objecting to the requirement that he make a statement about his Aryan ancestors.40 Although Kodály was subjected in the later 1930s to strong attacks from the extreme right wing, knowledge and recognition of him continued to grow.41 His widening fame was apparent in 1942, which the National Federation of Hungarian Singing Societies declared a Kodály Year, in which the sixty-year-old was celebrated by city and school choirs in many parts of the country.42 The year also brought a change in his relations to political power. He was awarded at Dohnányi’s behest the Central Cross of the Hungarian Order of Merit (Magyar Érdemrend Középkeresztje), and in 1943 elected to membership in the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.43 Yet Kodály was increasingly shaken by the mounting nationalism of the Horthy regime and its ever-closer ties to Nazi Germany. The German occupation and Nazi seizure of power on October 16, 1944, meant that a refuge was needed for his wife, who was of Jewish origin.

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Kodály’s relations to successive political forces thereafter were marked by a sequence of machinations through which Kodály’s standing at home and abroad was used by the political actors of the day to further their respective agendas. To many people it seemed after World War II that affairs would follow an orderly, democratic course. In 1946 Kodály was appointed president of the Hungarian Arts Council and the Free Association of Hungarian Musicians, and elected a member of the National Assembly. He presided over the Hungarian Academy of Sciences from 1946–49.44 In 1948 he received the highest state honor—a Kossuth Prize. He traveled in 1946 to Austria, Switzerland, France, Britain, and the United States, and in 1947 to the Soviet Union. However, such tours were abruptly discontinued in 1950. The Stalinist Hungarian regime up to 1956, led by Mátyás Rákosi (1892–1971) until 1953, cut Kodály off, like many of his countrymen, from the outside world. His situation was highly complex. On the one hand, he sought support for the first complete collection of Hungarian folk music, Magyar Népzene Tára (Corpus of Hungarian folk music), which the Academy of Sciences was to publish, and for the educational concept that bore his name, the Kodály Method. On the other, he found himself in regular conflict with the authorities. His folk-music research group came to rely on staff who had been almost wholly opposed to the communist system, and his general concept of teaching music, including the introduction of solfège in the Academy of Music, aroused strong opposition at the ministerial level.45 He also personally provided practical support to young and old in financial and political difficulties.46 It appeared that the Rákosi administration sought to isolate Kodály. Change came only after 1956. Although his prestige within Hungary continued to grow under the dictator Mátyás Rákosi, apparent in a second Kossuth Prize on his seventieth birthday in 1952, more telling was a third Kossuth Prize awarded in 1957, a few months after the 1956 Revolution had been crushed. This one bore the mark of being rewarded for loyalty: He had spent the weeks of the revolution at a favorite resort of his, Galyatető in the Mátra Hills, cut off from the world, receiving scant reports of events, not even hearing of the prospect that he might be asked to serve as president of the Republic, and seeming instead to be biding his time.47 He did, however, make his view on dictatorship evident in his music. His choral work Zrínyi szózata (Zrinyi’s appeal, 1954) with its recurrent “Ne bántsd a magyart!” (Harm not the Magyars!) is seen as presaging the 1956 Revolution.48 Certainly his reputation and criticisms of the regime explain why the new leader, János Kádár (1912–1989), saw a post-1956 opponent in him.49 Yet the period of Kádárite consolidation after the 1956 Revolution brought attitude changes on both sides. Kádár and Kodály alike, as the letters between them show, felt a need for broad national reconciliation through dialogue.50 To Kodály’s advantage, the concept of “soft dictatorship” spread ever more generally in Hungary, allowing also a culmination of his educational methodology and folk music studies.

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15

After 1959 he acted as an envoy for Hungarian music, traveling regularly to Britain, Switzerland, West Germany, Israel, the Soviet Union, and in 1965 and 1966 to North America. He attended conferences on music education and folk music studies. In 1963 he became an honorary member of the Tchaikovsky Conservatory in Moscow and of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He was awarded honorary doctorates by Oxford, Berlin, and Toronto universities. He chaired the International Folk Music Council in 1961, and the International Society for Music Education. In 1965 he received the prestigious international Gottfried von Herder Prize. In 1958 Kodály’s wife, Emma, died. After a year of mourning, he married nineteen-year-old Sarolta Péczely. In many ways the elderly Kodály could look back with satisfaction. In the 1950s and 1960s, 120 elementary schools in Hungary offered a specialty in music. The dream shared with Bartók of publishing a complete collection of Hungary’s folk songs was finally taking shape: five volumes of the Corpus of Hungarian Folk Music appeared between 1951 and 1967. He was held in great esteem as a composer and teacher of composition: for his eightieth birthday, former composition students greeted him with a joint set of orchestral variations on the fourth movement of his String Quartet No. 1.51 Yet despite the unprecedented respect accorded to Kodály, and his firmly established reputation, in the 1960s there were strong changes occurring in musical styles, as Hungary belatedly took up dodecaphony and serialism, with the result that Kodály’s work was increasingly seen as the dated residue of an earlier era. Zoltán Kodály had certainly—as his contemporaries believed—outlived his creative career when he died in Budapest on March 6, 1967. In many ways, he epitomizes the destiny of a twentieth-century Eastern European intellectual of exceptional talent. While he had great influence on his country in every respect, it is also accurate, as asserted by Bence Szabolcsi, to regard Kodály’s path as tragic: more than fifty years after his life’s work came to an end, it is clear to what extent the talent of this great composer was restricted by Hungary’s disastrous, disordered, and anxious history.

2

Kodály the Brahmin The Beginning of the Composer’s Career

According to his biographer, László Eősze, Kodály had received neither formal training in music theory or composition nor formal instruction on an instrument prior to enrolling at Budapest’s Academy of Music in 1900, as a student of Hans Koessler (1853–1926).1 In conversations late in life, he remembered Koessler with great reverence, and attributed much of his interest in choral music to Koessler, himself a choral composer.2 This was by no means simply a feeling he arrived at in hindsight—the young Kodály’s diary entries of 1906 already bear witness to their relationship and collaboration, and to the high esteem in which he held his teacher. It also emerges from the entries that Koessler taught his students in German. I bid farewell to good old Koessler. I waited for him at his door until he finished playing the piano. But he started over three times. Some allegretto piece—very dry and very empty. I suddenly felt sorry for the old man, for the dullness of it. After all, what sort of life had he led? Spending every morning of every day at the piano. He was living—or perhaps, was he at all? He doesn’t love anyone, I think. Is he loved by anyone? Possibly by many, but he does not love all of them. Recently in particular, I’ve seen a few times how preoccupied he is with himself, how little interest he expresses in his pupils. It must have been different long ago—his persistent mood now is some sort of nervous dissatisfaction. He could indeed laugh at all the “journalistic teasing” and “persecution” if only he were pleased with himself. But the outcome of countless excruciating mornings is displeasing. It’s a pity. This fine, genuine musician, this brilliant mind (an exceptionally strong intellect), deserved better. It’s a shame that so much bitterness has surged up in him. Filled as he is with so much sarcasm and irony (always a sign of veiled dissatisfaction), he remains a beacon to us, yet what a source of light and warmth he could have become. Then he would still have been able to show light to me. 16

Kodály the Brahmin

17

As I stood there, I was struck for a moment by the thought of what would become of my mornings now. Our cases are very similar. I’ve started learning on my own, just as he did when he left Rheinberger, as he told me during the summer two years ago. Anyway, as the fourth repetition began I opened the door. We conversed, as we usually did. I was the one to raise all the topics and to exhaust them. He used to have more to say than I could learn from him. I left expressing my gratitude. “Kein Wort von Dank” [Not a word of thanks], he interrupted, but he turned serious when I continued, “. . . besonders für die höchste Lehre, daß man sein eigener Meister sein muß” [. . . especially for the most important lesson, one must be one’s own master]. I left thinking that perhaps his “Epilogue” had begun.3

Despite the critical observations, the tone of this diary entry is affectionate, compassionate, and understanding. Kodály responded with sensitivity to the aging Koessler’s gloom as he awaited retirement, to his nervousness and discontent with himself and his attainments.4 Kodály’s account clearly mirrors assessments by other students, such as Géza Perényi (1877–1954), János Hammerschlag (1885– 1954), and Albert Siklós (1878–1942), who likewise stressed their master’s extraordinary expertise, scrupulous self-criticism, sarcasm, and ironic clipped sentences, along with his prudent laconicism and reluctance to praise.5 These reminiscences about Koessler surprisingly resemble those made of Kodály by his own students some decades later. So it is clear that Koessler played a decisive role in the development of his pupil as a person.6 Ambivalence toward Koessler and his teachings also features in several of Kodály’s early notes. The entry here shows both dissatisfaction with Koessler’s teaching and a deepening realization of teaching’s inherent difficulty: While working, it again occurs to me what the matter is. I was always truly able to throw myself into the study of the “craft” only when I gave a lot more thought to what was beyond it. It was too late, iurare in verba magistri [to swear by the words of the master]. Moreover, my resistance was aroused by Koessler’s dogmatic teaching, especially in music theory (Hauptmann). It is true, as I gradually realized, that teaching, if anything, can be nothing but dogmatic, and I considered him less and less old-fashioned as the years went by. I finally understood the impossibility of teaching at all, and with that I found peace for the future. We will see what it is possible to learn. By doing.7

The excerpt sheds light on remarks by his composition pupils at the Academy of Music about Kodály’s teaching practice: teaching is impossible—learning is possible only from oneself.8 The recollections of Kodály’s students accord so strikingly with Kodály’s comments about teaching that it is reasonable to assume he incorporated his beliefs about the limitations of teaching into his own teaching approach. The point is underlined by a remark from the aging composer: I myself, after mulling through the different methods, finally arrived at the one that derives knowledge from musical works.

18

Chapter 2 Having been cured of the high-handed fashion for originality in those times, I sought the kind of solid foundation upon which everyone can build their originality, if they have any. I felt a duty to show a better way to those under my wing than I had been shown (Koessler misled me when he told me at the age of 21: “im Technischen sind Sie fertig” [in technical matters you are complete]), and I think those who can follow that path, which means more work for them, do find it easier and avoid being hindered by basic technical problems, so that they can gaze at the sky without stumbling even on a rugged road.9

Yet with Koessler the prime consideration for Kodály must have been that the master counted himself among Brahms’s closest group of friends. This obviously heightened Kodály’s reverence for his teacher, especially as Kodály had been unfamiliar with Brahms’s music before his years at the Academy of Music, whereas after his move there it became the main focus of his interests.10 Brahms’s significance in Kodály’s development as a composer has been underemphasized. Although many have spotted allusions to Brahms in Kodály’s mature works, Brahms traditionally was only associated with negative connotations, when considered at all, in connection with Kodály’s studies at the academy.11 This omission has persisted since the publication of Antal Molnár’s pioneering Kodály monograph of 1936.12 Yet Kodály himself never denied the significance of Brahms’s music in his student years or the importance of his challenges and struggles with the Brahmsian model. Like countless composers of that time, he was attempting to create his own modern musical style on that model.13 In a 1965 interview given in Germany, Kodály confirms this when recalling that, as a young composer in Budapest and having studied under Koessler, he was faced with a stylistic dilemma: During our study years . . . we virtually “lived” in Germany. Our teacher, Hans Koessler, was a hardened believer in Brahms and taught us in this spirit . . . . After mastering the technical knowledge—under Koessler we did so most thoroughly—we arrived at a crossroads: were we going to become Brahms epigones, or would we set out on our own path?14

Kodály’s letters, readings, notes, drafts, and compositions from the first decade of the century all support the premise that before setting out on his “own path,” he had not only studied Brahms’s music intensively but had chosen to base his evolving compositional thinking on it. Brahms must also have been a constant subject of conversation between Kodály and his future wife Emma, still Mrs. Gruber at the time, as exemplified by a letter to her from his parents’ hometown of Nagyszombat on December 25, 1905. This displays the distinctive humor and informality characteristic of his letters to her; in it he reports that he has failed one of his university exams but also thanks Emma for a revealing Christmas present—a handful of Brahms scores.

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I do not want to go into detail about what I’ve been doing until Saturday, only in brief I will say that certain university professors truly are very silly. This is only regrettable because it is the reason that I arrived here two days late. The first thing I found was the Brahms. Another reason to regret being late. Brahms is (here a section of my letter is missing. I probably said that it gave me great pleasure etc . . . ) I played through all four. Haven’t done anything else yet.15

In another letter from Nagyszombat, dated July 13, 1907, he compares himself to Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. The excerpt reveals how important it was for the young composer to define his place in the history of composition and to identify himself with his models: I hung a few pictures lying around here on some nails I found in the wall. So Beethoven’s mask now hangs next to the piano—as in that famous Balestrieri painting, but I only noticed that later—Bach above it, and Brahms a little further on. The three members of this family have come together; I read something apposite about them somewhere: “die opernfeindlichste Linie der Mus.[ik]geschichte” [the most opera-hating line of music history]—there are indeed no other important people who belong here—and I too carry a few drops of their blood.16

Finally, a letter of November 22, 1906, reveals that Kodály played early Brahms often and it obviously brought him joy: “I played Brahms’s early compositions again today. All my nails break when I do this, and in the end, all my fingers ache for half the day. That old man–cum–young man must have had solid, bony fists.”17 The first volume of Max Kalbeck’s extensive study on Brahms, which appeared in 1904, remained in Kodály’s library.18 Its first page bears a note written by Emma: “Christmas, 1906.” We do not know whether the volume was given to Kodály by her, or possibly whether Emma herself received it as a present from someone else and then Kodály included it in his collection later. Nevertheless, he made careful notes in it and clearly studied it thoroughly. Beside that first volume of Kalbeck’s work, however, Kodály read very little on Brahms, and only two companions to a Brahms work have survived in his estate: one to the Violin Concerto, by Richard Heuberger, the other to the German Requiem, by Carl Beyer.19 In addition the estate included the Brahms correspondence with Eusebius Mandyczewski, edited by Karl Geiringer, and Robert Hernried’s 1934 monograph on Brahms, which like Kalbeck’s work appears to have been a piece of significant reading for the composer.20 Apart from those, there is no trace of notes by Kodály on the volumes on Brahms available in the library of the Academy of Music before 1945. This suggests he had not read them, as he almost always annotated his readings copiously, as he did the monographs by Kalbeck and Hernried. Not even the later volumes of Kalbeck’s monumental work caught his eye, perhaps because Brahms’s music was no longer his main focus of interest when they were published between 1907 and 1914.21

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Many of the ideas in Kalbeck’s first volume did find their way into Kodály’s later writings. Most often, perhaps, he recalled an event in Brahms’s life with significance in Hungarian music history: a few Hungarian musicians had taken legal action against the German composer for using well-known Hungarian melodies in his Hungarian Dances. Kodály, not merely interested in the bare historical fact, defended Brahms: A few composers of Hungarian dances sued Brahms as well. Brahms was as innocent of plagiarism as Sarasate was. He wrote on the cover page of the Hungarian Dances: “Gesetzt von Johannes Brahms”—arranged by Johannes Brahms. So he was not claiming rights of authorship. Later, however, the publisher did away with this stipulation, and the Hungarian Dances assumed best-selling status in that form.22

He mentioned the incident again in two lectures a year before his death, during an American trip: Brahms could not rightly be accused of carelessness or plagiarism, because the title of the first edition was “Ungarische Tänze, gesetzt von Johannes Brahms.” “Gesetzt” means that he arranged the melodies, in no way that he composed them.23

Although Kodály did not mark the relevant section in Kalbeck’s monograph, the source of the story is found on pages 60, 64, and 66. Indeed, Kodály’s main interest while reading the book was Brahms’s connection to Hungarian music history; on page 512, for example, he notes “Hungarian” and cites pages 473 and 464, both of which deal with Hungarian music. Moreover, the notes he wrote on Hernried’s volume deal with this topic exclusively.24 His growing interest in the matter around 1934 can be explained by two factors. The first is a research project to reveal Hungarianisms in non-Hungarian music initiated by the musicologist and music librarian Margit Prahács (1893–1974), in which Kodály eagerly cooperated.25 The second is that Kodály saw Brahms’s role in Hungarian music history as exceptionally significant—an argument he emphasized in a study, “Hungarianness in Music” (1939): It is all the more valuable to us if an excellent artist expresses interest in us and shows his fondness toward us, either by integrating original Hungarian melodies into his work, or by composing his own in the spirit of them. Of all such artists, Brahms was the one who came the closest to us, and could achieve and maintain throughout a certain Hungarian tone in higher musical forms.26

Furthermore, the notes to the Kalbeck volume reveal that Kodály identified himself with its protagonist while reading the book. It is evident and psychologically understandable for the young composer to be drawn primarily to the young Brahms, recognizing his own struggles in those of Brahms in his student years and

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early career, and even identifying with his creative disposition. This image is complemented by his quoted letters to Emma, which tell us how intensively Kodály studied Brahms’s early works and that Brahms, with Bach and Beethoven, shared the creative temperament to which he felt most akin. This connection is exemplified by the annotations to pages 30–33 of Kalbeck’s book, where the author discusses Brahms’s studies with Eduard Marxsen (1806– 1887) and talks of the latter’s memoirs. On page 30, for example, Kodály highlights the story of Marxsen’s studies in Vienna, while noting Kalbeck’s view that Marxsen was not one of the most original composers, and it was his own lack of originality that allowed him to observe objectively and guide the exceptionally talented Brahms. Here Kodály probably recognized a parallel to his own relationship with Koessler. The desire to identify with Brahms can also be seen in the query marks Kodály placed on page 198 of Kalbeck’s monograph. Here the author expresses the view that the “Edward“ ballade, the first composition in Brahms’s op. 10 series, served as proof that Brahms could have become a good opera composer. Kodály’s query here indicates disagreement with Kalbeck’s opinion (as does a similar mark next to Beethoven’s name). Kodály’s letter of July 13, 1907, to Emma shows the significance he attached to the fact that neither Beethoven nor Brahms nor Bach was an opera composer, and that he saw himself taking the same stance.27 Kodály’s letter of November 22, 1906, reveals that he studied Brahms’s early works intensively, but manuscripts in the Kodály Archives (copies of Brahms’s compositions, analyses, and his own sketches) verify that his interest extended to Brahms’s works. What survives is an analysis of the Brahms Symphony No. 4,28 copies of some movements from op. 113,29 and sketches for a cantata on the Darthula story, based, as were Brahms’s three choruses, op. 42,30 on Herder’s poem. There are two additional pages (Facsimile 1) containing a detailed bilingual analysis of Brahms’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor (op. 108).31 On the bottom of the left-hand page, Kodály provides a summary of the second, third, and fourth movements, but his main interest is on the exposition and reprise of the first. He discusses the development section on a separate sheet of paper.32 It is clear from the analysis that Kodály is mostly concerned with formal proportions. He notes the bar counts indicating the different formal units of the first movement (“83–46–88–48”), draws the first three together beneath the numbers, then the second, third, and fourth units, to show that the exposition, the development (in German, Dfg., i.e., Durchführung), and the reprise can be interpreted as an A–B–A structure, as can the sequence of the reprise, the exposition, and the coda. In his analysis, Kodály presents the proportions in bar numbers of the exposition and reprise, and reveals the changes in the reprise. Emphasis is given to the nature of relations between the violin and the piano but with greatest attention paid to the

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facsimile 1 . Kodály’s bilingual analysis of Brahms’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor (op. 108), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus. Bp. 1900’ / 12, Appendix no. 1, 1r–v.

coda. He notes that the coda “corresponds” with the development, but that this formal unit rests on a D pedal point and closes with a plagal cadence. The notes provide little information on the development section. Kodály merely mentions that it is based on an A pedal point and played piano throughout. However, far more detailed analysis appears on a separate sheet (Facsimile 2). Kodály

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facsimile 1 . (continued)

notes the first and second themes of the exposition at the top of the page and sketches the development underneath. He marks the A pedal point throughout and even refers to it at the bottom of the page: “végén 20 taktus o[rgona].p[ont]” (20 bars of pedal point). Thus it seems that Kodály’s main interest in the works of Brahms lay in the ways the German composer created whole formal units over a

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pedal point, and so he was drawn to study the contrapuntal technique based on the thematic incipit and the ensuing dotted rhythm. Kodály’s profound interest in Brahms’s music is also reflected in his own works from the period, such as the Sonatina in F Major completed on May 5, 1903.33 The manuscript seems to suggest it is a piano work, but it is not. First, the structure of the individual sections is alien to the piano idiom; the contrapuntal passage, for example, is almost impossible for a pianist to play. Second, in the closing bar of the third brace, on the last page, Kodály writes “Corno” as a direction for orchestration. This, however, is misleading; there is another sketch among the extant sources containing the main subject of the Sonatina that makes it clear that its composer intended it as the first movement of a string quintet—he lists the remaining movements at the top of the page.34 The second movement, a slow piece in D flat major and 3 / 4 time, and also the third, a scherzo in F major, can be found in the Kodály Archives.35 The composition as a whole, however, has yet to be found: still missing are the manuscript of the fourth, fugal movement in sonata form and the orchestrated version of the first movement. The key signature and thematic incipit of the Sonatina show a remarkable resemblance to those of the first movement of Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 3. The meter in both is made ambivalent by a slur, and the pulsation of common time is regained only in the tiny eighth-note figure that follows the longer notes. In addition to the thematic connection, the Brahms sonata seems also to have been followed in the formal proportions. Adding the coda makes the reprise much longer than the previous two sections. The exposition, with 34 bars, and the development of similar proportions, are followed by the reprise of 57 bars, ten of which belong to the coda. Yet even with the return of the main subject in the reprise, attention is drawn to a latent asymmetry: the original 8 + 8 bar structure in the reprise expands into a 10 + 11 formula, through—to use Arnold Schoenberg’s terminology, primarily applied to Brahms’s music—the process of developing variation: Kodály expands the first motif of the main subject. The composition undoubtedly fails to arrive at the proportioned structure of the Brahms sonata’s first movement, but the manuscript also shows that Kodály, like Brahms, is concentrating on the development, reprise, and coda. This is revealed clearly in the differences between the exposition and the reprise. In the exposition the main subject, modulating to the dominant key, leads without a transition into the second, and the closing group follows directly. In the reprise the main subject is expanded, doubling in size the second subject and the affixed closing group. The section reinforces the subdominant, which prevents the main subject from modulating into C major. The subdominant is also enhanced by the secondary subject group; it digresses for a single bar, into G flat major, in other words toward a hitherto-untouched key closely related to the subdominant of F major.

facsimile 2 . Kodály’s analysis of Brahms’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor (op. 108), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus. Bp. 1900’ / 12, 1r.

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The coda, built on an F pedal point, then grows out of the closing group, and the cadence (as with Brahms) leans toward the main key’s subdominant by emphasizing D flat, in other words, assuming a plagal quality. In the development section, Kodály also gives the pedal point a marked role, but without deriving the whole section from it. The subjects presented in the exposition appear first above a C, then as a B flat pedal point. Then comes an extensive series of modulations; the music takes excursions into E flat major, F minor, D flat major, E major, A major, and F minor again, before arriving in F major. Surprisingly, Kodály does not reinforce the dominant key but instead leads into the reprise without a transition above a second-inversion seventh chord using an eighth-note rhythm. Moreover, the development is contrapuntal throughout, constructed from elements of the main and second subjects: the thematic incipits of the first and second subjects, the ascending arpeggio of the first subject, the chromatic steps of the second subject, and the accompanying figure of the first subject. These often accumulate and jostle one another, so that the incipits of both subjects appear together several times. The composer’s absorption of Brahms thus goes beyond simple imitation into the design of his formal proportions, the richness of his contrapuntal writing, his response to the technique of developing variation, the complexity with which the two subjects are handled in the development section, and the employment of the pedal point. A distinct group among Kodály works influenced by Brahms consists of variations he composed in his student years, resulting from his first intense examination of Brahms’s music. It is clear from his notes and handwritten copies that the aspect which had the greatest significance for him was variation technique. Several manuscripts survive on which he noted different versions of the word “variation.” The Kodály Archives also hold a sheet of music that bears on one side the inscription “Variationen” and on the other a short sketch of Brahms’s Capriccio, op. 76, no. 2: the theme and its two variations.36 Kodály’s sketch makes it clear that the backbone of Brahms’s theme remains recognizable throughout despite altering its form at every appearance. Another sheet with the inscription “Variatio . . .” preserves the second A-section of Brahms’s piano work op. 10, no. 4.37 In his analysis, Kodály points out that the first two of the four sections building up the formal unit are based on one harmonic scheme, and the second is a variation of the first despite their thematic differences. So the unity of a composition can be obtained through a shared harmonic framework, without the need for a thematic connection. The page also offers information on Kodály’s insights into Brahms’s Schumann Variations, op. 9; his formal analysis of the work can be found below the harmonic analysis, with musical notes. Kodály lists the variations and adds tempo and key indications. Below the analysis, he also mentions further compositions, such as Beethoven’s

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late string quartets, the Paganini and Handel Variations of Brahms, and works by Dohnányi and Bach. Another sheet contains titles of further variation movements:38 Beethoven’s string quartets (opp. 131, 135, 132, 18 / 5, 74, and 129), the Quartet in B-flat Major by Brahms, Beethoven’s piano sonatas (opp. 14 / 2, 26, 57, 109, 111) and piano variations, two Dohnányi works—variations on a theme by Emma Gruber and the fifth movement of the Symphony in D Minor—and Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden” Quartet in D Minor. The recurring words “Variationen,” “variation,” and “Variáció” in the composer’s manuscripts themselves suggest that Kodály was collecting works written in variation form, as conscious preparation for composing one himself—hence the countless notes on works by earlier masters and the meticulous analyses of works listed, which he also copied. There are copies written by Kodály in the Kodály Archives of variation movements from two of Beethoven’s string quartets: the fourth movement of op. 74 and the second of op. 127. These he not only copied but also added his own analyses.39 With op. 127, he noted the melody of the theme above every variation, as a cantus firmus, which shows him exploring the ways in which variations preserve the harmonic and melodic outlines of the original theme. Elaine Sisman, in a study on Brahms’s variation technique, defined three distinct types based on his practice.40 She juxtaposes fantasy variations based on the development of melody and motif with the types that vary the melody or the bass. Brahms himself considered the last the most significant, as he saw the bass as the true source for developing new motifs, and so the defining element in the relationship between the theme and its variations.41 Of course, Kodály could not have known the documents cited by Sisman, yet his musical experience had led him to similar observations: while exploring the harmonic and melodic outlines of the theme in his variation analyses, he was actually looking at solutions to this Brahmsian principle. Kodály prepared for almost all new compositions by copying and analyzing the works of other composers. During this time, the exercises helped him to master not only the variation form but the technique of writing instrumental fugues. On the paper listing the various variation works, he inserted and circled Beethoven works that contain fugues as well (“Fúgák Hammerklav. és op. 133” [Fugues Hammerklav. and op. 133]).42 At the same time he also copied several fugues, the second movement of Beethoven’s string quartet, op. 18, no. 4, and the first movement of op. 131, for example, on February 13 and 15, 1903, as the manuscripts reveal.43 In addition, he wrote several fugues himself. The Kodály Archives hold several from around 1903 that were certainly not mere exercises in counterpoint.44 The majority of the counterpoint exercises written for Koessler were preserved in a separate notebook.45 The canons and double- and triple-counterpoint exercises in a group of sources containing miscellaneous musical documents are evidently pieces of

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school homework.46 The fact that Kodály wrote fugues in 1903 is significant, because it was also the time when he composed his string quintet in F major (mentioned earlier in connection with the Sonatina), whose last movement, as has been seen, was to have been a fugue in sonata form. Kodály’s notes and copies of variations cannot be dated with much accuracy, but it is probable that he studied the technique and forms of variation over quite a long period. The remark “Kolleg. Beeth. Zongoravar., quartettek op. 74 és Schubert quartettek” (Colleg. Beeth.’s piano variations, quartets op. 74 and Schubert’s Quartets) at the bottom of a page containing the list of variations and fugues indicates that it was written during his years at Eötvös Collegium.47 However, his study of formal characteristics did not end there, as a page-long Allegretto variation piece for piano in G major, dated March 1, 1906, reveals.48 In this Brahmsian variation series, the harmonic structure of the theme and its two variations follows a ternary form. The theme in G major develops on different paths in all three parts, moving in the first and the second toward the dominant, and closing on the tonic in the third. So the ternary form of the movement is established by the harmonic order. More important, however, are the theme’s transformations, generated by the accompaniment—in a rather simpler fashion than in the Brahms Capriccio—and the ornamental changes to the melody in the second variation. This short piano piece blends variation as technique and as form: the beginning of each formal section brings a variation of the same theme, while the endings differ in their development. In the Allegretto, Kodály explores the number of paths a theme may take based on the original. The technique and genre of variation was clearly at the center of attention for this young follower of Brahms. His notes show that within the variation technique, Kodály was concerned mainly with the ways the theme and its harmonic framework, and in connection with them, the bass, could maintain their original outlines, despite the continual variation. It is this type of variation that Arnold Schoenberg, criticizing the use of variation on folk themes in his study “Folkloristic Symphonies,” contrasts with the concept of developing variation.49 And it was through Brahms’s works that Schoenberg could show the technique most lucidly in his earlier lectures and writings, for example his famous “Brahms the Progressive.”50 As Walter Frisch has pointed out, Schoenberg saw in Brahms’s works a new formal thinking that differed from Viennese classicism in that it was not based on the symmetry of individual formal units but on the developing process of a thematic idea.51 Although Kodály’s many extant notes and his G major Allegretto focus on the melody and harmonic framework, his Sonatina of 1903 and his obvious interest in the variation form confirm that he knew the principle of developing variation well. His reception of Brahms can therefore be understood as a concept constructed on two opposing principles of composition: that of development on the one hand, and the interpretation of variation as a melodically defined genre on

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the other. After 1906 Kodály gradually moved away from Brahms stylistically, but in his instrumental music, as we will see, he continued to seek ways to reconcile the two contradictory principles. In two later works—the final movement of the String Quartet No. 1 (1908–9) and Variations on a Hungarian Folk Song, “The Peacock” (1937–39)—the melodically defined interpretation is combined, if in different ways, with a thematic conception that is fresh, yet Brahmsian in its origin.

3

A Paradigm Shift The Reinterpretation of the Folk Song Concept

Brahms’s stylistic influence is not the only one heard in the variation fragments that date from Kodály’s student years. In fact, extant manuscripts suggest the opposite: his theme choices can be read as an effort to distance himself from Romantic aesthetics. For example, in the piano quintet in B flat minor outlined in 1904 is a chorale-like melody, whose first two lines remain within an F–B flat tetrachord. Its unusual resonance arises from the leading note (A or A flat), which is not, incidentally, shown in the theme inscription.1 There is asymmetry in the third and fourth lines deriving from a 5 + 5 bar structure and distortion of the sequence. Another notebook from around 1904 contains several variation sketches.2 The second page has a theme related distantly to the recruiting dance in the singspiel Háry János: this verbunkos style appears in its dance-like character, and ascending sixteenth-note triplet upbeat, Hungarian scale with an augmented second, dotted rhythm, and ornamented progression of eighth notes.3 Another variation sketched in the same notebook4 belongs to one of the sonatas for cello and piano Kodály was planning at the time.5 The theme rests on a four-line, fifth-shift imitative melody evocative of new-style Hungarian folk song, yet in some features it suggests a popular art song, such as its diminished-fourth downward leap in the second bar and the dominance of the same interval in the seventh. Kodály himself offers some information on the third variation in the notebook, or more specifically, on the source of its theme: “Var. sur, Igricziből . . .” [Variation on From Igriczi], he writes at the top of the page,6 and then the title of the song “Igricziből Papiba” [From Igriczi to Papi] over the third staff.7 This was a song Kodály also studied as a researcher, as annotations in his copies of volumes of collected Hungarian folk songs by István Bartalus (1822–1899) and László Kun (1869-1939) make clear.8 30

A Paradigm Shift

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Here the first two lines also show a structural shift of a fifth, and the last two the same asymmetry: a 3 + 3 bar structure broken by the exclamation in bar 3. All of these examples show irregularity in the regular four-line structure, but another sketch that varies a Slovak folk song takes a melody that is regular in every aspect and relies solely on sequence.9 Its underlying harmonic framework of alternating tonic and dominant becomes the basis on which Kodály builds his piece, as the title and inscription “passacaille” at the bottom of the second page confirms. The term reappears in another manuscript containing the piece: “Passacaglia módra: voir Chaconne” (In the manner of a Passacaglia, like a Chaconne).10 As with the Chaconne and Passacaglia, all twelve variations retain the theme’s melodic and harmonic contours, while the variation types and varying motion formulae recall what Kodály found in Brahms’s Capriccio, op. 76, no. 2: motivic variety combined with a stable harmonic framework. Kodály’s interest in folk themes occurred alongside contemporaneous national movements in music, for the development of a distinct Hungarian style was feverishly underway at the turn of the century.11 Tibor Tallián, in his essay “Um 1900 nachweisbar,” speculates that the young Kodály was skeptical of the effort to create such a national style, devoting himself instead to “pseudo-styles” (Saint-Saëns or Massenet).12 In a sense such skepticism indeed marks Kodály’s approach in the period. It surfaces in a letter to Mikuláš Schneider (later Schneider-Trnavský, 1882–1958), an old Slovak schoolmate at Nagyszombat, who also was planning to continue his studies at the Budapest Academy, but eventually chose Vienna as being closer to home. Kodály refers, in a letter in Hungarian, to his new fellow students in the second year, now older than when they met at the entrance exam, making sarcastic remarks not devoid of anti-Semitism. This is what I can tell you. Our company has been diminished. Only three have remained of those from last year: Meszlényi (now seriously ill), Feszler and me. M. is still a law student, F., however, turned his back on law to embark on piano studies with Thomán (Academy Class 1), and beside that is an external student in the Faculty of Arts. What he sees in it I don’t know. News of the others I can only give in part. Grósz is in Leipzig (composition, piano), Klein (he comes to mind after Grósz) sits in his bank, Nemes is a theologian, having gained a graduation certificate for some 200 forints in Rákospalota (he says it was 800). Éber has vanished entirely, Dr. Lász passed the post-examination but withdrew—and that’s it. The new ones: Ilona Sebestyén (not à la C. Maria Weber: she is a real girl, but no real beauty, a bit tiresome, just good enough for me to bate Meszlényi with); Cecelits the treasurer (of the reading circle), you know him, now in his ripe old age deciding to rejoin us (he did our class before, but he’s a very poor student); an insignificant Jew (whose name I do not yet know); a harpist, Gyula Revere (reminds me greatly of Szmatana); and finally, two organists: Kovács and Darabos (tough peasants, I expect a lot of the first). Oh, and I forgot Szécsény: he shares Éber’s fate. This would be our group . . . rather a feeble lot, unlikely to create new Hungarian music.13

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Yet Kodály was hardly reserved or passive on matters of national music, as source materials show. He and his contemporaries took up the idea of building a Hungarian national musical style in a rigorous, scholarly way, as a challenge. Sources in the Kodály Archives show him examining the matter and grasping for solutions, as a late interview in Germany confirmed: Having mastered the technical knowledge—led very thoroughly by Koessler—we [i.e., he and Bartók] arrived at a crossroads: would we become Brahms epigones or set out on our own path? By then “our own path” had essentially been set, as the discussion of a Hungarian musical style waiting to be created or re-created had been going for decades. Many had tried before us—there is no ignoring the work of Ferenc Liszt or the opera composer Erkel. We, of course, had to do something different. Where would we find the drive? Where find the flair? Clearly ancient folk song was our one hope. This prompted us to be folk-song researchers, not just composers.14

Even if he had wanted to, Kodály could not have avoided the debates on creating a Hungarian national musical style. The final examination and certificate at the academy required that ethnic Hungarian students compose and perform a Hungarian work.15 This lay behind the first version of Kodály’s Nyári este (Summer evening). Composition students also had to take a course on “the theory of Hungarian music,” taught in Kodály’s day by the musicologist Géza Molnár (1872–1933).16 The annals show Kodály was not examined in that subject, which does not exclude the possibility that he had attended Molnár’s seminars, as he had the latter’s lectures on Hungarian music history. Furthermore he read Molnár’s A magyar zene elmélete (Theory of Hungarian music),17 published in 1904 during his student years; his marginal notes to lectures on it can be found in a copy in the academy library.18 Nor was Molnár’s the only handbook of Hungarian music theory Kodály read. Several such books had appeared earlier, such as A magyar zene költészettana (The poetics of Hungarian music) by Imre Hofecker (born in 1863), and two by Kornél Ábrányi (1822–1903) on the characteristics of Hungarian songs and music.19 The latter, held in the academy’s library,20 contain notes by the young composer, who can reasonably be assumed to have read the others, as he later spoke of consulting all works on Hungarian music and Hungarian music history.21 Indeed Kodály, in this period of his life, lived under the spell of books on Hungarian music history and composition and folk song collections. Apart from the books of Géza Molnár and Ábrányi and folk song collections of Bartalus and Kun, he annotated many other volumes now in the Music Academy Library, such as two editions of Bertalan Fabó’s (1868–1920) A magyar népdal fejlődése (Development of Hungarian folk song)22 and a copy of Imre Hofecker’s A magyar zene egyetemes története (A general history of Hungarian music).23 He was clearly familiar with Géza Molnár’s A magyar föld zenéje (Music of the Hungarian lands), Emil Ponori Thewrewk’s A magyar zene tudományos tárgyalása (A scholarly discussion of

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Hungarian music), Imre Hofecker’s A magyar zene-irodalom története (A history of Hungarian music literature), and Kornél Ábrányi’s A magyar zene a 19-ik században (Hungarian music in the nineteenth century).24 In addition to the Bartalus collection, Kodály’s doctoral dissertation on the strophic structure of Hungarian folk song mentions the collection of Károly Színi (1829–1896), the Béla Vikár (1859–1945) collection in the Museum of Ethnography, the Hungarian children’s game collection of Áron Kiss (1845–1908), and the folk songs collected by János Seprődi (1874–1923) and published in the journal Ethnographia.25 The scholarship of Hungarian music theory involved a distinct approach to teaching composition; textbooks were intended mainly for students who had mastered general composing knowledge and skills. Such works were not systematic, instead emphasizing a few select aspects considered to be the most significant in Hungarian music. In general they discussed genres that were deemed to be Hungarian, such as the palotás, hallgató nóta, ábránd, rhapsody, körmagyar, and csárdás, and the instruments associated with them—cimbalom, clarinet, tárogató (a clarinet-like woodwind), and violin. The books offered very little on the specifics of Hungarian harmony, although the Hungarian scale with an augmented fourth was always featured; this is the scale from which Molnár derived his principles of Hungarian harmonization.26 Art songs are almost always the focus in works by these authors, as Ábrányi’s first textbook, Characteristics of Hungarian Song and Music, exemplifies. This had much to do with the fashion of the times and the popularity of folk song publications such as those of Bartalus, Színi, and Gyula Káldy. The specific preoccupation with art songs explains the attention paid to proper Hungarian prosody and characteristic Hungarian rhythm. Such matters amount to more than half the material in Ábrányi’s two textbooks: thorough discussion of typical Hungarian poetic meter is followed by treatment of characteristic rhythmic formulae, such as syncopation and the dotted quaver and reversed dotted quaver-pairs (“Scotch snap”), through musical examples.27 Their authors intended such examples and rhythm theories to be fruitful not only in song composition but in Hungarian instrumental music, which incorporates rhythmic features of the language to the same extent that vocal music does. Hofecker even goes on to claim that Hungarian instrumental art music can only have been drawn from art song.28 Meanwhile Molnár, who considers the question no less thoroughly, demonstrating and proposing the characteristic Hungarian rhythmic formulae for use in composition,29 disagrees with his predecessors’ premise that rhythmic features of Hungarian instrumental music should be traced to those of Hungarian poetic meter.30 Still, the generational differences in the works of Ábrányi and his peers from those of Molnár are not confined to relations between Hungarian prosody and instrumental music. Molnár mentions the rhythmic theories of major contemporaneous musicologists, among them Hugo Riemann,31 and from his

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thorough knowledge of Hungarian features in music, tries to appropriate, apply, and develop Riemann’s theory to cover them,32 yet disagrees with his forebears on two issues of meter and rhythm. Ábrányi claims Hungarian music is unfamiliar with the concept of the upbeat,33 and Hofecker believes Hungarian art songs with an upbeat are foreign in origin.34 They agree that 3 / 4 meter is unknown in Hungarian music.35 Molnár comes up with examples to prove the opposite, showing how upbeat and 3 / 4 time can appear.36 The work of the two generations differs more sharply in methodology. Molnár, unlike Ábrányi and Hofecker, joined in contemporaneous discourse on rhythm and theory, and validated his research with scientific rigor through surveys, statistical analysis, and data comparison. He elicited general patterns from the collected data and sought to differentiate Hungarian elements in music from those he saw as non-Hungarian. In addition he listed typical melodic and rhythmic formulae in each chapter and recommended them in catalog form to his composition students. Kodály, however, subjected the theories of Molnár and those of his predecessors to similar criticism. One note runs: “It was not descriptive music theory that Ábrányi and Molnár sought to provide, but instruction for composers to achieve a Hungarian effect in their music.”37 Here he questioned the feasibility of creating a true national style from stock musical elements, rhythmic and melodic formulae, and metric types deemed Hungarian. By 1904 Kodály was disputing Molnár’s belief that theory could be the guiding force of Hungarian music.38 In a draft for his lecture “The Development of Folk Song,” Kodály stressed how national music could not be conjured from outside sources but only from within, through gradual development: Hungarian music will soar by different means. It will be wrought by Hungarian people based on extensive tradition. It will sound odd to foreign ears; its forms too will emerge from within. It is inconceivable to fill the whole West European formal system with Hungarian flesh and blood—what a foolish idea from Géza Molnár!39

Yet Kodály’s criticism was directed also at the method itself. In another note he cites incomplete source materials, neglect in folk song collecting, and resistance to modern, rational scholarly thinking as the main flaws in Géza Molnár’s and Bertalan Fabó’s work: Is it surprising that those aims—by Géza Molnár, Fabó—were shattered? It is also hopeless to write the etymology of a language without a dictionary, or of stylistic features without literature; if only these authors had put all their hard work and effort into promoting the collection of folk song, instead of wasting it on apparitions! To possess so little sense of realism; just idle talk and empty frittering. Medieval scholasticism springs to my mind (titles of ancient treatises) in a century of modern natural science! Instead of continual renewed observation, they generalize from 2–3 items of information. Of course, it is far easier to breed new theories behind a desk. Let them not be scotched by villages or stuffy peasant rooms.40

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Kodály also refuted claims specific to Molnár, such as the notion that Hungarian music basically found its resources in the polyphony of the Bach / Handel era, as that was the most recent style in music history to have an influence on it.41 It is clear, however, that Kodály’s arguments at the time, around 1904, stemmed from the instinctively critical stance of a young scholar, and his rejection had yet to be supported by the concept that would become the basis of his interpretation of folk music.42 Moreover, his arguments against the tenets in Molnár’s book demonstrate that the paradigm shift seen as a landmark in Kodály’s scholarly and composing outlook occurred over a longer period of time: only after this initial criticism of earlier methods did the composer realize that the songs regarded by his predecessors as folk song were in fact examples of the genre of “népies műdal,” more commonly referred to as “magyar nóta.” These were primarily songs composed in a folksy style. Although they may have been widely sung in urban areas and sometimes spread by oral tradition, their distinguishing mark was that composer and lyricist were known and they could be found as scores in several sources, unlike authentic ”népdal” (folk song) heard only from the lips of rural peasants. This genre, which blossomed from the end of nineteenth century, had hardly any connection with the repertoire that Kodály had known among the peasants.43 János Bereczky, in analyzing the relationship between Kodály’s first two collecting tours and the circumstances of composing Summer Evening, suggests that the new Hungarian music was born in August and September 1906, when Kodály was able to extract and integrate into this orchestral piece the typically Hungarian elements in the 222 folk songs collected on those tours.44 However, Bereczky unfortunately does not test his arguments by examining the folk song material—the publications of Bartalus, for example—with which Kodály had been familiar before his first tour, which may have contained characteristic folk-song elements that he could have used in his diploma work. Moreover, by identifying pentatony as the prime feature of national music, Bereczky certainly oversimplifies the concept of national music—as he does when equating its style with Kodály’s music. Kodály, while admittedly striving to create a national musical style, was in fact searching in the years after the composition of Summer Evening not for the musical voice of a nation but for one of his own. Indeed, he only began to grasp the true nature of folk music and devise his collecting method during and after his first tours: his ideas and methods evolved gradually out of extensive experience—side by side with his creative and scholarly work. Kodály’s first strictly scholarly publications (1905–16) were various editions of folk melodies that contain few passages of explanation or interpretation, and his 1906 doctoral dissertation on the strophic structure of Hungarian folk song—his one scholarly study from his first research period—offers little sign of the directions his folk song research would follow. It testifies to a young scholar’s sound knowledge of rhythmic theories of the period45 and reflects the rhythmic orientation of Hungarian

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musicology at the time.46 Kodály later preferred an etymological / historical approach to a rhythmic one in classifying Hungarian folk song. For one thing he strove to group the folk songs he collected by historical style, and for another he organized the melodies in so-called melody types to present their variable forms.47 But the 1906 dissertation shows little interest in melodic structure or history. The next ambitious project, Az új egyetemes népdalgyűjtemény tervezete (Plan for the new universal collection of folk songs), written in 1913 in collaboration with Bartók, outlined a proposal for a practical, “dictionary-like” catalog of folk songs based on shared traits.48 The first original analytical scholarly work is, however, not only based on his own and Bartók’s collections, Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében (Pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music), published in 1917, but relies on a decade’s worth of research. It sums up the significance of the pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music that he and Bartók had discovered, and unlike his dissertation, it draws on a thorough knowledge of folk song. By the second half of that decade, after field research in Nagyszalonta (today: Salonta, Romania) and the collection of soldier song material,49 Kodály had both gained sufficient knowledge of the repertoire and reached a more nuanced understanding of it, the combination of which allowed him to write an empirically and methodologically developed work on Hungarian folk song. The study was over ten years in the making: the significance of pentatony had been clear since Bartók’s first Transylvanian collection in 1907, but collection and processing of a large amount of evidence and data was needed to formulate the findings.50 In any case, Kodály seldom embarked on scholarly works to sum up his vast knowledge—he even considered A magyar népzene (Folk music of Hungary), 1936 rudimentary, reflecting the state of research at the time.51 His desire to dig deeply into a specific area and strive to understand it thoroughly can be found in his scholarly activities at numerous levels. One fine example is the exceptional score-like notation of “Kelemen Kőmies-ballada” (Ballad of the stonemason Clement, 1918), where a remarkable level of detail in the melodic ornamentation makes the publication seem like an enlarged snapshot.52 Kodály’s folk music notations grasp the specific moment of the aural experience, yet make the ideal form apparent.53 Kodály had seen as early as 1915 that folk song research must involve investigating historical material; in Három koldusének forrása (The source of three beggar’s songs), he noted that knowledge of pulp secular and sacred musical material was basic for authoritative publications and analyses in folk music.54 It also shows that Kodály’s scholarly writings are mostly methodological paradigms—an impression confirmed five years later by his study Árgirus nótája (Song of Argyrus). This, despite appearances, does not examine the literary import of Hungarian folk alexandrines, but shows how knowledge of folk song and its performance is crucial to interpreting old Hungarian literature.55 Furthermore, the study of musical folklore should be the basis for musicology as well as literature: Kodály states in his programmatic Néprajz és zenetörténet (Ethnography and music history, 1933) that “the

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prerequisite for Hungarian musical historiography and most important ancillary study to it is music ethnography.”56 Yet it was his negative experience with the folk song material amateurishly collected in Nagyszalonta, which he had to revise and augment in 1916–17, that motivated him to formulate an authoritative methodology for collecting, analyzing, and evaluating musical material related to the folk song phenomenon. Thus Kodály proposed to modify the rules of the Kisfaludy Society, a long-standing scientific society, which had been encouraging the collection of folk texts and music since the end of the nineteenth century, and of the Hungarian representatives of the Folklore Fellows. He argued for unity of melody and text, and set out underlying methods for collection (designating the name, date of birth, and occupation of the sources, and observing living conditions). Various notes from that time indicate he realized that his rules on folk song collecting were superior to those of the Kisfaludy Society, which still heeded certain scholarly ideals of the nineteenth century.57 This makes it all the more surprising to discover that the paradigm shift which took place in Kodály’s artistic and scholarly development and appeared in his writings was concerned only with authentic folk music and its collection and scholarly evaluation. As much as his concept and methods differed from those of his predecessors, his writings in many ways echoed their ideas.58 For example, the aspiration to create a national musical style based on folk music that could merit equal standing with Europe’s musical traditions—Kodály’s most important endeavor as a composer—is present in Géza Molnár’s work and in those of Ábrányi and Hofecker. The two generations before Kodály also agreed on the means of shaping the new Hungarian art music. The notion that national musical styles must derive from folk music can be found already in Ábrányi, along with the need for Hungarian composers to free themselves permanently from the influence of foreign, nonHungarian art music.59 Ábrányi’s conviction was that the art of any nation, sooner or later, breaks away from foreign models, mainly because independent national art can only emerge from within; however, national art also can only be created by merging national identity and Western high culture.60 Kodály also explores the idea of unifying Western high culture and Hungarian musical tradition in a number of his writings. Articles and lectures published between 1918 and 1929 all repeat the idea: A népdal feltámadása (The resurrection of Hungarian folk song, 1918), A magyar népzene (Hungarian folk music, 1925), Magyar zene (Hungarian music, 1925), Mit akarok a régi székely dalokkal? (What do I want from the old Székely folk songs? 1927), Népzene (Folk music, 1927), and A magyar népdal művészi jelentősége (The artistic significance of Hungarian folk song, 1929). These are the writings that in fact prepare the way for Kodály’s three cardinal studies on the subject: Mi a magyar a zenében? (What is Hungarian in music?, 1939), Magyarság a zenében (Hungarianness in music, 1939), and Népzene és műzene (Folk music and art music, 1941). This basic principle, derived primarily

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from Hungarian theoretical writings at the turn of the century, became a key element in Kodály’s aesthetics and ideology. Significantly, however, such ideas appear only in his writings after 1918. It seems that he moved away from the ideals of his predecessors in the period 1907–17, only to return to them after World War I, a shift also signaled by his renewed interest in his youthful Summer Evening, which by 1910 seemed to represent outmoded aesthetic ideals, but regained its relevance to the composer, and prompted him to review and rework it in 1929–30. In this way, his interest in the nineteenth-century tradition of Hungarian music coincides with the two conservative periods of Kodály’s life: his modernist phase beginning around 1907 ended his initial devotion to this tradition, whereas the tradition’s reappearance in Kodály’s world coincides with his gradual move toward a more conservative mode of writing in the 1920s and 1930s. So significant resemblances can be found in the composing techniques, formal design, and poetics of his compositions from before 1907 and after 1917.61 The early Kodály manuscripts from the Nagyszombat years contain a few “népies műdal” with piano accompaniment.62 These are settings of poems by the great romantic poet Sándor Petőfi (1823–1849) and the now-forgotten Géza Christian, and of various folk texts, which could only have found their way into the collection accidentally. The earliest, Búsuló juhász (Sad shepherd) and Eljegyzésre (For an engagement), are dated June 25, 1900, which is indeed before Kodály’s first year at the Academy of Music, but the dates of the rest show they were composed later, during Kodály’s official years as a composition student: Nem tudom én (I do not know) on June 15, 1901, Virágok részvéte (The compassion of flowers) on January 5, 1902, and Megy a juhász (There goes the shepherd) on August 15, 1902. All three were probably written during school vacations at his parents’ home in Nagyszombat, which could explain why they were kept among those early manuscripts. Their style, harmonics, and Hungarian tone, and their simple accompaniment, are akin to the folk song arrangements Kodály knew from the Bartalus and Kun collections. His interest in such songs is also reflected in the variation themes discussed at the beginning of the chapter. Kodály was also composing Hungarian dances for the piano in this period. Some of these survived in a bundle of scores marked “Tánc” (Dance).63 Kodály added the annotations “Most magyart” (Now Hungarian) and “magyar táncok” (Hungarian dances) to Hungarian-style movements. On another manuscript the inscription reads “Magy. táncok” (Hungarian dances).64 Another surviving score is the slow movement of a Hungarian fantasia for piano, whose Hungarian tone is set by an improvisatory character, a fragmented formal design, the employment of the Hungarian scale, and countless tremolos, passages, and arpeggios, along with piano writing in a cimbalom style.65 The dates on which this fantasia and the Hungarian dances were composed are unclear, but a dated manuscript shows him sketching a rondo in Hungarian style on April 25, 1903.66 The manuscript preserves the first appearance of the rondo

A Paradigm Shift

39

theme (bars 1–20), but its later appearances (bars 69–95, 130–156, and 177–193) are indicated only by the notation of its melody and its different variations. The three interludes (bars 21–68, 96–129, and 157–176) appear at times in worked-out form and at others as mere sketches, but the form, number of bars, melody, and themes can be identified throughout. Its Hungarian nature is apparent in typical rhythmic patterns; the musical line is dominated by “Scotch-snap” rhythms, syncopation, and short embellishments attached to longer note values. In addition, style contributions are made by certain formulae in the accompaniment (chords always appearing on the second eighth note) and characteristics of the melody (augmented steps of a second and diminishing chromaticism). The significance of this early Hungarian-style rondo of Kodály’s becomes clear from the elderly composer’s frequent references to the opinion of his teacher, Hans Koessler, that Hungarian stylistic elements serve primarily to add color and can be used in the closing rondo movement of instrumental work. On each occasion Koessler would exemplify this with Brahms’s Piano Quartet in G Minor and its final Hungarian-style movement: [Koessler] did not consider Hungarian stylistic touches sophisticated enough for more serious music—or satisfactory only in chamber music, as the last part of a several-movement work, “as Brahms had done.” This reveals that Hungarian music seemed to him suitable merely for simpler emotions and thoughts, to give a dancelike character, as added spice, exotic flavor, to the last part of a composition; not to mention, by this he was essentially referring to strangeness of style (Haydn’s Rondo all’ ong[arese] and Mozart’s alla turca as encouragements for the timid Brahms to accentuate the end of one of his piano quartets in a Hungarian way). For Koessler, a composition in Hungarian style, from beginning to end, seemed an unattainable notion.67

On another occasion, Kodály remembers: Even at the beginning of this century, no one believed that Hungarian folk music was suited to higher art forms. It was in those days that Hans Koessler at the Academy of Music, seeing our efforts to compose several-movement works in Hungarian style, declared that a little Hungarian spice would be plenty in the last movement, as Brahms had done in the G minor piano quartet. For Koessler believed that the Hungarian manner could only be present in moderation in high musical art, as dabs of color here and there: “It’s impossible to talk in dialects all evening.” What he expected essentially was something like writing a Hungarian play in a foreign language and seasoning it with a few Hungarian curses.68

Kodály’s words seem to imply an eagerness to dispute his teacher’s views even decades later. What lay behind his criticism of Koessler’s concept was that the unity of a work might be threatened by adding to the first three movements one alien in style, merely to add color and curiosity. Yet in all likelihood, Brahms’s

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G minor piano quartet was of key importance to Kodály, so that Koessler’s statement compelled him to examine the question further and argue against it. Kodály also paid close attention to some relevant passages in Max Kalbeck’s book, annotating the musical analysis of the G minor piano quartet in two places.69 His first remark appears next to where Kalbeck, examining the first and second subjects of the opening movement, concludes that the two are built from the same musical nucleus and represent two aspects of the same idea, so to speak, “à la Florestan und Eusebius.”70 Kodály’s second annotation appears in a short analysis of the zingarese closing movement. Kalbeck interprets the first movement as maturing into manhood, the second as a man in love, and the succession of the main and middle section of the third movement as an alternation between reality and dream. There is no program assigned to the fourth movement, however; Kalbeck, like Koessler, simply refers to the zingarese coloring. Analysis leads us to agree with Kodály: confining Hungarian stylistic touches to just one movement, as Koessler instructs, disrupts stylistic homogeneity. In the Brahms piano quartet, though, the Hungarian character in the fourth movement has a dramatic purpose. A few pages earlier Kalbeck himself points out how deeply Brahms had been affected by a meeting with Hungarian exiles from the 1849 War of Independence and by their music, so that he used such stylistic traits in his own music as symbols of freedom.71 It seems fair to assume that the G minor piano quartet draws on events that defined the young Brahms’s path to creative maturity, as a latent program: his encounter with Florestan and Eusebius, i.e., with Schumann; experiences of deep love (for Agathe von Siebold and later Clara Schumann); literary discoveries (above all with works of E. T. A. Hoffmann); and the liberation felt at coming into his own—all these contributed to the four movements of the piano quartet.72 Nor were such autobiographic promptings alien to Kodály himself, perhaps influenced specifically by this example in Brahms’s work. Yet that was not why the rondo of the G minor quartet, and the rondo principle in general, gained such a notable place in his work. Although his recollection of Koessler’s teachings prompted him to reject the idea that Hungarian national music should be exclusively bound with the rondo form, he composed after 1917 a number of rondos for orchestra, and in his remarks on the formal possibilities in folk song arrangement he cited the rondo form, along with variation, as most suitable for composing works based on borrowed melodies.73 So Kodály chose to use the form in instrumental compositions employing folk or art music melodies.74 His interest is noteworthy also because other twentieth-century composers rarely turned to the orchestral rondo. Their indifference to the form is emphasized by the way Kodály himself avoided such works between 1907 and 1917 (Table 1). Table 1 shows how the early Hungarian-style rondo composed in 1903 follows a regular A–B–A–C–A–D–A structure, but later works—the Hungarian Rondo, the Psalmus Hungaricus, the Dances of Marosszék and Dances of Galánta—diverge

A a-a-b-a-b-a

B a-a5-b-a-b-a

D

A a-a-b-a

D

Psalmus Hungaricus 1–30 31–81 Rondo theme Interlude No. 1 A B OrchTh-aa-b-c-d OrchTh

37–60 Rondo theme

Hungarian Rondo 1–18 19–36 Rondo theme Interlude No.1

82–91 Rondo theme Av1 a

D

69–95 Rondo theme A a-av-b-cv 5+5+4+13 a

Youthful Hungarian Rondo (1903) 1–20 21–68 Rondo theme Interlude No. 1 A B a-av-b-c a-av 5+5+4+6 22+26 a F

92–130 Interlude No. 2 C OrchTh1-a-bOrchTh-c

d

C a-a-b-a-b-a

61–88 Interlude No. 2

96–129 Interlude No. 2 C a+av+b+cv+d 4+4+ 4+4 +18 A

131–144 Rondo theme Av2 a

D

A a-a-b-a-b-a

89–113 Rondo theme

130–166 Rondo theme A a-b-c-av 5+5+4+13 a

145–268 Interlude No. 3 D a-b-c-OrchTh-ddv-OrchTh2-e

D a-b-b-a-b-a a-b-b-a-b-a F sharp

114–155 Interlude No. 3

167–186 Interlude No.3 D A 20 A

table 1 Kodály’s rondo compositions

269–395 Rondo theme Av3 a-b-c-d

D

A a-a-b-a

156–172 Rondo theme

187–203 Rondo theme A a+av+coda 5+7+5 a

D

E sharp

(continued)

D

173–338 Finale 173–280 + 281–300 + 301–338 Rondo theme E A E a-a-b-a

E sharp/A sharp

93–150 Interlude No. 1 B a-b-a-b

Dances of Galánta 1–49 50–92 Slow Introduction Rondo theme A a-b-a-b-a

e/a

D/H/A Flat

d

a

151–172 Rondo theme A a-b

108–155 Interlude No. 2 C a-b-av

87–107 Rondo theme Av1 a-a-b-a5-b-a5

Dances of Marosszék 1–28 29–86 Rondo theme Interlude No. 1 A B a-a-b-a5 a-b-av1-bv1-av2bv2 d A Flat/F

D

173–228 Interlude No. 2 C

G(g)

156–180 Rondo theme Av2 a-a-b-a5v

table 1 (continued)

d

229–235 Rondo theme A

b

181–250 Interlude No. 3 D a-b-a

236–607 Finale D a-b-a-c-a5-d-e-df-a-f- Rondo theme -f a B a

D(d)

251–265 Rondo theme Av3 a-a-b-a5

266–342 Finale E Av4 a-b-av1-bv1-av2-bv2av3-bv3 D

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from the regular design and make use of other formal principles as well. In the Hungarian Rondo, the finale is almost twice as long as the four rondo themes and three interludes in the first part (172 + 166 bars). Moreover, the middle section of the finale’s ternary structure, in recalling the rondo theme, moves it to E flat major, a minor second above the principal key of D major. In the Psalmus Hungaricus, Kodály modifies the rondo scheme in a different way; the first orchestral rondo theme is evoked in the third interlude. So the work combines the rondo principle with recapitulation, one characteristic of the sonata form, while the rondo themes use variation technique. In the Dances of Marosszék and Dances of Galánta the composer modifies the form by expanding the finale. This device is less discernible in the Dances of Marosszék, as the three interludes and four rondo themes take up 265 bars, but the finale only 76. The finale, however, consists of eight shorter sections composed in double variation form. This structure recalls the first interlude, with a similar design (the second and third interludes in ternary form). The rondo theme, which is short in relation to the interludes and the finale, is varied throughout, as in Psalmus. Here Kodály combines the rondo with variation and with the sonata form. In the Dances of Galánta, the slow introduction, two interludes, and three rondo themes last 235 measures as against the 371 of the finale; furthermore, the latter recalls the rondo theme before the cadence, and like the Hungarian Rondo, has the middle part of the ternary closing section appear again a minor second above the principal key, in B flat. So the rondo form in the Dances of Galánta is also bound up with the recapitulation of the sonata form. Brahms’s four-movement piano quartet in G minor seems to have served as a formal model for Kodály in more than one respect. As in the works mentioned, the rondo theme assumes different forms throughout, modifying the number of measures as well as the structure. Moreover, the textbook scheme of the form also falls apart after the second interlude, as Brahms disrupts the regular order of the themes; instead of the rondo theme, the first interlude returns, followed by a return of the third and fourth sections of the second interlude, and only after these does the rondo theme reappear. Clearly Brahms too made use of combining the sonata principle and the recurring structure of the rondo. All of this implies that Kodály looked to the Hungarian-style final movement of Brahms’s G minor piano quartet as a model for his instrumental rondos, and followed him in combining the rondo form with the sonata and variation principles. Along with the idea that the rondo as well as variation is a suitable vehicle for integrating folk song into high art, his choice of musical form seems to have been prompted by a conscious return to the ideals of pre-1907 Hungarian music. Kodály’s concept of national musical style stems in many ways from turn-of-the-century Hungarian notions of composition. His novel interpretation of folk music merely revised its basic principles—such as the idea of merging national folk music with Western art music. So Kodály’s paradigm shift modifies only one element in the

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ideals of nineteenth-century Hungarian musical nationalism—although one that has proved of deep significance to new Hungarian music and ethnomusicology. The first mature compositions to which he gave opus numbers (Énekszó, op. 1; String Quartet No. 1, op. 2; Zongoramuzsika [Piano music], op. 3) can be viewed in the context of the paradigm shift: all three reflect folk music directly, while presenting Kodály’s version of modernity. The first, a song cycle based on folk texts, has a primarily autobiographic inspiration, but draws something new into Hungarian music history by concentrating on the relationship between man and woman. The String Quartet No. 1 reflects formally, in light of the new folk-music concept, on what Kodály had learned under Koessler and on the domestic tradition of inserting folk music into Hungarian composed music. The piano series with its melodic folk-song structure represent mainly in their harmonic innovations the modernity of West European models, acting as a direct continuation of Kodály’s reception of Debussy in 1906 and the resulting piano piece Méditation sur un motif de Debussy. So all three are key compositions. What follows next is an attempt to describe how these works demonstrate Kodály’s ideas of turn-of-thecentury modernism.

4

Finding the Voice of His “Deepest Inner Self ” The Case of String Quartet No. 1

Almost all analysts agree that the themes of the String Quartet No. 1 (op. 2) grow out of a single musical nucleus: the folk motto in the slow introduction to the first movement—“Lement a nap a maga járásán” (The sun sets in its own way) or “Két alma van a szűröm aljába” (Two apples at the bottom of my cloak).1 Antal Molnár’s 1936 book on Kodály was the first to sketch the thematic variations diagrammatically.2 A similar outline was compiled a few years ago by Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller.3 Pál Járdányi saw a difference between the first three movements and the last, while István Sonkoly proposed that the thematic development technique caused both the third and fourth movements to lose their folk character.4 István Kecskeméti was the first to note that although the first three movements are monothematic in structure, the subject of the fourth movement strays from the folk song motto.5 In fact, it belongs instead to a repertoire of songs that Kodály called “népies műdal.” János Breuer agreed in his Guide to Kodály, and in an outline suggested that Kodály began the slow introduction to the movement with a motif reminiscent of a popular art song in a folksy style alternating Aeolian and Dorian modes.6 Its fantasia-like development was disrupted first by the main theme of the opening movement, then by that of the scherzo. Yet both are scotched by the theme that opens the finale, like the “Nicht diese Töne” gesture in Beethoven’s Ninth. Then comes the Allegretto semplice theme of the variation movement. As Breuer sees it, Kodály uses this theme and the opening motif of the movement alternately. It still needs to be mentioned that the opening motif, evoking the style of a “népies műdal,” serves as a bass to the Allegretto semplice theme. Simply adding the ensuing bars of the soprano melody to the bass conjures up a very similar popular melody (Example 1). 45

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example 1 . String Quartet No. 1, fourth movement, opening theme and bass theme, © 1910 Universal Music Publishing Editio Musica Budapest.

œ œ œœœœ œ œ & 42 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ   &

œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ 

œ œ œœœœ œ œ 

.. œ œ œ 

œœœ 

.. œ œ œ 

œœœ 

. œ œ œœœœ œ œ  .

. œ œ œœœœ œ œ  .

The dual nature of the theme also affects the order of variations, if less formally than asserted by Breuer, for Kodály uses either the first or the second solution, or sometimes both. The first develops the theme born of the bass motif and the soprano melody, the second and third the change of the soprano triad theme into an arpeggio (bars 3 and 4, in the score 95–96). The fourth works with the first two bars of the soprano theme’s second section (bars 9 and 10 of the theme, in the score 101–102), the fifth with the soprano melody, the sixth—appearing as part of the coda—as a cross-bred theme, and the seventh as a development of the bass motif. The variations, analysts agree, largely retain the harmonic outline of the theme. This arises in the bass, the first three bars of which also function as a theme, Brahms being Kodály’s obvious model. Breuer also notes the role of the opening and closing sections. Indeed the slow introduction follows Beethoven’s symphony in using meandering fragments of new and familiar themes from earlier movements, evoking the prehistoric chaos at the beginning of the Ninth. The banality of the theme stems mainly from the rectilinear soprano line, which keeps the regularity of the 8 + 8 measures. Its insistent duple meter consists only of eighth, quarter, and half notes, unbroken by dotted rhythms or syncopation. The theme too is harmonically prim: the first line stays within the tonic framework: all four bars center on the note E. The coiled melody in the second line loses some of its songlike character, but it is soon restored by a sequence of thirds. This stumbles into the last line, which is again harmonically closed. The melody wanders aimlessly, then in its last line abides by the pitch range of the first, as if coming full circle. The coda, like the introduction to the movement, falls into sections. As Kodály wrote of the work in 1909 (and Járdányi, Kecskeméti, and Breuer follow him in this), the coda from bar 280 constitutes two fairly free variations.7 The first is of the fugato beginning at bar 280, while the second starts at bar 420 and brings the last appearance of a popular art-song theme in the vivace section and closing stretto. Indeed the coda can be divided further. The sixth variation arriving in bar 280 is followed in bar 358 by the seventh—a slower version of the theme with the higher and lower voices in different keys. Both melodies show strong character but differ

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from the well-rounded form of the previous five, as the formal sections remain open. The presto section in bar 383 brings back the bass motif and fugato of the sixth variation, but suddenly stops (bar 415). The four-note formula seems to have forlorn hopes of resuming the musical process, but a new section opens in bar 420 and the movement’s main theme is heard again, yet not in its original key, but mistuned with notes alien to C major (B flat, F sharp, G sharp, and C sharp). Nor can the melody evolve fully—it wanes and becomes tentative. This uncertainty is soon followed by a vivace section based on a fragment of the soprano theme. Again the melody fails to unfold in full. Alien notes crop up here and there in the fourpart texture, masking the key, and individual voices recede independently into infinity. In bar 475, the violin recovers a snatch of melody and the musical process resumes, but the theme cannot return intact: it breaks up in the stretto (bars 510– 542) and shatters in the piercing suspended C major chord that closes the work. No interpretation can overlook the fact that the fourth variation was written by Kodály’s future wife, Emma to whom he dedicated the quartet. This led István Kecskeméti to assume Emma had inspired the work.8 Antal Molnár, a close witness to the young composer’s life, states only that “with the string quartet Kodály opens a long series of self-confessions.”9 He goes on to say when analyzing the First String Quartet and the Sonata for Cello and Piano, op. 4: “For Kodály, achieving classical forms meant finding his way to his deepest inner self.”10 István Kecskeméti, in his “Kodály Zoltán gall zongorazenéje” (Zoltán Kodály’s Gallic piano music), writes in connection with an early manuscript (unpublished until 1984) how Kodály’s private life—including his love for Emma, his experiences in Paris, and his encounter there with Debussy’s music—and professional vocation all entwine closely in his youthful works.11 This suggests that Kodály’s First String Quartet belongs to a tradition seen in works from Beethoven’s String Quartet in A Minor, op. 132, through Bedřich Smetana’s From My Life E minor quartet, to Alban Berg’s Lyric Suite, into all of which composers wrote the deep secrets of their life.12 According to János Kárpáti, there is a similar hidden program behind Bartók’s First String Quartet, composed at the same time as Kodály’s.13 Brahms’s Piano Quartet in G Minor, so important to the young Kodály, also belongs to this group.14 Kodály’s own analysis reveals nothing of the inferred hidden program. The custom of the time restricted program notes to brief prose descriptions punctuated with many musical examples. Kodály’s commentary to the fourth movement concerns the introductory section alone: “After the introduction of this [opening] motif is heard the (third) motif ’s timid question, but that is rejected by an energetic voice.”15 There is but one more descriptive remark: he calls the section before the end of the first movement (bars 335–344) a funeral march.16 Kodály planned several string quartets while studying at the academy.17 A movement in E minor—its draft, final manuscript, and parts are held in the Kodály Archives18—was performed at an academy faculty concert on June 20, 1905.19 Antal

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Molnár recalled another Brahmsian quartet in G major, composed in 1909,20 parts of its manuscript appearing in the Kodály documents,21 although it cannot be fully reconstructed, as the extant movements are sketches or incomplete fair copies and the third movement is lost. Based on a surviving note by Kodály, it was to be in B flat major. The sources include a string quartet movement in that key, but there is no proof of it being the missing third movement, as it dates from earlier: 1903.22 In addition, the Kodály Archives hold two more string-quartet movements and nine fragments from the pre-1910 period.23 Help in reconstructing these comes from manuscript information: titles, theme inscriptions, form schemes, and movement layouts. Most of the autographs are partial sketches and fragments undergoing development, but they may belong to incomplete or lost quartets, which precludes identification. For example, next to nothing survives of a B flat major quartet from the period: Kodály may have planned such a work without ever composing it. A layout note for six movements survives, but only the sketch of a first movement is known.24 He envisaged after an opening movement a short Allegro in B flat major, then a G flat major Andante, a Scherzo in C minor, a return of the opening Adagio, and a Finale. The plethora of sketches and plans shows how the string quartet had become the prime area of composition that Kodály was exploring around 1902–3. It shows how conscientiously he prepared to write a string quartet and identifies the influences on his creative thinking. Even the Beethoven and Brahms variations he analyzed so thoroughly may have inspired him to seek ways to alter standard textbook forms of chamber music. With the plans for a B flat major string quartet, its envisaged structure would in itself have altered the traditional four-movement scheme into six, the third movement following the second attacca and the fifth recalling the first. The document makes it clear that Kodály was taking Beethoven’s late string quartets as models.25 Although the string quartet in G major mentioned by Antal Molnár is in the traditional four movements, it includes thematic cross-references. Two pages of one manuscript carry Kodály’s notes for such a tie between the second movement and the first: “reminiszcencia I-re” (reminiscence of I) and “reminiszcenz. I. téma” (reminiscence of theme I).26 Another manuscript has important entries on the dramatic structure of this movement: “Reprise nagy csöndesedés után” (Reprise after a long silence).27 A similar entry, perhaps also alluding to a hidden program, appears on a sketch for a string quartet in F major: “viharok után ff skála lefelé” (after storms a descending ff scale).28 These entries, with internal allusions and quotations in the manuscripts and divergences from the regular four-movement design, suggest that Kodály was aiming at a string quartet with a hidden program, and that the First String Quartet, composed in this period, follows a similar principle. As usual with Kodály, the sources for the First String Quartet survive in fragmentary form.29 Apart from the two pages bearing the first 46 bars of the second

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movement, the final autograph is also lost.30 The surviving 46 bars are presumably part of the editor’s copy—they have engraver’s marks and corrections by Kodály in black and red pencil, as well as added metronome markings. Sources of earlier stages in the composing process have survived only haphazardly. Based on the existing fragments, the chain of sources for the movements is as hard to reconstruct as the quartet’s date of composition. László Eősze’s catalog puts it at 1908–9, but the sources suggest that Kodály started on it much earlier.31 Pages 12 and 15 of one Kodály notebook preserve the main theme of the first movement (bars 21–26) and the first line of the folk song motto,32 along with a draft of the middle section of the second movement (bars 23–132) that differs greatly from the final version.33 Kodály—it emerges from a fifth-line entry on page 15—had planned to insert the folk song motto in the coda. So its thematic role had been clear to him at that stage of composition, even though he would claim in a memoir that he achieved the similarities among the folk song motto and the first theme of the string quartet only at a relatively late stage in the composing process, and that was when he decided to treat the melody as a motto at the beginning of the work.34 The notebook is a valuable source also for other compositions written in the same period, such as Énekszó, Zongoramuzsika (Piano music), op. 3, and the Sonata for Cello and Piano, op. 4, as well as several unrealized composing plans whose dates are uncertain. The composer used this notebook in 1906–9, according to István Kecskeméti’s still-incomplete catalog of Kodály’s works. The notebook “Skizzek” (Sketches) is another notable source for Énekszó—the trio-section theme of the quartet’s third movement and its development appear on three pages.35 According to Kecskeméti’s catalog it was in use by 1909 at the latest. Dating it is complicated because only months and days are shown, not years. Still, it differs from the other notebook in containing sketches from a far shorter period. Composing months and days follow each other at random, as if Kodály were noting the ideas more sporadically than steadily. Yet the pages from the sixth recto all date from May, while earlier pages vary widely. The first recto has May 13, the second May 21, the fourth April 25, and the fifth July 12. For the song fragment on the fifth verso—“Nem voltam én itthon” (I was not at home)—Kodály gives no date, but a final autograph shows it was written on August 8, 1906, in Dresden.36 This suggests that most of the material dates from the late spring and summer of that year. Yet none of this proves the undated sketches were also written at that time. He may have returned to the notebook later and filled up empty lines. For example, he turned the notebook upside-down to draft the trio section of the third movement, and the same happened to the inscription of the theme (eighth recto, second and third lines from the bottom) and its development in a two-part piano setting (seventh recto and verso), which he only revised in a few places for the final version. Nor is the dating aided by differences in writing style or implements. The dated and undated pages reveal three distinct types: an elegant one using a thicker pen

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typical of fair copies, another using a thinner pen and a slightly less orderly notation, and a third using a pencil. The different types mingle. On the seventh recto, for example, Kodály writes the development of the First String Quartet’s third movement in pencil, but continues with a thinner pen from the third measure of the second accolade. So the sketches for the first, second, and third movements of the First String Quartet may have been written into these two notebooks before 1908–9, i.e., around 1906. The theme of the fourth movement, as confirmed by extant manuscripts of the work, was written earlier still. Besides Emma’s three variations—the third of which (in 5 / 8 time) became the fourth variation of the closing movement37—a further group of manuscripts containing three musical scorings have surfaced, which preserve the theme of the movement. The fair copy on call number Ms. mus. 29 contains the tenth variation for the variation section of a string quartet, and its coda. Kodály dated this with care: “1902. XII. 1.” So the theme had been composed by 1902 and then probably belonged to the variation movement of another string quartet. The theme itself also appears in the last two lines of the manuscript. Here Kodály calls the formal section “Stretta” and notes in German, “Tempo des Thema.” Manuscript Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 15 is a rough copy of the foregoing. The two pages are numbered in reverse: on the verso is the incomplete material of Ms. mus. 29, and on the recto the coda (with the German inscription “etwas bewegter wie das Thema” [somewhat livelier than the theme]). Manuscript Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 91 continues the variation where the verso of Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 15 leaves off, but thereafter it is identical with the verso of Ms. mus. 29. The last two manuscript pages give only a variant of the theme, but it occurs in an augmented form identical with its final version on the recto of Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 15, until this point left incomplete. At the top of Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 91 (Facsimile 3) there appears a mysterious inscription: “Mi ez? Nekem igen tetszik. Lendvai” (What is this? I like it a lot. Lendvai). This probably recalls a remark by a fellow student at the academy, perhaps the “insignificant Jew” from Kodály’s letter to Schneider-Trnavský, Ervin Lendvai (1882–1949), who studied with Koessler at the same time as Kodály, between 1901 and 1906. On completing his studies, Lendvai gained a scholarship and studied with Puccini for a year.38 Lendvai’s early professional advancement probably left Kodály feeling overshadowed. Although his resentment, as his letters reveal, was clothed in sarcasm, he repeatedly recalled the successes of his fellow student even decades later: “Puccini—Lendvai—P-hez meg zsidó ösztöndíjjal” (Puccini—Lendvai—went to P[uccini] with Jewish scholarship), he wrote in a note on Ödön Mihalovich in 1962.39 Lendvai moved to Berlin in 1906. When Kodály arrived there somewhat later, Lendvai took him under his wing. Kodály was none too pleased, as two letters he wrote to Emma suggest:

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facsimile 3 . Sketch for a string quartet in C major referring to Ervin Lendvai (ca. 1902), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus. Bp. 1900’ / 91, top of the page. Already I know more people here than I would have wanted, you see; yesterday I accidentally ran into Lendvai at the concert and he quickly introduced me to a bunch of “great” and “exceptional” people; unfortunately it seems we measure greatness in different dimensions, L. and I.40 There is unbelievable love-life here. True freie Liebe [free love]. Lendvai declared “it is much easier to conquer women here” than anywhere else. He’s already conquered four. And you can conquer anyone. As long as you are impertinent enough and start speaking in as bad German as you possibly can.41

Twice the young composers also premièred their works together at academy student concerts. One on June 20, 1905, featured Kodály’s string quartet movement in E minor and a movement from a string trio, along the first three movements of Lendvai’s String Quartet in E Minor and one of his songs.42 On October 22, 1906, the evening of the première of Summer Evening, Lendvai’s orchestral scherzo, A habok játékában (Playful billows in the sea), was also heard.43 Kodály writes to Emma with a hint of malice about the preparations: “The concert program consists of 10 pieces. Lendvai sent two symphonic works; looks like it’ll be a sad business.”44 In the end only A habok játékában was performed. Its orchestral score, probably the one prepared for this performance, is held in the Academy of Music library to this day.45 Neither this score nor the E minor string quartet nor the catalogs by Leichtentritt and Büsser feature the theme incipit of the fourth movement of Kodály’s string quartet. Nonetheless, the melody is not foreign to Lendvai’s style. The second movement of his String Trio in A Minor, also contemporaneous with Kodály’s string quartet, is likewise a set of variations.46 Its theme is in a binary form, with an eight-measure section A followed by an eight-measure section B.

