time, into a more intimate relation with the Bohemian Theatre. By the
end of 1875 he had completed two more operas; one a bright little
village comedy called 'The Stubborn Heads'; one a tragedy in five acts,
on the subject of Vanda, Queen of Poland. The latter is at present
beyond the reach of discussion; even the opera-house at Prague possesses
no copy of the score, and no part of the music has yet been printed,
except the fine gloomy overture. But the former, which, for some reason,
was kept in reserve until 1882, is now easily attainable, and may well
claim a better fate than our indifference has accorded to it. The theme
is simplicity itself. Farmer Vavra has a grown-up son; Widow Rihova, who
lives over the way, has a marriageable daughter; of course they lay
their heads together and decide that their children shall make a match
of it. Unfortunately the young people, who would have liked nothing
better if they had been left to themselves, declined altogether to have
their affections forced, and break out into open mutiny. Vavra
threatens, Tonik defies; Rihova pleads, Lenka snaps her fingers; and
matters have come to a hopeless deadlock when there steps in old father
Rericha the village diplomatist. He has been watching the failure of
authority with sardonic delight, he foretold it from the beginning, but
nobody paid any attention to him; now he takes the two mutineers,
provokes them first into jealousy, then into recrimination, then into a
lovers' quarrel, and finally induces them to plight their troth before
they are quite certain that they have been reconciled. For reasons of
stage policy, the parents are made unconscious accomplices in the plot;
and there is an amusing scene in which Rericha, having lured them into a
couple of unjustifiable flirtations, betrays them to the village, and
has them denounced by an excited chorus. Of the music there is no need
to speak in detail. It is neither great nor meant to be great, but it is
all pleasant and tuneful; a stream of wayside melody that appeals the
more to us for its lack of pretension. The whole work belongs to the
playtime of art: it is a holiday opera, gay, careless and spontaneous,
occupying its hour without a dull bar or a perfunctory phrase.
Meanwhile, other forms of composition were not neglected. At the
beginning of 1875 appeared a string quartett in A minor; later in the
year followed a serenade in E for stringed orchestra, a quintett in G,
and, greatest of all, a brilliant symphony in F major. It is probable,
too, that we may attribute to the same period the first pianoforte
trio, the first pianoforte quartett, and at least three volumes of small
vocal pieces; but in these, as in other of Dvořák's early works, the
record is too uncertain to admit of any strict chronological accuracy.
He was still a prophet honoured in his own country alone; and his
message, though heard with enthusiasm by his people, had not yet been
published abroad in the ears of Europe.
However, in 1875, there occurred an event, which not only brought relief
to the daily need, but opened as well a wider prospect of fame and
fortune. Encouraged by the success of his work at Prague, Dvořák
sent in an application to the Pension committee of the Austrian
Kultusministerium, submitted an opera and a symphony by way of
credentials, and received in answer a grant of some thirty pounds; the
first recognition that his genius had won from beyond the border. No
doubt to Imperial munificence the amount was an inconsidered trifle; to
the organist of St Adalbert's it meant first the equivalent of a year's
salary, and secondly the more valuable guerdon of a foothold in Vienna.
The judges who had awarded his prize were among the acknowledged leaders
of musical art; supported by their authority he could hardly fail to
obtain a wider hearing; and if that was once secured the future rested
with himself. The frontier had at last been traversed, and before him
lay the broad fertile plains that were waiting to be conquered.
To equip himself with a greater freedom, he resigned his post in the
year 1876, and began to devote his life almost entirely to the more
pressing requirements of composition. It was a bold step, for it left
him with a growing household, and an income chiefly dependent upon his
pen; but like all true artists he had the courage of inspiration, and
felt that victory was certain, if he were allowed to maintain his cause
with his own weapons. The immediate result was the creation of a
masterpiece, which, had he written nothing else, would suffice to rank
him among the greatest composers of our time. It may be possible that in
the Stabat Mater there are a few imperfections, that the sterner
qualities are wanting, that some of the phrases are a thought too
ingenious and recondite. But its opulence of melody, its warmth of
colour, its exquisite beauty of theme and treatment, are far more than
enough to condone any real or imaginary defects. With its completion the
music of Dvořák passed out of adolescence into the full vigour of
maturity and manhood. In its achievement the long years of unsparing
labour found at last a befitting reward.
