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Budapest
March 27, 1911

Mr Delius,

How your wordless chorus did transport us.
After Vienna, down with a fever,
my temperature soared
like notes on your High Hills.
I dreamt of a giant lake,
besieged by mountainous shores.
In the rock, footprints of the tyrant Rex
And those that follow his tracks.

I saw a giant egg, cracked
sluiced through by the Danube.
Out-flow a thousand friends
ten thousand foes;
singing in tongues so discordant,
the cold Carpathians shook.
The lake swelled and took them up.
Then that silent song, Magyar hearts
becalmed on sterile waters.

Respectfully yours,
Bartók

II

Dacis
447 AD

Ethele,

A belated, ambivalent, thank you,
for yours which became ours.
Seven tribes of Magyar share your name,
though not the first to settle here.
Romans and their ruins in Pannoia
were not to your taste or to ours.
Your battleground the open plains,
ours the fertile fields.

Arpad, son of Almos, led us to this land
where we have won and lost so many friends.
Our people divided by lines, drawn and quartered.
Their voices raised above the clamour
in the clear chants of our clan,
while those around speak from another root.

I send a case of pálinka,
six barack and six csereszyne.
I know szilva is your favourite,
but it has been a bad year for plums.

You will also find a small, round bottle
of Unicum, should you, as rumoured,
tend to over indulge.
It is bitter but potent,
and cured my recent fever.

Concert was not to your taste?
You must come to Budapest soon
and I will play the old tunes for you.

Béla

III

Budapest,
1910

Mr Delius,

I have heard you are unwell,
and in the sanatorium once more.
Kodaly was in the very same one
but it did not help him.
He sends his regards
and recommends a little sun.

To cheer you up I’m sending you
some Rumanian melodies,
a little Unicum and some Korte
to take the dryness of life away.

Bartók

IV

Hungary,
1083 AD

Blessed Stephen,
Please forgive me.
It’s very difficult now
you are both king and saint.
Things have been a little fraught
since you left.

Luckily Ladislas did a deal with Gregory
and things are looking better.
I fear this will not last, our old enemies
are gathering tempo on the battle drum.
The Jews are already in their sights,
the gypsies will be next.
Are we not all wanderers till we pause?

I know you will come to our aid if needed
and while we all wait,
I send you some Hungarian folk songs
and a copy of Kossuth.

Béla

V

Paris,

Mr Delius,

We were too late to find you at Gretz.
Half of Europe is on the move
and we will soon be in Paris.
Perhaps we could call on you?

I smell cordite in the breeze
but our voice is still true.
It will rise above the drone of tanks and guns
after all, we are not the Huns.

Bartók