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This form matches Kodály’s theme, except that Lendvai, who varies the B section on repetition, writes it out. Despite its balanced structure, the awkwardness of the melody is apparent. In the first half it seems as if it is moving within a pentachord, unable to decide which way to develop; the first three bars do not break away from the orbit of A. While progressing to the dominant, the period expands upward, but the direction is offset by the sequence of section B, which is based on the subdominant and the tonic. The following ascending, scale-like melody—a feature in several compositions, among them the orchestral scherzo A habok játékában—throws the listener completely off-balance. The melody moves within a wide interval range but has no direction. This aimlessness is emphasized by the closing formula of an octave and a half (C5–F5–G4–C4), at the varied repetition of section B. Yet it is unlikely that the theme of the fourth movement of Kodály’s string quartet comes from Lendvai. The model could also have been the melody of the ”népies műdal” Igricziből Papiba, on which Kodály was planning to write a series of variations at the time. This melody, like the theme of the variation, has a four-line structure evoking new-style Hungarian folk songs, with the third and fourth lines also repeated. Although the popular song is in a minor key, here again there is an important role for triad arpeggios and a tonally adjusted shift of a fifth between the first and second lines. The theme of the variation movement certainly marks a stage in Kodály’s development as a composer, but he realized it was outmoded and moved on in 1908–9, after his encounter with true folk song. So the C major theme symbolizes his own earlier misconceptions about Hungarian folk music, which he had overcome, and also what Kodály calls “the half-educated nature . . . of the transitional man,” i.e., something that Lendvai might have written—at least in Kodály’s eyes.47 In gauging the significance and meaning of the theme it is worth recalling that even if the fourth movement uses a popular art song, the first three are all based on one true Hungarian folk song that undergoes changes in the first three movements but stays coherent throughout. The main theme in the first movement derives from the folk song motto. So do the new theme of the transition, several theme fragments of the second movement (notably the bass of the work’s central fugato section in C major), and the Trio theme in the third movement (Example 2). As the example shows, the melody undergoes marked changes. Meanwhile, new themes appear at various points, such as the second subject area or the main section of the third movement. The latter may be as a free inversion of the trio theme, and so as a distant relative of the folk song motto, but the former is a wholly new melody. Even so, it does not depart from the movement’s homogeneous texture, mainly because its wavelike steps of seconds match the contour of the main theme. The homogeneity of the two themes is enhanced by the way Kodály develops the sonata form of the movement. He does not employ the Brahmsian developing-

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example 2 . Folk song theme of String Quartet No. 1 and its variations, © 1910 Universal Music Publishing Editio Musica Budapest.

œœœ œ ? # # # 46 œ . J œ œ J œ .  . œ ? ### 4 J œ .  4

6 4

.

&

###

j j j ?4 œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . . Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ 4

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. J . .

œ œ œ œœ œ . œ ? b b c œ œ  œ œ œ œ œ . œj œ œ œ  œ . œ œ œ J œ œ œ  œ œ œ  œj ‰  œjœ b œ. w œœ œ # ## & # c 

3

j œ

w

w

w

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

? #### 2 œ n œ œ ≈ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ 4œ B ## œ œ

#œ.

j œ œ #œ œ

variation technique. His themes do not unfold from each other as in the Sonatina (1903). They take a new form each time, while still displaying their kinship. By placing the thematic variations in sequence, Kodály combines the sonata form with variation. So the movement only remotely follows the regular textbook structure. The second subject also assumes a developmental character with a structure that is open both formally and harmonically, while the incipit of the main theme, with its characteristic leap of a fourth, returns in the development (bar 133) and continues in place of the reprise. The only point at which a sense of recapitulation appears is in the second subject (bar 245), where the symmetry of the sonata form is restored by an emphatic invocation of the folk song motto in the coda (bar 311). In fact, variation dominates all three movements in the way the folk song motto is transformed. This explains Kodály’s eagerness to point out thematic links in his own analysis of the work.48 He may have met with this composition principle in the Debussy String Quartet, where the first, second, and fourth movements rest on variations of the same theme. In Debussy’s quartet, it is the third movement that differs thematically from the others, if not to the extent of the final movement in Kodály’s work. Kodály’s theme—a quarter note followed by sixteenth

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triplets—is modeled on the main theme of the first movement, maintaining the structure and thematic order in a manner that opposes the principle of developing variation. The first movement of Debussy’s quartet is marked by variation throughout. Like Kodály’s opening movement, it follows the sonata structure only in broad outline. Debussy’s main theme returns several times in the movement, like a rondo theme, often in the home key of G minor. The same thematic material provides the episodes serving as the development section, second subject area, and closing section. So the whole movement appears as one big development, which reduces the listener’s ability to distinguish individual formal sections.49 The variation principle is even stronger in Debussy’s second movement, where it is combined with the trio form. This produces a kind of “folded” structure, where the main section and its varied recapitulations enclose a middle section of four smaller parts—all variations of the quartet’s theme. Moreover, the fourth section, despite being a variation itself, recalls the first small section of this central part, which brings about a reprise structure within the middle section. Kodály tried similar techniques in the second movement of the quartet, which follows an A–B–C–B–A form, despite the ternary structure to which Kodály himself ascribed it.50 Debussy in his string quartet links two principles: variation dominates within the movements, while the juxtaposing of the melodic variations eases digression from the traditional formal order. The work’s thematic unity arises from its ceaseless transformations, and yet the theme returns in all movements. So Debussy ignores developing variation by drawing up a new principle, which Kodály picks up in turn, although the latter’s forms exhibit far closer ties to traditional textbook plans. The first three movements based on the folk song motto follow Debussy’s ideals, but the closing movement based on a “népies műdal” reverts to Brahmsian technique of bass variation and developing variation. This lends exceptional significance to Kodály’s gradual breakup of the “népies műdal” theme and its absorption into the fabric of the finale. The introductory section has hesitant shards of folk song from earlier movements representing amorphous, obscure, rudimentary ideas that betray no premonition of things to come. Their presence is then challenged by the five new themes that appear for the period of the five variations. From the sixth variation, however, the C major theme starts to decay, and by the end of the movement it is destroyed. So the first three movements symbolize new Hungarian music, rooted in true folk music and combined with Debussy’s modernity, but the popular art song of the fourth marks a delusion, a fallacy. The individual variations denote stages of learning, of discovering one’s true self, in a process through which Kodály could rid himself of earlier misconceptions. Here Emma’s variation also seems to have significance; meeting this woman proved as decisive a moment in his creative development as the discovery of true folk song, or of Debussy’s modern music.

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Thus the genesis of the First String Quartet and its hidden message mark a coming of age, a journey on which Kodály developed into a composer with a voice of his own. His choice of a short ”népies műdal” as the theme of the variation movement served in part to bring about a composition debate with Koessler, to prove it was indeed possible to build an entire Hungarian-style composition on Hungarian musical elements—that is, on authentic Hungarian folk song. In the First String Quartet, the ”népies műdal” appears in the closing movement, as in Brahms’s Piano Quartet in G Minor, disrupting the work’s homogeneity and even calling its legitimacy into question. The composition embarks on the same journey of discovery as does the composer, from almost total assimilation of Brahms’s music to the dual revelation of authentic folk song and Debussy. Autodidacticism, Kodály’s own concept of learning, exemplified his constant search for the truth and shedding of illusions. Those who find a true self find personal truth, and Kodály, having finally found the voice of his “deepest inner self ” in his First String Quartet, also discovered and created the ideals of new Hungarian art music.

5

Commentaries on Debussy Kodály’s Turn toward Western Modernity

When Claude Debussy died in 1918, Kodály wrote an obituary in Nyugat, the leading Hungarian literary and arts journal of the time. In it he highlighted a single work, Pelléas et Melisande, through which he explained the significance of the French composer in music history from several points of view. Among the decisive features of Debussy’s œuvre pointed out by Kodály were the work’s pervasive Franco-Latin spirit, its lucidity and picturesqueness, and the way it formulates the perfect French recitative style. In the closing paragraphs he sought to situate Debussy in the history of music: Anyone who goes his own way to such an extent will not find easy success, and possibly for a long time, perhaps forever, Debussy’s music will belong only to a few. But his influence has become widespread and beneficial, possibly less in his compositions themselves than in the stimulus they give to others. His educational effect may be more and greater than all his works. His compass points the way to a purer, superior art. We now begin through him to understand what people meant when they praised Mozart’s taste—a word that seems to have lost meaning since. But now, while so much distorted noise is being passed off as music, the first timid rays of beauty, Latin in its lines, seem to shine forth anew from Debussy’s works. The course on which he set out leads toward freedom and beauty. And it does not matter how large a part of this new world belongs to him. His realm is not large, not comparable with that of the greatest few composers. But he is a poet in his own realm and nobody can be more than that.1

Although it is the French composer whom he ostensibly seeks to portray, Kodály seems to be painting his own portrait. When he describes Debussy’s music as the art of a few, and sees its inspirational, educative nature as its most powerful 56

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trait, he defines in fact his own status in the recent history of Hungarian music. And when he declares that Debussy’s œuvre, emanating from a superior musical taste comparable only to Mozart’s, leads the way to a new, unaffected art guided by a beauty “Latin in its lines,” he is again presenting his own aesthetic ideals. Kodály, having composed between 1910 and 1917 only songs and chamber and piano works, seems to have seen himself primarily as a poetic composer, based on his output at the time. Nevertheless, the preference for “Latin” culture over German can be linked also to postwar, anti-German sentiment. So why did Kodály feel impelled to present this “self-portrait” on the occasion of Debussy’s death? He had arrived at a crossroads in 1918. In Debussy’s lifetime, his music had repeatedly elicited new responses from the younger composer. After his death, Debussy’s works no longer prompted Kodály to challenge or pay tribute to them; indeed, by 1918 he had found new ideals to follow. The next five years brought a radical turn in his artistic development—one deeply rooted also in the painful incidents of war and the path leading up to it. Postwar Europe’s leading intellectuals upheld wholesale renewal, which meant dismissing the immediate past and the emerging appeal of classicism.2 As the war drew to a close, the features of Debussy’s music that seemed progressive to Kodály—such as classicism, Mozartian refinement, pure and sophisticated art, educational significance—retained their substance and relevance for him as characteristic of the new aesthetic order. This also explains why he kept silent about the harmonic phenomena in the French master’s œuvre, to which he had been so drawn before 1914. In the one sentence of the obituary that he devoted to Debussy’s harmonic vocabulary, he noted how often Debussy ignored the advantages of combining chords in a customary way and thereby increased the expressive force of the chords he used.3 This brief, somewhat truncated description suggests that the main impact of Debussy’s harmonic language on Kodály was the heightened expression brought about by the discarding of traditional chord relationships. Expressive power is also central to a conversation between Kodály and Ernest Ansermet in 1947: Debussy and the French in general provided a fine model of expression. Even so, we found them a little too visual in nature. Their works are affected constantly by visually expressive elements, and they are perhaps unable to get closer to the essentially musical layers. To a certain extent, of course, we Hungarians also give preference to visible elements, and our painter predecessors, striving for lucid expression, also found the roots of their art in France.4

There is a distinct blend of esteem and criticism in Kodály’s remarks. By underlining how French culture inspired the emergence of modern Hungarian art, he presents an ideological reconstruction of his own music-historical past. Yet he underlines the idiosyncratic traits in Hungarian music and talks dismissively of

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the model when saying that French art is overly dependent on visual or picturesque expressive devices and thus restricted in expression in terms of absolute music. Kodály’s private notes, in which he was less concerned with self-censorship, give a more truthful account of Debussy’s strong effect on him. A note entitled Autobiográfia (Autobiography) explores the reasons why he decided not to meet Debussy in person during his time in Paris: “Debussy: I did not approach him. What do I have to say that can be of consequence to him? I am no journalist able to make him speak.”5 This note, one of several he wrote after the Paris trip, records the young composer’s approach to self-awareness as an artist,6 and how Kodály saw Debussy as a great master (“What do I have to say that can be of consequence to him?”); perhaps implied in this comment is that he may have wished to become acquainted with Debussy, but thought it ill-mannered to approach him and instead contented himself with studying his works. In another note, probably of a later date, Kodály writes, “I never had to experience disillusionment. I always loved the same music (Mozart and Bach). For a moment, I was dazzled by Bériot’s Ninth [Violin] Concerto, but I always knew that it had never reached the heights of Mozart. R[ichard] Strauss I never liked; Debussy I did immediately, and that stayed with me.”7 This suggests his appreciation of Debussy’s music was instant and he would remain an admirer for the rest of his life, but the statement is significantly altered in a further note, where he compares his composing career to Leó Weiner’s: “I respect the position that Weiner worked hard to gain, but we cannot follow the same path. We never had mutual passions in music . . . Debussy. I also laughed in the winter of 1906 / 7 in Berlin (Mouvement). But he also laughed in 1910 or 1911 in Budapest at the Chansons de France. Even though he had been to Paris in between.”8 Kodály’s notes on Weiner are almost always sarcastic, thus the significance of these sentences is to be sought elsewhere.9 The note, in fact, makes it clear that Debussy’s music became a revelation to him in Paris, while in Berlin he had admittedly not yet understood it—he laughed at it. At the same time the note reveals that the first composition to present him with the new music of the age was the Mouvement in the Images series. So it seems reasonable to explore which compositions of Debussy Kodály discovered after Mouvement, and which ones he saw as possible models for his own purposes. Kodály’s library contains several Debussy scores, among them a piano reduction of Pelléas et Melisande, La Mer, Jeux, and Gigues (first movement of the orchestral Images), as well as the scores of the String Quartet and those of Children’s Corner, En blanc et noir, and the first series of Preludes.10 Marginal notes by Kodály can be found only in the scores of La Mer and Gigues, and concern exclusively typographical corrections.11 Nevertheless, the many corrections in La Mer demonstrate the rigor with which Kodály studied the score, which was published

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in 1905, so that he possibly obtained it during his stay in Paris. This does not apply to the piano reduction of Pelléas et Melisande, copyrighted in 1902, which from its condition looks as if it were probably purchased sometime after World War II. Yet Kodály had known the opera earlier, as can be seen from his reference to it in his 1918 Debussy obituary.12 Kodály acquired the scores of Children’s Corner, Jeux, and En blanc et noir, published in 1908, 1913, and 1915 respectively, after his studies in Paris, while the score of Preludes was a present to him much later.13 In addition, he probably read through several published works during his stay in Paris, and later had access to the materials in the Academy of Music library as well. So he would have had a chance before 1918 to examine the Estampes series, published in 1903, the two Images cycles from 1908, the second volume of Preludes, a number of songs, Ariettes oubliées from 1903, the full score of Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune from 1895, as well as Nocturnes from 1905 and Six Épigraphes antiques from 1914.14 One of the first pieces Kodály encountered was Debussy’s String Quartet. Although his library holds only a 1960 edition, Kodály noted down the second movement from memory for Emma after returning from Paris,15 and a few weeks later composed Méditation sur un motif de Claude Debussy for piano as an expression of respect.16 Kodály’s harmonic language, as remarked by his first analysts, was based on the works of the late Romantics and Debussy. As early as 1925, Antal Molnár stated in his Az új zene (New music) that Debussy’s main influence on Kodály’s compositions may be seen in the young composer’s Romantic / Impressionistic chordal vocabulary,17 but also emphasized the differences in their harmonic thinking: Kodály . . . adheres closer to the achievements of Romanticism; his harmonic realm evolved from the chordal vocabulary of Romanticism (especially Impressionism) through a process of sublimation, to become [a] piece with a new type of grand formal design. That is where the main Debussy link lies. But what in Debussy’s chordal writing is all but an end in itself, the sensual, radiant power of harmonies in Kodály is just a means to serve a higher formal concept, not as in Debussy an atmospheric quality of the whole form or part of it.18

So Molnár emphasized first and foremost that Kodály’s harmonic thinking—however deeply rooted in the chordal vocabulary of the post-Wagnerian era, and as such striving to expand the bounds of tonality—differs fundamentally from Debussy’s, which is chiefly a coloring device; Kodály’s harmonic writing is never arbitrary but always in service of the form. Moreover, Molnár claimed in his later writings, such as the essay A ma zenéje (Music of today)19 and Az új muzsika szelleme (The spirit of new music)20 written twenty years later, that it was mistaken to link Kodály’s harmonics exclusively to Debussy’s, as Kodály, formally and harmonically, was a synthesist of great significance, who not only created “the singularly cohesive system of the entire Romantic chordal vocabulary,”21 but strove to

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preserve Impressionistic chordal writing and integrate it into a “rigorous, systematic and solid formal structure.”22 Molnár’s evaluation inspired András Szőllősy (1921–2007), the young composer and Kodály pupil who outlined two periods in Kodály’s œuvre. He believed that this harmonic vocabulary—distilled, classicizing, and so a further distance from Debussy—features mainly in works composed after 1923.23 The piano works, composed between 1907 and 1918, and arranged in two bigger cycles, Kilenc zongoradarab, originally under the title Zongoramuzsika (Piano music / Nine piano pieces), op. 3,24 and Hét zongoradarab (Seven Pieces for Piano), op. 11, are undoubtedly the most radical of Kodály’s compositions. This radicalism lies in their harmonic experimentation, marking a trend that strove to differ from traditional tonal thinking, such as Jim Samson detected in the works of a number of composers from 1907–8.25 Kodály’s piano works systematically employ such practices as the leading-note principle, chromatic broken chords replacing pure chords, chords of fifths and thirds, organ-point solutions and mixtures, and chord symbols. The most radical solution appears in Zongoramuzsika no. 2 (the first of the op. 3 pieces), where Kodály reinterprets the basic chords with enharmonic thirds, or breaks plain fifths with chromatic changes that ultimately leave listeners uncertain what key the music is moving in. However, this departure from functional tonality assists with the folk song or folk music allusions in later movements (Nine piano pieces, nos. 2, 3, 5, 7, 8), where modal or even pentatonic turns are matched with chords built of seconds or thirds. The breakaway from traditional tonality was bound up with the decisive experience of his study trip in Paris: his encounter with Debussy’s music. The harmonics of the works composed right after his return from Paris can be taken as a conscious response to Debussy’s compositions, and with the piano works, Kodály decidedly joins in the realm of new music.26 His desire to honor Debussy is obvious in the title Méditation sur un motif de Claude Debussy, and in the motifs quoted, but in the meantime it comments on the harmonic discourse of the new music to which Kodály wished to contribute. This piano work lines up like a compendium of all the harmonic solutions that he incorporated into his piano works of that time or a little later. In the dissertation chapter analyzing Kodály’s harmonic language, Szőllősy emphasized that some of the composer’s harmonic formations assume symbolic significance, and he drew scholars’ attention to the question of harmonic symbols, such as high registers, parallel fifths and fourths, arpeggios, and pedal points. In addition, Szőllősy pointed out that “with Kodály, a harmony is no static phenomenon; in each case it gains purpose from its surroundings, from the harmonies preceding and following it, and from its relationship to the harmonic outline of the whole composition. Hence the harmonies have no constant meaning, the meaning changing every time they appear.”27

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Szőllősy’s observation applies particularly to the harmonic realm of Kodály’s first mature creative period, which is constructed in a linguistic fashion due to the way chords follow one another, yet does not always possess clear meaning in the manner that words and sentences do in language. Nonetheless, the harmony built on the notes of the whole-tone scale stands out among the chords endowed with special connotation: its appearance is always associated with a specific domain of meaning. Examining the role of the whole-tone scale in Debussy’s works, Arnold Whitall suggested that such works as L’isle joyeuse, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, and Nuages have this scale as a symbol of nature.28 Kodály, too, must have been familiar with Debussy’s symbolic interpretation of the whole-tone scale. Sketches for the first chorus of Kodály’s most notable composition using the scale, Hegyi éjszakák (Mountain nights, 1923), reveal that the composer originally wanted to name the work “Nocturnes alpestres.”29 “Nocturnes” alludes to Debussy’s composition of that title, while the work itself shows that Kodály, following in Debussy’s footsteps, linked the whole-tone scale with nature and a natural stance. It then becomes reasonable to assume that chords built from the notes of this scale are, for Kodály, paradigmatic examples contributing to a discourse on harmony in new music. Subsequently, the harmonic phenomena gained a more expansive symbolic meaning, including the notion of wholeness, as well as Debussy, modernity, and even French culture. The chord also plays a strong role in Méditation sur un motif de Claude Debussy. The piano work develops a theme from Debussy’s String Quartet. In its use of intervals, the form most resembles what appears in the second movement of the quartet, but Kodály transposes the melody half a tone higher, starting on A flat instead of G minor, and significantly modifies its rhythmic makeup by giving it in an augmented form (Example 3). The shape the theme takes never appears in Debussy, which creates an effect as if it were noted down from memory. This gesture alone represents what the title of the work suggests. It reflects on Debussy’s theme, which in some fundamental features—such as the use of intervals and the dual nature of key (in the original, the opening G minor gesture is coupled with E flat major, while in Kodály’s work the A flat minor goes with F flat major)— corresponds to the source, but in a number of aspects differs from it (transposition and augmentation). Meditation on the subject, however, continues further in other facets of the music, as Kodály extends the concept of reflection to the whole composition. One such aspect is form, where the first part of the ternary structure (bars 1–29) seems to be seeking the right shape for the theme. This initial hesitation is expressed by the absence of melody, a great number of rests, resulting in a markedly broken, punctuated quality, and a series of sequential formulae. The ensuing section B (bars 30–71) is much more unified. Here the melody-dominated musical process is not interrupted by rests, though the theme itself does not develop yet. The third

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example 3 . Theme of Debussy’s String Quartet and opening theme of Méditation, © 1925 by Universal Edition, Copyright assigned 1952, 1953 to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 7799. 3 # 6 b œ œ œj b œ & 8 œ œ œ nœ

3 Œ b

&4

œ œ bœ

b.

œ ∫œ bœ œ 4

b.

section recalls briefly the thematic elements in the first two sections and again closes without allowing the theme to unfold completely (bars 72–98). The form is simple and schematic, but offset by markedly complex harmonic writing, which brings in the full harmonic array being championed by new music. This idea of searching, prominent in the first section, is conveyed by a series of chords and broken chords, ordered seemingly at random. The bass melody evolving from Debussy’s theme is, however, detached from the broken chords above it. Although the sustained notes could serve as root notes for the arpeggio treatment of the chords in the upper voice, these are quite self-contained. In general, the arpeggiated chords produce imperfect ninth chords, with four-note chords appearing in bars 5 (C–G flat–B flat–D), 11 (B–F–A–C sharp), and 15 (C–G flat–B flat–D). In the first two cases, the bass sounds the major third below the root note of the ninth chord, thus creating an eleventh chord. At the third arpeggiated chord, however, the root note of the bass is reinforced by the note C. These three chords display two defining characteristics. On the one hand, two are built from the first five notes and the third from the first four notes of the whole-tone scale (1. G flat–A flat–B flat–C–D; 2. F–G–A–B–C sharp; 3. G flat–B flat–C–D). On the other, the harp-like arpeggiation accentuates the three upper notes of the chord, consisting of major third and major second (G flat–B flat–C; F–A–B; G flat–B flat–C). These three notes form the expanded version of the theme’s closing formula, and are identical to the three upper notes of the sixte ajoutée—the minor triad with an added major sixth. These two types of chord relate to each other, being built from thirds and including the whole-tone scale and another French phenomenon, the sixte ajoutée, and form the harmonic structure of the whole composition. It is the sixte ajoutée that gains special significance in the second section. The swinging arpeggios—Kodály’s performance direction, quasi arpa, also evokes the broken chords of the harp—produce a minor triad that, resembling a first inversion seventh chord and the dissonance of the seconds in the upper voice, underlines the main characteristic trait of the Rameauian sixte ajoutée, namely the interval of a major sixth added to a consonant chord. For Kodály, however, third relation and the closely connected system of thirds and their inversion (for example, in the form of sixte ajoutée) are, in any case, the most important elements of the composition.

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facsimile 4 . Kodály’s sketch for a modulation process with seventh, ninth, and eleventh chords built on thirds (ca. 1906), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus. 147, 9v.

This is why seventh, ninth, and eleventh chords built on thirds are so crucial in the work. An early staffed note sheet written by Kodály reveals that the young composer was indeed studying the characteristics of these chords (Facsimile 4). Apart from a few sketches for piano—indicated by Kodály’s title—the manuscript sheet lists plagal cadences. However, there is a ninth chord built from the notes C–E–G flat–B flat–D underneath the chordal progressions, next to which Kodály writes: “[Ebből az akkord]-ból is közvetlen bármely dúr akkordba mehetni. Vagy D vagy S szerepe van C-fundamentből is. Azonkívül minden hangja lehet fundament” ([From this chord], possible to go to any major chord. Or it plays the role of D or S on a C root as well. All its notes can be foundations). The chord built on thirds notated by Kodály consists of an incomplete whole-tone scale (C–D–E–G flat–B flat). The most obvious trait of such a chord, or of the wholetone scale, is that any of its notes can serve as a tonic or root. The notes of the wholetone scale can be turned into eleventh chords built on thirds, just as the seven notes of the diatonic scale can. Nonetheless, the significance of Kodály’s note lies in his realization that any of the notes in the chord can serve as a base note, and that such chords can function as both dominant and subdominant, for as mentioned in connection with the whole-tone scale, the chord written by Kodály, containing a tritone, lacks both the dominant and the subdominant. So the whole-tone scale became one of the musical devices for breaking away from functional thinking. Another striking feature of Kodály’s sketch sheet is that the notated chord contains a chord built from notes of an incomplete whole-tone scale, exactly like the one that appears six times in the composition (bars 49, 54, 58, 62, 75, and 79) in different inversions, and therefore with different resolutions. When compared with the complete whole-tone chord in bars 68–70, which can also be seen as the inversion of an eleventh chord of thirds (D flat–F–A–E flat–G–B, as the root position E flat–G–B–D flat–F–A, and as whole-tone scale D flat–E–F–G–A–B), it becomes clear that the incompleteness of the earlier chords must be meaningful. The manuscript of Méditation (Facsimile 5) also provides evidence of this; Kodály

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facsimile 5 . Manuscript of Méditation with French inscription (1906), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus. 20, 3r.

wrote on its page 3 recto, above the whole-tone chord in question, “Ah! c’est toi, mon ami!” István Kecskeméti, in his study of Kodály’s piano music, believes “Ah! It’s you, my friend!” is a message to Debussy.30 In light of foregone events, however, “my friend” is an unlikely sobriquet for Debussy. What is meant is the whole-tone scale: this is where Kodály discovers the specific harmonic phenomenon for himself. Indeed, the whole composition seems to represent a search for, and an exploration of, such phenomenon. The task in the intermittent, improvisational first section, with its amorphous, undeveloped chordal formations, is to arrive at this chord; it brings us to the sections dominated by sixtes ajoutées, which play an important role in creating tonal ambiguity. Since they rely on third relations, the whole-tone chord’s emergence is foretold. Furthermore, momentous stages in this search can be seen in the six incomplete whole-tone chords. Thus the whole-note chord, like the sixte ajoutée, bears symbolic significance. It serves to symbolize that notion of wholeness latent in every departure—in the case of Méditation, already in the first section—but which one can only discover after an arduous and lengthy search. So Méditation is not merely a commentary on Debussy’s String Quartet. The protagonist of this narrative is not the author but the recipient—not Debussy but Kodály. Debussy’s theme serves only as a point of origin for Kodály, a starting point for the journey through unknown paths toward the essential discovery represented by the whole-tone scale: his own self and the modernity of the world around him. It is this discovery that authorizes Kodály to let the work fall silent with C major, the most consonant of chords. As does the First String Quartet, Méditation tells the story of Kodály finding “his deepest inner self,” but here this is linked tightly to one parameter of music—harmony—which represented the most radical direction of modern music at that time. So the piano also comments on the harmonic peculiarities of new music, and for that reason evades consonant solutions and loosens the boundaries of traditional functional thinking. It builds on lessons learned from the system of thirds and makes the whole-tone scale its primary focus. The twofold commentary renders Méditation the first paradigmatic composition in Kodály’s absorption of Debussy.

6

Nausicaa, Sappho, and Other Women in Love Women and Modernism in Kodály’s Songs

The young Zoltán Kodály was beguiled by the mythical figure of Nausicaa, a Phaeacian princess, but despite his fascination, the song “Nausicaa” is the only piece dedicated to her. Completed on July 6, 1907, it sets a poem by Kodály’s youthful love, Aranka Bálint.1 The composer may also have planned an orchestral piece with the same title, as a twin for Nyári este (Summer evening), written in 1906.2 References in his notebook indicate that Kodály thought of composing two other orchestral pictures, “Nausicaa” and “Circe,” sometime between 1916 and 1919.3 In 1924 the Hungarian writer Zsigmond Móricz (1879–1942) asked him to write an opera based on his three-act drama, The Adventures of Odysseus, where the three acts present three women in Odysseus’s life: Nausicaa, Circe, and Penelope.4 This offered Kodály a chance to realize his dream of composing an opera linked to ancient Greece, yet he never set the play to music. All that is known is his wish to insert the earlier song “Nausicaa” into the first act.5 From the outset, researchers into the composer’s life stressed the importance to him of the figures of Odysseus and his three loves. Bence Szabolcsi suggested as early as 1926 that the hero of Kodály’s 1926 singspiel, János Háry —himself an adventurer, a kind of Hungarian Odysseus—was an alter ego of the composer.6 A similar remark was made by the critic and composer Sándor [Alexander] Jemnitz (1890–1963), who had been Arnold Schoenberg’s private pupil, in a sardonic review of 1928 that accused Kodály of being a “zeneháryjános” (The János Háry of music). By using such term, Jemnitz proposed that just as János Háry seeks to impress others through his feats, so too Kodály seeks to convince others, through his music and public image, that he is a great composer, and thus Kodály sees in János Háry a reflection of his own true self.7 Recently Tibor Tallián has pointed out 65

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that the Lover, another Hungarian Odysseus in Kodály’s 1932 lyric play Székely fonó (The spinning room), may be a parallel persona of the composer.8 Kodály’s identification with Odysseus impelled Tallián to search for the women in Kodály’s life that he associated with the female figures of The Odyssey. Tallián connected Penelope with Kodály’s first wife, Emma, and argued that the main female characters in Kodály’s stage works, Örzse in Háry and the Housewife in The Spinning Room, were also counterparts of her.9 Kodály’s dedication of Háry János to his wife with the words “To my Örzse” is indeed telling.10 As no love affairs in Kodály’s life are known after his marriage to Emma in 1910, the models for Nausicaa and Circe must be sought in an earlier stage of Kodály’s life. Tallián has good reason to refer to the emotionally turbulent times around 1906–7, when the song “Nausicaa” was composed, as a period when Kodály was having to choose from among one of three women: Emma, Aranka, or the German actress Eva Martersteig.11 The situation proved so traumatic for the young composer that he was still inclined seventeen years later to compose an opera from Zsigmond Móricz’s erotic drama, which focuses on a man’s right to sexual satisfaction and infidelity.12 Kodály kept a diary on his trip to Berlin in 1906–7, which helps in reconstructing the events leading to the traumatic experiences and his final decision in favor of Emma.13 The other source of information on the period is the diary of Béla Balázs, Kodály’s closest friend at the time, who would later be the librettist for Bartók’s Bluebeard’s Castle and writer of the scenario for The Wooden Prince.14 In fact, it was probably the extrovert Balázs who persuaded the reserved Kodály to embark on keeping a diary at all. For Balázs the diary genre was a specific form of public, not private, literature in which a young and sensitive artist was at liberty to formulate ideas on life, philosophy, friendship, and love—in Balázs’s case his thoughts on friendship with Kodály and his own love for Aranka Bálint. Apart from Aranka and Kodály, Balázs’s closest circle embraced another woman, Paula Hermann; the members of this group not only read Balázs’s diary but expressed views on it in letters and conversations.15 Kodály’s entries in his own diary and in his travel diary Voyage en Hongrie, written some months after his trip to Berlin and Paris, reflect the influence of Balázs’s style and attitude.16 The central theme in these accounts is love. Both describe Berlin as a city of erotic freedom, where the practice of free love raised no ethical questions, as the concept of sexuality had nothing to do with feelings.17 It is highly likely that Kodály, looking for “the true one,” as Balázs put it,18 deeply resented this approach, particularly when he was temporarily confused about his feelings for Emma and Aranka and fell in love with the actress Eva Martersteig, portrayed by Balázs as Circe.19 She gave herself to Kodály but abstained from any romantic feelings. (“Nur keine Sehnsucht haben, bitte” [Let’s have no yearning, please], she told him.)20 In a diary entry of March 12, 1907, Kodály tried to describe her personality but struggled to find suitable words, as the fragmentary phrasing shows:

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Eva. I know her a little better now. I don’t even know what to write about her. What I would, I cannot. That I feel alive!—How lovely she is always, even if she’s not beautiful. She walks around like a vision, things just get done by themselves around her— the most common daily things—as if by some magical spell, invisible elves sorted everything out. Intangible even in the most tangible things. The way she moves is “so kultiviert” [cultivated]. Perhaps her “zur Natur gewordene Kultur” [her culture that has become nature] draws me to her. And how crisp and glowing she is. “Schreckt dich das?” [Does that shock you?], she asked when she told me she was also disposed toward lesbian love. . . . Also, the primordial features in her. Like primitive melodies among convoluted voices of ultramodern symphonies. That for her a handshake and a kiss barely differ. (The spiral evolution: when cultural heights communicate with the primitive.)21

Clearly Eva represented for Kodály a cultured sophistication that nonetheless retained its ancient, primitive features. In his eyes she blended nature and refinement, archaism and modernity—a combination that would become Kodály’s lofty ideal some years later, when he embarked on creating a new Hungarian music.22 Emma and Aranka stood for different views of life, as he had tried to express some months before: The difference between Emma and Aranka: When I asked Aranka if she liked [Peter] Camenzind, she began by saying: “Hesse is only a follower, and not even the best.” And Emma? I don’t even remember what she replied. Aranka is a person of reflections, she weighs all ideas carefully. Emma, however, is primeval nature itself. Her perceptive abilities are much slighter than Aranka’s because she is an original, “core” personality. I often wondered why her letters don’t reveal any of this (it’s simple: because she writes a lot. Only a few of Goethe’s letters do too) and the way she speaks means it only becomes clear when her ideas have begun to take shape. Perhaps she has not quite mastered either language. But even behind conventional expressions, there are peculiar, original notions. Her language facility is limited, which is why she dresses [her thoughts] in learned formulae. If you disregard this language, you will understand [her]. Her originality is therefore distributed in her whole disposition and substance, in a way that does not manifest itself in her speech. She would be unable to adopt foreign opinions as Aranka does. She always remembers who taught her this or that. As a result, she quotes much, sometimes absolutely ordinary ideas from ordinary people. And for this too she has her “index of sources.” Aranka is, to be true, much younger; she is not yet complete.23

While Aranka’s main qualities include reflexivity, receptivity, and immaturity, Emma figures in this entry as an embodiment of “primeval nature.” Indeed, Kodály’s description of Emma strikingly resembles the way folk music operates: peasant songs—words and melodies alike—rest on learned formulae that vary slightly at each new performance. Of this the twenty-four-year-old Kodály was fully aware, having written his doctoral thesis in 1906 on the strophic structure of Hungarian

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folk songs.24 Moreover, peasants remember clearly who they learned songs from: this is (as Bartók wrote) a piece of information that a collector should ask them to provide.25 Kodály’s wording here, “index of sources,” is telling: he applied the practice when he began publishing his Hungarian Folk Music series in 1924, always naming the source for a given melody.26 So it is hardly surprising that Örzse and the Housewife, both representative of Emma in Kodály’s stage works, should sing—that is, quote—folk songs, not art songs or arias, to express their feelings. Kodály’s diary describes three types of women, but it may be more apposite to see how he discusses women in general. He is affected by them, yet tries to speak of them with a kind of scientific objectivity. This approach too was probably prompted by Balázs’s diary, which looks repeatedly at the roles of men and women and analyzes various women in detail—notably Aranka Bálint.27 The descriptions make it clear that to Balázs, as to Kodály, women represent “otherness,” a strange category full of mysteries to solve. Women feature in the diary entries as objects of scrutiny. Voyage en Hongrie shows the young folk-song collector developing an interest in the roles of women in peasant society. His experiences convinced him that women, and relations between women and men, played as crucial a part in peasant society as in modern urban society. He was especially drawn to lone, independent women.28 Kodály’s fascination with women who defied the norms of society may also have originated in Ernst von Wolzogen’s 1899 novel Das dritte Geschlecht (The third sex), which he often read and quoted, according to the Balázs diary and his own Voyage en Hongrie.29 It features women who refuse to accept the way of life imposed on them by society and tradition, and come to represent a “third sex.” Wolzogen’s seemingly objective, yet parodistic novel was influenced by Nietzsche’s antifeminist views, which seem also to have had an impact on Kodály and Balázs.30 An entry in the latter’s diary tells of Kodály quoting a passage on the nature of women.31 Balázs also took to Nietzsche’s idea that equality between people in general is inconceivable.32 On relations between men and women and their respective roles in society, he argued that women should fight for their right to be different, not for equality.33 Written records of Kodály’s views on this have not survived, but his works show that his creative interests centered on his own position as a man in society. His songs and stage works predominantly represent the emotions of men, that is, the feelings of his own artistic self. Aranka Bálint’s account of Kodály, preserved in Balázs’s diary, confirms his preoccupation with the male perspective and with selfexpression. She compares Kodály to the mythological Narcissus, who after rejecting all women infatuated with him, meets his fate when he falls in love with his own reflection in the water.34 Kodály’s “narcissistic” personality and the male narrative that dominates his oeuvre show plainly in his stage works35 and in the fact that only two of his forty-one art songs written in 1906–26 are expressly for a

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woman’s voice: “Nausicaa” and “Sappho’s Love Song” of 1916. In a further song, entitled “Haja, haja” (Alas, alas), the first stanza is written for a man and the second for a woman, while three other songs (“Mezei dal” [Meadow song] and “Fáj a szívem” [My heart aches] in Négy dal [Four songs] and “Kicsi virágom” [My little flower] in Öt dal [Five songs], op. 9) can be sung by either men or women. The proportion of men’s to women’s songs in Kodály’s Hungarian Folk Music, which Kodály began to compose in 1917, and on which he was working for two decades, is far more balanced than in his art songs: the 62 songs consist of 23 women’s and 26 men’s songs, five songs for two performers (a man and a woman), and eight for either men or women. While the women’s songs focus mainly on women’s love and loneliness, men’s songs look much more at the realities of everyday life through drinking songs, soldiers’ songs, and satirical songs. Men sing of love only exceptionally.36 Thematic characteristics attributed to women and to men identify the life situations in which Kodály saw their respective roles, while revealing his experiences of peasant society. In Voyage en Hongrie he writes copiously about men’s alcoholism—experiences represented in the drinking songs.37 Soldiers’ songs and songs of the loneliness and desolation of women probably document his observations during World War I. The satirical “Don Juan paraphrases” concern general fickleness and infidelity in men, which also appear in Voyage en Hongrie.38 The numerous soldiers’ songs and the women’s songs about loneliness and despair suggest that fieldwork in World War I again stirred Kodály’s interest in the relations between men and women. Despite these unifying characteristics, Kodály’s art songs and folk song arrangements do not form traditional song cycles in the sequence in which they appeared in print (Table 2). The grouping is often surprising, especially in relation to their dates. Three early songs to poems by Béla Balázs, the Énekszó cycle (Sixteen songs on Hungarian folk texts), op. 1, and three of the 1924 Four Songs, date from 1906–9. They make up a thematically homogeneous group linked to events in the lives of those around Balázs and Kodály. The three early Balázs songs and Aranka’s “Mezei dal”—perhaps with “Haja, haja” to a poem by János Arany (1817–1882)—seem like entries in an imaginary diary.39 In composing them Kodály may have envisioned such a diary of records—poems of his close friends—that would display their daily lives and emotional development. The composer’s op. 1, Énekszó, is a probable musical counterpart of Balázs’s diary, in which a young man narrates the story of finding the true one. The format and makeup of the first edition clearly suggest the literary genre of a diary, and the texts make further direct references to Kodály’s life. For example, beside the dedication to Emma, which cites four lines of the final song of the cycle, the first song, “Három út előttem . . .” (Three paths stand before me . . .), tells of a young man— just like Kodály in 1907—forced to choose from among three women.40 On the other hand, the thirteenth song, “Sohase cselekszem . . .” (I will never do that . . .),

table 2 Kodály’s songs Kodály’s Song Cycles (1912–1918)

Possible Thematic Groupings of Kodály’s Songs

Négy dal[Four songs], 1907–1917 1. Haja, haja [Alas, alas] (János Arany) – for a man and a woman 2. Nausikaa (Aranka Bálint) – for a woman 3. Mezei dal [Meadow song](Aranka Bálint) – for a man or a woman 4. Fáj a szívem [My heart aches] (Zsigmond Móricz) – for a man or a woman Két ének [Two songs], op. 5, 1913–1916 1. Közelítő tél [Winter approaching] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man 2. Sírni, sírni, sírni [Weeping] (Endre Ady) – for a man Megkésett melódiák [Belated melodies], op. 6, 1912–1916 1. Magányosság [Loneliness] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man 2. Levéltöredék barátnémhoz [A letter to a gilrfriend] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man 3. Az élet dele [Meridian of life] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man 4. A tavasz [The spring] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man 5. Búsan csörög a lomb [The leaf rustles sadly] (Ferenc Kölcsey)– for a man 6. Elfojtódás [Suffocation] (Ferenc Kölcsey)– for a man 7. A’ farsang búcsúszavai [Carnival farewell] (Mihály Csokonai Vitéz) – for a man Öt dal [Five songs], op. 9, 1915–1917 1. Ádám, hol vagy [Adam, where art thou?] (Endre Ady) – for a man 2. Sappho szerelmes éneke [Sappho’s love song] (Endre Ady) – for a woman 3. Éjjel [Night] (Béla Balázs) – for a man 4. Kicsi virágom [My little flower] (Béla Balázs) – for a man or a woman 5. Az erdő [The forest] (Béla Balázs) – for a man

Fáj a szívem [My heart aches] (Zsigmond Móricz) – for a man or a woman Három ének [Three songs] Sírni, sírni, sírni [Weeping] (Endre Ady) – for a man Ádám, hol vagy [Adam, where art thou?] (Endre Ady) – for a man Sappho szerelmes éneke [Sappho’s love song] (Endre Ady) – for a woman A cycle on Dániel Berzsenyi’s poems Közelítő tél [Winter approaching] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man Magányosság [Loneliness] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man Levéltöredék barátnémhoz [A letter to a gilrfriend] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man Az élet dele [Meridian of life] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man A tavasz [The spring] (Dániel Berzsenyi) – for a man Megkésett melódiák [Belated melodies] Búsan csörög a lomb [The leaf rustles sadly] (Ferenc Kölcsey)– for a man Elfojtódás [Suffocation] (Ferenc Kölcsey)– for a man A’ farsang búcsúszavai [Carnival farewell] (Mihály Csokonai Vitéz) – for a man Three songs on the poems of Béla Balázs Éjjel [Night] (Béla Balázs) – for a man Kicsi virágom [My little flower] (Béla Balázs) – for a man or a woman Az erdő [The forest] (Béla Balázs) – for a man

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reminds the listener of an event when a young man introduces his love to his best friend only to then discover the two falling for each other—as was described in Balázs’s diary, who witnessed the developing love affair between Kodály and Aranka.41 While most songs composed at the time belong thematically to Kodály’s musical diary, “Nausicaa,” though written by Aranka, does not fit into the group. So Bence Szabolcsi’s suggestion that it be considered a “sibling” of the three early Balázs songs needs correcting.42 All the other song texts of those years either exhibit the style and imagery of Hungarian folk songs—that is, they reflect the Hungarian style (as do the three early Balázs songs, the Arany setting, “Haja haja,” and “Mezei dal” to Aranka’s poem)—or are set to actual authentic folk texts (as do the songs of Énekszó). Yet despite a typically Hungarian verse form that alternates between seven and eight syllables, with lines divided by a caesura, the text of “Nausicaa” has nothing to do with Hungarian folk style. Its imagery and use of words clearly reflect Antiquity. The strophic simplicity of Kodály’s setting of “Nausicaa” follows that of the poem. The second and third stanzas repeat the melody of the first; just the piano accompaniment is varied. Kodály characteristically entrusts the piano with conveying the feelings of the protagonist Nausicaa.43 The music is almost devoid of chromaticism: Nausicaa sings a diatonic, Phrygian melody tinged with slight Phrygian pentatonic gestures. The song opens with a pentatonic motto in the piano (Example 4) that assumes symbolic significance; it represents the primordial nature at once of Nausicaa’s stature and of love and desire. By the second stanza Nausicaa’s restlessness has become noticeable in the arpeggio treatment of the G major chord—ascending like Ithaca’s smoke to high registers—while the piano differs only slightly in texture from the first strophe, retaining its harmonic progression, especially the closing sequential formula II6–V–I7–IV7–VII7–[III]. In the third stanza, Nausicaa loses her “cool” on mentioning Odysseus’s Ithaca for the second time; the hitherto prevalent diatonic / pentatonic tone system gives way to chromaticism in the piano that acts as a musical symbol of the memory of Odysseus and upsets Nausicaa’s diatonic / pentatonic balance (Example 5). The earlier harmonic progression yields to a chromatic bass, while the sequential formula, already twice heard, gives way to a modulation toward F major, while in the voice, the Phrygian cadence (B–A–G–F–E) gains a tinge of the Locrian mode (B flat–A–G–F–E). The coda in the piano is based on an interval of a fifth (E–H) and the B flat major chord. This harmonic dichotomy portrays Nausicaa’s despair and the sense that there is no chance of emotional fulfillment or conclusion. The appearance of a pentatonic motto in the piano part—a possible symbol of innocence and radiant sensuality in Nausicaa (and perhaps in Aranka)—is rare in Kodály’s art songs, despite the discovery of the pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music around 1907 coming as a revelation to both Bartók and Kodály in verifying

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example 4 . Nausikaa, pentatonic turn in the melody and chromatic bass line, © 1925 Boosey & Hawkes Publishers Ltd.

j j 3 &4 œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ Œ Hi- deg szél

& 43 ∑ ?3 ∑ 4

 ..

.

fúj I-tha- ká-ból,

 ..

œ œ œ œ

Nem te küld - ted,

œœ

œ #œ nœ #.

œœ œœ œ œ

œ. œ



bor-zo-gat.



Œ Œ œ . œJ

Ál - lok

œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ b   #œ n .  œ œœ œ

example 5 . Sappho’s love song, pentatonic turn, © 1924 Boosey & Hawkes Publishers Ltd.

bb 4 & b b bb 4 Œ 

j œ œ œ. Ó

Œ 

œœ 

œ Œ 

j œ. œ n

œ

Œ

the connection between ancient music cultures and Hungarian folk music.44 Surprisingly, the same pentatonic motto appears as if quoting “Nausicaa” in Kodály’s 1916 setting of Endre Ady’s free translation of Catullus’s Latin love song of Sappho. And there are other links between this and “Nausicaa.” Kodály included the former in the cycle Five Songs, where along with another Ady setting, “Adam, where art thou?” it is joined by three poems by Béla Balázs, whose partial folklike character recalls the 1906–7 songs. The two Ady songs and three Balázs settings again show Kodály arranging his songs somewhat randomly into cycles.45 After the first cycle, Énekszó, the fifteen songs arranged in four groups between 1912 and 1918 can be grouped thematically in other ways as well (Table 2). “Adam, where art thou?” composed in 1918 as the last of the Five Songs, op. 9 (the others having been written in 1915 and 1916), could be coupled with “Sírni, sírni, sírni” (Weeping) from the cycle Két ének (Two songs), op. 5, while the Dániel Berzsenyi setting “Közelítő tél” (Winter approaching) in the same cycle could go with the songs of the op. 6 series, Megkésett melódiák (Belated melodies).46 Of the four Berzsenyi songs, three were written in 1912–13, at the same time as “Közelítő tél,” allowing Kodály to publish a Berzsenyi cycle of four or even five songs. This would only omit “Fáj a szívem” (My heart aches), a distinctive occasional song written in 1917 for Zsigmond Móricz’s play Pacsirtaszó (Skylarking).47

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“Sappho’s love song” belongs with the Balázs songs, even though it sets a poem by Ady. Its remarkedly passionate, erotic tone—emanating from an ancient Greek poet, commonly known for her “lesbian disposition” as Kodály put it when describing Eva Martersteig, the Circe in his life—has no parallel in Kodály’s oeuvre, but affords eloquent proof of Kodály’s renewed interest in his creative period of ten years earlier and its central subject, love. Why he should return to this period in his life when composing this song in 1916 may have been personal as well as artistic. There is the possibility of a marital crisis with Emma, almost twenty years his senior, and we know also that he rekindled his friendship with Béla Balázs in this period.48 This is documented by the three Balázs settings in his Five Songs, and by a plan for an opera, Tündér Ilona (Helen the fairy), although Balázs was apparently the one pressing for it.49 Their renewed friendship was facilitated also by Bartók’s completion of The Wooden Prince in 1916, to Balázs’s scenario, which tellingly focused on the relations between a man and a woman. Even Kodály’s instrumental works in that period—the Serenade for string trio, written somewhat later, and presumably the Duo for Violin and Cello and the Second String Quartet—are expressive on this subject, their hidden narratives revealing repeatedly its central significance to their composer.50 After The Spinning Room, this thematic strain disappeared from the oeuvre, as Kodály turned fifty, although Emma continued to feature in his works right up to his last creative period.51 So Kodály, seemingly recalling a creative strain of a decade earlier, sought to paint a musical portrait of Eva Martersteig—Circe—in “Sappho’s love song.” The pentatonic motto in “Nausicaa” is secreted in the stanzas. The first begins and ends with the pentatonic formula, which returns at the beginning of the second stanza, at the end of which it appears in a mistuned form, as it does again in the third. Here the pentatonic formula seems to symbolize “ancient” and “primitive” traits that converge with highly sophisticated culture—the essence of Eva’s personality as Kodály saw it. So “Sappho’s love song” is replete with dissonances; pentatonicism is only one side of a complex musical texture. From the outset, the opening F in the piano part creates an ambiguity in the tonality, an eloquent symbol of sophistication. The Phrygian mode in that opening is deceptive, however, as the voice is in fact in G flat major, as the key signature implies, though the listener does not perceive the key as such. In the first two strophes—the melody of the second repeats that of the first—the key changes every two bars (F Phrygian, E flat minor, B flat minor, C Phrygian). The piano’s plucking and arpeggiation effects suggest the sound of the ancient kithara, and recall the Hungarian cimbalom as well, but it bows to Sappho’s emotions, as if she provided her own accompaniment and continually lost control over it in her passion. The accompaniment almost always transgresses its bounds: the regular openings of the first and second stanzas are disrupted by irregular dissonant chords and chordal arpeggios. The biggest change comes in the third strophe, the

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example 6 . Sappho’s love song, section without tonality, © 1924 Boosey & Hawkes Publishers Ltd. 3 bb & b b b b 44 œ œ . œ Œ

ve- rej- ték > œœ

b & b b b b b 44 œ ? bbb 4 Ó bbb 4

.

Œ

n œœ

‰ œœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

3

œ œ

ve - ri

œœ

nnnnnn

œ

œ

Ó

> j ‰ # œj œ nnnnnn Œ œ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ cresc.

œœ ≈ nnnn n n

tes

-

tem

œœ 5 œœ Œ

œœ 5 œœ Œ

accompaniment of which changes just as Sappho, like Nausicaa, loses her emotional balance. Sappho, whose kithara normally plays in six flats (yet even then full of chromaticism), is suddenly left with an instrument that sinks into a disorderly oblivion of key signatures, and the voice too, with a recitativo, almost parlando character, leaves the path of the first two stanzas (Example 6). The regular accompanying figure of Sappho’s kithara returns only at the end, where an unnerving last chord—a second inversion dominant seventh (F–B flat–D–A flat)—leaves the musical process open, yet as in “Nausicaa,” dictates that her passion can never be fulfilled. Besides forging the musical image of Eva / Circe, the harmonic structure of “Sappho’s love song” relies simultaneously on pentatonicism and chromaticism to suggest that for Kodály, Sappho’s ancient Greece was likely an embodiment of a sophisticated, if archaic culture—rather as Hungarian folk music used pentatonicism as well.52 It appears in this context as an unattainable ideal, a manifestation of “otherness,” an object of desire. This “otherness” is analogous to the mysterious “otherness” of women in Kodály’s oeuvre. His marked masculinity and narcissistic traits strove in the main to express the emotions of men. His musical descriptions of Sappho’s erotic infatuation and of Nausicaa’s innocent yet sensual love show that he rarely gave expression to womanly feelings in his works, and if he did, it was strictly outside the markedly Hungarian world of Emma / Penelope. To intimate their emotions, women are confined to the language of ancient Greece.

7

“From These Times of War” The Case of String Quartet No. 2

The title of this chapter echoes the subtitle of a 1916 volume of stories by Zsigmond Móricz, The Fire Must Not Go Out.1 These stories tell of the various ways people experienced a wretched wartime existence, not only due to the physical aspects of deprivation, such as famine and poverty, but through the destabilization of the centuries-old structure of daily peasant life. No area of life—family, work, love— escaped these outcomes, which also affected human relations, social values, family life, and working conditions. Móricz’s best-known story of the period, “The Poor,” appeared in the same year, but separately, in the prestigious literary periodical Nyugat.2 In it, a peasant returns home from the war, murders two innocent children for their money, and having committed that ghastly crime, relives the sickening horror experienced at the front. Móricz’s stories sharply illustrate the attitudes of the intelligentsia toward the World War, which for many had begun as a cultural or spiritual struggle but soon sank into mindless killing and radical change. The trauma of this encounter is documented in Thomas Mann’s Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man.3 Yet in Kodály’s case, great humanist though he was, hardly anything is known of his views on the war and its aftermath. Even so, there is no doubt that this period had a decisive effect on Kodály’s creative development. As he approached his thirty-third year, there was increasing crystallization of his ars poetica as an artist, and closely related to that, as a scholar. At this time instrumental works appeared in his œuvre, such climactic works as the Duo for Violin and Cello (op. 7, 1914), Sonata for Solo Cello (op. 8, 1915), Second String Quartet (op. 10, 1916–18), and postwar Serenade for Two Violins and Viola (op. 12, 1919–20), which presented his views in mature form, on modernity and on the decisive role of folk music in new music. These 75

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four chamber works also paved the way to the next stage of his life’s work. This creative advancement was certainly influenced by the traumatic day-to-day occurrences of the war, but what seems more essential is that his earlier experimental works, or works with an experimental function, were being followed by compositions that could be called classic masterpieces. These works, similar to those that preceded them, contained concealed programs and autobiographic references, while also communicating through their complexity the ars poetica of the mature Kodály. In a letter of 1914, Kodály looks back on his journey home with his wife, Emma, from Zermatt, Switzerland, on hearing news of the outbreak.4 He was beginning to work on the Duo, op. 7, at the time, but the upheaval had no effect on the idyllic inner realm he inhabited during composition, as Kodály affirmed later.5 Biographers of Kodály were strongly influenced by his reminiscences, although often without contextualizing or verifying them, considering that such reminiscences could be inaccurate or reflect Kodály’s later views. László Eősze, for example, saw Kodály “retreating into composition.”6 Indeed the four years of World War I were his most productive period as a composer. Besides the Duo, he wrote the Solo Sonata and the Second String Quartet, as mentioned above, and many songs, piano pieces, and other instrumental compositions (Capriccio, 1915; Hungarian Rondo, 1917). According to available information, the young Kodály had been classified as unfit for military service at a conscription event in Nagyszombat in 1903, and so could only join the volunteers guarding public places in Budapest.7 He went on duty for the first time on December 10, 1914, and was sent to defend the Buda Tunnel. A few days later, he passed the examination for active service, but he would never be called up.8 Instead he continued collecting folk songs, teaching at the Academy of Music,9 and composing “with perfect peace of mind,” as his wife Emma put it in a letter describing the circumstances in which the Solo Sonata was created.10 Yet Kodály watched the events of the war with careful attention and read Móricz’s stories of the war with great interest—the volume cited in the chapter title affected him especially,11 and he referred to it again in his early 1925 study on Hungarian folk music.12 During this time, he also began collaborating with Móricz, writing incidental music in 1917 for the latter’s folk play, Pacsirtaszó (Skylarking). He later used this music in the Hungarian Rondo, first performed in Vienna in January the following year, at a concert organized by the Imperial and Royal Ministry of War.13 One of the song inserts, “Fáj a szívem” (My heart aches), was eventually published in the cycle Four Songs.14 Pacsirtaszó is by no means a traditional, folksy, tragicomic play. The narrative is set in peasant society, where archaism and modernism are simultaneously present: the elements of the lifestyle, and the rituals closely bound up in them, are obviously archaic, while the protagonists live the intense, sometimes erotic emo-

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tional lives of modern characters. The same duality appears in the use of language. The characters speak an archaic, rather blunt Hungarian juxtaposed with a modern urban vocabulary. Móricz’s works depict the war itself intensifying this dichotomy, and the structure of traditional peasant society gradually falling apart. One of the earliest documents in Kodály’s folk song collection, his collectiontour diary Voyage en Hongrie written between 1907 and 1916, reveals his fascination with the peasantry and their way of life.15 His notes show acute concern for overwhelmed individuals, with alcoholism and bigamy prevalent among the men and solitude and vulnerability weighing heavily upon the women. The series Hungarian Folk Music was much influenced by the composer’s experiences. Its concept reflects a desire to pay tribute to the men and women whose lives he had observed, but that series was not the only work to be inspired by his experiences among peasants. Kodály’s continued wartime folk-song collecting took him in late 1916 to Nagyszalonta, birthplace of the late nineteenth-century Hungarian poet János Arany. There, while reviewing and supplementing folk song materials collected by local students,16 he came across a repertoire relatively new to him: a group of children’s songs.17 His acquaintance with these from the 1920s contributed to the rich choral repertoire for children that Kodály would produce. Meanwhile, he joined Bartók in collecting soldiers’ songs for a compilation to be published by Universal Edition.18 It was while exploring the music for children in Nagyszalonta that he also became immersed in the music of those men who had confronted firsthand the extremities and trauma of war. He later devoted two volumes to soldiers and their songs in the Hungarian Folk Music series.19 Kodály, by then in his mid-thirties, gained further inspiration from Móricz’s experiments with the archaic-cum-modern Hungarian language, the fusion of modern musical language and archaic folk music having laid the basis for his artistic endeavors since 1906. Such aspirations appear in the works he composed alongside the Second String Quartet between 1916 and 1918, while also revealing the specific compositional problems that engaged him at the time. He composed prolifically in those years, in a surprising range of genres. A number of the works were paired with earlier pieces to form cycles (Table 3). The nine songs he wrote between 1916 and 1918 found their way into various song cycles: Two Songs (op. 5), Belated Melodies (op. 6), Five Songs (op. 9), and Four Songs (no opus number). In the same period he wrote a male chorus (“Mulató gajd” [Merrymaking], 1917), six movements for the Seven Pieces for Piano (op. 11), and the Hungarian Rondo. Several of these reveal direct links to the war. For example, “Kádár István balladája” (The ballad of Stephen Kádár), later published in the Hungarian Folk Music series, represents both textually and musically the genre of a soldier’s ballad. The war also left marks on two movements in the Seven Pieces for Piano: “Székely keserves” (Székely lament) is an arrangement of a soldier’s

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Chapter 7 table 3 Kodály’s works written between 1916 and 1918

Work

Number and Title

Date

Két ének [Two songs], op. 5

2. Sírni, sírni, sírni [Weeping]

1916

Megkésett melódiák [Belated melodies], op. 6

2. A’ farsang búcsúszavai [Carnival farewell]

1916

7. Levéltöredék barátnémhoz [A letter to a girlfriend]

1916

Öt dal [Five songs], op. 9

1. Ádám, hol vagy? [Adam, where art thou?] 1918 2. Szapphó szerelmes éneke [Sappho’s love song]

1916

4. Kicsi virágom [My little flower]

November 23, 1916

5. Az erdő [The forest]

1916

Ballad of István Kádár Two Men’s Choirs

1917 2. Mulató gajd [Merrymaking]

Hungarian Rondo Négy dal [Four songs]

1917 4. Fáj a szívem [My heart aches]

Second String Quartet, op. 10 Seven Pieces for Piano, op. 11

1917 1917 March 1918

1. 1st movement

November 13, 1917

2. Székely keserves [Székely lament]

November 1918

4. Sírfelirat [Epitaph]

December 1918

5. Tranquillo

March 17, 1918

6. Székely song

November 1917

7. Rubato

March 17, 1917

song—Kodály even added the text above the notes. “Sírfelirat” (Epitaph) pays homage to victims of the war, and perhaps to the recently deceased Debussy. Other works are more contemplative; songs such as “Sírni, sírni, sírni” (Weeping) and “Levéltöredék barátnémhoz” (A letter to a girlfriend) document his wartime gloom, while “A’ farsang búcsúszavai” (Carnival farewell), “Ádám, hol vagy?” (Adam, where art thou?), and “Mulató gajd” are confessions of lonely men or groups of men. “Szapphó szerelmes éneke” (Sappho’s love song) alone talks of a woman’s erotic love. This group of works provides the context for the Second String Quartet. To explore the links between them, it is worth examining Kodály’s writings from that time. Thematically, they are diverse: reviews, program notes written primarily for money, and various studies on Hungarian folk music. Regardless of genre, they react to daily events and refer incessantly to the war. Writing of a performance of Bartók’s Wooden Prince on November 26, 1918, Kodály recalls its première:

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Those were horrific times, when the Wooden Prince first danced his mad, macabre dance, while the real prince, devastated and dispossessed, first sobbed his heartbreaking sorrow. Since then everything has turned ever more horrific. And yet there is faith and hope amid such adversity. No country, however feeble or infirm, can be erased while such radiant life can still spring from it.20

Kodály’s reviews of Bartók’s works, beside praising and promoting his friend’s art, also serve as self-analysis and self-interpretation, through which Kodály formulates his own composing ideals. Often mentioned are formal matters, above all the need for “constructive” formal writing, as opposed to the looser modernism of the turn of the century. Kodály sees Bartók’s String Quartet No. 2 as an example to follow, its form manifested “to its highest power”: The movements do not show a series of different moods, but a single, continual psychological development; the whole work, though musically well-constructed, affects listeners with a sense of immediacy.21

Despite such “psychological development,” in Kodály’s view, Bartók’s work is “not ‘program music,’ requires no additional explanation, speaks for itself—conveys its message through pure music.”22 Besides its formal aspects, Kodály analyzes the Hungarian aspect of Bartók’s music at great length. How can it be defined? The composer explains in his characteristically poetic manner: From the new Hungarian music flows the pure, clean air of another Hungarian quality with deeper, everlasting roots, like that of the Székely pine forests, where something is forced to hide, some remnant of a life-current of monumental strength, something that embraced a whole country. . . . [Bartók’s music] is not just one part of Hungary but all of it together: a manifold, deeply tragic, worldwide Hungarianness, embracing the self-awareness of the country’s conquerors and the wild energy of a will to live in the face of the wretchedness of today.23

Constructive form and “worldwide Hungarianness” are concepts that Kodály identified as key elements in Bartók’s music. They can also be seen as reactions to the war, with constructive form set against fin de siècle modernist tendencies; at the same time, the emphasis on a “worldwide Hungarianness” means focusing on the issues of the nation rather than encouraging an international outlook. Indeed, both concepts reveal a great deal more about the specific composing issues Kodály faced. The concepts of constructive form and a “worldwide Hungarianness” became the focus of his attention after he composed Psalmus Hungaricus in 1923. Their presence in his writings shows how Kodály’s new composing path after 1923 originates during the final war period. Here the Second String Quartet, along with the Duo, the Solo Sonata, and the Trio Serenade, can be seen as documentation of his search for a new path.

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Kodály’s primary scholarly contribution during the war concerned the pentatonic scale that is typical of a certain type of Hungarian folk music.24 His “Pentatonic Scale in Hungarian Folk Music” is a scholarly expression of what he and Bartók had unearthed in 1907. In it he defines pentatony as the oldest and most important tone system in Hungarian folk music. He also describes the features of this archaic Hungarian melodic style, based on which he posits its age, structure, and typology and asserts its uniqueness, while noting its gradual disappearance from folk music practice: Thus living folk music is losing something of great value. To anyone who can rid himself of his bias towards Western (chiefly German) music, it offers the greatest artistic delight; even as performed by untrained singers, it gives an impression of clarity, maturity and perfection—that is to say, of a finished style.25

Kodály’s wording clarifies how this pentatony has unique characteristics not only as an ancient melodic style but as a distinctly Hungarian style of music, in contrast to the Gypsy scale taken up by Liszt. Pentatony is defined as fundamental to Hungarian musical language, for “pentatony is a key which can open many locked doors in the Hungarian melopoeia.”26 Kodály himself mentions the recognition that pentatony gained in contemporary music, as this new music “is full of it. . . . No doubt with its primitive but virile energy, pentatonic melodics provided a refreshing novelty after the overly chromatic melodies of the previous period.”27 The significance and value of the scholarship is not the main concern here— there is no disputing the importance of Kodály’s research and discovery—but it is worth delving deeper into these writings and exploring the underlying and unexplained ideas for what they may reveal about Kodály’s intentions as a composer. First and foremost is his repeated dissociation from Western or German music. Secondly, he defines the melodic style in terms of virtues associable with classicism (“sublimation, maturity and perfection”). Thirdly, he stresses the Hungarian quality of pentatony, arguing that a Hungarian musical idiom should be based on a fivetone system. Finally, he sees “virile energy” in the pentatonic system, in stark contrast to the chromatic—presumably feminine—musical world of the previous era. So the study of pentatony covers the same ground as those writings of Kodály that deal with Bartók, and can likewise be seen as an important document in Kodály’s response to the World War, as it shows how its events affected his scholarly thinking and led him to conceptual conclusions—the primacy of national art, and a marked antimodernism—that would define his later work as a composer and as a scholar. The Second String Quartet stands at the crossroads between the two creative eras and marks this shift in Kodály’s perspective. This undoubtedly explains the confusion discernible both in contemporary and current analyses of the work. Several questions emerge about the interpretation of its two-movement structure, its place among such crucial works as the Duo, the

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Solo Sonata, and the Trio Serenade, and not least, the degree of innovation in comparison to the First String Quartet. The two-movement structure is a rather unusual solution in the genre of the string quartet. It has been shown in an earlier chapter how the First String Quartet followed the traditional four-movement structure. However, the unusual ordering of the movements in the later quartet is not alien to the instrumental pieces composed at the same time as the Second String Quartet, all of which follow distinctive formal designs. One might even say that the need for “constructivism,” recognized in Bartók’s Second String Quartet— that is, a concept, specified in advance, that defines the whole evolution of the piece—can be traced mainly to nontraditional formal solutions found in Kodály’s chamber works. The order of movements in the Duo, Solo Sonata, and Trio Serenade does not depart from general practice. All display a fast–slow–fast structure. Nonetheless, the third movement of the Duo—after the model of Liszt’s rhapsody form—is built upon a slow introduction (Maestoso e largamente, ma non troppo) and a fast section (Presto). The second, slow movement of the Trio Serenade returns to the bellicose main theme of the first movement. All movements are marked by dense alternations of tempi and characters, and Kodály strives to avoid textbook solutions to the sonata, rondo, and trio forms. He uses solutions that ally different formal principles, and so his complex forms can be seen as “constructive” forms. This applies especially to his slow movements, which advance Bartók’s night-music approach,28 and to his closing movements, which appear in the form of dance fantasies. These irregularities in the chamber works suggest the presence of hidden programs. Contemporaries already had noticed the “love scene” in the second movement of the Trio Serenade.29 What might have been the program of the movement becomes clearer in certain later documents.30 It seems that the first movement represents the portrait of a man, possibly as an artistic projection of the composer, while the second is a “love scene” played amid nature, and the closing movement a portrayal of the lifelong dance of a man and a woman who have finally found each other. Especially telling is the sometimes hesitant, sometimes dramatic interplay between the dances in the third movement of the Serenade, as if portraying a man and a woman (Zoltán and Emma?) who continue to dance together despite the challenges they face throughout their lives. Antal Molnár referred to the resolving function of the final movements in Kodály’s works, when comparing the last movements of the Duo and the Second String Quartet in 1936: As in the third movement of the Duo, it is the second movement of the Quartet that elevates the psychological struggle in the first movement and develops the action. From inner storm and desperation, the music thus toils fiercely toward universal victory in the Finale, where frenetic joy reaches the heights where the storm has raged in the first movement.31

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Molnár’s observations are telling in two respects: their vocabulary evokes the mood of war, and they emphasize the programmatic features in the work. So the two movements of the Second String Quartet, to follow Molnár, lay out a psychological process. How does this psychological process, which is observed in the three-movement structure of the Duo, the Solo Sonata, and the Trio Serenade, work in a two-movement composition? The two-movement structure of the Second String Quartet becomes the focus in later analyses such as that of János Breuer’s.32 He suggests that the two are latently three, as the slow introduction to the second movement functions as a slow middle movement. Taking this view, the first movement is in sonata form, although it can also be seen as a grand development in itself, while the second movement is a dance finale. István Kecskeméti in his essay examines thematic relations between the Second String Quartet and other compositions. He notes, for example, the flying of a bird, which can be traced through Kodály’s oeuvre, from Énekszó to the apotheosis in the Peacock Variations.33 Both scholars mention a folk song quotation in the second movement, an arrangement of a Christmas song, Kirje, kirje, kisdedecske (Kyrie, Kyrie, little baby Jesus).34 Admittedly the form is baffling, as if the two movements were distinct entities facing each other. The first movement, however, is, pace Molnár, not by any measure tempestuous or desperate, and no such claim is supported by the performance directions in the score: “The first movement is to be very fluid, without special emphasis on the accented beats.”35 The form and themes are similarly fluid, but, though well delineated, the themes do not fulfill their conventional roles. The framework of the sonata form can certainly be recognized, but the individual themes are devoid of the traditional contrasting characteristics. In the first movement, for example, there is no main subject; instead, there is a main subject area with two themes. The first is a birdsong gesture, while the second, with parallel sixths between the first violin and the cello, evokes the chamber music of Brahms. The birdsong motif also appears in the parallel sixths. The secondary subject that follows these constitutes new thematic material, which makes use of the pentatonic system. The first movement often uses pentatonic formulae, but is notably non-Hungarian in style; only in the closing section does a Hungarian-style heroic climax gradually emerge as a powerful musical gesture ascending to a′′, and as such, pave the way for the ending of the work. The pentatonic system is contrasted with chromaticism, which implies that chromatic movement is as important an element as pentatony in this opening movement. The parallel presence of the two tone systems is shown, for example, by the chromatic steps with which the cello and viola move before the pentatonic ascent, as the two violins play pentatonic motifs. The third (secondary) subject leads into the development section with a motif characteristic of closing subjects. So in the development a new theme is introduced alongside the previous ones. Indeed, it is the third (secondary) subject that

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example 7 . Serenade for String Trio, second movement, E–A tones, © Copyright 1921, 1948 by Universal Edition A. G., Wien / UE6655, © Copyright assigned 1952 by Universal Edition (London) Ltd.

