Symphony, No. 7 in D minor Op. 70.
Antonín Dvořák
Composed: December 1884–March 1885.
Première: London, April 22, 1885, Dvořák conducting.
In the spring of 1885, London was a festival of Dvořák’s music. Hardly a stranger in town, the composer was making his third visit, one that would see the world première of the symphony that would win the highest critical acclaim of them all: the Seventh Symphony. As a bona fide celebrity, Dvořák was the subject of an extensive interview in the Sunday Times of London. In this passage Dvořák recounts the beginnings of his success and shows gratitude to those who recognized his ability:
I was much assisted by the “artists” stipend, a grant for one year at a time from the Government to artists whose works reveal talent and to whom assistance is of value…The grant amounted to 400 florins. A year later I tried again and sent in my “Stabat Mater” and a new grand opera “Wanda;” but nothing resulted. [Records indicate that Dvořák actually did receive an award.] At the third attempt I succeeded in getting 500 florins. Subsequently I tried once more, and sent in…the piano concerto that was played this week [in London] by the Philharmonic Society. I waited some months, and at last one day a letter came from the famous critic, Dr. Eduard Hanslick, informing me that the committee, consisting of Johannes Brahms, Herbeck, and himself had recommended a grant of 600 florins. My delight at receiving a letter from such a man as Hanslick was doubled on the receipt of one from Brahms, expressing deep interest in me and telling me that he had recommended Simrock, the well-known Berlin publisher, to print some of my compositions. Thus, by kind assistance on all hands, I was put on the road to the success for which I am so grateful. (May 10, 1885).
When in June 1884 the London Philharmonic Society elected Dvořák an honorary member, the Society also invited him to compose a new symphony. Their timing could not have been better. Having recently heard the Third Symphony of Brahms, published that very year, Dvořák found inspiration to surpass all previous efforts. The Third Symphony of Brahms is indeed formidable. Full of astonishing rhythmic and tonal intricacies, the symphony encompasses a wide range of emotive gestures. The third movement in particular has achieved a special fame in its own right.
Dvořák’s Seventh Symphony has a kinship with Brahms’ work in several respects, but is hardly an imitation. Where Brahms begins his work in full voice, Dvořák begins softly, Allegro maestoso, in the low strings then clarinets. Some highly dissonant melodic elements are introduced that seem to induce transient orchestral eruptions. Like the Brahms, the first movement is highly symphonic, highly developmental and does not get carried away in either folkloric or Wagnerian elements. The second movement (Poco Adagio) shows a genius for evoking the pastoral, and also for creating long melodic lines by evading resolution. The third movement has, like its Brahmsian cousin, also become famous in its own right. Usually works of great rhythmic complexity are daunting, but this one is adored. Composed in a 6/4 meter (six beats to the measure with the quarter note counted as one beat), the third movement takes full advantage of all the complications resulting from twelve eighth notes per measure. Twelves can be evenly divided into two groups of six, three groups of four or four groups of three. Contrasts of duple divisions and triple divisions are familiar from song lyrics such as “I Like To Be in America,” which is divided as two groups of three, | I-like-to be-in-A |, followed by three groups of two: | me, ri, ca |. Dvořák not only uses these combinations in succession, but uses no less than three different groupings simultaneously! The finale (Allegro) is a symphonic tour de force, by far the longest and most impassioned movement of the work. Ascending octave leaps crash down upon dissonant harmonies. Dvořák explores this complex material for all its potential and concludes on a fully triumphant note.
Concerto for Violoncello in B minor, Op. 104.
Antonín Dvořák
Composed: November 1894–February 1895.
Première: London, March 19, 1896. Leo Stern, soloist with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Dvořák.
The New York music critic James Gibbons Huneker would reminisce about Dvořák referring to him by the affectionate nickname “Old Borax.” Hans von Bülow, the formidable German conductor and pianist, referred to Dvořák as “the peasant in a dress coat.” Dvořák was a train enthusiast. His father was a butcher whose shop in the town of Mühlhausen on the Moldau adjoined an inn. And amidst the revelry of the inn’s folk music, with his father’s blessing and support, Dvořák took up music. Slavic music scholar Michael Beckerman has argued that biographical details such as these perpetuate the image of Dvořák as “the simple rural musician who has gone out into the world and come back unchanged.” Nothing in Huneker’s recollections refutes this image: he was devout, he could drink Huneker under the table, and his German was rough in accent and grammar. And yet, the Concerto for Violoncello suggests how much more there was to the person than what we glean from the image.
On request from his friend the cellist Hanus Wihan, Dvořák composed the Cello Concerto between November 1894 and February 1895 at the end of his American sojourn. Dvořák’s stay in America is a story in itself that began when Mrs. Jeanette Thurber approached him with the initial offer in June 1891. In December 1891, for the fabulous salary of $15,000 per year, Dvořák signed a two-year contract to become director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York. Founded by Mrs. Thurber in 1885, years before the Juilliard, Mannes and Manhattan Schools, and admitting students without regard to race, Mrs. Thurber intended that Dvořák would become the figurehead and founder of an American School of Composition. His crowning achievement would be an American Opera: Hiawatha. Mrs. Thurber’s dream was dashed by the stock market panic of 1893, which brought the Thurber family’s fortunes into swift decline. When he was expected to renew his contract in 1894, Dvořák was circumspect. He accepted a promissory note for a two-year renewal, but in August 1895, he deftly extricated himself from a position that could no longer support him. Excusing himself on the basis of family obligations he declined a return to New York.
In 1894, Dvořák made a trip to Brooklyn to hear the cellist and composer Victor Herbert (Babes in Toyland) perform his own Cello Concerto No. 2. The idea of a solo cello in concert with a large orchestra impressed Dvořák. Likewise, the Brahms Concerto for Violin and Violoncello, Op. 102 (1887) was also influential. When Dvořák was 24 he had attempted a cello concerto in A major, but never orchestrated it. In November 1894, his third year in New York, Dvořák began composing the concerto. It is the very end of the Concerto that became an area of contention. Upon his return to Bohemia, Dvořák was greeted with the news that his sister-in-law, Josefina, had died. This was the same Josefina who had been his student years earlier, and with whom Dvořák had remained in love. At that time he composed for her the song “Leave Me Alone,” and it is this song that he quotes at the concerto’s end lending to it a nostalgic and ethereal dimension. Dvořák courted Josefina lucklessly before meeting her younger sister, who would become his wife. Hanus Wihan had a very different conception of the ending. He desired a virtuosic cadenza at the end, but that would have spoiled the effect of Dvořák’s memorial. Ultimately, Dvořák’s heartfelt revision sets a tone for the ending that reflects the many layers of his personal experiences.
© Steven J. Cahn, 2009
Steven J. Cahn is Program Annotator of the Park Avenue Chamber Symphony. He is Associate Professor of Music Theory at the College-Conservatory of Music, University of Cincinnati.