The score was sent off to try its fortune in Vienna, and, by some
incredible error, was rejected.[47] Perhaps the judges were afraid of
creating a precedent, perhaps they thought that dewdrops of celestial
melody should be either invaluable or of no value, in any case they
withheld their guineas and added another item to the long catalogue of
academic injustice. To Dvořák the loss must have been a serious
matter, for he had now no official position, and his pupils had never
brought any great accession to his revenue, but with his usual sturdy
patience he refused to be disheartened by the mischance, and gathered
his forces into winter quarters, there to make preparation for another
campaign. After all the disaster was but a temporary check; it could
retard his progress, it could cut off his supplies, but it could neither
impair his capacity, nor turn the edge of his resolution. He had already
gained one success at Vienna: next year it should go hard, but he would
match it with a second.
Accordingly, in 1877, he again made appeal to the Kultusministerium,
offering in defence of his claim the Moravian duets, and a few of the
more recent chamber-works. They arrived at an opportune moment, for
Brahms had just been appointed a member of the awarding committee, and,
under his guidance, there could no longer be any doubt of its decision.
The grant was at once renewed and augmented, the composer was welcomed
with cordial and generous commendation; finally the duets were sent off
to Simrock, franked by a letter of introduction that was more than
enough to secure their acceptance. Back came an answer from the great
publishing house at Berlin--the duets should be printed without delay;
other manuscripts might be despatched for consideration, in the
meantime would Herr Dvořák accept the commission to write a set of
characteristic national dances? To such an offer there was only one
possible response. Before the close of the year the Slavische Tänze were
finished; at the beginning of 1878 they were in print, in a few months
they had roused the whole of Germany to the appreciation of a neglected
genius. Henceforward his reputation was established beyond dispute. Like
Byron, he awoke to find himself famous, and to look back upon the times
of darkness and disappointment as a man looks back upon his dreams.
Among the other compositions of 1877 may be noted a set of symphonic
variations, and a new comedy, the Cunning Peasant. In the latter Dvořák
was again hampered by his uncritical acceptance of a bad libretto. The
plot is clumsy and ill-contrived, a medley of cross-purposes entwined at
random, and severed in despair; the characters are drawn after a wholly
conventional pattern, the humour is for the most part shallow and
superficial. When Betuska defies parental tyranny, we all know that she
will be rewarded with the suitor that she has chosen for herself. When
old Martin lays a trap for the hero, we all know that the comic valet is
destined to fall into it. When the count appears as a _diabolus ex
machinâ_, anyone can foresee that he will end by blessing the lovers in a
fit of stage repentance. And the incident on which the intrigue is made
to depend, a twilight scene, with three indistinguishable heroines,
forestalls its effect by elaborate preparation, and then only strikes the
spectator as an extreme demand upon his credulity. But Dvořák, like
Schubert, could 'set a handbill to music.' Out of this unpromising
material he has made an opera, which, from overture to finale, sparkles
with the merriest tunes, an opera which altogether disregards the
impracticable requirements of the dramatist, and goes back openly and
frankly to the lyric standpoint. As a play it offers a hundred hostages
to criticism, but then it has already been betrayed by a treacherous
alliance. As a musical extravaganza it is almost irresistible; brightly
written, admirably scored, and charming enough to redeem the most
rigorous of pledges.
In spite of its text the opera was so favourably received that Dvořák
sent the score to Simrock, who at once printed the overture as a concert
piece, and supplemented it later with a German version of the entire
work. Indeed, during the next few years, the presses were busy with
compositions by the new master, some of them fresh written, some
gathered from the great pile of manuscript that had been accumulating
since 1861. Day after day was filled with correspondence, with proof
correction, with all the numberless details of the printing office: day
after day saw another stone added to the structure that had waited so
long for its foundation. And, beside this, the bare catalogue of more
recent production is in itself a sign of no inconsiderable activity. To
1878 belong the Slavonic Rhapsodies, the serenade for wind, 'cello and
contrabass, the bagatellen, the string sestett in A major, the 149th
psalm, and a host of smaller pieces; next year came the orchestral
suite, and the violin concerto; next year the Legenden, and the violin
sonata in F; next year the Stabat Mater and the great D major symphony.