11

&Œ

j ‰ nœ œ p dolciss.

& œ@j # œæ œ bœ ∏ BŒ ‰

œæ. œ. Œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ j bœ œπ

Œ

‰ bœ œ-

j # œ@ ‰ bœ Œ

j œ@ ‰ œ j œ œ∏

heralds the recapitulation, joined by its peculiar motif, and only then does the main subject area reappear. Hence the boundaries between development section and recapitulation are rather vague. Moreover, the individual themes are quite similar to one another, as if the composer, by their application and irregular appearance, were seeking deliberately to create formal ambiguity. Instead of melodies, he works with melodic formulae (such as the birdsong), melodic fragments, and characteristic string-quartet textures (such as parallel sixths), building the large-scale form from these elements. Furthermore, their order is unrestricted; each can join the others freely. So rather than following a straightforward linear structure, the movement arrives at a mood that is harmonious and integrated. A passionate collector of birdsong, Kodály often wrote them down in his notebook. There are a number of such birdsong notations among the scanty sketches for the Second String Quartet.36 Furthermore, birdsongs appear later in the second movement of the Trio Serenade, more specifically in a love scene reminiscent of Tristan und Isolde, to evoke the sound of nature.37 The A and E tones of the motif in the second movement refer to the vowels in Emma’s name (Example 7). The same motif plays a central role in the Second Quartet’s first movement. It returns repeatedly, for example, in the closing section, in a form strikingly similar to that in the Trio Serenade, as a gesture of farewell (Example 8). The form of the second movement is again difficult to follow, but its themes differ from the first movement in having a lot of character, and the movement is clearly in Hungarian style. The opening slow introduction (Andante, Quasi recitativo) features an improvisatory passage evocative of a six-hole Hungarian pipe,

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example 8 . Second String Quartet, first movement, E–A tones, © 1921, 1948 by Universal Edition A. G., Wien, © 1952 Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 6652.

œ. œ 14 J ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ ‰ bœ bœ. π œ œ œ. œ œ œ & J‰ . J ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ bœ . π > > > j B œ . œ .. œ œ ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ œ. #œ. #œ # œ .. œ π > > > j ? j .. œ ‰ ‰ Œ # œ œ . .. œœ .. # # œ œ #œ #œ œ π œ œ œ. œ J‰ &

n œ . n œj ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ ‰ b œ . b œ più pp j œ œ j j‰ ‰ œ œ 0 bœ. œ. œ 0 Flag: III.e più pp j‰ ‰ Œ ‰ œ. #œ. œ più pp j nœ. œ ‰ ‰ Œ ‰ #œ. più pp

n œ n œj ‰ œ œ -

œ.

#œ.

nœ.

Œ

‰

Œ

‰

Œ

‰

which symbolizes the melancholic Hungarian spirit so often found in Kodály’s music. The composer had used this symbol in several works since his Adagio of 1905, for example in the “Székely nóta” (Székely song) in the Seven Pieces for Piano, op. 11, which is contemporaneous with the Second String Quartet. The pipe improvisation is followed by a lament (Andante con moto) that also recalls the tone of certain movements in Seven Pieces for Piano (“Székely Lament” and “Epitaph”). After the lament, fragments of a Hungarian dance appear, but this is not developed, as the lament returns and leads into a dramatic climax—again Hungarian pentatonic—which is a response to the corresponding climactic passage in the first movement. The Hungarian-style climax, which emerges in several movements in the Seven Pieces for Piano in a similar fashion, represents the emotional high-point of the entire composition.38 The emotional upsurge and subsequent silence are followed by a series of energetic Hungarian dances. Four different dances appear in the finale (having been heard first in the slow introduction), all accompanied by bagpipe effects. The form alludes to a round dance, as it does in the Duo, the Solo Sonata, and especially the Trio Serenade. The second appearance of the second dance seems to denote a development section, and the third dance acts as a recapitulation, although the second subject may return first. It is notable that the fourth dance in the finale is not a true dance, but is transformed into one by its bagpipe accompaniment. In fact it is a Christmas song, whose text relates closely in content to the concept of the second movement: the “Little Prince of Bethlehem” is saved from “Hell.” However, Hell itself, as an archaic symbol of war, does not appear. Instead Kodály uses an unembellished version of

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the melody, and rather unexpectedly adds to it a contrapuntal countermelody, possibly as a way of representing the role that faith plays in life. The energetic dance finale serves as a contrast to the serene first movement. To borrow the title of Bartók’s work, the two movements present two pictures, or more exactly, two portraits. Seen in this light, Kodály’s description of Bartók’s Second String Quartet also applies to his own: the whole work is a “delineation of a single continuous psychological development.” It is “not ‘program music,’ requires no additional explanation, speaks for itself—conveys its message through pure music.” In this psychological process, the slow introduction to the second movement acts as a turning point. The powerful emotional explosion in Hungarian style that leads the composition to its climax transforms everything, just as war disrupts the lives of the peasants in Móricz’s stories. And although the first movement, where feminine chromaticism and masculine pentatony join in harmony, disappears forever, the second movement, marking a masculine world dominated by faith, holds promise of an energetic new future—or in Kodály’s missionary artistic vision, the hope of a universal, “worldwide Hungarianness” toward which the composer so devotedly strove. The Second String Quartet, together with the Duo, the Solo Sonata, and the Trio Serenade, undoubtedly helped equip Kodály’s creative toolbox, through its “constructivity,” in advance of composing his chef d’œuvre, the Psalmus Hungaricus.

8

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man Kodály after the Treaty of Trianon (1920)

Max Kalbeck, in the first volume of his monograph on Brahms, describes how long the composer spent composing his First Symphony.1 Kalbeck quotes him as exclaiming, “Oh Lord, if you dare to write symphonies after Beethoven, they have to look quite different!”—a typical case of anxiety for those who believed they were born into the world too late.2 Brahms scholars in the past few decades have agreed that his modernism in the twentieth-century sense derived precisely from that anxiety.3 Twentieth-century composers such as Mahler, Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern, followed by Stravinsky, Hindemith, Shostakovich, Britten, and Bartók, and along with Brahms the progressive, to borrow the title of a 1933 Schoenberg lecture, all showed profound interest in the music of earlier eras, even while remaining acutely aware of their own era and their place within it.4 They created their œuvre in that context, reflecting on earlier eras while in the midst of their own. So Brahms’s modernism lies in a creative output that constituted, in a sense, a deliberation on the whole history of European music—and his example has been followed by very diverse exponents of new music. The unsettling experience of having come into the world too late was expressed by Friedrich Nietzsche. The second essay of his Untimely Meditations, written in 1873 and entitled “On the Use and Abuse of History for Life,” undoubtedly had a marked influence on Brahms’s thinking.5 Nietzsche defines the German nation as the child of waning antiquity, a successor nation. He regards this lateness, however, as a positive existence; he believes “that the thought of being epigones, which can often be a painful thought, is also capable of evoking great effects and grand hopes for the future in both an individual and a nation, provided we regard ourselves as the heirs and successors of the astonishing powers of antiquity and see in this our 86

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honor and our spur.”6 This Nietzschean idea has never been linked directly with the works and writings of Kodály, a follower of Brahms. Yet Bence Szabolcsi, in a 1963 scholarly review of Kodály’s poetics, “A történeti tudatra nevelő Kodály Zoltán” (Zoltán Kodály’s teachings on historical consciousness), referred to the German philosopher’s œuvre, albeit without mentioning his name: Kodály’s life mission, Szabolcsi states, is to “foster and spread culture through the entire nation, drawn out of the spirit of history.”7 This paraphrases the title of an earlier Nietzsche work, The Birth of Tragedy Out of the Spirit of Music. Szabolcsi also states that a basic trait in Kodály’s œuvre is an “alliance with Historicism, as well as its re-evaluation of Historicism as the foundation of mankind, the foundation of the future.”8 Whereas Bartók’s inspiration is nature, he adds, Kodály’s is history, and the “main method” of this evocation “is the musical equivalent of ‘as if ’: a distinct musical language woven from imagined music history and folk music.”9 In this late evaluation of Kodály’s œuvre, Szabolcsi returns to an aspect he sees as the most significant, having first written about it in 1926: the gesture of compensation—the observation that Kodály’s main aspiration was “to start over, to make up for all that has not been done, to repair, to take everything upon himself, to accomplish the work of a whole generation.”10 Kodály, in his published writings, cites Nietzsche’s name only once; in a footnote to a passage in his 1906 doctoral thesis, The Strophic Structure of Hungarian Folk Song, when the twenty-four-year-old refers to chapter 6 of The Birth of Tragedy in connection with the supremacy of music over text.11 Indeed, his library contained only one Nietzsche work, Beyond Good and Evil.12 Yet some manners of phrasing reveal that he must also have read the second essay of Untimely Meditations, which had a far-reaching influence on his thinking. The experience of “being born late” featured again in the 1933 essay “Ethnography and Music History”: “After all, it is no shame that as a people, we were born later and entered late into the school of European peoples.”13 In his “Hungarianness in Music” of 1939 he talks of the dangers of alien models for the art of a successor nation: There is more than one example in art history of a foreign impetus firing national genius to create original works of art. Yet if this influence is overly slanted and very powerful, it may become a danger. Vos exemplaria Graeca turned out fatal for Latin literature. The same almost happened to us.14

His words refer to Nietzsche, not only in the Greek / Latin analogy, but in positing the danger of such artistic models to Hungarian—national—music culture. Several paragraphs in Nietzsche’s essay examine the question of imitation or epigonism. Kodály, like Nietzsche, saw exemplary Classical models as notable factors in a nation’s art and culture. As early as 1929, in “The Artistic Significance of Hungarian Folk Song,” he identified a Classical model: “Hungarian folk song is par excellence Hungary’s Classical music.”15 He went on to say in a 1941 lecture on the relations

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between folk music and art music that folk music always inspired the art of Classical periods: Thus at the emergence of great Classical epochs, folk music or popular music is always there to provide impetus and serve as a model in efforts to attain simplicity. All classicisms represent simplicity and purity in comparison with the preceding style. The vocal classicism of the sixteenth century (the age of Palestrina, in short) is essentially folk music seen next to the complexity of the previous century. Furthermore, classicism possesses the distinct facility to elevate national impulses into realms that stand above nations.16

The extracts complement one another. While Kodály states that Classical Hungarian music survived in folk song, he ponders the idea that all Classical epochs met their stylistic ideals by assimilating folk music into art music. This spirit shaped Kodály’s artistic and scholarly œuvres, which are inseparable. He already stressed in a short 1925 essay on Hungarian folk music that peasants were the ones who had sustained the continuity of Hungary’s musical tradition.17 The main component emphasized thus far in Kodály scholarship is that he discovered in folk music the artistic tradition from which he was able to create his own musical language,18 but the question of why an innovative twentieth-century composer such as Kodály found it necessary to delve into tradition remains unexplored. Kodály’s interest in the Classical tradition became clear after World War I. Previously his compositional thinking had focused on modernism, and even though the folk music tradition played a role in that interest, it functioned always as a possible starting point for modernism. From the early 1920s, however, it was tradition that stood at the forefront of his interest, in his writings and in his music. The traditionalism of a composer, after all, is less self-evident than it might at first seem. Only in recent decades have researchers into twentieth-century music begun to study why modernist composers too were so keen to refer to the musical past, and link tradition with revolutionary exponents of new music—even composers such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky whose innovations caused outrage and scandal in their own day.19 One reason to evoke tradition is stated eloquently in Kodály’s article “Hungarian Music,” written in 1925 for the American journal Modern Music—notably at a time when he himself was being seen as a modernist. He notes that new Hungarian music, despite rumors to the contrary, is not revolutionary but traditionalist in renewing its relation with the past rather than rejecting it.20 Kodály repeats this in several other writings later in the 1920s, showing that the reference to tradition is driven mainly by a need for legitimacy: that is, to allow modern composers to defend their new music against conservative attacks and reverse their opponents’ own arguments by emphasizing the essential traditionalism of their works.21 Yet musical tradition is no mere accessory. It is crucial to the process of composition. For Kodály this tradition can be both folk music and art music. In a 1929

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article “On the New Paths in Music,” for example, he notes: “The new art lives, but cannot be ‘quite new,’ for although it offers something other than the old, it was raised to respect the great old masters.”22 To Kodály, who built up a vast historical knowledge of music in his life, the art of the “great old masters” served, like folk music, as an important model. Yet in those years he introduced the idea that Hungarian music history—its sources and records destroyed or fragmented over its long turbulent history—was retained in folk tradition. The first study to exemplify folk culture conserving a product of high culture, relying on folk tradition and published sources, was “Árgirus nótája” (Song of Argyrus), published in 1920.23 In reviewing Bartók’s book on Romanian folk music from Maramureş (in Hungarian: Máramaros) in 1923, Kodály calls folk tradition the only means of reconstructing Hungary’s musical past.24 In this study by Kodály, the concept of reconstruction is of course restricted to the field of scholarship. A significant shift, however, also can be found in his composing œuvre after Psalmus Hungaricus premièred in 1923, as his attention turned to the music of earlier periods, both European and Hungarian. Music history traditionally dates the emergence of neoclassicism to the early 1920s.25 Although such references to Baroque and Classical models in music had appeared in the work of a few composers in earlier decades, classicism as an issue began to preoccupy European minds in the early 1920s, after the trauma of World War I.26 This West European discourse prompted the young Bence Szabolcsi also to regard Kodály’s chamber works and songs as classicist.27 Kodály’s classicism, as described by Szabolcsi, referred more to the value and significance of the compositions and to a way of thinking that sought refinement as an ideal. Neoclassicism, however—or classicist modernism, as it is more recently called by German musicologists—followed Classical models but approached them with irony and detachment.28 Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno in his Philosophy of New Music defined this stance as music about music (“Musik über Musik”).29 His view was that even in the nineteenth century, Schubert and Schumann were compelled to employ ironic quotation in their works, as original musical ideas had been exhausted. But in the works of Stravinsky—according to Adorno, who rejected him for ideological reasons—this turned into an absolute principle, for the concept of musical matter as understood by Schoenberg and his school did not exist in Stravinsky’s eyes: he always looked to other music as a source of inspiration. Surprisingly, the problem of composing from original material as opposed to using quotations, or more precisely the dual nature of arrangement, also appears in Kodály’s writings, although he does not use the term “music about music.” Kodály saw it as “a composer’s job . . . not merely to create melodies.”30 This became a leitmotif for him in the second half of the 1930s, and the source of one of his favorite, oft-repeated musical parables from Glareanus’s Dodecachordon, about two basic types of composer, the melodist “phonascus” and the arranger “symphoneta”:

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Chapter 8 A noteworthy sixteenth-century theorist, Glareanus, discusses extensively in his treatise Dodecachordon the question of who is entitled to claim precedence: the phonascus or the symphoneta. The phonascus creates new melodies, while the symphoneta arranges a given one. After lengthy reasoning, he accords precedence to the phonascus. In spite of all this, symphonetas, even after Glareanus, continued to work, from Palestrina to Bach . . . . Both living and deceased composers have done plenty to import monodic folk song into polyphony. This effort, more than once, produced masterpieces—for example, Bach’s choral phantasies . . . . I admit without a sense of shame: I myself have also written many.31

Kodály needed this argument mainly to justify his own method of integrating folk songs into high art, primarily in the series Hungarian Folk Music and in his choruses. Yet his 1966 declaration “Zenei nevelés, embernevelés” (Musical education, education of man) also argues that all compositions, even those marked by a specific national style, carry in themselves the music of other epochs, styles, and nations: “All great composers born to any nation form an image of other countries in their minds and blend all possible music in the world into one.”32 Indeed, Kodály strongly urged stylistic diversity, believing that national music too had to infuse other elements to gain universal legitimacy—as with the music of all great composers: It was not by chance that Bach copied Vivaldi’s passionate and explosive, but formally crystal-clear concertos. Schütz spent years in Venice, as did Handel and Mozart later in Italy. These great masters are cautionary examples of how music, however strong its national roots, can only succeed if a foreign school provides it with something missing at home. A synthesis of two or more cultures creates more enduring works; as do alloys compared with single metal ingredients.33

So Kodály, a self-confessed symphoneta, a conscious professional, and one of the large family of classicist modern composers, was confronted with the twentiethcentury wisdom that all music is about other music. Listeners to Kodály often encounter quotations and pseudo-quotations from earlier music, as well as playing in historical styles. “Ku-ku-kukuskám” (Cuckoo song), no. 11 in Háry János, which was composed in 1924–26 and first performed on October 16, 1926, at the Hungarian Royal Opera House in Budapest, serves as a good example; the instrumental framework evokes a typical minuet with its distinctive two-measure phrasing, inner repetitions, and cadential formulae, but the melody is an art song of foreign origin collected by Kodály himself.34 Kodály’s singspiel, written to a libretto by Béla Paulini (1881–1945) and Zsolt Harsányi (1887–1943), is set in the eighteenth century, revolving around the rollicking veteran soldier János Háry, who boasts of his heroic feats, such as how he conquered Napoleon and won the hand of Marie Louise, the daughter of the Austrian emperor

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and wife of Napoleon. Eventually, however, Háry returns to his home country, Hungary, where he marries his former lover, the peasant girl Örzse. The singspiel parades forth a colorful cavalcade of fairy-tale figures alongside historical personages, allowing Kodály to encompass in music a sweeping tableau of inhabitants in the disintegrating Austro-Hungarian Empire after World War I. Kodály operates consciously with eighteenth-century historical styles in Háry János at a time when neoclassicism was beginning to gain ground in Western Europe, and such interplay often came with a degree of irony and detachment as in Stravinsky. A year earlier, in 1923, Szabolcsi still wondered why Kodály’s music eschewed the concept of the grotesque and concluded it was due to a pagan quality in new music, whereas Kodály was more the “preacher of a new God.”35 Szabolcsi’s coded wording contrasts Kodály’s work with that of Stravinsky, the composer of Rite of Spring (1913). In fact Kodály’s music does allude to the concepts of the grotesque, irony, and distortion, as some scenes in Háry show. “Entry of the French,” “Entry of Napoleon,” and “Funeral March” (nos. 16–18) are examples of Adorno’s “music about music.” The grotesque effects derive from musical topoi such as percussion drum rolls, rhythmic accompaniment typical of a military or funeral march, and sounds of brass and whistling piccolo that evoke military bands. Dissonant false relations such as the tritone—the ugly interval, diabolus in musica—appear on accented beats, and stubborn repetitions of short melodies play a central role. Kodály also employs the technique of mistuning, an important element in Bartók’s music.36 The typical broken triad of the Marseillaise appears in a distorted form in the middle section (“Entry of Napoleon”), and in the “Funeral March” of the reprise Kodály varies the theme of the first section, “Entry of the French.” Furthermore, the unwieldy yet rather pert brass melody of the main section here acquires a nasal quality when played by a jazzy saxophone—part melancholic, part frivolous (Example 9). But beyond its nasal sound, Kodály’s choice may have been influenced by the fact that the saxophone—invented by the Belgian instrument maker Adolphe Sax and unveiled in Paris, where it mainly aroused interest among French composers37— appears as a French instrument par excellence in the musical process.38 Indeed, Kodály dramatically exaggerates these typical elements—the distinctive accompaniment of the “Funeral March,” for example, is played by the brass and percussion— and this amplification creates the element of grotesque in the singspiel. Mistuning, incidentally, appears in key sections of a number of compositions by Kodály and always bears semantic significance. János Breuer, following Bence Szabolcsi, asserted in his analysis of the “Napoleon” movement that the technique had an exceptional place in the composer’s œuvre, since representation of distortion in Kodály—to use Bartókian terminology—is rare, as he strives, primarily, to express the ideal.39 This explains, no doubt, how reviewers mostly regarded Kodály’s Dances of Galánta of 1933 as a piece of light, entertaining, and cheerful divertimento music, even though the work shows a close relation to Háry in evoking eighteenth-

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example 9 . Háry János Suite, Funeral March with saxophone (bars 101–104), © 1929 Universal Edition, Copyright assigned 1952, 1955 to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 35540.

Sax. (Mi b)

Trb.

Btb.

Gr.C. Tb.p.

Tempo di Marcia funebre q = 54

4 &b 4 Œ

∑

? b 44 ∑ Œ œœ .. œœ œœ Œ π gliss. ? 4 Œ b 4 œ  œ ? 4 b 4

gliss.

œ π



Œ

œ

∑

œ. œ œ Œ œ. œ œ Œ  

œ œ

Ÿ 

œ



Œ

œ



>j #œ

Œ Œ

 œœœ f espressivo œ. œ œ Œ œ. œ œ Œ

œ



œ



Œ Œ

. . . 4 œæ œ Œ Œ œæ œ Œ Œ œæ œ Œ Œ œæ b ã 4π Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ 4 . . ã b 4 Œ Œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ. œ œ Œ π

> j #œ

œ. œ œ Œ œ. œ œ Œ

Œ

œ œ

. œ Œ Œ œæ Ÿ Œ œ. œ œ Œ

century stylistic elements.40 Gerald Abraham, a contemporary observer, even claimed that Kodály’s orchestral cycle lacks substance, despite its virtuosity.41 Superficially, the Dances of Galánta seems a dazzling showpiece, but in its extensive finale—its 607 measures amount to three-fifths of the work—the seemingly idyllic scene crumbles and an irony like that in Háry ensues. As in Háry, decisive roles are played by shrieking piccolos, bandlike, rambunctious percussion passages, and brass fanfares. Omnipresent syncopation serves as a key thematic element throughout the finale, as its frequently shifting appearance often suspends the rapid virtuoso conclusion. Deceptive cadences also return repeatedly, robbing the musical process of its idyllic mood, and deception in the form of mistuning becomes a significant device in the finale, for example as the varied shifts of the individual tones in a four-note melody, reminiscent of Hungarian children’s songs, make the D tonality of the passage ambivalent (bars 413–440). In a passage in the second, longer section of the finale, the horns, brass, and bassoon play a sluggish accompaniment to a dissonant, banal, yet sardonic melody from the clarinet, which evokes the saxophone in its nasal sound quality (Example 10).

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example 10 . Dances of Galanta, Finale (bars 335–347), © 1934 Universal Edition A. G. Copyright assigned 1952, 1962 to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 10668.

Cl. I.

I. II. Cor. III. IV.

Vlc.

b b 335 &bbb ∑ & & ? b b

∑

Ó

? b b

∑

Cl. I.

bb &bbb

∑

Cor. III. IV.

Vlc.

Cb.

& & ? bb ? b b

∑

∑

∑

Œ œ œ bœ Œ nœ œ œ œ œ < p< <
œ bœ œ< œ > ∑

∑

∑ œ œj‰ Œ œ . p ∑ œj‰ Œ œœ . p ∑

∑ œ œ . . π

œ bœ œ œ< . π j‰ Œ œ œ œ œ . π j‰ Œ œ œ œ œ . π

∑

∑

∑

∑

340

∑

∑

œ >p b œ œ Œ b œ œ b œ œj ‰ b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ < < < < < < > dim. ∑ œ œj‰ Œ ∑ ∑ œœ œ . œ ∑

∑

345

∑

œœ

j œ. ‰ Œ

∑

∑

∑

Œ

∑

œœœ

∑ œ œ . . dim.

œ bœ œ œ < < j œ. ‰ Œ j œ. ‰ Œ

œ .œ œ. œ ≈ nœ œ œ bœ œ œ p grazioso ∑ œ ‰ Œ ∑ J

∑

∑ œ œ . > œ œ œ< œ >

∑

œ bœ œ œ< < j‰ Œ œ œ œ œ . œœœ

j œ. ‰ Œ

œ bœ œ< >œ

∑ ∑

Why include irony and sarcasm in the liberating finale of a lighthearted, glittering work? It should be borne in mind that the Dances of Galánta rests on settings of popular eighteenth-century composed songs, as does the “Intermezzo” in Háry János. Here its main section recalls a melody from an 1802 piano manual by István Gáti (1780–1859), and its trio a piece by the composer and violin virtuoso János

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Bihari (1764–1827).42 The Dances of Galánta is closely akin to Háry; in both, eighteenth-century Austrian-Hungarian coexistence is portrayed as an idyllic world. Kodály in his preface to the Dances of Marosszék accordingly identified Transylvania as a kind of fairyland, a blissful place representing the fertile cultural and intellectual aura of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy in the period after the Ausgleich of 1867, all the more fantastical after the devastating Versailles treaties of 1920. The mistuned chords in the finale of Dances of Galánta indeed symbolize the end of an idyllic world destroyed by World War I. The idea is conveyed in several composing devices, such as irony, mistuning, use of commonplace melodic elements, an allusion to a mock funeral march, and the distinctive treatment of the horns, well known from symphonies and song cycles by Mahler, likewise a monarchy composer. Indeed the 1933 Dances of Galánta, like Kodály’s earlier Dances of Marosszék and The Spinning Room (in Hungarian: Székely fonó), cites in its titles districts that were no longer parts of post-Versailles Hungary. Háry János, as a stage work, naturally expresses the loss of this idyllic world in a broader sense than an orchestral dance series can. While the French are presented in an ironic, sardonic tone, a wondrous fairyland arises in the music of the Austrian court: the “Viennese Musical Clock,” “Entry of the Emperor and His Cortège” (harking to a popular eighteenth-century genre of chinoiserie), “Entry of the Little Princes,” “Cuckoo Song,” and the chorally accompanied “Duet of the Empress and Marie Louise” portray a positive side of the world. Kodály’s singspiel turns Viennese court life into a puppet play and its protagonists into puppets. This quality appears perhaps most vividly in the orchestral “Viennese Musical Clock,” where all soft string tones are banished and chimes are evoked by radiant wind and brass instruments, with percussion and a clamorous piano. The Hungarian mood, by contrast, is gloomy: all the Hungarian movements— “Tiszán innen, Dunán túl” (Tisza this side, Danube that), “Hogyan tudtál rózsám” (How dare you, my rose), “Szegény vagyok” (I’m poor), “Felszántom a császár udvarát” (I’ll till the Emperor’s court)—reflect anguish and suffering; the melody of “Tiszán innen, Dunán túl,” which frames the singspiel, is a clear case.43 The same tune returns in the closing chorus with a new text: “Szegény derék magyar nép” (Poor, good Hungarian folk). Kodály transforms the folk song into a four-part imitative chorus that slows after the climax. Then Háry and Örzse sing to static chords the original text—“Tiszán innen, Dunán túl.” The duet professes love, while the chorus text mourns the Hungarian people. The middle section of the closing chorus looks back to the heroic verbunkos music of the scene “Intermezzo,” but the singspiel closes to the tune of “Nagyabonyban csak két torony látszik” (Just two towers can be seen in Nagyabony). This folk song serves to conclude the opera, as Háry himself and then the chorus sing, “Inkább nézem az abonyi kettőt, mint Majlandban azt a harminckettőt” (I’d rather look at those two towers than the thirtytwo towers in Milan). So the closing chorus ends with an expressive device typical

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of Kodály’s finales—questioning the elevated mood by adding a subdued, introspective, submissive tone. The Hungarian / Austrian / French triangle undoubtedly has symbolic significance. Mockery of the French, for example, assumes special poignancy for the Hungarians in light of the Trianon trauma and also in view of Kodály’s own Francophilia. The singspiel, after all, is busy rewriting history, and not just in terms of the fanciful storybook segments of the narrative. Kodály remarks in several later writings that the fictions in Háry János rested on real and historical facts,44 reflecting his belief that folklore molds history, just as folk songs mold historical styles: [Háry] says . . . he captured Napoleon. This is untrue—but it is a known historical fact that in the so-called Schmalkaldic War in the sixteenth century, Hungarian hussars took the great Prince Elector prisoner. Events like that live on vividly in folk tradition, mingling with characters in folk tales . . . . So historical fact and folk imagination merge inseparably in the legends, which are more truthful than history.45

Yet it is as if Kodály intended revenge on the victors of Versailles at leaving Hungary bereft of much of its territory—for tellingly, in his story, the war is not won by the French. The grounds for such an interpretation of Háry are covered in a 1926 article by Szabolcsi, written after its première. Szabolcsi sees János Háry himself is a symbol of the Hungarian nation, his dreams shattered by the intrigues of “cannon,” “factories,” and “diplomacy.”46 Szabolcsi’s article also observes that the image of Hungarianness is somewhat ambivalent in the work, as the key attribute attached to the Hungarian nation is self-deception. This trait was remarked at the time by Kodály himself when comparing Háry’s personality to those of two historic Hungarian politicians: Lajos Kossuth (1802–1894) and István Tisza (1861–1918): Hungarians, even if they encountered the wonders of the world, would far rather rest under the two towers of Abony than the thirty-two of Milan. Their outlook is “Hungaro-centric.” I do not mean to say this is acceptable. On the contrary: from this derives our countless crimes as a nation, many fatal mistakes of Hungarian politics in the past. But it is not the task of a work of art to educate, judge or convince, only to convey.47

Endre Ady expressed perhaps most forcefully in the history of Hungarian literature the ambivalence of Hungarian intellectuals toward the concept of a Hungarian nation.48 Kodály’s opinion is equally ambivalent; Háry’s return home, for instance, could also be interpreted as spurred by Örzse, the woman he loves, rather than by the tormented people of Hungary. Kodály inscribed the work to his own wife Emma with the words “To my Örzse,” and so it is perhaps not far-fetched to conclude that Háry János is a coded message with a hidden reference to her—as are so many of his works, such as the youthful Nine Piano Pieces, op. 3, the String

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Quartet No. 1, and the Trio Serenade, op. 12. Kodály composed into Háry his own adventures abroad, part real, part imagined, and his inexorable return home.49 The inexorability—the reference to 1914 in Kodály’s quoted essay is significant here—may well have been hardened by the dire peace treaties of Versailles. The predicament forced Kodály and other artists and scholars to look again at Hungary’s whole history, in Kodály’s case not that of an aristocracy or bourgeoisie but of the peasantry. It also meant redefining Hungarianness. Kodály used eighteenthcentury historical styles and Hungarian folk music to legitimize the concept of a Hungarian nation after it had been thwarted. This also means viewing the works Kodály composed after 1920 through the traumatic reality of a Hungary truncated by the Treaty of Trianon, which deprived the country of much of its territory. Ferenc Bónis, in his doctoral dissertation on the genesis of Kodály’s chef d’œuvre, Psalmus Hungaricus, compares the three works—Psalmus Hungaricus, Ernst von Dohnányi’s Ünnepi Nyitány (Festival Overture), and Bartók’s Táncszvit (Dance Suite)—that premièred at a concert to mark the fiftieth anniversary of the unification of Buda, Pest, and Óbuda into Budapest, on November 19, 1923. Kodály’s composition, he writes, conjures up “a tormented and lonely prophet, who with grim, true words seemed to slap the celebrating crowd in the face.”50 He does not clarify why the “prophet”—presumably Kodály’s alter ego—would be tormented or lonely, or feel the need to insult Hungarian society, in particular the jubilant crowds in Budapest, through a composition officially commissioned by the city itself. Most contemporary press reactions to the première likewise failed to comment on Kodály’s choice of text for so festive an occasion—one that condemns the nation and reviews its past mistakes—gloomy indeed when compared with Dohnányi’s composition on the same occasion, advancing the idea of uniting the nation, and Bartók’s, championing the unity of nations. Only István Péterfi, writing in the radical left-wing daily Világ (World), referred to the political side of the commission and the fact that after two postwar revolutions—the Aster Revolution (October 28–31, 1918) and the Bolshevik coup (from March 21, 1919) producing the Hungarian Soviet Republic—Budapest should be regarded as “guilty” for having supported both: Remarkable though it is that the “guilty” capital lent three “guilty men,” the pride of Hungarian composition and performance—Bartók, Dohnányi and Kodály—the joy is yet more sincere that the mistake offered an occasion for the composers to compose and perform new works of literary merit.51

Péterfi refers clearly to the active role the three played in reorganizing and modernizing the music scene during the revolutionary periods. Kodály took part in the

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Musical Directorate52 and acted as vice-director of the Academy of Music during both periods, and after its fall was investigated for participating and suspended from his job.53 Even before the investigation, some teachers at the academy went on strike against the new director, the world-renowned violinist Jenő Hubay (1858–1937), and the new leadership, and gave their support to Kodály and the former director, Dohnányi, who was then on a concert tour. Several, however, soon broke the strike, and during the investigation in the winter of 1919–20 some even went on to testify against Kodály in an attempt to protect their own positions. Several statements from the composer have survived, revealing efforts to clear himself of the political and administrative charges.54 He was found guilty of some charges relating to the administration of the institution,55 but acquitted of the political ones, and despite Hubay’s opposition, was able to teach at the academy again from September 1921.56 In one of the testimonies, Kodály wrote of his stance toward politics, expressing legitimate indignation at being denounced as unpatriotic: For 15 years I have been traveling about the villages of Hungary to collect all data to be found on Hungarian music. I do so in the conviction that until this is done, art music in Hungary cannot advance a step further. It needs the freshness of folk music to empower it . . . . All this work I have done without state support, shouldering expenses almost to the degree of extravagance. This work incidentally cannot be paid for. Where did I find the energy to do it all? No doubt from an unpatriotic feeling, with which they try to charge me. I was never concerned with daily politics. In a figurative sense, however, every bar is political, every folk song that I noted down. In my view, this is good national politics.57

The last sentence reflects on the rhetoric of political discourse under the emerging Horthy regime and on what each political side saw as good national politics.58 Psalmus Hungaricus can be viewed as a similar public reflection or political act. In particular, Budapest is the “guilty city” (“Egész ez város rakva haraggal, / Egymásra való nagy bosszúsággal, / Elhíresedett az gazdagsággal, / Hozzá fogható nincsen álnoksággal” [Violence and strife rage fierce in the city, / Mischief and malice, envy and sorrow, / Boasting of riches, pride of possession; / Ne’er in all the world saw I such deceivers!]). Kodály again cites contemporary public affairs in referring to conflicts among the nation’s (“city’s”) population. Yet it seems that Psalmus Hungaricus should be seen above all as an autobiographical work. The sixteenth-century Protestant preacher Mihály Vég of Kecskemét evokes King David, the musical poet, in his paraphrase of Psalm 55—hence the pivotal role of the harp in Kodály’s work—and sets a scene where the protagonist is unjustly accused not just by foes (“Éjjel és nappal azon forgódnak, / Engem mi módon megfoghassanak, / Beszédem miatt vádolhassanak, / Hogy fogságomon ők vígadhassanak” [Night and day go they about me, / Seeking how they may take me in the snare, / And by false witness

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seek to destroy me, / Make me a prisoner; Then would they shout with joy!]) but even by closest friends (“De barátomnak az kit vélek volt / . . . / Fő ellenségem most látom hogy az volt” [But it was you, my friend whom I trusted, / . . . / You are the man whose hand would have stuck me down!]). Kodály identifies himself with the psalmist King David, as well as with Vég, a preacher from his own birthplace.59 Kodály scholars hitherto have not discussed the allusion to the composer’s personal life in the choice of text; stressing those factors relating to the sixteenth-century Hungarian Reformation and their relevance to contemporary political events was held to be more important.60 The archaic text is linked with a rondo theme that evokes the melodies of sixteenth-century Hungarian historical songs written and composed by Sebestyén Tinódi Lantos (1495–1556). As Szabolcsi wrote, the theme, like others by Kodály, encompasses “images, landscapes, human figures” whose “whole existence, every breath and every feature,” are represented in the music.61 The reference to Hungarian historical tradition offered a lens through which to interpret Kodály’s work within the context of his relation to music history. Bónis, citing Kodály’s use of historical styles, calls Psalmus an example of neoclassicism in Kodály style.62 No doubt the two works prefiguring the Psalm—the 1917 “Ballad of István Kádár” with its harp imitation in the piano part, and “Siralmas nékem” (It is grievous to me), the first movement of the song cycle Három Ének (Three songs), op. 14—can be seen, considering their evocation of historical song, as experiments in neoclassicism. Stylistically, however, Kodály’s Psalmus Hungaricus is a far more complex work that uses none of the neoclassical formulae or ironic devices found in Háry János, the Dances of Marosszék, and the Dances of Galánta. In many ways, features such as the chorus and the orchestral climaxes foreshadow Kodály’s style in the late 1930s.63 Despite the presence of a rondo theme, the form derives from the Beethovian / Brahmsian tradition. It is a complex form embodying rondo, sonata, and trio features, while the orchestral introduction, rondo themes, and interludes also follow the variation principle. Another essential element in its intricacy is the role the soloist, chorus, or orchestra assumes in a particular section (Table 4). Kodály opens the orchestral introduction on a typical Hungarian tone: this is manifest, apart from occasional pentatonic elements, in the way he uses musical formulae that evoke instrumental improvisations in folk music. The gushing, broken, sospirato melody returns before the harp interlude and before the closing section. The leap of a fourth and a fifth in the opening motif appears several times as a thematic reference, as it too derives from the opening gestures of the rondo theme’s third and fourth lines (Example 11). Bónis goes as far as to say that the Psalmus is monothematic, arguing that although several thematic formations can be perceived, there are numerous links between them.64 The opening formula also determines the work’s A minor tonality, a key that bears significance also because the various appearances of the rondo theme and interludes are in keys far distant from it. The A minor key defines the

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table 4 The form of Psalmus Hungaricus 1–30

31–81

82–91

92–130

131–144

145–268

269–395

Rondo theme

Interlude no. 1

Rondo theme

Interlude no. 2

Rondo theme

Interlude no. 3

Rondo theme

A

B

Avar no. 1

C

Avar no. 2

D

Avar no. 3

1. Orchestral theme 2. Chorus theme 3. Orchestral theme

1. A 2. B 3. C 4. D

Chorus theme

1. Orchestral theme 2. E 3. F 4. Orchestral theme 5. G

Chorus theme

1. H 2. I 3. J 4. Orchestral theme 5. K 6. Kvar 7. Orchestral theme 8. L

Chorus theme (in four variations)

example 11 . Psalmus Hungaricus, opening theme of the orchestra, first violin only (bars 1–3), © 1926 Universal Edition A. G., Wien, assigned to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 30360.

≥œ œ ≥ œ œ. œ 6 ‰ ‰. œ J ‰ ‰. &8 R f appass.

Andante molto appassionato {q = 54-56}

≥> œ. œj œ . >œ >œ >œ J

>≥œ >≥œ . œ œ.

framework of the sonata form: the development is placed between the exposition and reprise in A minor. Characteristically and following traditional principles, Kodály modulates into the dominant key by the end of the exposition, where he confirms the A minor tonality with an extended A major passage. The presence of the rondo form is, however, clearly discerned within the sonata form. The rondo theme (A) (Example 12) is modified each time it appears; as a rule it features the chorus, while the interludes (B, C, D, Bvar, E) give voice to the emotions and thoughts of the solo tenor. The great harp interlude (“Te azért lelkem” [So in Jehovah I will put my trust]) at the heart of the work is set apart from the rest by its length, tone, and to some extent style, thus making it the climax of the entire piece. Due to its interlude aspect, it is

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example 12 . Psalmus Hungaricus, opening theme of the chorus, alto only (bars 16–20), © 1926 Universal Edition A. G., Wien, assigned to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 30360.

π sotto voce &œ œ œ œ

j œ œ œ œ œ

Mi - ko - ron Dá - vid

j j œ œ œ. œ œ œ

nagy bú - sul - tá - ban,

Ba-rá - ti

mi - att

œ. œ œ œ

j œ

vol - na bá - nat - ban,

possible to interpret the preceding and following larger units as the main sections of a trio form. Its emergence from the rest of the composition, however, is meaningful: the solo vocalist in this section turns inward and secludes himself from the outside world. It is in this context that Kodály’s “Divine Voice,” recurring time and again in his creative œuvre, appears in the work. This Kodály signature, which had already played a significant role in the middle section of the 1905 Adagio, first appears in its obvious form in the Ady song “Ádám, hol vagy” (Adam, where art thou?) from Öt dal (Five songs), op. 9, and becomes by the end of the 1930s a regular feature of Kodály’s orchestral works. However, this divine incarnation, as interpreted by Kodály, can only be realized inwardly, in the creative spirit of the artist, i.e., in art— and so in the Psalmus in King David’s song with harp accompaniment (Example 13). After the interlude, Kodály consciously avoids a schematic alternation of soloist and chorus. The accusatory words of the solo tenor then vanish from the libretto, through a metamorphosis that prepares the way for peace in the spirit of the protagonist—and perhaps of the community as well. The work closes with evident reconciliation between community and tormented individual. This closing gesture in Psalmus Hungaricus logically raises the question of whether there is a political message beyond the autobiographical reflection, and whether such a message was among the composer’s intentions. Does the work express somehow Kodály’s view in a “figurative sense” of participating in politics and of “national politics” as a whole? Does the historicism pervading the work have any connection with this concept? The questions are all the more valid as this was the aspect of the work emphasized primarily in its reception at the time, regardless of the political affiliations of the commentators. For example, one of them sought to validate Hungarian chauvinism when he wrote, after hearing Psalmus, that “at last it is by actions, not just speeches, that the superiority of Hungarian culture receives expression.”65 The interlude is followed by a series of brief images: Kodály is unsparing in his use of word-painting devices. First the trombones of the Last Judgment are heard, played by the whole brass section (from passage 31, “Igaz vagy Uram ítéletedben” [Thou art our One God, righteous in judgment]), then the image of purification through fire, and then even the passage evoking the crackling of fire that follows

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example 13 . Psalmus Hungaricus, harp interlude, whole orchestra (bars 241–243), © 1926

Universal Edition A. G., Wien, assigned to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 30360.

Fl.

&

Cl.

&

Arp.

Ten. Solo

1.

. π & ggg b œœœ ggg œœœ ggg π gg gg gg ? gggg b bb œœœ gggg œœœ g 1.

b

V

Vl. I.

&

Vla.

B

Vlc.

. π

28 a tempo {q = 69}

Te

ggg œœœ gg ggg gg œœ gg œ

œ Œ

Œ

œ Œ

Œ

gg œœœ ggg gg ggg œœ gg œ

gg œœ ggg œ gg ggg œœ gg œ

gg œœœ ggg gg ggg œœ gg œ

j Œ Œ ‰ œ bœ

a - zért

w. w. π

gg b œœœ gg Fagg n gg b œ ggg œ gœ

b. lel

28 a tempo {q = 69}

∑

arco div. con sord.

? div.

# ww .. π w. w. π

w. w.

1. 2.

gg œœœ gg ggg gg œ ggg œœ

gg œœœ gg ggg gg œ ggg œœ -

∑

gg œœœ ggg gg ggg œ ggg œœ

b. kem,

gg œœœ ggg gg ggg œ ggg œœ

gg œœœ b œœ œœ ggg œ œ gg Re b Sol b ggg œ gg œœ b b b œœœ œœœ b. gon

∑

-

∑

œœ œ œœ œ

œœ œ œœ œ

œœ œ œœ œ

œœ œ Re n b œœœ Mi

œ. bœ bœ bœ

-

-

do - la - to -

∑

n ww ..

b b ww ..

w. w.

bw. bw.

(from passage 35, “Az égő tűzben elbétaszítod” [And he is like silver tried in the furnace]). Kodály eventually attaches a homophonic, A major choral passage to this, which leads into the lifting up of the people. A few bars later (passage 38), the evocation of this ascent brings a reappearance of the sospirato motif in the orchestral introduction. In other words, the initial improvisatory formulae with marked Hungarian connotations serve here, at the end, to symbolize the reemergence of the Hungarian people. This is conveyed by an ascending D major scale on the first violins at the word “felemeled” (raise him on high) at the end of the passage, which then leads into the epiphany of the inner narrative of the work, played by organ, brass, and percussion. The ultimate return of the Psalm melody ensures, primarily, that the composition closes not on a climax but on a serene, conciliatory note. Yet the sense of hope that the people of Hungary have a chance for revival persists unmis-

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takably in the score. The formal structure of Psalmus Hungaricus is a metamorphosis in itself: from the opening chaos, enmity, and personal grievances, it shows through art that the Hungarian nation can attain purification and rise above its tragic fate. After 1923 this concept became the fundamental idea in Kodály’s œuvre. Háry János and Psalmus Hungaricus seem to present two sides of creative responsibility: the former as a farce and the latter as a drama. Both undoubtedly refer to daily politics as well, as part of Hungary’s post-Versailles search for a path and a process toward self-definition. They touch on this path and process not in a day-to-day sense but as works of art. Both ultimately represent Kodály’s view of Hungary in the 1920s and its possible future, and both set out musically to express what it is was like to be Hungarian in a truncated Hungary. Psalmus Hungaricus burst forth from the composer, but the composition of Háry took place in several stages. This may also explain why the stage work presents more of an ideological account than the cantata does. It was an open secret that Kodály had barely finished by the day of the première of his singspiel, Háry János. Right before the première, it became clear that the time allowed was too short to make the change of sets between the first and second Adventures,66 and the composer had to provide the needed minutes by inserting a “Palotás” number, later marked Intermezzo, borrowed from his earlier incidental music for Dorottya, an epic poem by the classicist poet Mihály Csokonai Vitéz (1773–1805), which had been arranged for the stage by Zsigmond Móricz.67 Performances ever since have continued to feature cuts and insertions. The first changes came right after the première. Technical difficulties of presentation led Kodály, after the third performance, to delete the whole fourth scene, where Marie Louise—forsaken in love—throws herself into the Nix (into the Nothing), even though this contains the “Dance of the Dragoons.”68 However, removing the fourth scene upset the balance of the work, so Kodály felt he had to compose additional numbers. These were added on January 10, 1928.69 “Dragoons” was replaced by a Duet for women’s chorus, and he also composed two shorter songs to add. The overture too was first heard at that time.70 The copyrighted Universal Edition score of 1962, however, again presents a different version. Table 5 gives a detailed list of the parts of the original left out of the piano reduction and the additions made to it. For example, Kodály omitted no. 4, “A zsidó család” (Entry of a Jewish family), probably feeling that to depict Jewish people as an ethnic group on stage after 1945 would be misinterpreted. Incidentally, the piano reduction omits the overture, but adds the “Honvéd díszinduló” (Honvéd parade march), composed in 1948 and given a text to match the libretto.71 Later performances and recordings brought more changes. A complete picture of the musical material calls for track lists from at least four different CD albums. Table 5 shows that nos. 3, 4, 6, 11a, 21, and 23 are never performed. These include,

Title

Kezdődik a mese / The Tale Begins A furulyázó huszár / Fluteplay of a Hussar Az öreg asszony / The Old Woman A zsidó család / Entry of the Jewish Family Sej! Verd meg Isten / God, Beat Them Ruthén lányok kara / Choir of the Ruthenian Girls Piros alma / Red Apple Bordal: Oh, mely sok hal / Wine Song Duo: Tiszán innen / Duo: This Side of Tisza Közjáték / Intermezzo Ku-ku-kukuskám / Cuckoo Song Háry a Luciferen / Háry on Lucifer Bécsi harangjáték / Viennese Musical Clock Hogyan tudtál rózsám / How Dare You, My Rose Hej két tikom / Chickens. . . Induló / Festive March Ébresztő / Sej, besoroztak / Choir of Soldiers Franciák indulója / March of the French Napóleon bevonulása / March of Napoleon Gyászinduló / Funeral March Dal: Oh, te vén sülülülü / Song: Oh, You Old. . . Cigányzene / Gypsy Music Hagyj békét viaskodó, oh! / Let Me. . . Toborzó / The Song of Hussars

Kodály’s Original Numbering

Overture 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 11a 12. 13. 14. 14a 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

10 January 1928 First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance 1950 First performance First performance First performance First performance 10 January 1928 First performance 10 January 1928 First performance

First Performance

table 5 The numbers of Háry János

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. ----22.

1. 2. 3.

Universal Edition’s Numbering

Not performed

(continued)

Festive March (1948)

Not performed

Not performed

Not performed Not performed

Played as Theatre Overture

Omissions, Extensions

A császári udvar bevonulása / March of the Court Behozzák a császár napát / The Mother of the Emperor A kis hercegek bevonulása / March of the Little Princes Gyermekkar / Children Choir Kivonulás / Pullout Dal: Szegény vagyok / Song: I’m Poor Dal: Felszántom a császár udvarát / Song: I’ll Till the Emperor’s Court Zárókar / Finale

24.

30.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

Duett női karral / Duet with Women’s Choir Világvége jelenet és a Sárkányok tánca / Doomsday and Dragon Dance

Title

23.

Kodály’s Original Numbering

First performance

First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance First performance

10 January 1928 First performance

First Performance

table 5 (continued)

30.

24. ----25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

23. -----

Universal Edition’s Numbering

Only text

Not performed; Dragon Dance as Ballet Music performed

Omissions, Extensions

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apart from “Entry of a Jewish Family,” “Ruthén lányok kara” (Choir of the Ruthenian girls), for example. Yet other self-contained pieces never found their place in the singspiel. Kodály himself added to the role of Marczi the coachman in 1938, using an earlier, much shorter version of “Kállai kettős” (Double dance of Kálló).72 So he was astonished to hear the second version of 1951 played at a 1963 Moscow performance. He more than once expressed disapproval, saying all the alterations left his work unrecognizable: “I came here to see the work first performed in 1926, and saw something quite different.”73 Yet the readiness with which inserts could be made in the Háry text was certainly due to its structural elasticity—its alternation of dialogue and musical numbers. So far as we can tell from Kodály’s remarks on the matter, the Moscow adaption of Háry emerged against a background of Mussorgsky’s Sorochintsy Fair and socialist realism.74 The first scene, for example, was set at a fair in a village marketplace, not as originally in a tumbledown village pub. Further changes to the libretto were needed after the political upheaval of 1948–49. The most conspicuous comes in the setting of the first Adventure, where Háry swiftly moves the guard post from Russia to Hungary. The libretto replaces the setting as the border of Hungary and Germany—after 1948, the enemy had to be burkus (Prussian, i.e., German), not muszka (Muscovite, i.e., Russian). Political determinants had already forced libretto changes in the 1920s. Ferenc Bónis recalls how the emperor’s mother-in-law in the original staging was also brought on stage in the Act II “Grand Entrance of the Emperor.” She is depicted as so old she can only manage a single word.75 This was a clear reference to Princess Sophie of Bavaria, the mother of Emperor Franz Joseph I, who was still popularly remembered fifty years after her death for sticking her nose into everything, even in old age. The allusion would have caused umbrage and anger in the royalist circles around the last Hungarian king, Charles IV, resurgent at the time, and the satirical scene was left out.76 It is less the humorous allusions than the emphatic reactions that reveal how everyday political references pervade the libretto of Háry. This says something also about Kodály, who throughout his career was cautious about expressing his political views. The political references thickly strewn in the libretto are also typical of the genre, of course. As Tibor Tallián pointed out, the singspiel genre revived in Kodály’s work has an inherent capacity to convey current issues and opinions, even though it relies on stories with fairy-tale elements, accompanied by musical inserts.77 It also must be emphasized that the development of the libretto was out of Kodály’s hands: his role was to compose the accompanying musical illustrations. The extent to which Kodály identified with the political emphasis on Hungarianness at the time and with the political gibes in the libretto remains an important question, for Háry—as a farce—was meant to engage with the trauma of Versailles, as was its twin composition, the tragic Psalmus Hungaricus.78

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Kodály’s statements on the singspiel, mostly written forty years after the première, focus on the work’s representation of the soul of the Hungarian people.79 The question of whether the music should convey the views expressed by the text readily emerges. Kodály was quite aware of the political relevance of Háry’s libretto. This was probably why he had no faith in the international success of the work, and why he compiled a suite that could serve as a successful substitute for the singspiel abroad. He had often lamented that it was not feasible to translate the libretto, and he was much surprised in the 1960s to learn that the stage work was performed with success in several foreign cities.80 The text translated into German for Universal Edition in 1926 by Rudolph Stephan Hoffmann was revised in 1962.81 The translation bowed to political correctness by striving to neutralize the adversarial side of 250 years of AustrianHungarian coexistence, and to remove some chauvinistic jokes, primarily directed at the French and the Bohemians (Czechs). For example, when Háry advises the empress treating the emperor’s gout, she turns and instructs her Czech servant in Czech. The German translation merely hints at the Czech language with an accumulative use of consonants and use of a Czech word rozumite (“Understand?”). By contrast, the Hungarian version assumes profound contempt for the Czechs, playing with morphologically related pairs of words, of which the third, sundásbundám (“sneaky cheaters”), refers unmistakably to treachery, while the last, “plotty” (plop), conveys the sound of a plopping stool. After World War I and the redrawing of borders according to the Versailles peace process, the French, for providing the venue for the treaties, and the Czechs, as a monarchy minority who had fought intensely against an oppressive Hungarian establishment, were seen as the main national enemies in Hungarian political discourse.82 Here the libretto reflects political beliefs at the time of the trauma of Versailles, as was noted by Bence Szabolcsi in a review of the première.83 The effects of Versailles can be seen in various other adaptations right up to the 1940s. At the dramatic climax of the singspiel, Háry forces the defeated Napoleon to sign a contract—fabled revenge for the 1920 Treaty of Trianon—promising to behave and pay for all the damage he has inflicted. The feelings of frustration and inferiority behind the libretto emerge in the first movie adaptation of Háry in 1941. Here Napoleon shrinks: he can barely climb into the big chair next to the vast Háry, or reach the table.84 At this point the film plays the Funeral March (no. 18) from Háry. This, and the preceding March of the French and March of Napoleon (nos. 16 and 17), correspond to the libretto completely: these are three of the most ironic parts of the singspiel, all referring directly to the Frenchness of Napoleon and his army. The Funeral March, as we have seen, has the saxophone appear as a typically French—not Belgian—instrument; the Marseillaise is mistuned, and the March of the French represents them with the whole-tone scale.

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Still clearer is the fact that the Habsburg court—despite harsh words in the libretto—appears in a positive light in Kodály’s music. Anti-Habsburg sentiments in the libretto are shown, for example, by a scene in Adventure no. 3, where Coachman Marczi tries to sooth Örzse, who is upset by Marie Louise’s wish to marry Háry. Örzse’s bitter outburst says it all: “Oh, the Austrians snatch everything from us Hungarians. Now we’re even giving them an emperor.” Yet the music belies the text by representing the Austrians in a kind and friendly way, as if in a fairy tale. Kodály gives to Austrians the most colorful movements: the song of Marie Louise, the Cuckoo Song, the Grand Entrance of the Emperor, and the Entry of the Archdukes, for example. Here the music depicts an ideal state, which as Kodály repeatedly said, emerges in people’s imagination: it shows high Viennese court life as perceived in Hungarian minds.85 The clearest example is “A bécsi harangjáték” (Viennese musical clock), where a Hungarian cowbell melody is recast in the style of eighteenth-century Viennese musical clocks. Examining the songs used by Kodály in the singspiel, it becomes clear that the selection process was affected primarily by political considerations, not aesthetic ones. With the exception of two, Table 6 shows the time and place where Kodály collected the arranged songs.86 One exception, “Tiszán innen, Dunán túl” (Tisza this side, Danube that), acquired significance in the singspiel with its fifth-shifting structure, so that it came to symbolize the native land and a sense of home. It was collected by Béla Bartók in Felsőireg (Tolna County) in 1906—in the area where the historical figure of János Háry originated.87 The other folk songs, collected by Kodály in present-day Slovakia and Romania (Bukovina), come from collecting trips before 1918, mainly between 1912 and 1914. The tie between the geographical origins of the folk songs and the scenes in which the singspiel action take place is conspicuous. The main locations in the Háry story are the borders between Hungary and Russia (more precisely Galicia), Vienna, Milan (where Háry defeats Napoleon), and Nagyabony (today’s Vel’ké Blahovo in Slovakia), the birthplace of Háry and Örzse close to Vienna. Most of the folk songs used in Háry were found by Kodály in the Nagyabony area of Upper Hungary, which the composer was keen to visit, perhaps because the area of Galánta and Nagyszombat had been where he spent much of his childhood.88 Kodály was evidently attached to the region, especially after Versailles, when Upper Hungary was made part of Czechoslovakia. Moreover, it is the birthplace of János Háry, Kodály’s singspiel hero, which afforded historical grounds that allowed the protagonists in Háry’s imagination to sing this region’s songs.89 Between 1921 and 1924, Kodály had supplemented his earlier collection with song variants found within the country’s new borders. General opinion suggests that folk songs preserved in peripheral regions, far from main centers, are the most archaic. So the collection from Upper Hungary was all the more significant to the composer, as its region was peripheral in culture, language, and national identity.

Slovakia Slovakia Hungary Slovakia Hungary Hungary Hungary Hungary Slovakia Slovakia Slovakia Slovakia Slovakia Slovakia Hungary Slovakia Romania Slovakia Slovakia Hungary Slovakia Slovakia

Nyitraegerszeg Mohi Kemenssömjén Alsócsesze Páty Balatonlelle Bolhás Érd Zsigárd Nagyabony Nyitraegerszeg Alsóbalog Zsére Mohi Gyarmatpuszta Nyitraegerszeg Nagyszalonta Garamszentgyörgy Zsigárd Komárváros Szalóc Szilica

Fölszántom a császár udvarát / I’ll Plow Up the Emperor’s Court

Szegény vagyok / I’m Poor

Elment a két lány / The Two Girls Have Gone Ábécédé / A-B-C-D

A jó lovas katonának / The Song of Hussars Gyújtottam gyertyát / Candle Lighting

Nagyabonyban / In Nagyabony Ó, te vén sülülü / Oh, You Old. . .

Sej, besoroztak / Choir of Soldiers

Hej, két tikom / Chickens. . .

Hogyan tudtál / My Dear, How Could You

Tiszán innen, Dunán túl / Tisza this side, Danube that Ku-ku-kukuskám / Cuckoo Song Bécsi harangjáték / Viennese Carillon

Romania Hungary Romania Slovakia Slovakia Hungary Hungary

Istensegíts, Hadikfalva Nyírvaja Istensegíts Mohi Alsócsesze Bakonybél Felsőireg

A zsidó család / The Jewish Family Sej! Verd meg Isten / God, Beat Them Ruthén lányok kara / Choir of the Ruthenian Girls Piros alma / Red apple Ó, mely sok hal / Wine Song

Country Today

Village

Folk Song

Nyitra Bars Vas Bars Pest Somogy Somogy Pest Pozsony Pozsony Nyitra Gömör Nyitra Bars Komárom Nyitra Bihar Bars Pozsony Zala Gömör Gömör

Bukovina Szabolcs, Ost-Hungary Bukovina Bars Bars Veszprém, West-Hungary Tolna, Süd-Hungary

Region

table 6 The collection sites of the folk songs in Háry János

Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Emma Kodály Kodály ? Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály

Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Kodály Bartók

Collector

1910 1914 September 15, 1922 1912 June 10, 1922 September 7–8, 1924 December 25, 1922 August 1917 1905 ? 1910 1912 1911 1912; May 24, 1914 October 10, 1921 1908; 1910 October 8, 1916 1912 1905 1925 January 1914 1913

April 1914 August 11, 1916 April 1914 1912 1912 August 6, 1922 1906

Date

Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man

109

After World War I, it seemed even more important to rediscover the songs he had found a decade earlier, in places closer to the middle of the country—as if these variants had preserved something of the old Hungary, as well as demonstrating how the unity of the country was torn apart. This was likely why he decided to use the folk song “Hej két tikom tavali” (Hungry birds I have to feed), the only melody that comes not from separated territories but from Somogy County.90 Kodály had found it in 1922, and probably hoped to find variants in Upper Hungary, or at least indications that such might have been known there at one time. The inserts from the Bukovina collection represent three ethnicities of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy: Kodály found musical material of “Ruthén lányok kara” (Choir of the Ruthenian girls), A zsidó család (Entry of a Jewish family), and Cigányzene (Gypsy music) in Bukovina.91 As mentioned earlier, two of the three were omitted from later performances, despite their pivotal role in ensuring the historical authenticity of the singspiel. This type of authenticity lies at the heart of the concept: János Háry, who is serving as a soldier on the borders of Galicia and Russia, is truly in a position to know the songs of Galician Jews and Ruthenians. Historical authenticity, however, blends with the fable-like character in the work, which for Kodály—from a musical point of view—is of crucial significance. In the 1960s he stressed on a number of occasions, as we have seen, that the plot of Háry János, like fairy tale in folklore, combines historical facts with elements of fable.92 So the story, as Kodály had stated at the time of the première, has elements of truth, but the events do not unfold in quite the same way as they did in reality.93 The blend of the reality and fantasy is illustrated vividly by A bécsi harangjáték (Viennese musical clock). So the geographical proximity of the historically authenticated origins of collected folk songs and the fantasy world of Háry was of central importance to Kodály; it gave greater aesthetic meaning to a libretto that can essentially be regarded as a political pamphlet. Still, it is important that the folk songs representing historical authenticity were all Hungarian. Moreover, the melodies of minorities all bear the mannerisms of Hungarian folk performance: the composer collected these from Hungarian peasants as well. Kodály himself pointed out several times that the worldview of Háry János is “Hungaro-centric.” Kodály’s Háry János reveals clearly that the idyllic state of the monarchy was valid solely in the context of this “Hungaro-centric” outlook. Kodály’s idyllic world can be reconstructed only from the Hungarian ruins of that common history. Kodály, in one of his Toronto lectures of 1966, identified variations by Beethoven and Brahms as models for his Peacock Variations (1939).94 Without mentioning them specifically, he clearly had in mind the final movement of the Eroica and the Haydn Variations. The latter follows a stricter form than Kodály’s orchestral series, as the variation structure retains its outline throughout. The model for Kodály was

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undoubtedly the structure of the finale of Brahms’s work, rather than the largescale form, especially the last seventy measures, where the theme appears as a cantus firmus on different instruments; the horn, oboe, and flute play the theme, and at the end the first violins bring the melody to its apotheosis. The Beethoven comparison is best revealed by an earlier speech Kodály gave on the anniversary of Beethoven’s death in 1952: Perhaps there has been no other composer whose whole life’s work is such a powerful expression of protest against tyranny, or of world freedom, and of the desire for brotherhood. Hungarians especially can recognize kinship in Beethoven’s spiritual temperament, as their whole history has been a fight for freedom against tyranny.95

Beethoven’s Eroica of 1803 clearly relates closely to Fidelio and was written at about the same time. The program of the fourth, variation movement notably suggests that the idea of freedom—as in the Peacock Variations—is central to the work.96 But Kodály could also have been taken by another, purely compositional or technical feature of the movement. The finale rests on an expansion of the sonata form: it seems to embrace the idea of a sonata, in other words the entire musical universe, incorporating a slow movement and a fugue. Furthermore, this explains why the strict order of the variations soon falls apart. Kodály constructs his own variations in a similar way: the series embodies the outline of a four-movement symphony, even though the form has loosened. The second movement of Eroica, “Marcia funèbre,” is recalled in the thirteenth variation of the Kodály work, the funeral march “Tempo di Marcia funèbre.” This and the preceding death scene in the twelfth variation evoke a line from Ady’s poem “The Peacock” (“elveszünk egy szálig” [and to a man shall die]) that recalls the typical nineteenth-century topos of the death of a nation, and appears also in Vörösmarty’s famous national poem, Szózat (Declaration).97 Here Kodály attaches the same, typical dotted-rhythm accompaniment to the folk song variation as he did to the “Funeral March” of the defeated French army in Háry, while the melody itself, opening with inverted dotted rhythms, evokes the gesture of a lament, although this funeral march is anything but ironic in tone (Example 14). The references to the Beethoven funeral march and Brahms’s apotheosis both point to a Romantic turn in Kodály’s composing journey. After 1923 he had delved into the musical styles of the eighteenth century, but around 1936 it was the music of the nineteenth century that became decisive. The issues involved appear in two writings: a lecture at a Kodály evening organized by the János Vajda Society, and a programmatic article, “Excelsior,” both from 1936. In the first, Kodály declares that “the culture of art is to be spread here, at home,”98 while in the second, he argues that choral culture develops “collective national feeling.”99 All of this implies that after World War I, his primary concern had been to find his own role in the new country and its culture, and then reformulate a historical / theoretical definition of

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example 14 . Peacock Variations, Funeral March, Var. 13 (bars 347–351), © 1941, 1957 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ 350 Ÿ Ÿ a2 ? 4 œ ‰ œ‰œ œ‰ œ‰œ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ œ œ b 4 J œ. œ J J œ. œ J J œ. œ J J œ. œ J J œ. œ J Tempo di Marcia funebre q = 60

Fg.

Cor.

Trbni

Timp.

Vl. I.

Vl. II.

Vla

Vc.

Cb.

& b 44 j ‰ Œ Ó œ j ? 4 œ ‰Œ Ó b 4 nœ œ

∑

4 & b 4 j‰ Œ Ó œ B b 44 œj ‰ Œ Ó

∑

∑

∑

œœ œœ ...  ... œœ  p

œœ œœœ ...  ... œ

œ œ. . œœ œœ ..  ..

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ ? 4 œ ‰ œ‰œ œ‰ œ‰œ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ œ ‰ 4 J œ. œ J J œ. œ J œ J œ. œ J œ J œ. œ J œ J œ. œ J π Tempo di Marcia funebre q = 60

& b 44 j ‰ Œ Ó œ Ÿ ≥ ? 4 œ ‰ ≤ œ≤ ‰ œ b 4 J œ. œ J Ÿ ≥ ≤ ≤ ? 4 œ ‰ œ‰œ b 4 J œ. œ J

Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ J J J J J J J J Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ Ÿ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ œ J J J J J J J J

Hungary and its people, but fifteen years later he was seeking practical ways in which to adjust to the new situation. The conditions as he saw them were to be sought, as in Schiller’s essay “Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man” and Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister, in an “aesthetic state” emerging against the “dynamic legal state” and the “ethical state of duties and responsibilities.”100 The year 1936, when he was working on the Te Deum of Budavár, a festive oratorical piece composed for the 250th anniversary of the conquest of the Turks in Buda, signaled a turning point for Kodály, mainly because it was the fiftieth anniversary of

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Ferenc Liszt’s death. The anniversary led him inevitably to rethink his own relationship to Liszt, who had so emphatically identified himself as Hungarian. Kodály, in a lecture in honor of the occasion entitled “Magyar zenei műveltség Liszt korában és ma” (Hungarian musical culture in Liszt’s time and today), insisted that “with the exception of the rhapsodies, the composing activity of Liszt hardly had anything to do with the development of Hungarian music; with a little exaggeration, it can be stated plainly that in relation to Hungary his composing work was almost entirely fruitless.”101 This remark shows Kodály contesting Liszt’s rightfully prominent place in Hungarian music history, but his harsh words were directed less at Liszt’s œuvre than against a concept still pervasive in the 1930s, whereby Hungarian music was identified with nineteenth-century Hungarian musical styles, not with Kodály or Bartók. This tone of disavowal suggests mainly that Kodály was protective of his own status as a composer. In 1936 he felt a need to associate himself closely, both personally and in his public perception, with the image of a national composer. That same year, in a somewhat contradictory move, Kodály set the great Hungarian Romantic poet Mihály Vörösmarty’s (1800–1855) ode to Liszt to music, as a festive composition for the 26th National Singing Competition. It is clear, however, that in doing so Kodály is hiding behind Liszt and applying to himself the poem’s underlying Romantic concept that an artist has to lead his people. The point is confirmed in a speech on Liszt: “I would like to remain in the background, to hold the hand of my people, and guide them this way.”102 His contemporaries’ interpretation of the work was similar. This is shown in a choral composition, Kodály köszöntő (Greeting Kodály), by his former pupil Lajos Bárdos, written in 1952 for the seventy-year-old master, which contains a telling modification to Vörösmarty’s poem: to its opening “Renowned musician, freeman of the world,” Bárdos attaches the words, “Zoltán Kodály, great is your acclaim.” Because Kodály’s mission to educate the nation is obvious from the composer’s work, it can be difficult to keep in mind that it was not self-evident for a composer of the twentieth century to take his people’s misery upon himself, or to pour thoughts of his native land into his music, in the manner of a Romantic poet such as Sándor Petőfi (1823–1849), whose poems Kodály was so keen to set to music. Furthermore, the text of Vörösmarty’s “Liszt Ferenchez” (To Ferenc Liszt) describes the traits of the Hungarian nation (“Sors és bűneink a százados baj” [Centuries old are our life burdens of fate and sin]) while also bringing a new tone to Kodály’s œuvre, as did the canon “Song of Faith” to a poem by Dániel Berzsenyi (1776– 1836), written in the same year. These settings exhibit a peculiar passion, with fervent forte passages, ardent striving for climactic heights, a declamatory melodic style, and frequent dotted rhythms. Yet it would be wrong to regard Kodály’s choral works for mixed and men’s choir after 1936 as apotheoses of the Hungarian nation, for the majority of them, following the practice of nineteenth-century Hungarian poetry, confront the listener with

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its adverse past and failings. Conspicuously often, the texts describe the weaknesses of the Hungarians and the pervasiveness of their tendency to self-reproach—for example, “The Forgotten Song of Bálint Balassi” to a 1942 poem by the young poet Erzsi Gazdag (1912–1987). In addition, Kodály contemplates not only the history of Hungary in these nineteenth-century national topoi but also its present and future. Two choral settings of Petőfi from 1943, “To the Székler Transylvanians” and “Battle Song” for double chorus, are calls to unite. The former—like “Norwegian Girls,” which he wrote in protest and sympathy after the Germans invaded Norway in 1940103—can even be seen as a record of direct involvement in politics following the reannexation of Northern Transylvania after the Second Vienna Award (1940). Moreover, his “Advent Song” (1943) and “Geneva Psalm 121” (1943) were composed in protest of the crimes against the Jews in Hungary. Kodály here chooses symbolically significant texts, poems that carry ostensibly hidden, but in truth readily decipherable, meanings hovering above their primary content.104 With its shift to nineteenth-century poetic images as sources of artistic expression, Kodály’s music moves from the cheerful, sentimental styles of the eighteenth century toward the tragic, heroic sound of the nineteenth. This reflects partly on the composer’s age: around 1920, an almost forty-year-old composer responded keenly to transformations taking place on the contemporary musical scene, but nearing sixty, his stance became more introspective—his art, like Schoenberg’s, turned to traditionalism, conservatism, profound respect for the craft, and strong creative awareness. The duality of his artistic personality, in which individualistic intellectual modernism vied with Romantic sensibility, had been discernible earlier in his œuvre.105 After 1936, it seems, the latter played a greater role. Kodály’s Te Deum of Budavár—the work has been compared to Handel’s Dettingen Te Deum (1743)106—does not evoke the realm of neo-Baroque despite fugato passages, as there is no recognizable gesture that is ironic or detached. The heroic tone of its opening bars and the marked choral unison show Romantic zeal and a heightened penchant for climaxes. Its main antecedent was probably Anton Bruckner’s Te Deum (1883). In some respects even the fugues in the work make a superficial reference to the spirit of Baroque counterpoint. There are three thematically linked fugato sections.107 The third (“In te Domine speravi”)108 stands closest to a true Baroque fugue for chorus and orchestra; the thematic entrances are accompanied by counter-subjects—a brisker sixteenth-note instrumental theme and a vocal counter-subject—and the three subjects even appear simultaneously from time to time. Yet this seemingly strict texture includes parts thematically separate from the others, and Kodály makes no attempt at any integral connection between them. Bars 363–366, for example, have thematically separate, filling parts appearing in the altos of the choir and the second violins that double them. In fact, the contrapuntal sections of Kodály’s Te Deum of Budavár bring a change in the purpose of the theme’s appearances: instead of developing them, he

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example 15 . Huszt, homophonic section (bars 49–52), © Copyright 1937 by Universal Edition A. G., Wien / UE10877, © Copyright assigned 1952 to Universal Edition (London) Ltd. 49

V

ƒ # nœ ƒœ

gya-ra-píts,

ƒ œ œ ?# œ Œ

gya-ra-píts,

Hass,

Hass,

al - koss,

œ œ 

œ œ

?#

Hass,

Œ œ œ Œ

al - koss,

al - koss,

œ œ  œ œ 

gya-ra-píts,

Œ Œ Œ

œ

œ #œ œ

a

ha - za fény - re de - rül!

œ a

œ œ #œ #œ œ #.

ha - za fény - re de - rül!

œ #œ œ œ a

œ œ #.

œ œ #.

ha - za fény - re de - rül!

