Original title: Послания покойнoй Р. В. Трусовой
Subtitle: To twenty-one poems by Rimma Dalos, for soprano and chamber ensemble, in Russian
Dedication: György Kósa
Commissioner: the French State and the Ensemble Intercontemporain
Premiere location: Paris
Premiere date: 1981.01.14.
Premiere performers: Adrienne Csengery (sopran); Ensemble Intercontemporain, conducted by Sylvain Cambreling
Lyricist name: Rimma Dalos
Language: Russian
Composition end date: 1980
Status: finished
Genre: Chamber Music with Voice
Instrumentation: soprano, oboe, clarinet in A / Bb / Eb, horn, mandolin, cimbalom, harp, piano / celesta, vibraphone, xylophone, tubular bell, triangle, cymbal, gong, tam-tam, metal block, maracas, wooden block, breaking of a glass, glass chimes, small snare drum, military drum (tambour militaire), bass drum, violin, viola, double bass
Duration (minutes): 27
Year of publication: 1982
Publisher: Universal Edition/Editio Musica Budapest
Publication number: Z. 12021

I. Oдиʜoчecτʙo
1. В пространстве площадью
2. День упал

II. Немного эротическое
1. Жар
2. Дʙa cπлeτëʜʜыx τeлa...
3. Πoчeмy ʜe ʙиɜжaτь cʙиʜьëй...
4. Чacτyшкa

III. Γopький oπыτ – cлaдocτь и гope
1. Tы ʙыʜyл...
2. Beликaя бeдa...
3. Кaмeшки
4. Toʜкaя иглa
5. 3ʜaю, любимoмy...
6. Цʙeτoʙ oceʜʜиx yʙядaʜьe...
7. B τeбe cʙoë cπaceʜиe ищy...
8. Tʙoи иcчeɜʜoʙeʜия...
9. Я бeɜ τeбя...
10. Люби мeʜя...
11. Pacπлaτa
12. Игpyшкa
13. 3aчeм τы πpoиɜʜëc...
14. B лиʙʜe...
15. 3a ʙcë... (Эπилoг)
________

I. Loneliness
1. In a space of...
2. The day has fallen

II. A Little Erotic
1. Heat
2. Two Interlaced Bodies...
3. Why should i not squeal like a pig
4. Chastushka

III. Bitter Experience - Delight and Grief
1. You took my heart
2. Great misery
3. Pebbles
4. A slender needle
5. I know , my loved one...
6. Autumn flowers fading...
7. In you i seek my salvation...
8. Your disappearances...
9. Without you...
10. Love me...
11. Retaliation
12. A plaything
13. Why did you utter...
14. In the cloudburst...
15. For everything... (epiloque)

(For the English translation, scroll below)

I. Oдиʜoчecτʙo
Я улыбаться перестала,
Морозный ветер губы студит,
Одной надеждой меньше стало,
Одною песней больше будет.
(Анна Ахматова)

1. В пространстве площадью
В пространстве
площадью 6 X 4 метра,
С давлением 6000 атмосфер одиночества,
С температурой 400000 градусов
по неосуществлённым желаниям
мёрзнет человек.

2. День упал
День упал гильотиною,
день, выстиланный обещаниями,
спасением неспасаемого,
ложью, игрою, интригами,
с новыми заплатками правды
на тряпье лжи и трусости.

Распечатанное одиночество
пустого существования,
оставшиеся крохи доверия,
застрявшие между двумя поцелуями.

II. Немного эротическое
...и эту песню я невольно
Отдам на смех и поруганье,
Затем, что нестерпимо больно
Душе любовное молчанье.
(Анна Ахматова)

1. Жар
„Und wenn ein Irrlicht Euch die Wege weisen soll,
So müsst Ihr's so genau nicht nehmen.”
(Goethe: Faust I, Walpurgisnacht)

Жар, жар, жар - Жар желания.
Я жажду тебя как живительную влагу,
Прильни ко мне
длиной своих ног
грудью, впадиной живота,
ощути шёлк моей кожи
своими нервными пальцами.
Твой поцелуй не спасёт меня -
только отравит.
Я хочу принять тебя всего,
без остатка.
Разве не видишь,
как я сгораю, желая тебя?

2. Дʙa cπлeτëʜʜыx τeлa...
Peπopτëp: Дʙa cπлeτëʜʜыx τeлa,
Кpacʜoe, бeлoe, чëpʜoe.
Иccτyπлëʜʜoe ʜacлaждeʜиe
Любoʙʜoй лacки.
Oʜa: Moя πopoɜoʙeʙшaя кoжa,
Γopящaя πoд τʙoими πoцeлyями,
Tʙoë πoблeʜeʙшee лицo
Oτ cдepжиʙaeмoгo жeлaʜия.