Even these are but items in the sum, not indications of its total
amount. There is little wonder that Europe should feel itself the richer
for a gift so unexpected and so abundant.
But Dvořák could not wholly give up to mankind what was meant, in the
first instance, for a patriotic party. The opening of the New Bohemian
Theatre in 1881 recalled him from Legends and Rhapsodies into the full
stir and impetus of national life, and set him once more in the van of
that strange, half-artistic, half-political movement that had found its
type and representative in the 'Heirs of the White Mountain.' The two
works which he wrote this year for the stage have almost the tone of
manifestoes; curiously alike in scope and plan, curiously different in
the measure of their ultimate value. Both make direct appeal to popular
sympathy; both recall some notable period in the history of Bohemia;
both draw their inspiration from melodies that have gained acceptance
among the folk-songs of the people. But here parallel gives way to
contrast. The Husitska overture, founded on a famous battle-song of the
Hussite wars, is a masterpiece which turns to a noble use, one of the
finest themes in Bohemian art--the incidental music to Samberk's 'Tyl,'
takes perforce the poor melody of the national anthem, for which Tyl had
written the words, and so foredooms itself to failure by a fault that is
not its own. Of course in the latter case the choice was inevitable. A
drama which had the revolutionary poet for central figure, could only be
set by _motifs_ that made reference to the best known of his works, and
in Bohemia, as in many other countries, the national anthem has been
accepted by accident, and maintained by force of association. Still, the
comparison of the two results is a lesson of the highest significance.
In Husitska, Dvořák selected a genuine folk-song, and raised it into
a national monument that will stand the test of time. In Tyl he borrowed
the tune of a Prague Kapellmeister, and with all ingenuity of treatment,
could lift it to no higher level than that of a _pièce d'occasion_. It
was perfectly natural that both works alike should obtain an immediate
welcome. They appeared at a moment of crisis; they addressed a sentiment
of loyalty; they stood for the time outside the range of dispassionate
criticism. But to us, who may regard the matter from a purely artistic
standpoint, the difference between them is incalculable. Both are well
written; both have accessory themes of great beauty; both are scored
with all their composer's accustomed skill, but one is built upon the
bed-rock of the Bohemian mountains, the other upon an artificial
basement that only holds together by external support.
Having once more gained access to the Theatre, Dvořák proceeded to
occupy the position, and in 1882 strengthened it by the production of
Dimitrij, which, among all his operas, is the largest in scale, and the
most dramatic in treatment. He had, indeed, a subject made to his hand.
The romance of history contains no more striking episode than that of
the false Demetrius; a story of heroism and imposture, of honour in
conflict with ambition, of love that betrays a trust, and jealousy that
wrecks a life. Marina's character is one of singular interest and
complexity, torn between allegiance to her nation and loyalty to her
husband, aiding him to usurp the throne which he believes to be his by
right, denouncing him in anger when he uses his power against her
countrymen, watching his assassination on the spot where she had shared
his triumph. Here are no foregone conclusions; no idle displays of
theatrical ingenuity; no stage lay figures clad in traditional garb; the
whole event is a transcript from nature, vivid, real, convincing, and
the more tragic for the cross issue upon which it turns. It may be added
that Dvořák has accomplished his part in the work with unusual care
and anxiety. After the first performance some important changes were
made, notably in the overture, and in the closing scenes, and though
the music has since been printed in its revised form, the composer,
still dissatisfied, has recently submitted it to a new process of
recension. Yet in its earlier shape the score contained passages and
numbers which the world would be the poorer for losing. The most
relentless self-criticism could hardly have bettered the entry into
Moscow, or Xenia's flight, or the great duet in the second act.
