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Adventures Close to Home

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History

One of the final touches to the flat before flinging it open to the unsuspecting property-vultures was to replace the floor covering in the kitchen closet. This is what was underneath the old linoleum.

 
These are pages from a newspaper from September 1915, not long after this tenement was built. I don't suppose whoever put them there intended to let them fester until they resembled a Kurt Schwitters collage, and if they did they left them too long to be able to claim to have invented Dada a year before Hugo Ball and Tristan Tzara got together at the Cabaret Voltaire in Zurich.

Given the date I was expecting details of a military campaign but instead the news is dominated by the recall of Konstantin Dumba, the last Austro-Hungarian ambassador to the United States, following accusations of espionage.

I was not familiar with this episode of the First World War and had to look it up. I couldn't find any link between Dumba and Glasgow, but when I told someone the story at work, I was surprised to learn that before the war the Austro-Hungarian empire was represented here by the famous shipping magnate and art collector William Burrell who held the post of consul until 1906, according to the Dictionary of National Biography.

It seems unlikely the two ever met (Dumba was serving as Minister to Serbia at the time) and Burrell's acquaintance with Central Europe may not have been extensive, if the recollections of an encounter in 1932 are to be believed. This was on the occasion of the first visit to Glasgow by Béla Bartók who was a guest of the Scottish composer Erik Chisholm (himself sometimes compared to Bartók as a modernist who drew extensively on the idioms of his country's folk and traditional music).

Chisholm's wife, Diana, recalled:
When we knew Bartók was coming to Glasgow to stay with us, the first thing, which worried us, was - language difficulty. None of us, of course, could speak one word of Hungarian. Would our famous guest be any better with English? I immediately bought an 'English-cum-Hungarian' dictionary, (by the time I left Scotland I had entertained so many continental composers, musicians, and singers, that I had a very comprehensive collection of 'English-cums'). I pictured myself standing on the station platform anxiously scanning the face of every male, who, in my opinion, looked 'foreign', and gesticulating wildly with the dictionary. However, I was rescued (or thought I was) from this predicament by the Hungarian Consul in Glasgow, Sir William Burrell, who telephoned me the day before Bartók's arrival to say that he also would like to come to the station to receive this distinguished visitor from Hungary.

'Luck', I thought, 'this lets me out'. So you can imagine my disappointment, when, on meeting Sir William a few minutes before the train was due to arrive (8.35 p.m. on February 28 1932), he said he hoped that either my husband or I could speak Hungarian because he could not.

'Well', I said laughingly, 'you're the official representative so you can get on with it.' But we need not have worried. When the Flying Scotsman arrived and the passengers alighted from the train it was quite simple to recognise him. There was only one Béla Bartók! A small white-haired man, wearing a black Homburg hat, thick black coat with a heavy Astrakhan collar and armed with a music case in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Who I wondered had forewarned him about Glasgow' s weather?

Sir William went forward at once to greet him, and I swear I saw a look of relief flit across the consul's face when Bartók said in a softly spoken, broken English accent, 'Bartók is my name'. After that all went smoothly. Later in the day, my husband and I admitted to each other that we had both felt ashamed that not one of the party who came to receive him could reply to him in his language, least of all the Consul.1
Whether Sir William was still the Consul at that time I have been unable to confirm. I don't know a word of Hungarian either, although I did find something else when I was clearing out the flat. I had not opened my copy of Bartók's 44 Duos for two violins in more than thirty years.



In a fit of insanity I disturbed my violin out of hibernation. The downstairs neighbours must have been grateful the episode was very brief.

Notes

1. Erik Chisholm, 'Béla Bartók: The Shy Genius', available for download from the Erik Chisholm website.
created by Alasdair Pettinger Sat 16 Jun 2012 14:37 GMT+0100
 
 
 
 
 
 
Adventures Close to Home > History