Folklore and Avant-garde

I was seventeen when I met Béla Bartók, and doing work in the fields of the Wenckheim estate in Kertmegpuszta, next to Vésztő. Bartók’s brother-in-law was the estate manager there, We were working in the fields when a man about thirty-five, with fair hair—not tall—came over to us and asked if anyone knew any old songs and would be prepared to sing them to him. There were many girls all together but they were all diffident and, in their shyness, said that they did not know any old songs. But I volunteered.
            In the evening he came to our quarters and sat down on a worker’s case, with a night-light beside him. I sat opposite him and sang. He noted it down. I sang two songs, the “Fehér László” and the “Angoli Borbála”. I was undoubtedly awe-struck, for no more songs came to my mind at that time. He was such a modest man, and did not press me to sing any further.
            There were many workers in the barn—the quarters—and in the evening everyone retired to rest. Only I sang. I well remember how careful he was that my singing and his work did not disturb the others. About myself I remember that I was then already a great lover of songs, and if I heard a new song I would set about learning it.
            Mostly I learnt these songs while working. My father died when I was 10. I never heard my mother sing. I learnt very many songs, but now I’m getting old and I’ve forgotten so many of them. However, I haven’t forgotten Béla Bartók—it’s as if he were here before me today. He has always remained in my memory.

Recollection of Róza Ökrös, whose songs Bartók noted down in 1918, in Malcolm Gillies, Bartók Remembered (London, 1990), 53–54

So far—pour dégourdir mes membres musicaux—I have harmonized 7 Hung. songs from my collecting in the summer, among others Róza Ökrös’s famous Angoli Borbála. I recommend that you listen to her because it is truly sensational to hear such a thing in Hungarian, and furthermore, right in the centre of the Plain, and what’s more in 7/8 time.
            But I’m already thinking about the mandarin, as well; if it works out it will be a devilish piece. Its beginning—a very short introduction before the curtain opens—a terrible din, clattering, rattling, hooting: I lead the Hon. listener into the apache den from the bustle of a metropolitan street.

Bartók to his wife Márta Ziegler, September 5, 1918, in Bartók Béla Családi levelei (Family letters),
ed. Béla Bartók, Jr. and Adrienne Gombocz (Budapest, 1981), 282

So, in the meantime, I am writing music for a play by Menyhért Lengyel, its title is: The Miraculous Mandarin. And just listen to how miraculously beautiful its story is. In a ruffians’ den three rogues force a beautiful young girl to entice men up to her place, so that they then rob them.— The first one is a poor lad, the second one is no better, but the third one is a rich Chinaman. It is a good catch, the girl entertains him with dancing and the mandarin’s desire is awakened, passionate love blazes within him, but the girl is repulsed by him.— The ruffians attack him, rob him, suffocate him with an eiderdown, run him through with a sword, but all in vain, they are no match for the mandarin, who looks at the girl with loving and longing eyes.— Female intuition helps, the girl fulfils the mandarin’s desire at which point he falls lifeless to the floor.
 

An interview with Bartók, 1919, in Bartók Béla válogatott írásai
(The selected writings of Béla Bartók), ed. András Szőllősy (Budapest, 1956), 338–39