Meantime the curtain was rising upon another scene, which had England
for its stage, and Dvořák himself for its hero. As early as 1879, the
attention of English musicians had been aroused by a performance of the
Slavische Tänze; the interest once excited had steadily grown and
gathered as new works made their appearance; and, in March 1883, the
composer was invited over to conduct his Stabat Mater at the Albert
Hall. His reception was one of the most cordial ever offered by our land
to a foreign artist. The house was crowded and appreciative; the press
for once raised a unanimous voice of approbation; the example set
by London was soon followed by other great centres throughout the
country. No doubt there was something of fashion and novelty in the
movement:--every great stream of tendency carries these attendant
bubbles upon its surface: but at least the current was set in a right
direction, and was destined to maintain its course without swerving. The
lapse of years may have brought us a cooler judgment; it has certainly
brought us a stronger and more reasoned admiration.
In 1884 the Stabat Mater was repeated at Worcester, where it met with so
brilliant a success, that Dvořák was at once commissioned to write a
cantata for next year's Birmingham Festival. As libretto he took a
Slavonic version of the Lenore legend, a vampyre story, even wilder and
more savage than the famous ballad which Burger wrote, and Scott
translated. It is not, perhaps, a very satisfactory subject for a long
work. There is too much monotony of suffering: there is too much
gloom and terror and pain: a tragedy so unrelieved comes near to
over-straining the sympathy of the spectator. But for all this it offers
certain points of vantage which Dvořák was abundantly qualified to
seize. In setting the words, he wisely treated the musical aspect as
paramount, brought to the task all his resources of rhythm and harmony
and melodic invention, and produced a poem in which horror itself is
made beautiful, and darkness lightened with flashes of electric genius.
Grant that the 'Spectre's Bride' is too long, that it needs compression;
that it loses effect by repetition and redundance; none the less it can
show some of the finest numbers that its composer has ever written, and
with such summits attained, may well look down upon any censure of
inequality.
A remarkable contrast is afforded by the Oratorio of St Ludmila, which
was produced at the Leeds Festival of 1886. The theme is fertile in
opportunity, the book is written by the first of living Bohemian poets,
the music dates from the centre of Dvořák's richest period, and yet
the whole impression left on the hearer is one of failure and
disappointment. For this our own reputation is chiefly to blame. It is a
matter of common belief abroad, that the only works which can really
attract a British audience are the Elijah and the Messiah; that in them
we find all music comprised, that from them we construct a standard by
which we test the entire range of composition. Perhaps our past history
in some degree justifies the charge; perhaps we have unduly favoured the
two great masterpieces that were written for our country; in any case
the tradition obtains, and St Ludmila may stand as the most salient
example of its effect. The opening chorus is characteristic enough; the
rest is all dominated by the influence of Handel and Mendelssohn; a
labour that is lost by conformity with an alien method, a gift that is
marred by the very means taken to render it acceptable.
But during all these years, the best record of Dvořák's genius is to
be found in his instrumental compositions. Even the Spectre's Bride is
not of more account than the Symphony in D minor, the Symphony in G, and
the array of chamber-works that reach their climax with the famous
Pianoforte Quintett. To these may be added the trifles of a lighter
mood--waltzes, mazurkas, dainty little sketches for the pianoforte--all
too slight to establish a reputation, but all beautiful enough for its
adornment. At the same time he was gaining strength and experience as a
song-writer. The Zigeunerlieder had already marked a new stage in his
lyric method; they were now followed by three volumes of equal charm and
of a style even more fully developed. Indeed, as we look through the
pages of successful attainment, we are in no mind to cavil because one
effort has missed its mark. Assuredly, there was no lack of power in the
artist who could retrieve a single defeat with so many victories.
In 1889 he brought out his sixth opera, Jakobin--a sentimental comedy of
a type that held the stage some half-century ago. The play is somewhat
spoiled by a double intrigue, of which it may be said that the less
prominent strand is the better woven. We grow rather weary of Count
Bohus and his peasant-wife; driven from home by an unbending father,
supplanted by a wicked cousin, restored by a reminiscence of early
childhood; but we can all sympathise with the old Kapellmeister who
arranges the castle pageants, and who, on the eve of his cantata, has to
choose a son-in-law between the burgomaster of the town and its only
tenor.