3. Πoчeмy ʜe ʙиɜжaτь cʙиʜьëй...
Πoчeмy
мʜe ʜe ʙиɜжaτь cʙиʜьëй,
кoгдa кpyгoм ʙce xpюкaюτ?

4. Чacτyшкa
A yкycи мeʜя ɜa гoлoʙy,
a yкycи мeʜя ɜa гpyдь!
Πepeд τoбoй cτoю я гoлaя,
Taк yкycи ɜa чτo-ʜибyдь!

III. Γopький oπыτ – cлaдocτь и гope
...И былa poкoʙaя oτpaдa
B πoπиpaʜьи ɜaʙeτʜыx cʙяτыʜь,
И бeɜyмʜaя cepдцy ycлaдa –
Эτa гopькaя cτpacτь, кaк πoлыʜь.
(Aлeкcaʜдp Ƃлoк)

1. Tы ʙыʜyл...
Tы ʙыʜyл
cepдцe ʜa лaдoʜь
и бepeжʜo eë πepeʙepʜyл.

2. Beликaя бeдa...
Beликaя бeдa –
любoʙь.
Ƃыʙaeτ ли бoльшee cчacτьe?

3. Кaмeшки
Mʜe милый
πpиʜëc кaмeшки.
Я paдyюcь иx paɜʜoцʙeτию.

4. Toʜкaя иглa
Toʜкaя иглa cτpaдaʜия
Πpoʜɜиτ cepдцe.
Taк я yмpy.

5. 3ʜaю, любимoмy...
3ʜaю, любимoмy
я ʜe ʜyжʜa
Taк я yмpy

6. Цʙeτoʙ oceʜʜиx yʙядaʜьe...
Цʙeτoʙ oceʜʜиx yʙядaʜьe,
Heʜacыτʜoe πaдeʜиe дoждя...
Taк жиɜʜь yxoдиτ иɜ πpиpoды...

7. B τeбe cʙoë cπaceʜиe ищy...
B τeбe cʙoë
cπaceʜиe ищy,
a ʜaxoжy πaдeʜьe.

8. Tʙoи иcчeɜʜoʙeʜия...
Tʙoи иcчeɜʜoʙeʜья
Кaк πpoʙaлы ʙ πaмяτию
Heτ cʙяɜи ʙ дeйcτʙии,
Ho ecτь иʜaя cʙяɜь,
Кoτopaя ɜoʙëτcя ʙpeмя.

9. Я бeɜ τeбя...
Я бeɜ τeбя
Кaк τa жeʜщиʜa ʙ бaʜe
C oτpeɜaʜʜoй гppyдью.

10. Люби мeʜя...
Люби мeʜя,
Πpocτи мeʜя –
Moи жeлaʜия τaк πpocτы.

11. Pacπлaτa
Oкo ɜa oкo
Любoʙь ɜa любoʙь
A πoτoм
cлaдкий cτыд
Bыπлaчиʙaeмoй
ʙ paccpoчкy
ʜeycτoйки.

12. Игpyшкa
Πycτь ʜe ɜʙyчaτ мoи cлoʙa yкopoм:
Игpyшкoй я былa,
A ʙepилocь, чτo гepoиʜeй!

13. 3aчeм τы πpoиɜʜëc...
3aчeм τы πpoиɜʜëc
τe cτpaшʜыe cлoʙa,
кoгдa был лиʙeʜь.

14. B лиʙʜe...
B лиʙʜe
πoxoτлиʙыx ʙɜглядoʙ
cτoялa я paɜдeτa дo кocτeй.

15. 3a ʙcë... (Эπилoг)
3a ʙcë,
чτo мы cдeлaли c τoбoй кoгдa-τo,
pacπлaчиʙaюcь я.

Эπилoг Aлeкcaʜдpπ Ƃлoкa, cτpacτʜo
любимoгo πoэτa πoкoйʜицы:
Лeτи, кaк πpилeτaлa τaя,
Hoчь oгʜeʙaя, ʜoчь былaя...
Tы ʙpeмя πaмяτь πpиτyши,
A πyτь cʜeжкoм ɜaπopoши.
(Ceдoe yτpo, 29 ʜoябpя 1913)

________

I. Loneliness
I have stopped smiling,
the frosty wind makes my lips cold.
Now there is one hope less,
but there will be one song more.
(Anna Akhmatova)

1. In a space of...
In a space of
six by four metres
at a pressure of 6000 atmospheres of loneliness,
at a temperature of 400000 degrees of
unfulfilled desires
a man is freezing.

2. The day has fallen
The day has fallen guillotine-like,
the day, covered with promises,
with saving the un-saveable
with lies, play-action, intrigues,
with new patches of truth
on the rags of lies and cowardice.

Unsealed loneliness
of my empty existence,
the remaining crumbs of trust
stuck between two kisses.