Œ Œ Œ

displays them like posters. He creates in them an illusion of counterpoint, to which Szabolcsi was probably referring when he wrote that the evocation of history in Kodály’s works “is the musical equivalent of ‘as if.’ ”109 Indeed, Kodály’s notes to his readings often contain the German equivalent: “als ob.” This suggests that creating illusions was a key element in his artistic vision and composing technique. When he evokes earlier musical styles and creates illusions of them, it is no mere playful device of irony. There is always meaning behind it that refers to history and the present, to which it is closely tied. This appears clearly in Huszt (The ruins), an epigram for male choir also composed in 1936, to a poem by the Romantic poet Ferenc Kölcsey (1790–1938). Kölcsey’s epigram contrasts past with present and Kodály’s piece does the same: the disclaimed past is represented by a melodic, harmonic, and at times sentimental three-part counterpoint, while the present is plain and rhythmically rigid, in homophonic writing occasionally joined by passages of bare unison (Example 15). To Kodály the past is beauty itself, while the present is dispiriting emptiness. The structure of Huszt also shows how his reminiscent, retrospective works convey no gesture of “replacement,” as Szabolcsi puts it. Kodály himself never expressed in his writings any suggestion of a nonexistent Hungarian music history; Szabolcsi’s theory lifted Kodály from the context of twentieth-century musical trends rather than pointing to his tangible links to it. So music-historical reflection in Kodály’s works does not derive from a need to compensate, or even from a conscious intent to supply Adorno’s “music about music”; instead, it emerges from a belief that surveying the past provides insight into the present, revealing its weaknesses and inadequacies. To Kodály, music history, history, and the present are inextricably linked.

9

An Encounter with a Young Man The Peacock Variations

Arnold Schoenberg claimed in his study “Folkloristic Symphonies” that noteworthy compositions cannot be created from folk songs by using the technique of developing variation, because folk song, being a closed form, does not possess suitable motifs that the composer can develop later in the composition. There is no compositional “unsolved problem”—“nothing in them that asks for expansion.”1 Schoenberg believed that a composer creates in the composing process not only the theme but simultaneously the entire work, as the composition, like any organically construed work of art, is like an “apple-tree blossom” or a “bud,” in which the “whole future apple is present in all its details.”2 According to this argument, the theme of Kodály’s 1939 variation masterwork, Variations on a Hungarian Folk Song, “The Peacock” (Felszállott a páva), cannot provide a true starting point for a composition to be based on the technique of developing variation. Yet Kodály, in evaluating the work, was of the opinion that “to understand it no special musical knowledge . . . is needed. But we must know the folk song from which it has grown like a flower from a seed.”3 The flower growing from the seed, like Schoenberg’s apple born of a blossom bud, is a traditional symbol of how organic works of art come into being.4 In Kodály’s compositional thinking, like Schoenberg’s, the organic principle bore such significance that it became a tenet of his teaching, as the reminiscences of his pupils Zoltán Horusitzky (1903–1985) and István Sonkoly (1907–1988) demonstrate.5 And Kodály agreed with Schoenberg: “the folk melody is absolutely inappropriate for forming a complex piece . . . . Writing a sonata one should fabricate a theme of one’s own . . . . A folk melody is a closed form. It cannot be mopped up or niggled with until it 115

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grows.”6 The Peacock Variations, as János (John S.) Weissmann emphasized in his analysis, are indeed built on the principle of developing variation.7 Yet the analytical studies of the work pay little attention to its organic structure. The attempts to interpret Peacock Variations, in fact, have so far examined primarily two issues: (1) the possibilities of formal interpretation, including the substance—i.e., the purpose of the musical material and the choice of theme; and (2) the various characteristic ideas. In the latter case, analysts strove to find the “message” in Kodály’s Peacock Variations because the work was thought, by his contemporaries and later researchers, to reveal his political beliefs in a way that was very similar to his politicized choral works, which he wrote during the 1930s and 1940s along with his orchestral works. His Hungarian-language choruses were aimed primarily at his home audience. He saw Peacock Variations as a representative work for the fiftieth anniversary of the Amsterdam Concertgebouw. It was written at the request of Willem Mengelberg, who first conducted it as well. Yet even in an orchestral work, Kodály could sketch the situation in Hungary in the 1930s. Into variation form—a West European, traditional genre—he placed the pentatonic Páva (Peacock) melody, signifying Hungarianness. Apart from some supplementary observations and a reinterpretation of the purpose of the Peacock melody and the various characteristic tones in the composition, this chapter attempts to bring to light the latent organic structure and its connection to Endre Ady’s poem, “Fölszállott a páva” (The peacock has flown), written in 1907. Earlier analyses of Peacock Variations sought to group its formal sections— introduction, sixteen variations, and finale—into larger units. János Kovács, László Eősze, János Breuer, and Elaine Sisman identified three.8 The first covers the introduction and the first ten variations; the second, variations XI–XIV; and the third, the last two variations and the finale. They also agreed that the fast–slow– fast structure of the finale correlates with a ternary form. János Kovács defined variations XI–XIV as a middle section, László Eősze as a trio, and Elaine Sisman as a slow movement. They also mentioned how Kodály combined some features of the sonata principle with the variation form. János Breuer, based on this premise, proposed that “thinking in terms of the sonata structure . . ., the first ten variations could be taken as exposition, or even a sort of opening movement, which is followed by a slow movement.”9 János Weissmann suggested regarding the introductory section as a combination of an introduction and exposition, with characteristic elements of development as well.10 Sisman too indicated that the variations fall into groups of threes. In fact, such groups apply only to the first nine. Sisman herself stressed that variation X diverges from the rest, while the ensuing four variations (XI–XIV) function as a slow movement. Sisman’s interpretation puts forward the notion of a larger symphonic concept, in which the first nine variations, after the introduction, represent a sonataform movement, the tenth variation a scherzo, variations XI–XIV a slow

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movement, and variations XV–XVI and the finale a closing movement. Here the smaller groups of variations within the first nine (3 + 3 + 3) represent the three main formal sections of a sonata: exposition, development, and reprise. This interpretation is also supported by the humorous Chinese color element in the tenth variation, the scherzo, and by the fact that the work has been rather strict thematically up to the point, which strengthens its tie to sonata form, while thereafter the music becomes increasingly like a free, unstructured fantasia. Yet this interpretation is belied by the indeterminate closure of the ninth variation before the tenth, and by the fact that variation XV follows attacca after XIV. Cadences signaling clear, definitive borders of formal sections appear five times in the course of the composition: at the end of variation III (D minor), at VI (D minor), at the close of X (once again, D minor), at XVI (the dominant chord of D minor), and in the closing cadence of the finale (D major). The majority of variations are in D minor and only a few veer into other keys—VII–IX into G minor and IX into B flat minor. Moreover, the large-scale form—slow introduction and exposition of theme, variations, ternary finale—represents one of the most commonly used types of orchestral variations, which is adhered to, for example, in Schoenberg’s op. 31 orchestral variation series composed just a few years earlier.11 So Kodály’s Peacock Variations exhibit elements of the sonata principle and sonata cycle, while the series itself forms part of a larger orchestral variation tradition. The idea that the variations are in groups of threes is challenged by the fact that VI consists of two smaller variations, and IV, focusing on the harmonic accompaniment, appears to prepare for V. János Kovács argued that the composition consists of character variations.12 This concept is backed by the Chinese-style variation mentioned, by the verbunkos tone appearing at several points, and by the funeral march in variation XIII and the shepherd’s pipe imitation. Still, the series of character variations is interrupted by the finale. The melody of “Az ürögi utca sikeres” (The Ürögi road looks nice and smooth)—unlike the Peacock theme—appears nowhere in full, just in small turns and fragments, usually distorted, so that the finale resembles a development section. From the sketches Kodály wrote, it appears that this section aroused his greatest interest during the composing process; six of the sixteen sketches and the autograph score of Peacock Variations use it.13 He was mainly concerned with the number of ways the new melody could be employed: he attached a canon, or several consonant contrapuntal voices to it, as well as other folk songs in the manner of a quodlibet; he inserted it into a mixture, added a seventh-chord accompaniment to it,14 and examined its potential for thematic unfolding.15 Scholars have been attracted particularly to the Chinese-style variation, which sets the work off on a fantasia-like course. János Kovács and László Eősze believed the

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Chinese sound alludes to the melody’s connections with the Far Eastern provenance. Eősze called the Peacock melody a “pentatonic symbol.”16 Kovács believed that the folk song here “represents the whole body of Hungarian folk music” and “appears as an organic part of the personal message, an embodiment of the complete union between individual and public art.”17 Scholars also have associated the work’s political and social message with the Peacock melody. Eősze, like Kovács, identified an intention to render the individual and the community as one. Eősze believed that the composition, “besides representing a profound belief in the creative imagination of the people, is also a confirmation of the rich melodic invention of the Hungarian people, and almost total integration of the individual and communal arts.”18 In technical terms, this would all be expressed through variation technique and variation form. Eősze suggested that the composer develops the possibilities found in folk music material by means of art music, and in this respect follows the melody-varying technique of folk music, thus paraphrasing Kodály’s own statement on the relation between variation in folk music and art music.19 The combination of the two methods of variation served as the premise of Weissmann’s interpretation as well, when he identified “Westernization of the melody” as the hidden program in Peacock Variations.20 Kovács, comparing the orchestral work with other Kodály variations, in which the accompaniment, not the melody, is modified, for example in the ballades of the Hungarian Folk Music series, also pointed out how Kodály “develops not only all the possibilities inherent in the melody . . . but the possibilities of types and genres” in Peacock Variations.21 The theme determines the variation process in two ways. On the one hand, it functions in the majority of the variations, and the first six in particular, as a decisive structural element. Here the key role is played by the fifth-shifting structure, the main trait of the folk song. On the other, it is the melody itself that is varied. The folk song takes various shapes in the work. The introduction has the framework of the melody appearing, followed by the theme. In variation I the trombones, in II the lower strings, in V the cellos and double bass, and in VI the violins play the melody in different forms. From VI onward, the different forms of the folk song theme become increasingly dissimilar from the original, while a form somewhat more analogous appears again only in variations XII and XIV. Finally, the theme develops in the middle section of the finale. The melodic variations—like members of a “melodic family,” as the ethnomusicologist Kodály would call it— reveal the transformations a melody type can go through, even if they do not necessarily represent types or genres. The “types and genres” mentioned by János Kovács can, however, be detected not only in the variation processes of the melody but in the characters of individual variations as well. It was János Breuer who lit upon the recurrence of turns of

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phrase reminiscent of earlier Kodály works in Peacock Variations. Breuer claimed to identify some elements of Psalmus in the introduction, the main theme of the Concerto in variation I, accompaniments of the Hungarian Folk Music series in IX, and in general, Kodály’s piano music, the mood of Nyári este (Summer evening) in XI, and the death chorus of Psalmus in XII.22 At the same time, Kovács saw the first movement of the Háry Suite in XI.23 These, however, are not the only characteristically Kodályian tones in the work. For instance, the presentation of the theme also evokes the opening of Háry, the genesis music of Kezdődik a mese (The story begins).24 Variation XIV inherits the character of the Furulyázó Huszár (The fluteplaying hussar) from Háry, and in IX and XI, and in the Andante cantabile section of the finale, can be heard the topos of the “native land” appearing for the first time in Tiszán innen, dunán túl (Tisza this side, Danube that) (Háry János, no. 8). The dancelike movements of the variation cycle—the first eight variations and variations XIV–XV—feature the Dances of Marosszék and Galánta, although these references are less obvious. Yet Kodály conspicuously evokes only compositions written after Psalmus in Peacock Variations. Such parody references may also explain why Kovács saw in the work a microcosm of Kodály’s symphonic style.25 The summarizing intent of the work was already recognized by contemporaries. Sándor Jemnitz, at the time of the Budapest première of February 7, 1942, noted recurring elements of earlier Kodály works in the variation series. In addition he analyzed the composition from a current political viewpoint, and drew attention to a conflict between Kodály’s idealism and the realities of Miklós Horthy’s Hungary and World War II: In the orchestral arrangement of [the Peacock melody], the tone of the melody is reinterpreted: “How wonderful it would be if it could fly!” The basic mood of the sixteen orchestral variations is melancholic and yearningly resigned. Familiar elements of earlier Kodály compositions return as quotations. It is as if the composer, reading through old journal entries, were contemplating his brightest dreams: what of these, and how were they realized? To what extent was the peacock of such ideas able to soar, ideas that Kodály, at one time, molded, Kodály, the most consistent political thinker / musician of Hungarian culture . . . Some of the livelier details indeed make these quiet reflections more spirited, but not joyous. Even the brief upswing in the close of the work only serves to comply with the humanly binding requisite of optimism: “We want to believe that the peacock will soar one day. . . .” Strive on, trust, have faith! Even if it is hard. Even if the reasons for your optimism were shaken, and now barely support your world.26

So Jemnitz here suggests that this composition, which can hardly be regarded as having a positive tone, confronts Kodály with his own youthful ideals, weighing the results of his three-decade efforts to build up the cultural and social potential

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in Hungary. This interpretation, however, attributes a “message” to the work, whereas subsequent analysts make no mention of a “message.” It has been long regarded as self-evident by researchers into Kodály’s work that his development and musico-political engagement were much influenced by the pathbreaking symbolist poet Endre Ady. Hence Eősze’s assertion, in an essay on the creative development of the young composer, that “apart from Zsigmond Móricz, no members of this great generation could develop Ady’s fruitful influence in so unique a manner in their own arts as did Kodály.”27 In Eősze’s view, Kodály’s vocal works reflect the musicality of Ady’s poems, so that it was not just his writings that re-created Ady’s ways of expression: Kodály shaped his whole career with the poet / publicist’s sense of calling in mind. János Demény duly mentioned that the inspiration of Ady’s poetry had set the œuvre of Bartók and Kodály in motion, and referring to Kodály’s choral work Akik mindig elkésnek (Too late) (1934), set to Ady’s poem, Demény explained how the reference to Ady became a symbol of resistance in the 1930s.28 József Ujfalussy observed that Kodály’s œuvre—and Peacock Variations in particular—is “inextricably united” with Ady’s poetry.29 Kodály’s preface to the first volume of his writings, Visszatekintés (In retrospect), is replete with quotations from Ady.30 The quotations upon which Kodály relies confirm that the ideals first conceived in Hungary by Ady played a decisive role in the beginnings of the young composer’s career: In 1906, after my less than successful oral doctoral exam, my examiner Frigyes Riedl (whose pupil I could not be as I had graduated by the time he received a post) made a brief appeal, his tone unusually emotional, informal. He urged me to stay at home, not to leave the country. I smiled to myself, feeling it so unnecessary; I had never thought about being swept abroad (though I already spoke one or two Western languages), as my whole life as I planned it kept me here. But later I often recalled Riedl’s words. He could not then have read Ady (“Menekülj, menekülj innen” [Run, flee, run away]), and could only draw his lessons on “Mit ér az ember, ha magyar? [What is it worth to be Hungarian?]” from his own life. I, of course, had read it and with great feeling, the “A Halál-tó felett” [Lake of death], “Megárad a Tisza” [The Tisza has flooded], “A Duna vallomása” [Confession of the Danube], and the rest. Of course, one had to study abroad. I spent every summer abroad until 1914. Then for 13 years, not one. When I started traveling again, a group of ragged, barefoot children appeared before me each time at the border, some with features of my old school friends from Galanta. They cried out as one: “Don’t leave us here!” their cry overpowering “the old myth of his fife,” as Ady put it. They were the ones who drew me back each time, no matter how strong the temptation of a painless, wondrous, more peaceful life in cultured foreign lands. They were the ones who upheld my faith in the chance of such life at home, despite everything.

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“Whereat my father remarked with great pride how life had once been better here. . . .”

I always held to the hope that a better world would come, even better than it once had been. It rests with us.31

This confession confirms that when he made the decision to stay at home and devote his life to helping create a more modern Hungary, Kodály, in fact, was following the ideals of Endre Ady, who himself relied on opposites. That explains why the dichotomies in the text—the choice between going abroad or staying at home, the duality of realities in turn-of-the-century Hungary, the dreams of a better future, and the number of Ady’s poem titles in his writing—are so revealing. The modernist ideals of Hungary at the turn of the century are reflected in a study entitled Mi a magyar a zenében? (What is Hungarian in music?), written by Kodály in 1939, at the same time as Peacock Variations, in particular the passages that attempt to give a general description of the characteristics of Hungarian art and folk music: What musical features are characteristic of Hungarian folk music? In general, it is active rather than passive, an expression of will rather than emotion . . . . Rhythm that is sharp, definite and varied. Its melody has buoyancy and freedom of movement, and does not unfold timidly from a premeditated harmonic base. Its form is concise, proportionate, lucid and transparent . . . . If Hungarian composed music is really inspired by the spirit of folk music and wishes to continue the traditions, it must retain all these qualities.32

The composer expresses similar views on the characteristics of Hungarian music in another essay of the same period: Magyarság a zenében (Hungarianness in music): The one aspect on which Erkel and Liszt, two such different personalities, agree: the dominance of melody, the richness and expressiveness of rhythm, lucid forms and clear colors, all very dear to Hungarian taste.33

So in Kodály’s view three main traits mark Hungarian music: dominance of melody, rhythmical abundance, and lucidity of form. Judit Frigyesi, examining the common traits in the aesthetics of Bartók and Ady, showed that the concept of formal transparency originates in Nietzsche’s artistic philosophy and was adopted by Bartók, Béla Balázs, and Kodály as well.34 The majority of Frigyesi’s observations on Bartók’s reception of Ady apply to Kodály as well, and not only because Ady’s poetry and his image of Hungary were a crucial experience for him,35 or that in the increasingly fascist political environment of the 1930s, both Bartók and Kodály felt the need to emphasize further the ideals of their youth, through the idea that the arts and their exponents play a

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crucial role in the shaping of society.36 Frigyesi points out in her book that Hungarian modernists strongly believed in the exceptional influence of the arts on society, because of their ability to transform the consciousness of the community. So public education became the fundamental aspect of the new trends in the arts and culture. Modernists like Kodály, a pioneer of musical education, were convinced that a less elite, wider “second public,” to paraphrase Jürgen Habermas’s phrase, would be more open to the new in the arts.37 Kodály’s writings substantiate Frigyesi’s in many ways. For example, the idea that Hungarian artist / intellectuals of the day were not born straight into Hungarian culture:38 to create national arts, their exponents must acquire a mode of existence alien to their own needs, if they wished to enter a realm where they would not intrinsically feel at home—this for Bartók and Kodály was folk culture.39 One passage in Magyarság a zenében (Hungarianness in music) shows Kodály’s pronounced awareness of how this affected the conditions for establishing the art of national music: Over here, intellectuals are virtually forced to fight for their Hungarian identity. All that surrounds them is foreign. They need to force their way through, to break a path towards Hungarianness . . . . The center of Hungarian culture is not yet fully developed, only small details and fragments, so musicians do not find an established workshop, they need to build that for themselves, leaf by leaf, like the swallow her nest. The scions of a great nation lay their eggs in a ready-made nest. Hungarian writers do not inherit language and style: they need to create them for themselves. Hungarian artists can only work if engrossed by the wonderful vision of a future Hungarian culture.40

The passage does not merely express the uncertainty of creating national art for its Hungarian exponents, or that, unlike the scions “of a great nation,” it takes great sacrifice to do so; it also asserts that Hungarian arts of any kind can only be established through a vision of a future Hungarian culture, for to face the realities surrounding them would render any creative work impossible. So Kodály, at the time of writing Peacock Variations, saw very clearly, like Jemnitz, the conflict between his ideals and Hungarian reality in the 1930s and 1940s. All of this points to the assumption that the “message” of Peacock Variations is closely linked to the political and social ideals of Kodály’s youth, and as the work’s subtitle suggests, to Ady’s poem. Yet, analyses of the work so far have not scrutinized or relied on the poem, despite the allusions in Peacock Variations to both Ady and his ideal of a new Hungary.41 The work evokes the gesture of “Találkozás egy fiatalemberrel” (Meeting with a young man), a well-known short story by the prominent author Frigyes Karinthy (1887–1938), in which a mature man faces his

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own past. For Kodály is coming to terms with his own youthful ideas and examining his achievements against a backdrop of ideals envisioned by a renowned generation at the turn of the century. The return to the variation form seems a meaningful consequence. The final variation movement of his First String Quartet marks an artistic expression of Kodály’s journey of finding his own voice, and it is the outcome of that journey which he is assessing in Peacock Variations. At the time of his encounter with Ady’s poem, Kodály could not have been familiar with the Peacock melody, which was discovered by the ethnographer Vilmos Seemayer only in 1935.42 So the melody does not feature in Kodály’s “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” (Pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music), or in his “Sajátságos dallamszerkezet a cseremisz népzenében” (Distinctive melodic structure of Mari / Cheremiss folk music, 1934), which was intended as the earlier study’s next installment. Even so, Kodály immediately recognized its significance when he first heard the melody and later selected it as a folk song quotation in his 1939 essay “Mi a magyar a zenében?” (What is Hungarian in music?). Analyzing the melody, he emphasized its isolation in the Carpathian Basin on the one hand, and on the other, its relationship to Central Asian melodic tradition.43 In his study Magyarság a zenében (Hungarianness in music), written about the same time, Kodály revisits the question of Hungarian pentatonic melodies, and again underlines their isolated present and Eastern past. In addition, Kodály attempts to identify in their melodic features one of the strong characteristics of the Hungarian nation: The highest notes are at the beginning [of the melody] and lowest at the end. Explosive beginning, and falling ending, the tension of energy is the highest in the opening moments, by the end it diminishes. Burning straw? or impulsive energy, and abandoning that which cannot be achieved at the first offensive?44

Surprisingly, it is this fifth-shifting pentatonic Peacock melody that evokes in Kodály the image of a burning straw, which suggests he chose as a theme for his variations a melody that in its external features—a melodic line with a sudden, eruptive opening, and which then descends, surrendering its goal without a fight—symbolizes the Hungarian temperament, initially enthusiastic but then too easily willing to relinquish what is too difficult to attain. Ady’s poem conveys the same pessimistic duality. Peacock Variations connects to the poem on two levels. On the one hand, the relationship is symbolic in the sense that Ady’s poem—like the folk song which serves as the foundation for the orchestral composition—represents freedom and Hungarian revival. At the same time the poem defines the composition’s formal structure: Ady’s poem follows the variation form in a musical sense.45 The opening and closing theme summarizes the poem provided by the folk song text and serving as a point of departure for the rest of the composition. Between the two

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Chapter 9 table 7 “The Peacock” by Endre Ady

“Fölszállott a páva” ‘Fölszállott a páva a vármegye-házra, Sok szegény legénynek szabadulására.’

“The Peacock” “A peacock takes its perch upon the county hall– A sign that freedom comes to many folk in thrall.”

Kényes, büszke pávák, Nap-szédítő tollak, Hírrel hirdessétek: másképpen lesz holnap.

Let the proud, frail peacock, whose feathers daze the sun, Proclaim that to-morrow here all will be undone.

Másképpen lesz holnap, másképpen lesz végre, Új arcok, új szemek kacagnak az égre.

To-morrow all will change, be changed at last. New eyes in new battles will turn with laughter to the skies.

Új szelek nyögetik az ős, magyar fákat, Várjuk már, várjuk az új magyar csodákat.

New winds will make laments in the old Magyar trees, While we await, await new Magyar mysteries.

Vagy bolondok vagyunk, s elveszünk egy szálig, Vagy ez a mi hitünk valóságra válik.

Either we all are fools, and to a man shall die, Or else this faith of ours will prove it does not lie.

Új lángok, új hitek, új kohók, új szentek, Vagy vagytok, vagy ismét a semmi ködbe mentek.

New forges and new fires, new faiths, new holy men, Either you’ll come to life, or be nothing again.

Vagy láng csap az ódon, vad vármegye-házra, Vagy itt ül a lelkünk tovább leigázva.

Either the ancient hall will fall from the flame’s stroke, Or our souls will sit here, bound in the ancient yoke.

Vagy lesz új értelmük a magyar igéknek, Vagy marad régiben a bús, magyar élet.

Either in Magyar words new meanings will unfold, Or the sad Magyar life will linger as of old.

‘Fölszállott a páva a vármegye-házra, Sok szegény legénynek szabadulására.’

“A peacock takes its perch upon the county hall– A sign that freedom comes to many folk thrall.”

note: English translation by Sir Maurice Bowra, in Hundred Hungarian Poems, ed. Thomas Kabdebo (Manchester: Albion Editions, 1976).

appearances of the theme, motifs from it are developed in the stanzas. The form is held together by the thematic framework, the verse structure—accentuated twelvesyllable lines with a caesura—and by the technique of motivic development. Ady’s poem follows the musical variation form mainly by linking the lines and stanzas to words in the preceding stanza (Table 7). Ady uses two techniques of motivic development.46 He either holds on to a motif from the previous stanza and develops it, or returns to a much earlier one and bases the motivic work on that. The theme and second stanza are linked by the word “páva” (peacock), the second and third stanzas by “holnap” (tomorrow), the third and fourth by “új” (new), and the sixth and seventh by “lángok / láng” (flame). Meanwhile the sixth and eighth stanzas also have “új,” and the eighth carries the word “magyar” (Hungarian) over from the fourth stanza. Kodály applies similar techniques in his orchestral variations; he creates a strong structural bond both by weaving the Peacock melody as a cantus firmus through the composition and by creating links between the variations. As Weissmann has observed, the codettas of individual variations for the most part contain the motivic seed that serves as the basis for development, setting the next variation in motion.47

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example 16 . Peacock Variations, transformations of the motivic seed, © 1941, 1957 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

? .

œ œ œ 

? b #œ #œ œ œ #œ œ b

&

œ .. œ œ œ œ œ b ‰ . œR R J 3

b j &b œ œ ‰ j ‰œ œ œ

?

œœœ œœ œ J‰ J

Between Variations IV and V, for example, the ascending pendular minor-second motion is replaced by a descending pendular major-second motion, thus linking the two variations. Variations VIII and IX are linked by a dense arpeggio first on the second violins, then on the clarinet. The organic unity of the composition, however, is not so much a result of this technique; it is brought about by a three-note motif, derived from the Peacock melody. This motif permeates the work, to quote Kodály, “like a flower from a seed” (Example 16). At the beginning of the work—signaling its kinship with the folk song—it appears in its original shape, but in later variations it returns in various other forms. Variation IV uses a diminished version, VII transposes it to another system, while in X it returns in an augmented form. The melody of the finale, “Az ürögi utca sikeres,” also evolves from this seed. Variation XI is the only section that does not contain this small motivic element. At the end, however, it appears concealed—in the subordinate parts of the English horn and clarinet—to prepare for the next variation. So Kodály develops the entire composition from a basic feature of the theme, a Schoenbergian “variation motif,” and by comparison it would seem to be of secondary importance that the cycle is constructed of a series of character variations. Hungarian modernists—following Nietzsche—believed the primary mission of the arts was to represent reality, to grasp the totality of life and present it, contradictions and all.48 Contradictory elements and variants invariably existed side by side, complementing each other.49 The very same phenomenon appears in Ady’s poem. The fifth stanza is thematically different from the rest, and also breaks the thematic arc of the poem. Ady uses a rhetorical device: the stanzas are all based on an either / or choice, a dichotomy of a negative or positive future, with destruction and death on one side and resurrection and fulfillment on the other. From this stanza, the poem consists entirely of such polar opposites, such as hopelessness and faith in the fifth stanza, new faith and their loss in the sixth, the ancient county hall symbolizing old Hungary and defeated free souls in the seventh, and in the

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eighth, new Hungarian words and old sad Hungarian life. On the one hand, all that is new (faces, eyes, winds, Magyar mysteries, flames, faiths, holy men, Magyar words), on the other, all that is old (ancient county hall, sad Magyar life, old Magyar trees, defeated souls), appear before us. Yet, death in the poem is not followed by apotheosis. Both appear simultaneously and in contrast. Ady’s poem, therefore, does not have a positive ending, and offers no resolutions. The orchestral variation series exhibits the same lack of resolution, as does Kodály’s motto at the beginning of the published score: instead of Ady’s poem, there appear three stanzas of the folk song. The peacock emerging to free the prisoners in the first and third stanzas does not appear as a liberator in the middle (“A szegény raboknak / Szabadulására” [Poor prisoners / To deliver] and “Hej, de nem a rabok / Szabadulására” [But not prisoners / To deliver]). So already in the motto, Kodály leaves open the question of the fulfillment of his youthful dreams. Some characteristic ideas in the composition show direct links to certain topoi in Ady’s poem; such are in part the variations, which carry Kodály’s characteristic native-land references to indigenous idiom, as for example Variations IX and XI. There is, however, a more obvious reference in XIV, in the cadenza-like flute solo, evoking the sound of a fipple flute, which becomes a symbol in Ady’s “bús magyar élet” (sad Magyar life). The death scene in XII and the funeral march in XIII represent the death of the nation, hinted at by Ady.50 However, the discovery of an Eastern connection (X), the evocation of the Hungarian past (the first dancelike variations), and the folk song apotheosis in the middle section of the finale all signal hope of fulfillment. Death and apotheosis, destruction of the nation, and Hungary’s new dreams simultaneously appear in the composition, without tilting the balance one way or the other. The outcome remains undecided, with no reassurance in the finale. The apotheosis of the Peacock melody is integrated into a fragmented, developmental finale that also brings the reverse side of the melody. With its unattractive sound, the melody of “Az ürögi utca sikeres” pokes fun at the Peacock melody’s freedom symbolism. It carries an ironic edge. Although it is, as earlier analysts have emphasized,51 a member of the Peacock melodic family, and as such the direct descendant of the folk song theme, its fragmented structure here departs from the symbolic / idealistic Peacock melody, which is heard in the middle section of the finale. Moreover, in that middle section, the Peacock melody itself moves somewhat away from reality. The flute–harp accompaniment attached to it is joined by one of the characteristic topoi of the Kodály œuvre, the Divine Voice of Psalmus Hungaricus. The Peacock melody rises to ethereal heights, signaling that the ideals it symbolizes will remain unattainable, mere flights of fancy. The closing chords make us wonder whether the peacock ascends or descends; clouds cast an ominous shadow over the ending. As in Ady’s poem, or in the folk song, the question remains open: What is Hungary’s fate in the twentieth century?

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When Kodály returned in Peacock Variations to the principle of building a compositional structure from a small motivic seed, he abandoned the new musical ideals advocated in the First String Quartet. This is confirmed by the fact that he wanted to combine the variation form with certain elements of the sonata principle, as he did with the rondos composed after 1917. So compared with the First Quartet, the variation series shows a diametrically opposed approach to traditional formal thinking and to the variation technique. In contrast to the successive form that followed Debussy’s lead and resulted in the dissolution of the sonata construction, Peacock Variations embraces the idea of developing variation. This would suggest that Kodály, as he had done in his rondo forms, also returned to his pre-1906 ideals in Peacock Variations. This masterwork of variation technically refers to only one work written after Psalmus: Nyári este (Summer Evening), Kodály’s diploma work that he reworked in the 1920s. While the First String Quartet rejected nineteenth-century ideals, Peacock Variations—in the light of the three decades that had passed since—reevaluates and reclaims them. At the same time, the variation series also acts as a reckoning with Kodály’s creative direction, guided by the ideals of Endre Ady, and with the unfulfilled hopes and aspirations of a new Hungary.

10

Palestrina in Budapest Kodály’s Views on Church Music

Kodály’s interest in musical tradition did not extend merely to splicing folk music into traditional West European forms, or to neoclassicism or, later, neoromanticism. He also immersed himself, from the end of the 1910s, in pre-1750 music. Indeed, especially from the 1930s, this immersion influenced his thinking as a composer at least as significantly as other forms of reflection on tradition. His affinity for “neo-Baroque” or “neo-Renaissance” was closely tied to his educational work as well, for as a teacher of composition, a believer in a pedagogical method, and a composer of many choral works, he paid special heed to the periods preceding the Viennese classics. However, what the following chapters seek to clarify is his other motivations for exploring earlier music, beyond his interest in the Palestrina style and Bachian counterpoint. He was undoubtedly influenced by the revival in church music. In addition, his turn to old music had notable impacts on his vocal and instrumental music, as well as the direction of his scholarly thinking. Hungarian-language writers on Kodály agree that counterpoint is central to his œuvre. László Eősze argued: “Baroque linearity, Renaissance light and equilibrium, attracted and occupied him throughout his life. Bach was ‘food for his mind’ and one of the chief ones at that, and in Palestrina, apart from the discipline and purity of part-writing, he admired a ‘degree of responsibility found in no one else.’ ”1 Ferenc Bónis also wrote that “Palestrina’s works were the measure of knowledge and inspiration for Kodály the choral composer.”2 As János Breuer noted, “Kodály’s school . . . recreated the vocal counterpoint of the Palestrina style, from Bicinia Hungarica (1937–1942) to his grand-scale, monumental works for mixed choir.”3 Kodály’s pupils, however, looked to Orlando di Lasso as their master’s precursor.4 128

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The idea that Palestrina and Renaissance vocal polyphony can serve as models for Kodály’s choral works has been so generally accepted that it has spread in recent decades to respected English and German works of twentieth-century music history as well.5 Attempts to formulate the concept began to appear in Hungary as early as the 1930s. For example, Antal Molnár claimed in his Kodály 1936 monograph that Kodály’s choral music was “closer to the Franco-Flemish polyphony of the Middle Ages than to that of the Baroque,” while Margit Prahács, in a 1943 study, saw Kodály’s choral work as a “fine late sprouting” of sixteenth-century vocal polyphony.6 Artúr Harmat (1885–1962), discussing Kodály’s church music in 1944, also saw a link to the Palestrina style: The souls of Hungarian composers have clearly been instilled abundantly with ancient Hungarian folk music, and Kodály with his splendid, luminous choral art rooted in the technique of Palestrina, has assumed the role of guide and mentor for a more Hungarian outlook on art. This has instigated some unusual Hungarian flavor in certain works by our young composers, which if the composition is indeed a good one is wholly consistent with the spirit of the Motu proprio, even in text. Apart from the sacred, artistic and national essence of this music, it is also universal (resonating well abroad), through its keys, closely related to Gregorian chant, and by way of its polyphonic and imitation structure, to the Palestrina style.7

Harmat thus believed that Kodály and his followers occupied a common ground midway between ancient folk music and the Palestrina style, with the master leading the way. Yet he also thought the pieces with links to Palestrina and Gregorian chant could meet the challenges of trends in the church music of the time. He therefore invoked the Motu proprio issued by Pope Pius X on November 22, 1903, which had strongly attacked operatic influences on church music while calling for a revival based on a stylistic amalgam of Gregorian chant, Palestrina style, and modern music.8 The currency of the Motu proprio seems to have continued into later decades. Pius XI, in his Constitutio apostolica of 1928, upheld the directions issued by his predecessor.9 The renewal of church music in the period was also a perennial talking point in the discourse led by Hungary’s Catholic Cantors’ Association, and the attempts to implement its principles were documented most fully in the association’s journal, Katholikus Kántor (Catholic Cantor), founded in 1913. For example, Vilmos Pöschl (1897–1990) observed the degree to which Hungarian church music practice was still lagging behind in applying the ideas of the Motu proprio, even in the late 1920s, and published a proposal that he hoped would bring progress in 1928: The directives of the Motu proprio cannot be carried out from one day to the next, and where for the last 25 years nothing has been done to promote reforms, it is impossible, while adhering to all the regulations, to supply the majestic liturgy of the

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Chapter 10 entire high mass in so short a time; however, it is equally impossible not to hold at least a low mass. Both would be a fatal mistake, and the church expects us to act in neither of those ways. It does, however, expect us to achieve what we can. First, we must attain beauty in our organ playing, beauty in our singing; we need to study and work. Then, if we do teach one or two liturgical songs in unison to a small choir, we should perform them; we need to teach and educate. At first, only parts of masses in unison, a Kyrie, a Credo or Offertory can be sung, but we should never falter; and then, after the next 25 years, at least on the more important holidays of the year, our choir will be performing the mass in the spirit of the Motu proprio, with the utmost artistic and liturgical perfection, to the glory of our Lord.10

Pöschl’s plan was naïve and amateurish, but at least conceived in gradual terms, since it was clear to the authors of the Katholikus Kántor that applying the Motu proprio was impossible without first raising the level of music education. Music education thus became one of the perennial topics in the journal, and the issue of general musical knowledge was closely bound up with the intention of renewing Catholic church music along Motu proprio lines.11 From the end of 1928, representatives of a younger generation of church musicians—almost all of them pupils of Kodály—relied on this journal to strengthen their base.12 Near-simultaneous publications by Jenő Ádám, Lajos Bárdos, György Kerényi, and Gyula Kertész appeared. Their vision matched the plans of the Katholikus Kántor on many levels, yet it also revealed a hitherto unseen radicalism, particularly in using innovative means to facilitate progress. György Kerényi argued in December 1928 that the main obstacle to spreading new Hungarian church music, apart from scarcity of compositions and ill-equipped choirs, was the lack of suitable publications.13 He advocated setting up a publishing firm from the outset. The paradigm shift favored by Kodály’s students was to argue, not for gradual pedagogical progress but for continual composition, score publication, and professional teaching of works for performance; in other words, the musical and liturgical background for a comprehensive renewal must be established first. Stylistically, however, the paradigm shift did not seem so radical. The first pieces to appear in Magyar Kórus took the form, almost exclusively, of chorale writing distant from the Palestrina style, and in this way was no different from music supplements appearing periodically in Katholikus Kántor, containing choral works that older generations had written. Nor did Katholikus Kántor in the early 1920s wholly oppose admitting new Hungarian work into church music. For example, Sándor Sztára (1886–1963) in a 1926 essay explored whether Gregorian chant could be accompanied by modern harmonies, citing his own compositions, arrangements of Bartókian folk music with novel accompaniment.14 His conclusion: “Why should Gregorian melody not be allowed to enter into such an alliance with modern harmony?”15 Lajos Bárdos was exploring similar issues in January 1929, when he compared new Hungarian folk-hymn arrangements by Artúr Harmat and Gyula Kertész

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with the folk song-based works of Bartók and Kodály, and suggested that new Hungarian music, as “a rejuvenating blood transfusion for aging Western music,” could also breathe new life into church music.16 Bárdos also called on like-minded composers to write as many such works as possible, as “the spirit of these works is destined to steer today’s church music into the sunlight, out of the enfeebling, stuffy rooms of German Cecilian composers into a new flowering.”17 The marks of this stylistic ideal were summed up by Jenő Ádám when analyzing the Missa Cantata of György [Deák]-Bárdos (1905–1991), the younger brother of Lajos Bárdos: Terse musical phrasing free of redundant repetitions and verbosity, a text set to music in all its emotional power, logical voice leading evading all forms of profanity, noble simplicity, suitability for singing, and true artistic effect, formal roundness— these are the composition’s main virtues.18

Ádám’s description is generally applicable to several different musical styles and periods: to the Palestrina style deemed exemplary by the Motu proprio, as much as to Kodály’s thematically linked Öt tantum ergo (Tantum Ergo V) and Pange lingua, two liturgical choir works composed during this period (1928–29). Yet the pioneers of new church music did not cite these works as examples, even though Tantum Ergo V had been published in 1928.19 Their stylistic ideals were not associated initially with Kodály’s church music, as Antal Molnár’s analysis of Lajos Bárdos’s Három magyar egyházi ének (Three Hungarian church songs) shows, where Molnár compares the student’s works not with the master’s liturgical compositions but with his folk song arrangements: As Kodály had done in the arrangements of ancient Hungarian folk songs, Bárdos too conjures up the spiritual riches of these songs, expounds their inner life, and creates true musical gems from the raw material without distorting their essence. As with Kodály, he uses variation form, the extraordinary expansive force of the movement of the voices, and a distinctive harmonic style.20

Several aspects of Molnár’s review reveal the traits in Kodály’s works that served as a model for the new generation; it becomes clear that the older composer’s folk song arrangements, rather than his church music, set the example. Molnár’s reference to old folk songs and the variation form also reveals that young composers found possible new directions in the songs of the Hungarian Folk Music series rather than in Kodály’s works for children’s choir.21 Other documents suggest it was not Kodály but Artúr Harmat, a respected member of the middle generation, who was seen by contemporaries in the 1920s as the initiator and leader of the church music revival.22 In his memoirs, Bárdos also recalls the church music reforms having been instigated by Harmat.23 Indeed, in the early 1920s, Harmat had called for raising the general level of musical

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knowledge through improvements in the quality of music education. He had devised this plan, well before Kodály and his students embarked on their mission, and it consisted of elements that Hungarian music historiographers would subsequently attribute to Kodály.24 In an article celebrating Harmat’s sixtieth birthday, one commentator contended that Harmat was the one who drew Kodály’s attention to children’s choirs.25 Harmat also played a key role in ensuring that the ideal of a revived church music was linked closely to raising the quality of music education and musical knowledge. Understandably, however, the younger generation sought a model, who, while Catholic, would emerge as an innovator in the musical genre, with innovations that seemed readily integrable into its stylistic background. The novelties in Kodály’s Hungarian Folk Music series were presentation of authentic folk songs; accompaniment equal in status to melody; modernity in harmony, often marked by evocative color; and finally, reinterpretation of the variation principle. These served the younger composers as a point of departure for implementing their aesthetic ideals. Not surprisingly, a rift between the conservative Katholikus Kántor and the younger generation of composers emerged out of their disagreement over Kodály’s role. Bárdos, in reviewing a performance of Psalmus Hungaricus on February 4, 1929, called upon his master to compose church music: And we, humble colleagues in church music, let us be assertive for and ask the master, who in his work professes before the whole world such profound faith in God, to turn his attention to the thousand-year-old sacred texts of Christianity, and apply his creative powers to church music as well.26

After those remarks had appeared, Bárdos and his circle were never allowed to publish in Katholikus Kántor again. The editors seem to have grown impatient with Kodály’s students for using the journal to promote their own aims and ideas. The rift additionally may have had something to do with the establishment of the publisher Magyar Kórus (Hungarian Chorus) and the initiation of its journal of the same name. Thereafter Katholikus Kántor viewed the younger generation as rivals to be opposed.27 Despite Bárdos calling on Kodály to contribute, early issues of Magyar Kórus did not center on him. Documents suggest that Kodály’s reputation as a modernizer of Hungarian Catholic church music was only built up by György Kerényi somewhat later, and that Kerényi held the idea exclusively for quite some time, even within the Bárdos circle. His deep, almost obsessive devotion to his master is confirmed not only by his autobiography, where he associated the figure of Kodály with Jesus on several occasions,28 but by three essays of his on Kodály’s church music, published in Magyar Kórus.29 In his earliest essay he follows Bárdos in describing Kodály’s Psalmus Hungaricus as “springing from sacred poetry,”30 and

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echoes Bárdos and Molnár in explaining how Kodály’s goal was to integrate the sacred folk hymn into new church music by following the example of folk song arrangement.31 Kerényi’s proposition seems problematic mainly because Kodály did not write a single choral work based on a Hungarian sacred folk hymn until 1932. This means that the concept of assimilating this material into church music must have originated within the Bárdos circle; it seems likely that Kerényi was voicing his own aspirations when he introduced Kodály as the pioneer of Hungarian church music: Zoltán Kodály walks among us as a Biblical figure. He travels about the Hungarian countryside, and wherever he goes, a myriad of songs spring from the land—and what we once imagined to be wilderness, turns out to be meadows in bloom. Wherever he goes, closed books spring open, church songs soar in the air; a stranger turns faint with astonishment, and the church and its surroundings resound with children singing. Let us salute him today, in churches and schools, and in the Order of Hungarian Singers.32

Five years later, when he had encountered many more religious choral works by Kodály, Kerényi expanded his reasoning, linking his master’s choral art with that of Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso, while seeking to place it within the new Catholic church music.33 Indeed, twelve years later he saw Kodály’s liturgical works as “sacred, universal art music, burgeoning from Hungarian tradition.”34 Without his quite saying so, the attributes and explanations he accorded to Kodály’s sacred music refer and correspond to the ideals of the Motu proprio. Hence the reference to Palestrina and Lasso, two composers who, according to the rules of Pius X, would serve as models for a renewed church music. So Kerényi defined Kodály’s music as universal art music drawn from tradition—ideals of sacred music similarly defined in the Motu proprio. This, rather than Kodály’s works as such, provides the premise for Kerényi’s interpretation. Meanwhile Antal Molnár, an older former pupil of Kodály, outlined a different view. His lecture on the history of church music delivered in Budapest on November 18, 1928, with examples sung by the Cecilian Choir, appeared in three parts in Katholikus Kántor.35 The third, on the eighteenth to twentieth centuries, contains a section on the religious works of Liszt, showing how Molnár’s ideas were inspired by Liszt’s nineteenth-century concept of the future of church music—although he saw it as a failed, tragic experiment.36 Molnár believed Liszt had fought his contemporaries, viewing himself as on a “mission [to be] a new Palestrina,” a reference showing that he too awaited a “second savior” in church music.37 Molnár thought it important to assert that the twentieth century had not arrived at the ideal church music of the future either.38 Following the beliefs of Liszt, he does not strictly regard renewed church music as Gebrauchsmusik (music for everyday use), but as an intellectual creation transcending utility, expressing

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faith par excellence and adopting the substance of faith, not just its forms and procedures. Molnár saw this ideal realized by Lajos Bárdos, who was also prominent in letting Hungarian liturgical music shed its German Romantic shackles and Romantic model and become independent.39 Molnár’s other writings show he saw in religion the underlying spiritual elements of musical culture. Here too he valued choral practice as entailing social solidarity,40 as “the choir is the most direct medium for artistic expression of religious feeling.”41 He also linked the notions of counterpoint and religiousness,42 seeing a return to linear thinking as a result of faith and a religious way of life.43 He reinterpreted strict counterpoint as a symbol of law, order, and dogma in new music.44 In his 1936 monograph on Kodály, Molnár names Pange lingua as the paradigmatic work of new Catholic church music.45 In addition, he lists Ave Maria, Öt Tantum Ergo, and Harmatozzatok! (Dewdrops!) among Kodály’s sacred compositions.46 Yet the pieces in Magyar Cantuale show that Kodály did not deny the request of the younger generation and wrote pieces for the Church that represented the ideals of revival. These show his ties to the Magyar Kórus circle, as does his help with the edition of choral church music, Szent vagy, Uram! (Thou art sacred, O Lord!) edited by Artúr Harmat and Sándor Sík.47 His ready contribution, though, does not imply leadership. When the oeuvre is examined, his religious and church music can be arranged in types,48 although most do not conform to the principles of Magyar Kórus.49 Kodály’s less well-known or analyzed early works include several choral pieces for liturgical use.50 Apart from Stabat Mater and Ave Maria, composed in Nagyszombat, there are Offertórium (Offertory) and Miserere from his Academy of Music years. Furthermore, Kodály planned several masses between 1897 and 1905,51 although they would still follow the anti-Cecilian approach of his teacher, the Rheinberger student Koessler.52 Here Kodály’s admiration for Beethoven’s Mass in C Major becomes clear. On one occasion he was willing to conduct it publicly with an orchestra. This was the only time he ever conducted a work publicly that was not his own.53 The Catholic Kodály composed no strictly liturgical works between 1905 and 1923, but of his first children’s choral works after the period, there are several that relate to religion, or at least throw some light on the role that faith and religion play in folk culture (Table 8). This aspect was pointed out by the musicologist and Cistercian monk Benjamin Rajeczky (1901–1989) in analyzing Kodály’s oeuvre, when he examined the blend of religiousness and folk culture (“Hungarian folk life cannot be imagined without Christianity,” he argued).54 Works such as Víllő (The straw guy, 1925), Gergelyjárás (St. Gregory’s Day, 1925), Jelenti magát Jézus (The voice of Jesus, 1927), Új esztendőt köszöntő (New year’s greeting, 1929), and Pünkösdölő (Whitsuntide, 1929) reveal how religious life integrated into folk culture, in much the same way as the contemporaneous Isten kovácsa (God’s blacksmith, 1928), Hajnövesztő (Grow, tresses, 1937), and Harangszó (Bells, 1937), which

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table 8 Kodály’s religious compositions (1925–1966) Catholic

Protestant

Religion in Folk Culture

Öt tantum ergo [Tantum ergo V] (1928) Pange lingua (1929) Vízkereszt [Epiphany] (1933) Harmatozzatok! [Dewdrops!] (1935) Ave Maria (1935) Ének Szent István királyhoz [Hymn to King Saint Stephen] (1938) Missa brevis (1940–42) Első áldozás [Communion anthem] (1942) Adventi ének [Advent song] (1943) Szent Ágnes ünnepére [Feast of St. Agnes] (1945) Naphimnusz [Adoration hymn to the sun] (1948) Sík Sándor Te Deuma [Te Deum of Sándor Sík] (1961) Magyar mise [Hungarian mass] (1966) Laudes organi (1966)

Jézus és a kufárok [Jesus and the traders] (1934) A 150. genfi zsoltár [Geneva Psalm 150] (1936) Semmit ne bánkódjál [Cease your bitter weeping] (1939) Szép könyörgés [Beseeching] (1943) A 121. genfi zsoltár [Geneva Psalm 121] (1943) Az 50. genfi zsoltár [Geneva Psalm 50] (1948) A 114. genfi zsoltár [Geneva Psalm 114] (1952)

Víllő [The straw guy] (1925) Gergelyjárás [St. Gregory’s Day] (1925) Jelenti magát Jézus [The voice of Jesus] (1927) Új esztendőt köszöntő [New year’s greeting] (1929) Pünkösdölő [Whitsuntide] (1929) Angyalok és pásztorok [Angels and shepherds] (1935) Karácsonyi pásztortánc [Christmas dance of the shepherds] (1935) Esti dal [Evening song] (1938) János-köszöntő [Greetings to St. John] (1939)

evoke elements of the pagan past preserved in folk culture. The first in the series of religious and semi-liturgical compositions is Vízkereszt (Epiphany), written in 1933. Yet this period clearly continued to produce Catholic choruses and compositions borne of religious folk life simultaneously. From 1936 Kodály also began setting Protestant texts to music, following the lead of Psalmus Hungaricus, built on a Protestant text. Here the texts have clear symbolic significance. They are, as we have in it in other choruses written during the 1930s and 1940s, intended as concealed political messages rather than liturgical readings.55 The texts of Geneva Psalms 150, 121, and 50, and of Semmit ne bánkódjál (Cease your bitter weeping) can be seen as expressing Kodály’s political opinion, as did A székelyekhez (To the Székler Transylvanians) and Csatadal (Battle song), which Tibor Tallián has shown to embody Kodály’s Catholic humanism in relations to moral questions.56 One exception, though, in Kodály’s religious music of the 1930s and 1940s is the Missa brevis of 1940–42, which was clearly meant for liturgical use and in its first version has no political relevance.57 Yet surprisingly Csendes mise (Organ mass) is a low

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mass—58 it is accompanied by solo organ without voices, an arrangement that Motu proprio rejects.59 Kodály’s work departs from Pius X’s stylistic ideals in looking back for a model to Bach’s organ mass—at the time regarded as a cycle—instead of works by Palestrina and Lasso.60 Even so, composition of Csendes mise, the organ version of Missa brevis, was closely tied to Kodály’s interest in the state of Hungarian Catholic liturgy. In the Kodály notes edited by Lajos Vargyas there are several sheets entitled “Palestrina in Budapest” that contain his ideas on church music practice in Hungary. These were probably noted in the late 1930s and early 1940s.61 They are private notes that actually run counter to his published writings, where he avoids stating views on the ideals of Catholic church music revival or even referring to his Catholic pupils and their undertakings, which were rather critical of contemporary Hungarian church music.62 He complains that only a small number of masses by Palestrina are performed, and that they are always the same ones.63 His focus turns to the liturgical practices of organists, such as what and how an organist should play during mass.64 His comments probably antedate the composition of Csendes mise, his experiences during mass having impelled him to compose such a work.65 Kodály’s notes also show the ideals he followed in the low mass. He was troubled mainly by stylistic diversity in the improvisations of organists: “Worship is an artistic unity and so should be its music,” he wrote.66 This unity was particularly needed in the case of extemporized interludes between vocal movements to keep to a kindred style. So to Palestrina, for example, one should match Frescobaldi’s organ works.67 Interludes might still be formed from the thematic elements of the mass, or even without thematic reference, by creating a linking mood between instrumental interlude and vocal movements, as ways in which Kodály’s ideals of “stylistic unity and unity of mood for the entire mass”68 could be achieved: Very few of our organists have realized that playing the organ is part of the service, in close cooperation with the priest. The first conclusion from this should be a sense of responsibility: that every sounding of the organ, its every murmur should connect to and echo every element in the offertory. This harmony is broken by any musical piece, no matter how noble and worthy, that fails to correspond, but especially by the purposeless, unmusical music-making in which the majority of organists indulge. Do they not see that this kind of playing without melody, rhythm or links of sense or logic, these ceaseless chordal progressions compared to which the studies in the dullest textbook on harmony seem masterpieces, disturb the devotions of even the least musical listeners?69

Stylistic unity, harmony—a web of ties—constitute the key notions in Kodály’s liturgical music. They differ markedly from the ideals of his pupils in pursuing the renewal of Catholic church music: brevity, simplicity, and clear singable forms. Yet they can be clearly seen in the concept of Csendes mise. The work, again contra-

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dicting his pupils’ ideals, approaches the genre not from Palestrina but from Bach. Works accompanied by organ such as Geneva Psalm No. 114 (1952) or Laudes organi (1966) certainly affirm Kodály’s links to the Bach style.70 In Csendes mise, Bach’s music is evoked by recurring slow lament arias in the “Qui tollis” section of the Gloria and in the Agnus Dei in 3 / 4 time, and in the solemn, rather marchlike sections of the Credo, with bright major chords, in the chorale-like features of the Benedictus, or in the mixtures, chordal shapes, and suspensions almost devoid of chromaticism. Yet the clearest sign of the presence of Bach’s style in the work is counterpoint.71 The harmonious nature of the work derives mainly from the key relations. The work is in D major and nearby keys throughout, despite its modulations and chromaticism. The Introitus and Kyrie are in D minor, while the Christe between them is in D major. The Gloria opens in D major, but moves to F sharp minor at “Qui tollis” and only returns at “Cum sancto spiritu.” The Credo is in D-mixolydian, replaced by E flat minor at “Et incarnatus”; “Et resurrexit” again sounds in D-mixolydian, although it closes in G major. The Sanctus begins in G major and is joined by the Benedictus in F sharp major. The D minor Agnus Dei is followed by Ite missa, whose closing section is in D major. So apart from the basic D tonality, the work touches the subdominant (G major, D-mixolydian), mediant major and minor (F sharp major and minor), and the latter’s third-relation key (E flat minor, which enharmonically would be D sharp minor). The coherence of the work is ensured by a web of thematic links and references. Several of the themes presented in the first movement of the mass return. The Kyrie relies on the circular theme of the Introitus, which returns at the end of Agnus. The theme is again paraphrased by the opening theme of Gloria, and by the other circular theme appearing on multiple occasions in Credo (bars 6, 10, 14, 63–68, 103–114). The latter takes two forms: one with a motif with repeated notes, the other only evolving from it, inserting a descending minor second between the repeated notes. The Ite missa est—as a summary—employs all themes. The arpeggio aria melody of the “Qui tollis” marks a contrasting thematic group that returns in the Agnus Dei. The thematic concept of Csendes mise shows the difference between Kodály’s manner of composing Catholic music and that of his pupils, whose convictions were infused with the spirit of the Motu proprio. Kodály’s religious works differ also in purpose. Rather than Gebrauchsmusik, they embody folk religiousness and communicate a symbolic, concealed political comment. Even Csendes mise goes on a different path, not typical according to the principles of Motu proprio. Creation of his liturgical / paraliturgical works is driven not by the ideals of the new Catholic church music movement but by his discontent with the practices of his contemporaries and by composition problems, such as thematic-stylistic unity, or key cohesion in specific works. There is no evident link between the technique of

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Palestrina counterpoint, traditionally associated with Kodály’s religious works in musical historiography, and his Catholic church music. Csendes mise confirms that Bach served as a far more important model. Still, Palestrina’s style played a decisive role in Kodály’s thinking, his teaching, his researches in ethnomusicology, and to a very special extent in his music.

11

Why Jeppesen? Kodály’s Readings on Counterpoint

“Many have recalled the legendary atmosphere in Kodály’s classes. I myself have some typical memories of them,” the conductor László Somogyi remarked in Ferenc Bónis’s album így láttuk Kodályt (How we saw Kodály). He went on to say: Once when we were studying Palestrina counterpoint, Kodály handed me a book and said, “Read it and report on it.” To my amazement it was Knud Jeppesen’s Palestrinastil med saarligt handblick pas dissonansbehandligen, written in Danish, which only existed in that edition at the time. When I protested mildly that I did not know Danish, he replied, “Do you think I do? I read it and understood it nonetheless.” Even after that his classes were not continued in Danish, but citing page and bar numbers from the book he would give us extracts to study, which we had to copy in the library from the many volumes of the Complete Works of Palestrina. Older students of his had begun collecting these examples, and my guess is that students who came after us did not reach the end either. The many thousand examples from Palestrina served as a model for Kodály to learn the art of choral composition.1

Kodály’s reliance on Jeppesen to teach counterpoint is confirmed in Bónis’s book by other pupils: Béla András, János Gergely (later Jean Gergely), Rezső Sugár, and Imre Sulyok.2 Yet Somogyi, who studied under Kodály in 1931 and 1935, is mistaken in his recollection. Born in 1892, the Danish music historian Knud Jeppesen— editor-in-chief of Acta musicologica between 1931 and 1945 and president of the International Musicological Society between 1949 and 1952—wrote his doctoral thesis on Palestrina’s style and handling of dissonance, defending it in German at the University of Vienna. Although Jeppesen’s doctoral thesis appeared first in Danish in 1923,3 a German version appeared as soon as 1925 and an English translation followed in 1927. It was Jeppesen’s second book, on Palestrina’s counterpoint, 139

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published in Danish in 1930, that Somogyi and his classmates would have read. That very copy, brimming with marginal notes in several hands and showing the wear and tear of heavy use, can still be found in the library of the Academy of Music in Budapest (K 2726). This volume, like the old examples of the volumes of Complete Works of Palestrina preserved at the academy’s library, makes it clear how Kodály, based on a deep knowledge of musical history, taught the Hungarian composers of the future. Furthermore, Kodály’s legacy reveals clearly that while his interest in the Palestrina style aided him in his roles as composer and composition teacher, the intense attention he paid to Jeppesen’s book demonstrates how closely the scholarly work in Kodály’s workshop related to his approach to composing and educating. Kodály acquired the German edition of Jeppesen’s book on Palestrina’s counterpoint in 1925, as a dedication in the volume confirms. The personal relations between Jeppesen and Kodály emerge from their correspondence, which was conducted with varying intensity between 1930 and 1963. Thirteen letters of Jeppesen’s have survived in Kodály’s estate and twelve from Kodály’s in Jeppesen’s.4 Kodály’s first letter (August 16, 1930) reveals that hitherto he had been using in his classes Jeppesen’s book on Palestrina, which Kodály referred to as “ihr treffliches Werk” (your excellent work). Since he could not have covered the full scope of it in classwork, he suggested Jeppesen write a textbook on counterpoint as well.5 At the time of writing the letter Kodály did not know such a book had appeared. Jeppesen sent him a copy in Danish along with his letter in reply. It emerges from the letter of thanks (October 1, 1930) that Kodály initially studied the musical examples and then the text, with the help of a Danish–Hungarian dictionary.6 Over the next five years he inquired several times of Jeppesen, and of the publisher Breitkopf and Härtel, as to when the book would appear in German, because he had to use the Danish version for teaching.7 The Danish copy in the library of the Academy of Music must have been Kodály’s, which he is thought to have donated later, as his private library has a copy each of the German and the English versions of Palestrinastil and two German and one English copy of Kontrapunkt, but no Danish original. After a brief visit to Budapest in December 1935, Jeppesen sent Kodály a copy of the German translation of Kontrapunkt, which Kodály analyzed in detail in a letter of reply. Unfortunately that letter has been lost, but Kodály’s views are known for the most part from his copious customary marginal notes. In a reply (August 11, 1936) Jeppesen gratefully acknowledged Kodály’s exhaustive critique but responded to only a few of his points. These included an indication of the source of the tritone rule on page 74. Kodály asked about the cautious use of the tritone when major thirds are moving parallel: “Woher die Regel? Fux nem említi” (Where does the rule come from? Fux doesn’t mention it). In his reply, Jeppesen agrees with Kodály: the rule did not come from Fux but from Michael Haller, and was also supported by late sixteenth-century practice. It can also be assumed that some of Kodály’s

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marginal notes in the book were designed for a letter to Jeppesen, while others were reminders to himself. There are still more notes in Palestrinastil. The care with which Kodály read the two books (presumably several times) confirms his immense esteem for Jeppesen and his increased interest in Palestrina style. Kodály’s notes, references, remarks, and additions provide a wealth of information on his reading habits. He was a thorough reader, who corrected everything from misprints to grammar mistakes, inaccuracies, and internal contradictions, and never failed to mark them in the margins, at the bottom of pages, or between the lines. On pages 46 and 47 of Palestrinastil (Facsimile 6) Jeppesen discusses the nature of musical accents and extent to which they depend on various factors: rhythmic patterns, pitch, or the length or volume of a note. Kodály’s marginal notes fall into several types. Some point to phrasing idiosyncrasies (or less politely, clumsiness). In line 3 of the first paragraph on page 47 he added the word “wir” (we) to the word “Germanen” (Germans). He added a similar comment to a sentence in note 5 on page 46. “Ein Ton,” Jeppesen writes, “mag ceteris paribus durch Tonhöhe und Klangfarbe oder was immer von eine Reihe anderer Töne unterscheiden” (A tone might be distinguished from a series of other tones, ceteris paribus, by pitch, timbre or whatever). Here Kodály underlined “oder was immer” (or whatever) and above it wrote “was?” (what?). Other notes cover instances of Jeppesen’s failure to make his meaning clear, such as Kodály’s remark on page 47—“Jó volna őket részletezni” (Details would be good)—referring to the factors Jeppesen discusses. A similar remark appears in the second paragraph on the same page. Kodály inserted a caret mark into the phrase “Ebenfalls ist es aber zweifellos eine Neigung” (In any case it is clearly a tendency), where he believed the words “bei Sänger” (in the case of singers) were missing. Another inaccuracy is flagged in the third paragraph on the same page, in “unsere ganze Musikliteratur” (our whole music literature), where in the margin Kodály wrote, “Vocal?, Instrum[ental]?, Deutsch [German]?, Internat[ional]?”. Closely related to this type of comment are those related to content. In the last three lines on page 46 he added the word “Klangfarbe” (timbre) to Jeppesen’s list of factors contributing to musical accent. The third type of note consists of those Kodály addressed to himself. These generally point to what has caught his attention, to novelties, or to matters relating to his own ideas or interests. Beside footnote 3 on page 46, summing up Jeppesen’s excerpts, he wrote as a reminder, “magasabb hang hamarabb percipiálódik” (a higher note is perceived earlier). The inner margin of page 47 contains a musical sample in Kodály’s hand indicating that the step G–A is “ritkább mint” (rarer) than A–G. Jeppesen argues in the text that it is usually the higher note that falls on the accented beat. In footnote 2 on page 47, describing how a church congregation will often tend to disregard tempo and go for the higher notes, Kodály wrote: “Subjectiv: Klangfreude an der Stimme” (subjective: joy over the tone of the voice), and at

facsimile 6 . Jeppesen, Palestrinastil, pp. 46–47, Kodály Archives Budapest, 20049.

facsimile 6 . (continued)

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the bottom of page 47, “Magyar ebben is ellentétes?” (Is Hungarian practice at odds with this too?), noting the folk song “Ablakomba, ablakomba besütött a holdvilág” (The moonlight shines in my window),8 adding “auftaktosan!” (with an upbeat!). This note relates to the third paragraph on page 47 and footnote 4. Although melodic and dynamic accents need not coincide in speech or music, Jeppesen is aware of the unconscious effort to give dynamic, rhythmic, or psychological accent to higher notes. With “Ablakomba, ablakomba” the 4 / 8, emphatic incipit is an upbeat, and the highest note of the melody, the twice-accented G, is the second beat, i.e., in an unaccented position. Kodály’s growing interest in counterpoint was already evident in his years at the Academy of Music, and his passion is reflected even in the contents of his estate.9 His private library holds twenty books on counterpoint, not counting chapters on it in his collection of textbooks on composition. However, he must have read considerably more on counterpoint than is found in his library. For example, Kodály added titles of books familiar to him to the bibliography in Stephan Krehl’s 1908 book on counterpoint. In addition, Kodály’s notes on his readings have survived in manuscript pages in a folder entitled “Kontrapunkt” and provide much information on his knowledge of it.10 Kodály’s counterpoint bibliography consists first of works he added to Krehl’s bibliography, secondly of Kodály’s library, thirdly of the manuscript collection of notes, and fourthly of Kodály’s marginal notes (Table 9). Some of the items in the table’s list can be found in Kodály’s own collection, others in the library of the Academy of Music. The asterisked items contain notes in Kodály’s hand. Naturally, his reading was not confined to books he annotated. His reading often becomes apparent in the marginal notes and manuscript notes to “Kontrapunkt.” Thus, there is a reference to Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum (1725), but the copy of Fux’s book in the library of the Academy of Music has no marginal notes in Kodály’s hand.11 Similarly, a reference can be found in Ebenezer Prout’s 1890 book on counterpoint to Padre Martini’s book on the subject, a copy of which features in the Academy of Music library, again without marginal notes by Kodály.12 Above the reference to Martini is a note in Kodály’s hand on the second volume of Schenker’s book on counterpoint. The “Kontrapunkt” manuscript shows that Kodály was also familiar with Paul Juon’s counterpoint practice; his notes preserve counterpoint he wrote to many a cantus firmus by Juon.13 The list of readings reveals that Kodály read all major known books on counterpoint, from Johann Joseph Fux’s treatise onward, with the exception of Michael Haller’s pioneering textbook published in Regensburg in 1891.14 The fact that he was unaware of Haller’s work—which is absent also from the library of the Academy of Music—is evident from the question he asked Jeppesen about the tritone rule in the letter of 1936 mentioned earlier. He would have read excerpts from

table 9 Kodály’s readings on counterpoint – Albrechtsberger, Johann Georg, Anweisung zur Composition, mit ausfuerlichen Exempeln, zum Selbstunterrichte (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, ca. 1804). ZAK K16 – Bellermann, Heinrich, Der Contrapunkt oder Anleitung zur Stimmführung in der musikalischen Composition (Berlin: Julius Springer, 1862). ZAK K56 / a* – Bussler, Ludwig, Der strenge Satz in der musikalischen Kompositionslehre, rev. von Hugo Leichtentritt, 2nd ed. (Berlin: Carl Habel, 1904). ZAK K2413 – Cherubini, Luigi, Theorie des Contrapunktes und der Fuge: Cours de Countre-point et de Fugue (Leipzig: Kistner; Paris: Schlesinger, 1835). ZAK K4354 – Dehn, Siegfried Wilhelm, Lehre vom Contrapunct, dem Canon und der Fuga, bearb. von Bernhard Scholz (Berlin: Ferdinand Schneider, 1859). ZAK K42.198* – Draeseke, Felix, Der gebundene Styl. Lehrbuch für Kontrapunkt und Fuge (Hannover: Louis Oertel, 1902). ZAK K1808 / I – Fux, Johann Joseph, Gradus ad Parnassum (Wien: Van Ghelen, 1724). ZAK K1358 – Hohn, Wilhelm, Der Kontrapunkt Palestrinas und seiner Zeitgenossen (Regensburg, Roma: Pustet, 1918). ZAK K2260 / I* – Jadassohn, Salomon, Lehrbuch des einfachen, doppelten, drei- und vierfachen Kontrapunkts. Musikalische Kompositions-lehre, Erster Teil: Die Lehre vom reninen Satze Band II, 5th ed.(Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1909). ZAK K1724 – Jeppesen, Knud, Der Palestrinastil und die Dissonanz (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1925). KA without number* – Jeppesen, Knud, Kontrapunkt: Vokalpolyfoni (Copenhagen, Leipzig: Wilhelm Hansen, 1930). ZAK K2726 – Jeppesen, Knud, Kontrapunkt: Lehrbuch der klassischen Vokalpolyphonie (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1935) (2 copies). KA 2362*, 2548 – Jeppesen, Knud, Counterpoint: The Polyphonic Vocal Style of the Sixteenth Century (New York: Prentice Hall, 1939). KA 2368 – Jeppesen, Knud, The Style of Palestrina and the Dissonance (London: Oxford University Press, 1946). KA 2361 – Juon, Paul, Kontrapunkt: Aufgabenbuch (Berlin: Schlesinger, 1910) – Kitson, C. H., Applied Strict Counterpoint (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1916). KA 2408* – Krehl, Stephan, Kontrapunkt: Die Lehre vom selbständigen Stimmführung (Leipzig: Göschen, 1908). KA 2403* – Kurth, Ernst, Grundlagen des linearen Kontrapunkts: Einführung in Stil und Technik von Bach’s melodischer Polyphonie (Bern: Max Drechsel, 1917). KA 2492* – Martini, Giambattista, Esemplare o sia saggio fondamentale pratico di contrappunto e canto fermo (Bologna: Instituto delle Scienze, 1774). ZAK K1043 / I–II – Morris, R. O., Contrapuntal Technique in the Sixteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1922). KA 2227* – Müller-Blattau, Josef-Maria, Die Kompositionslehre Heinrich Schützens in der Fassung seiner Schülers Christoph Bernhard (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1926). KA 2398 – Prout, Ebenezer, Counterpoint: Strict and Free (London: Augener, 1890). KA 2529* – Richter, Ernst Friedrich, Lehrbuch des einfachen und doppelten Contrapunkts: Praktische Anleitung zu dem Studium desselben zunächts für das Conservatorium der Musik zu Leipzig, 4th ed. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1881). KA 2095* – Riemann, Hugo, Lehrbuch des einfachen, doppelten und imitierenden Kontrapunkts (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1888). KA 2102* (continued)

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– Rischbieter, Wilhelm, Erläuterungen und Aufgaben zum Studium des Contrapunkts (Berlin: Ries & Erler, 1884). KA 2114 – Schenker, Heinrich, Neue musikalische Theorien und Phantasien. Zweiter Band: Kontrapunkt—Erster Halbband: Cantus firmus und zweistimmiger Satz. Stuttgart (Berlin: Cotta, 1910). Zweiter Halbband: Drei- und mehrstimmiger Satz, Übergänge zum freien Satz (Wien, Leipzig: Universal Edition, 1922). ZAK K1807 / A / II / 1–2* – Scholz, Bernhard, Lehre vom Kontrapunkt und den Nachahmungen (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1904). ZAK K843* – Sechter, Simon, Die Grundsätze der musikalischen Komposition. Dritte Abtheilung: Vom drei- und zweistimmigen Satze. Rhythmische Entwürfe. Vom strengen Satze, mit kurzen Andeutungen des freien Satzes. Vom doppelte Contrapunkte (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1854). ZAK K1397 – Taneyev, Sergey, Podvizhnoĭ kontrapunct strogogo pis’ma(Leipzig: Beljaev, 1909). KA 3417 * = A book with Kodály’s notes KA = Kodály Archives ZAK = Library of the Music Academy

Haller’s textbook on composition, as Wilhelm Hohn, in his book on counterpoint, quotes long passages from Haller, who had been his professor. The notes suggest that each time Kodály came across a new book, he returned to earlier readings to compare statements and points of view. In any case he had to reread the main books, as by the 1917–18 semester he was teaching second-year composition students, for whom counterpoint was a main field of study, according to the academy statutes, and he presumably prepared for his classes.15 Legendary though his memory was, he felt compelled to refresh his knowledge each year. His rereadings are clear from his use of pencils of different colors and styles. Although his reading habits provide a wealth of information important to interpretation and assessment, little emerges from them about the chronology of his readings. In his years as a student of the Academy of Music, Kodály came across Ernst Friedrich Richter’s book on counterpoint, which was compulsory reading in Hans Koessler’s class. Written on the front endpaper in Kodály’s copy is “Zoltán Kodály, 1901.” A similar inscription appears in Riemann’s book on counterpoint: “Kodály 1902.” He would also have read Siegfried Dehn’s counterpoint textbook as an academy student. Koessler’s fellow professor, Viktor Herzfeld (1856–1919), held Dehn’s in high esteem and made it compulsory reading for the 1893–94 academic year and thereafter, while the academy had the book translated into Hungarian by István Kereszty.16 Kodály would also have read Bellermann on counterpoint at that time. The 1902 reports of the reading circle at the Academy of Music library contain a reference to “Mr. Kodály” returning Bellermann’s book.17 According to the “Kontrapunkt” manuscript, Kodály had encountered the works of Fux and Scholz before 1906.18 Between 1907 and 1925 he must have read those of Albrechtsberger, Cherubini, Jadassohn, Draeseke, Bussler, Krehl, Prout, Sechter, Lobe, and Kitson. He obviously could not have read the first volume of Schenker’s book before 1910, or the second before 1922, or Ernst Kurth’s great work on Bach

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before 1917, as those were their years of publication. The Academy of Music library inventory was rewritten in the 1927–28 academic year, when the aesthetician of music Margit Prahács, an ardent admirer of Kodály, became its head. So with few exceptions it is no longer possible to identify when the other books were acquired, although they were certainly there before 1927. Nor is it known when Kodály obtained his own books, but he is likely to have shown a mounting interest in books on counterpoint once he had a chance to teach it, from the 1917–18 academic year onward. He is known to have read Jeppesen’s Palestrinastil in 1925 and Kontrapunkt in 1930 and 1935. He must have read Hohn’s and Morris’s books (published in 1918 and 1922, respectively) after he had read Palestrinastil, as that is where he learned of them. It transpires from Kodály’s notes that before reading Palestrinastil, Kodály had mostly read the accounts of Bellermann, Kitson, Prout, and Schenker; their books come up most often in his notes.19 But he immediately saw the significance of Jeppesen’s doctoral thesis, and even decades later spoke of it with high regard. In the notes to his 1950 work A folklorista Bartók (Bartók the folklorist), he wrote of the composition techniques of his peer: [Bartók] nevertheless kept studying, and when finally a work came out that revealed the true, enduring essence of good style in terms of concepts revised and finely tuned over many years, such as Jeppesen’s book was, he borrowed it one summer and went on to buy it; in fact there were a few volumes of Palestrina’s complete works on his piano.20

Kodály remembered in his 1966 Utam a zenéhez (My path to music) about his early knowledge of Palestrina’s style: Knud Jeppesen was the first to illuminate Palestrina’s style perfectly. I recall once writing a choral movement, which Koessler told me was “in Palestrina’s style.” Well, years later I realized the piece was a far cry from Palestrina’s style.21

In 1964 he wrote an introduction to a book by a pupil of his, the violist-composer Tibor Serly (1901–1978), recalling Jeppesen’s book again: In my career as a teacher I gradually moved from Bach to Palestrina, to the latter with the help of Knud Jeppesen’s brilliant book. This book helps achieve self-control—and a sense of responsibility for every single note.22

Two key ideas return in Kodály’s lines: first, that Jeppesen “revealed the true, enduring essence of good style” and “illuminate[d] Palestrina’s style perfectly,” and secondly, that Kodály was not yet really familiar with Palestrina’s style and only moved on to it gradually from Bach. Characteristic of his thinking is what he wrote to Jeppesen after October 1, 1930: May I share some other desires of mine? If you could supplement your Palestrinastil (with technical characteristics of other modes of writing), you would achieve something similar to what Kurth failed to do with Bach.23

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Kodály understandably compared Jeppesen’s Palestrinastil with Ernst Kurth’s 1917 analysis of Bach: the two concluded two centuries of “single combat.” Kodály’s counterpoint readings also belonged to two different schools, one based on Palestrina, the other on Bach as the role model for teaching it. The textbook authors of both followed the structure of Joseph Fux’s Gradus ad Panassum written in Latin, which enjoyed immense popularity, coming out in Lorenz Mizler’s German in 1742, in English in 1770, and in French in 1773.24 Fux’s book consists of two parts. The first—theory—is an introduction to the analysis of intervals; the second— practice—establishes a system of five species for two, three, and four voices. This is followed by fugue studies—meaning imitation structure in Fux—and practical exercises in double counterpoint in octave, tenths, and twelfths. Although structurally the books followed Fux’s Gradus, they form two distinct groups, belonging to the Palestrina or the Bach camp. The advocates of Palestrina— Fux’s followers, supporters of the Cecilian Movement such as Bellermann, Haller, Hohn, and Morris—made a case for modal church keys, and took the linear and melodic nature of Palestrina’s music as a starting point in their vocally inspired exercises, believing that harmony must adapt to the linear character of the music. The other school—Albrechtsberger; such Anti-Cecilians as Sechter, Dehn, Scholz, Richter, Draeseke, Bussler, Riemann, Jadassohn, and Krehl; the English theorists Kitson and Prout, constituting the German tradition originating from Kirnberger—saw Bach as the ultimate in counterpoint. Their starting point was major and minor tonality, and they encouraged pupils to superimpose their instrumental counterpoint exercises on a predetermined harmonic plan. This was, in fact, the approach taken by the composition professors of the Budapest Academy of Music—Hans Koessler, Viktor Herzfeld, and Albert Siklós—as attested by the textbooks of the last two.25 Advocates of Palestrina passed down Fux’s rules from book to book. But while rejecting the contrapuntal practices of his contemporaries in the 1720s and recommending Palestrina’s brand of counterpoint, Fux had no knowledge whatsoever of Palestrina’s works, lacking as he did any of his manuscripts or contemporary publications. So the rules he set were more reflective of a “Palestrina style” modified and distorted for more than a century than of Palestrina’s actual style. Hence Kodály’s note on page xi of the introduction to Jeppesen’s Kontrapunkt refers to “fikció als ob” (fiction as if). The expression “fiction” appears in several places in Kodály’s notes. It makes the point that the style of Fux and some Bach advocates such as Prout and Bussler, who were attempting to present in their works the Palestrina style and modal keys and Bach’s counterpoint rules, was in fact a nonexistent one. Bellermann was the first counterpoint textbook author to return to Fux who had actual familiarity with Palestrina’s works. Haller, Hohn, and eventually Jeppesen took the same course. Fux’s didactic approach proved so reliable that over two hundred years later, Jeppesen’s Kontrapunkt employed a similar scheme (discounting his omission of

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double counterpoint) as did the works of Albrechtsberger, Cherubini, Bellermann, Dehn, Scholz, Prout, Krehl, Riemann, Bussler, Jadassohn, Schenker, and Hohn. Naturally, each has its minor differences. For example, Jadassohn, Draeseke, Richter, and his follower Prout began teaching counterpoint through exercises for four voices. Bussler advocated triple meter and Scholz a free-rhythm counterpoint built on cantus firmus, while Hohn offers exercises of both types. Scholz swaps the chapters on imitation and double counterpoint; Dehn analyzes all possible forms of double counterpoint (not only octaves, tenths, and twelfths, but other intervals), while Schenker prefers not to discuss it at all. Unrelated to Fux’s Western tradition was the Italian Padre Martini, whose great merit in his two-volume textbook for Kodály was his many fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian examples—often whole works. The excerpts were invaluable to Kodály and other enthusiasts before the complete works of Palestrina reached the Academy of Music in 1907.26 Heinrich Schenker’s and Ernst Kurth’s polemics sought to challenge the nineteenth-century notion of teaching counterpoint, which they saw as unrealistic and unmusical. They both argued that living music had no preset rules, so that the art of composition could not be mastered on a textbook basis, only through extensive study of Classical masterworks. Both authors produced scholarly studies, though they intended them as textbooks. Kurth believed Bach’s counterpoint had been conceived on linear and melodic rather than harmonic foundations, the essence of contrapuntal composition being that the consonant melodies develop in a way least detrimental to melodic formation and sonority, but in contrast to harmony, not with help from it. So he took the polyphony of the cello suites and solo violin sonatas and partitas accomplished in a single voice, and shed light on the laws of consonance by analyzing two-part compositions: inventions. His work seeks to be exhaustive in an encyclopedic way, and discusses the traits of Bach’s melody, rhythm, formation of melodies, part-writing, technical processes, and features of resulting inner energy—a keyword in Kurth’s musical aesthetics and psychology. But it offers no historical stance. It does not set out the relations of Bach’s style to that of his predecessors or delve into its inner development. Schenker’s two-volume work cannot be seen as a textbook either, although it follows Fux’s textbook structure. He is critical of his forebears—Fux, Albrechtsberger, Cherubini, and Bellermann—and makes a strong case against what he calls the “pseudo-knowledge” and “pseudo-science” that they promulgate, citing Viennese Classical and Romantic masterpieces in support of his claims. He approaches the matter from the angle of composing method, not composition studies, by exploring what exactly the function of counterpoint teaching is and what a pupil learns and can employ as a composer. But because his work can boast neither historical experience nor thorough analysis of the style of Palestrina or Bach, it is even more theoretical than its predecessors, bordering on hypothetical, despite approaching composition studies from a practical point of view.

