I. Adagio; allegro molto
II. Largo
III. Scherzo
IV. Allegro con fuoco
Dvořák was an Austrian of a sort, and lived his time in Vienna, like the
others. But he had Czech blood in his veins, and had, moreover, pretty
well formed his style before coming to Vienna; besides, he was a peasant
and had not only been brought up in, but had a native affinity for, the
peasant musical atmosphere; Vienna taught him no dancing-master tricks.
It is at once curious and delightful to note how, in this symphony,
Dvořák sticks to his peasant dialect. Once, in the _scherzo_, he rises
to the Schubert pitch of civilization (and Schubert himself was an
incorrigible man of the people), but for the rest remains peasant as he
was born and bred. And as his dialect is really his native lingo, it has
all the charm of reality and does not offend nor bore you—as so-called
dialect novels do. Here in this symphony Dvořák has done, perhaps, the
best work of his life; not the most genuine, for he is hardly ever
anything but genuine, but the most thoroughly poetic and beautiful.
There are parts of the _finale_ that seem clearly intended as a picture
of—or say, rather, clearly inspired by memories of—a peasant’s Sunday
afternoon _Keilerei_, or free fight (of the “where you see a head, hit”
sort).
* * *
Dvořák in 1892-93 was living in New York as the director of the National
Conservatory of Music. He made many sketches for this symphony. In the
first of the three books used for this purpose, he noted “Morning,
December 19, 1892.” Fuller sketches began January 10, 1893. The slow
movement was then entitled “_Legenda_.” The _scherzo_ was completed
January 31; the _finale_, May 25, 1893. A large part of the
instrumentation was done at Spillville, Ia., where many Bohemians dwelt.
This symphony was performed for the first time, in manuscript, by the
Philharmonic Society of New York on Friday afternoon, December 15, 1893.
Anton Seidl conducted. Dvořák was present.
When this symphony was played at Berlin in 1900, Dvořák wrote to Oskar
Nedbal, who conducted it: “I send you Kretzschmar’s analysis of the
symphony, but omit that nonsense about my having made use of ‘Indian’
and ‘American’ themes—that is a lie. I tried to write only in the spirit
of those national American melodies. Take the introduction to the
symphony as slowly as possible.”
The symphony aroused a controversy in which there was shedding of much
ink. The controversy long ago died out, and is probably forgotten even
by those who read the polemical articles at the time and expressed their
own opinions. The symphony remains. It is now without associations that
might prejudice. It is now enjoyed or appreciated, or possibly passed
by, as music, and not as an exhibit in a case on trial.
Yet it may be good to recall the circumstances of the symphony’s origin.
In the feverish days of the discussion excited by the first performance
of this symphony, it was stated that Mr. Krehbiel and others called the
attention of Dvořák, who was then living in New York, to Negro melodies
and rhythms; that the Bohemian composer then wept with joy and rushed
after music paper; that he journeyed to a Western town inhabited chiefly
by Bohemians, a town in Iowa, where he could find the stimulating
atmosphere to write masterpieces of a truly American nature. Some may
also remember that soon after the first performances of the symphony
there was a distressing rumor that portions of it had been composed long
before Dvořák came to New York; long before his eyes were dimmed and his
knees turned to water by hearing Negro tunes.
The conclusion of the whole matter, according to several Czechs whom
William Ritter (author of a life of Smetana) consulted, is as follows:
I. The _New World_ symphony expresses the state of soul of an uncultured
Czech in America, the state of a homesick soul remembering his native
land and stupefied by the din and hustle of a new life.
II. The uncultured Czech is a born musician, a master of his trade. He
is interested in the only traces of music that he finds in America.
Negro airs, not copied, adapted, imitated, tint slightly two or three
passages of the symphony without injury to its Czech character.
III. The symphony leaped, Minerva-like, from the head of this uncultured
genius. As nearly all his other compositions, except the operas, it was
not stimulated by any foreign assistance, by any consultation of
authors, or by quotations, reading, etc., as was especially the case
with Brahms.
IV. The national Czech feeling in this work, quickened by homesickness,
is so marked that it is recognized throughout Bohemia, by the learned
and by the humblest.
These are the conclusions of Mr. Ritter after a painstaking
investigation. That Dvořák was most unhappy and pathetically homesick
during his sojourn in New York is known to many, though Mr. Ritter does
not enter into any long discussion of the composer’s mental condition in
this country.
Yet some will undoubtedly continue to insist that the symphony _From the
New World_ is based, for the most part, on Negro themes, and that the
future of American music rests on the use of Congo, North American
Indian, Creole, Greaser, and Cowboy ditties, whinings, yawps, and
whoopings.
The symphony is scored for two flutes and piccolo, two oboes (one
interchangeable with English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four
horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, cymbals,
triangle, and strings.
EDWARD WILLIAM
ELGAR
(Born at Broadheath, near Worcester, England, June 2, 1857; died at
Worcester, February 23, 1934)
Nearly one hundred years ago, William Hazlitt wrote a few words
concerning a speech on Indian affairs by the Marquis Wellesley, the
eldest brother of the Duke of Wellington. These words may be justly
applied to Sir Edward Elgar, composer of _The Dream of Gerontius_, two
symphonies, the popular march _Pomp and Circumstance_, and other works
familiar to our concert audiences.
“Seeming to utter volumes in every word, and yet saying nothing;
retaining the same unabated vehemence of voice and action without
anything to excite it; still keeping alive the promise and the
expectation of genius without once satisfying it—soaring into mediocrity
with adventurous enthusiasm, harrowed up by some plain matter of fact,
writhing with agony under a truism, and launching a commonplace with all
the fury of a thunderbolt.”