II. A Little Erotic
“... and unwillingly this song
I shall give away for laughter and profanation,
since to the soul a loving silence
is unbearably painful.”
(Anna Akhmatova)

1. Heat
“And if a will o' the wisp should lead the way,
You mustn't judge things too precisely.”
(Goethe: Faust I, Walpurgis Night)

Heat, heat, heat - the heat of desire.
I yearn for you as for life-giving moisture.
Cling to me
with the whole length of your legs,
with your chest, with the hollow of your stomach,
feel the silk of my skin
with your nervous fingers.
Your kiss will save me -
just poison me.
I want to take in all of you,
without anything left over.
Can't you see
how I burn with desire for you?

2. Two Interlaced Bodies...
Reporter: Two interlaced bodies,
red, white, black.
Frenzied enjoyment
of love's caressess.
She: My skin turned pink,
burning under your kisses.
Your face turned pale
from repressed desire.

3. Why should i not squeal like a pig
Why
should I not squeal like a pig,
when all around are grunting?

4. Chastushka
Bite me on the head,
bite me on the breast!
I stand naked before you,
so do bite me – anywhere!

III. Bitter Experience - Delight and Grief
...And there was a fatal joy
in trampling on sacred things,
and insane pleasure for the heart-
a bitter passion, like wormwood!
(Alexander Blok)

1. You took my heart
You took
my heart on the palm of your hand,
which you then carefully turned upside down.

2. Great misery
Great misery –
that's love.
Is there any greater happiness?

3. Pebbles
My dear one
brought me pebbles.
I rejoice in their many colors.

4. A slender needle
A slender needle of suffering
will pierce my heart.
So I'll die.

5. I know , my loved one...
I know my loved one
does not need me.
But still I sleep quietly.

6. Autumn flowers fading...
Autumn flowers fading,
rain falling insatiably.
Thus life departs from nature.

7. In you i seek my salvation...
In you
I seek my salvation,
but I find my fall.

8. Your disappearances...
Your disappearances
are like gaps in the memory.
A link in the action is missing.
But there is another link
which is called time.

9. Without you...
Without you
I am like that woman in the bath-house
with her breast cut off.

10. Love me...
Love me,
forgive me,
my wishes are so simple.

11. Retaliation
An eye for an eye,
love for love;
And then
the sweet shame:
Of the balance paid
by installments.

12. A plaything
Let my words not sound like reproaches:
I was just a plaything,
and believed I was a heroine.

13. Why did you utter...
Why did you utter
those terrible words,
when there was a cloudburst?

14. In the cloudburst...
In the cloudburst
of lustful looks
I was standing naked to the bone.

15. For everything... (epiloque)
For everything
we did together at the same time -
I am paying.

Epilogue by Alexander Blok,
dearly loved poet of the deceased:
Fly away as flew and thawed,
this night just gone, this night of fire ...
You, Time, extinguish memory,
and strew your snow over the road.
(Gray morning, 29 November, 1913)

(Translated by Stuart Campbell and Ksenia Norall)

Review of the World Premiere

Review by Márta Grabócz
(Muzsika, March 1981)

Commissioned by the Ensemble Intercontemporain and the French Ministry of Cultural Affairs, Kurtág’s new work was completed in the spring of 1980. Its premiere took place on January 14 of this year in Paris, as part of a “workshop concert” (“Atelier Kurtág”) dedicated to the composer, performed by Adrienne Csengery and the Ensemble, conducted by Sylvain Cambreling.

Thanks to the leadership of the contemporary music ensemble – Pierre Boulez and Péter Eötvös, the musical director who has worked tirelessly to expand French-Hungarian musical ties – respect for the composer this time went beyond abstract admiration. The commission resulted in one of the finest – and we might even venture to say the greatest – works by Kurtág, and the premiere produced a flawless performance.

It is also worth briefly mentioning the unusual, highly successful format of the concert that framed the premiere: the event guided listeners into the composer’s world along two distinct paths. On the one hand, through the composer’s introductory and accompanying commentaries – which, for the most part, veer into intimate and passionate confession as early as the second sentence – whether regarding the symbolism of the opening measures of the String Quartet, Op. 1, the circumstances surrounding the creation of individual pieces from Games, the motivations behind their selection, or even the secrets of his favorite works. On the other hand, the linear structure of the program selection also helped the audience better navigate the composer’s oeuvre. The unprecedented concentration, philosophical abstraction, and intellectual-ethical rigor of the String Quartet, composed in 1959, were well counterbalanced by the Games – that is, the pieces in the oeuvre that are of a contrasting type and conception – which, with extraordinary musical ingenuity, bring a single moment in life, a single idea, symbol, or musical problem into sharp focus. Thus, as we followed a selection of pieces from Games – composed since 1973 and performed by Márta Kurtág and György Kurtág, partly together and partly separately – it came as no surprise that the twelve microludes written in 1978, Hommage à Mihály András, were included; it represents a stage of simplification within the abstraction of chamber music – the stripping down and “purification” of the “subject” – and, at the same time, a move toward greater accessibility. (The pieces for string quartet were performed by the Quatuor Intercontemporain.)