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Jeppesen’s Kontrapunkt follows Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum in structure and educational approach without setting objectives like Schenker’s and Kurth’s. Its novelty lies in being based on his other work, Palestrinastil. In a sense, his analysis of Palestrina’s style and discussion of the treatment of dissonance take a similar approach to Kurth’s and Schenker’s. Jeppesen set out to write a critical essay of the Fuxian tradition, clarifying and rectifying his predecessors’ errors and describing hitherto unobserved phenomena. However, his method was far more systematic than Kurth’s or Schenker’s. He reviewed the whole œuvre of Palestrina known at the time, and structured his subject to admit of statistical considerations and categorization of its musical solutions. By this method of stylistic criticism, Jeppesen manages to identify the features of Palestrina’s style and apply his observations to draw historical, philological, and aesthetic conclusions. Central to his theory is dissonance. There is tension between the melodic and harmonic dimensions in Palestrina’s music, from which is born the dissonance in both “spheres of musical ideas,” to use Jeppesen’s term for the vertical and horizontal aspects of music. To achieve the vertical idea, triads must sound with optimal sonority, while the horizontal idea is best achieved in diatonic movement. To keep these two “ideas” in balance, it is imperative for dissonance to be treated strictly step by step. This shapes one of the underlying rules of Palestrina’s style: dissonance, while it has a practical function in harmony, can be interpreted as a melodic phenomenon. So in addition to melodically motivated and unintentional—passing and ornamental—dissonances, and to dissonances serving musical expression, the definitive element in Palestrina is a primary, consciously motivated, musical dissonance: a syncopation at odds with the consonance born of new harmonic ideas. These harmonic impulses entered late sixteenth-century music from folk music, or rather through the influence of the frottola genre. Dissonance would become a musical effect precisely because all heed was being paid to consonance. Jeppesen believed that the novelty of this conservative, culminating art was the way it embraced dissonance as a musical phenomenon. Kodály was presumably taken by the methodology of Jeppesen’s book. In his notes and writings he often compares it to those books on Mozart by Wyzewa– Saint-Foix that helped to revitalize musical historiography through a novel approach to stylistic history and criticism.27 This scholarly approach assumed a key role in Kodály’s musicological thinking, too. In his 1951 study Mihálovits Lukács három nótája (Three Hungarian songs by Lukács Mihálovits) he summed up his methodological approach: Familiarity with a style comes when one can trace its emergence, flourishing, waning and vanishing, chart its course and spread, determine laws at every stage of its development, and establish its relevant clichés and individual differences.28

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The same approach is evident in Kodály’s writings on folk music. His great study on Hungarian folk music (1936) classifies types based on the characteristics of the flourishing multitude of folk songs.29 He focuses on the analysis of melodic structure, phraseology, rhythm, form, line structure, set of notes, and use of intervals. He also compares Hungarian folk melodies with those of related nations, establishes the influences of European music, church music, secular art music, and the “népies műdal,” and through his stylistic criticism succeeds in pinpointing the “corrupted” forms of folk songs and incorrect notations. Not unlike Jeppesen, Kodály’s observations lead him to aesthetic conclusions, not just historical or philological deductions. In his study that seeks to be straightforward in its musical analyses, the passage on the treatment of intervals is a case in point: Nothing remains but a major and a minor second, a third, a fourth and a fifth up and down; a minor sixth and octave up. This should not be seen as meager or primitive. Every great Classical style is marked by selection rather than amassing of means. In terms of choosing intervals, Hungarian folk song is almost identical with two of the peaks of melody: Gregorian chant and the melodies of the Palestrina style. In both we find a monophonic melodic style. Despite its polyphonic texture, the melodic line in Palestrina style does not betray its monophonic character.30

It is typical of Kodály to cite Palestrina style as an example alongside Gregorian chant when discussing the two peaks of melodic culture. Both Kodály’s copies of Jeppesen’s books have examples of folk songs that Kodály wrote to support or disagree with Jeppesen’s claims. “Ablakomba, ablakomba” in Facsimile 6 was one such example, where Kodály referred to the differences of Hungarian and German folk songs in agogics: while German melodies tended to highlight accents with a high note, in Hungarian folk music the top note did not necessarily coincide with the accent.31 On page 80 of Kontrapunkt, Jeppesen explains in connection with an elevennote Aeolian melody based on D that in spite of its symmetrical construction and well-defined contours, it is boring and inartistic (Facsimile 7). Above the melody Kodály wrote the text incipit of “Magasan repül a daru” (The crane flies high), a “népies műdal” whose first line, like Jeppesen’s example, consists of an upward and a downward scale (albeit in a major key). This melodic structure, too, is inartistic, or as Kodály puts it, an example of a “half-educated . . . transitional man’s . . . lack of culture.”32 But the importance of Kodály’s notes lies chiefly in their inferences. He seems to have read Jeppesen’s books in a way that allowed his own scholarly interests to continue to work in the background, and all he wrote of Palestrina’s style he compared and measured with his experience in folk music. There may have been other things about Jeppesen’s book that held Kodály’s attention by shedding light on what Palestrina’s music meant to him. As quoted already from Kodály’s study on Hungary’s folk music: “Despite its polyphonic

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facsimile 7 . Jeppesen, Kontrapunkt, p. 80, Kodály Archives Budapest, 2362.

texture, the melodic line in Palestrina style does not betray its monophonic character.” As Kodály points out in the closing chapter of that study, monophony is not a sign of meagerness: “It is no primitive product, but an art matured and refined by thousands of years of evolution.”33 Kodály’s avid interest in counterpoint must have rested on how Palestrina’s style represented a kind of polyphony that, as Jeppesen said, drew almost wholly on monophony; its evolution into polyphony was in effect by chance. This is the feature that made it paradigmatic for Kodály. First, it revealed the exemplary historical course that monophonic Hungarian folk music might take to polyphony, and secondly, it trained composers to a “good style” by which a culture of music might evolve at all.

12

Hungarian Counterpoint Contrapuntal Technique in Kodály’s Works

Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno, in a polemic that explores the role of counterpoint in modern music, dismissed in strong terms the received idea that any twentiethcentury renaissance of counterpoint was occurring as historicism gained ground.1 When composers turned their minds to counterpoint technique, their aim was not to resuscitate an old composing technique. The rules of counterpoint, as Adorno put it, had emerged from the immanent laws of a sphere of compositions by composers who sought to integrate, transform, and consolidate form, harmony, and counterpoint and, in doing so, to create new music. In other words it evolved from the inner structure of their work.2 Adorno agreed with Ernst Kurth in linking emancipation of counterpoint with a novel view of harmony, a concept that can be seen even in Paul Hindemith’s effort to build the new “Lehre,” i.e., a pedagogy of composition based on the laws of acoustics and a new interpretation of two-part counterpoint.3 The greater the independence notes acquire in harmony, according to Adorno, the more polyphonic each chord becomes.4 This procedure leads modern music to a “pancounterpoint” that allows the spirit of counterpoint to develop unhindered but contains the potential for its demise.5 Such immanent development in compositional technique was what turned Adorno from the common idea that counterpoint represented the polyphonic music of a relatively homogeneous, closed society. In his view, no “contrapuntal cosmos” could restore the structure of modern society: modern counterpoint was actually symbolic of polyphony shorn of a community.6 Adorno’s concept derived from an aim to make Schoenberg’s music absolute. But his wording calls attention to the fact that counterpoint—unlike the tradition of form and harmony, unbroken until the twentieth century—had not been in the forefront of composers’ thinking for a long time; when it had been, it was always 153

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to serve a specific aesthetic-poetic cause. Thus, it was only in the twentieth century that it again became a focus of composers’ interest. The history of compositional ideas has yet to be examined from this angle, although a majority of twentiethcentury composers, including Schoenberg, Hindemith, Stravinsky, Bartók, and Kodály, sought consciously to create contrapuntal works.7 The importance of contrapuntal technique in the aesthetics of new music is clear from the increase in twentieth-century theoretical works on the counterpoint of earlier ages and the publication and popularity of works by Kurth, Schenker, and Jeppesen. Yet clearly, as neoclassicism spread, counterpoint was brought into the works of many composers with historicist intent. From the 1930s, contemporaries saw it as a symbol and prerequisite of an ideal society.8 This idea was advanced in Moderne Polyphonie (1930) by Siegfried Günther, who had Nazi leanings; he claimed that polyphony expressed collectivity, not individuality,9 and that modern polyphony chiefly had a sociological function.10 Smaller ensembles could perform contemporary polyphonic works, and by building small, musically educated communities, future audiences could be groomed within the span of a few decades.11 To that end, Günther devoted a chapter to the relation between modern polyphony and musical education, stressing the significance of folk song in the birth of the new counterpoint.12 This shows how close his views were to those of Kodály’s pupils. Yet Günther saw Ervin Lendvai as the father of modern polyphony.13 His book, in discussing numerous contemporary composers including Bartók, fails to mention Kodály at all, despite the fact that Kodály had employed polyphonic devices since 1925 in his children’s choruses based on folk songs.14 As early as 1917, Antal Molnár pointed out that Kodály was including folk song in his teaching of counterpoint, and it was through this “Hungarian counterpoint” that Hungarian music could finally enter the bloodstream of young people.15 Lajos Bárdos, too, believed Kodály had specifically created “Hungarian polyphony.”16 In his short Kodály monograph (1936), Molnár described folk song-based Hungarian counterpoint through his analysis of Kodály’s 1931 mixed chorus Mátrai képek (Mátra pictures): The figurative ornament of the melody becomes an independent counter-melody. The contours of the parts grow out of each other into a solid body; form is none other than the melody’s radiance toward its innermost depths (and that is the key to all independent counterpoint!). The melodic material in the composer’s mind shoots out its trunk, branches and leaves like a root—everything that was there already but required the sunshine of individual inspiration. There is no sign of “enrobing in harmony”: folk song provides its own context; ideas sprout from one voice to the other and atavistically intertwine.17

As Molnár saw it, counterpoint evolves from the melody; the numerous countermelodies enshrouding it do not constitute any harmonic structure but rather a

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musical fabric born of the ornaments and configurations of the folk melodies. Every subsequent contrapuntal development evolves from the melody, whose strength ultimately lies, Molnár writes, in “the way its complete melodic environment is born of itself, by means of parthenogenesis.”18 Following Molnár, Kodály’s Hungarian counterpoint is not an imprint of a social structure nor a symbol of communal art, but something that exemplifies how parthenogenesis creates a complete contrapuntal network from a monophonic Hungarian folk song. That Kodály’s interest in counterpoint came from polyphony born of monophony, exemplified so vividly by Jeppesen’s book, rather than from an encounter with Renaissance choral polyphony, is supported by his compositions and by the notes in his readings. For his choral works reveal very few turns and features evocative of the style of Palestrina or Lasso and only seldom take on Palestrinian traits. His a cappella works do not, in the main, display the features described by Jeppesen— rhythm reduced to a few values, a principle of stepwise motion, avoidance of broken triads, strict treatment of dissonance, equilibrium of themes, consistent imitation following through an entire formal section. Kodály had to acknowledge that a composer’s attraction to a historical style did not mean that it would be used exclusively according to the rules of that period. For this precise reason, I attempt in what follows to discern which aspects of Palestrina’s style occupied Kodály as a composer, and then seek to determine what practical or aesthetic reasons might lay behind his choices. Kodály’s Pange Lingua is widely seen as paradigmatic in Hungarian church music. The melody in the first half of the motet (bars 1–14) is constructed from slower notes and consists of a diatonic scale. It is sung in a canon of a fifth by the upper two voices (soprano and alto), while the bass—whose incipit resembles that of the upper two parts and only diverges later—has a subordinate, accompanying role (Example 17a). In the second half, the new fifth canon is again intoned by the soprano and alto, but with the repeat, the alto enters two quarter-notes ahead in bar 24, and its melody is not a fifth but an octave apart (Example 17b). The regular fifth canon is restored by the entry of the bass, but the alto merely has a harmonic, auxiliary role in the three-part structure. This motet is the most evocative of the Palestrina style of any of Kodály’s choral works. Its rhythmic equilibrium, use of whole notes, half-notes, and quarter-notes, imitation-based structure, and progression in leaps of a second are all reminiscent of the Roman composer. Yet there are unorthodox solutions as well; where Kodály moves to a dissonance on an accent (third quarter-note in bar 2 and third quarternote in bar 9), the melody involves broken triads (bars 5–6 in the soprano, 6–7 in the alto, 19–20 in the soprano, 21–22 in the alto, 26–27 in the alto, 27–28 in the alto, and 30–31 in the bass). Furthermore, the work’s songlike character, achieved by the soprano voice’s unbroken A–Avar–B–B melodic structure and its dominance, is out of keeping with the Palestrina style.

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Chapter 12 example 17a, b . Pange lingua, bars 1–3 and 24–26, © 1931 Universal Edition © Copyright assigned 1952, 1958 to Universal Edition (London) Ltd., London / UE 17146.

The first half of the “Reád emlékezvén” (Remembering you) section of the 1938 Ének Szent István királyhoz (Hymn to King Saint Stephen) (Example 18) is also evocative of Palestrina. Here the folk hymn cantus firmus is sung by the bass. The other three parts enter by imitating the melody but depart from its progression as early as the following bars, while remaining close in rhythmic form and scheme. The two types of rhythmic formula (quarter-note and half-note) follow the principle of stepwise motion and use of prepared and passing dissonances, which all contribute to the Palestrina feel.19 But Kodály departs from this at several points: the bass cantus firmus evolves in a songlike manner, a feature that rules out any Palestrina-style imitation-based motet. Perhaps the songlike character of Kodály’s counterpoint choruses spurred two studies of the features of Kodály’s counterpoint—by Lajos Bárdos and Mihály Ittzés—to analyze his two-part vocal exercises (1941–66) rather than his choruses.20 Bárdos’s attempt at classification sought primarily to isolate sections of free and bound counterpoint, dividing the latter into two subgroups: (1) counterpoint fabrics containing no imitation and (2) actual imitation. Ittzés, on the other hand, intended to demonstrate Kodály’s stylistic patterns in the two-part vocal exercises. He believed that Kodály relied in these vocal works on Renaissance, Baroque, and

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example 18 . Ének Szent István királyhoz, bars 24–32, © 1939 Boosey & Hawkes Publishers Ltd.

Romantic models, in addition to his folk inspiration, but not on Viennese Classicism, first due to the essentially homophonic style, which brought nothing new in harmonic terms compared to the Baroque, secondly because it was instrumentally conceived music, and thirdly because in Kodály’s mind it chiefly assumed significance in terms of form.21 Bárdos came across Renaissance antecedents in Bicinia Hungarica, Baroque models in the 15, 55, and 44 two-part vocal exercises (1941, 1954, 1954), both styles in Kodály’s 66 two-part exercises (1962), folk music in the 77 two-part exercises (1967), and Romanticism in the 22 (1965) and 33 (1954) two-part vocal exercises. He saw imitation-based construction, canon technique, chromaticism, and certain specific idioms and types of theme to be part of a Baroque stylistic pattern, while he regarded as Romantic certain typical groups of chords, key relationships, and chromaticism. He could find very few Renaissance antecedents and in fact saw only two music historical references.22 But he differed from Antal Molnár’s interpretation in believing he had found a “harmonic background” in the two-voice texture in Kodály’s vocal exercises.23 Kodály’s writings contain remarkably few references to counterpoint technique. His longest treatment of it occurs in a 1951 lecture, where he compares the theme entries in fugues, i.e., the practice of tonal and real answers, with the features of old-type Hungarian folk songs in which the second two lines of the melody appear a fifth lower than the first two, a structure which is called “fifth-shifting”: Someone who has graduated at the Academy and knows twenty-five fugues by heart may be liable to think that this phenomenon [tonal answer] can be found exclusively in polyphonic fugues. On the other hand, we can see that it has nothing to do with polyphony; it was not polyphony that created it, not polyphony that gave birth to it.

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Chapter 12 It is a principle in the construction of music in one voice and can be demonstrated in various musical literatures—in the Far East and all over the world—that never knew polyphony. It is a principle that wants to maintain melodic unity by, among other things, not jumping with a jolt out of the initial key but by linking smoothly and cautiously the first notes of the tune with those following it and thus creating a closer connection between them. This phenomenon can be found in many of our folk songs. If we inspect all the songs in which there is a fifth relationship—by the second section being either lower or higher—we shall find such “tonal” symptoms at every turn, that is to say divergences from the strict, crude fifth transposition by the use of a fourth here and there, and by the first phrase not exceeding an octave. The octave of the phrases forces this because it is the octave we want to hear. If we go beyond it, the effect offends our ear in certain respects. But there are exceptions, continuations of the tune where the crude fifth transposition asserts itself so rigidly that we are obliged to leap nine notes right after the final note of the first phrase or section . . . . If the ear has become accustomed to a tonal continuation it cannot help finding this sudden jump of a ninth jarring, or at least sharp. It poses a problem from the singing point of view, too, and it is not impossible that in the development of the ancient tonal custom, the fact that tonal answers are generally easier to sing may have played a role. Anyway, we have to acknowledge there are ones like this, too, and that we call them real, as opposed to tonal answers—initial themes transposed literally, in their complete reality. The same can be found in the field of the fugue. There too certain composers in certain periods preferred the real continuation to the tonal one.24

In this way Kodály traces the tonal and real answers in fugues back to folk music’s fifth-shifting mechanism, stressing the primacy of folk music. He also points out that fifth-shifting—whose highlighting of the octave interval corresponds to a tonal answer—occurs more often in Hungarian and related folk music than clearcut fifth transposition, as it is easier to sing. But the passage confirms Molnár’s belief that Kodály’s Hungarian counterpoint draws on folk song potential. This is backed by several hundred pages of notes held at the Kodály Archives in Budapest in the folder marked “Kontrapunkt,” most concerning issues of two-part counterpoint.25 They are thought to derive from before or around the same time as Bicinia Hungarica, but as the notes to Kodály’s counterpoint readings attest, they also served as auxiliary teaching material.26 Apart from notes on his counterpoint readings, the folder contains Kodály’s copies of Renaissance choral works and various compilations of examples illustrating specific technical issues. Kodály chiefly sought irregularities in works of Palestrina and his sixteenth-century contemporaries, notably second inversion triads,27 hidden consecutive fifths and octaves,28 and dissonant cambiata.29 The folder also contains numerous counterpoint exercises, elaborated and sketched.30

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The “Kontrapunkt” folder additionally provides a wealth of information on issues that preoccupied Kodály at the time he was drawing up his concept of Hungarian counterpoint, around the 1930s. The collection reveals he was mainly interested in melodies ripe for arrangement—themes that were monophonic from the outset, and whose composition, as Antal Molnár pointed out, involved no harmonic considerations: “Olyan témákat kell keresni amik minden Kp gondolat nélkül keletkeztek, nem mint a Juon. A korál, a népdal” (Must find themes that were created without c[ounter]p[oint] in mind, not like in Juon. Chorale, folk song), he wrote in one note.31 He accordingly noted down folk songs and folk hymns on a page of counterpoint exercises to be elaborated, while another page has an arrangement of a joke song about Gypsies, the Eccer a cigányok (Once the Gypsies) cantus firmus.32 In any case, Kodály was clearly concerned, when teaching counterpoint, with the harmonic thought behind the contrapuntal fabric.33 He envisaged an ideal of counterpoint that could break loose from the sense of modern harmony: Dilemma: Early technique: certain portions are inseparable from keys, but how could the modern sense of harm[ony] be turned off? Only by ceaselessly pointing out the difference between modern and 16th [century]. 2. Other parts of technique related to rhythm! this is completely ignored system of accents developed in class[ical] music

etc.

that is applied to 16th[-century]

key. His [C. H. Kitson’s] only cryptic remark about consecutives: why is the 16th c[entury] less sensitive to consec[utives]? because accent less marked (page . . . ) 3 voci. Also less sensitive to 6 / 4. Oughtn’t one rather seek a basis for movement technique independent of (modern and 16th [century])? A joint one for both eras? Or study both independently, first modern, then 16th [century?])34

This note raises several important issues. First, it highlights the difference between modern and sixteenth-century harmonic thinking, pointing out that the main distinction lies in the sense of rhythm and meter. That accounts for modern sensitivity to consecutive fifths and octaves, and the change in interpreting the 6 / 4 meter, meaning whether we now understand the 6-time signature to mean twice 3 / 4 or 3 / 2—for, accordingly, the accents will fall on different beats. Secondly, Kodály has an idea for a new “basis for movement technique.” Kodály’s interest in two-part texture was also related to his break with modern, post-Tristan harmonic thinking, so that he often reiterates in his notes that counterpoint textbooks give insufficient attention to two-part music. “The trouble is they do not discuss separately the two-part example of Pal[e]st[rina]. 2-part cases should be dealt with exhaustively,” he opined.35 He defined the Palestrina style as “the style without the seventh ch[ord],”36 and in one note elaborated on this, when listing what he saw as the key attributes of two-part music:

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What is important in 2-p[art] music? Exhaust message by means of 2 p[art]s. Eliminate all elements typical of 4-part music V7. Intervals requiring representation significant then. Perf[ect] 2 p[art]: one not lacking, indeed disturbed by, a 3rd part. . . . two-p[art] thinking to be taken for granted: it infinitely purifies and reinforces entire style. To provide bass line for 2-p[art] Melody, then arrange it in 4 p[arts] and add a second p[art] below (so that 2 p[arts] are left), quite a different matter. 2nd part much more concentrated: includes bass, but missing filler p[art]s need to be added.37

The notes show Kodály’s belief that learning to think in terms of two voices helps to break out of modern harmony and traditional four-part harmonization, and also to purify and reinforce one’s sense of style. Kodály showed how a second part written to a melody—where no harmony is involved in its conception—boasts many more features: not only that of a function-reinforcing bass but all the tasks of the other missing parts. As discussed earlier, Kodály, in his basic essay on Hungarian folk music, compared the melodic line and use of intervals in Palestrina’s style with those of Hungarian folk music and Gregorian chant to show how all classical styles come about only by means of selection.38 He was out to achieve the same in his two-part vocal exercises, i.e., to consciously renounce traditional harmonic means and narrow down his composing scope. He understood the monophonic melody as the basis of two-part counterpoint. Hence he saw counterpoint as part of the theory of melody.39 In another note he argued that sixteenth-century audiences did not distinguish between consonance and dissonance, because they were always following one or other melody rather than listening to the relationship of the two voices.40 Kodály’s discussion of sensitivity to this and to the problem of accents suggests he had an avid interest in triple meter. He mentioned in several notes how counterpoint textbooks failed to devote enough attention to it, even though the accents were differently distributed than in movements in duple meter, so that passing and auxiliary notes would behave differently.41 One note in the manuscript—“But what is the style of today? Is it not a peculiar blend of past and the future?”42—reveals why Kodály studied Palestrina’s style so profoundly. This approach suggests that any musical style is created by mixing old and new elements. This is true for Kodály, too, whose two-part vocal exercises paradigmatically demonstrate how past and future, Renaissance and Baroque counterpoint, Romantic harmony and many types of folk music, meld together artistically. So it can be assumed that the criteria described in Kodály’s notes are applied in the two-part vocal exercises without discrimination, in particular in the Bicinia Hungarica series, which was planned to be his first series of two-part exercises for children in four volumes (1937–42), as they were composed around the time he wrote most of these notes. His later twopart exercises gradually depart from the ideas described in the notes, albeit the

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many pieces in the summary 22, 55, and 66 two-part exercises are related in many ways.43 The characteristics of some pieces in Bicinia Hungarica and the later composed series of Two-Part Vocal Exercises are therefore direct documents of Kodály’s ideas about two-part Hungarian counterpoint, and do not merely demonstrate his interest in music pedagogy. When Mihály Ittzés claimed to have discovered chiefly Baroque models in Kodály’s bicinia,44 suggesting only the Bicinia Hungarica contained Renaissance elements,45 he was pointing to one of the key features of the vocal exercises. There are undoubtedly Baroque features in the themes of the majority of pieces based on imitation—rhythmic richness, characteristic turns, chromaticism, and tunes tending toward a closed major / minor tonality. Such features prevent these short pieces from having anything in common with Palestrina’s style, although a few of the exercises use imitation. The majority are not even long enough to allow for a full point of imitation. Bárdos distinguished between the two types when speaking of free and imitation-based counterpoint.46 Certain features of Palestrina’s style, however, do appear in the four booklets of Bicinia Hungarica (despite the lack of Palestrinastyle pieces) and in the 33 and 66 two-part vocal exercises,47 but it is the 55 two-part vocal exercises that feature the most straightforward stylistic references.48 The folk song-inspired themes allowed more scope for arrangement in a way that approached Palestrina’s style, as they were far removed from the harmonic ideals of Viennese Classicism and more evocative of the diatonic world and church modes of the Renaissance. Indeed, as Kodály maintained, they were linked also to the Palestrina style by their melodic formation and use of intervals. Yet he did not bring folk song or stylistically similar themes into all his two-part vocal exercises. It is Bicinia Hungarica that contains the most folk songs, although imitation of folk songs can be found in the 15, 55, 66, and 77 two-part vocal exercises too, while the 22, 33, and 44 vocal exercises altogether lack a folk song theme. Yet these pieces display the main feature of Hungarian counterpoint as described by Antal Molnár—the way folk song is drawn into the contrapuntal fabric and the fabric created from folk song by parthenogenesis. The folk song themes uniquely adapt to the imitation structure of the two-part vocal exercises. So a distinction can be made between two types of Kodály composition that in many respects resemble one another. In the first, simpler type, devoid of imitation, Kodály distributes the four lines of the folk song or folk song-like tune between the two voices, giving either lines 2 and 3, or the entire second half of the tune, to the second voice.49 In No. 42 of Bicinia Hungarica (Example 19) the first half of the folk song (“Érik a szőlő” [The grapes ripen]) is sung by the higher voice, and the second half, a fifth down, by the lower voice. The melodic division of the melody is facilitated by a shift of a fifth. The melody countering the folk song undoubtedly counterpoints the theme, yet cannot be seen as an equal: it is a complete, closed-structured tune, whose inner directions of movement are set by the features of the folk song.

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example 19 . Bicinia Hungarica, no. 42, © Editio Musica Budapest.

Kodály’s focus was clearly on regular dissonance treatment, but his counterpoint is related only remotely to the stylistic features of Palestrina counterpoint. Dissonance only occurs in the Bicinia in unaccented places on the eighth quaver (bars 1 and 5), the second crotchet (bar 9), and the second quaver (bar 12). The one exception is the D–C interval on the first quaver of the penultimate bar; however, the dissonance here is prepared by the D in the alto, and the soprano too acts as an ornamental auxiliary note. Nor do the melodic characteristics follow the rules set by Jeppesen: the accompanying part contains a sequence (bars 1–4), a broken triad (bar 6), and two consecutive but parallel interval leaps (bars 9–10). No. 46 in Bicinia Hungarica provides an example of the second type of folk song incorporation (Example 20).50 Kodály did not use a folk song here, but a structure and tune evocative of one in its four lines and melodic turns. The second line of the fifth-shifting melody behaves like the comes that follows the tonic-key dux in a fugue; therefore, it also functions as a real response. This is the procedure he refers to in his 1951 lecture quoted earlier, and employed, as the example shows, in his compositions. This eight-bar exercise is an imitation structure insofar as the counter-melody below the second and third lines of melody and above the fourth generally moves counter to the upper voice, and as in Bicinia Hungarica No. 42, adheres fully to the rules of dissonance. But the melodic form—to take Jeppesen’s picture of the Palestrina style literally—is flawed, for after downward second steps it takes a downward third leap, followed by another downward second step (bars 4–5), a broken triad (bars 6–7), and an upward leap of a third after downward second steps.

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example 20 . Bicinia Hungarica, no. 46, © Editio Musica Budapest.

example 21 . 55 Two-Part Exercises, no. 7, © 1954 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

In both exercises the folk song assumes a basic structural role. Its four-line form has a vital influence on the structure of the short pieces, thereby exemplifying how folk song is incorporated into Hungarian counterpoint. The imitation pieces in 55 Two-Part Vocal Exercises that are reminiscent of the Palestrina style make much subtler use of folk songs. Kodály wrote some without bar lines in an effort to give a feel of Renaissance choral practice, but this does not hide the periodicity of the melodies he used.51 In No. 7 (Example 21), the tonal answer in the higher voice responds to the theme intoned in the lower: the two clearly have features of fifthshifting folk songs. Also connected is the brevity of the themes. The six-bar imitation incorporates several times an upward leap of a fifth and an ensuing downward scale: first in the

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tonal response of the higher voice, where the fourth turns into a fifth, and then at the start of bar 5, where it recurs in the lower voice beginning on A, and the theme of the tonal answer in the higher voice follows two half-tones later. In the penultimate bar, the fifths-leap theme is intoned by the upper voice in the original key. Thus, in periodically repeating the theme, Kodály followed a practice quite alien to the Palestrina style: a comprehensive thematic scheme was something that came in with Baroque counterpoint. The sections that fall between each intonation of the theme end in a cadence with the two main features in Palestrina’s style: stepwise movement and suspension. The first suspension, at the turn of bars 2 and 3, moves the section forward. Kodály then takes the first 2–3 suspension (A–G–A–F) no further, but after a rest places a G in the higher voice above an F in the lower, and while the lower voice is resolved down normally on an E, the higher voice makes a minor-third leap, and the resulting B flat brings another dissonance with the concurrent E and serves as a resolution. The suspension is only resolved by a subsequent C sharp–A sixth and a D–F third. Yet the delay prepared for by the next scale movement follows the traditional Renaissance formula. The B–A / B–G sharp suspension at the turn of bars 4 and 5 could qualify for Jeppesen’s collection of examples. The features of the Palestrina style are also evident in No. 4 of 55 Two-Part Vocal Exercises (Example 22), but here the contrapuntal construction does not involve imitation. The piece is not unlike the inner section of a lengthier imitation motet, and contrary motions alone play an important role. Unlike No. 7, the piece eschews suspension and scale movement predominates, making it comparable to Palestrina’s style. Even so, the exercise has many more irregularities, such as a surprising D sharp in the lower voice. This is odd because a D is heard before and shortly after the note occurs, highlighting its strangeness. Another non-Renaissance solution comes in the lower voice at the end of the piece, where the tune leaps from G sharp to C. The diminished fourth was unknown in that era. Here the G sharp–C interval sounds at the same time for the length of a quarter-tone. Even from those pieces most evocative of Palestrina’s style, it is clear that Kodály’s prime objective was not to revive Renaissance music. He brought up compositional problems possibly typical also of Renaissance music, and dedicated these short pieces to considering them. They are undeniably exercises in composing technique. Such exploration of the technique of suspension comes in No. 22 of 66 Two-Part Vocal Exercises, where the 25-bar piece contains four longer passages of suspension, all with a similar structure. The tune in both voices is determined by downward leaps of a fifth and upward leaps of a fourth, but the leap in one voice always occurs in a complementary manner, when the other voice is stationary. There is always a dissonance on the first beat, the most accented part of the bar, but Kodály prepares one of the notes

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example 22 . 55 Two-Part Exercises, no. 4, © 1954 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

in the dissonance by placing the identical note in the previous bar. The dissonance is resolved on the second beat. This type of suspension is evocative of Palestrina’s style but differs from it—and this is what makes it an exercise—in that it is repeated too often, causing it to sound like a sequence. That Kodály saw triple meter as a major technical challenge is shown by the way Bicinia Hungarica and the seven series of Two-Part Vocal Exercises contain a total of 58 pieces in triple time. Bicinia Hungarica, the earliest such collection, has 32.52 As his notes on counterpoint suggest, Kodály was chiefly interested in triple meter because each of the beats in triple meter had its own distinctive metric weight, and the rules for dissonance treatment were adapted to it. The 3 / 4 meter of No. 101 in Bicinia Hungarica (“Kis kacsa fürdik” [Duckling swimming]) comes in a light, frottola-like character; but despite the distance from the motet genre, the second voice clearly imitates the first.53 Perhaps Kodály applies the rules of dissonance applicable to triple meter in an overly consistent way to give the piece a playful character. Kodály generally puts dissonance on the third beat, initially a fourth or major ninth, later a tritone or minor seventh. Where the third beat is nevertheless consonant, it is usually linked to a fifth or a major or minor sixth. Only the closing note has the perfect consonance of an octave. The second beat, surprisingly, is always consonant. The penultimate bar is exceptional, as the stronger cadence is prepared by a minor seventh on the second beat. The first beat can be dissonant or consonant, but some accented moments stand out, where Kodály achieves dissonance by means of

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a leap. In these cases the counter-melody progresses by step, preparing for the dissonance. The two-part vocal exercises primarily show that the works of Kodály were concerned less with Palestrina’s style than with the thought of creating two-voice music based on monophonic music. His contrapuntal use of folk songs, reinterpretation of tonal and real answers to fugues, and exploration of dissonance treatment and the scope of triple meter served to create a new, specifically Hungarian counterpoint. He intended thereby to create a crystal-clear classical style, and by consciously narrowing down his compositional means offers a counter-example to harmony-based Western music. However, it cannot be denied that Baroque counterpoint played a similarly decisive role in his workshop. The following chapter highlights the importance of the Bachian model in his compositions written around 1940.

13

The Art of Fugue About Kodály’s Concerto

At the end of the 1930s, as Kodály approached the age of sixty, he was faced with the horror of World War II and mounting anti-Semitism, and living under the oppressive cloud of Germany and far-right ideology in Hungary. Although an attempt was made by Hungary to dissociate itself from Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy and choose a third, specifically Hungarian course, no way was found to avoid involvement in the war on Germany’s side. This prompted Kodály, time and again, to express his conflicted views toward his home country—anxious for the nation, encouraging action for the oppressed, defending the Jewish community in the texts of his choral works, while at the same time producing orchestral works aimed at the international concert scene. It has been seen that the Peacock Variations, still played frequently today, arose out of a sociopolitical statement, while the Concerto (1939–40), composed about the same time for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Frederick Stock, but hardly ever heard today, was designed to summarize his composing techniques and poetic thinking. This pair of works together is intended to show what Kodály thought of his country at the beginning of the 1940s, while outlining the main features of his life’s work. The Concerto is also evidence of Kodály’s interest in Bach, an interest that earlier appeared in such transcriptions as the Three Choral Preludes for Cello and Piano (1924). Kodály had been engaged with the genre of transcription throughout his life, and with Bach sources specifically in his later years when preparing Bach’s Fantasia chromatica for viola solo (1950) and reworking the Prelude and Fugue in E flat major from Wohltemperiertes Klavier I for cello and piano (1951) and a lute prelude (BWV 999) for violin and piano (1959). His Sonata for Solo Cello (op. 8, 1915) also demonstrates his connectedness to Bach’s solo works. Kodály’s respect 167

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for the techniques of Baroque counterpoint can be confirmed not only in the fugal parts of Te Deum of Budavár but also in the contrapuntal section of his motet Jézus és a kufárok (Jesus and the traders, 1934), in which he uses a fugue based on a whip motif to depict the scene in which Jesus drives out the merchants and money changers from the Temple in Jerusalem. Some ornate cadences in other choral compositions, such as the “Amen” sections of Szép könyörgés (Beseeching, 1943) and Zrínyi szózata (Zrínyi’s appeal, 1954), also indicate his commitment to Bach’s contrapuntal thinking. The Concerto goes beyond these examples, however, revealing the complexity of Kodály’s thoughts on the role of using Baroque-style elements and techniques in his works. The problem, so to speak, that Kodály’s Concerto poses has been analyzed in various ways. Ferenc Bónis saw it as combining specifically Baroque rhythmic and contrapuntal treatment with ostensibly ancestral Hungarian pentatony and the symphonic dramaturgy of Franz Liszt.1 About the same time, János Kovács suggested it combined folk music, old Hungarian dance music, and verbunkos, the traditional historical instrumental music of Hungary.2 János Breuer saw it as “Hungarian peasant Baroque,” and János Weissmann as a combination of Classical and Baroque principles: the former revealed itself in “unity” and “balance,” while the latter contributed a “contrast of opposite elements” and “dynamism.”3 Also manifold are the formal interpretations of the work. Walter Kolneder defined the Concerto as a classical rondo, distinguishing it categorically from any authentic Baroque ritornello principle.4 His schematic description A–B–A–C–A–B–A is not in fact accurate. He ignored the changes in thematic figures, the thematic functions, and most significantly, the all-embracing counterpoint. Bónis referred to two different thematic blocks or movements: the first a “concerto form” and the second a Chaconne, with the third part of the work recalling both movements as a kind of reprise.5 The analyses of Weissmann, Kovács, and Breuer demonstrate the complexity of the form more clearly. Weissmann identified five sections by changes of tempi. The first, fast section (Allegro risoluto, bars 1–131) he described as a ternary form (A–B– Avar), followed by a slow, “Passacaglia-like” Largo (bars 132–258). Thereafter, the fast section, containing the development and the reprise, resumes (Tempo primo, bars 259–426). The second appearance of the Allegro risoluto is interrupted by a reprise of the slow section (bars 427–456), which then is followed by a third fast section, the coda (bars 457–490), thematically related to the first two.6 Like Weissmann, János Kovács enumerated five formal sections but reached slightly different conclusions. He recognized the first fast section as an exposition consisting of a main and a secondary theme (bars 1–36 and 37–85), followed by a transition (bars 86–131). This transition sets the scene for the slow section, a “Trio,”

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as he called it (bars 132–258). Kovács saw the second fast section as consisting of four parts: another transition (bars 259–272), which prepares for the reprise of the main theme (bars 273–362), then the secondary theme (bars 363–401), and a transition to the coda (bars 402–426). In his opinion, the fast sections constitute a sonata form without development. The coda, in this interpretation, contains two different sections: the first recalling the trio (bars 227–456) and the second the main theme (bars 457–490).7 János Breuer saw different boundaries to the sonata-form sections. While agreeing with Kovács about the main and secondary themes, he interpreted the closing part of the first Allegro risoluto as a development, not a transition. That second fast section appeared to be a “real” reprise with a bridging passage, a main and a secondary theme, while the third fast section (second Tempo primo) functioned as a coda. Breuer also tried to explain the form of the two inserted Largos, defining the first as a theme with twelve variations and the second Largo as its continuation.8 The problems with these analyses mostly concern the reprise. Of course the formal section beginning at bar 273 can be taken as a double return, as the principal key and main theme reappear together here. But it is notable that the main theme begins in another register, not in high pitches, but rising up from lower notes. Furthermore, the continuation of the main theme departs radically from the exposition by running into a fugue. This fugal treatment is more characteristic of a development section. So the double return at this point in the work seems to be a disguised reprise. The only definitive return is of the secondary theme (bar 363), following an elaborate preparation by the pedal points on G and F sharp in bars 347–362. Structurally the second theme in the reprise is almost identical to its counterpart. The bar lengths of the first two sections of the tripartite second theme correspond to each other (13 + 10 bars), and only the third part of the second theme is extended in the reprise (34 bars instead of 22). Furthermore, the disguised reprise introduces a new theme (bar 306), a fact overlooked in the analyses discussed so far. Such an introduction in a reprise is unusual, but can be consistent with a development section. So the structure of the Allegro risoluto is best taken as a sonata form in which the development begins right after the end of the second theme in the first fast section (from bar 82) and continues into the second fast section, up until the marked return of the second theme. The third fast section, a kind of coda, supplies the structural events that failed to appear at their required moments due to the disguised reprise in bar 273. The main theme finally returns with perfect clarity in bar 478. Manuscript sources suggest that these two elements—the fugue and the new theme—held special importance for the composer. In the many surviving drafts of the disguised reprise,9 Kodály refers to this generally as a fuga (fugue).10 Two of the

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facsimile 8 . Sketch for the Concerto (1939–40), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus.

271 / b, 9v.

formal plans outlined indicate he wanted to construct the work around this fugue, in line with his general composing process, but in neither did he see it as part of the reprise. The first formal plan (Facsimile 8) was probably written quite early in the composing process, as the bar numbers (100–50–100–50) that Kodály noted down as possible proportions for the sections are too inflexible and were altered in the final version. The bar lengths of the five sections (131–127–168–30–34) produce a sense of compression or foreshortening. Although those of the second and third fast sections are longer than the preceding slow ones, the tempo change makes them seem shorter. The top line of Kodály’s plan (“fuga végén unis[ono] vagy Fug[a]—II Téma” [at the end of the fugue unison or Fugue—2nd theme]), however, shows a degree of uncertainty. At this stage Kodály was not sure how to continue the fugue. Finally, in the finished piece, he chose the second version: the fugue followed by the secondary theme. Yet Kodály’s plan contains references that are hard to explain: his hint about the rondo that was to follow the reprise (“rep[ríz] 50 rondó” [recapitulation 50 Rondo]) might indicate an intention to combine the fugue section and the sonata form with a rondo. As Kolneder’s analysis, mentioned earlier, shows, the rondo principle, if only in the alternation of fast and slow sections, is still discernible in the A–B–A–B–A form of the Concerto.11 On the other hand, the “Rondo” could also be Kodály’s reference to the main theme, which functions like a rondo theme. In that case the first plan had already reflected the final order of the sections very closely—albeit without the second Largo—with the main, rondo-like theme reappearing after the fugue and the reprise of the second theme. Even though the second formal plan (Facsimile 9) relates only to the fugue and what follows, it matches the final version more than the first. Here Kodály designated the slow Largo section as “Adagio,” which appears twice in the outline, first after the section Kodály termed exposition (“expoz”) and then before the coda after the secondary theme, where Kodály called it a development (“Dfg.”, i.e., Durchführung).12 This second appearance contains only a passage from the Adagio (“Adagio részlet” [a passage from Adagio]). The plan suggests he wanted to combine the fugue and some passages from the development (“Dfg. részletek” [Dfg.

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facsimile 9 . Sketch for the Concerto (1939–40), Kodály Archives Budapest, Ms. mus.

271 / b, 16v.

parts]), and follow this section after the first Adagio with the second theme. The closing part of the plan—the second theme, second slow section, and fast coda— corresponds exactly to the final version. Both plans, and the final version of the Concerto, reveal that Kodály’s aim was to combine different formal principles within a composition. It is also clear that he intended to give a significant role to the fugue, which in itself represents another type of combination procedure: the pairing of different themes. So fugal writing and contrapuntal development technique are intricately linked in his creative concept, and in this very section he puts the combination of themes at the center of interest, as one of the major sections of the work. Of equal importance is the appearance in the fugue of a new theme derived from a lullaby composed almost forty years earlier by his wife, Emma.13 The main motif of Emma’s Wiegenlied is hardly recognizable: similarly to the transformation of the Debussy motif in his early piano piece, Méditation, Kodály selects only five notes and transforms them completely by transposition, diminution, and a change of meter. This is not the only instance of Kodály quoting a piece by Emma. In 1909, as we have seen, he inserted a variation of hers in the last movement of his First String Quartet, and in 1918 inserted a waltz of hers in the song “Várj meg, madaram” (Stay, sweet bird, op. 14, no. 3), thus reiterating symbolically Emma’s significance in his artistic and personal life.14 Such thematic combinations, and this biographically significant new theme in particular, play a prominent role. They provide the basis on which counterpoint comes to dominate. There are two types of themes: pentatonic and diatonic. The main theme is pentatonic, with the addition of one note that creates a semitone (in this case: c–d–e–f–g–a). The second theme, which surprisingly appears first in bar 5 of the main theme as a kind of counterpoint, rests on a diatonic hexachord scale (a–B natural–c–d–e–f). It includes four of the five pentatonic notes, but it has two

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semitones.15 These two scales together yield a heptatonic one that can be construed as a natural A minor scale without a raised sixth and seventh degree (a–B natural– c–d–e–f–g), or as a C major (c–d–e–f–g–a–B natural) scale. This picture is misleading, however. The composition (and first main-theme appearance) seems rather to be in a “D” that is somewhere around the D minor–D Dorian tonality. The themes of the fast sections show some remarkable interrelationships. In the Allegro risoluto there are eighteen different themes or motifs, divisible into various groups (Example 23). The quasi-pentatonic main theme is the prototype. It has three basic features: the perfect fifth and two different rhythmic figures, one beginning in the first bar and ending on the accented beat of the second, and one starting with a sixteenth-note figure on the second eighth note of the second bar. One or another of these three basic features is inherited, as it were, by some of the new themes, as relations between themes 1, 8, 9, and 10 show, or paired with other features that are also passed on. Thus themes such as nos. 8, 9, and 10 emerge from no. 1, no. 3 from nos. 8 and 9, and so on. Even Emma’s new theme is deducible from others: its relation to the scalar “family” of the secondary theme is as clear as the fact that the trill-like figure on the second and third beat of the first bar, repeated on the first two beats of the second, derives from nos. 3, 6, and 10. These eighteen themes can be arranged in a sort of family tree, which shows that a given melody not only displays important features of directly preceding ones but also traits of more distant relatives, just as a nephew carries the features of a paternal aunt as well as a maternal uncle. For example, when doubling the scale in fourths, theme 16 in fact links the scale of the second with the accented fourth of the first. This kind of family tree echoes Kodály’s method of folk song classification, in which each so-called melodic family is headed by an ideal, classic form of the folk song, and yet the family or type itself embraces different songs, all recalling the classic form despite strong variability. Such variability, Kodály believed, documents the processes of music history.16 That this “melodic family”—classic form and variability—was how Kodály thought of the thematic construction of the piece can be seen in a sketch of motivic ideas, where he sketched a remote, syncopated version of the main theme and composed four variations on it.17 Writing about Peacock Variations, composed at the same time as the Concerto, he related the variation principle to folk music: “Variation is the most natural development of folk music, for folk music itself is nothing but an endless series of melodies developing from each other and changing from one to the other in imperceptible transitions.”18 The themes in the fast sections of the Concerto exemplify such variability, molding the music, as it were, into a living organism. Apart from the variety of the themes, it is their combination that forms the Allegro risoluto parts into an organic unit. The fugue example has shown Kodály’s overriding interest in counterpoint, and how he viewed the similarity between the

example 23 . The eighteen themes of the Concerto, © 1958 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

1. 2. 3.

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fugue and the contrapuntally conceived development section. This explains why, before embarking on the work, he analyzed and copied themes from many Baroque concertos by Vivaldi, Handel, and Bach, in which he studied almost exclusively their entries, the tonal and real responses, or the combination of two or three themes.19 Examples of blending two themes are already present at various points in the Concerto, but a combination of three appears only in the fugue.20 The theme entries and combinations recall, however, ideas that Kodály had in parallel with the composition of the Concerto, in the second half of the 1930s, and that can be found in Bicinia Hungarica, which displays the development of counterpoint in two parts. The link is so close that the twelfth of the fifteen two-part vocal exercises actually rests on a Vivaldi melody. The Concerto’s Baroque-style counterpoint and the two-part vocal exercises follow the concept of Hungarian counterpoint, and present the many sides of Kodály’s attraction to counterpoint, in terms of the compositional technique and ideological motivation. Numerous tabular drafts among the Concerto sketches show several countersubjects added to the main theme.21 Folio 15r of Ms. mus. 271 / b has a set of counter-melodies (Example 24). Only one (no. 3) of the sixteen melodies finds its way into the final version, as theme 3. It is clear that at this point in the composition process Kodály knew only that he wanted to use a kind of scalar counterpoint but was still unsure of its precise form, as the figures of nos. 2, 15, and 16 demonstrate. In addition, there are several other rhythmic schemes in the sketch that eventually set the rhythmic pattern of the final version. Counter-subject no. 11 includes the major rhythmic feature of the main theme: an eighth note and two sixteenth notes followed by a series of eighth notes. Only a rhythmic gesture remains of many counter-subjects in the finished work, such as the figure of six sixteenth notes beginning always on an upbeat (nos. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. 9, 10, 11), which eventually occurs in bars 62–68 in the clarinet. Counter-subject no. 15, with four sixteenth notes on the downbeat, prepares for bars 16–24 of the Concerto. The syncopated passages appear in the sketch only as figures of retardation, as in no. 14, whose opening is the same as in theme 2, but the continuation takes a different course.22 Variation principle and counterpoint also dominate the two Largo sections, but the theme—notwithstanding claims to the contrary by Weissmann and Kovács— shows no motivic link to the main theme.23 Weissmann and Bónis mark the slow section “Passacaglia”24 or “Chaconne.”25 Both terms are problematic, as the theme does not play a bass-theme or harmonic-scheme role, but that of a cantus firmus. It occurs each time in different instruments and in different parts, but it is what happens around the cantus firmus that constitutes the variation. Breuer called the Largo section “Aria con variazioni,” unaware that Kodály had called it “Aria” in his sketches.26 Despite the even half-notes, the “Aria” melody is closely tied to Hungarian folk song in its typical four-line A–B–C–D structure. Indeed, it is similar in its constructions to a specific melodic type of the new style,

example 24 . Concerto, set of counter-melodies, Ms. mus. 271 / b, 15r (diplomatic transcription) © 1958 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd. œ œ œ œ. œ. œ. & œ œ # œ # œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ. œ œ œ ? œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ œœœ œ œ œ

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which Kodály saw as following Western models.27 The first line opens in the deeper registers, while the second jumps almost an octave higher. The third line mediates between the extremes and leads to a final fourth line that draws on the tone set of the first.28 It differs from indigenous folk songs only in its use of intervals, its rhythmic features, and the 3 / 2 meter. Breuer distinguished twelve variations in the first Largo, in line with the twelve appearances of the cantus firmus melody.29 In fact the Largo can be split into four parts, corresponding to four variations. After the theme—the first appearance of the melody of the first variation, with long note values (melodies 2–5 in bars 132– 173)—a variation arrives in stile antico counterpoint. In the second variation (melodies 6–9 in bars 174–218), the “Aria” melody moves in long note values while the accompanying counterpoint surrounds it with faster motion. The choral-like third variation (melody 10 in bars 219–239) consists of chords that move with the melody, while the fourth variation (melodies 11–12, bars 240–258) develops from the third, its trills and harp accompaniment transforming it into an impressionistic version. The second Largo continues the variations but shows a closer relation to the third and fourth variations of the first Largo. What chiefly links them is the marked presence of the harp, but also discernible is the nineteenth-century Hungarian idiom that marks the closing sections of both Largos (bars 256–257 and 453–456). This reference first appears in the improvisatory passage played first by the piccolo and then by the oboe and flute, producing a sound reminiscent of the Hungarian folk pipe. This improvising structure evokes not only the slow passages of Hungarian verbunkos—imitated by Liszt in his Hungarian Rhapsodies, for instance—but also a type of Hungarian instrumental folk music that Kodály found on his collecting tours.30 The impressionistic, Hungarian idioms of these passages play a crucial role in the Concerto, as both have a distinct semantic function in Kodály’s œuvre. Breuer compared the first to the episode in Psalmus Hungaricus, where the words “Te azért lelkem” (Therefore, my soul; rehearsal number 28–30), speaking of the mercy of God, are accompanied by an arpeggio-like harp figure.31 This tone is always linked with the voice of God in Kodály’s creative thinking. By coincidence, Kodály seems to have borrowed the other Hungarian idiom, that of the Largo passages, from his singspiel Háry János (nos. 2, 8, and 30), where it is heard in the accompaniment to the folk song “Tiszán innen, Dunán túl” (Tisza this side, Danube that), which evokes a native-land image three times. Apart from the importance of counterpoint there are several characteristic topoi and stylistic features that tighten the connection between Kodály’s composition and the Baroque concerto. For example, the interlude for winds in bars 9–11 contains harmonic filling typical of Baroque textures. Bars 19–20 contain a descending bass sequence, with a magnified, trill-like pedal point in the upper voices. Another typically Baroque reference comes in the chromatic sequence of

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bars 189–190 in the Arioso melody. For two bars the sequence is tonally quite clear, while its later appearances in bars 200–204 and 214–216 are veiled in alien chromatic tones. In fact all the Baroque topoi undergo the same defamiliarizing treatment: the straightforward Baroque formulae do not return after the first exposition or the first Largo. In addition there is a covert quotation in the Concerto, hitherto unnoticed, although it develops quite logically from the musical process. In bars 209–210, Kodály quotes bars 22–23 of the opening chorus of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, albeit with slight alterations: rhythmically augmented, accented beats shifted, and meter modified—Kodály uses 3 / 2 time instead of 12 / 8. The quotation rises clearly from the musical texture for a brief moment, but disappears quickly into the flow of music, never to return. When Weissmann spoke of a combination of Baroque and Classical elements in the Concerto, he broached, perhaps unintentionally, the matter of style. Whether seen in personal, national, or historical terms, style became a defining issue for twentieth-century composers. The problem manifests itself most pointedly in neoclassicism, a trend that explicitly reveals the composer’s attitude toward styles. The question of style and the history of style duly became central to Kodály’s musical and scholarly activity, exemplified, for instance, in his interest in Palestrina counterpoint and Jeppesen’s work. His studies in Hungarian folk music were mainly concerned with what he saw as its historical layers, yet his biographers have never explored the intellectual sources of this interest.32 What likely lay behind Kodály’s concept of various historical styles in Hungarian folk music were the ideas of the German art historian Heinrich Wölfflin (1864–1945). During some months in Berlin in 1906, Kodály attended lectures by Wölfflin, who was working at the time on his chef d’œuvre, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe (Principles of art history),33 while in the same year preparing the second edition of his first book, Renaissance und Baroque, written twenty years earlier, which had expounded upon the foundations of his approach.34 Kodály mentioned Wölfflin’s name only once in his writings. In a 1956 lecture entitled “Ki az igazi zeneértő?” (Who is a real expert in music?) he set forth his view that publishing numerous books on music offered no real evidence of an understanding of it, as an understanding of music simply could not be put into words. He referred to Wölfflin as a kind of counter-example with respect to the visual arts: Since music is such a sui generis manifestation of the human spirit, it cannot be translated into another language. Music is not able to express logical concepts, for which reason human language, which is based on logic, tries vainly to comprehend music’s content and substance . . . .

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Chapter 13 This is not so in the fine arts. Long ago I attended the lectures on the history of art by Wölfflin, at Berlin University. It was marvelous how he could, in a few dry words and a continual flow of slides, open one’s eyes, and arouse enthusiasm in wholly dispassionate words.35

Kodály refers here to a typical side of Wölfflin’s books: even today’s readers notice his vivid descriptions of artwork, which really do “open one’s eyes,” as he puts it. Although Kodály tended to think music could not be verbalized, he did not mention another possibility: that some artwork features of a historical style might apply to music, so that his ideas of Baroque in music could still have been learned through Wölfflin. Wölfflin in his Grundbegriffe posits opposite principles: linearity vs. tableau, closed vs. open form, brightness vs. darkness. The first in each pair refers to Renaissance, the second to Baroque. He also describes the principles that imply Baroque as Wölfflin conceptualized it: monumentality, movement, new forms in the making, and boundlessness.36 He considered foreshortening to be its most vivid feature:37 a Baroque artist frequently used perspective, making shapes in the foreground bigger and more striking than those in the background, as in Hobbema’s Avenue at Middelharnis, a paradigmatic painting for Wölfflin’s theory, depicting a road leading away from the viewer.38 Another feature of Baroque art that he singled out was shade, the way light emerged in a work of art.39 A third was the permeation of hidden motifs.40 These determining Baroque features of Wölfflin’s also appear in Kodály’s Concerto. The foreshortening principle comes in the diminishing duration of sections. The constant movement is manifested through counterpoint and variation of the themes. Forms, such as sonata form, unfold before our eyes, and the boundaries between sections are unclear. The lucid tonality that marks these instances of Baroque in the Allegro risoluto and first Largo sections emerge like light from darkness, with Kodály’s quotations as hidden motifs. While working on the Concerto in 1939, Kodály also wrote two essays: “Mi a magyar a zenében?” (What is Hungarian in music?) and “Magyarság a zenében” (Hungarianness in music), both of which explore the ways in which Hungarian character is manifested in a work of art.41 Wölfflin too had been interested in the national character of art.42 His Grundbegriffe sharply distinguishes between the peculiarities of the Italian and German creative spirits. He linked the former with the Renaissance and the latter with the Baroque. Both of Kodály’s articles suggest that he reexamined Wölfflin’s theory as he worked on the Concerto.43 He speaks repeatedly of the Latin / German duality of Western culture, and emphasizes that Hungarian culture has stayed nearer to the former, while pointing out that Hungarian culture only acknowledged those Germans—Bach, Beethoven, Schütz, and Brahms—who followed “the Latin culture of form.”44

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Of course this classification had its political dimensions in 1939, the year when Hitler occupied Poland. Kodály disapproved of the German orientation of Hungarian foreign policy in the 1930s, even though this friendship with Germany brought about an acquisition of territory for Hungary, involving the restoration of some areas lost during the Versailles peace process. While Kodály emphasized strongly the differences between the two nations, his writings in 1939 were not driven by politics alone; his composing workshop was also important, as suggested in his comparison of the features of German and Hungarian melody: German melody almost always begins unaccented, Hungarian never. German melody is built on ascendant thirds; Hungarian descends and is formed around a fourth. German likes to extend and emphasize the stress with a high note. Hungarian never extends the stressed short syllable and does not consider arriving at the stress with a higher note. . . . German melody is built of tiny motif elements; the Hungarian likes a more extended line. There is no pentatony in German melody, and where there is, it is a borrowed, secondary development. Finally, the German likes to sing at least in two parts; the Hungarian never—pentatony is not even suited to it.45

This description can be applied almost perfectly to the fast sections of the Concerto, where the main theme can be seen as “Hungarian,” the second as “German.” In each case the national characteristics are clear, but the German character of the second is especially obvious, with its unaccented initial ascending melody, its accent on the highest note, and its ternary form of the theme (themes 11 and 13). The Hungarian theme, meanwhile, is made up of descending fourths, remains close to pentatony, and has a melody with a wider range. So the Allegro risoluto of the Concerto rests on a duality of the two melodies. How can this be squared with the phenomenon, already observed, of melodies that evolve from and coalesce into each other? In “Hungarianness in Music” Kodály meditates on the obstacles that blocked the formation of Hungarian polyphony, naming two: Hungary’s isolation from European development, and the incompatibility of Eastern monody with European polyphony. Yet once the connection with Europe is established, he argued, the development will take a new turn: melodic contours will change, rhythms will simplify, melodic lines will become more restricted, and from then on melodic writing will be dependent on harmony. Nevertheless, the evolution of Eastern music into a polyphonic musical language takes place slowly, but surely. It follows the course of European civilization. Initially foreign musicians introduce forms of European musical life; then temporarily, European and traditional musical life follow separate paths. Subsequently, native musicians trained abroad take a leading role in directing a European-like musical life, and finally, some synthesis between the two develops: a new national school of composers comes into being.46

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Here Kodály outlines the phases in the evolution of “national” music in general, but he clearly refers to the stages of Hungarian music history as he conceived them. The keyword in his argument is synthesis, and the Concerto is a paradigmatic example of the concept. The pentatonic and diatonic principles that dominate the fast sections of the Concerto match Kodály’s concepts of the Hungarian and European characters: Kodály, surprisingly, here identifies Europe with Germany. Yet to his mind the two principles synthesize into the whole musical universe. In contrast with his writings of the time, the two principles in the Concerto are not antipodes but are closely connected. They are in fact inextricably entwined, with exchanging melodies as if the two realms were one. This synthesis of Hungarian and European appears even in the “Aria” melody of the Largo section, which quotes a type of Hungarian folk song that Kodály sees as following Western European models. Yet this musical realm also accommodates the composer’s own personal realm, which explains the appearance of the all-encompassing Bach quotation, of the Emma quotation, which from the First String Quartet onward permeates Kodály’s work as a personal motif, of the “Divine Voice,” and of the “Hungarian” idiom that usually designates his native land. Thus Kodály created a stylistic synthesis of various historico-stylistic layers appearing simultaneously. Baroque style, Classical forms, national Romanticism, Impressionism, and new Hungarian music coexist as a base for the work, just as folk music, as he saw it, let different historical styles subsist simultaneously.47 Of them all, however, Baroque has the primary significance, hence the all-embracing counterpoint, the fugue at the center of the work, the numerous Baroque topoi, and the quotation from Bach. Kodály’s prime purpose in the Concerto is certainly not to make up for the lack of Hungarian Baroque music.48 Twentieth-century neo-Baroque music, as Kodály saw it, reflects the whole course of music history. So the Concerto incorporates features of the Classical style, as Weissmann observed,49 and cites elements that evoke other epochs, such as the stile antico variation at the beginning of the Largo, the following chorale variations, and the four-part homophonic chorale leading right up to nineteenth-century Hungarian music and finally Impressionism. Thus the work also reflects Kodály’s concept of folk music, for like folk song, the Concerto spans layers that embrace hundreds of years of music history. The idea of viewing art in terms of stylistic history, which Kodály adopted from Heinrich Wölfflin, can be discerned in every aspect of this composition. The complex web of thematic relations in the Allegro risoluto, the structure of the Largo section, the formal plan, and the variation principle all reflect the idea of a cumulative history of style and of Kodály’s research into Hungarian folk music. Furthermore, Kodály’s music also reflects on Hungarian history and on his own times. The Concerto, like the two prominent studies written at the same time, demonstrates

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clearly the composer’s ideal of establishing a national musical culture on a par in all respects to that of Western Europe as represented by Palestrina, Bach, Brahms, and Debussy. In this regard the Concerto, as did Peacock Variations, represents Zoltán Kodály’s views on music and his opinions about the world around him as the 1940s began.

