Divertimento for string orchestra (1939)

“Somehow I feel like a musician of olden times,” Bartók wrote from Saanen in the Bernese Oberland in August 1939, “the invited guest of a patron of the arts.” He was staying in an isolated chalet rented for him by the great Swiss patron Paul Sacher, who had commissioned him to add another score to the already distinguished contemporary repertoire of the Basle Chamber Orchestra - one that was to be shorter, brighter and easier to play than the Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta that Bartók had written for the same ensemble three years earlier. Able to take his mind off the rapidly approaching war for some of the time, though by no means all of it, he completed the new work in a little over two weeks.

Bartók’s model for the strings-only texture of the Divertimento was the baroque concerto grosso. Even so, although he specifically asks for an orchestra big enough to make a distinct contrast with a quintet of soloists, he makes sparing use of the latter. Of the three main ideas in the opening Allegro non troppo, the attractively flexible opening theme is introduced by first violins to the accompaniment of a more or less regular pulse in the other parts; the graceful second theme is given to solo and orchestral strings in alternate bars; the third, a bold rhythmic pattern of repeated notes, is for the whole orchestra in octaves. Although the rhythmic pattern seems at first the least promising of the three, it develops in both melodic interest and dramatic intensity as the movement proceeds, its last appearance marking the climax of the construction.

“The poor, peaceful Swiss are being compelled to burn with war-fever,” Bartók observed in his letter from Saanen. “They have taken defence measures on the more important passes…. I saw this for myself.” Inspired, surely, by those warlike circumstances, the Adagio molto is one of the most intensely haunted of all Bartók’s night-music slow movements. It begins quietly, with all instruments muted in an eerie rustling which rises in a slow crescendo and then dies away, leaving only a whisper of first violins… A sudden outcry high on second violins and violas, with mutes off, is followed by a passionate lament in strong Hungarian rhythmic accents on violas. Mutes are replaced by all but first violins for the middle section and then removed, one by one, in another crescendo, violins running in a panic of trills before the relentless tread of the other instruments. The soloists briefly express their own feelings before merging in the rustling mass once more and in a new protest from the whole ensemble.

The Allegro molto reverts to the relatively carefree manner of the first movement. It is a rondo of dance tunes, deftly scored for solo and tutti contrasts, strongly coloured by multi-stopped plucked chords, prolonged trills, and the percussive “Bartók” pizzicato. The double fugato in the central episode is followed by a violin cadenza and a witty restatement of the main theme turned upside-down. There is an only brief development before the beginning of the erratic accelerando - characteristically interrupted at one point by a delightful parody of a café polka - that leads to the closing bars.

Gerald Larner ©2003

“Somehow I feel like a musician of olden times,” Bartók wrote from Saanen in the Bernese Oberland in August 1939, “the invited guest of a patron of the arts.” He was staying in an isolated chalet rented for him by Paul Sacher, who had commissioned him to add another score to the repertoire of the Basle Chamber Orchestra – one that was to be shorter, brighter and easier to play than the Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta that Bartók had written for the same ensemble three years earlier. Able to take his mind off the rapidly approaching war for some of the time, though by no means all of it, he completed the new work in a little over two weeks.

As Stravinsky was to do with his Concerto in D seven years later, Bartók adopted the concerto grosso as a model for the strings-only texture of the Divertimento. Even so, although he specifically asks for an orchestra big enough to make a distinct contrast with a quintet of soloists, he makes sparing use of the latter. Of the three main ideas in the opening Allegro non troppo, the attractively flexible opening theme is introduced by first violins to the accompaniment of a more or less regular pulse in the other parts; the graceful second theme is given to solo and orchestral strings in alternate bars; the third, a bold rhythmic pattern of repeated notes, is for the whole orchestra in octaves. Although the rhythmic pattern seems at first the least promising of the three, it develops in both melodic interest and dramatic intensity as the movement proceeds, its last appearance marking the climax of the construction.

“The poor, peaceful Swiss are being compelled to burn with war-fever,” Bartók observed in his letter from Saanen. “They have taken defence measures on the more important passes…. I saw this for myself.” Inspired, surely, by those warlike circumstances, the Adagio molto is one of the most intensely haunted of all Bartók’s night-music slow movements. It begins quietly, with all instruments muted in an eerie rustling which rises in a slow crescendo and then dies away, leaving only a whisper of first violins… A sudden outcry high on second violins and violas, with mutes off, is followed by a passionate lament in strong Hungarian rhythmic accents on violas. Mutes are replaced by all but first violins for the middle section and then removed, one by one, in another crescendo, violins running in a panic of trills before the relentless tread of the other instruments. The soloists briefly express their own feelings before merging in the rustling mass once more and in a new protest from the whole ensemble.

The Allegro molto reverts to the relatively carefree manner of the first movement. It is a rondo of dance tunes, deftly scored for solo and tutti contrasts, strongly coloured by multi-stopped plucked chords, prolonged trills, and the percussive “Bartók” pizzicato. The double fugato in the central episode is followed by a violin cadenza and a witty restatement of the main theme turned upside-down. There is an only brief development before the beginning of the erratic accelerando – characteristically interrupted at one point by a delightful parody of a café polka – that leads to the closing bars.

Of all the composers Sacher worked with, Bartók – “an extraordinarily sensitive man”– seems to have inspired him with a particular affection. When, after the outbreak of war in Europe, the composer decided that he and his wife had to emigrate to America Sacher provided them with the means to do it. “Bartók repaid me as soon as he arrived there,” he recalled. “It was difficult, almost impossible, to help him. He was too proud to take money, except in payment for a composition.”