The new song cycle, titled Messages from the Late R. V. Troussova, Op. 17, for soprano solo and chamber ensemble, was performed in this context – namely, as the culmination of a process that moved from the complex and abstract toward extreme refinement, focusing on what is essential and plastic. This piece is not only a logical extension of the artistic trajectory already described, but also a new creative synthesis – the beginning of another possible stage in the composer’s oeuvre. On the one hand, the new song cycle preserves and carries forward the principles of truthful expression, ultimate concentration, and the pictorial rendering of the “essence,” drawing on the experience of the miniatures in Games, the quartet pieces, and the vocal cycles created to date; on the other hand, the black-and-white shades of the rigor of his earlier chamber works has been replaced by an infinite palette of color that fully explores every dimension of musical space.

The cycle of 21 poems by Rimma Dalos – a Russian-speaking poet living in Hungary – achieved its final narrative form through the composer’s collaboration. Somewhat akin to the characterization in Sándor Weöres’s Psyché, it recalls the memories of love and the love poems of an imaginary turn-of-the-century lady, forming a trilogy of bitter experiences that blends loneliness, the intoxication of love, pain, solace, and resignation.

In his only comment on the work, the composer refers to Schumann’s cycle Frauenliebe und Leben; beyond the parallels in theme and content, the musical aspects of this connection will require detailed analysis at a later time.

Even more significant than the connections to Weöres or Schumann is Kurtág’s relationship to Schoenberg’s Pierrot lunaire. Just as Pierre Boulez, with his major work Le Marteau sans Maître in 1953–1954, composed his own homage to Pierrot Lunaire – a work of theatrical constructions set to the surrealist-abstract poems of René Char – so too did the Hungarian “response” to the Schoenberg work, that is, to the challenge posed by one of the milestones of music history, emerge in 1980 as the result of five years of labor. Not only are the structural and compositional affinities evident, as in Boulez’s case (the twenty-one poems, with mottos by Akhmatova and Blok, are organized into three thematic units), but so is the artistic and creative approach: the approach that invokes a figure dressed in a distinctive costume – an “I” disguised as a third person – to capture a particular sensibility, an “awareness of life,” and an “atmosphere” at a specific moment in the century and at a specific geographical point in Europe.

It is almost impossible to put into words what this Russian-language song cycle conceals. What strikes the listener from the very first hearing is the coexistence of the cathartic experience, the emotional and passionate resonance of the piece, and the so-called “scholarly style” – the parallel presence of the dramatic-lyrical composer and the poeta doctus, a phenomenon that is exceedingly rare in the history of music. What might “scholarly style” mean in this context? For example, in the countless ways the relationship between text and music is handled – a method that reveals new surprises in nearly every movement – as if the entire history of music in this regard were condensed to serve a contemporary system of symbols and a contemporary intonational context.

In this work – to mention only the most extreme devices – one can find the so-called “word-painting” visual-rhetorical musical figures of the Baroque (favored by Monteverdi, Schütz, and Bach), but also an impressionistic compositional style that captures the mood of a verse as a unified whole, marked by the movement of the lines or the tone color; one encounters various versions of stand-alone instrumental commentaries or reflections, as in Schumann’s songs, as well as the distinctive use of the vocal part based on complex phonetic or instrumental-like techniques, a trend that has gained momentum since Ligeti and Berio.

The mature and rich “scholarly” compositional concept, which draws on the lessons of music history, is evident in the remarkable diversity of genres, structural and stylistic solutions in the individual movements, and in the polyphony of compositional devices, whose ambiguity gathers inherited meanings within a unified worldview and style. Thus, side by side – individualized with stylistic elements from Kurtág’s world and shaped into “peculiarity” – are, for example, the wild, macabre dance song of the rustic Russian chastushka movement; a Brahmsian elegy with a verbunkos flavor, performed as an instrumental interlude for clarinet, horn, and piano; the canonic lament of the soprano and the cimbalom, followed by the brief dramas of the final structural-dramatic unit, expressed through color, gesture, movement, chorale, and Varèse-like timbral symbols.

Even at the level of the drama’s reception, the plot of this closed yet articulated world emerges clearly: the contrast between loneliness, the expressiveness of pain, and cold emptiness in the first movement; the arc in the second, ranging from the fiery concitato of emotions pushed to the extreme to the macabre; while the third section, consisting of 15 short verses, juxtaposes the extreme characteristics of beauty and wildness, irrationality, absurdity, and a “transcendent” calm.