14

A Symphonic Self-Portrait The Last Years

Kodály’s Symphony, written for the Lucerne Festival Orchestra in 1961, caused a small stir on the Hungarian music scene after its Budapest première. The easing of cultural and political repression a few years after the 1956 Hungarian Revolution allowed the youngest generation of pupils and followers of Kodály—Endre Szervánszky (1911–1977), Rudolf Maros (1917–1982), András Mihály (1917–1993)— to acquaint themselves with musical trends in Western Europe.1 They turned their backs on the dominant Hungarian tradition of the earlier period, in favor of the line taken by Schoenberg, Berg, Webern, and their contemporaries: Pierre Boulez, Luigi Nono, Witold Lutosławski, Krzysztof Penderecki, and Karlheinz Stockhausen.2 Younger musicologists and critics such as György Kroó (1926–1997) and András Pernye (1928–1980) looked to a renewal in Hungarian music, championed representatives of their generation, and opposed the cultural politics of the 1950s and its aesthetic ideology, manifest in the ideals of folklore-based national classicism.3 This was a juncture in music history in which inevitable rejection awaited Kodály’s Symphony, with its demonstrative C major key, melodic focus, and traditional form. This theoretical dismissal was expressed cautiously: Kodály’s authority was too great to risk public attacks on his creative endeavors. Yet revealingly, Kroó, in his comprehensive A magyar zeneszerzés 30 éve (30 years of Hungarian composition), made only passing reference to the work, and by that obvious neglect virtually barred it from the progressive strand of Hungarian musical historiography that was emerging.4 András Pernye, too, in a review of the work’s Budapest première on June 11, 1962, merely noted a few problematic aspects, such as the contrast between 182

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its sketchiness of form and the elaborate detail of certain sections, while rating the whole excessively mechanical.5 He even called slyly for the elderly Kodály to stop composing altogether: Faced with such a manifest, rich world, and with the good fortune to witness this elaborate musical writing of the highest order—perhaps we do not even expect a continuation. We felt the Kodályian idea and composing technique had reached the peak of self-expression.6

Even Kodály’s loyal supporters must have felt perplexed, as confirmed in particular by the defensive tone of László Eősze’s apologetic review and the vindicating expressions in his writings.7 Reactions at the time were similarly defensive: Zoltán Horusitzky, a former pupil of Kodály’s, compared this “true symphony” to the “fashion-conscious ‘shock-effects’ ” and “experimentation” of modern music, and saw the work as the creed of a man who “believes firmly in the beauty of life, the future of humanity, and addresses those who do not dodge from the problems into madness or loneliness, or deny the meaning of life.”8 His interpretation supported the picture of a conservative Kodály, which in his view counted as a merit: the Symphony was seen as being born in conscious rejection of the period’s modernist trends. Abroad the Symphony attracted little attention. After performances in Lucerne and Venice, György Széll conducted it only a couple of times in the United States.9 This neglect left an indelible mark on its written reception. The two volumes of Handbuch der musikalischen Gattungen (Handbook of musical genres) dedicated to the symphony as a genre make no mention of Kodály’s work, while the new Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart (Music in history and the present) cites only its lengthy genesis.10 The “Symphony” entry in the New Grove claims that Kodály’s work was a “feeble essay” surpassed even by Pál Kadosa’s (1903–1983) late expressive symphonies.11 The most congenial analyst, János Breuer, claimed the work “sounds tired and drooping,” especially the third movement, which Breuer believed Kodály had composed in an automatic fashion.12 Of the two outer movements, Breuer conceded, “the Symphony still belongs among Kodály’s most tightly constructed overall forms . . . [even if] construction in many points gains the upper hand over inspiration.”13 He judged the slow movement as the most successful and personal, on a par with other Kodály works.14 His account pays special heed to false quotations, in characteristic Kodályian references, found in the second and outer movements, and based on these, calls the Symphony a “would-be autobiography.”15 This idea of the Symphony is perceptive and rings true in light of Kodály’s decades of fascination with narrative processes. The biographical sides to Kodály’s stage works—Háry János and Székely fonó (The spinning room)—and instrumental

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works become still clearer as the available information expands. The late works, as will be argued here, are increasingly permeated by self-reflection. Between 1945 and 1966 Kodály produced almost sixty compositions in various genres. Most were vocal works, a capella choruses or accompanied choruses for children’s, female, male, and mixed choirs, or singing exercises for children. As Table 10 shows, Kodály’s late works can be classed in four thematic groups. The first reflects everyday politics, being composed either for current political events or out of concern for Hungary’s fate and future. The latter continues a distinctive course in his oeuvre, as we have seen, dating from the 1920s and 1930s. However, the politically oriented group steadily shrank in importance: only two works after 1956 belong to the group. It is worth emphasizing, however, that Kodály—unusually, as he criticized male choruses as a remnant of the nineteenth-century practice of German Männerchöre—used male voices for many of his political choruses, especially those composed around the 1956 Hungarian uprising (Emléksorok Fáy Andrásnak [In András Fáy’s album], A nándori toronyőr [The tower watchman of Nándor]). The most important composition in this category is Zrínyi szózata (Zrínyi’s appeal, 1954), in which Kodály sought to rewrite Psalmus Hungaricus in a neo-Baroque– Romantic revolutionary style. The second thematic group, again reaching back to an earlier period in the 1920s, addresses the young: pieces written for or about children. Kodály had been working continuously on his singing exercises since the second half of the 1930s, but the series (22, 33, 44, 55, 66, 77 two-part exercises, including Tricinia from 1954 as well) were published between 1954 and 1966. The children’s choruses written at that time followed the line he had taken in the 1920s, of evoking children’s plays (Ürgeöntés [The gopher], Házasodik a vakond [The mole’s wedding], Méz, méz, méz [Honey, honey, honey]). A third group represents Kodály’s transcriptions of his own works or those of other composers. Some are simply rewrites or reworkings of existing pieces (the orchestral version of Missa brevis and Organoedia, based on the first version of the Mass), while others turn toward Haydn, Bartók, and, as we have seen, especially Bach (Fantasia cromatica, 1950; Prelude and Fugue in E Flat Minor, 1954; Lute Prelude in C Minor, 1960). The growing number of transcriptions suggests Kodály had to struggle for inspiration after 1945. This is supported by the fact that there were years when he wrote almost nothing (1946, 1949, 1951, 1952, 1957, and 1958). The density of the active periods depicts quite accurately how the aged Kodály’s state of mind was influenced by external and internal factors. The year 1948 brought about a dramatic change in Hungary’s politics, with the communists taking power. Then, in the early 1950s, came a period of extreme despair and hopelessness, in Hungary and in Kodály’s private life. After 1955 Kodály’s creativity was

table 10 Kodály’s compositions between 1945 and 1966 Year 1945 1946 1947

1948

Political

The Hungarian Nation Dirge Geneva Psalm 50 Epigraph La Marseillaise Czinka Panna Honvéd Parade March

Pedagogical/ For Children 24 Canons Children’s Dances Jesus and the Children

1949 1950

1954

Song of Peace Wish for Peace: 1801 Zrínyi’s Appeal

1955

National Song

1956

In András Fáy’s Album The Tower Watchman of Nándor The Arms of Hungary

1957 1958

Missa Brevis

Adoration

Geneva Psalm114

Prelude and Fugue in E" Minor Gavotte 8 Little Duets Orphan Am I The Gopher Epigrams 33, 44, 55 TwoPart Exercises Tricinia Mountain Nights, Movements 2–4

Golden Liberty The Mole’s Wedding Honey, Honey, Honey

Woe Is Me

1959 1960

Personal (Death, Music’s Power)

Kálló Double Dance Fantasia Cromatica

1951 1952 1953

Transcription At the Graves of the Martyrs

Folksongs (5) of the Mountain Cheremiss

Haydn: Rondo Lute Prelude in C Minor

I Will Go Look for Death Media Vita in Morte Sumus (continued)

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Year 1961

Political

1962

1963

Pedagogical/ For Children For the Lads of Harasztos

50 Nursery Rhymes 66 Two-Part Exercises To the Changes in France

Bartók: Songs, op. 15

Personal (Death, Music’s Power) Te Deum of Sándor Sík Come, Holy Ghost Symphony Mountain Nights, Movement 5

An Ode for Music

1964

Fancy

1965

22 Two-Part Exercises To the Singing Youth 77 Two-Part Exercises

1966

Transcription

The Music Makers Epitaphium Joannis Hunyadi Laudes Organi

1967

curbed by Emma’s illness. Her death on November 22, 1958, was followed by a period of depression, an occurrence almost completely absent from Kodály’s earlier path.16 From 1959 a new, fertile period began, especially after his second marriage to the young Sarolta Péczely on December 18, 1959. The fourth group, becoming central after Emma’s death, deals with death, his youth, backward glances at his life, and the redeeming power of music. To this category belong works such as Meghalok, meghalok (Woe is me), I Will Go Look for Death, Media vita in morte sumus (In the midst of life we are in death), Jövel, Szentlélek Úristen (Come, Holy Ghost), Sík Sándor Te Deuma (Te Deum of Sándor Sík), the fifth movement of “Hegyi éjszakák” (Mountain nights), An Ode for Music, and Laudes Organi. This group is clearly the main concern in Kodály’s final creative period. The Symphony, the one work with no text composed in this period, belongs here too.17 It has long been known that the theme and exposition of the Symphony’s first movement were completed in the 1930s, at the same time as the score of the Peacock Variations and the Concerto. Kodály related many times how the theme burst forth from him with great force, prompting him to record it quickly on a ticket while traveling

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home on the subway after a long day at the Academy of Music, and how at home he rapidly outlined the whole exposition.18 Those close to him knew of two completed movements by the 1950s but the slow movement followed only after the passing of his wife Emma in 1958, and it was eventually completed to a commission from the Lucerne Festival Orchestra between 1959 and 1961.19 According to John Weissmann, Kodály’s final excerpt was the introductory section of the third movement.20 The work was first performed on August 16, 1961, in Lucerne in the composer’s presence, under the baton of a former Kodály student, Ferenc Fricsay (1914–1963). Kodály dedicated the Symphony to the memory of Arturo Toscanini, in the following Latin text: “In memoriam Arturo Toscanini. ‘. . . is etenim saepenumero me adhortatus est. . .’.” The words “for he repeatedly encouraged me. . .” were first used by Kodály in the score of Nyári este (Summer evening), which he revised at Toscanini’s request. Their source is Nicolaus Copernicus’s Preface to his groundbreaking De revolutionibus Orbium (1536), and they refer to Tiedemann Giese, Bishop of Kulm, who had often encouraged him to publish his main work. Toscanini too had often spurred Kodály to write instrumental works for him: their association led to the reworking of Nyári este and instrumentation of Dances of Marosszék.21 Kodály frequently recounted the story, almost word for word, of how Toscanini asked him to delve into the symphonic genre: Everybody knows our generation did not write symphonies. We thought the form outdated. Toscanini once mentioned he was looking for a symphony, as he had already performed all there was to perform. I could not suggest any unknown works other than two by Volkmann. He asked me why I could not, why I was reluctant to try writing one myself. We argued: I told him it was an old and dusty genre; he replied that a genre cannot age if it can be filled with new life and original ideas. Then one day, on my way home after teaching, there came the sudden burst of a symphonic idea; I wrote the first bar down on my subway ticket. At home I wrote the whole exposition of the first movement . . . I leave it to others to say whether the genre has aged or not.22

The ostensibly outdated genre had to have special importance to Kodály, yet his words suggest a strange incongruity. On the one hand, he states that he did not complete the Symphony in the 1930s because he thought the genre had become outdated, but on the other, the genre had indeed become an anachronism by 1961, when he eventually finished the work, even though Shostakovich was still writing his series of momentous symphonies. Moreover, Kodály wrote down the key of C major on the title page of the manuscript,23 implying that his choice of an outdated genre and key was a conscious one on his part, even though the work has only three movements and so recalls an earlier tradition than Viennese Classicism— perhaps the overture-symphony of Italian Baroque.24 The second subject of the first movement also seems outmoded (Example 25): the texture, with its ostinato bass, the violas’ weeping motifs, and the undulating clarinet duet clearly echo the

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example 25 . Symphony, first movement, secondary theme, © 1962 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

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symphonic writing of Brahms, who at the start of Kodály’s formal musical training had been his most significant composing model. Eberhard Hüppe and Günter Moseler point out that the symphony form’s legitimacy after World War I rested not on the history of the genre but on its cultural context.25 After World War II, the representatives of new music saw the symphony as a relic of a bygone era with nothing more to say.26 So the symphony assumed symbolic significance for those, such as Hans Werner Henze and Karl Amadeus Hartmann among the younger composers, who wished to dissociate themselves from the Darmstadt-led avant-garde. Indeed, Kodály composed his Symphony in purposeful defiance of the modernist trends of his time. Yet many symphonies were still being composed in the 1950s and 1960s in Britain, by Ralph Vaughan Williams, William Walton, Malcolm Arnold, and Michael Tippett. These reflect awareness of a historical belatedness; their stress is not on modernity but on notable musical significance.27 The telling connection between Kodály’s Symphony and contemporary English practice is confirmed also by historical documents, as Kodály had close ties there through his English publisher, Boosey and Hawkes.28 This may have affected Kodály’s compos-

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ing voice to such a degree that his English biographer Percy Young found some typical English humor in his works.29 Kodály’s own humor is apparent in countless musical and personal records.30 Such evidence for the Symphony in particular is abundant, revealing his amusement at completing his first symphony at the ripe old age of almost eighty. On August 16, 1961, he sent a postcard to the violinist Emil Telmányi (1892–1992) of the Lucerne Kunsthaus: “It is in this Kunsthaus that the young composer’s first attempt at a symphony was heard. If he survives, perhaps further things may be expected of him.”31 The Symphony was also performed at the Venice Biennale on April 19, 1962, under the baton of the Darmstadt adherent Bruno Maderna, with Kodály present. Returning from Italy, he was interviewed in a leading Hungarian arts magazine, Film Színház Muzsika (Film, Theater, Music), summing up his Venice experiences.32 It is one of the few times the composer expressed a view on contemporary new music. He spoke of members of his own generation, Webern, Stravinsky and Malipiero, but also of younger composers, such as Earle Brown, Włodzimierz Kotoński, and Elliott Carter. He distanced himself strongly from Brown’s Available Forms II, while offering a strikingly accurate description of its technique of guided aleatory: Also played at the concert where the Symphony was performed was a work by the American composer Earle Brown. There were two conductors: the composer and Bruno Maderna. Half the orchestra followed one and half the other. The music itself, to some extent improvised, was gradually created during of the performance: the musicians “mixed” the written passages of the composition that the conductors at a given moment saw fit to display. This “new music” is a kind of cocktail. We, the elderly, only drink wine.33

On being asked about meeting representatives of the newest musical trends, he mentioned Luigi Nono: He sat next to me at one of the concerts. A piece by the Polish composer, Kotoński, was played, which I did not care for at all. I said to Nono: “What is this? A bear’s cave from which a bird is supposed to fly out from up high?” Nono, in a very friendly manner, “shielded” me from my own words, saying, “This is surely not the Maestro’s opinion. Perhaps it is only in your country that these works are interpreted this way—this is absolute music.” “That is precisely what I cannot discern in it,” I replied.34

Although his opinion of the avant-garde was decidedly negative, it was clearly important to Kodály that he should be held in respect by famous figures in contemporary music, such as Luigi Nono and Severino Gazzelloni, the latter of whom even commissioned a work from him.35 This explains his emphasis on being called “Maestro” by Nono. It must also be remembered, however, that this was the first international contemporary musical festival in a very long time at which Kodály was able to

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take part; from the 1930s onward he had been cut off entirely from the new music scene.36 The documents suggest that he saw his trip to Venice as a great success. In the interview, Kodály could not resist making negative comments about Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements.37 Although he had sharply criticized Stravinsky’s composing efforts much earlier, the comments here seem to have rather a competitive intent.38 His newborn Symphony in C Major—for very personal reasons, as we shall see—assumed huge significance for him; it was virtually the only work known to have been very close to his heart.39 Some documents attest to his frustration at its unfavorable reception. On March 11, 1964, he wrote to Percy Young about the Bavarian Radio new music broadcasts: Now Kubelik has become chief conductor it is going a little more reasonably. But the self-explanatory essays of the authors are very amusing. If they use some traditional expression, they hurry to excuse it and say it does not have the old meaning. Christóbal Halffter: “Das Wort Sinfonia soll keinerlei Erinnerung am klassische Formen wachrufen” [The word symphony should not awaken any memory of Classical forms], and so on.40

The passage shows concern at the marginalization of traditional composition, and a felt need to justify his decision to write an old-fashioned symphony. This sensitivity is explained psychologically by details in his personal life. On November 22, 1958, he suffered the shock of losing his beloved first wife, Emma.41 A year later, to general surprise, he decided to marry Sarolta Péczely, sixty years his junior, who became his companion in his last years. The young woman joined Kodály at the Lucerne première of the Symphony, its Venice Biennale performance, and its Budapest première.42 He may have wanted to impress his new wife and project to her an image of a successful composer.43 Yet the chagrin and frustration could also have had artistic causes. The two outer movements of the Symphony have much in common, including a discernible sonata framework. The first movement is structurally well-proportioned (exposition: 191 bars, development: 89 bars, reprise: 179 bars). The main theme consists of pentatonic elements that evoke typical melodic turns of Hungarian folk songs. This idealized, imaginary folk song, however, is fragmentary, emerging, and, as it were, unfolding right before our eyes. The closest it comes to being a fully developed melody is in the reprise (bar 283), where it is joined by elements of Hungarian national romanticism and the verbunkos style. Meanwhile the second theme, as we have seen, evokes Brahms. The only part in which Kodály departs from the textbook rules of form is in the marked modulatory passage that dominates both the development and the reprise, and which offsets the well-defined C major tonality of the exposition—at times with a slight Dorian flavor.

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Although the various parts of the third movement are easily discernible, the reprise, at least in its chromaticism and modulations, shows characteristics of a development section. Thematically, it again recalls Hungarian folk song, but the themes are much shorter due to the dancelike character of the movement. Percy Young associates this with the fast sections of a verbunkos.44 Some sections recall Tchaikovsky, especially the Russian folk-song tone of the Fourth Symphony’s closing movement.45 Kodály also uses a typical formula that imitates the Mixolydian cadences of Russian folk songs (bars 23–24). Most conspicuous is the deliberate banality of the reprise: taunting musical effects in 2 / 4 time, already typical of earlier works such as the Marosszéki táncok, Galántai táncok, Peacock Variations, and the Concerto. A sort of leitmotif in both outer movements is the dichotomy between the Symphony’s C major tonality and the extensive chromatic modulations. The closing C major chord in the first movement follows a glissando featuring the notes D flat, E flat / D sharp, F sharp / G flat, A flat / G sharp, B, C, and D. The resolution to C major is prepared by the tension of note B—the augmented sixth chord, used here, is one of Kodály’s typical cadences.46 The same tension of the augmented sixth (D flat / B) brings about the closing cadence of the third movement, with the notes D flat, B, D sharp, F, G, and A flat, so that dissonance and consonance go hand in hand in the cadences. This combination of dissonance and consonance marks longer sections of the work as well. At the end of the first movement reprise come two chromatic progressions pitted against each other: G flat–G–A flat–A–B flat–B and E flat–D–D flat–B–B flat–A. The C is missing from both, which creates tonal ambiguity, so that Kodály leaves the section unresolved at the end of each progression. The reprise of the third movement follows a process diametrically opposed to this: a chromatic bass progression, incidentally a key thematic element in both the exposition and the development, takes the bass to the note G and builds a pedal point on it in bar 426. From bar 429, a C major scale appears on the trumpet (Example 26). The emergence of C major, the fons et origo of tonality, reveals the hidden program of the work. C major tonality appears here as the one reliable, clear event in the sound-world of the modern, “chromatic” era. This interpretation is confirmed by a passage in Media vita in morte sumus, a choral composition written for mixed choir in 1960 in memory of a beloved former pupil of Kodály’s, the Hungarian composer Mátyás Seiber (1905–1960), who had resided in Britain. Here Kodály uses word-painting to convey the text: the composition is dominated by chromatic bass scales and dissonant chords, but in bars 57–58 the soprano voice sings the word “Salvator” (Redeemer) accompanied by a tonic C major chord (G–E–C). In contrast, the C major scale in the third movement of the Symphony does not lead to an apotheosis: Kodály quite

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example 26 . Symphony, third movement, C major scale (bars 429–436), © 1962 Hawkes & Son (London) Ltd.

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consciously avoids an explicitly heroic tone. The C major tonality here has more to do with an idea of triviality, and in relation to it, with self-deprecation, humor, and resignation. It is as if the protagonist of the Symphony, the composer’s projected artistic persona, is aware that the contemporary world—like the miserable life depicted in Media vita—consists of chromaticism but wishes nonetheless to represent, consciously and with conviction, a tonality in the form of the C major key, even if this seems old-fashioned or ridiculous in some way.47 János Breuer attributes what he sees as lack of inspiration in the two outer movements to Kodály’s old age and speaks of the automatism that in his view defined the composing process. Yet he also saw the second movement as one of “Kodály’s most personal pieces of slow music,” elevating it from the general context of the Symphony and suggested it as “a moving farewell” to Emma.48 Breuer listed the recognizable self-quotations as well, and based on them tried to arrive at a program for the movement.49 His interpretation, however, is laden with inconsistencies. We know the slow movement was the last to be completed, and so it is there that Kodály should have displayed signs of fatigue. Moreover, it presents a characteristically Kodályian tone based on composing solutions common to numerous earlier works by the composer.

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The form follows a variation structure. Its theme is a melody recalling the descending four-line structure of one type of Hungarian folk song. The melody appears in three different forms as a cantus firmus, each of the three variants having its own character. The first (bars 39–64) can be associated with Kodály’s distinctive Hungarian idiom, its main feature being a reference to improvisation in instrumental folk music, played here on flute and violin. The theme is swathed by this improvisation figure. The same Hungarian idiom appears in the Adagio, in Háry János (“Tiszán innen, Dunán túl” [Tisza this side, Danube that]), in Peacock Variations, and in the Concerto. The second variation applies Baroque stylistic elements (bar 64–80): the augmented cantus firmus appears in a contrapuntal context. Instrumental counterpoint always appears as a symbol of knowledge and erudition in Kodály’s creative realm. Similar use of it with similar connotations appears, for example, in the slow movements of the Concerto and in the second movement of String Quartet No. 2. For the third variation Kodály takes a third Kodályian topos, the Divine Voice, whose firmest expression is found in Psalmus Hungaricus. The harp arpeggios are here played by flutes while the theme takes a different form. The three versions of the folk song theme seen in the variations suggest the movement is far more than “a moving farewell” to Emma. The second movement is probably not a portrait of Emma at all but a representation of all things associated with her in Kodály’s mind, as if the continually changing folk-song theme symbolized the constant actor in his life (Emma), marked by Kodályian principles such as patriotism, knowledge, and faith, adhered to for many decades.50 The slow movement of the Concerto, though completed twenty years earlier, is imbued with the same principles, as is the variation series in Peacock Variations. So the Symphony, despite its late completion, appears to rest on the same artistic ideals of substance and poetic content as the two great symphonic works of the 1930s, and can even be seen as the third piece in a triptych of Kodályian self-interpretation. That may also explain why the three use the same set of composing tools. Moreover, the three-movement structure recalls the programmatic ideas of the chamber works written during World War I, although such approaches naturally raise the question of whether the Symphony should thus be interpreted within the context of Hungarian composing trends in the 1960s. Such a reading of the slow movement’s poetic and musical content has implications for the interpretation of the entire work, especially if serious thought is given to Breuer’s hypothesis that the Symphony is a fictitious autobiography. Ever since the First String Quartet, Kodály’s works had displayed characteristic narrative processes, presenting certain unspecified events in the life of a protagonist. The Symphony, moreover, is constructed like a Bildungsroman: beginning with the composer’s early career, through his discovery of Hungarian music, his love for Emma, his buildup of knowledge and rediscovery of God, right up to the present

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day. What is curious is that the present, unlike the past, is never idealized or cast in a heroic light, instead revealing its own conflicts with self-irony. All this suggests that the first movement—a folk song theme emerging before our eyes in the exposition, with a Romantic, ethnographically inauthentic appearance in the reprise, coupled with a Brahmsian secondary subject—represents the period in Kodály’s early career when he was searching for a voice, while the third movement portrays the composer’s late creative years gilded by the presence of his young wife. The C major scale marks the main protagonist, grown aged or oldfashioned, as a composer who insists firmly on the old, tonality-based order. Yet Kodály also has a capacity to approach this commitment with self-deprecation, as if fully aware of his obsolescence. So it is not want of inspiration, but familiar Kodályian idioms, that transmit his self-interpretation as a composer. As Percy Young emphasized, the Symphony does not follow a Beethovian path; it says nothing of fate, heroism, the spirit, or God. It is a fundamentally optimistic work devoid of tragedy, evoking instead Shakespearean comedy.51 Young’s diagnosis, in fact, reflects Kodály’s explanatory program notes for the Venice Biennale in 1962: “The work intends to express optimism: the hope for a better future. ‘Clarior est solito post maxima nubila Phoebus’.”52 Despite Kodály’s definition, the Symphony is certainly more than an optimistic credo. It is an unparalleled document in Kodály’s oeuvre. It expresses the old composer’s wish to define his own place within the orbit of new music, and contribute his unique voice to the great musical universe.

Epilogue

The music historian Bence Szabolcsi, looking back on the life’s work of Zoltán Kodály in 1968, a year after his death, considered the work—and the initiatives implicit within it—as too fragmentary to be carried on by others. This put into words a pervasive uncertainty about Kodály among Hungarian musicians at the time. They were perplexed, in that cautiously liberalizing, Westward-looking period after the abortive 1956 revolution, by a monumental course of almost seven decades, in which Kodály had managed to overturn Hungary’s view of its own music, and of the arts in general and the upbringing of children. He had transformed a largely unmusical country into a land of music. Still, there loomed over that success memories of the extreme nationalism of the interwar and wartime period, soon followed by the cultural rule of a Soviet-type regime after 1948. In hindsight, judgments of Kodály’s life’s work were influenced by his relations toward those two regimes, and by the burden felt by many due to the universality of his reputation. For despite its originality, unique richness, and complexity, Kodály’s legacy was regarded by his successors as an immovable weight; the state of Hungarian musical life after his death raised a mounting number of questions about him as the later twentieth century discarded modernity for a postmodern stance of “anything goes.” What could his grateful offspring do with the legacy of Kodály, the “great conservative”? What attitude should composers, folk music researchers, or even music teachers take when faced with the imposing figure of Kodály? What could they make of the worldview emanant from Kodály’s works and writings? As the value attached to the high culture so important to Kodály declined and folk culture disappeared, further problems arose: Hungary’s musicians had few opportunities to transport Kodály’s significance and greatness outside of his and 195

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their country. There were indeed worldwide followers of his concept of musical education, which spread out into a pedagogical branch of its own, yet Kodály as composer and thinker remained largely contained within Hungary’s borders. Despite its quality, his œuvre had always been focused on local or national interests. It also became overshadowed by the expanding reputation of Bartók outside of Hungary, although Kodály and Bartók had shared several of their initial inspirations and each had influenced the other. Nonetheless, Bartók’s ascendancy in the world’s eyes seemed to preclude Kodály’s works from gaining a place of their own in the canon of twentieth-century music. He instead remained Bartók’s littleknown, almost mysterious companion. Indeed, it is the peculiarity in Kodály’s works that is often what most attracts people’s interest in them, at home and abroad. It can hardly be imagined how someone could have accumulated such an extensive knowledge of music and society, and in turn could have approached music and society, past and present, folk culture, and national issues in such an original, ironic, and critical way, and represent certain artistic and ethical principles so consistently over so long a career. Listeners today, just like Kodály’s contemporaries, can enjoy the drama of Psalmus Hungaricus, the freshness of his children’s choruses, the masterly adaptations in his Hungarian Folk Music series, the love scene of Tristan and Isolde in the second movement of the Trio Serenade, the humor of Háry János, and the somber and thoughtful anticipation of death in his late choral works. Despite its nineteenthcentury roots, the life’s work of Zoltán Kodály—his compositions, his writings, and his teachings—awaits worldwide understanding. It stands before us as one of the last exceptional examples of the self-expression of modern freedom.

c hron ol o gy of the li fe of zoltá n kodály

This chronology is based on one that appears in László Eősze’s Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [Chronicle of the life of Zoltán Kodály], Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977. December 16, 1882

Zoltán Kodály is born in Kecskemét.

June 7, 1883

The Kodály family moves to Szob.

November 20, 1885

The Kodály family moves to Galánta (today Galanta, Slovakia).

September 1888

Kodály starts primary school in Galánta.

May 10, 1892

The Kodály family moves to Nagyszombat (today Trnava, Slovakia), where Kodály begins his studies at the Catholic high school, while studying music on his own.

June 1900

Kodály succeeds in entrance examinations to the Royal Academy of Music, Péter Pázmány University, and Eötvös Collegium, all in Budapest.

February 1905

Kodály gives private instruction in composition to Emma Gruber, wife of a wealthy Jewish industrialist, who holds a salon for Hungarian intellectuals.

March 18, 1905

Emma Gruber introduces Kodály to Béla Bartók.

August 1905

Kodály’s first collection trip to Csallóköz (today Žitný ostrov, Slovakia).

August 1906

Kodály’s collection trip in the Zoborvidék district (today Zobor, Slovakia).

February 1906

Kodály finishes his thesis at the university: The Strophic Structure of Hungarian Folk Song. 197

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October 22, 1906

The première of Summer Evening, Kodály’s diploma work at the Academy of Music.

December 1906–July 1907 Kodály’s and Béla Balázs’s trip to Berlin and Paris; Kodály becomes acquainted with Debussy’s music. September 1907

Kodály becomes a professor at the Academy of Music (music theory, later composition).

March 17, 1909

Kodály finishes the cycle Nine Piano Pieces for Emma’s birthday. Concurrently he finishes his op. 1, Énekszó (16 songs on folk poetry), and his op. 2, String Quartet, both dedicated to her.

March 17, 1910

Kodály’s first author’s night (Bartók’s first author’s night takes place two days later).

August 3, 1910

Kodály marries Emma Gruber.

April 15, 1911

The Society of New Hungarian Music is established.

1914

World War I breaks out; Kodály works on his Duo (op. 7) in Zermatt (Switzerland).

1915

Kodály finishes his Solo Sonata for Cello, dedicated to Jenő Kerpely.

1916

Bartók and Kodály collect soldiers’ songs.

March 1917

Kodály publishes a pathbreaking study of the role of pentatony in Hungarian folk music.

February 14, 1919

Kodály is appointed vice director of the Liszt Academy of Music (its director is Ernst von Dohnányi).

March 21, 1919

Under the proclaimed Hungarian Soviet Republic (which lasts only 133 days), Kodály, Bartók, and Dohnányi are appointed members of the Music Directorate.

November 13, 1919

Admiral Miklós Horthy enters Budapest with armed forces and the Soviet republic falls. Jenő Hubay, appointed director of the Academy of Music, initiates legal proceedings against Kodály.

August 26, 1920

Kodály enters into a contract with Universal Edition Wien.

September 16, 1921

Kodály begins to teach after two years’ suspension.

November 19, 1923

Kodály’s chef d’œuvre, Psalmus Hungaricus, is premièred; it is written for the fiftieth anniversary of the formation of Budapest from three towns: Pest, Buda, and Óbuda.

December 1, 1924

A second performance of Psalmus Hungaricus, the first with a children’s choir.

April 2, 1925

Kodály’s first children’s choruses are premièred (Víllő, Túrót eszik a cigány).

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June 17–18, 1926

Performances of Psalmus Hungaricus in Zurich at the festival of the International Society for Contemporary Music.

November 6, 1926

The first performance of the singspiel Háry János at the Budapest Opera.

April 3, 1930

Toscanini performs the reworked Summer Evening in New York.

November 1930

Toscanini performs the Dances of Marosszék in New York.

September 26, 1931

Eugen Szenkar produces Háry János at Cologne Opera.

October 1, 1931

The first issue of the periodical Magyar Kórus (Hungarian Chorus) appears, edited by Kodály pupils Lajos Bárdos, György Kerényi, and Gyula Kertész.

April 24, 1932

The first performance of Székely fonó (The spinning room) at the Budapest Opera.

January 14, 1933

Performance of Székely fonó at the Teatro alla Scala, Milan.

January 1933

The first edition of the periodical Énekszó (Singing Word), edited by Kodály’s pupils.

October 23, 1933

The first performance of Dances of Galánta, conducted by Ernst von Dohnányi.

April 28, 1934

The first concert of the Singing Youth movement, organized by Kodály’s pupils around the music periodicals Magyar Kórus and Énekszó.

May 1936

The first monograph on Kodály appears, written by Antal Molnár.

September 2, 1936

The first performance of Te Deum of Budavár.

July 5, 1937

Kodály is attacked politically in a far-right journal. He and Bartók are accused of demoralizing youth with modernist compositions.

Autumn 1937

The first booklet of Bicinia Hungarica appears.

April 1938

Kodály and Bartók refuse to complete an ancestry questionnaire sent by Universal Edition after Austria’s annexation to Germany. (It intends to drop composers with Jewish ancestry.)

September 1939

World War II breaks out.

November 23, 1939

The première of Kodály’s orchestral Variations on a Hungarian Folk Song, “The Peacock,” is heard in Amsterdam, conducted by Willem Mengelberg.

December 1939

Kodály finishes two influential studies on Hungarian culture and music: What Is Hungarian in Music? and Hungarianness in Music.

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June 28, 1940

Kodály finishes his composition Norwegian Girls for mixed choir, to a poem by Sándor Weöres. It voices solidarity with Norway after the German occupation.

February 6–7, 1941

The première of Kodály’s orchestral Concerto is conducted in Chicago by Frederick Stock. Bartók, having resided in the United States since October 1940, passes the manuscript to the conductor.

April 1941

Hungary enters fully into World War II on Germany’s side. The prime minister, Pál Teleki, commits suicide.

May 1941

The first sight-reading contest in Hungary is initiated by Kodály. He works on Song Collection for Elementary Schools with a pupil, György Kerényi. Meanwhile he finishes manuals on teaching vocal music in primary school: Let Us Sing Correctly, 15 Two-Part Singing Exercises, and Bicinia Hungarica.

January 18, 1942

The National Federation of Hungarian Singing Societies announces that 1942 is a Kodály Year to mark his sixtieth birthday.

July 1942

Kodály retires from the Academy of Music as professor of composition but continues to teach Hungarian folk music.

February 24, 1943

The Hungarian Ethnographical Society publishes a Festschrift to mark Kodály’s sixtieth birthday.

May 11, 1943

Kodály is elected a member of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.

December 20, 1943

Kodály is elected honorary president of the Hungarian Music Pedagogical Society.

June 1944

Before the impending siege of Budapest, Kodály and colleagues pack up the folk music collection at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and hide it in a cellar there.

September 1944

Kodály’s pupil, Jenő Ádám, publishes a methodology book on teaching music, with a preface by Kodály. This methodology is the first syllabus of the system later called the Kodály Method.

December 15, 1944

Kodály and his wife take refuge in a Budapest nunnery.

January 19, 1945

Kodály and his wife are forced to leave the nunnery, but find refuge in the basement of the Budapest Opera.

March 3, 1945

The first performance of Kodály’s Missa brevis is held in the cloakroom of the Budapest Opera.

September 26, 1945

Bartók dies in New York. Kodály moves to Pécs, a city in southern Hungary.

November 19, 1945

On Kodály’s initiation, the music school in Pécs introduces a preschool in music.

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November 29, 1945

Kodály is elected to the legislature.

January 16, 1946

Kodály is elected president of the Arts Council.

February–March 1946

Kodály delivers papers on Bartók (“Béla Bartók, the Man” and “Bartók and Hungarian Youth”).

July 24, 1946

Kodály is elected president of the Hungarian Academy of Science. Its vice president is Nobel Prize winner Albert Szent-Györgyi.

October 28, 1946– February 5, 1947

Kodály’s pays a first visit to America (New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Dallas, Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago).

May 17–June 6, 1947

Kodály, on his first visit to the Soviet Union, meets with Shostakovich, Kabalevsky, and Khachaturian.

March 15, 1948

Kodály receives the new state prize, named after Lajos Kossuth, from the new communist regime. On the same day, the première of his new stage work, Cinka Panna, written to a libretto by a friend from his youth, Béla Balázs, is a fiasco.

May 1948

Kodály receives a proposal from UNESCO to work in Paris for half a year advising on musical matters. He declines the offer.

August–September 1948

Kodály takes part in the Three Choirs Festival at Worcester, England.

October 10–31, 1948

An International Bartók Competition is held in Budapest with Kodály presiding over the jury.

September–October 1949

The communist takeover is complete. The Arts Council ceases and the Academy of Sciences submits to the new system. Kodály, as an anticommunist, tries to recede into the background.

January–February 1950

Kodály’s last visit to a Western country, Britain, for a long time.

January 1951

Kodály spends some time at Galyatető, in the Mátra Hills of northern Hungary. He returns there to relax in subsequent years.

September 1951

A musicology faculty added to the Liszt Academy of Music is headed by a former Kodály pupil, Bence Szabolcsi. Kodály teaches folk music. He becomes president of the committees of musicology and development of languages at the Academy of Sciences.

November 1951

The first volume appears of a vast Hungarian Corpus of Hungarian Folk Music (Children’s songs).

March 15, 1952

Kodály receives the Kossuth Prize for the second time.

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January 1953

Another Festschrift is published, for Kodály’s seventieth birthday, edited by Dénes Bartha and Bence Szabolcsi.

August 23, 1955

Kodály’s wife Emma, seventeen years his senior, is taken to hospital; Kodály moves into the hospital, composing both educational works and his last large-format choral composition, Zrínyi’s Appeal.

December 16, 1955

The première of Zrínyi’s Appeal, which was to become one of the stimuli for the Hungarian Revolution of October 1956.

October 20, 1956

Kodály and his wife travel to Galyatető. They learn of the uprising quite late. Still, he is among those considered by the revolutionaries for the planned post of President of the Republic.

November 4, 1956

Under Soviet pressure, János Kádár becomes prime minister, exacts retribution against those involved in the revolution, but initiates the consolidation of Hungary.

November 11, 1956

The collapse of the revolution.

January 8, 1957

Kodály and his wife return to Budapest.

January 23, 1957

Yehudi Menuhin asks Kodály to write him a concerto for violin.

March 15, 1957

Kodály receives the Kossuth Prize for the third time.

December 1957

A further Festschrift is published for Kodály’s seventy-fifth birthday, edited by Dénes Bartha and Bence Szabolcsi.

November 22, 1957

Kodály’s wife Emma dies.

January 1958

Kodály writes in memory of Emma one of his last choruses, I Will Go Look for Death, to a poem by John Masefield.

December 18, 1959

Kodály marries Sarolta Péczely, a nineteen-year-old student at the Academy of Music and daughter of old friends of his.

May 3, 1960

Kodály becomes an honorary doctor of Oxford University.

December 1, 1960

Kodály suffers a heart attack.

August 16, 1961

The première of Kodály’s Symphony is conducted in Lucerne by Ferenc Fricsay. It is dedicated to the memory of Arturo Toscanini.

April 1962

Kodály and his wife Sarolta take part in the Venice Biennale.

December 1962

Kodály’s pupils write variations on the theme of the last movement of Kodály’s First String Quartet, as a gift for his eightieth birthday.

March 1963

Kodály becomes an honorary member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

December 1963

Kodály pays a second visit to the Soviet Union.

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December 21, 1963

Háry János is performed in Moscow at the Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danchenko Theater.

March 3, 1964

Kodály sends a new piece, The Music Makers: An Ode, to Oxford. It is to mark the seven hundredth anniversary of Merton College, set to a poem by Arthur O’Shaughnessy.

June 26–July 3, 1964

The International Society for Music Education holds a conference in Budapest and indicates its recognition of the Kodály Method of teaching music to young children.

August 17–25, 1964

The International Folk Music Council holds its seventeenth conference in Budapest, with Kodály presiding.

April 30, 1965

Kodály receives the Herder Prize in Vienna.

July 3–September 3, 1965

Kodály pays a second visit to the United States (Hanover, Marlboro).

June 1966

The première in Atlanta of Laudes organi, written for the American Guild of Organists.

July 4, 1966

Kodály visits Canada (Toronto) and the United States (Evanston, Stanford, Ann Arbor, Santa Barbara, Interlochen, New York, Washington).

February 17, 1967

Kodály receives the Gold Medal from Britain’s Royal Philharmonic Society.

March 6, 1967

Kodály dies in Budapest.

notes

I N T R O D U C T IO N

1. Anna Dalos, Forma, harmónia, ellenpont: Vázlatok Kodály Zoltán poétikájához [Form, harmony, counterpoint: Sketches of Zoltán Kodály’s poetics] (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 2007); and Dalos, Kodály és a történelem: Tizenkét tanulmány [Kodály and history: Twelve essays] (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 2015). 2. For bibliographical data see Michael Houlahan and Philip Tacka, eds., Zoltán Kodály: A Guide to Research (London: Routledge, 1998). 3. Zoltán Kodály, “A zenei nevelők Santa Barbara-i konferenciája előtt—Nyilatkozat” [On the Conference of Musical Educators in Santa Barbara—Statement], in Zoltán Kodály, Visszatekintés III: Hátrahagyott írások, beszédek, nyilatkozatok [In retrospect III: Writings, speeches, statements] (hereafter Visszatekintés 3), ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1989), 192. 4. Percy M. Young, Zoltán Kodály: A Hungarian Musician (London: Ernest Benn, 1964). 5. Klaus Aringer, ed., Zoltán Kodálys Kammermusik: Studien zur Wertungsforschung 57 (Wien: Universal Edition, 2015). 6. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990); László Eősze, Zoltán Kodály: His Life in Pictures and Documents, trans. Erika Széll (Budapest: Corvina, 1982); Mihály Ittzés, Zoltán Kodály, in Retrospect: A Hungarian National Composer in the 20th Century on the Border of East and West (Kecskemét: Kodály Institute, 2002); and Dezső Legánÿ and Dénes Legánÿ, eds., Zoltán Kodály Letters: In English, French, German, Italian, Latin (Budapest: Argumentum, 2005). 7. Ferenc Bónis, ed., The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (London: Boosey and Hawkes, 1974). See also Zoltán Kodály, Folk Music of Hungary, trans. Ronald Tempest and Cynthia Jolly (London: Barry and Rockliff, 1960). 8. Judit Frigyesi, Béla Bartók and Turn-of-the-Century Budapest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); David E. Schneider, Bartók, Hungary, and the Renewal of Tradition: 205

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Notes to pages 2–4

Case Studies in the Intersection of Modernity and Nationality (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006); Lynn M. Hooker, Redefining Hungarian Music from Liszt to Bartók (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); and Danielle Fosler-Lussier, Music Divided: Bartók’s Legacy in Cold War Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007). 9. Rachel Beckles Willson, Ligeti, Kurtág, and Hungarian Music during the Cold War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 10. László Somfai, “Bartók 2. vonósnégyese és Kodály ‘útbaigazítása’ ” [Bartók’s String Quartet No. 2 and Kodály’s “orientation”], Magyar Zene 46, no. 2 (May 2008): 167–82. 11. The extent of Kodály’s prestige is clear from an oral-history compilation by Ferenc Bónis, így láttuk Kodályt: Nyolcvan emlékezés [This is how we saw Kodály: Eighty remembrances] (Budapest: Püski, 1994). 12. See Anna Dalos, “ ‘It Is Not a Kodály School, but It Is Hungarian’: A Concept and Its History,” Hungarian Quarterly 48, no. 186 (Summer 2007): 150–51. 13. Dalos, “ ‘It Is Not a Kodály School’,” 151–52. This applies especially to György Kerényi’s manuscript autobiography, where the phrase Imitatio Christi appears repeatedly. See György Kerényi, A tanítvány: Egy élet Kodály mellett, Két kötet [The pupil: A life spent by Kodály’s side, two volumes] (Budapest, n.d.). The manuscript is in the Kodály Archives in Budapest. 14. Szabolcsi introduced this theory in 1926: “Magyar népzene: Kodály Zoltán két székely dalfüzete és gyermekkórusai” [Hungarian folk music: Zoltán Kodály’s two Székely songbooks and children’s choirs], in Bence Szabolcsi, Kodályról és Bartókról, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1987), 57–59. 15. Antal Molnár, Az új zene: A zeneművészet legújabb irányának ismertetése kultúretikai megvilágításban [New music: The introduction to the newest trends in music in a culturalethical light] (Budapest: Révai, [1925]), 36–39, 159, 203; Antal Molnár, Bevezetés a zenekultúrába [Introduction to musical culture] (Budapest: Dante könyvkiadó, [1927]), 96–97, 195; and Antal Molnár, A ma zenéje [Music today] (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1937), 31–32. 16. György Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán és a magyar kórus” [Zoltán Kodály and the Hungarian chorus], Magyar Kórus 2, no. 8 (December 1932): 95. 17. On neoclassicism see Scott Messing, Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg / Stravinsky Polemic (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), as well as Hermann Danuser, ed., Die klassizistische Moderne in der Musik des 20. Jahrhunderts (Winterthur: Amadeus, 1997). 18. Especially János Breuer, “Kodály, a ‘Brahmin’ ” [Kodály the “Brahmin”], Muzsika 40, no. 11 (November 1997): 37–40. 19. Richard Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). 20. Hans Robert Jauss, Aesthetic Experience and Literary Hermeneutics, trans. Michael Shaw (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); and Jauss, Toward an Aesthetic of Reception, trans. Timothy Bahti (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982). 21. Thomas Schäfer, Modellfall Mahler: Kompositorische Rezeption in zeitgenössischer Musik (München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1999); Andreas Meyer, Ensemblelieder in der Nachfolge (1912–1917) von Arnold Schönberg Pierrot lunaire op. 21: Eine Studie über Einfluß und “misreading” (München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 2000); and Simone Hohamaier, Ein zweiter Pfad der Tradition: Kompositorische Bartók-Rezeption (Saarbrücken: Pfau Verlag, 2003).

Notes to pages 4–7

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22. Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973); and Bloom, A Map of Misreading (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975). 23. Richard Taruskin, “Revising Revision,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 46, no. 1 (Spring 1993): 114–38. 24. Edward T. Cone, The Composer’s Voice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 57. 25. István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: Marosszéki táncok—Keletkezéstörténet, források, műhelymunka” [Zoltán Kodály: Dances of Marosszék—A history of genesis, sources, and compositional process], Magyar Zene 24, no. 4 (December 1983): 335–75; and György Kroó, “Kodály: Szerenád, op. 12” [Kodály: Serenade, op. 12], in Erkel Ferencről, Kodály Zoltánról és korukról: Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok [On Ferenc Erkel, Zoltán Kodály, and their age: Essays on the history of Hungarian music], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 2001), 109–27. 26. László Somfai, Béla Bartók: Compositions, Concepts, and Autograph Sources (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). 27. Based on the legacy documents, Vargyas published Kodály’s notes in two volumes. Most notes are memos in which Kodály reflects on what is happening around him in public life, on the musical and political scene, and in his private life; they are considerably fragmented in nature. Translations of these in this book omit the squared brackets and abbreviations used by Vargyas to facilitate comprehension of Kodály’s intent. See Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989); and Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993). 28. Bónis, így láttuk Kodályt [This is how we saw Kodály]. See, among others, the reminiscences of Zoltán Horusitzky, 55; Tibor Polgár, 74; and György Ránki, 108. C HA P T E R 1

1. Bence Szabolcsi, “Kodály és a hegyek” [Kodály and the mountains], in Szabolcsi Bence művei [Bence Szabolcsi’s writings], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1987), 404. 2. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [The chronicle of Zoltán Kodály’s life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 18–19. 3. Ibid., 19. 4. Zoltán Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez” [My path to music], in Visszatekintés 3, 538. 5. Miklós Hadas, “A nemzet prófétája: Kísérlet Kodály pályájának szociológiai érelmezésére” [The nation’s prophet: Essay on the sociological interpretation of Kodály’s career], Szociológia 15, no. 4 (November 1987): 469. 6. Zoltán Kodály, “Emlékek” [Reminiscences], in Visszatekintés 3, 531. 7. Denijs Dille, “Bartók és Kodály első találkozása” [The first meeting of Bartók and Kodály], in Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok Szabolcsi Bence 70. születésnapjára [Studies in Hungarian music history on the 70th birthday of Bence Szabolcsi], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1969), 318–21. 8. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], in Visszatekintés II: Összegyűjtött írások, beszédek, nyilatkozatok [In

208

Notes to pages 7–11

retrospect II: Collected writings, speeches, statements] (hereafter Visszatekintés 2), ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1964), 14–46. 9. Zoltán Kodály, “Mátyusföldi gyűjtés” [The collection from Mátyusföld], in Visszatekintés I: Összegyűjtött írások, beszédek, nyilatkozatok [In retrospect I: Collected writings, speeches, statements] (hereafter Visszatekintés 1), ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1964), 7–13. 10. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyar zene” [Hungarian music], in Visszatekintés 1, 26. 11. Dille, “Bartók és Kodály első találkozása,” 318–19. 12. László Vikárius, “Bartók és Kodály: Egy barátság anatómiája” [Bartók and Kodály: The anatomy of a friendship], Muzsika 50, no. 12 (December 2007): 9. 13. János Demény, “Ady költészetének hatása Bartók és Kodály életművére” [The influence of Ady’s poetry on the œuvres of Bartók and Kodály], in Ady-Kodály emléknapok: Kecskemét 1977. XI. 30–XII. 1 [Ady-Kodály memorial days: Kecskemét, November 30–December 1, 1977], ed. Mihály Ittzés (Kecskemét: Kodály Zoltán Zenepedagógiai Intézet, 1979), 41. 14. Zoltán Kodály, Voyage en Hongrie, ed. Márta Sz. Farkas (Budapest: Múzsák, n.d.). 15. Zoltán Kodály, “Önarckép” [Self-portrait], in Visszatekintés 3, 584. 16. Judit Frigyesi, Béla Bartók and Turn-of-the-Century Budapest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990). 17. Leon Botstein, “Out of Hungary: Bartók, Modernism, and the Cultural Politics of Twentieth-Century Music,” in Bartók and His World, ed. Péter Laki (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995). 18. László Eősze, “A kodályi életmű egysége” [The unity of Kodály’s oeuvre], in Örökségünk Kodály: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály: Our heritage—Selected studies] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000), 165–74. 19. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 76–84. 20. Ibid., 83. 21. Ignác Romsics, “A trianoni békeszerződés” [The Treaty of Trianon], in A Horthykorszak: Válogatott tanulmányok [The Horthy era: Selected writings] (Budapest: Helikon, 2017), 67. 22. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 82–83. 23. Tibor Tallián, Bartók Béla (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 2016), 221–50. 24. Zoltán Kodály, “A székely népdalról” [On Székely folk song], Visszatekintés 1, 18–19. 25. Zoltán Kodály, “Mit akarok a régi székely dalokkal?” [What do I want with the old Székely songs?], Visszatekintés 1, 29–30. 26. Ibid., 29. 27. Gyula Szekfű, ed., Mi a magyar? (Budapest: Magyar Szemle Társaság, 1939). Other contributors included Mihály Babits, Sándor Eckhardt, Dezső Keresztury, and Tibor Gerevich. 28. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal művészi jelentősége” [The artistic significance of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 1, 33. 29. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyar zenekedvelők, emlékek és arcképek: Előszó Ambrózy Ágoston könyvéhez” [Hungarian music lovers, memories and portraits: Foreword to Ágoston Ambrózy’s book], Visszatekintés 1, 59. 30. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 13.

Notes to pages 12–15

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31. László Eősze, “Bartók és Kodály levelezése” [Bartók’s and Kodály’s correspondence], in Eősze, Örökségünk Kodály, 262–64. 32. János Breuer, “Kodály und Wien,” Österreichische Musikzeitschrift 27, no. 11 (November 1972): 586. 33. About the British performances see János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 77–78. 34. Ibid.,133. 35. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 125–26. 36. Ibid., 180. 37. Sándor Berkesi, “Ádám Jenő, a néptanító: A ‘magyar módszer’ kidolgozója emlékére” [Jenő Ádám, the teacher: In memory of the creator of the “Hungarian method”], Parlando online 2, 2017, www.parlando.hu/2017/2017–2/Tanmuv-Berkesi.htm. 38. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 84. 39. See Tibor Tallián, “Kodály háborús kórusművei” [Kodály’s choruses written at the time of the war], in Magyar képek: Fejezetek a magyar zeneélet és zeneszerzés történetéből, 1940–1956 [Hungarian pictures: Chapters from the history of Hungarian music life and composition, 1940–1956] (Budapest: Balassi, 2014), 105. 40. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 166–67. 41. Ibid., 162–63. 42. Ibid., 183. 43. Ibid., 186, 191. 44. Ibid., 208. 45. Lóránt Péteri, “Kodály Zoltán zenepedagógiai művei és a korai Kádár-korszak nyilvánossága” [Zoltán Kodály’s music pedagogical works and the public in the early Kádár era], Magyar Zene 55, no. 3 (August 2017): 277–85. 46. János Breuer: “A szegényeket felmagasztalod . . .” [You raise the poor . . .], in Kodály és kora: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály and his time: Selected writings] (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 2002), 239–48. 47. Ferenc Bónis, ed., így láttuk Kodályt: Nyolcvan emlékezés [Kodály as we saw him: Eighty recollections] (Budapest: Püski, 1994), 229, 406. 48. János Breuer, “Kodály Zoltán szabadsághangjai” [Zoltán Kodály’s voices for freedom], in Breuer, Kodály és kora, 232. 49. Lóránt Péteri, “Kodály az államszocializmusban (1949–1967): Kultúrpolitika- és társadalomtörténeti tanulmány” [Kodály in state socialism (1949–1967): Study on cultural politics and social history], in Kodály Zoltán és tanítványai: A hagyomány és a hagyományozódás vizsgálata két nemzedék életművében [Zoltán Kodály and his pupils: Researching tradition and bequeathing in the oeuvres of two generations], ed. Melinda Berlász (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 2007), 97–174. 50. Lóránt Péteri, “ ‘A mi népünk az Ön népe, de az enyém is.’ Kodály Zoltán, Kádár János és a paternalista gondolkodásmód” [“Our people are your people, but mine too.” Zoltán Kodály, János Kádár, and paternalistic thought], Magyar Zene 51, no. 2 (May 2013): 121–41. 51. Ferenc Farkas, ed., Kodály-köszöntő [Greeting Kodály] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1964).

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1. László Eősze, “A századforduló eszmei áramlatainak hatása Kodály zeneszerzői kibontakozására” [The influence of turn-of-the-century trends on the development of Kodály’s personality as a composer], in Örökségünk Kodály: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály: Our heritage—Selected studies] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000), 13. 2. Zoltán Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez” [My path to music], Visszatekintés 3, 539. 3. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 121. 4. Koessler waited years before finally retiring. The dean of the Academy of Music, Ödön Michalovich, would not accept his retirement until 1908, on the grounds that he was an irreplaceable member of the academic staff. Ágnes Gádor, “Hans Kossler tanári működése a Zeneakadémián (1882–1908 és 1920–1925)” [Hans Koessler’s professorship at the Music Academy (1882–1908 and 1920–1925)], in Fejezetek a Zeneakadémia történetéből: A Liszt Ferenc Zeneművészeti Főiskola közleményei 4 [Chapters from the history of the Music Academy: Announcements of the Liszt Ferenc Music Academy 4], ed. János Kárpáti (Budapest: Liszt Ferenc Zeneművészeti Főiskola, 1992), 108. 5. The major recollections by pupils of Koessler include Géza Perényi, “Koessler János a pedagógus és zeneszerző” [János Koessler, the pedagogue and the composer], A Zene [Music] 8, no. 4 (November 1926): 69–72; János Hammerschlag, “Hans Koessler,” Nyugat (June 16, 1926): 1113–14; and Albert Siklós, “Kossler János (1853–1926),” in Az Országos Magyar Királyi Liszt Ferenc Zeneművészeti Főiskola évkönyve, 1936–37 [Annals of the Royal National Liszt Ferenc Music Academy, 1936–37] (Budapest: Orsz. M. Kir. Liszt Ferenc Zeneművészeti Főiskola, 1937), 21–26, also published in A Zene 18, nos. 11–12 (April 1937): 222–24. 6. For a more detailed analysis, see Anna Dalos, “ ‘A jó öreg Koessler’ és a Brahmstradíció: Kodály Zoltán zeneszerzés-tanulmányairól” [“Good old Koessler” and the Brahms tradition: Zoltán Kodály’s studies in composition], in Zenetudományi dolgozatok 2000 (Budapest: MTA Zenetudományi Intézet, 2000), 105–16. 7. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 119–20. 8. Mátyás Seiber, “Kodály, a tanító” [Kodály, the teacher], Crescendo 1 (November 3, 1926): 8; István Szelényi, “Emlékezés a Tanár Úrra: Kodály, a zeneszerzés-tanár” [Remembering Kodály: Kodály, the composition teacher], Magyar Zene 8, no. 2 (April 1967): 147. See reminiscences of Jenő Ádám and Antal Doráti in így láttuk Kodályt: Harmincöt emlékezés [How we saw Kodály: 35 reminiscences], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 39, 51. 9. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 209. 10. Kodály’s first piano teacher was his sister, and according to the composer, her piano teacher, despite having studied at the Viennese Music Academy and living in the same city, did not know Brahms or teach his music. Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez,” Visszatekintés 3, 539. 11. Young took the view that the theme from the Double Concerto appeared in the first movement of Kodály’s Sonata for Cello and Piano, op. 4 (p. 50), and saw in Solitude, op. 6, no. 1, a Brahmsian Lied; Percy M. Young, Zoltán Kodály: A Hungarian Musician (London: Ernest Benn, 1964), 67. Roswitha Schlötterer-Traimer derived the first movement of the first string quartet from that of Brahms’s String Quintet in G Major, op. 111; Rowitha SchlöttererTraimer: “Volksmusikelemente und ihre kompositorische Bedeutung für Kodálys 1. und 2. Streichquartett,” in Zoltán Kodálys Kammermusik, ed. Klaus Aringer (Wien: Universal Edi-

Notes to pages 18–19

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tion, 2015), 82. János Breuer compares the rondo theme of Hungarian Rondo with one of Brahms’s Liebeslieder Waltzes. In the opening of Kodály’s Solo Sonata, op. 8, Breuer sees the cello writing of the Double Concerto, and points to similarities in the openings of the D minor piano concerto and also the Psalmus, claiming the first movement of Kodály’s Symphony in C Major as Brahmsian in character. János Breuer, “Kodály, a Brahmin” [Kodály the Brahmin], Muzsika 40, no. 11 (November 1997): 39–40. 12. Antal Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 5. 13. Several scholarly studies have appeared on relations between Brahms and his twentieth-century followers, among them Peter Gay, “Aimez-vous Brahms? On Polarities in Modernism,” in Freud, Jews and Other Germans: Masters and Victims in Modernist Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), 231–56; Mathias Hansen, “ ‘Reife Menschen denken komplex’: Brahms’ Bedeutung für die Musik der 20. Jahrhunderts,” Musik und Gesellschaft 33 (May 1983): 277–81; Giselher Schubert, “Komponisten rezipieren Brahms: Aspekte eines komplexen Themas,” Musik und Bildung 74, no. 15 (May 1983): 4–9; J. Peter Burkholder, “Brahms and Twentieth-Century Classical Music,” 19th Century Music 8, no. 1 (Summer 1984): 75–83; and Walter Frisch, “The ‘Brahms Fog’: On Analyzing Brahmsian Influences at the Fin de Siècle,” in Brahms and His World, ed. Walter Frisch (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, n.d. [1990]), 81–99. But the greatest heed to this was paid in Schoenberg’s case; see Elmar Budde, “Schönberg und Brahms,” in Bericht über den 1. Kongress der Internationalen Schönberg-Gesellschaft Wien 4. bis 9. Juni 1974, ed. Rudolf Stephan (Wien: E. Lafitte, 1978), 20–24; Walter Frisch, “Brahms, Developing Variation, and the Schoenberg Critical Tradition,” 19th Century Music 5, no. 3 (Spring 1982): 215–32; Ludwig Finscher, “Arnold Schönbergs Brahms-Vortrag,” in Neue Musik und Tradition: Festschrift Rudolf Stephan zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Josef Kuckertz et al. (Laaber: Laaber, 1990), 485–500; and Thomas McGregor, “Schoenberg’s Brahms Lecture of 1933,” Journal of the Arnold Schoenberg Institute 15, no. 2 (November 1992): 5–99. Finscher and McGregor are referring to Schoenberg’s Brahms lecture: Arnold Schoenberg, “Brahms the Progressive,” in Style and Idea, ed. Leonard Stein (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1975), 398–441. 14. Zoltán Kodály, “Önarckép” [Self-portrait], Visszatekintés 3, 584. 15. Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 18. 16. Ibid., 39. 17. Ibid., 25. 18. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms: Erster Band 1833–1862 (Wien: Wiener Verlag, 1904), Kodály Archives call no. 2496. 19. Richard Heuberger, “Johannes Brahms: Konzert für Violine mit Orchester op. 77,” in Der Musikführer No. 36 (Leipzig: Hermann Seemann, n.d.), Kodály Archives call no. 3747; and Carl Beyer, “Johannes Brahms: Ein deutsches Requiem op. 45,” in Der Musikführer No. 40 / 41 (Frankfurt a. M.: Bechhold, n.d.), Kodály Archives call no. 3745. 20. Karl Geiringer, ed., “Johannes Brahms im Briefwechsel mit Eusebius Mandyczewski,” in Sonderabdruck aus der Zeitschrift für Musikwissenschaft: Jahrgang XV. Heft 8., 337–70 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1933), Kodály Archives call no. 4076; and Robert Hernried, Johannes Brahms (Leipzig: Philipp Reclam, 1934), Kodály Archives call no. 2453. 21. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms, II. Band. Erster Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1907–8); II. Band. Zweiter Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche BrahmsGesellschaft, 1909); III. Band. Erster Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft,

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Notes to pages 20–24

1910); III. Band. Zweiter Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1912); IV. Band. Erster Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1914); and IV. Band. Zweiter Halbband (Berlin: Deutsche Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1914). 22. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar cigányok zenéje” [The music of the Hungarian Gypsies], Visszatekintés 3, 169. 23. Zoltán Kodály, “A Corvin magyar clubban: Előadás és vita Berkeley-ben” [In the Corvin Club: Lecture and debate at Berkeley], Visszatekintés 3, 178. See another version in Zoltán Kodály, “A hiteles népdal szerepe a zenei nevelésben” [The role of authentic folk song in music education], Visszatekintés 3, 212. 24. Hernried, Johannes Brahms. Kodály’s notes on Hungarian music can found on pp. 28, 87, 88, 89, 93, 98, 99, 113, 123, 125, 126, and 152. 25. Margit Prahács, Magyar témák a külföldi zenében [Hungarian themes in non-Hungarian music] (Budapest: Pázmány Péter Tudományegyetem, Magyarságtudományi Intézet, 1943). Kodály himself wrote the foreword to her book (“Magyar témák a külföldi zenében: Előszó Prahács Margit könyvéhez” [Hungarian themes in non-Hungarian music: Foreword to Margit Prahács’s book], Visszatekintés 2, 268–70). The Prahács legacy also reveals that Kodály contributed large amounts of data and additional information to the research. Many of Prahács’s notes and her autobiography can be found in the library of the Academy of Music; the Kodály Archives have a copy of the material. 26. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében” [Hungarianness in music], Visszatekintés 2, 236. 27. Conscious identification with the young Brahms lived on in Kodály’s later years, as shown by a critique he wrote after World War I about musical life in Budapest and Bartók the composer. Here Kodály paints his own portrait by comparing Bartók’s Two Pictures and Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 1; it is under Brahms’s disguise that he expresses similarities and differences between Bartók and himself: “Brahms’ first piano concerto, and most of his youthful works, are of great interest despite imperfections, particularly for the two opposing, conflicting artistic concepts in them. Brahms was born in the Romantic era, began his career in the poetic circles of Schumann, and in time developed into its critic. First signs of this appear in his earliest compositions. Yet he had a long wait before his true constructive powers were discovered. Béla Bartók’s journey, mutatis mutandis, is remarkably similar, as his music history repeated its course of three generations before. From the various Modernisms of the beginning of the century, a constructive trend seems to arise, more and more conspicuously. However, while Brahms, recoiling from the indulgence of the Romantics and misconstruing its devices, turns back to the great masters of a previous era, and seeks the profound even at the expense of [beautiful] sound, this new endeavor, following through the path of Romanticism, brings all his achievements, and with these, strives to rise to new heights of contructivism. This is clear in Bartók’s works, as in his Two Pictures heard today.” Zoltán Kodály: “Filharmóniai hangverseny” [Philharmonic concert], Visszatekintés 2, 340. 28. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 12. 2. appendix 1r, 1v. 29. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 93. 30. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 13, 56. 31. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 12. 1. appendix 1r, 1v. 32. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 12. 1r. 33. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 35. See the facsimile in the appendix to Dalos, “A jó öreg Koessler,” 111–15.

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34. Ms. mus. 762 / 44. 35. Slow movement: Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 99; Scherzo movement: Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 16. 36. Ms. mus. 762 / 53, 54. 37. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 9 1r. 38. Ms. mus. 762 / 192. 39. Ms. mus. 1900 / 6. 40. Elaine R. Sisman, “Brahms and the Variation Canon,” 19th Century Music 14, no. 2 (Fall 1990): 134. 41. Ibid., 140–41. 42. Ms. mus. 762 / 192. 43. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 7. 44. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 62–70, 72, 75, 94. Of these only the Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 68 can be dated: this fugue, according to the manuscript, was composed on April 29, 1903. 45. Ms. mus. 846. 46. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 72–77, 80–83, 85–93. 47. Ms. mus. 762 / 192. 48. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 35. 49. Arnold Schoenberg, “Folkloristic Symphonies,” in Style and Idea, ed. Leonard Stein (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1975), 161–66. 50. Schoenberg, “Brahms the Progressive,” 398–441. 51. Frisch, “Brahms, Developing Variation,” 226. See also Carl Dahlhaus’s study discussed by Walter Frisch: “Zur Problemgeschichte des Komponierens,” in Zwischen Romantik und Moderne: Vier Studien zur Musikgeschichte des späteren 19. Jahrhunderts by Carl Dahlhaus (München: Katzbichler, 1974), 40–73. English translation: “Issues in Composition,” in Between Romanticism and Modernism: Four Studies in the Music of the Later Nineteenth Century by Carl Dahlhaus, trans. Mary Whittall and Arnold Whittall (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980), 40–78. C HA P T E R 3

1. Ms. mus. 752. The theme and first variation is on 9r. The date 1904 can be found on several pages of the sketchbook: 1r–1v, 6v–7r, 9v–10v. 2. Ms. mus. 760. The date on the first page of the manuscript (June 1904) suggests that Kodály also used this notebook during this year. 3. Ms. mus. 760, 1v. 4. Ms. mus. 760, 14r. 5. Antal Molnár also mentions a sonata for cello and piano in his book on Kodály; Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 5, 59. A number of cello-piano sonata fragments are preserved in the Kodály Archives. 6. ”Var. sur, from Igriczi,” Ms. mus. 760, 6r. 7. ”From Igriczi to [Csonka]papi” (village names). 8. István Bartalus, Magyar Népdalok: Egyetemes gyűjtemény [Hungarian folk songs: Universal collection], vol. 2 (Budapest: Tettey Nándor és Társa, 1875), 38, Kodály Archives call no. 3295. As with a number of other annotations in the volume, Kodály records the source of the melody in László Kun’s folk song editions; cf. László Kun, A magyar dal: Ezer

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Notes to pages 31–32

népdal—Összegyűjtötte, kiválogatta, zongorára és énekhangra harmonizálta Kun László [Hungarian songs: A thousand folk songs—Collected, selected, and arranged for piano and voice by László Kun], 3 vols. (Budapest: Könyves Kálmán, 1906–7), 74. 9. Ms. mus. 579, 2r, 2v. 10. “In Passacaglia fashion: voir Chaconne,” Ms. mus. 762 / 187. 11. See also David E. Schneider, Bartók, Hungary and the Renewal of Tradition: Case Studies in the Intersection of Modernity and Nationality (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 33–80; and Lynn M. Hooker, Redefining Hungarian Music from Liszt to Bartók (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 95–153. 12. Tibor Tallián, “ ‘Um 1900 nachweisbar’: Skizze zu einem Gruppenbild mit Musikern,” Studia Musicologica 24 (1982): 503. 13. Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 12–13. Kodály’s later writings contain no such anti-Semitic gibes. 14. Zoltán Kodály, “Önarckép” [Self-portrait], Visszatekintés 3, 584. 15. Géza Moravcsik, Az Országos Magyar Királyi Zene-Akadémia Évkönyve, 1906–1907es tanév [Annals of the National Hungarian Royal Music Academy, 1906–1907] (Budapest: Atheneum, 1907), 160. 16. Géza Moravcsik, Az Országos Magyar Királyi Zene-Akadémia Évkönyve, 1904–1905ös tanév [Annals of the National Hungarian Royal Music Academy, 1904–1905] (Budapest: Atheneum, 1905), 68. 17. Géza Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete [The theory of Hungarian music] (Budapest: Pesti könyvnyomda, 1904). 18. Music Academy Library call no. K 42.184. 19. Imre Hofecker, A magyar zene költészettana [The poetics of Hungarian music] (Budapest: self-published, n.d.); Kornél Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai nyelvi, zöngidomi, harmoniai s műformai szempontból [Characteristics of Hungarian song and music, from the linguistic, melodic, harmonic and genre points of view] (Budapest: Magyar Királyi Egyetemi nyomda, 1877); and Kornél Ábrányi, A magyar zene sajátságai: Magán-és oktatási czélra [Characteristics of Hungarian music: For private and educational use] (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 1893). 20. Music Academy Library call no. K.7. 21. Kodály also states in his recollections: “It was time for serious study. Academy teachers, who spoke little or no Hungarian, taught us composer candidates to compose in the style of Brahms, Wagner, and Bach. Each as he would. Meanwhile public calls for the composition of Hungarian music were constant. That was indeed our wish, too. But how? No one could have the strength of personality to free him from the ascendancy of great old music cultures. To be sure, what even the most talented of us wrote followed the path of a foreign style. So I came to realize one can possess all the knowledge of foreign music, from Bach to Wagner, but no Hungarian musical tradition can evolve from that alone; it is impossible to write a musical of the [János Arany epic] “Toldi” using that language. So I started to seek Hungarian music. Where could I look? I studied all I found, written or published, which in any way could claim to be called Hungarian music.” Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 143. 22. Bertalan Fabó, A magyar népdal fejlődése [The development of Hungarian folk song] (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1908). Two examples can be found at Music Academy Library call no. K 1101.

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23. Imre Hofecker, A magyar zene egyetemes története [A general history of Hungarian music] (Budapest: self-published, n.d.), Music Academy Library call no. K 1241. 24. Géza Molnár, A magyar föld zenéje [Music of the Hungarian lands] (Budapest: Hornyánszky, 1906); Emil Ponori Thewrewk, A magyar zene tudományos tárgyalása [A scholarly discussion of Hungarian music] (Budapest: Magyar Tudományos Akadémia, 1890); Imre Hofecker, A magyar zene-irodalom története [A history of Hungarian music literature] (Budapest: self-published, 1895); and Kornél Ábrányi, A magyar zene a 19-ik században [Hungarian music in the nineteenth century] (Budapest: Pannónia, 1900). 25. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 2, 15; Károly Színi, A magyar nép dalai és dallamai [Songs and melodies of the Hungarian people], 2nd ed. (Pest: Heckenast, 1872); Áron Kiss, Magyar gyermekjáték-gyűjtemény [Collection of children games] (Budapest: Hornyánszky, 1891); János Seprődi, “Marosszéki gyűjtés: Első közlemény” [Marosszék collection, part 1], Ethnographia 12, no. 8 (October 1901): 359–72; and János Seprődi, “Marosszéki gyűjtés: Második közlemény” [Marosszék collection, part 2], Ethnographia 13, no. 9 (November 1902): 416–26. 26. G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete, 256. 27. Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai, 51, 112. 28. “A magyar zene fejlesztésének semmire sincs inkább szüksége, mint a magasabb irányú, szellemű s formájú magyar műdalok megteremtésére, meghonosítására irodalmunkban. Mint gazdag hajtású törzsből, úgy fejlődik ki ebből idővel minden ága az önálló magyar művészetnek.” [The development of Hungarian music relies more than anything on the creation and introduction of Hungarian art songs into our literature. From this rich source develops in time all distinct branches of Hungarian art.]; Hofecker, A magyar zene költészettana, 29–30. 29. G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete, 1–71. 30. Ibid., 28, 59. 31. Ibid., 4. 32. Ibid., 91. 33. Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai, 112; Ábrányi, A magyar zene sajátságai, 43. 34. Hofecker, A magyar zene költészettana, 22. 35. Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai, 19; Hofecker, A magyar zene költészettana, 43. 36. G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete, 36–48, 49–71. 37. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 111. 38. ”Nemzeti műzenénk alig van; nem marad tehát egyéb hátra, mint a leendő műzenének kijelölni az utat oly módon, hogy a theoria bizonyos fokig rámutat új mintázási eszközökre, a melyeknek gyökere azonban a létező zenekincs.” [We hardly have any national art music; so nothing remains but to show the way for future art music by employing theory to identify new devices whose roots lie in existing musical treasures.]; G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete, 90. 39. Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 162–63. 40. Ibid., 242. 41. G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete, xxi, 48, 69, 184–85, 250–51, 327. Molnár generally refers to the Renaissance and Baroque as the period of Bach and Handel. 42. Vargyas points to this when publishing Kodály’s draft, “A népzene fejlődése” [Development of folk music]; Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 164.

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Notes to pages 35–37

43. The 1904 draft proves this point plainly. When writing about the “comparative analysis of the folk song,” he also talks of German and Romanian sources of Hungarian folk song. Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 161, 163. 44. János Bereczky, “ ‘. . . Hogy keressük nemzetünk saját hangját’: Kodály első két gyűjtőútja és a Nyári este” [“How to search for the voice of our nation”: Kodály’s first two collecting field trips and the Summer Evening], Magyar Zene 39, no. 2 (May 2001): 148–49. 45. Kodály mentions, among others, works by Rudolph Georg, Hermann Westphal, Hugo Riemann, and Otto Tiersch. 46. Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai; Ábrányi, A magyar zene sajátságai; Hofecker, A magyar zene költészettana; G. Molnár, A magyar zene elmélete. 47. Kodály himself often used the term “etymology” in connection with his methods. The earliest example appears in his review of Bartók’s collection from Máramaros (Maramureş)— Zoltán Kodály, “A máramarosi román népzenéről” [The Romanian folk music of Máramaros], Visszatekintés 2, 436–39. The concept of an etymological dictionary may have been inspired by Kodály’s old teacher at Eötvös Collegium, Gombocz Zoltán, who between 1914 and 1944 worked on an etymological dictionary of the Hungarian language with János Melich. Kodály’s doctoral dissertation touches on historical research on two occasions, first in discussing the influence of the Sapphic strophe on folk music and then in the context of the relations between some folk songs and runo melodies. See Kodály, “A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 2, 37. 48. Zoltán Kodály, “Az új egyetemes népdalgyűjtemény tervezete” [Plan for the new universal collection of folk songs], Visszatekintés 2, 50. 49. Olga Szalay and Márta Rudas Bajcsay, eds., Kodály Zoltán nagyszalontai gyűjtése: Magyar népköltési gyűjtemény XV [Zoltán Kodály’s Nagyszalonta collection: Hungarian folk song collection 15] (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, Magyar Néprajzi Társaság, 2001); and Olga Szalay and Eva Maria Hois, eds., Száz magyar katonadal: Bartók Béla és Kodály Zoltán kiadatlan gyűjteménye, 1918—Dokumentumok és történeti háttér [100 Hungarian soldier songs: Unpublished collections of Bartók and Kodály, 1918—Documents and historical background] (Budapest: Balassi–MTA Zenetudományi Intézet, 2010). 50. Zoltán Kodály, “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” [Pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music], Visszatekintés 2, 65. 51. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népzene” [Folk Music of Hungary], Visszatekintés 3, 292. 52. Zoltán Kodály, “Kelemen Kőmies balladája,” Visszatekintés 2, 77–78. 53. Olga Szalay, Kodály, a népzenekutató és tudományos műhelye [Kodály, the folk music researcher, and his scientific workshop] (Budapest: Akadémiai kiadó, 2004), 84. 54. Zoltán Kodály, “Három koldusének forrása” [The source of three beggar’s songs], Visszatekintés 2, 57–59. 55. Kodály, “Árgirus nótája” [Song of Argyrus], Visszatekintés 2, 79–90. 56. Kodály, “Néprajz és zenetörténet” [Ethnography and music history], 233. 57. Szalay and Rudas Bajcsay, Kodály Zoltán nagyszalontai gyűjtése. See also my review of the book: “Törlesztések: Kodály nagyszalontai és hangszeres gyűjtésének első teljes kiadásáról” [Remedies: On the first complete publication of Kodály’s instrumental collection from Nagyszalonta], Muzsika 45, no. 6 (June 2002): 38–41. 58. Conspicuous compositional-technical records of this are the two musical examples in Molnár’s book. On page 38, the author quotes the melody of the Hussar recruiting song

Notes to pages 37–40

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by János Bihari, the melody which Kodály used in the Intermezzo of Háry János. The other example, on page 69, presents and analyzes the “Song for King Saint Stephen” arranged for choral composition by the composer. 59. Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai, 68; Ábrányi, A magyar zene sajátsága, 6. 60. ”Minden nemzeti irodalomnak önmagából kell kifejlődnie, ha önálló jelleget ölteni s azt megtartani akarja. Az idegen befolyások egy időre háttérbe szoríthatják ugyan a nemzeti alapon való fejlődést: de végre is, a hol elégséges életerő áll rendelkezésre, ott a nemzeti, elébb-utóbb le fogja vetkőzni az idegen kényszeröltönyt. De mindkét esetben, a tényező nemzeti munkások öntudatos működése igényeltetik hozzá. Ez pedig az irodalom terén: széles ismeret, magas műveltség s hivatottság nélkül, valamint a művészet terén, mind e tulajdonságok mellett még szakképzetség, főleg pedig nemzeti érzület nélkül nem is képzelhető.” [National literatures of all kinds need to develop from within if they seek to assume their own character and wish to maintain it. Foreign influences may temporarily hinder national development, but ultimately, where national vitality is sufficiently present, national culture will rid itself of such dictated foreign elements. Yet both cases call for a confident working class, which is not feasible without a high level of erudition and vocation in literature and the arts, and high levels of professional qualification and sense of patriotism]; Ábrányi, A magyar dal és zene sajátságai, 131. 61. This explains why Kodály’s notes of 1901 are so similar to his writings in the 1930s and 1940s. József Ujfalussy discussed these early writings in “Az ifjú Kodály életprogramja” [The life program of the young Kodály], in Kodály Zoltán és Szabolcsi Bence emlékezete [Remembering Zoltán Kodály and Bence Szabolcsi], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 1992), 7–9. 62. Ms. mus. Nagyszombat / 33. 63. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 38. 64. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 52. 65. Ms. mus. 762 / 21. 66. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 27. 67. Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 147. 68. Zoltán Kodály, “Népdal és közönség” [Folk song and audience], Visszatekintés 3, 28. 69. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms: Erster Band 1833–1862 (Wien: Wiener Verlag, 1904), 467–73. 70. Ibid., 468. 71. Ibid., 58–59. 72. Hidden programs behind Brahms’s compositions have led to considerable scholarly inquiries; for example, George S. Bozarth, “Brahms’s Lieder ohne Worte: The ‘Poetic’ Andantes of the Piano Sonatas,” in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. George S. Bozarth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 345–78; and Dillon Parmer, “Brahms, Song Quotation, and Secret Programs,” 19th Century Music 19, no. 2 (Fall 1995): 161–90. 73. Zoltán Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez” [My path to music], Visszatekintés 3, 55. 74. Mihály Ittzés points out that Kodály in his vocal compositions after 1918 also uses the rondo: “Variation and Refrain in Kodály’s Choral Works,” in Zoltán Kodály in Retrospect: A Hungarian National Composer in the 20th Century on the Border of East and West (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 2002), 196.

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Notes to pages 45–47 C HA P T E R 4

1. János Bereczky et al., Kodály Zoltán népdalfeldolgozásainak dallam- és szövegforrásai [Sources of melodies and texts in Kodály’s folk-song arrangements] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1984), 29. “Szűr” denotes a large mantle, usually white and intricately embroidered, worn by peasant men over the shoulders. 2. Antal Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 59–60. 3. Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller, “Kodály 1. vonósnégyese 1990 tájának európai kvartetttermésében” [Kodály’s String Quartet No. 1 in light of European quartet output ca. 1990], in Kodály emlékkönyv 1997 [Kodály memorial book], ed. and trans. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 1997), 40–41. 4. Pál Járdányi, “Kodály Zoltán: 1. Vonósnégyes—Kispartitúra-előszó” [Zoltán Kodály: String Quartet No. 1—Study score, foreword] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1954), v; and István Sonkoly, Kodály: Az ember, a művész, a nevelő [Kodály: The man, the artist, the pedagogue] (Nyíregyháza: Tanügyi könyvesbolt, 1948), 41. 5. István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: 1. vonósnégyes” [Zoltán Kodály: String Quartet No. 1], in A hét zeneműve [Composition of the week], ed. György Kroó, no. 4 (October– November 1978), 121. 6. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 27–39. 7. Zoltán Kodály, “Streichquartett (c-Moll),” Die Musik 9, no. 16 (1909–10, Zweiter Maiheft): 238–41. See also Visszatekintés 2, 478–82. 8. Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: 1. vonósnégyes,” 112. 9. Molnár, Kodály Zoltán, 17. 10. Antal Molnár, Az új zene: A zeneművészet legujabb irányának ismertetése kultúretikai megvilágításban [New music: A cultural / ethical review of the most recent trends in music] (Budapest: Révai, n.d. [1925]), 245. 11. István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán gall zongorazenéje” [Zoltán Kodály’s Gallic piano music], Magyar Zene 25, no. 3 (September 1984): 268–80. 12. Cf. Hermann Danuser, “Biographik und musikalische Hermeneutik: Zum Verhältnis zweier Disziplinen der Musikwissenschaft,” in Neue Musik und Tradition: Festschrift Rudolf Stefan, ed. Helga de la Motte Haber, Josef Kuckertz, Christian Martin Schmidt, and Wilhelm Seidel (Laaber: Laaber, 1990), 571–601. On Berg’s Lyric Suite see Constantin Floros, “Das esoterische Programm der Lyrischen Suite von Alban Berg” and George Perle, “Das geheime Programm der Lyrischen Suite,” in Alban Berg Kammermusik I. Musik-Konzepte 4. 1978, ed. Heinz-Klaus Metzger and Rainer Riehn (München: Edition text + kritik, 1981), 5–48, 49–74. Perle’s study appeared originally as “The Secret Program of the Lyric Suite,” International Alban Berg Society Newsletter 5 (June 1977): 4–12. 13. János Kárpáti, “Szecesszió a zenében: Bartók 1. vonósnégyese” [Jugendstil in music: Bartók’s String Quartet No. 1], in Bartók-analitika: Válogatott tanulmányok [Bartók analyses: Selected studies] (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi és Társa, 2003), 207–19. 14. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms: Erster Band 1833–1862 (Wien: Wiener Verlag, 1904), 467–73. 15. Kodály, “C moll vonósnégyes” [String Quartet in C Minor], 481. 16. Ibid., 479.

