Stepping Into Another's World

This past summer, 2015, I had the opportunity to be both a tourist and a pilgrim, visiting the homes, now museums, of Mozart, Liszt, and Bartók, in Salzburg, Vienna, and Budapest. My experience was especially magical in Budapest, where I felt truly welcomed into the heritage of that rich culture. I arrived into Budapest via Keleti station, quiet and empty at the time, since then of course in the international news for the refugee crisis. I can be grateful that my journey took place for the happy and peaceful reasons it did, and truly hope that the warmth and hospitality shown me on my travels may extend further to those who need it desperately - in Budapest, and around the world.

As a performer, my role is to bridge the worlds of composer and audience, by playing the music, through which I share my feelings about it. This may be obvious, but my more philosophical writings deal with question such as, can music speak for itself? How much, if anything, do we need to know about the composer in order to appreciate and interpret it? Can patterns of sounds inherently move us, whether we know anything about the composer or not? In my travels and museum-visits, I explored the opposite end of the spectrum: how the closeness of stepping further into the composers' worlds might offer insight into their compositions, how my perspective might become more enlightened through pure increased empathy with what they felt and experienced.

My travels were quick, and I had time only for whirlwind tour of the Mozart's birth-house and residence in Salzburg, and then Mozart's residence next to the St. Stephen's cathedral in Vienna. I remember most the in-depth descriptions of the artifacts in the birth-house, along with a tremendously playful and witty letter on display from Mozart to his father (in which he signs off using words beginning with every letter of the alphabet), and then the immensely informative audio-guide in Vienna, (though I was surprised that almost all of the music on all the audio-guides was played 20th-century-style, rather than on period instruments), as well as how the houses were situated: in Vienna, when he wasn't touring, Mozart had no commute whatsoever! (Given my experiences on the New York City subway, I am slightly jealous.) There were many other tourists, and it was all very interesting. 

In Budapest, I found a much more “everyday” atmosphere – I felt as though at home in New York, despite staying right next to the Liszt Ferenc square with its oversize sculpture of Liszt – history and modernity seem to coexist seamlessly.

It was a grey Saturday afternoon when I wandered to the Liszt Memorial Museum, which is part of the building of the Old Academy of Music, in use today by the current Academy of Music. Liszt founded the Academy in the late 1800's, and, rather than taking a salary for teaching there, he occupied an apartment in the building, which served as his residence in Budapest between tours. I felt as though I were going to visit him, and having been an ardent teenage groupie from the moment I came across the Transcendental Etudes one fall when I was thirteen (around the time I fell in love for the first time, however haplessly), to the point of wanting to become a pianist rather than a violinist – well, I took an extra walk up a side street and back to settle myself for the object of my pilgrimage.

I was greeted by a sign reading, “Franz Liszt ~ At home Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday from 3 to 4 o'clock” - his office hours. It was Saturday slightly before 4pm, and the only thing that would have made my visit even more memorable were if he had indeed been personally present. I happened to be the only visitor at that time (an hour later, a very few other people trickled in), and for less than 1300HUF (less than $5USD), plus a small charge to be permitted to take pictures, I was admitted to reverently take in the beautifully-organized three rooms. I was supplied with a truly well-created audio guide, complete with descriptions of all of the artifacts and audio samples of performances on many of the pianos, altogether lasting about an hour and a half, in a tone that matched the insightfulness, respect, and informativeness of the museum.

I could detail many of the items, but this is already well-done on the museum website, at http://www.lisztmuseum.hu/en/exhibitions/. What I was most impressed by was simply the ability to imagine what it might have been like for Liszt to live there (something I missed most in the Salzburg Mozart residence, where I had the sense of glass cases being placed inside the building, rather than having a sense of entering Mozart's home). In the large bedroom, Liszt's composing-desk occupies one corner: a combination of a writing-desk and a keyboard, it was a gift to him from Ludwig Bösendorfer. A modest bed takes another corner, next to which stands his prayer-desk. Wooden bookcases, filled with scores, abound. Pictures and artifacts are carefully organized so as to tell an educational story, while at the same time respecting the living-quarters feel of the room. Only his death-mask was missing from the display; I believe it was on loan elsewhere.

In the salon, one section is devoted to Liszt's furniture, and the walls are decorated amply with copies of his most famous portraits, and pianos of all kinds abound. I was especially struck to see Liszt's experimentation with instruments, such as his piano-orgue (piano-organ) with two keyboards, one for the piano part of the instrument, and the other for the harmonium part of the instrument. The audio guide helpfully plays part of his composition Jeanne d'Arc for this dual-instrument, highlighting the layered aspect of the composition. (The experimentation seems to be contrary to today's trend of standardization in classical music: if wikipedia is a measure, one cannot search for the composition by instrument, as Liszt is listed to have composed for piano, organ, and never the hybrid.) I was also struck by his three-octave travel-keyboard, and other artifacts such as his travel-lamp (a special kind of candle-holder), totally foreign to modern times. On a more spiritual level, offering a glimpse into subjects Liszt took for inspiration, one wall exhibits a painting of the legend of St. Francis of Paola crossing the ocean on his coat – a gift to Liszt by his friend the painter Doré. The audio-guide plays an excerpt from Liszt's composition on the same subject, the left hand evoking the wild waves of a turbulent ocean in tremendous detail – how quickly must Liszt have written to embroider his staff paper so richly, given the enormity of his total output?