The timbral composition of the song cycle, however – perhaps more than any of the symbolic systems described so far – conveys the pictorial nature of emotional, impulsive, and atmospheric expression. Compared with the vibrant, pulsating palette revealed by the richness of Kurtág’s piece, the timbres in Schoenberg’s Pierrot seem to emerge from behind a veil or curtain. While timbre-melody was the central category in Schoenberg’s work, in Kurtág’s case we must speak of timbre-composition – a concept of timbre that governs and defines the entire structure and order. This difference is clear from the fact that, while in Schoenberg’s work the piano is the central character of the ensemble, adapting to and conforming with everyone else, in Kurtág’s piece an entire group of instruments – a varying combination of piano, cimbalom, vibraphone, celesta, and harp – assumes this same central role. The ensemble features three wind instruments, three string instruments, a mandolin, and a trio of percussionists.

Kurtág’s concept and compositional style, which treat every instrument as a soloist, pose a particularly difficult challenge for the performers, especially those playing the cimbalom and horn parts. Márta Fábián and Jens Mac Manama contributed to the performance of the piece almost as if they were in leading roles.

Of course, the true protagonist of the work is the soprano. We can scarcely do justice here to the technical, stylistic, and emotional variety of the vocal part – in other words, to the difficulty and complexity of the task that falls to the singer. Adrienne Csengery performed admirably and at a high level in realizing the countless nuances of expressive, impulsive, emotional delivery and vocal technical bravura and innovations. The work of the ensemble and conductor Sylvain Cambreling was also characterized by their conscientious approach and successful execution of this difficult task.

My article is simply a modest attempt to convey the main impressions left by the premiere. What words cannot express will likely be communicated during the Hungarian premiere, which is scheduled to take place soon in Budapest.

(“Kurtág Premiere in Paris,” Muzsika 24 [1981]/3, 34–36.)

_____________

Reviews of the Hungarian Premiere

Review by István Raics
(Népszava, October 23, 1981)

[…]

The second half of the concert, held in the Grand Hall of the Academy of Music, featured two Hungarian premieres that were received with great acclaim. Both works are from György Kurtág’s most recent output. The tribute to Nono, Omaggio a Luigi Nono, consists of six short choral movements. Our Radio Choir performed it under the baton of László Dobszay. The other work, Messages from the late R. V. Troussova, is a three-part cycle written for soprano and chamber ensemble. Adrienne Csengery performed it with the Budapest Chamber Ensemble, under the direction of András Mihály. Both Kurtág works are full of vibrancy, intense psychological insight, and, at times, stormily passionate melodic lines reminiscent of Lulu. The audience responded to the two new works with great appreciation.

(“Korunk zenéje ’81,” Népszava 109 [1981]/249, 6.)

_____________

Review by Marianne Pándi
(Magyar Nemzet, October 24, 1981)

The second half of the evening was dedicated to György Kurtág. Following their memorable success at international premieres, two of his new works were performed in Hungary for the first time: Omaggio a Luigi Nono, written for a cappella choir, and the chamber-orchestra cantata Messages from the Late R. V. Troussova. A distinctive feature of these new compositions is that both were set to Russian texts – poems by Rimma Dalos, with one poem by Anna Akhmatova. It is astonishing how deeply the composer internalized the personal messages of these short poems – at times witty, at times passionate, at times philosophical, at times hysterical, but always deeply personal – for even when composing in one’s mother tongue, the text must possess exceptionally evocative and suggestive power to stir the creator’s imagination. Even listeners unfamiliar with Russian will be immediately convinced by the flawless prosody, the countless masterful touches of musical expression, and the rare convergence of the spoken word with the sound of the voice. The choral pieces evoke the razor-sharp, diamond-hard – and diamond-clear – sound of the bygone golden age of vocal music, the first heyday of choral singing. The solo cantata masterfully combines the intense expressiveness of the expressionist style and the flowing melodiousness of high romantic vocal music with Kurtág’s distinctive microeffects. A powerful, liberated passion finds full expression in these short songs; it is as if the composer, freed from the countless tensions and barriers of self-control inherent in speculation, were stepping out from the closed walls of his studio to take a deep breath in the sunlight. Adrienne Csengery shapes the twenty-one songs of the Troussova cycle with such vocal confidence and artistic awareness that her profound dedication – even to the tiniest detail – and her expressive power almost qualify her as a co-composer. With this interpretation, she creates a style to which, in addition to her musical talents, the appeal of her personality also contributes. Instrumental accompaniment was provided by András Mihály’s ensemble. The six choral works written for Nonó were performed by the Radio Choir under the baton of László Dobszay. […]

(Magyar Nemzet 37 [1981]/250, 4.)