Notes to pages 47–50

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17. Péter Laki edited the earliest string quartet by Kodály written in his Nagyszombat years: Péter Laki, “Minuet for String Quartet (1897): Kodály’s First Surviving Composition Rediscovered,” Notes 49 (September 1992): 28–38. 18. Ms. mus. 760, Ms. mus. 28, and Ms. mus. 758 / a–d. 19. Géza Moravcsik, ed., Az Országos Magyar Királyi Zene-Akadémia Évkönyve, 1904– 1905-ös tanév [Annals of the Royal National Hungarian Music Academy, 1904–1905] (Budapest: Atheneum, 1905), 105. 20. Antal Molnár, “Kodály Zoltán,” in Magamról, másokról [On myself and others] (Budapest: Gondolat, 1974), 103. 21. Call nos. at the Kodály Archives: 1st movement: Ms. mus. 1900 / 24; 2nd movement: Ms. mus. 585 / 3; 4th movement: Ms. mus. 585 / 1 and Ms. mus. 586 / 3. 22. Ms. mus. 1900 / 31. 23. I could identify most manuscripts from Kecskeméti’s catalog, and others after consulting the collection myself. 24. Ms. mus. 427 1v. 25. Here Kodály was typical of his generation, as Schoenberg and others also strove to renew conservative forms of chamber music, notably the string quartet as practiced by Beethoven and Brahms. See also Carl Dahlhaus’s innovative “Brahms und die Idee der Kammermusik,” Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 134, no. 9 (September 1973): 559–63. 26. Ms. mus. 585. “Reminiscence of I” and “Reminiscence of theme I.” 27. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 24. 28. Ms. mus. Bp. 1900 / 98. 29. For more on the fragmentary source chains typical of Kodály see István Kecskeméti’s “Kodály zeneszerzői műhelymunkája a ‘Sírfelirat’ kimunkálásában” [Kodály’s composing work on Epitaph], in Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok Kodály Zoltán emlékére [Essays on Hungarian music in memory of Kodály], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 43–50. 30. Ms. mus. 42. 31. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Gondolat, 1967), 223. 32. Ms. mus. 281 / N-5, 7v–9r. Two further, much later notations of the folk song motto have survived: call nos. Ms. mus. 34 / Koll 2 2r and Ms. mus. 281 / N-2 / 94–95. 33. Ms. mus. 281/N-5, 7v, 8r, 9v. 34. Zoltán Kodály, “Emlékek” [Reminiscences], Visszatekintés 3, 529. 35. Ms. mus. 147. 7r, 7v, 8r. 36. Ms. mus. 639. 37. Ms. mus. 26. 38. Lendvai moved to Berlin in 1906 to work as a chorus master and theater conductor. Between 1914 and 1920 he served as composition teacher at the Klindworth-Scharwenka Conservatory. He gained a great reputation as a chorus master and composer. In 1933 his Jewish descent forced him to leave Germany and settle in Switzerland, where he played an important role in musical life as a chorus master and composer. In 1938, however, he emigrated to England, and died there in 1947. Hugo Leichtentritt was the first to write a comprehensive study on Lendvai: “Erwin Lendvai,” in N. Simrock Jahrbuch, ed. Erich H. Müller (Leipzig, 1930 / 34): 151–59, and he was the first to prepare, much earlier, a catalog of his

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Notes to pages 50–57

works as well: Erwin Lendvai: Kompositionen (Berlin: Simrock, 1912). Numerous articles and reviews of his works appeared in Germany and Switzerland. These, as well as a new catalog of Lendvai’s compositions, were compiled by Peter Büsser. An entry on Lendvai by Hans Gappenach, which served as a basis for this short biographical summary, appeared in the old MGG series: Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart 8 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1960), 612–14; Kodály and Lendvai stayed in touch after Lendvai’s relocation to Berlin. In 1912, Lendvai sent Kodály a complimentary copy—as he wrote “with eternally heartfelt gratitude”—of the catalog of his works compiled by Leichtentritt (Kodály Archives call no. 2191). 39. ”Puccini—Lendvai—zsidó ösztöndíjjal P[uccini]hez ment.” [Puccini—Lendvai—he went to Puccini with a Jewish scholarship.]; Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 148. 40. Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 28. 41. Ibid., 29. 42. The program does not specify the key of the quartet, but the tempo indications on Lendvai’s String Quartet in E Minor published as op. 8 in 1917 are identical to those on the concert leaflet. This premise is further supported by a claim made by Leichtentritt that Lendvai’s first ten opuses were all composed during his years in Budapest. Leichtentritt, “Erwin Lendvai,” 152. 43. Géza Moravcsik, ed., Az Országos Magyar Királyi Zene-Akadémia Évkönyve, 1906– 1907-es tanév [Annals of the National Hungarian Royal Music Academy, 1906–1907] (Budapest: Atheneum, 1907), 95. 44. Legánÿ, Kodály Zoltán levelei, 23. 45. Its call number in the academy library is Z 8370 AR. This score was prepared by the same copyist as the first version of Kodály’s Summer Evening (1906). The latter’s call number at the Music Collection of the National Széchényi Library is Ms. mus. 3422. 46. See Peter Büsser’s catalog of Lendvai’s works (no page number). 47. This is Kodály’s description of popular art song in his study on Hungarian folk music. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népzene” [Folk Music of Hungary], Visszatekintés 3, 297. 48. Kodály, “C moll vonósnégyes” [String Quartet in C Minor], 479–82. 49. József Ujfalussy, “Claude Debussy: Vonósnégyes” [Claude Debussy: String Quartet], in A hét zeneműve [This week’s musical composition], ed. György Kroó (April–June 1974), 101–5, on 104. 50. Kodály, “C moll vonósnégyes” [String Quartet in C Minor], 480. C HA P T E R 5

1. Zoltán Kodály, “Claude Debussy,” Visszatekintés 2, 379–81, on 381. Some translation changes made here favor the original rather than “Claude Debussy”; see Ferenc Bónis, ed., The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (London: Boosey & Hawkes, 1974), 67–69, on 69. 2. See Anna Dalos, “ ‘Folklorisztikus nemzeti klasszicizmus’: Egy fogalom elméleti forrásairól” [“Folkloristic national classicism”: Theoretical sources of a concept], Magyar Zene 40, no. 2 (May 2002): 191–99, on 195–98. 3. Zoltán Kodály, “Claude Debussy,” in The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (London: Boosey & Hawkes, 1974), 68.

Notes to pages 57–60

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4. Zoltán Kodály, “Bartókról és a magyar zenéről: Genfi beszélgetés Ernest Ansermetvel” [About Bartók and Hungarian music: Conversation in Geneva with Ernest Ansermet], Visszatekintés 3, 472. 5. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 177. 6. Lajos Vargyas (Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 136–86, 222–26) arranges the marginal notes belonging to different periods side by side. Some were written for Ödön Mihalovich, but others presumably were in preparation for a lengthy interview with Lutz Besch. Yet others clearly recount recent experiences. This appears in the note about Kodály not approaching Debussy, for example, by the use of the present tense in the second and third sentences. 7. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 221. 8. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 149. 9. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 51, 126, 208; Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 149. 10. Claude Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande (Paris: Durand, 1902), no call number; La Mer (Paris: Durand, 1905), KA Z 1075; Jeux (Paris: Durand, 1913), KA Z 1076; Gigues (Paris: Durand, 1913), KA Z 91; 1er Quatuor op. 10 (Paris: Durand, 1960), KA Z 92; Children’s Corner (Paris: Durand, 1908), KA Z 480; En blanc et noir (Paris: Durand, 1915), KA Z 1351; and Préludes pour piano I. Livre (Paris: Durand, [1910]), KA Z 92. 11. La Mer, 35, 39, 40, 47, 48, 58, 63, 76, 132; Gigues, 5. 12. The reference to Debussy’s opera may reflect that it was the work with which readers of Nyugat would primarily associate his name. 13. From Marianne Polgár. The score contains notes by her but none by Kodály. 14. Publication data were taken from François Lesure, Catalogue de l’œuvre de Claude Debussy (Genève: Edition Minkoff, 1977). 15. Its call number at the Kodaly Archives is Ms. mus. 336. On the first page of the manuscript Emma wrote “Emlékezetből másolva. (1907) Hűvösvölgy” [Copied from memory. (1907) Hűvösvölgy]. In addition, under the copy there is the date written in Kodály’s handwriting: “[19]07. okt. 24” (October 24, 1907). 16. For the genesis of the work, see István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán gall zongorazenéje” [Zoltán Kodály’s Gallic piano music], Magyar Zene 25, no. 3 (September 1984): 268–80. 17. Antal Molnár, Az új zene: A zeneművészet legújabb irányának ismertetése kultúretikai megvilágításban [New music: A cultural-ethical review of the most recent trends in music] (Budapest: Révai, n.d. [1925]), 243. 18. Ibid., 241–42. 19. Antal Molnár, A ma zenéje [The music of today], Népszerű zenefüzetek [Popular pamphlets on music], no. 7 (Budapest: Dante, n.d. [1927]). 20. Antal Molnár, Az új muzsika szelleme [The spirit of new music] (Budapest: Dante, n.d. [1947]). 21. Molnár, A ma zenéje, 12. 22. Molnár, Az új muzsika szelleme, 53. 23. András Szőllősy, Kodály művészete [Kodály’s art] (Budapest: Pósa Károly Könyvkereskedő, 1943), 78.

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Notes to pages 60–66

24. The series, first published by Rózsavölgyi in 1910, originally contained ten pieces; from its second edition, it became Nine Piano Pieces after Kodály had removed the first, Valsette. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán élete és munkássága [Zoltán Kodály’s life and oeuvre] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1956), 224. 25. Jim Samson, Music in Transition: A Study of Tonal Expansion and Atonality, 1900– 1920 (New York: Norton, 1977), 1, 151. 26. The progressive nature of these was also perceived by his contemporaries. Sándor Kovács disapproved of Kodály putting before the public compositions that Kovács regarded as experimental and dissenting. Sándor Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán: Zongoramuzsika” [Zoltán Kodály: Piano music], in Kodály-mérleg, 1982 [Kodály survey, 1982], ed. János Breuer (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 38–39. 27. Szőllősy, Kodály művészete [Kodály’s art], 85. 28. Arnold Whitall, “Tonality and the Whole-Tone Scale in the Music of Debussy,” Music Review 34, no. 4 (November 1975): 265. 29. Ms. mus. 281 / N-5 19r, 35v, 36r, 41v, and the back cover of the sketchbook. 30. Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán gall zongorazenéje” [Zoltán Kodály’s Gallic piano music], 269. C HA P T E R 6

1. See Bence Szabolcsi, “Három ismeretlen Kodály-dalról” [On three unknown Kodály songs], Muzsika 13, no. 8 (August 1970): 1–3. Published also in Bence Szabolcsi, Kodályról és Bartókról, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1987), 345–49. Aranka Bálint refused to have her name printed as author of the poem in the later edition of “Nausicaa.” She also wanted to remain anonymous when she gave a few Kodály manuscripts in her possession to Szabolcsi. Béla Balázs, Napló 1903–1914 [Diaries], ed. Anna Fábri (Budapest: Magvető, 1982). 2. Tibor Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul a Székelyföldig” [Zoltán Kodály’s adventures from Ithaca to the Székelys], Magyar Zene 46, no. 3 (August 2008): 241. 3. Ibid., 243. 4. Zsigmond Móricz, Drámák II [Dramas] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi Kiadó, 1980), 593. 5. Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 242. 6. Bence Szabolcsi, “Háry János,” Kodályról és Bartókról, 64–70. 7. Sándor Jemnitz, “Rendkívüli Filharmónia hangverseny: Kodály és Honegger zsoltárai” [Special Philharmonic concert: Psalms of Kodály and Honegger] (February 5, 1928), in Jemnitz Sándor válogatott zenekritikái [Selected reviews of Sándor Jemnitz], ed. Vera Lampert (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1973), 142–45, on 142. 8. Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 240–41. 9. Ibid., 244–45. 10. See the title page of Universal Edition’s Háry János published in 1929. 11. Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 242. Very little is known of Eva Martersteig. In the notes to the diaries of Béla Balázs, Anna Fábri writes only that she was the daughter of German director Max Martersteig. Balázs, Napló, 693. Balázs published a brief commentary on the actress upon her retirement, in the prestigious Hungarian arts journal Nyugat 3 (1914), http://epa.oszk.hu/00000/00022/00145/04763.htm. In 1938, Emile

Notes to pages 66–68

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Verhaeren’s novel, Die Abendstunden, was published in Eva Martersteig’s German translation (Leipzig: Insel, 1938). 12. Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 242–43. 13. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 119–35. 14. Balázs, Napló, 159, 168, 302. The style of Balázs often evokes the letters of the young Werther. The influence of Goethe’s Die Wahlverwandtschaften (Elective affinities) can be seen in Balázs’s insistence on a group of friends, two men and two women cohabiting, as a desirable new social model. 15. Balázs, Napló, 286, 308, 336. 16. Zoltán Kodály, Voyage en Hongrie, ed. by Márta Sz. Farkas (Budapest: Múzsák, n.d.). 17. Balázs, Napló, 362–63, 403. See Kodály’s letter to Emma (December 22, 1906); Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 28–29. 18. Balázs, Napló, 329. 19. Ibid., 401. 20. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 131. 21. Ibid. 22. Zoltán Kodály, “Tizenhárom fiatal zeneszerző” [Thirteen young composers], Visszatekintés 2, 392. 23. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 122. 24. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 2, 22–23. 25. Béla Bartók, Miért és hogyan gyűjtsünk népzenét? A zenei folklore törvénykönyve [Why and how to collect folk music? The code of musical folklore] (Budapest: Somló, 1936), 15. Modern edition: András Szőllősy, eds., Bartók Béla összegyűjtött írásai I [Béla Bartók’s collected writings, vol. 1] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1966), 592. 26. From the fourth volume on, Kodály only indicates the location and date of the collection. 27. Aranka abhorred the analytical habits of Balázs. Balázs, Napló, 242, 262. 28. Kodály, Voyage en Hongrie. In a diary entry on March 10, 1905, Béla Balázs makes note of Kodály’s comment that “Nem eléggé gazdag, nem eléggé színes a magyar népélet drámaanyagnak.” [Hungarian peasant life is not rich or vibrant enough to serve as dramatic source material]. His experiences in writing Voyage en Hongrie may well have changed his opinion substantially; the diary often records gripping life stories. 29. Ernst von Wolzogen, Das dritte Geschlecht (Berlin: Rich. Eckstein Nachf., [1899]). Béla Balázs recorded in his entry of February 5, 1906, how Kodály once brought up Wolzogen’s novel: “Zoltán found the perfect expression of my relation to Paula and his relation to the girls—neither friendship nor love. It’s not something in between—said I—it’s no transition, rather a sort of third relationship.—Yes—said Zoltán—drittes Gefühl [a third emotion]. Inevitably this was brought about by the drittes Geschlecht [third sex].” Balázs, Napló, 303. Kodály, in his Voyage en Hongrie, refers to the novel three times: pp. 34, 37, and 42. 30. Carol Diethe, Nietzsche’s Women: Beyond the Whip (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 114–15. On Nietzsche’s view of women see also Renate Reschke, Denkumbrüche mit Nietzsche: Zur anspornenden Verachtung der Zeit (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2000), especially the chapter “Kulturphänomen Frau. Friedrich Nietzsches Versuch einer historischen Würdigung,” 123–45.

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Notes to pages 68–73

31. Kodály’s reference, quoted by Balázs: “Strolling in the streets after midnight with Zoltán we talked about this. He doesn’t believe I could create such a relationship. Not with these girls. He called Aranka a very smart bourgeois girl. ‘Man weiss nicht, wie hoch und wie tief Physis reicht,’ he quoted. I felt this too, a long time ago. I still don’t think it’s impossible, I told Zoltán.” Balázs, Napló, 154. The exact wording in Nietzsche’s posthumous writings: “Wir wissen nicht, wie hoch und wie tief Physis reicht.” Quoted by Reschke, Denkumbrüche mit Nietzsche, 133. 32. Reschke, Denkumbrüche mit Nietzsche. 33. Balázs, Napló, 279–80. 34. ”In her penultimate letter, Aranka writes that she barely thinks of Zoltán any more. I then write the Eva story, and receive a desperate, drunken response: ‘Narcissus is dead!’ ” Balázs, Napló, 404. 35. Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 247–48. 36. Az hol én elmenyek and Egy kicsi madárka, both in the first volume of Hungarian Folk Music. 37. Kodály, Voyage en Hongrie, 36. 38. Ibid. 39. Tallián has also linked the Arany setting to this group thematically; Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 240–41. 40. István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: Énekszó op. 1,” in A hét zeneműve: 1986. október–1987. szeptember [This week’s musical composition: October 1986–September 1987], ed. György Kroó (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1986), 105–106. 41. Balázs, Napló, 319–20. 42. Szabolcsi, “Három ismeretlen Kodály-dalról,” Kodályról és Bartókról, 3. 43. Szabolcsi, “Kodály-dalok,” 9–14. 44. Zoltán Kodály, “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” [Pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music], Visszatekintés 2, 75. 45. János Breuer stresses that Kodály himself did not see them as coherent cycles; Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 197. 46. Breuer claims that Kodály grouped the Two Songs together because he intended an orchestral accompaniment. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 365–66. 47. The set Három ének (Three songs), op. 14 (1918–24) documents Kodály’s third songwriting period. 48. No records survive of any such marital crisis. A note, probably from the later 1950s, suggests he did at times take an interest in other women even after 1910: “A woman poses a peculiar attraction. It is not the polygamous passion of all men, but more—a feeling that if there were no E[mma] this woman could be a companion, for whom one does all without hesitation.” Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 180–81. 49. János Breuer, “Kodály és a színpad” [Kodály and the stage], in Kodály és kora [Kodály and his times] (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 2002), 70. Breuer refers to two other operas Balázs planned at this time: Napfény-kígyó (Sunlit snake) and A királyné komornája (The queen consort’s servant). 50. The renowned Hungarian violinist Vilmos Tátrai’s reminiscences refer to a secret program for the Serenade. He recalls Emma Kodály relating the content of the string trio’s second movement. In így láttuk Kodályt: Nyolcvan emlékezés [This is how we saw Kodály:

Notes to pages 73–77

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80 remembrances], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 1994), 91. The hidden narratives of the Duo and Serenade are also explained in Antal Molnár’s book on the composer; Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 21–22. 51. Both Breuer and Tallián qualify the final insertion of The Spinning Room in 1965 (“Te túl rózsám, te túl” [My rose, over there]), as Emma’s funeral music. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 128; Tallián, “Kodály Zoltán kalandozásai Ithakátul,” 244–45. 52. See Ferenc Bónis’s “Székely fonó: avagy Kodály Homérosz útján” [Spinning room: or Kodály on Homer’s road], Hitel (December 2002), www.hitelfolyoirat.hu/arch/0212 /elsooldal.html (accessed December 12, 2017). C HA P T E R 7

1. Zsigmond Móricz, A tűznek nem szabad kialudni: Novellák e háborús időkből [The fire must not go out: Stories from these times of war] (Budapest: Légrády testvérek, n.d. [1916]). 2. Zsigmond Móricz, “Szegény emberek” [The poor], Nyugat 9, no. 24 (December 16, 1916): 850–73. 3. Thomas Mann, Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, trans. Reflections of a Nonpolitical Man (New York: Frederick Ungar, reprint, 1987). 4. Letter to members of the Lener Quartet on February 8, 1924; Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 59. 5. Ibid. 6. László Eősze, Forr a világ . . . Kodály Zoltán élete [The world in revolt . . . Zoltán Kodály’s life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1970), 38. 7. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [The chronicle of Zoltán Kodály's life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 59. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. See László Vikárius’s study of the Solo Sonata: “Die Idee einer ‘transsubstantiierten Volksmusik’ in der Solosonate für Violoncello op. 8 (1915),” in Zoltán Kodálys Kammermusik, ed. Klaus Aringer (Vienna: Universal Edition, 2015), 158. 11. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 63. 12. Zoltán Kodály, “Hungarian Folk Music,” in The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (Budapest: Corvina, 1974), 24. 13. Virág Büky, “ ‘Historisches Konzert’—‘Daliás idők muzsikája’: Egy bécsi és egy budapesti koncert az első világháború végén” [“Historical Concert”—“Music of gallant times”: A Vienna concert and a Budapest one at the end of World War I], in Száz magyar katonadal: Bartók Béla és Kodály Zoltán kiadatlan gyűjteménye, 1918—Dokumentumok és történeti háttér [A hundred Hungarian soldiers’ songs: Unpublished collection by Bartók and Kodály, 1918—Documents and historical background], eds. Olga Szalay and Eva Maria Hois (Budapest: Balassi–MTA Zenetudományi Intézet), 619–20. 14. Zoltán Kodály, Négy dal [Four songs] (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1925). 15. Zoltán Kodály, Voyage en Hongrie, ed. Márta Sz. Farkas (Budapest: Múzsák, n.d.). 16. Olga Szalay and Márta Rudas-Bajcsay, eds., Kodály Zoltán nagyszalontai gyűjtése [Kodály’s Nagyszalonta collection] (Budapest: Balassi, 2001).

226

Notes to pages 77–84

17. Kodály had been familiar with some earlier children’s collections; the children’s games collection of Áron Kiss, for example, was featured in his doctoral thesis in 1906: “A magyar népdal strófaszerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 2, 15. 18. Szalay–Hois, Száz magyar katonadal, 51. 19. Zoltán Kodály, Magyar népzene VI, VII [Hungarian folk music, vols. 6 and 7] (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1925 and 1932). 20. Zoltán Kodály, “Operaház” [Opera house], Visszatekintés 2, 343. 21. Zoltán Kodály, “Bartók Béla II. vonósnégyese” [Bartók’s String Quartet No. 2], Visszatekintés 2, 420. 22. Ibid. 23. Zoltán Kodály, “Béla Bartók’s First Opera,” in Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 84. (The translation has been modified for stylistic reasons.) 24. Zoltán Kodály, “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” [Pentatonic scale in Hungarian folk music], Visszatekintés 2, 65–75. English translation: Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 11–23. 25. Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 12. 26. Ibid., 23. 27. Ibid. 28. Vikárius, “Die Idee einer ‘transsubstantiierten Volksmusik’,” 171. 29. Antal Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 22. 30. See also the reminiscences of Vilmos Tátrai in Ferenc Bónis, ed., így láttuk Kodályt [This is how we saw Kodály] (Budapest: Püski, 1994), 91 31. Molnár, Kodály Zoltán, 22. 32. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 62–63. 33. István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: 2. vonósnégyes” [Zoltán Kodály: String Quartet No. 2], in A hét zeneműve [Composition of the week], ed. György Kroó (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1979), 64–65. 34. Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán: 2. Vonósnégyes,” 76. 35. The German original in the second edition of the score runs: “Der erste Satz ist sehr fließend, ohne besondere Betonung der Taktschwerpunkte vorzutragen.” Zoltán Kodály, Quatuor à cordes No. 2 (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1948). The instruction does not yet appear in the first edition (Vienna: Universal Edition, 1921). Kodály often made changes to his compositions following their premières and performances; see János Breuer, “Kodály korrekciói kiadott zeneműveiben” [Kodály’s revisions in his published works], in Kodály és kora [Kodály and his age] (Kecskemét: Kodály Zoltán Zenepedagógia Intézet, 2002), 30–45. 36. The composition process of the Second Quartet is primarily documented in different surviving versions of the fair copy. Kodály Archives 281 / N1-x. 37. György Kroó, “Kodály: Szerenád, op. 12” [Kodály: Serenade, op. 12] in Erkel Ferencről, Kodály Zoltánról és korukról: Magyar Zenetörténeti Tanulmányok [On Ferenc Erkel, Zoltán Kodály and their age: Essays on the history of Hungarian music], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 2001), 191. 38. Second movement: bars 29–31. Third movement: bars 71–78, 100–101. Fifth movement: bars 13–17. Sixth movement: bars 20–24, 42–47. Seventh movement: bars 71–77.

Notes to pages 86–88

227

C HA P T E R 8

1. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms: Erster Band 1833–1862 (Wien: Wiener Verlag, 1904), 210. 2. Ibid., 348. English translation partly from Christopher Fifield, The German Symphony between Beethoven and Brahms: The Fall and Rise of a Genre (Burlington: Ashgate, 2015), 278. 3. Peter J. Burkholder, “Brahms and Twentieth-Century Classical Music,” 19th Century Music 8, no. 1 (Summer 1984): 80. 4. Arnold Schoenberg, “Brahms the Progressive,” in Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard Stein (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1975), 398–441. 5. Michael Musgrave, “The Cultural World of Brahms,” in Brahms: Biographical, Documentary and Analytical Studies, ed. Robert Pascall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 6. On the relationship of Nietzsche and Brahms, see also David S. Thatcher, “Nietzsche and Brahms: A Forgotten Relationship,” Music and Letters 54, no. 3 (July 1973): 261–80. 6. Friedrich Nietzsche, “On the Uses and Disadvantages of History for Life,” in Untimely Meditations: Cambridge Texts in the History of Philosophy, ed. Daniel Breazeale, translated by R. J. Hollingdale, 11th ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 103. German original: “. . . daß selbst der oftmals peinlich anmuthende Gedanke, Epigonen zu sein, groß gedacht, große Wirkungen und ein hoffnungsreiches Begehren der Zukunft, sowohl dem Einzelnen als einem Volke verbürgen kann: insofern wir uns nämlich als Erben und Nachkommen klassischer und erstaunlicher Mächte begreifen und darin unsere Ehre, unseren Sporn sehen.” Die Geburt der Tragödie: Unzeitgemäße Betrachtungen I–IV. Nachgelassene Schriften 1870–1873, ed. Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter: 1988), 307. 7. Bence Szabolcsi, “A történeti tudatra nevelő Kodály Zoltán” [Creating historical awareness: Kodály, the educator of the people], in Kodályról és Bartókról, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1987), 331. 8. Ibid., 329. 9. Ibid., 331. 10. Ibid., 330. Szabolcsi first proposed the idea of compensation in his review “Magyar népzene: Kodály Zoltán két székely dalfüzete és gyermekkórusai” [Hungarian folk music: Zoltán Kodály’s two Székely songbooks and children’s choir], Kodályról és Bartókról, 57. 11. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” [The strophic structure of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 2, 14–46, 506. 12. The book’s call number at the Kodály Archives in Budapest is 5237. 13. Zoltán Kodály, “Néprajz és zenetörténet” [Ethnography and music history], Visszatekintés 2, 228. 14. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében” [Hungarianness in music], Visszatekintés 2, 248. 15. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népdal művészi jelentősége” [The artistic significance of Hungarian folk song], Visszatekintés 1, 35. 16. Zoltán Kodály, “Népzene és műzene” [Folk music and art music], Visszatekintés 2, 266. 17. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népzene” [Hungarian folk music], Visszatekintés 1, 20. 18. See Ferenc Bónis’s introductory study, “A szó Kodály életművében” [Words in Kodály’s œuvre], Visszatekintés 3, 8.

228

Notes to pages 88–91

19. Walter Frisch, “Brahms, Developing Variation, and the Schoenberg Critical Tradition,” 19th Century Music 5, no. 3 (Spring 1982): 215–32; Michael Musgrave, “Schoenberg’s Brahms,” in Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives, ed. George Bozarth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 123–37; and Richard Taruskin: Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works through Mavra, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996). 20. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyar zene” [Hungarian music], Visszatekintés 1, 27. 21. See, for example, the defense of his students in a 1925 article, “Tizenhárom fiatal zeneszerző” [Thirteen young composers], Visszatekintés 2, 392. In translation: The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály (Budapest: Corvina Press), 70–74. 22. Zoltán Kodály, “A zene új útjairól” [On the new paths in music], Visszatekintés 3, 21. 23. Zoltán Kodály, “Árgirus nótája” [Song of Argyrus], Visszatekintés 2, 79–90. 24. Zoltán Kodály, “A máramarosi román népzene” [The Romanian folk music of Máramaros], Visszatekintés 2, 429–39. 25. Scott Messing: Neoclassicism in Music: From the Genesis of the Concept through the Schoenberg / Stravinsky Polemic (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988), 1–60. 26. Thomas Mann was predicting a “new classicism” before World War I: “On the art of Richard Wagner,” Translation from Messing, Neoclassicism, 61–65. The Hungarian reception of the idea of a new classicism was discussed by Mihály Babits in an essay in the journal Nyugat in 1925: “Új klasszicizmus felé” [Toward a new classicism], in Babits Mihály művei: Esszék, tanulmányok, vol. 2 (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1978), 137–40. 27. Bence Szabolcsi, “Kodály Zoltán hangszeres zenéje” [Kodály’s instrumental music], Kodályról és Bartókról, 5–8. 28. See Hermann Danuser, ed., Die klassizistische Moderne in der Musik des 20. Jahrhunderts: Internationales Symposion der Paul Sacher Stiftung, Basel 1996 (Winterthur: Amadeus, 1997). In particular, Danuser’s “Introduction,“ 11–20. 29. Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno, Philosophie der neuen Musik (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989), 86–87. In English: Philosophy of New Music (1949), translated, edited, and introduced by R. Hullot-Kentor (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006). 30. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 26. 31. Zoltán Kodály, “Torontói előadások” [Toronto lectures], Visszatekintés 3, 167. 32. Zoltán Kodály, “Zenei nevelés, embernevelés” [Musical education, education of man], Visszatekintés 3, 208. 33. Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers, 116. The passage was written as one of the drafts for his essay “Hungarianness in Music.” 34. János Bereczky et al., Kodály népdalfeldolgozásainak dallam- és szövegforrásai. [Melodic and textual sources of Kodály’s folk song arrangements] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1984), 67. 35. Bence Szabolcsi, “Kodály dalok” [Kodály songs], Kodályról és Bartókról, 9–10. 36. Following Szabolcsi, this theory was expounded by János Kárpáti, “Az elhangolás jelensége Bartók kompozíciós technikájában” [The presence of mistuning in Bartók’s composing technique], in Bartók-analitika: Válogatott tanulmányok [Bartók analysis: Selected studies] (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi és Társa, 2003), 127–39.

Notes to pages 91–97

229

37. Claus Raumberger and Karl Ventzke: “Saxophone,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd Edition, vol. 22, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001), 354–56. 38. Another symbol of Frenchness is a six-note chord of the whole-note scale, which appears several times in “March of the French.” Kodály uses just five notes of that scale in measures 21 and 55 (B–C sharp–D sharp–E sharp–G), but in measures 60–62 all six are present (A sharp–B flat–C–D–E–F sharp). 39. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 101. 40. Ibid., 195–96. 41. Gerald Abraham’s review is cited from Guide to Kodály, 134. 42. See p. 2 of the published piano reduction (Wien: Universal Edition, 1929). 43. The exception is Örzse’s Hej két tikom [Hungry birds I have to feed] (No. 14), which even so, cannot be seen as cheerful or harmonious. Its nonsense text and obsessive repetitions of musical motion formulae recall round dances, as if evoking mad scenes in early nineteenth-century opera. 44. Zoltán Kodály, “A francia rádió Háry János-előadása elé” [Introducing a Háry János performance on French radio], Visszatekintés 2, 502; “A Háry János nürnbergi előadása elé” [Before a Háry János performance in Nuremberg], Visszatekintés 3, 523; “Háry János szvit, Fölszállott a páva” [Háry János Suite, The Peacock], Visszatekintés 3, 582. 45. Kodály, “A francia rádió Háry János-előadása elé.” 46. Bence Szabolcsi, “Háry János,” Kodályról és Bartókról, 66. 47. Zoltán Kodály, “Háry János hőstettei” [The heroic deeds of János Háry], Visszatekintés 3, 491. 48. See Judit Frigyes, Béla Bartók and Turn-of-the-Century Budapest (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998). 49. See the contemporary review by Sándor Jemnitz, “Rendkívüli Filharmónia hangverseny: Kodály és Honegger zsoltárai (1928. február 5)” [An extraordinary Philharmonic concert—Kodály and Honegger (February 5, 1928)], in Jemnitz Sándor válogatott zenekritikái [Selected concert reviews of Sándor Jemnitz], ed. Vera Lampert (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1973), 142–45. 50. Ferenc Bónis, “Kodály Magyar Zsoltárának születése” [The genesis of Kodály’s Hungarian Psalm], in Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak [Homage to Bartók and Kodály] (Budapest: Püski, 1992), 141. 51. Quoted in Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 203. 52. Directorates were local executive bodies responsible for a particular field of governance. 53. Records of the investigation process were edited and published by József Ujfalussy, Dokumentumok a magyar Tanácsköztársaság zenei életéből [Documents from the musical life of the Hungarian Soviet Republic] (Budapest: Akadémiai kiadó, 1973), 499–598. 54. Ibid., 513–14, 538–543. 55. Ibid., 592–98. 56. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [The chronicle of Zoltán Kodály's life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 88. 57. Ujfalussy, Dokumentumok, 555. 58. Miklós Zeidler, A revíziós gondolat [The revisionist idea] (Budapest: Osiris, 2001), 159–90.

230

Notes to pages 98–106

59. On the difficulties of identifying the sixteenth-century poet and composer Mihály Vég, see Ferenc Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 143–44. 60. Bence Szabolcsi, “Kodály Zoltán: Psalmus Hungaricus (55. zsoltár.)” [Zoltán Kodály: Psalmus Hungaricus (Psalm 55)], Kodályról és Bartókról, 37; Aladár Tóth, “Kodály és Psalmus Hungaricusa” [Kodály’s Psalmus Hungaricus], Nyugat 16, no. 24 (December 20, 1923): 601–7. 61. Bence Szabolcsi, “Kodály és a melódia” [Kodály and melody], Kodályról és Bartókról, 396. 62. Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 155–56. 63. Such stylistic traits are the slow melismata (bars 139–144) or the chord mixtures (bars 273–274). 64. Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 190, 191. 65. Quoted in Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 202 (Budapesti Hírlap, November 20, 1923), 6. 66. Bónis, Hódolat Bartóknak és Kodálynak, 95. 67. Ferenc Bónis, Élet-pálya: Kodály Zoltán [Life and career: Zoltán Kodály] (Budapest: Balassi, 2011), 201–3. 68. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája. 69. Bruno B. Reuer, Zoltán Kodálys Bühnenwerk “Háry János”: Beiträge zu seinen volksmusikalischen und literarischen Quellen (München: Dr. Rudolf Trofenik, 1991), 15. 70. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 120. 71. Ferenc Bónis, “Kodály Zoltán két Háry János-kompozíciója” [Zoltán Kodály’s two Háry János compositions], in Erkel Ferencről, Kodály Zoltánról és korukról [On Ferenc Erkel, Zoltán Kodály and their age: Essays in the history of Hungarian music], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 2001), 142–58. 72. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 167–68. 73. Zoltán Kodály, “A Szovjetúnióban: Nyilatkozat” [In the Soviet Union: A statement], Visszatekintés 3, 533. 74. Zoltán Kodály, “A Háry János moszkvai bemutatóján” [On the Moscow première of Háry János], Visszatekintés 3, 532. 75. Bónis, “Kodály Zoltán két Háry János-kompozíciója,” 227. 76. Ibid. 77. Tibor Tallián, “A magyar opera fejlődése” [The development of Hungarian opera], in A budapesti Operaház 100 éve [100 years in the history of the Budapest Opera House], ed. Géza Staud (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1984), 232. 78. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 100. 79. Zoltán Kodály, “Toscanini emlékezete” [Remembering Toscanini], Visszatekintés 3, 460; Kodaly, “A francia rádió Háry János-előadása elé,” Visszatekintés 2, 502. 80. Zoltán Kodály, “A Háry Jánosról és a Szimfóniáról” [On Háry János and the Symphony], Visszatekintés 3, 524; “A Juilliard Zeneiskola Háry János-bemutatójáról” [On the performance of Háry János at the Juilliard], Visszatekintés 3, 517. 81. Rudolf Stephan Hoffmann, trans., Die kaiserlichen Abenteuer des Hary Janos: Libretto, (Wien: Universal Edition, 1962). 82. Zeidler, A revíziós gondolat, 15–20.

Notes to pages 106–111

231

83. Bence Szabolcsi, “Háry János. Kodály daljátékának bemutatója a budapesti Operaházban” [Háry János: The première of Kodály’s singspiel at the Budapest Opera House], Kodályról és Bartókról, 66. 84. Directed by Frigyes Bán. 85. Kodály, “Toscanini emlékezete”; Kodály, “A francia rádió Háry János-előadása elé.” 86. The source of Table 6 is Bereczky et al., Kodály Zoltán népdalfeldolgozásainak dallam- és szövegforrásai. 87. Ibid., 47–48. On the historical person János Háry, see Albert Hadnagy, “Ki volt Háry János?” [Who was János Háry?], in A főlevértárnok: Dr. Hadnagy Albert élete és munkássága [The chief archivist: The life and work of Dr. Albert Hadnagy], ed. Gyula Dobos [Szekszárd: Tolna megyei levéltár, 1991], no page number. 88. The family lived in Galanta between 1885 and 1892, and in May 1892 moved to Nagyszombat. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 9, 14. 89. According to the libretto, Háry lives in Nagyabony, a town in the Nagyszombat (Trnava) region, in the district of Dunaszerdahely (Dunajská Streda). The choice of geographical location provides a distinct possibility of reinforcing the identity of postVersailles Hungary, especially as there is a small town named Abony in Pest County as well. Kodály borrowed the melody of Ébresztő [Wake up!], the song about Nagyabony, from his Pozsony county collection, more specifically, Zsigárd (today, Žihárec) and Pozsony (now known as Bratislava, the Slovak capital). The text itself was taken from Lajos Abonyi’s collection from Abony in Pest county. Bereczky, Kodály Zoltán népdalfeldolgozásainak dallamés szövegforrásai, 56. 90. Ibid., 53–55. 91. Ibid., 42–43, 44. 92. Zoltán Kodály, “Önarckép” [Self-portrait], Visszatekintés 3, 589; Kodály, “Toscanini emlékezete.” 93. Zoltán Kodály, “Háry János hőstettei” [The heroic deeds of János Háry], Visszatekintés 3, 491. 94. Kodály, “Torontói előadások,” Visszatekintés 3, 167. 95. Zoltán Kodály, “On the anniversary of Beethoven’s death,” in The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis (London: Boosey & Hawkes, 1974), 76. 96. See also Carl Dahlhaus, “Intitulata Bonaparte,” in Ludwig van Beethoven und seine Zeit (Laaber: Laaber, 1987), 56–59. 97. Ferenc Bónis, “Történelmi jelképek a magyar zenében a nemzeti romantika korától—Kodályig” [Historical symbols in Hungarian music from national Romanticism to Kodály], in Kodály emlékkönyv 1997: Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 1997), 25. 98. Zoltán Kodály, ”A Vajda János Társaság Kodály-estjén” [At the Kodály Evening at the János Vajda Society], Visszatekintés 3, 36. 99. Zoltán Kodály, “Excelsior,”Visszatekintés 1, 56. 100. See Hans Robert Jauss, “Der literarische Prozeß des Modernismus von Rousseau bis Adorno,” in Studien zum Epochenwandel der ästhetischen Moderne (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1989), 87. Translated by Lisa C. Roetzel: “The Literary Process of Modernism from Rousseau to Adorno,” Cultural Critique 11 (1988–89): 27–61.

232

Notes to pages 112–116

101. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyar zenei műveltség Liszt korában és ma” [Hungarian musical culture in Liszt’s time and today], Visszatekintés 3, 37. 102. Ibid., 40. 103. Lajos Bárdos, “Organika” [Organics], in Tíz újabb írás (1969–1974) [Ten new writings] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1974), 242. 104. Tibor Tallián, Magyar képek: Fejezetek a magyar zeneélet és zeneszerzés történetéből 1940–1956 [Hungarian images: Chapters from the history of Hungarian musical life and composition] (Budapest: Balassi, 2014). See the chapter “Kodály háborús kórusművei” [Kodály’s wartime choral works], 102–7. 105. Béla Bartók, “A műzene fejlődése Magyarországon” [The development of art music in Hungary], in Bartók Béla írásai I. [Béla Bartók’s writings 1], ed. Tibor Tallián (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1989), 126. 106. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 146. 107. The first begins with the words “Pleni sunt coeli et terra,” the second with “Tu Rex gloriae,” and the third with “In te Domine speravi.” 108. Bars 350–91. 109. Szabolcsi, “A történeti tudatra nevelő Kodály Zoltán,” 331. C HA P T E R 9

1. Arnold Schoenberg, “Folkloristic Symphonies,” in Style and Idea by Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard Stein, trans. Leo Black (London: Faber and Faber, 1975), 164. 2. Schoenberg, “Folkloristic Symphonies,” 165. 3. Zoltán Kodály, “A Fölszállott a páva—zenekari változatok előadása elé,” Visszatekintés 1, 221. English transl.: Zoltán Kodály, “Introduction to the Performance of the ‘Peacock Variations’,” in The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis (London: Boosey and Hawkes, 1974), 222. 4. Ruth Solie, “The Living Work: Organicism and Analysis,” 19th Century Music 4, no. 2 (Fall 1980): 154–55. 5. Zoltán Horusitzky, “Zeneszerzés-tanárom: Kodály Zoltán” [My composition teacher: Zoltán Kodály], in A Kodály Intézet évkönyve I [The yearbook of the Kodály Institute] (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 1982), 17. István Sonkoly, Kodály, az ember, a művész, a nevelő [Kodály, the man, the artist, the pedagogue] (Nyíregyháza: Tanügyi könyvesbolt, 1948), 82–83. 6. Zoltán Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez” [My path to music], Visszatekintés 3, 551. 7. János Weissmann, “Kodály Concertója és Páva-variációi” [Kodály’s Concerto and Peacock Variations], in Zenetudományi tanulmányok IV [Studies in musicology], ed. Bence Szabolcsi and Dénes Bartha (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1957), 41. 8. János Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei” [Survey of the symphonic music of Zoltán Kodály], in Szabolcsi and Bartha, Zenetudományi tanulmányok IV, 99; László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Gondolat, 1967), 128–29; János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 155; and Elaine Sisman, “Variations,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie, 2nd ed., vol. 26 (London: Macmillan, 2001), 321. 9. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 156. 10. Weissmann, “Kodály Concertója és Páva-variációi,” 35.

Notes to pages 117–120

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11. For the analysis of the Schoenberg work, see Carl Dahlhaus, Arnold Schönberg: Variationen für Orchester, op. 31 (München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1968). 12. Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 99. 13. The sketches for Peacock Variations are held at the Kodály Archives under the following call numbers: Ms. mus. 666, Ms. mus. 442, Ms. mus. 443, Ms. mus. 430 / 3, 6, 7, Ms. mus. 375, Ms. mus. 265, Ms. mus. 422 / 4, Ms. mus. 280 / 2, Ms. mus. 281 / N–4 / 74, Ms. mus. 281 / N–7 / XIII. The sketches of the finale: Ms. mus. 660. 7.r–v, 10v, 11r–v, 25r; Ms. mus. 375, Ms. mus. 265, Ms. mus. 422 / 11, Ms. mus. 281 / N–7 / XIII. Besides the sketches, five manuscript scores of Peacock Varitations have survived: Ms. mus. 269 (autograph score), Ms. mus. 284 (served as the sources of the facsmile edition of the full score, on tracing paper with calligraphic notation), Ms. mus. 721 (the photocopy of Ms. mus. 284 with Kodály’s modifications in red pencil), Ms. mus. 722 (the reduced photocopy of Ms. mus. 721), and Ms. mus. 859 (the photocopy of Ms. mus. 284 supplemented by further sketches; the sketches of the finale are among these). 14. See Ms. mus. 660, 7v, 10r and 10v, 11r, 21r, 25v. 15. Ms. mus. 375. 16. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán, 128. 17. Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 98. 18. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán, 127. 19. According to Eősze, the composition “is also an affirmation of Kodály’s creative art. In folk music, the folk also shapes its melodies, consciously or unconsciously. The small changes, in time, lead to a new melody from the original.” Eősze, Kodály Zoltán, 128. See also Zoltán Kodály, “Introduction to the Performance of the ‘Peacock Variations’,” 222. 20. Weissmann, “Kodály Concertója és Páva-variációi,” 35. Kovács interpreted variation XI in a similar way, regarding the variation as a symbol of a bridge between Europe and Asia: “The descending melodic line of the folk song, its original structure disappears completely, and is replaced by the ternary form characteristic of European art music.” Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 101. 21. Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 99 22. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 157–59. 23. Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 101. 24. This is why Breuer is able to suggest that the introduction “awards with the experience of the birth of folk song”; Guide to Kodály, 156. 25. ”Those elements, which are used in other works mixed, or are crowded within a confined area, here appear in expanded form, detached and clear.” Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 103. 26. Sándor Jemnitz, “Kodály újdonság” [A new work by Kodály], in Jemnitz Sándor válogatott zenekritikái [Selected music criticism of Sándor Jemnitz], ed. Vera Lampert (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1973), 349–50. 27. László Eősze, “A századforduló eszmei áramlatainak hatása Kodály zeneszerzői egyéniségének kibonatkozására” [The influence of turn-of-the-century ideological trends on the development of Kodály’s personality as a composer], in Örökségünk Kodály: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály: Our heritage—Selected studies] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000), 37–38. 28. János Demény, “Ady költészetének hatása Bartók és Kodály életművében” [The Influence of Ady’s poetry in the œuvre of Bartók and Kodály], in Ady–Kodály emléknapok.

234

Notes to pages 120–126

Kecskemét 1977. XI. 30.–XII. 1. [Commemorating Ady and Kodály. Kecskemét, November 30–December 1, 1977], ed. Mihály Ittzés (Kecskemét: Kodály Zoltán Zenepedagógia Intézet, 1979), 41–43. 29. József Ujfalussy, “Ady-megzenésítések,” in Ittzés, Ady–Kodály emléknapok, 15. 30. Kodály quotes the following poems: “A magyar Messiások” [The Magyar messiahs], Megáradt a Tisza [The Tisza has flooded], “A Duna vallomása” [Confession of the Danube], “Az ős Kaján” [The demon guile], “A Halál-tó fölött” [Lake of death], and “Sípja régi babonának” [Old superstitions shriek]. See Demény, “Ady költészetének hatása Bartók és Kodály életművében,” 44. 31. Zoltán Kodály, “Visszatekintés,” Visszatekintés 1, 5–6. 32. Zoltán Kodály, “Mi a magyar a zenében?,” Visszatekintés 1, 78–79. English translation: “What Is Hungarian in Music,” in Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 28–33. 33. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében” [Hungarianness in music], Visszatekintés 2, 250. 34. Judit Frigyesi, Béla Bartók and Turn-of-the-Century Budapest (Berkeley: University of Californa Press, 1998), 160–61. 35. Ibid., 5. 36. Ibid., 9. 37. Ibid., 70–72. 38. Ibid., 79. 39. Ibid., 98. 40. Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében,” Visszatekintés 2, 258. 41. Breuer mentions in passing that Ady’s poem and Kodály’s orchestral work form a connection, but his statement is not supported by arguments; Guide to Kodály, 150. 42. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 149. 43. ”[The Peacock melody] is isolated and unknown in today’s Hungarian environment, but closely connected with an old Central-Asian musical culture, and representing its outermost branch, which reaches as far as the Lajta river.” Zoltán Kodály, “Mi a magyar a zenében?” Visszatekintés 1, 76. In English: Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 29. 44. Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében,” Visszatekintés 2, 244. 45. In this respect, Ady follows contemporary artistic ideals: the avant-garde artists of the twentieth century acted against the supremacy of literature, the dominance of the word, and borrowed their forms of expression from the fine arts and music. See Miklós Almási, Anti-esztétika: Séták a művészetfilozófiák labirintusában [Anti-aesthetics: Wandering in the labyrinth of art philosophies] (Budapest: Helikon, 2003), 110. 46. For an interpretative analysis of Ady’s poem, see the relevant section in István Király’s monograph on the poet: István Király, Endre Ady, vol. 1 (Budapest: Magvető, 1972), 516–22. 47. Weissmann, “Kodály Concertója és Páva-variációi,” 36. 48. Frigyesi, Béla Bartók and Turn-of-the-Century Budapest, 163. 49. Ibid., 157. 50. Ferenc Bónis and Mihály Ittzés also draw attention to this symbol. See Ferenc Bónis, “Történelmi jelképek a magyar zenében a nemzeti romantika korától—Kodályig” [Historical symbols in Hungarian music from the period of National Romanticism to Kodály], in Kodály emlékkönyv 1997: Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok [Honoring Kodály 1997: Essays

Notes to pages 126–129

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in the history of Hungarian music], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Püski, 1997), 25; Mihály Ittzés, “The Artistic and Pedagogical Problems of Programme Music in Kodály’s Oeuvre,” in Zoltán Kodály, in Retrospect: A Hungarian National Composer in the 20th Century on the Border of East and West (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 2002), 99. 51. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 159; Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 103. C HA P T E R 1 0

1. László Eősze, “Jézus és a kufárok: Kodály vegyeskari motettája” [Jesus and the traders: Kodály’s motet for mixed choir], in Örökségünk Kodály: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály: Our heritage—Selected studies] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000), 85. 2. Ferenc Bónis, “Neoklasszikus vonások Kodály zenéjében” [Neoclassical features in Kodály’s music], in Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok Kodály Zoltán emlékére [Studies in the history of Hungarian music in memory of Kodály], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 219. 3. János Breuer, “Bartók és Kodály” [Bartók and Kodály], in Bartók és Kodály: Tanulmányok századunk Magyar zenetörténetéhez [Bartók and Kodály: Studies in the Hungarian music history of our century] (Budapest: Magvető, 1978), 21. 4. György Kerényi, Az énekkari műveltség kezdetei [Beginning of choral education], Népszerű zenefüzetek 6 [Popular musical booklets] (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 28; Antal Molnár, “Az egyházi zene története rövid áttekintésben. 2. rész” [Brief overview of church music, part 2], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 2 (February 1929): 39. 5. Mosco Carner, “Music in the Mainland of Europe: 1918–1939,” in The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 10, The Modern Age, 1890–1960, ed. Martin Cooper (London: Oxford University Press, 1974), 300; Hermann Danuser, Die Musik des 20. Jahrhunderts. Neues Handbuch der Musikgeschichte. Band 7, ed. Carl Dahlhaus (Laaber: Laaber, 1984). 58. 6. Antal Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 42; and Margit Prahács, “A nemzeti kórus-stílusok kibontakozása” [Development of national choral styles], in Emlékkönyv Kodály Zoltán hatvanadik születésnapjára [In honor of Zoltán Kodály’s sixtieth birthday], ed. Béla Gunda (Budapest: Magyar Néprajzi Társaság, 1943), 83. 7. Artúr Harmat, “Hazai katolikus egyházi zenénk ezer éve” [A millenary of Hungarian Catholic church music], in Harmat Artúr: Emlékkönyv születésének 100. évfordulójára [Centenary of the birth of Artúr Harmat], ed. László Balássy et al. (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1985), 76. It appeared first in László Batizi, ed., A magyar muzsika hőskora és jelene történelmi képekben [Heroic age and present state of Hungarian music in historical pictures] (Budapest: Dr. Pintér Jenőné, 1944), 224–58. See also Margit Prahács, A modern zene [Modern music], offprint from Gyula Kornis, ed., A mai világ képe: Szellemi élet [The world today: Intellectual life] (Budapest: Királyi Magyar Egyetemi Nyomda, n.d.), 599. 8. Pope Pius X, “Tra le sollecitudini” [Instruction on sacred music], http://w2.vatican. va/content/pius-x/it/motu_proprio/documents/hf_p-x_motu-proprio_19031122_sollecitudini.html. English translation: https://adoremus.org/1903/11/22/tra-le-sollecitudini/. 9. Pope Pius XI, “Divini cultus sanctitem” [On divine worship], http://w2.vatican .va/content/pius-xi/la/apost_constitutions/documents/hf_p-xi_apc_19281220_divinicultus-sanctitatem.html. English translation: https://adoremus.org/1928/12/20/on-divineworship/.

236

Notes to pages 130–131

10. Vilmos Pöschl, “Az egyházzenei törvények ismertetése X. Pius ‘Motu proprio’-ja alapján. 2. rész” [The regulations concerning church music based on the “Motu proprio” of Pius X], Katholikus Kántor 16, no. 12 (December 1928): 204. 11. See, for example, Gyula Diczenty, “A liturgikus népének tanítása az elemi iskolákban és az új tanterv” [Teaching of liturgical songs in elementary schools and the new curriculum], Katholikus Kántor 16, no. 12 (December 1928): 199–200; Barna Kishonti, “Tanítóképzés és kántorképzés” [Teacher and cantor training], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 3 (March 1929): 61–63; and Barna Kishonti, “Tanítóképzés és kántorképzés: Befejező közlemény” [Teacher and cantor training: Closing statements], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 4 (April 1929): 88–92. 12. Perhaps this explains why Bárdos and Kertész joined the new National Hungarian Cecilia Society in January 1926, essentially created by authors of Katholikus Kántor. See N. N., “Az Országos Magyar Cecília Egyesület megalakulásáról” [On the foundation of the National Hungarian Cecilia Society], Katholikus Kántor 14, no. 2 (February 1926): 34–37. 13. K. Gy. [György Kerényi], “Hangversenyek: Magyar est a Regnum Marianumban” [Concerts: Hungarian evening at the Regnum Marianum], Katholikus Kántor 16, no. 12 (December 1928): 209. 14. Sándor Sztára, “Kísérhető-e a gregorián-choral modern harmóniákkal?” [Can Gregorian chorales be accompanied by modern harmonies?], Katholikus Kántor 14, no. 12 (December 1926): 224–25. 15. Ibid., 225. Yet Sztára’s idea did not inspire many followers. On the contrary, his article triggered an outcry from Tibor Pikéthy, an extreme conservative, who looked on the work of Kodály’s pupils with great aversion. Pikéthy’s answer to Sztára’s article appeared in two parts: “Kísérhető-e a gregorián-choral modern harmóniákkal?” [Can Gregorian chorales be accompanied by modern harmonies?], Katholikus Kántor 15, no. 1 (January 1927): 4–6, and 15, no. 2 (February 1927): 32–34. Pikéthy also took issue with György Kerényi on account of his article “Templomi zene Győrben” [Church music in Győr], Napkelet 4, no. 7 (July 1926): 688–90. Pikéthy’s retort: “Templomi zene Győrben: Pikéthy Tibor válasza” [Church music in Győr: A response by Tibor Pikéthy], Katholikus Kántor 14, nos. 8–9 (August–September 1926): 159–61. The debate was also joined by János Babócsy: “Templomi zene Győrött” [Church music in Győr], Katholikus Kántor 14, no. 12 (December 1926): 230–31. 16. Lajos Bárdos, “Karácsonyi népénekek (Régi dalok új köntösben)” [Popular Christmas songs (Old carols in new attire)], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 1 (January 1929): 17. 17. Ibid., 18. 18. Jenő Ádám, “Bárdos György: Missa cantata” [György Bárdos: Missa cantata], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 1 (January 1929): 18. 19. Originally published by the author, these were mainly backed by the founders of Magyar Kórus. The second edition of Tantum Ergo V appeared in the Magyar Cantuale. See Lajos Bárdos, Gyula Kertész, and Géza Koudela, eds., Magyar Cantuale: Egyházi énekeskönyv: Magyar egyházi népénekekkel, régi és újabb szerzők motettáival, gregorián korálisokkal, kánonokkal és imádságokkal [Hungarian Cantuale with Hungarian folk hymns, motets by earlier and more recent composers, Gregorian chorales, canons, and prayers] (Budapest: Magyar Kórus, 1935), 258–62. 20. Antal Molnár, “Bárdos Lajos: Három magyar egyházi ének vegyeskarra” [Lajos Bárdos: Three Hungarian church songs for mixed choir], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 1 (January 1929): 16.

Notes to pages 131–133

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21. The significance of Bárdos was also acknowledged in the 1930s by Aladár Tóth and Bence Szabolcsi. Aladár Tóth, “A Cecília-kórus hangversenye Bárdos Lajos vezényletével” [The Cecilia choir in concert conducted by Lajos Bárdos], Pesti Napló 86 / 87 (April 16, 1935): 12; the review also appeared in a selection of Tóth’s reviews: Tóth Aladár válogatott kritikái [Selected criticism of Aladár Tóth], ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1968), 123– 25. Bence Szabolcsi, “Énekkari est” [A choral evening], in Kodályról és Bartókról, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1987), 141. 22. Between 1920 and 1946 Harmat served as an inspector of singing teaching, in 1921– 27 as artistic director of the Palestrina Choir, in 1922–26 as teacher of composition at the Budapest Upper Music School (Fővárosi Felsőbb Zeneiskola), in 1922–38 as choirmaster at Inner City Parish Church (Belvárosi Főplébánia templom), in 1938–56 as choirmaster at St. Stephen’s Basilica (Szent István Bazilika), and in 1924–59 as professor at the Academy of Music, founding the Department of Church Music there in 1927. 23. János Mátyás, “Hány színe van az életnek?” Beszélgetések Bárdos Lajossal— Dokumentumok [“How many colors does life offer?” Conversations with Lajos Bárdos— Documents] (Budapest: Ikon kiadó, 1996), 39. 24. Artúr Harmat, “Kántorképzés” [Cantor training], Katholikus Kántor 9, no. 1 (March 1921): 5. The article was published in two parts, the second in Katholikus Kántor 9, no. 2 (April 15, 1921): 10–11. On the simplistic representation that Kodály launched the choir movement and the program to elevate musical general knowledge, see, among others, the study by István Mészáros, “Kodály és az ‘Éneklő ifjúság’-mozgalom” [Kodály and the “Singing Youth Movement”], Pedagógiai Szemle 17, no. 6 (July 1967): 521–32; and István Raics, “Bárdos Lajos zeneszerzői világa” [The world of Lajos Bárdos as a composer], Muzsika 16, no. 10 (October 1974): 1–3. Gyula Maróti’s essay offers a subtler picture of the revival of Catholic church music and on Bárdos’s leading role: “Kórusmozgalom Magyarországon a harmincas években” [Choral movement in Hungary in the nineteen thirties], Magyar Zene 30, no. 3 (September 1989): 292–305. 25. Frigyes Huber, “Harmat Artúr 60 éves” [Artúr Harmat at 60], Magyar Kórus 15, no. 1 (September 1945): 1112. 26. –s–s [Lajos Bárdos], “Kodály Zoltán: Psalmus Hungaricus,” Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 2 (February 1929): 54. 27. An exception occurred for a brief period in 1935, when Frigyes Kemenes-Kunst served as editor-in-chief. 28. György Kerényi, A tanítvány: Egy élet Kodály mellett, Két kötet [The pupil: A life spent by Kodály’s side, two volumes] (Manuscript, Budapest, n.d.). 29. György Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán és a magyar kórus” [Zoltán Kodály and the Hungarian chorus], Magyar Kórus 2, no. 8 (December 1932): 94–97; “Kodály Zoltán templomi zenéje” [Zoltán Kodály’s church music], Magyar Kórus 7, no. 27 (October 1937): 495–96; and “Kodály Zoltán szentzenéje” [Zoltán Kodály’s sacred music], Magyar Kórus 19, no. 3 (October 1949): 1638–640. 30. Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán és a magyar kórus,” 95. 31. ”Hungarian song in Hungarian churches—this is Kodály’s dream,” writes Kerényi. Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán és a magyar kórus,” 97. 32. Ibid. There are similar images and expressions in Kerényi’s major work of the period: Az énekkari műveltség kezdetei [Beginnings of choral education] (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936).

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Notes to pages 133–134

33. ”The inborn drive of young singing Hungarians, which under the impact of Kodály turns closer to Palestrina and Orlando di Lasso, is our creed and affirmation. It is with Kodály’s music that Hungarian people enter into the world-choir of musica sacra, taking their long-awaited place among the crown-bearers of musical art.” Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán templomi zenéje,” 496. 34. Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán szentzenéje,” 1638. 35. Antal Molnár, “Az egyházi zene története rövid áttekintésben” [Brief history of church music], Katholikus Kántor, part 1, 17, no. 1 (January 1929): 10–11; part 2, 17, no. 2 (February 1929): 37–39; part 3, 17, no. 3 (March 1929): 66–68. The lecture was also published separately (Eger: Egri nyomda Rt., 1929). 36. Franz Liszt, “Über die zukünftige Kirchenmusik: Ein Fragment (1834),” in Franz Liszt, Gesammelte Schriften 2. Band. Essays und Reisebriefe eines Baccalaures der Tonkunst, ed. Lina Raman (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1881), 55–57. 37. Molnár, “Az egyházi zene története,” part 3, 67. 38. Ibid., 68. 39. Ibid., 68. 40. Antal Molnár, Bevezetés a zenekultúrába [Introduction to musical culture] (Budapest: Dante, 1927), 38–39, 47; A ma zenéje [Music today] (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1937), 41; and Az új zene: A zeneművészet legújabb irányának ismertetése kultúretikai megvilágításban [New music: Introduction to the newest trends in music in a cultural / ethical light] (Budapest: Révai, n.d.), 107. 41. Molnár, Bevezetés a zenekultúrába, 39. 42. ”Counterpoint in today’s music would not have prevailed either had sacred polyphony not constituted the boundless stability of the Word.” Molnár, A ma zenéje, 11. Siegfried Borris points out that twentieth-century musica sacra, together with aspirations of renewal, was also intent on contributing to the building of society. Counterpoint served as a symbol for these tendencies by bridging the rift between secular and sacred music. “Probleme des Kontrapunkts,” in Terminologie der neuen Musik: Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für Neue Musik und Musikerziehung Darmstadt. 5. Band, ed. Siegfried Borris (Berlin: Merseburger, 1965), 21. 43. ”That we return to linearity stems from the instinct for collective and religious purpose.” Molnár, A ma zenéje, 25. 44. ”The strictness of counterpoint symbolizes how inner jurisdiction can rightly define human life and how voices follow each other’s canon, merging in orderly manner, so that the spirit follows the law and unites with dogma.” Molnár, Az új muzsika szelleme [The spirit of new music] (Budapest: Dante, n.d. [1947]), 35. 45. Molnár, Kodály Zoltán, 46. 46. Ibid., 46. 47. It is clear from the songbook’s introduction that Kodály helped select and transcribe the melodies, interpret their rhythmic features, and make corrections. See Artúr Harmat and Sándor Sík, eds., Szent vagy, Uram! Ősi és újabb egyházi énekkincsünk tára [Thou art sacred, O Lord! Collection of ancient and more recent church songs] (Budapest: Magyar Kórus, 1931), ix. 48. W. E. Mellers, “Kodály and the Christian Epic,” Music and Letters 22, no. 2 (April 1941): 155–61. Mellers’s study of works drawing on Christian poetry pinpoints Te Deum of Budavár and does not attempt to classify Kodály’s religious compositions. Halsey Stevens’s comprehen-

Notes to pages 134–135

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sive study, “The Choral Music of Zoltán Kodály,” Musical Quarterly 56, no. 2 (April 1968): 147–68, on 151, aims to formulate a typology of Kodály’s choral output, but the text-based scheme distinguishes those with church religious texts from nonchurch compositions (the other types being choral works with secular texts and solfège exercises with no text). 49. Like the ideal of Catholic church-music revival, the concept of musical education ascribed to Kodály appears late in his writings in relation to those of his followers. His “Gyermekkarok” [Children’s choirs] of 1929 outlines the plan of the choral movement, but his next piece to deal de facto with music education appears only in 1934: “Zenei belmisszió” [Musical home mission]. His articles in the 1930s—“A magyar karének útja” [The path of Hungarian choral movement] (1935), “Excelsior” (1936), “A hangadás” [Giving pitches] (1937)—deal only with issues of choral practice, not strictly with music pedagogy. Articles on that began to appear in larger numbers at the beginning of the 1940s. So rather than preceding similar works by the Bárdos circle, Kodály’s writings follow them. 50. János Mátyás, “Kodály: Miserere (1903),” Muzsika 16, no. 1 (January 1973): 5–10. In 1997, Editio Musica Budapest published Stabat Mater (1898), Ave Maria (1899), Offertórium (1902), and Miserere (1903). 51. Sources for the masses planned in Nagyszombat include Ms. mus. Nagyszombat: 11 / b 2r, 13, 14 / 1r and 1v, 17 / 1r, 22 / v, 26 / 2v, 27 / 1r, 28 / 1r and 1v, 30r, 48 / 1–32. Ms. mus. Bp / 1900. 52. The aging Kodály’s memories also allude to this: “I found in Nagyszombat a new inspiration in church music. The cathedral still held traces of once blooming musical life, as fifty years before our generation there had been a thriving society for church music. We encountered a number of unpublished manuscripts and manuscript copies, by Albrechtsberger, Haydn, and masses by composers of the day, but also Beethoven’s Mass in C Major. This well-written copy was the first Beethoven score I had been able to study.” Zoltán Kodály, “Emlékek” [Reminiscences], Visszatekintés 3, 527. On relations between Rheinberger and the anti-Cecilian movement, see Theodor Kroyer, Joseph Rheinberger (Regensburg: Pustet, 1916), 45, 178, 183, 224; Hans-Josef Irmen, Gabriel Josef Rheinberger als Antipode des Cäcilianismus (Regensburg: Gustav Bosse, 1970). The topic is covered mainly in chapter 4, “G. J. Rheinbergers Stellungnahme zur Kirchenmusik seiner Zeit,” 187–216. 53. According to László Eősze, Kodály conducted Beethoven’s Mass in C Major on February 3, 1930. On the same evening, he also performed Bach’s Actus Tragicus. See László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [Chronicle of Zoltán Kodály's life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 129. 54. Benjamin Rajeczky, “Kodály vallásos és egyházi művei” [Kodály’s religious and church music], A Zene 19, nos. 13–14 (May 15, 1938): 223. In his study of 1932 Kerényi also differentiates between Kodály’s religious and church music; the latter is represented by Pange lingua, but the former constitutes works such as Víllő, Gergelyjárás (St. Gregory’s day), Lengyel László (King Ladislaus’s men), Új esztendőt köszöntő (New Year’s greeting), Jelenti magát Jézus (The voice of Jesus), and Pünkösdölő (Whitsuntide), intended to be heard, he claimed, in front of the church as mystery plays. See Kerényi, “Kodály Zoltán és a magyar kórus,” 95. 55. The fact that these symbolic texts were written in Hungarian plays a decisive role. The original Latin song Adventi ének (Advent song), for example, was translated into Hungarian by Dénes Szedő.

240

Notes to pages 135–137

56. Tibor Tallián, Musik in Ungarn: Zeiten, Schicksale, Werke (Budapest: Frankfurt 99’, 1999), 28, 30. Although Tallián makes no mention of them, the Balassi settings Szép könyörgés [Beseeching] and Balassi Bálint elfelejtett éneke [The forgotten song of Bálint Balassi] to a poem by Erzsi Gazdag also belong to the group. 57. The première of this version for chorus and organ took place on February 11, 1945, in the opera house of liberated Budapest, and the composer’s subtitle to the work, “In tempore belli,” is emphasized in Kodály literature to this day. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán élete és munkássága [Zoltán Kodály’s life and work] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1956), 151. 58. Missa brevis has survived in three versions. Kodály first composed Csendes mise (Organ Mass) for solo organ in 1942, then revised it, and completed Missa brevis for four solo voices, mixed choir, and organ in 1944. Finally, in 1947, a second revision spawned the work with orchestral accompaniment. A revision of the version for solo organ (Organoedia ad missam lectam) appeared in 1966. The different versions are discussed in detail by János Breuer in Guide to Kodály, 172–82. 59. Pius X was opposed to masses with exclusively instrumental accompaniment and accepted the organ only as a choral accompaniment. Pius X, Motu proprio, 22. The Missa brevis for choir and organ meets these requirements. 60. The movements for mass composed for organ that survive in the third volume of Klavierübung are no longer seen as a unified cycle. See Manfred Tessmer, ed., Johann Sebastian Bach, Neue Ausgabe Sämtlicher Werke. Serie IV. Band 4. Dritter Teil der Klavierübung. Kritisches Bericht (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1974), 31–32. 61. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 289–303. 62. The exception is his article titled “Excelsior,” written in 1936, which contains an allusion to the efforts to renew church music, the main source of the choral movement: “Without a doubt most of the singers grew tired of the old song, wishing to sing ‘new songs’ to the Lord.” Kodály, “Excelsior,” Visszatekintés 1, 56. 63. Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 289, 290. 64. Ibid., 290–93. It also touches on the issues of Calvinist musical revival on 299–303. 65. Kodály’s notes clearly reveal that prior to the composition of Csendes mise (Organ Mass) he visited different churches to evaluate the quality of musical life in the Church, writing a “churchgoer’s diary” for himself. See Vargyas, Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet, 294. 66. Ibid., 291. 67. Ibid., 294. 68. Ibid., 294. 69. Ibid., 292–93. 70. Some notes by Kodály in Albert Schweitzer’s book on Bach (Kodály Archive call no. 2447) testify to this. Schweitzer, in reviewing Feruccio Busoni’s arrangements, believed that “Bach ist mehr Organist, als ‘Klavierist’; seine Musik ist mehr architektonisch als ‘Sentimental’. Das will heißen, daß sich bei ihm auch das Gefühlsmäßige in einer auf den akustischen Formensinn berechneten Art ausdrückt.” Bach’s fugues do not, as we see in Busoni’s arrangements, start from piano and reach a climactic forte, but follow step-by-step dynam-

Notes to pages 137–144

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ics. Next to these and relevant passages, Kodály also notes Busoni’s name. Albert Schweitzer, J. S. Bach, 3rd ed. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1920). English translation [slightly clarified] by Ernest Newman, vol. 1, reprint (New York: Macmillan, 1955), 355. 71. Mátyás Seiber ignored this, citing Palestrina, Impressionism, and the effect of Hungarian folk song. See Mátyás Seiber, “Missa Brevis,” Tempo New Series 2, no. 4 (Summer 1947): 3–6. C HA P T E R 1 1

1. Ferenc Bónis, így láttuk Kodályt: Nyolcvan emlékezés [How we saw Kodály: Eighty recollections] (Budapest: Püski, 1994), 170. 2. Ibid., 112, 154, 165, 220. 3. Knud Jeppesen, Palestrinastil med saerligt Henblick paa Dissonansbehandlingen (Copenhagen: Levin & Munksgaardo, 1923); English translation, The Style of Palestrina and the Dissonance (1927). For bibliographical references to the counterpoint textbooks cited here, see Table 9. This also has shelf marks of the Budapest Kodály Archives (KA) and the library of the Budapest Academy of Music (ZAK). 4. Kodály’s letters to Jeppesen: Letters nos. 324, 327, 340, 382, 510, 574, 581, 586, 589, 603, 665, and 858, in Zoltán Kodály Letters in English, French, German, Italian, Latin, ed. Dezső Legánÿ and Dénes Legánÿ (Budapest: Argumentum–Kodály Arhívum, 2002) (hereafter Letters). 5. Letters, 180 (no. 324). 6. Letters, 181 (no. 327). 7. Jeppesen’s reply to Kodály (August 11, 1936) reveals that Kodály had suggested translating the counterpoint book into Hungarian. This translation did not appear until 1974, however. Knud Jeppesen, Ellenpont: A klasszikus vokális polifónia tankönyve [Counterpoint: A textbook on classical vocal polyphony], trans. Imre Ormay (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1964). Meanwhile, Artúr Harmat’s two-volume work on counterpoint was based on works by Jeppesen; Artúr Harmat, Ellenponttan I: Kétszólamú ellenpont [Counterpoint studies I: Two-part counterpoint] (Budapest: Magyar Kórus, 1947); Ellenponttan II: Háromszólamú ellenpont [Counterpoint studies II: Three-part counterpoint] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1956). Yet Hungarian textbooks had also been published at the beginning of the twentieth century: Géza Szemethy, A Palestrina-stilről: Különlenyomat a Katholikus Egyházzenei Közlöny IX. évfolyamából [On the Palestrina style: Offprint of volume 9 of Gazette of Catholic Church Music] (Budapest: Stephanum, 1902). 8. Or: “Ha bemegyek, ha bemegyek a baracsi csárdába” (If I go to the Baracs inn). 9. László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Gondolat, 1967), 13. 10. Ms. mus. 496 / 1–184. 11. Kodály also refers to Fux in his “Kontrapunkt” notes: Ms. mus. 496 / 110r, 180, 1r–5v. 12. Kodály also refers to Martini’s book in the “Kontrapunkt” manuscript: Ms. mus. 496 / 110r, 121r, 132r. 13. Ms. mus. 496 / 10r−v, 18v, 182 1r. 14. Michael Haller, Kompositionslehre für Polyphonen Kirchengesang mit besonderer Rücksicht auf die Meisterwerke des 16. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg: Coppenrath, 1891).