Later events are of too recent a memory to require any detailed
description. In 1889, Dvořák was decorated by the Austrian Court; in
1890 he was admitted to the Honorary Doctorate at Cambridge; in the same
year, Prague elected him Doctor of Philosophy, and appointed him
Professor of Composition at the Conservatorium. Next autumn he again
visited England, to conduct his Requiem at the Birmingham Festival, and
shortly afterwards accepted the post of Musical Director at New York,
where, with an occasional holiday in Bohemia, he remained until 1895.
During his residence in America he was much attracted by the sweetness
and _naïveté_ of the negro melodies, and, though he never actually
transferred any of them to his own pages, yet in more than one
composition he shows clear traces of their influence. This is
particularly the case with his symphony, 'From the New World' (Op. 95),
so named because it was the first work of his written in the United
States, and with the String Quartett in F major (Op. 96) and A flat
major (Op. 105). In all these the most conspicuous themes are intimately
affected by the 'Plantation Songs,' and it is interesting to note with
what skill Dvořák has absorbed their character into his own style and
method.
Among other notable works published at this period should be mentioned
the set of 'Elegies' (Dumky) for Pianoforte trio, the three great
concert overtures, 'In der Natur,' 'Carnaval,' and 'Otello,' a quintett
in E flat minor, and a collection of 'Bible Songs,' the words of which
are mainly taken from the Psalms. His last Transatlantic composition was
a cantata, 'The American Flag,' written for the Chicago Exhibition of
1895. Shortly afterwards, influenced, it would seem, by sheer nostalgia,
he resigned his appointment and returned to Bohemia, where he has since
resided; partly in Prague and partly in his country house some thirty
miles away. His restoration to his own country was marked by another
outburst of composition, and in 1896 there appeared the Violoncello
Concerto, the String Quartetts in A flat and G, and the three symphonic
poems, 'Der Wassermann,' 'Die Mittagshexe,' and 'Das Goldene Spinnrad.'
In the same year was published the 'Te Deum,' which had been produced at
the Birmingham Festival of 1894, but the work, in spite of some
brilliant passages, is not one of his greatest and needs here no more
than the bare mention. After 1896 came an interval of silence; doubtless
to be explained by the cares of office at the Prague Conservatorium:
then in 1899 followed 'Die Waldtaube,' and 'Heldenlied,' and in 1901 the
new opera of 'Roussalka.'
FOOTNOTES:
[45] This opus number is appended to the autograph score. The Quintett
and both the symphonies are still unpublished.
[46] See a complete history of this work in the preface to the present
libretto; see also Dr Stecker's article on Dvořák in the new
'Bohemian Encyclopædia.' Both these authorities give 1871 as the date.
[47] See the biographical sketch of Dvořák, by H. E. Krehbiel,
_Century_, Sept. 1892.
III
NATIONAL AND PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
The statical conditions which aid in the formation of character may
roughly be classified under three principal heads. First, there is the
broad general basis of humanity, the common foundation of thought and
feeling which enables us to sympathise, in some measure, with distant
lands and remote ages. Secondly, there is the individual element, the
particular blend of personal characteristics, the special idiosyncrasy
that marks the difference between one man and his fellow. Third, and
intermediate between the other two, is the debt that we owe to our
nation the long inheritance that our forefathers have accumulated, that
has been put to interest from the beginning of our race, and augmented
by every occurrence in our history. And since art is essentially the
outcome of character, it would seem to follow, that the artist should
display in his work some trace of these three conditions, that his
manner should be affected by causes which belong partly to mankind at
large, partly to his own temper and circumstances, partly to the
distinctive attributes of his people.
The first two of these have never been called in question. All
criticism admits that art is at once human and personal, that its aim is
to particularise, through the medium of the artist, some ideal or truth
which is universal in its ultimate essence. But the admission of the
national element has been so strenuously attacked, that a few words may
perhaps be offered in its defence; and there could be no more fitting
occasion than the study of a composer whose best work has been devoted
to the service of a national movement. Hence, before beginning any
detailed investigation of Dvořák's method, it will be advisable to
consider, first, what is precisely implied in the statement that he was
influenced by the character of his country, and secondly, whether this
influence was a source of strength or of weakness?