________

Review by Kroó György
(The New Hungarian Quarterly, 1982)

In the summer of 1976 I reported on the oeuvre of the then 50-year-old György Kurtág embracing 16 years but containing 11 opus numbers. The occasion for the review was an evening in Budapest when two of Kurtág’s compositions were introduced (Games for piano, without an opus number, and Four Songs Composed to János Pilinszky’s Poems, Op 11). The rhythm of his creative work, the hitherto slow process of composing, or rather maturing of each work has quickened since then. In the five years since, besides some forty further miniatures enriching the Games and a transcription of the album’s thirteen pieces for two cimbaloms, he has composed a cycle of songs (S.K. – Remembrance Noise, Seven Songs to Dezső Tandori’s Poems, Op 12), a garland of twelve “microludiums” for string quartet (Hommage à András Mihály, Op 13), and an opus for the Leier (the new German instrument), for which he has prepared a piccolo, trombone, and guitar transcription (Op 15 a, b,). He has also been working on a Lermontov song cycle, a few choral pieces and eighteen unaccompanied songs to texts of Attila József which are finished and ready, or almost ready for publication and performance. Meanwhile, in January and February, 1981 Kurtág presented to the public two new cycles, this time not in Budapest, but in Paris and London. The choral cycle (Omaggio à Luigi Nono, Op 16) was first performed by the BBC Singers, and his song cycle (Messages of the Late R.V. Troussova, Op 17) was commissioned by Ircam. As the composer of one of the most significant works in the quarter century after the Webern–Bartók era, the four-movement soprano-piano concerto The Sayings of Péter Bornemisza, Op 7, the setting to music of the text of the 16th century Hungarian preacher and poet, Kurtág had clearly emerged as the most important living Hungarian composer; the significance of the Paris and London performances is that he has now been discovered also by Europe. Critics in France and England praised the Omaggio and the Messages, and since then the song cycle has been heard by audiences in La Rochelle, Venice and Milan. The score of the two works was recently issued by Editio Musica in Budapest, and at the Budapest Music of our Times festival in October 1981, they were given their first Hungarian performance. This time the Hungarian Radio and Television Choir, conducted by László Dobszay performed the Omaggio, while Adrienne Csengery, as in every previous performance, carried the song cycle to triumph. The Budapest Chamber Ensemble was conducted by András Mihály.

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We could describe these two Kurtág compositions as twin works: the poet whose work is set to music is in both instances Rimma Dalos, who lives in Hungary but writes in Russian. In both the three-line form is dominant, and the inter-relationships in the process of composition are informative: Kurtág wrote the choruses of the Omaggio after interrupting work on the Messages, and then continued and finished the song cycle. Their function in Kurtág’s oeuvre is also similar: they advance to a new realm of sound. The Omaggio is his first choral work since Op 1 (“Some day you ought to write something for chorus as well,” Nono remarked to Kurtág; this is Nono’s only connection with the composition), and his first a capella work as well. The score of the Messages also expands the chamber orchestra to dimensions never yet tested by the composer, to the violin, the viola, the double bass, the oboe, the clarinet, horn, mandolin, cimbalom, harp, piano, vibraphone, celesta and a whole regiment of percussion instruments, which all are brand new to Kurtág. (It is, after all, probably justifiable to regard the Capriccio, with its single performance, as a withdrawn experiment.) With this the composer, who until then had been so parsimonious in his means, set out in at least three directions: towards a large volume of sound (he conceived his Omaggio explicitly for a large chorus), towards a multicoloured compositional style, and towards the polyphonic musical ideal, a texture of more than 3–4–5 voices, yet held within strict control. This much is sufficient for us to see in these two works an opening, and a new direction. Janus-like in their cycle and formal conceptions, in their organization of sound, in their characteristic intonations, their melodic and dynamic gestures, and their psychology both still unmistakably bear Kurtág’s old and familiar hallmark. In which is the new element more forceful? Perhaps the Omaggio more decidedly exploits the possibilities offered by the Russian language. The first movement inflects the pronoun “whose” and plays with the sound possibilities of the language; the second movement, a setting of the Ahmatova fragment, seems to give prominence to the cadence of Russian speech; the last movement in the cycle appears to allow old Russian choral music to filter through. The substantially more monumental song cycle is richer, more complete and satisfying. Through its inspiration, its ability to depict a full lyrical universe, it is the very same type of summarizing masterpiece – typically this one was also five years in preparation – as The Sayings of Péter Bornemisza, ten years earlier.