242

Notes to pages 146–150

15. Géza Moravcsik, ed., Az Országos M. Kir. Zeneakadémia Évkönyve az 1916 / 17-iki tanévről [Annals of the Hungarian Royal Academy of Music for 1916 / 17] (Budapest: Országos M. Kir. Zeneakadémia, 1927), 50. 16. Géza Moravcsik, ed., Az Országos Magyar Királyi Zene-Akadémia Évkönyve [Annals of the Hungarian Royal Academy of Music] (Budapest: Atheneum, 1894), 22; Siegfried Wilhelm Dehn, Az ellenpontozat tana [Discipline of counterpoint], trans. István Kereszty (Budapest: Pesti Könyvnyomda, 1893). 17. Currently in the Library of the Liszt Academy, no shelf mark. 18. In the Kontrapunkt manuscript Ms. mus. 497 / 176, there is a separate bundle of manuscripts that date from before 1906, as the still schoolboyish handwriting of Kodály shows. On this basis it can be deduced that Kodály as Koessler’s pupil went through Fux’s and Scholz’s books, as well as those of Riemann and Richter. 19. Ms. mus. 496: Bellermann: 44r–v, 64r, 65r, 84v, 85r, 86r, 93r, 110v; Kitson: 26r, 34r, 41r, 93r, 94r, 102v; Prout: 1r, 17v, 23r, 28r–30r, 32r, 44r, 45r, 47r–48r, 50r, 61r, 63r, 64r, 66r, 67r, 81r, 82r, 83r, 84v, 85r, 89r, 94r, 100r, 101r–102v, 138r, 139r–v, 141r, 143r; Schenker: 42r, 44r, 52r, 63r, 64r, 72r, 83r, 84v, 85r. 20. Lajos Vargyas, ed., Közélet, vallomások, zeneélet [Public life, confessions, musical life] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1989), 208. 21. Zoltán Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez” [My path to music], Visszatekintés 3, 542. 22. Zoltán Kodály, “Serly Tibor könyve elé” [Preface to Tibor Serly’s book], Visszatekintés 3, 127. 23. The German original: “Darf ich Ihnen meine weiteren Wünsche mitteilen? Vorläufig die Ergenzung zum Palestr.[inastil] (die übrigen Satztechnischen Eigentümlichkeiten) und damit gelingt Ihnen etwas, was Kurth mit Bach nicht gelang.” Letters, 181. 24. Johann Joseph Fux, Gradus ad Parnassum oder Anfuehrung zur Regelmäßigen Musikalischen Composition auf eine neue, gewisse, und bisher noch niemals in so deutlicher Ordnung an das Licht gebrachte Art, trans. and ed. Lorenz Mizler (Leipzig: Mizler, 1742). Italian translation (Carpi: Manfredi, 1761); English translation (London: Preston, 1770); French translation (Paris: Denis, 1773). 25. Viktor Herzfeld, A fuga [The fugue] (Budapest: Rozsnyai, 1913); Albert Siklós, Ellenponttan [The study of counterpoint] (Budapest: Rozsnyai, 1913). 26. Before 1907 Kodály would have known Renaissance polyphonic works from various collections, including Karl Proske’s series Musica Divina (Regensburg: Pustet, 1874; shelf mark Z8042 / I–VIII LH in the Library of the Liszt Academy of Music), which had come from Liszt’s estate. See Liszt Ferenc hagyatéka a budapesti Zeneművészeti Főiskolán [The estate of Franz Liszt at the Academy of Music in Budapest], vol. 2, ed. Mária Eckhardt (Budapest: Liszt Academy of Music, n.d.). Another key source was Franz Commer, Musica Sacra (Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1838, shelf mark Z4496 / I–XIV in the Academy of Music library), and Michael Haller, Op. 88 Exempla Poliphoniae Ecclesiasticae (Regensburg: Pustet, 1904, shelf mark Z 13420 / I–II in the Academy of Music library), a two-volume collection— indeed, Kodály’s notes can be found in these items. 27. See Kodály’s “Mihálovits Lukács három magyar nótája” [Three Hungarian songs by Lukács Mihálovits], published in 1951 in Új Zenei Szemle, and his notes, Visszatekintés 2, 271; Lajos Vargyas, ed., Magyar zene, magyar nyelv, magyar vers [Hungarian music, language, poetry] (Budapest: Szépirodalmi, 1993), 136.

Notes to pages 150–154

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28. Zoltán Kodály, “Mihálovits Lukács három magyar nótája” [Three Hungarian songs by Lukács Mihálovits], Visszatekintés 2, 271. 29. Zoltán Kodály, “A magyar népzene” [Folk music of Hungary], Visszatekintés 3, 292– 372. 30. Ibid., 331. 31. Zoltán Kodály, “Magyarság a zenében” [Hungarianness in music], Visszatekintés 2, 245. 32. Kodály describes “népies műdal” thus in “A magyar népzene,” Visszatekintés 3, 297. 33. Ibid., 371–72. C HA P T E R 1 2

1. Theodor Wiesengrund Adorno, “Die Funktion des Kontrapunkts in der neuen Musik,” in Klangfiguren: Musikalische Schriften, vol. I (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 1959), 210–47. 2. Ibid., 223. 3. Ibid., 216. See also Paul Hindemith, Unterweisung im Tonsatz I–II (Mainz: Schott’s Söhne, 1940). 4. Adorno, “Funktion des Kontrapunkts,” 218. 5. Adorno clearly had serialism in mind here. Ibid., 228, 238. 6. Ibid., 216. 7. This makes Adorno’s detailed, if biased, analysis so important. Charles Warren Fox sought to develop a specific phenomenological, analytical approach: “Modern Counterpoint: A Phenomenological Approach,” Notes 6, no. 1 (December 1948): 46–57. Diether de la Motte experimented with analyzing certain works (“Kontrapunkt”), and Siegfried Borris explored some technical issues (“Probleme des Kontrapunkts”). Both these studies appear in Terminologie der neuen Musik: Veröffentlichungen des Instituts für neue Musik und Musikerziehung Darmstadt, ed. Siegfried Borris et al., vol. 5 (Berlin: Merseburger, 1965), 7–16, 17–24. 8. Kodály’s pupil Antal Molnár was among those with this view: Antal Molnár, “Az egyházi zene története rövid áttekintésben. 3. rész” [Short overview of church music, part 3], Katholikus Kántor 17, no. 3 (March 1928): 66–68. 9. Siegfried Günther, Moderne Polyphonie (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1930). Günther, a music pedagogue, co-initiated in 1937–38 a debate on the applicability and methodological basis of racial theory in musicology, in Archiv für Musikforschung. For detail, see Pamela S. Potter, “Incentives to Explore the Race Problem and the Jewish Question in Musicology,” in Most Germans of the Arts (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998), 182. 10. Günther, Moderne Polyphonie, 70. 11. Ibid., 71. 12. Ibid., 72–88. It is worth comparing Günther’s work with that of György Kerényi, notably Az énekkari műveltség kezdetei [Beginnings of choral education], Népszerű zenefüzetek 6 [Popular musical booklets] (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936). 13. Günther, Moderne Polyphonie, 97. 14. At the time of publication in 1930 Günther could not have discussed Kodály in this context, for want of compositions or statements to this effect. 15. Antal Molnár, “Magyar kontrapunkt” [Hungarian counterpoint], Zenei Szemle 1, no. 4 (June 1917): 120; Lajos Bárdos, “Kodály gyermekkarairól” [Kodály’s children’s choruses],

244

Notes to pages 154–159

in Tíz újabb írás, 1969– 1974 [Ten new writings, 1969–1974] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1974), 115–210. See chap. 2, “Polifónia” [Polyphony], 154–76. 16. Bárdos, “Kodály gyermekkarairól,” chap. 2, “Polifónia.” 17. Antal Molnár, Kodály Zoltán (Budapest: Somló Béla, 1936), 45. 18. Ibid., 42. 19. Kodály does not strictly adhere to the rules here either: after a downward leap he moves down again instead of changing the direction of movement, although this irregularity follows from the cantus firmus. 20. Bárdos, “Kodály gyermekkarairól”; Mihály Ittzés, “Kodály’s Singing Exercises and Their Relation to European Art Music,” in Zoltán Kodály in Retrospect: A Hungarian National Composer in the 20th Century on the Border of East and West (Kecskemét: Kodály Intézet, 2002), 62–80. 21. Ittzés, “Kodály’s Singing Exercises,” 67. 22. Ibid., 75. He compared the melody of Bicinia Hungarica no. 115—an arrangement of Geneva Psalm 124—with a melody from Lasso’s Missa Puisque j’ai perdu and demonstrated kinship between the melody of “Kis kacsa fürdik” (The little duck swims) (BH/101) and a chorale by Nicolaus Herman from around 1560. 23. Ibid., 77. 24. Zoltán Kodály, “Ancient Traditions: Today’s Musical Life—Lecture Given at the Institute of Popular Education,” In The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis (Budapest: Corvina Press, 1974), 165–66. (Hungarian original: “Ősi hagyomány—mai zeneélet. Előadás a Népművészeti Intézet iskoláján,” in Visszatekintés 1, 225−26.) 25. Ms. mus. 496 / 1–184. A small part of the manuscript deals with three- and fourvoice counterpoint. 26. A surviving lesson plan serves as proof: Ms. mus. 496 / 28r. This collection of notes contains one attesting to Kodály’s early interest in counterpoint: a notebook in which Kodály as an Academy of Music student collected, among other comments, his notes to Fux’s Gradus (Ms. mus. 496 / 180). Another collection of notes, referring to the works of Riemann and Scholz, also dates from this early period (Ms. mus. 496 / 176). 27. Ms. mus. 496 / 68r, 80r, 113r, 179r. 28. Ms. mus. 496 / 1r, 2r, 8r, 9r, 11r, 78r, 80r, 91r, 107r, 108r, 109r, 111r, 121r 125r, 128r, 130r. 29. Ms. mus. 496 / 7r, 8r, 24r, 62r. 30. 10r–v, 12r–14v, 15v–16v, 19r–23r, 54r–v, 100v, 114r–118v, 120r, 182 / 1r–3r. For most of his exercises Kodály used the cantus firmi provided in Paul Juon, Kontrapunkt: Aufgabenbuch (Berlin: Schlesinger, 1910). 31. Ms. mus. 496 / 18v. 32. Ms. mus. 496 / 20r; Ms. mus. 496 / 54r. 33. Kodály also considered whether dealing with counterpoint could involve the possibility of new harmonic ideas. “The foundations of modern ‘harmonic’ c[ounter]p[oint] are not yet stable. But will they be? Before it dev[elops], the new harmonizers tilt at the walls of H[armonie]lehre.” Ms. mus. 496 / 171v. 34. Ms. mus. 496 / 41r–v. At the same time, another note, edited and published by Lajos Vargyas, entitled “12 Errors of Antal Molnár,” makes a case for the correspondence and equality of harmony and counterpoint. Vargyas, Magyar zene, magyar vers, magyar nyelv, 54–55.

Notes to pages 159–168

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35. Ms. mus. 496 / 26r. 36. Ms. mus. 496 / 119r. 37. Ms. mus. 496 / 48v. 38. Kodály, “A magyar népzene” [Folk music of Hungary], Visszatekintés 3, 331. 39. ”C[ounter]p[oint] is clearly theory of melody . . . .” Ms. mus. 496 / 49r. 40. ”Did 16th-century man sense a real difference between the two [consonance and dissonance]? Because with + diss[onance] (+) conson[ance] does the identity of the two not cancel out the difference? He would rather hear the mel[ody], whether high or low, than the relationship of the 2 p[arts].” Ms. mus. 496 / 149r. 41. Ms. mus. 496 / 69r, 85r, 86r, 87r. Note on 86 recto expounds the problem most clearly: “None touches on the triple problem. 1. Shall we list it with dual? pure con[sonance]? 2. with quadruple? dissonance of passing counter-movement? and allow passing 7 and 2 and similar systematizable milder cases?” 42. Ms. mus. 496 / 48v. 43. Bicinia Hungarica was written between 1937 and 1942. The 15 two-part vocal exercises were finished in 1941; the 33, 44, and 55 two-part vocal exercises in 1954; the 22 and the 66 two-part vocal exercises in 1962; and the 77 two-part vocal exercises in 1966. 44. Ittzés, “Kodály énekgyakorlatai,” 101–9. 45. Ibid., 97–98. 46. Bárdos, “Kodály gyermekkarairól,” 155–57. 47. 33 / 6; 66 / 19, 22, 26, 28, 29, 30, 39, 45. 48. 55 / 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 17, 18, 28, 31. 49. Examples of the first type: BH / 9, 11, 13, 23, 28, 32, 34, 35, 36, 53, 66, 68, 82, 83, 86, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 103, 104, 108, 136, 141, 143, 146, 148, 150, 152, 153, 156, 158, 164, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 175, 176, 177, 178, 180; 15 / 6; 55 / 6; 66 / 15, 33; 77 / 7, 9, 73. 50. Examples of the second type: BH / 7, 52, 54; 66/10, 11, 20, 23, 28, 39, 41, 44, 52, 58; 77 / 71. 51. There are no bar lines in nos. 4, 17, and 28 either, and elsewhere he employs 4 / 2 and 3 / 1 time: nos. 7, 18, and 31. 52. BH / 7, 8, 18, 35, 36, 38, 39, 46, 51, 58, 64, 66, 72, 83, 101, 103, 107, 110, 113, 120, 123, 125, 128, 133, 138, 141, 148, 150, 155, 162, 170, 180; 15 / 10; 22 / 14; 33 / 7, 11, 12, 14, 17; 44 / 2, 22, 25, 28, 30, 32, 36; 55 / 6, 7, 40, 49, 54; 66 / 59, 66; 77 / 52, 54, 58, 59, 69. In addition to triple meter, Kodály was also interested in the possibilities of 5 / 4, 5 / 8, and 7 / 4 meter: BH / 61, 121, 122, 136, 139, 156, 159, 160, 165, 169, 172, 173, 174, 177, 178, 179; 15 / 5; 33 / 10; 55 / 25, 47; 77 / 71a. 53. This is even more obvious in the three-part version of the piece: BH / 101a. C HA P T E R 1 3

1. Ferenc Bónis, ed., The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (Budapest: Corvina, 1964), 235. 2. János Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei” [Survey of the symphonic music of Zoltán Kodály], in Zenetudományi tanulmányok VI: Kodály Zoltán 75. születésnapjára [Zoltán Kodály: Honoring his 75th birthday], ed. Bence Szabolcsi and Dénes Bartha (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1957), 95–98.

246

Notes to pages 168–172

3. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 167; and János Weissmann, “Kodály Concerto-ja és Páva-variációi” [Kodály’s Concerto and Peacock Variations], in Szabolcsi and Bartha, Zenetudományi tanulmányok, 32. 4. Walter Kolneder, “Kodály und die Barockmusik,” in International Kodály Conference Budapest 1982, ed. Ferenc Bónis, Erzsébet Szőnyi, and László Vikár (Budapest: Editio Musica, 1986), 99. 5. Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 229. 6. Weissmann, “Kodály Concerto-ja és Páva-variációi,” 31. 7. Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 97. 8. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 168–71. 9. The autograph score taken to the United States by Bartók in 1940 seems to be lost. The source material of the Concerto can be found in different manuscripts in the Kodály Archive, Budapest: Ms. mus 270 (autograph score preparing the autograph edition—first edition made by the author), Ms. mus. 271 / a (Kodály’s own autograph score), Ms. mus. 271 / b (autograph short score and different drafts), Ms. mus. 271 / c (fragment of an autograph Reinschrift from bar 347 to end of the composition), Ms. mus. 280 / 2 26, 37–39 (composite drafts and scattered sketches), Ms. mus. 281 / N-3 (drafts and sketches from p. 17), Ms. mus. 281 / N-4 (page 95, draft), Ms. mus. 849 (composite drafts in a music book). 10. See Ms. mus. 271 / b 5r, 7r and 7v, 9r, 16v. 11. See note 4. 12. For example, Ms. mus. 281 / N-3, p. 56. On other manuscript pages Kodály also calls the Largo an Aria, which has importance as well, as will be seen: Ms. mus. 271 / b 1r, 7v, 280 / 2. 15 and 29. 13. Ms. mus. E.25. I am indebted to Sarolta Kodály for the information, gleaned from her husband himself. 14. For further references see István Kecskeméti, “Kodály Zoltán gall zongorazenéje” [Gallic piano music of Zoltán Kodály], Magyar zene 25, no. 3 (September 1984): 268–80; György Kroó, “Kodály: Szerenád, op. 12” [Kodály: Serenade, op. 12], in Erkel Ferencről, Kodály Zoltánról és korukról: Magyar zenetörténeti tanulmányok [On Ferenc Erkel, Zoltán Kodály, and their age: Essays on the history of Hungarian music], ed. Ferenc Bónis, 109–26 (Budapest: Püski Kiadó, 2001). In the series Hungarian Folk Music for voice and piano, Kodály published two folk songs harmonized by Emma: vol. 6, nos. 34 and 35, “Huszárnóta” [Hussar song] and “Doberdói dal” [Song of Doberdó]. Of course these settings cannot be seen as quotations. 15. Kovács failed to recognize the relations of the two thematic figures; Weissmann did mention them. 16. Kodály summed this up in Folk Music of Hungary, trans. Ronald Tempest and Cynthia Jolly (New York: Praeger, 1971). On the theory’s development history and on folk song– style analyses, see especially Dobszay’s introduction, 7–53, in László Dobszay and Janka Szendrei, Catalogue of Hungarian Folksong Types: Arranged According to Styles, trans. Mária Steiner (Budapest: MTA Zenetudományi Intézet, 1992). 17. Ms. mus. 271 / b 9v. 18. Zoltán Kodály, “Introduction to the Performance of the Peacock Variations (1950),” in Bónis, ed., Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 222.

Notes to pages 174–178

247

19. See Ms. mus. 281 / N-3, 2–10 (1v–5v). —Antonio Vivaldi: Concerto, D minor. F. IV. / 11. Allegro. —George Frederic Handel: 12 Concerto grosso, opus 5. I. G major 1. mvt., II. F major, 2. mvt., III. E minor, 2. mvt., IV. A minor, 2. mvt., V. D major, 2. mvt., VI. G minor, 2 mvt., VII. B flat major, 2. mvt., IX. F major, 4. mvt., X. D minor, 1. mvt., XI. A major, 2. mvt., XII. B minor, 5. mvt. —Johann Sebastian Bach: Suite B minor, BWV 1067, 1. mvt., Concerto for two cembalos C major, BWV 1062, Brandenburg Concerto No. 4. 3. mvt. and 5. 3. mvt. 20. See, for example, bars 289–292, where he combines the main with the third theme and a scale derived from themes 8 and 9, or bars 326–330, where he blends the main theme with Emma’s (no. 7) and theme 3. 21. See Ms. mus. 281 / N-3 48, 49, 51 and Ms. mus. 271 / b 13r–13v, 15r, 16v. 22. Ms. mus. 271 / b 16v shows still more remarkably how the family of the syncopated theme is formed. Counter-subject no. 9 contains a syncopated scale doubled in sixths. 23. Weissmann, “Kodály Concerto-ja és Páva-variációi,“ 30; Kovács, “Kodály Zoltán szimfónikus művei,” 96. 24. Weissmann, “Kodály Concerto-ja és Páva-variációi,” 31. 25. Bónis, Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, 229. 26. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 169. Ms. mus. 271 / b 1r, 280 / 2 29. 27. Kodály, Folk Music of Hungary, 65. 28. Ibid., 2–76. 29. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 169. 30. See Lujza Tari, Kodály Zoltán, a hangszeres népzene kutatója [Zoltán Kodály, researcher into instrumental folk music] (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2001), 137–40. 31. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 169. 32. See the chapter “Classification of Folk Tradition,” in Kodály, Folk Music of Hungary, 20–22; László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán: A múlt magyar tudósai [Zoltán Kodály: Hungarian scholars of the past], ed. Gyula Ortutay (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1971). 33. Heinrich Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, 2nd ed. (München: Hugo Bruckmann, 1917). I used the revised second edition in my study, to which the notes refer in what follows. The first edition was published in Munich in 1915. 34. Heinrich Wölfflin, Renaissance und Barock: Eine Untersuchung über Wesen und Entstehung des Barockstils in Italien, 2nd ed. (München: Bruckmann, 1907). 35. Zoltán Kodály, “Ki az igazi zeneértő? Előadás az országos béketanács zenedélutánján” [Who is a real expert in music? Lecture at a Hungarian Peace Council music afternoon], Visszatekintés 1, 299. 36. Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, 9–10. 37. Ibid., 27–28. 38. Ibid., 89–90. 39. Ibid., 222. 40. Ibid.

248

Notes to pages 178–183

41. Zoltán Kodály, “What Is Hungarian in Music?,” in Bónis, Selected Writings, 28–33; “Magyarság a zenében” [Hungarianness in Music], Visszatekintés 2, 235–60. 42. Wölfflin, Kunstgeschichtliche Grundbegriffe, 6; Wölfflin, Renaissance und Barock, 1–2. 43. I did not find any books by Wölfflin in Kodály’s private library. 44. Kodály, “What Is Hungarian in Music?,” 32. 45. Kodály, Magyarság a zenében, 245–46. 46. Ibid., 239. 47. Kodály, Folk Music of Hungary, 20–22. 48. János Breuer reaches the same conclusion. Guide to Kodály, 167. 49. Weissmann, “Kodály Concerto-ja és Páva-variációi,” 32. C HA P T E R 1 4

1. Lóránt Péteri, “Kodály az államszocializmusban (1949–1967): Kultúrpolitika- és társadalomtörténeti tanulmány” [Kodály in state socialism (1949–1967): Study on cultural politics and social history], in Kodály Zoltán és tanítványai: A hagyomány és a hagyományozódás vizsgálata két nemzedék életművében [Zoltan Kodály and his pupils: Researching tradition and bequeathing in the oeuvres of two generations], ed. Melinda Berlász (Budapest: Rózsavölgyi, 2007), 97–174. 2. György Kroó, A magyar zeneszerzés 30 éve [30 years of Hungarian composition] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1975), 106–25. 3. József Ujfalussy, “Előszó a mai magyar zenei alkotóművészethez” [Preface to current Hungarian musical composition], Magyar Zene 8, no. 3 (June 1963): 227–30. 4. Kroó, A magyar zeneszerzés 30 éve, 55. 5. András Pernye, “Bemutatták Kodály Zoltán szimfóniáját” [Zoltán Kodály’s symphony presented], Magyar Nemzet 25, no. 158 (June 15, 1962): 4. 6. Ibid., 4. 7. See László Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája [The chronicle of Zoltán Kodály's life] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1977), 266. This defensive attitude recurs in a study he wrote two decades later: “[Kodály], by following the past, was building the future with every endeavor.” László Eősze, “Kodály Zoltán örök ifjúsága” [Zoltán Kodály’s eternal youth], in Örökségünk Kodály: Válogatott tanulmányok [Kodály: Our heritage—Selected studies] (Budapest: Osiris, 2000), 138. 8. Zoltán Horusitzky, “Kodály Zoltán Szimfóniája” [Zoltán Kodály’s Symphony], Magyar Zene 3, no. 6 (December 1962): 604. 9. In his book Eősze mentions Cleveland and New York; Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 268. 10. Wolfram Steinbeck and Christoph von Blumröder, eds., Handbuch der musikalischen Gattungen. Bd. 3/2: Die Symphonie im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert—Stationen der Symphonik seit 1900 (Laaber: Laaber, 2002); and Ludwig Finscher, “Symphonie,” in Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, Bd. 9, ed. Ludwig Finscher (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1998), 114. 11. Stephen Walsh, “Symphony,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Second Edition, vol. 24., ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 2001), 847. 12. János Breuer, A Guide to Kodály, trans. Maria Steiner (Budapest: Corvina, 1990), 190.

Notes to pages 183–190

249

13. Ibid., 189. 14. Ibid., 192. 15. Ibid., 190. 16. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 261. 17. The Magyar Mise (Hungarian Mass), composed in 1966, does not belong to any thematic group. 18. The following are all in Visszatekintés 3: Zoltán Kodály, “Kérdések kereszttüzében: Közönségtalálkozó a Dartmouth College-ban” [Debate at a meeting with the audience at Dartmouth College], 139–40 (in English: “Roundtable Discussion,” in Kodály and Education: Kodály in North America, ed. Richard Johnston [Willowdale, Ontario: Avondale Press, 1986], 22–32); “A Szimfóniáról (1962)” [On the Symphony], 522; “A Szimfóniáról és a Háry Jánosról (1962)” [On the Symphony and Háry János], 524; “Emlékek (1963)” [Reminiscences], 530–31; “Utam a zenéhez: Öt beszélgetés Lutz Besch-sel—Harmadik beszélgetés (1965)” [My path to music: Five conversations with Lutz Besch—Third conversation], 552–53. 19. Percy M. Young, Zoltán Kodály: A Hungarian Musician (London: Ernest Benn, 1964), 153. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 184, 186. 20. John S. Weissmann, “Kodály’s Symphony: A Morphological Study,” Tempo 60 (1962): 34. 21. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 13, 114. 22. Zoltán Kodály, “Emlékek (1963)” [Reminiscences], Visszatekintés 3, 530–31. 23. The printed score omits the key information. Only one symphony in C major is known from the period, Nino Rota’s Symphony No. 3 (1956–57). 24. This viewpoint is also held by László Eősze and Percy Young. John Weissmann, however, sees the three-movement structure as an “oversized da capo form,” citing the thematic relations and parallelisms between the two outer movements. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 266; Young: Zoltán Kodály, 154; Weissmann, “Kodály’s Symphony,” 19. 25. Eberhard Hüppe and Günter Moseler, “Gattungspluralitäten,” in Steinbeck and Blumröder, Handbuch der musikalischen Gattungen, 154. 26. Ibid., 167. 27. Ibid., 167. 28. Young, Zoltán Kodály, 149–50. 29. Percy M. Young, “British Strands in the Kodály Heritage (A Historical Perspective),” in International Kodály Conference 1982, ed. Ferenc Bónis et al. (Budapest: Editio Musica, 1986), 148. 30. Béla Bartók Jr.’s recollections reveal much about Kodály’s humor. See Ferenc Bónis, ed., így láttuk Kodályt [So we saw Kodály] (Budapest: Püski, 1994), 18–24. 31. Dezső Legánÿ, ed., Kodály Zoltán levelei (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1982), 285. 32. Zoltán Kodály, “Velence után: Nyilatkozat (1962)” [After Venice: Statement (1962)] Visszatekintés 3, 454–55. 33. Ibid., 454. 34. Ibid., 455. 35. Ibid., 455. 36. The last new music festival he had visited abroad was on November 17, 1929. See Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 128. 37. Kodály, “Velence után,” 454.

250

Notes to pages 190–194

38. Kodály’s criticism of Stravinsky was prompted by the latter’s break with his Russian period. See Zoltán Kodály, “A népdal szerepe az orosz és magyar zeneművészetben: Előadása (1946),” Visszatekintés 1, 187. In English: “The Role of the Folksong in the Russian and Hungarian Music (1950),” in The Selected Writings of Zoltán Kodály, ed. Ferenc Bónis, trans. Lili Halápy and Fred Macnicol (Budapest: Corvina, 1964), 34–39. 39. Kodály never spoke of how his works related to him personally. He revealed his view clearly (there is no need to talk of music—music speaks for itself) in the preface to the Universal Edition of Nyári este (Summer evening) of 1930. Zoltán Kodály, “Nyári este: Előszó a partitúrához (1930)” [Summer evening: Preface to the score (1930)], Visszatekintés 2, 486. 40. Letters, 434. Kodály refers to Cristóbal Halffter’s Sinfonia (1963). 41. See Kodály’s letter to Kate and Ernst Roth, January 8, 1959, in Letters, 355–56. 42. Eősze, Kodály Zoltán életének krónikája, 266, 268, 269. 43. The marriage and Kodály’s “boasting” behavior—according to records of the couple’s 1960 trip to England—drew attention from cultural leaders. See Péteri, “Kodály az államszocializmusban,” 119. 44. Young, Zoltán Kodály, 161–62. 45. Kodály cites this movement by Tchaikovsky and its folk song episode in his conversations with Lutz Besch. See Kodály, “Utam a zenéhez,” Visszatekintés 3, 552. 46. On interpreting the chordal progression Lendvai calls the Kodály dominant, see Ernő Lendvai, Bartók és Kodály harmóniavilága [Harmonic realm of Bartók and Kodály] (Budapest: Zeneműkiadó, 1975), 19–21. 47. For artistic persona see Edward T. Cone, The Composer’s Voice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 57. 48. Breuer, Guide to Kodály, 192, 190. The objective tone of Kodály’s letter to Ernst Roth written on May 31, 1961, about this movement is rather surprising: “Ich schrieb [an Guignard], dass die Symphonie 2 / 3 fix u. fertig, und der Rest, der kürzeste Mittelsatz rechtzeitig fertig wird.” Letters, 380. 49. Letters, 380. 50. In all likelihood Hungarian folk song became associated with “Woman,” i.e., the image of Emma, in Kodály’s thinking. This is supported by the identification of Emma with the roles of Háry’s Örzse and the Háziasszony (Housewife) in Székely fonó (The spinning room). 51. Young, Zoltán Kodály, 164. 52. “Sun after storms we often brighter see” (a Latin proverb quoted in English in William Langland’s The Vision of Piers Plowman). Zoltán Kodály, “Szimfónia (1962)” [Symphony], Visszatekintés 3, 521.

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General I ndex

Abendroth, Hermann, 12 Adorno, Theodor Wiesengrund, 89, 91, 114, 153 Ady, Endre: Influence and aesthetics of, 8, 9, 95, 120, 121, 127, 234n41, 234n45; Kodály’s settings of, 13, 70table7, 100; Sappho’s Love Song by, 72–73; The Peacock Has Flown by, 110, 116, 122–126 Anti-Modernism, 86, 88–89, 113, 212n27 Anti-Semitism, 13, 31, 167 Arany, János, 69–71, 77, 214n21, 224n39 Ábrányi, Kornél, 32–34, 37, 217n60 Ádám, Jenő, 12–13, 130–131, 200

life work of, 2, 5, 91, 130, 154; Joint research in folk music with, 36, 68, 71, 77, 80, 89, 107, 108table, 122, 216n47; Kodály about, 32, 79, 131, 147, 212n27; Kodály’s transcription of, 184, 186table10; Modernism of, 9, 86, 87, 112, 120–121.—Works: Bluebeard’s Castle, 7, 66; String Quartet no. 1, 47; String Quartet no. 2, 81, 85; Táncszvit, 96; The Wooden Prince, 7, 73, 78 Bálint, Aranka: Figure of, 66–68, 224n31; Love of, 65, 223n27, 224n34; Kodály’s settings of, 69, 70table2, 71, 222n1 Bárdos, Lajos: Church music of, 131–132, 134, 237n21, 237n24; Magyar Kórus circle around, 12, 112, 130, 132–133, 199, 236n12, 239n49; Writings about Kodály by, 131, 133, 154, 156–157, 161 Beethoven, Ludwig van: Kodály’s interpretation of, 19, 21, 110, 134, 178; Kodály’s studies of the works of, 26–27, 239n52.— Works: String Quartets of, 27, 47, 219n25; Symphonies of, 45–46, 86; Variations of, 48, 109 Bellermann, Heinrich, 145–149, 242n19 Berg, Alban, 47 Berlin, 8, 9, 15, Kodály’s travel to, 58, 66, 177–178, 198. See also Lendvai, Ervin Berzsenyi, Dániel 13, 70, 72, 112 Bloom, Harold, 4

Bach, Johann Sebastian: Counterpoint technique of, 128, 149; Interpretation of the style and works of, 27, 35, 145table9, 146, 148, 174, 215n41, 239n53, 240n70,; Kodály about, 8, 19, 21, 58, 90, 147–178, 181, 214n21, 242n23; Kodály’s references to the style and works of, 136–138, 166, 167–168, 177, 180, 184; Works of, 240n60, 247n19 Balassi, Bálint, 13, 240n56 Balázs, Béla: Diary of, 66, 68, 71, 222n11, 223n14, 223n28–29; Friendship with, 7–9, 121, 198, 201, 224n34, 224n49; Kodály’s settings of, 69, 70table2, 71–73; Nietzsche and, 68, 223n31 Bartalus, István 30, 32–33, 35, 38, 213 Bartók, Béla: Friendship with, 7–8, 10–13, 15, 196, 197–201, 246n9; Interpretation of the

273

274

General Index

Brahms, Johannes: Followers of, 86–87; Kodály about, 18–20, 32, 39, 178, 212n27, 214n21, 219n25; Kodály’s analysis of the works of, 21– 27; Kodály’s early compositional reception of, 28–31, 46, 48, 52, 54; Kodály’s mature compositional reception of, 82, 89, 98, 109–110, 181, 188, 190, 194, 211n11; Koessler, Hans and, 7, 18; “Progressive, the,” 28, 86, 211n13.—Works: Capriccio op. 76 no. 2, 31; Double Concerto op. 102, 210–211n11;“Edward” Ballade op. 10 no. 1, 21; German Requiem op. 45, 19; Piano Quartet g minor op. 25, 39–40, 43, 47, 55; Schumann Variations op. 9, 26; Sonata for Violin and Piano D minor op. 109, 21–27; String Quintet G major op. 111, 210n11; Symphony no. 4 op. 98, 27; Hungarian Dances, 20; Violin Concerto op. 77, 19 Breuer, János, 1, 3, 82, 91, 128, 211n11, 224n45, 224n49; Analysis of Concerto by, 168–169, 174, 176; Analysis of Peacock Variations by, 116, 118–119, 233n24, 234n41; Analysis of String Quartet no. 1 by, 45–46; Analysis of Symphony by, 183, 192–193 Brown, Earle, 189 Budapest, 7, 15, 18, 58, 76, 128, 133, 136, 140, 197–203; Kodály’s death in, 15, 203; “Guilty city,” 97; Première of János Háry in, 12, 90, 199; Première of Peacock Variations in, 119; Première of Psalmus Hungaricus in, 12–13, 96, 198; Première of Symphony in, 182, 190; Turn-of-the-century metropolis of, 9 Carter, Elliott, 189 Catholic, catholicism, 12–13, 129–130, 132–138, 197 Cecilian movement, 131, 133–134, 148 Church music, 3, 6, 12–13, 128–138, 151, 155, 237n24, 239n49, 239n52, 239n54, 240n62 Climax (Hungarian-style), 82, 84–85, 94, 98–99, 101, 106, 113 Cone, Edward T., 4 Copernicus, Nicolaus, 187 Counterpoint, 128, 134, 138–141, 144–149, 152, 238n44, 244n26, 244n33–34; Kodály’s notes on, 27, 144, 158–160, 168; Kodály’s use of, 113–114, 137, 161–166, 171–172, 174, 176–178, 180, 193; Role in modern music of, 153–154, 238n42, 241n7 Csokonai Vitéz, Mihály, 70, 102 Debussy, Claude, 47, 78, 127, 171, 181, 198, 221n6, 221n12; Kodály’s reception of, 8, 44, 53–62, 64

Developing variation, 24, 26, 28, 54, 115–116, 127 Dohnányi, Ernő/Ernst von, 7, 10, 12–13, 27, 96–97, 198–199 Eötvös Collegium, 7–8, 28, 197 Eősze, László, 1, 9, 16, 49, 76, 128, 183, 197, 248n9; Analysis of Peacock Variations by, 116–118, 120, 233n19; Analysis of Symphony by, 183, 249n24 Erkel, Ferenc, 32, 121 Fabó, Bertalan, 32, 34 Fascism, 11 Folk culture, 11, 89, 122, 134–135, 195–196 Folk music, folk song, 60, 72, 75, 128, 168, 176, 190, 195, 200–201, 216n43; Arrangements of, 38, 40, 69, 77–78, 82, 130–131, 133, 159, 161; Art music and, 37, 39–40, 43, 88, 90, 97, 118, 151, 233n20; Authentic, authenticity in, 7–8, 35, 37, 55, 109, 132; Collecting, collection of, 9–10, 14–15, 30, 32–33, 34–37, 68, 76–77, 107–109, 176, 200; Counterpoint and, 129, 144, 150, 154, 157–163, 166; Discovery of, 8, 54; Improvisation in, 98, 193; Melodic structure of, 26, 44, 123, 151, 155; Music history and, 2, 36, 87, 89, 172, 177, 180; New style of, 30, 52, 174; Pentatonicism, pentatonic scale in, 36, 71, 74, 80, 123, 198; Research into, 7, 11–12, 14, 180; Russian, 191; Slovak, 31; Strophic structure of, 7, 33, 35, 67–68, 216n47.—Works: Háry János, 94–96, 107–109, 250n50; Hungarian Folk Music series, 68, 77, 118–119, 131–132, 196; Mátrai képek, 13; Peacock Variations, 110 115, 117–118, 121, 123, 125–126, 233n19; String Quartet no. 1, 45, 49, 52–55 Fricsay, Ferenc, 187, 202 Frigyesi, Judit, 2, 9, 121–122 Fugue, 110, 113, 145, 148, 162, 185; Kodály’s exercises in, 27–28; Kodály about, 157–158, 240n70; Kodály’s use of, 113, 166–174, 180, 184, 213n44 Fux, Johann Joseph, 140, 144–146, 148–150, 241n11, 242n18, 244n26 Galánta (Galanta), 6, 10, 107, 120, 197, 231n88, Gazdag, Erzsi, 113 Gebrauchsmusik, 133, 137 Glareanus (Heinrich Glarean), 89–90 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 67, 111, 223n14 Habermas, Jürgen, 122 Handel, George Frideric, 27, 35, 90, 174, 215n41, 247n19

General Index Harmat, Artúr, 129–132, 134, 237n22, 241n7 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 15, 21, 203 Hidden programs of Kodály’s works, 5, 47–48, 81, 118, 191 Hofecker, Imre, 32–34, 37, 214–216 Hoffmann, Rudolf Stephan, 106 Horthy, Miklós, 10, 13, 97, 119, 198 Hubay, Jenő, 97, 198 Hungarian Academy of Sciences, 13–14, 200–201 Hungarianness, 3, 11, 79, 85, 95–96, 105, 116, 122 Ittzés, Mihály, 2, 156, 161, 217n74, 234n50 Jaloveczky, Paula, 6 Jauss, Hans Robert, 4 Jeppesen, Knud, 139–141, 144–155, 162, 164, 177, 241n7 Jew, Jewish, 9, 31, 50, 102–103, 105, 108–109, 197, 199; Law against, 13, 113, 167 Kalbeck, Max, 19–21, 40, 86 Kádár, János, 14, 202 Kecskeméti, István, 4, 45–47, 49, 64, 82 Kecskeméti Vég, Mihály, 97–98 Kerényi György, 3, 12–13, 130, 132–133, 199–200, 206n13, 237n31, 238n33, 239n54, 243n12 Kiss, Áron, 33, 226n17 Kodály Archives, 1, 4–5, 21, 24, 26–27, 32, 47–48, 158 Kodály, Emma (Gruber, Emma), 7, 27, 59, 73–74, 76, 81, 83, 197–198, 221n15, 250n50 Aranka and, 66–69; Death of; 15, 186–187, 190, 192–193, 202, 225n51; Kodály’s letters to; 18–21, 50–51; Örzse as symbol for, 66, 68, 95, 224n50; Quoting compositions of, 47, 50, 54, 108table6, 171–172, 180, 246n14, 247n20 Kodály, Frigyes, 6 Kodály Method, 1, 13–14, 128, 200, 203 Koessler, Hans, 7, 50, 55, 134, 146–148, 210n4, 242n18; Teaching of, 16–18, 21, 27, 32, 39–40, 44 Kossuth, Lajos, 95, 201 Kotoński, Włodzimierz, 189 Kölcsey, Ferenc, 70, 114 Kroó György, 182 Kun, László, 30, 32, 38, 214n8 Kurth, Ernst, 145–150, 153–154, 242n23 Lasso, Orlando di, 128, 133, 136, 155, 238n33 Lendvai, Ervin, 50–52, 154, 220n38–39, 220n42 Liszt, Ferenc, 7, 32, 80–81, 112, 121, 133, 168, 176, 242n26

275

Liszt Academy of Music Budapest, 1, 11, 13, 15, 148, 157, 187, 197, 200–202; Kodály as student at the, 7, 16–19, 31–32, 38–39, 47, 50–51, 134, 144, 146; Kodály as teacher at the, 2, 10, 12, 14, 76, 97; Library of, 5, 32, 59, 140, 144, 147, 149, 198 Lukács, György, 9 Maderna, Bruno, 189 Magyar Kórus (Hungarian Chorus), 12, 130, 132, 134, 199, 236n19 Martersteig, Eva, 66, 73, 222n11 Mátyusföld (Matúšova zem), 7 Mengelberg, Willem, 12, 116, 199 Mihalovich, Ödön, 50, 221n6 Modernism, 44, 65, 76, 79–80 Molnár, Antal, 3, 47–48, 59–60, 131–134, 154–155, 157–159, 161, 206, 238n42–44, 244n34; Monography on Kodály by, 18, 45, 81–82, 129, 199, 213n5, 225n50 Molnár, Géza, 32–35, 37, 215n38, 215n41, 216n58 Motu proprio, 129–131, 133, 136–137, 240n59 Móricz, Zsigmond, 65–66, 70, 72, 75–77, 85, 102, 120 Nagyszombat (Trnva), 6, 10, 18–19, 31, 76, 107, 197, 231n89; Kodály’s compositions from the years in, 38, 134, 219n17, 239n51 Nation, 11, 35, 79, 86–88, 110, 124–126, 167, 179; Hungarian, 95–96, 102, 112, 123 National, 14, 43, 87–88, 97, 100, 107, 110, 113, 129, 177, 181–182, 190, 196, 217n60; Art, 8, 37, 80, 122, 178, 215n38; Composer, 112; Considerations, 9; Enemies, 106; Identity, 11, 37, 107; Music, 32, 34–35, 40, 90, 122, 180; Musical style, 31–32, 34–35, 37, 43, 90; Politics, 97, 100; School, 179 Nationalism, nationalist, 10, 13, 44, 195 Nausicaa, 65–66, 71, 74 Nazi, Nazism, 11, 13, 154, 167 Neoclassical, Neoclassicism, 3, 10, 89, 91, 98, 128, 154, 177 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 68, 86–87, 121, 125, 224n31, 227n6 Nono, Luigi, 182, 189 Odysseus, 65–66, 71 Palestrina, Giovanni Pierluigi da, 3, 88, 90, 133, 158, 177, 181, 238n33, 241n71; Style of, 128–131, 138–141, 145, 147–152, 155–156, 159–166

276

General Index

Paris, 7–9, 47, 58–60, 66, 91, 198, 201 Pázmány Péter University, 7, 197 Pentatony, 35–36, 80, 82, 85, 168, 179, 198 Pernye András, 182 Petőfi, Sándor, 13, 38, 112–113 Péczely, Sarolta, 15, 186, 190, 202 Ponori Thewrewk, Emil, 32, 215 Pope Pius X, 129, 133, 136 Pozsony (Bratislava), 6, 108, 231n89, Pöschl, Vilmos, 129–130 Prahács, Margit, 20, 129, 147, 212n25 Protestant, 12, 97, 135, 147, 135 Rákosi, Mátyás, 14 Rheinberger, Josef Gabriel, 7, 17, 134 Rondo, Rondo form, 38–43, 54, 81, 98–99, 127, 168, 170, 185, 217n74 Sappho, 65, 72–74 Schenker, Heinrich, 144, 146–147, 149–150, 154 Schoenberg, Arnold, 10, 65, 86, 88–89, 113, 153–154, 182, 206, 219n25; Concept of developing variation by, 24, 28, 115, 117, 125 Seemayer, Vilmos, 123 Seprődi, János, 33, 215 Shostakovich, Dmitri Dmitriyevich, 86, 187, 201 Sisman, Elaine, 27, 116 Smetana, Bedřich, 47 Stravinsky, Igor, 4, 10, 86, 88, 89, 91, 154, 189, 190, 250n38 Szabolcsi, Bence, 6, 15, 65, 71, 91, 95, 106, 114, 195, 201–202, 237n21; Theory of Kodály’s classicism by, 89; Theory of Kodály’s compensation (replacement) of missing music history by, 3, 87, 98, 114, 206n14, 227n10 Szekfű Gyula, 11 Színi, Károly, 33 Szob, 6, 197 Szőllősy, András, 60–61 Tallián, Tibor, 31, 65–66, 105, 135, 224n39, 225n51, 240n56

Taruskin, Richard, 4 Tisza, István, 95 Toscanini, Arturo, 12, 187, 199, 202 Tóth, Aladár, 3, 237n21 Trianon (Treaty of), 10, 11, 86, 95, 96, 106. See alsoVersailles (Treaty of) Ujfalussy, József, 120, 217n61, 229n53 Universal Edition Wien, 1, 10, 77, 102–104, 106, 198–199 Vargyas, Lajos, 5, 136, 207n27 Variation 15, 30–31, 38–40, 43, 98–99, 109–110, 132; Form, 27–28, 43, 116, 118, 123–124, 127, 131; Technique of, 26–28, 43, 53, 118, 127; Works: Concerto, 169, 171–172, 174, 176, 178, 180; Peacock Variation, 116–119, 125–126; String Quartet no. 1, 45–48, 50–55; Symphony, 193 Versailles (Treaty of), 10–11, 94–96, 102, 105–107, 179, 231n89. See also Trianon (Treaty of) Vienna, 9, 12–13, 21, 31, 76, 107, 113, 139, 203 Vikár, Béla, 7, 33 Vivaldi, Antonio, 90, 174, 247n19 Vörösmarty, Mihály, 13, 110, 112 Wagner, Richard, 59, 214n21 Webern, Anton von, 12, 86, 182, 189 Weiner, Leó, 7, 58 Weissmann, John S. (János), 116, 118, 124, 168, 174, 177, 180, 187, 246n15, 249n24 Weöres, Sándor, 13, 200 World War I, 10–11, 38, 69, 82, 94, 96, 106, 109, 110, 198; Collecting soldier’s songs during, 69; Kodály’s compositions written during, 75–80, 84–85, 193; Kodály’s turn toward classicism during, 57, 88–89, 91, 188 World War II, 14, 59, 119, 167, 188, 199– 200 Wölfflin, Heinrich, 177–178, 180, 247n33 Young, Percy M., 1, 189–191, 194, 210n11, 249n24

Index of Kodá ly’s Works

15 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 200, 245n43 22 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 164, 184, 186, 196, 245n43 33 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 184, 185table10, 196, 245n43 44 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 184, 185table10, 196, 245n43 55 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 163–165, 184, 185table10, 196, 245n43 66 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 166, 186, 196, 245n43 77 Two-Part Singing Exercises, 157, 161, 184, 186, 245n43 A 114. genfi zsoltár (Geneva Psalm, 114), 135table8, 185table10 A 121. genfi zsoltár (Geneva Psalm 121), 135table8 A 150. genfi zsoltár (Geneva Psalm 150), 135table8, 185table10 “About Bartók and Hungarian Music: Conversation in Geneva with Ernest Ansermet.” See “Bartókról és a magyar zenéről. Genfi beszélgetés Ernest Ansermet-vel” “A Corvin magyar clubban. Előadás és vita Berkeley-ben” (“In the Corvin Club: Lecture and Debate at Berkeley”), 212n23 “After Venice: Statement.” See “Velence után. Nyilatkozat”

“A Háry János nürnbergi előadása elé” (“Before a Háry János Performance in Nuremberg”), 229n44 “A Juilliard Zeneiskola Háry János-bemutatójáról” (“On the Performance of Háry János at the Juilliard”), 230n80 Adagio, 193 Adventi ének (Advent Song), 135table8, 239n55 Advent Song. See Adventi ének “A francia rádió Háry János-előadása elé” (“Introducing a Háry János Performance on French radio”), 229n44–45, 230n79, 231n85 “A Fölszállott a páva—zenekari változatok előadása elé” (“Introduction to the Performance of the ‘Peacock Variations’”), 232n3 “A hangadás” (“Giving Pitches”), 239n49 “A Háry János moszkvai bemutatóján” (“On the Moscow Première of Háry János”), 230n74 “A hiteles népdal szerepe a zenei nevelésben” (“The Role of Authentic Folk Song in Music Education”), 212n23 Akik mindig elkésnek (Too Late), 120 Allegretto, 28 “A magyar karének útja” (“The Path of Hungarian Choral Movement”), 239n49 “A magyar népdal művészi jelentősége” (“The Artistic Significance of Hungarian Folk Song”), 37, 208n28, 227n15

277

278

Index of Works

“A magyar népdal strófa-szerkezete” (“The Strophic Structure of Hungarian Folk Song”), 207n8, 215n25, 216n47, 223n24, 226n17, 227n11 “A magyar népzene” (1925) (Hungarian Folk Music), 37, 227n17 A magyar népzene (1936) (Folk Music of Hungary), 36, 216n51, 220n47, 225n12, 243n29, 245n38 “A máramarosi román népzenéről” (“The Romanian Folk Music of Máramaros”), 216n47, 228n24 “Ancient Traditions—Today’s Musical Life. Lecture Given at the Institute of Popular Education.” See “Ősi hagyomány—mai zeneélet. Előadás a Népművészeti Intézet iskoláján” “A népdal feltámadása” (“The Resurrection of Hungarian Folk Song”), 37 “A népdal szerepe az orosz és magyar zeneművészetben” (“The Role of the Folksong in the Russian and Hungarian Music”), 250n38 An Ode for Music, 186 A nándori toronyőr (The Tower Watchman of Nándor), 184 “Artistic Significance of Hungarian Folk Song, The.” See “A magyar népdal művészi jelentősége” A székelyekhez (To the Székler Transylvanians), 135 Székely fonó (The Spinning Room), 11, 66, 94, 183, 225n51 “A székely népdalról” (“On Székely Folk Song”), 11, 208n24 “A Szimfóniáról” (“On the Symphony”), 249n18 “A Szimfóniáról és a Háry Jánosról” (“On the Symphony and Háry János”), 249n18 “A Szovjetúnióban. Nyilatkozat” (“In the Soviet Union: A Statement”), 230n73 “At the Kodály Evening at the János Vajda Society.” See “A Vajda János Társaság Kodályestjén” “A Vajda János Társaság Kodály-estjén” (“At the Kodály Evening at the János Vajda Society”), 231n98 Ave Maria (1899), 134, 239n50 Ave Maria (1935), 134, 135 Az 50. genfi zsoltár (Geneva Psalm 50), 135table8 “A zenei nevelők Santa Barbara-i konferenciája előtt. Nyilatkozat” (“On the Conference of Musical Educators in Santa Barbara–Statement”), 205n3

“Az új egyetemes népdalgyűjtemény tervezete” (“Plan for the New Universal Collection of Folk Songs”), 36, 216n48 „A zene új útjairól” (“On the New Paths in Music”), 228n22 “Árgirus nótája” (“Song of Argyrus”), 36, 89, 216n55, 228n23 Balassi Bálint elfelejtett éneke (The Forgotten Song of Bálint Balassi), 240n56 Ballad of Stephen Kádár, The. See Kádár István balladája “Ballad of the Stonemason Clement.” See “Kelemen Kőmies balladája” “Bartók Béla II. vonósnégyese.” (“Bartók’s String Quartet No. 2”), 226n21 “Bartókról és a magyar zenéről. Genfi beszélgetés Ernest Ansermet-vel” (“About Bartók and Hungarian Music: Conversation in Geneva with Ernest Ansermet”), 221n4 “Bartók’s String Quartet No. 2.” See ”Bartók Béla II. vonósnégyese” Battle Song. See Csatadal “Beethoven halálának évfordulóján.” See “On the Anniversary of Beethoven’s Death” “Before a Háry János Performance in Nuremberg.” See “A Háry János nürnbergi előadása elé” Belated Melodies, 77. See also Megkésett melódiák, op. 6 Bells. See Harangszó Beseeching. See Szép könyörgés Bicinia Hungarica, 128, 157–163, 165, 174, 199, 200, 244n22, 245n43 Búsuló juhász (Sad Sheperd), 38 Capriccio, 76 Cease your Bitter Weeping, See Semmit ne bánkódjál, 135 “Claude Debussy,” 220n1 “C moll vonósnégyes” (String Quartet in C Minor), 218n15, 220n48, 50. See also “Streichquartett (c-Moll)” “Collection from Mátyusföld, The.” See “Mátyusföldi gyűjtés” Come, Holy Ghost, 186. See also Jövel, Szentlélek Úristen Compassion of Flowers, The. See Virágok részvéte Concerto, 12, 119, 186, 191, 193, 200, 233n20, 246n9. Analysis of, 167–172, 174–181

Index of Works Csatadal (Battle Song), 135 Csendes mise (Organ Mass), 135–138, 240 Dances of Galánta, 40, 42table1, 43, 91–94, 199. See also Galántai táncok Dances of Marosszék, 40, 42table1, 43, 94, 98, 119, 187, 199. See also Marosszéki táncok “Debate at a Meeting with the Audience at Dartmouth Collage.” See “Kérdések kereszttüzében. Közönségtalálkozó a Dartmouth College-ban” Dewdrops! See Harmatozzatok! “Distinctive Melodic Structure of Mari/Cheremiss Folk Music.” See “Sajátságos dallamszerkezet a cseremisz népzenében” Duo for Violin and Cello, op. 7, 10, 73, 75–76, 79, 80–82, 84–85, 198, 225n50 Eljegyzésre (For and Engagement), 38 “Emlékek” (“Reminiscences”), 207n6, 219n34, 239n52, 249n22 Emléksorok Fáy Andrásnak (In András Fáy’s album), 184 Epiphany. See Vízkereszt “Ethnography and Music History,” 87. See also “Néprajz és zenetörténet” “Excelsior,” 110, 231n99, 239n49, 240n62 Ének Szent István királyhoz (Hymn to King Saint Stephen), 135table8, 156–157 Énekszó, op. 1 (Sixteen Songs on Hungarian Folk Texts), 44, 49, 69, 71–72, 82, 198 Fantasia Cromatica, 184–185 “Filharmóniai hangverseny” (“Philharmonic Concert”), 212n27 Five Songs, op. 9, 72–73, 77. See also Öt dal op. 9 “Folk Music and Art Music.” See “Népzene és műzene” Folk Music of Hungary, 205n7, 246n16, 247n27, 247n32, 248n47. See also A magyar népzene (1936) “Folk Song and Audience.” See “Népdal és közönség” For and Engagement. See Eljegyzésre Forgotten Song of Bálint Balassi, The. See Balassi Bálint elfelejtett éneke Four Songs, 76–77. See also Négy dal Galántai táncok (Dances of Galánta), 12, 191. See also Dances of Galánta

279

Geneva Psalm 50, 135table8. See also Az 50. genfi zsoltár Geneva Psalm 114, 137. See also A 114. genfi zsoltár Geneva Psalm 121, 113. See also A 121. genfi zsoltár Geneva Psalm 150, 135table8. See also A 150. genfi zsoltár Gergelyjárás (St. Gregory’s Day), 13, 134, 135table8, 239n54 “Giving Pitches.” See “A hangadás” God’s Blacksmith. See Isten kovácsa Gopher, The. See Ürgeöntés Grow, Tresses. See Hajnövesztő Hajnövesztő (Grow, Tresses), 134 Harangszó (Bells), 134 Harmatozzatok! (Dewdrops!) 134, 135table8 Három ének, op. 14 (Three Songs), 98, 224n47. No. 1, Siralmas nékem (It is Grievous to Me), 98. No. 3, Várj meg, madaram (Stay, Sweet Bird ), 171 “Három koldusének forrása” (The Source of Three Beggar’s Songs), 36, 216n54 Háry János, op. 15, 12, 30, 90–96, 98, 102–110, 119, 176, 183, 196, 199, 203, 217; Numbers: No. 3, A zsidó család (Entry of a Jewish Family), 102, 103table5, 108table6, 109; No. 5, Ruthén lányok kara (Choir of Ruthenian Girls), 103table45, 105, 108table6, 109; No. 10, Tiszán innen, Dunán túl (Tisza this Side, Danube that) 94, 103table5, 107, 108table6, 119, 176, 193; No. 11, Ku-ku-kukuskám (The Cuckoo Song), 90, 94, 103table5, 108table6; No. 12, Bécsi harangjáték (Viennese Musical Clock), 94, 103table5, 107, 108table6, 109; No. 16–18, A franciák bevonulása–Napóleon bevonulása–Gyászinduló (Entry of the French–Entry of Napoleon–Funeral March), 91, 103tabe5, 106; Örzse from, 66, 68, 94–95, 107, 229n43, 250n50 “Háry János hőstettei” (The Heroic Deeds of János Háry), 229n47, 231n93 Háry János Suite 12 “Háry János Suite, The Peacock.” See “Háry János szvit, Fölszállott a páva” “Háry János szvit, Fölszállott a páva” (Háry János Suite, The Peacock), 229n44 Házasodik a vakond (The Mole’s Wedding), 184 Hegyi éjszakák (Mountain Nights) 61, 186

280

Index of Works

“Heroic Deeds of János Háry, The.” See “Háry János hőstettei” Hét zongoradarab, op. 11 (Seven Pieces for Piano), 60; No. 1, Székely keserves (Székely Lament), 77, 78table3, 84; No. 4., Sírfelirat (Epitaph), 78; No. 7, Székely nóta (Székely Song), 78table3, 84; See also Seven Pieces for Piano Honey, Honey, Honey. See Méz, méz, méz Hungarian Folk Music, 68–69, 77, 90, 118–119, 131–132, 196, 224n36, 226n19, 246n14. See also Magyar népzene “Hungarian Folk Music.” See “A magyar népzene” (1925) “Hungarian Music.” See “Magyar zene” “Hungarian Musical Culture in Liszt’s Time and Today.” See “Magyar zenei műveltség Liszt korában és ma” “Hungarianness in Music,” 20, 87, 179, 199. See Also Magyarság a zenében Hungarian Rondo, 40–41, 43, 76–78, 211n11 “Hungarian Themes in Non-Hungarian Music: Foreword to Margit Prahács’s book.” See “Magyar témák a külföldi zenében. Előszó Prahács Margit könyvéhez” Huszt (The Ruins), 114 Hymn to King Saint Stephen. See Ének Szent István királyhoz I Do Not Know. See Nem tudom én In András Fáy’s Album. See Emléksorok Fáy Andrásnak “In Retrospect.” See “Visszatekintés” “In the Corvin Club: Lecture and Debate at Berkeley.” See “A Corvin magyar clubban: Előadás és vita Berkeley-ben” “In the Soviet Union: A Statement.” See “A Szovjetúnióban: Nyilatkozat” “Introducing a Háry János Performance on French radio.” “See A francia rádió Háry János előadása elé” “Introduction to the Performance of the Peacock Variations.” See “A Fölszállott a páva–zenekari változatok előadása elé” Isten kovácsa (God’s Blacksmith), 134 I Will Go Look for Death, 185–186, 202 Jelenti magát Jézus (The Voice of Jesus), 134, 135table8, 239n54 Jesus and the Traders. See Jézus és a kufárok Jézus és a kufárok (Jesus and the Traders), 13, 135table8, 168

Jövel, Szentlélek Úristen (Come, Holy Ghost), 186 Kádár István balladája (The Ballad of Stephen Kádár), 77 “Kelemen Kőmies balladája” (“Ballad of the Stonemason Clement”), 36, 216n52 “Kérdések kereszttüzében. Közönségtalálkozó a Dartmouth College-ban” (“Debate at the Meeting with the Audience at Dartmouth Collage”), 249n18 Két ének, op. 5 (Two Songs), 70table2, 72, 78table3. No. 1, Közelítő tél (Winter Approaching), 70table2, 72. No. 2, Sírni, sírni, sírni (Weeping), 70table2, 72, 78 “Ki az igazi zeneértő?” (Who is a Real Expert in Music?), 177, 247n35 King Ladislaus’s Men. See Lengyel László Laudes Organi, 135table8, 137, 186, 202 Lengyel László (King Ladislaus’s Men), 13, 239n53 Let Us Sing Correctly, 200 Liszt Ferenchez (To Ferenc Liszt), 112 Lute Prelude for Violin and Piano, 167, 184, 185table10 Magyar népzene (Hungarian Folk Music), 226n19. See Hungarian Folk Music “Magyarság a zenében” (“Hungarianness in Music”), 37, 121–123, 178, 212n26, 227n14, 228n33, 228n40, 228n44, 234n33, 234n40, 234n44, 243n31, 248n41 “Magyar témák a külföldi zenében. Előszó Prahács Margit könyvéhez” (“Hungarian Themes in Non-Hungarian Music: Foreword to Margit Prahács’s book”), 212n25 “Magyar zene” (“Hungarian Music”), 37, 208n10 “Magyar zenei műveltség Liszt korában és ma” (“Hungarian Musical Culture in Liszt’s Time and Today”), 112, 232n101 Marosszéki táncok (Dances of Marosszék), 12, 191. See also Dances of Marosszék Mátrai képek (Mátra Pictures), 13, 154 Mátra Pictures. See Mátrai képek “Mátyusföldi gyűjtés” (“The Collection from Mátyusföld”), 208n9 Media Vita in Morte Sumus, 185table10, 186, 191 Meghalok, meghalok (Woe is Me), 186 Megkésett melódiák, op. 6 (Belated Melodies), 70table2, 72, 78table3; No. 2, Levéltöredék

Index of Works barátnémhoz (A Letter to a Gilrfriend), 70table2, 78.; No. 7, A’ farsang búcsúszavai (Carnival Farewell), 70table2, 78 Megy a juhász (There Goes the Shepherd), 38 Méditation sur un Motif de Claude Debussy, 44, 59–64, 171 Méz, méz, méz (Honey, Honey, Honey), 184 “Mihálovits Lukács három magyar nótája” (“Three Hungarian Songs by Lukács Mihálovits”), 150, 242n27, 243n28 “Mi a magyar a zenében?” (“What is Hungarian in Music?”), 37, 121, 123, 178, 234n32, 234n43 Missa Brevis, 135–136, 184, 185table10, 200, 240n58–59. See also Csendes mise (Organ Mass). See also Organoedia “Mit akarok a régi székely dalokkal?” (“What Do I Want with the Old Székely Songs?”), 11, 37, 208n25 Mole’s Wedding, The. See Házasodik a vakond Mountain Nights. See Hegyi éjszakák “Musical Education, Education of Man.” See “Zenei nevelés, embernevelés” “Musical Home Mission.” See “Zenei belmisszió” “My Path to Music.” See “Utam a zenéhez” Nem tudom én (I Do Not Know), 38 New Year’s Greeting. See Új esztendőt köszöntő Négy dal (Four Songs), 69, 70table2, 78table3; No. 1, Haja, haja (Alas, Alas), 69, 70table2; No. 2, Nausicaa, 65–66, 69–74, 222n1; No. 3, Mezei dal (Meadow Song), 69–71; No. 4, Fáj a szívem (My Heart Aches), 69, 70table2, 72, 76, 78 “Népdal és közönség” (“Folk Song and Audience”), 217n68 “Néprajz és zenetörténet” (“Ethnography and Music History”), 36, 216n56, 227n13 “Népzene és műzene” (“Folk Music and Art music”), 37, 227n16 Norwegian Girls, 113, 200 Nyári este (Summer Evening), 32, 65, 119, 127, 187 “Nyári este. Előszó a partitúrához” (“Summer Evening: Preface to the Score”), 250n39 Offertórium (Offertory), 134, 239n50 “On Székely Folk Song.” See “A székely népdalról” “On the Anniversary of Beethoven’s Death,” 231n95 “On the Conference of Musical Educators in Santa Barbara–Statement.” See “A zenei nevelők Santa Barbara-i konferenciája előtt. Nyilatkozat”

281

“On the Moscow Première of Háry János.” See “A Háry János moszkvai bemutatóján” “On the New Paths in Music.” See “A zene új útjairól” “On the Performance of Háry János at the Juilliard.” See “A Juilliard Zeneiskola Háry János-bemutatójáról” “On the Symphony.” See „A Szimfóniáról” “On the Symphony and Háry János.” See „A Szimfóniáról és a Háry Jánosról” “Operaház” (“Opera House”), 226n20 “Opera House.” See “Operaház” Organ Mass. See Csendes mise. See also Missa Brevis. See also Organoedia Organoedia, 184, 240. See also Csendes mise (Organ Mass). See also Missa Brevis. “Önarckép” (“Self-portrait”), 208n15, 211n14, 214n14, 231n92 Öt dal, op. 9, (Five Songs), 69, 70table2, 78table3, 100; No. 1, Ádám, hol vagy (Adam, Where Art Thou?), 70table3, 78, 100; No. 2, Sappho szerelmes éneke (Sappho’s Love Song) 69–70, 72–74, 78; No. 4, Kicsi virágom (My Little Flower) 69, 70table2, 78table3 “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” (“Pentatonic Scale in Hungarian Folk Music”), 36, 123, 216n50, 224n44, 226n24 Öt Tantum ergo (Tantum Ergo V), 131, 134, 135table8 “Ősi hagyomány—mai zeneélet. Előadás a Népművészeti Intézet iskoláján” (“Ancient Traditions: Today’s Musical Life—Lecture Given at the Institute of Popular Education”), 244n24 Pange Lingua, 131, 134, 135table8, 155, 156, 239n54 Peacock Variations, 12, 82, 167, 172, 181, 186, 191, 193. Analysis of, 115–123, 125–127; Beethoven’s Eroica as a model in, 109–111; Sketches of, 233n13. See also Variations on a Hungarian Folk Song, “The Peacock” “Pentatonic Scale in Hungarian Folk Music, The.” See “Ötfokú hangsor a magyar népzenében” “Philharmonic Concert.” See “Filharmóniai hangverseny” Piano Music/Nine Piano pieces. See Zongoramuzsika/Kilenc zongoradarab, op. 3 “Plan for the New Universal Collection of Folk Songs.” See “Az új egyetemes népdalgyűjtemény tervezete” “Preface to Tibor Serly’s Book.” See “Serly Tibor könyve elé”

282

Index of Works

Prelude and Fugue in E flat major, 167, 184, 185table10 Psalmus Hungaricus, op. 13, 2, 7, 12–13, 79, 85, 105, 184, 196, 198–199. Church music and, 132, 135; Classicism of: 89; Devine Voice (Voice of God) in, 126, 176, 193; Form of, 40–41, 43, 98–99; Personal and political references in, 96–98, 100–102. Pünkösdölő (Whitsuntide), 134, 135table8, 239n54 “Remembering Toscanini.” See “Toscanini emlékezete” “Reminiscences.” See “Emlékek” “Resurrection of Hungarian Folk Song, The.” See “A népdal feltámadása” “Role of Authentic Folk Song in Music Education, The.” See “A hiteles népdal szerepe a zenei nevelésben” “Role of the Folksong in the Russian and Hungarian Music, The.” See “A népdal szerepe az orosz és magyar zeneművészetben” “Romanian Folk Music of Máramaros, The.” See “A máramarosi román népzenéről” Rondo (1903), 38–41 Ruins, The. See Huszt

“Source of Three Beggar’s Songs, The.” See “Három koldusének forrása” Summer Evening. See Nyári este “Summer Evening: Preface to the Score.” See “Nyári este. Előszó a partitúrához” Spinning Room, The. See Székely fonó Stabat Mater, 134, 239n50 St. Gregory’s Day. See Gergelyjárás Straw Guy, The. See Víllő “Streichquartett (c-Moll),” 218n7. See also “C moll vonósnégyes” String Quartet No. 1, op. 2, 15, 44, 81, 198, 202, 210n11. Hidden program of, 47–48, 55, 123, 193; Quoting Emma in, 50, 54, 171, 180; Relation between Peacock Variations and, 29, 127; Themes of, 45–46, 53. String Quartet No. 2, op. 10, 10, 73, 75–85, 193 “Strophic Structure of Hungarian Folk Song, The.” See “A magyar népdal strófaszerkezete” Symphony, 182–183, 186–194, 202, 211n11, 249n24 Székely fonó (The Spinning Room), 11, 66, 94, 183, 199, 225n51, 250n50 Szép könyörgés (Beseeching), 135table8, 168, 240n56

Sad Sheperd. See Búsuló juhász “Sajátságos dallamszerkezet a cseremisz népzenében” (“Distinctive Melodic Structure of Mari/Cheremiss Folk Music”), 123 “Self-portrait.” See “Önarckép” Semmit ne bánkódjál (Cease Your Bitter Weeping), 135 Serenade for String Trio, op. 12, 10, 73, 75, 79, 81–85, 96, 196, 224n50 “Serly Tibor könyve elé” (“Preface to Tibor Serly’s Book”), 242n22 Seven Pieces for Piano, 77, 78table3, 84. See also Hét zongoradarab, op. 11 Sixteen Songs on Hungarian Folk Texts. See Énekszó, op. 1 Sík Sándor Te Deuma (Te Deum of Sándor Sík), 135table8, 186 Sonata for Cello and Piano, op. 4, 47, 49 Sonata for Solo Cello, op. 8, 75–76, 79, 81–82, 84–85, 167, 198, 211n11, Sonatina, 24, 28, 53 Song Collection for Elementary Schools (coed. with György Kerényi), 13, 200 “Song of Argyrus.” See “Árgirus nótája” Song of Faith, 112

Tantum Ergo V. See Öt Tantum ergo Te Deum of Budavár, 111, 113, 168, 199, 238n48 Te Deum of Sándor Sík. See Sík Sándor Te Deuma There Goes the Shepherd. See Megy a juhász Three Chorale Preludes for Cello and Piano, 167 “Three Hungarian Songs by Lukács Mihálovits.” See “Mihálovits Lukács három magyar nótája” Three Songs, op. 14. See Három ének, op. 14 “Thirteen Young Composers.” See “Tizenhárom fiatal zeneszerző” “Tizenhárom fiatal zeneszerző” (“Thirteen Young Composers”), 223n22, 228n21 To Ferenc Liszt. See Liszt Ferenchez Too Late. See Akik mindig elkésnek “Toronto Lectures.” See “Torontói előadások” “Torontói előadások” (“Toronto Lectures”), 228n31, 231n94 “Toscanini emlékezete” (“Remembering Toscanini”), 230n79, 231n85, 231n92 To the Székler Transylvanians. See A székelyekhez Tower Watchman of Nándor, The. See A nándori toronyőr

Index of Works Túrót eszik a cigány (See the Gipsy), 13, 198 Tricinia, 184, 185table10 Two Men’s Choirs: No. 2. Mulató gajd (Merrymaking), 77–78 Two Songs, op. 5, 77, 224n46. See also Két ének, op. 5

283

Vízkereszt (Epiphany), 135 Voice of Jesus, The. See Jelenti magát Jézus Voyage en Hongrie, 9, 66, 68–69, 77, 208n14, 223n16, 223n28, 223n29, 224n37, 225n15

“Utam a zenéhez” (“My Path to Music”) 147, 207n4, 210n2, 210n10, 217n73, 232n6, 242n21, 249n18, 250n45 Új esztendőt köszöntő (New Year’s Greeting), 134, 135table8, 239n54 Ürgeöntés (The Gopher), 184

“What Do I Want with the Old Székely Songs?” See “Mit akarok a régi székely dalokkal?” “What is Hungarian in Music?” See “Mi a magyar a zenében?” Whitsuntide. See Pünkösdölő “Who is a Real Expert in Music?” See “Ki az igazi zeneértő?” Woe is Me. See Meghalok, meghalok

Variations on a Hungarian Folk Song, “The Peacock,” 29, 115, 199. See also PeacockVariations “Velence után. Nyilatkozat” (“After Venice: Statement”), 249n32 Virágok részvéte (The Compassion of Flowers), 38 “Visszatekintés” (“In Retrospect”), 120, 234n31 Víllő (The Straw Guy), 13, 134, 135table8, 198, 239n54

“Zenei belmisszió” (“Musical Home Mission”), 239n49 “Zenei nevelés, embernevelés” (“Musical Education, Education of Man”), 90, 228n32 Zongoramuzsika op. 3/Kilenc zongoradarab Piano Music/Nine Piano Pieces), 44, 49, 60. Zrínyi’s Appeal. See Zrínyi szózata Zrínyi szózata (Zrínyi’s Appeal), 14, 168, 184

CALIFORNIA STUDIES IN 20TH-CENTURY MUSIC Richard Taruskin, General Editor 1. Revealing Masks: Exotic Influences and Ritualized Performance in Modernist Music Theater, by W. Anthony Sheppard 2. Russian Opera and the Symbolist Movement, by Simon Morrison 3. German Modernism: Music and the Arts, by Walter Frisch 4. New Music, New Allies: American Experimental Music in West Germany from the Zero Hour to Reunification, by Amy Beal 5. Bartók, Hungary, and the Renewal of Tradition: Case Studies in the Intersection of Modernity and Nationality, by David E. Schneider 6. Classic Chic: Music, Fashion, and Modernism, by Mary E. Davis 7. Music Divided: Bartók’s Legacy in Cold War Culture, by Danielle Fosler-Lussier 8. Jewish Identities: Nationalism, Racism, and Utopianism in Twentieth-Century Art Music, by Klára Móricz 9. Brecht at the Opera, by Joy H. Calico 10. Beautiful Monsters: Imagining the Classic in Musical Media, by Michael Long 11. Experimentalism Otherwise: The New York Avant-Garde and Its Limits, by Benjamin Piekut 12. Music and the Elusive Revolution: Cultural Politics and Political Culture in France, 1968–1981, by Eric Drott 13. Music and Politics in San Francisco: From the 1906 Quake to the Second World War, by Leta E. Miller 14. Frontier Figures: American Music and the Mythology of the American West, by Beth E. Levy 15. In Search of a Concrete Music, by Pierre Schaeffer, translated by Christine North and John Dack 16. The Musical Legacy of Wartime France, by Leslie A. Sprout 17. Arnold Schoenberg’s A Survivor from Warsaw in Postwar Europe, by Joy H. Calico 18. Music in America’s Cold War Diplomacy, by Danielle Fosler-Lussier 19. Making New Music in Cold War Poland: The Warsaw Autumn Festival, 1956–1968, by Lisa Jakelski 20. Treatise on Musical Objects: An Essay across Disciplines, by Pierre Schaeffer, translated by Christine North and John Dack 21. Nostalgia for the Future: Luigi Nono’s Selected Writings and Interviews, edited by Angela Ida De Benedictis and Veniero Rizzardi 22. The Doctor Faustus Dossier: Arnold Schoenberg, Thomas Mann, and Their Contemporaries, 1930–1951, edited by E. Randol Schoenberg, with an introduction by Adrian Daub 23. Stravinsky in the Americas: Transatlantic Tours and Domestic Excursions from Wartime Los Angeles (1925–1945), by H. Colin Slim, with a foreword by Richard Taruskin

24. Middlebrow Modernism: Britten’s Operas and the Great Divide, by Christopher Chowrimootoo 25. A Wayfaring Stranger: Ernst von Dohnányi’s American Years, 1949–1960, by Veronika Kusz, translated by Viktória Kusz and Brian McLean 26. In Stravinsky’s Orbit: Responses to Modernism in Russian Paris, by Klára Móricz 27. Zoltán Kodály’s World of Music, by Anna Dalos, translated by Júlia Vajda and Brian McLean

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