Paying tribute to his musical heritage and inspiration, Liszt's bust of Beethoven is near the entrance of the room, and the last item on the audio-guide, which plays a Liszt transcription Beethoven – a joyous, recognizable one – but which piece was it? As the museum closed, I discussed it with one of the two knowledgeable staff members at the front desk – David Spischak, a performer/musicologist and ardent Liszt friend – I knew it was from a composition with an overture, he gave me a list - Creatures of Prometheus? No, Ruins of Athens, the Turkish March, of course. I bought the (very reasonably-priced) museum book and a wonderfully informative CD of Liszt's pianos, had a quick look at the rest of the building, and chatted with the staff as we left.

Across the street is the Museum of Terror – dedicated to the victims of communism and fascism in Hungary – I felt compelled to stop by the door, paying respects in a way, and still was grateful that they were closed.

The next day, a sunny and hot Sunday, I set out for the Bartók Memorial House, a three-quarters of an hour journey across the beautiful blue Danube and by bus up into the country houses of Buda. From the last stop, it was still a five-minute walk further along a tree-lined street with large houses and sprightly greenery. When I arrived at the cheerful entrance of 29 Csalán Road, I rang the bell, and the property gate opened mysteriously.

I ascended steps through plentiful bushes and trees, taking in the fresh country air, arriving at a tall wrought-iron statue of Bartók, and then the house's entrance. It had a modern wing built onto it, housing a wide staircase, and the interior of the entrance also had been renovated, which felt especially spacious as I was, again, the only visitor at that time.

I was warmly welcomed by the receptionist, and for 1500HUF, or a little over $5USD, granted an admission ticket, which did not include an audio guide, but rather, an in-person guide. My jaw must have dropped. My guide, Viki Dolnik, was a student of history and indology who not only was passionate and knowledgeable about Bartók, but explained everything in clear and articulate English. No photo-taking was permitted inside the galleries, and so I stayed at length at each item, asking her many questions and drinking it all in. (Many beautiful photographs are, however, available on the museum website.)

As a child, my piano teacher had given me Geza Anda's recording of Bartók's For Children, a two-volume set of short pieces young pianists can play. The cassettes served as my lullabies for some time, and started my life-long love of Bartók's music. Though I've read a fair bit about him, and played many of his works, being in Bartók's own house opened my eyes to things I hadn't known about his lifestyle, habits and personality. For example, the living room and dining room hold elaborately hand-carved furniture, decorated in colourful folk-motifs in intricate workmanship, which Bartók had personally obtained from craftsman György Gyugyi Péntek, who became a friend. I had also never seen a picture of Bartók smoking; here I could see his ashtrays and the guide informed me that he was indeed a chain-smoker. Bartók's phonograph and transcription equipment was displayed: now I could see how large and heavy it really is! Travelling with it in rural areas, as he did to collect folk-songs, must have been an endeavour requiring a great deal of planning and cartage. Bartók's love of nature was evident in flower-patterned garments, dried flowers and seashell and pebble collections, and was mentioned many times by my guide, and his affinity for the sounds of insects is of course embodied in his night-music works – the museum also showed his insect-collection, which, while meticulous, also horrified me as I've never understood the attraction of studying a living thing by impaling it (or causing it any other awful death).

As we were finishing the tour of the upstairs room, I admiring the shoes, glasses, collections of folk-garments and ceramics and other things, the receptionist came upstairs to let the guide know there was another visitor at the entrance. 

We wrapped up the tour gently, and the guide took me downstairs. I had been very impressed by the depth of her knowledge, and how she had internalized what it was likely like for Bartók to live in this house, an experience which I had now glimpsed too. 

I asked for a photograph with her and Bartók's statue, before she left to give the new visitor the same level of attention.
I thanked the receptionist as well – it turns out she is the guide's mother. We chatted a little, about concerts taking place in the renovated salon, and so forth. Again, I bought the two very reasonably-priced museum books, one with artful photography of the house and artifacts, the other, a thin biographical volume featuring a chronology of Bartók's life with pertinent photographs, and essays by Bartók's sons Béla and Péter, his second wife Ditta Pásztory, the poet András Fodor, and museum-director János Szirányi. The latter writes of the museum, " [...] it is a memorial site that attentively guards Bartók's personal belongings and regularly evokes his spirit through music.” I felt just a little closer to his spirit through my visit.

As I read the books now some months later, I see that Bartók's son Béla writes of other guests who had been in the home: the family took in three Polish refugees following the collapse of Poland at the outbreak of World War II. When Bartók Sr. emigrated to the USA, Béla Jr. remained behind and eventually had to give up the house, but ensured that the Poles were well re-located, and that his father's belongings were adequately stored. One hopes that the current flood of refugees may fare as well. Bartók's humanist aesthetic rings as true now as they did in during WWII: “My true guiding principle...which I have been fully aware of ever since I have come upon myself as a composer: the ideal of the brotherhood of peoples, brotherhood created despite war and all conflict. It is this ideal which I work with all my power to serve through my music; this is why I do not avoid any influence, be it from Slovak, Rumanian, Arabic, or any other source. The only that that matters is that the source be pure, fresh and healthy!”

In the evening, a Hungarian violinist friend, Eszter, guided me on a true fairy-tale tour through Budapest.
Here one photo, from Fisherman's Bastion.