For Kurtág Russian is a secret, virtually a sacred language, in a sense similar to what Latin was for Stravinsky when composing Oedipus Rex. It is worth quoting here a few lines from Joergensen’s monograph on Saint Francis of Assisi, to which Stravinsky referred: “To Francis French was the language of poetry, the language of religion, the language of the most beautiful memories and the most solemn hours, the language to which he escaped when his heart became too full for him to find expression in the Italian language […] French was in essence the language of his soul.” Eric White, Stravinsky’s monographer adds that Latin, for Stravinsky, quite likely “bore a magic element which could be exploited in his music.” All this is completely valid for Kurtág and his relationship with the Russian language. However, what Stravinsky says about Latin and its appropriateness for the Oedipus theme and the oratorio genre (“It provided me with a medium which is not dead, but petrified, and thus became monumentalized, safe from every risk of vulgarization”), cannot be said of Kurtág’s use of Russian. Kurtág adheres to these Russian words with the glowing expressivity found in his setting of the texts of Bornemisza, Pál Gulyás, János Pilinszky and Dezső Tandori.

The text of the choral work divides into three sections of three movements each, the second three cycles within the cycle are from “The Writings of the Apostle Paul to Me” by Rimma Dalos. The verse structure also provides a further separation of the cycle into two parts: the setting to music of the three-line verses of the last four movements. The musical symmetry is again different; two lengthier compositions, of several stages each, flank two miniatures of chamber music character, even in their number of voices. One (Love – for Months) quotes the opening notes of the Prelude to Wagner’s Tristan as a two-voice hommage, the other is a four-voice canon. They represent a main variation of the three-phase forms corresponding to the three-line verses that frequently occur in Kurtág’s works: one of them is repetitive, rhymelike, expanding to a final materialization; the other is an asymmetrical variant unexpectedly coming to a pointe-like conclusion. The first movement inflecting a pronoun is a Russian variant of one of the characteristic sound-games, attitudes (There Will be Solace) of the Tandori cycle. Still the new sound departs here from the personal, and the Lermontov quotation attached to the movement (“And life, if you gaze around with cold attention – Is such an empty and foolish jest!”) suggests a philosophy behind the jesting and the bravura. The tragic awareness of the Ahmatova fragment is set in a veiled waltz rhythm and a concealed melody of thirds which the pointe-music (pizzicato-like vocal chords accompaniment to the solo voice) and the closing 12-tone dolcissimo harmony in fifths suggestively, easingly resolve. Among Rimma Dalos’s Biblical paraphrases (the poet complements two lines of quotations from Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians with a third line as her personal reply), again the closing line in the fifth movement (“for everyone it is given and from everything forgotten…”) evokes Kurtág’s most sensitive reaction, the aleatory chant tone never before heard in his works. The great movement of the Omaggio is the finale. It is dedicated to Lili Ország in whose pictures the gate symbol recurs:  “And a gate opened for me broad and mighty, but I dare not step through it…”.

Here Kurtág returns to the naively communicative, visionary, symbolic style, the Schütz-type concerto style of the Bornemisza Cantata. The male and the female quintets set before us the wings of the gate, which – as if we were approaching them – seem to grow ever mightier… The threefold, fourfold piano dynamics and the sighing motif, for centuries port of European music, conveys (middle section) the anguished, panting, almost broken frame of mind, before the confession escapes: I do not dare. The music, as a camera, records this moment for eternity, the gate, the gate of death opens on to infinity but the melody hesitates as if enchanted, there is no continuation: hope, as a receding, fading constellation (a prolonged E) gradually vanishes on the horizon. We feel the Russian-like choral sound, which imbues the music, to be authoritative, and when we do, Kurtág in actual fact has dared to step through the outer gate of his own style, and arrived at an even wider world. The inner spheres of this world are to be traversed by the musician-poet of the Messages of the Late R. V. Troussova.

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The number of verses (21) of the Rimma Dalos song cycle, the fundamental idea of the instrumentation (a soprano accompanied by a chamber orchestra of varying composition) and a characteristic technique (speech at fixed pitches occurring here and there within the solo vocal part) may already recall for many listeners Schönberg’s Pierrot Lunaire cycle of 1912. But the rearrangement of the verse by the composer himself is enough to make this questionable. The first part (with Ahmatova’s Loneliness as motto) comprises two, relatively longer songs; the second part (with a motto taken from Ahmatova’s A Little Erotic) consists of four songs of medium length, and the third (with a motto from Blok’s Bitter Experience – Delight and Grief) is a short song based on fifteen three-line verses (with an epilogue from Blok’s Grey Morning). The order of movements too, is entirely different from Schönberg’s. After the drama of the first part and the songs of scherzo character in the second, the third movement, however composite and contrasting, is purely lyrical. More significant, and acknowledged by the composer himself, is the spiritual kinship that links Kurtág’s Op 17 with Schumann’s Chamisso cycle of eight songs (Frauenliebe und Leben). In both a woman looks back on her life, her happy and unhappy love but there is a deeper affinity in the shades and intensity of feeling, in the identification with the moment evoked, the co-existence of present and past, even in the openly Schumanesque atmosphere of each song: “Love me, Forgive Me – My wishes are so simple”.

Yes, Schumann! But here the celebration of the interlaced bodies replaces the discovery of the beloved, the positive poles of wedding and childbirth; the tragedy of the unexpected, early death, and the recollection of a dream (piano postlude), are here replaced by lyrical-emotional images of unrequited love, doubt and suffering in love. Kurtág’s cycle is complemented by Russian articulation and joined by a vocal compass capable of serving even a Schönbergian monodrama. From the singer Kurtág makes large demands on intonation, dramatic, lyrical and coloratura technique, operatic and song styles, declamation and speech aptitude, and even bel canto if the singer is to survive the extremes of the vocal part. These demands on the singer were already present in the Bornemisza Cantata. Now, however, the singing style is more pliant, more fusible, the melodic contours are emotionally more shaded; at the same time their configurations, even in the moments of passion, are not so extreme, they are larger in scope, simpler, pared down. Up to now Kurtág has obliterated the difference between instrumental and vocal parts mainly by an instrumentation of the singing style. Now the singing part feels more vocal and is wrapped in the many strands of the instrumental texture. These strands – so many shades – continue and pattern the vocal motif like coloured yarn, anticipate it, twist around it, stitch it, whenever and however the imagination desires.

In the very first song there is an overwhelming impression of colour. It is as if after twenty years the sun is finally shining over a landscape that has always been rather overcast. This dazzling light may scintillate metallically because of the frequent use of cimbalom and mandolin, some well-known harmonic, or sul ponticello and similar effects of the strings. But this time in Kurtág it is capable of an impressionist readiness and almost sensuous enchantment. These new colours give a new dimension to Kurtág’s music. They compel a resolution of unbearable emotional stresses; they complement the stark simplicity and intensity of expression with a new richness in the music. Consider only the rapid, wild alternations of pitch and vibrant Sprachgesang of the movement entitled Heat, or the aleatory culmination of the postlude of the dialogue (Two Interlaced Bodies) which follows, and the entrancing instrumental coda reminiscent of Indian raga preludes and postludes. The shrieking and grunting of the solo part in the scherzo (Why Should I not Squeal Like a Pig) which follows directly recalls the demonic, grotesque scherzo in the Bornemisza Cantata. The movement Chastushka is a kind of echo of the tavern scene in Wozzeck. Again we may see a continuation of Kurtág’s own method of forming visual and auditive images, such as for example the giusto creating the effect of a clock ticking in the song Your Disappearances. Some at least of these effects, in which the 3rd movement is the richest, should be noted. There are the colours of the clarinet, cimbalom, harp, vibraphone, bell, gong and viola ensemble in You Took My Heart; there is the dolcissimo sound of joy turning into warmth in the poco sostenuto sections of Pebbles; there is the elusive atmosphere around the soprano-oboe canon of A Slender Needle; the incantations in the Autumn Flowers Fading enchantingly refined from a scale, from mewing, from aleatory, and there is the marvellous, exalted cheer from the clarinet, horn, viola, soprano imitations in A Plaything. And finally there is the peculiar colouring of the summary, the 21st song, orchestrated for an ensemble of soprano, horn and double bass:  “For everything we did together at some time I pay”.

With tears, the music says. Kurtág is just as resourceful in the invention of newer variants of miniature musical forms. It is not only a question of the construing of strict forms as in the two two-voice canons, and within this the splendid changes of position of the cimbalom–voice duet, the dance of the embellishing and principal notes; it also concerns the inexhaustible invention in the small song forms, and refrains or echoes. There are also a few staggeringly original forms among these traditional variants, for example, the caesura in Payment, or the technique of superimposing verse and music on each other twice, on one occasion with a shift in Pebbles.

Even more important than the diversity of small forms, because it is indispensable in a chef d’œuvre, is the fact that the 21 songs interweave in a single whole, a full, complete work of art. The unity is achieved through the momentum of expressivity, the homogeneity of the “cells” of this music, the mutually related variations or contrasts of the individual songs and through who knows what kind of hidden compositional lines of force. But then what is the cohesive force of such cycles as Schumann’s Papillons, we might ask, since we are referring so often to Schumann here? All this continues to occur within the frame of thematic composing and Kurtág’s music is still without any adhesive material. In this sense the form is bare, communication is as concentrated as possible though in this piece the composer – virtually in the spell of liberation and relief – fleshes out the bones of his music by the sheer dimensions of colour and sound. The fundamental of the whole cycle, as in every Kurtág work, remains unchanged: truth and substance. Rarely has it shined with such simplicity and warmth, with such candour: it recalls the most confessional moments of the Bornemisza cantata: “Flowers we are, frail flowers.”

(“Two Major Works from György Kurtág”, The New Hungarian Quarterly 23 [1982], 208–212.)