H. P. Hopkins, "Student Days with Dvorak," The Etude, Vol. 30 (1912), pp. 327-28.

There is a certain unexplainable human interest in the daily lives of the maters. The public longs to tear away the veil which seems to hang so tenaciously before those intimate aspects of the composers as they really are. All such curiosity is morbid in type, except where it brings a closer understanding of the man which may lead to a more enlightened interpretation of his works.

Men of giant intellectual attainments toil only for the joy of work itself. They jealously guard their precious hours and the quiet of their homes. Sometimes a writer reveals incidents which detract from the general estimation of a popular idol. But, after all, the public wants to know the truth, and if the following will serve to give the readers of THE ETUDE a closer view of Dvorak as a man and teacher my purpose in writing it will have been served.

Antonin Dvorak, the greatest of all Bohemian composers and one of the greatest masters of recent years, was a man with a very retiring disposition. Born at Muhlhausen, in Bohemia, the son of a poor innkeeper, his whole life was one characterized by more than usual picturesquenesss. He studied at the Prague Organ School, and maintained himself by playing the violin in a small ensemble. His first notable work was the cantata The Heirs of the White Mountains. In 1878 he wrote his famous Slavic Dances, which were originally for pianoforte duet. These made him celebrated. His symphonies, his cantatas, including the Spectre's Bride, his songs, his Stabat Mater and other compositions have given him a permanent place among the immortal masters of music.

For three years Dvorak was director of the National Conservatory of Music in New York, and during this time many Americans studied at the conservatory with him. Comparatively few Americans, however, came under the master's instruction in his home in Bohemia, and I had the good fortune to be one of them. Before going to Europe I first obtained permission to become a candidate for instruction. The journey from America to his Bohemian residence was only one of two weeks amid strange surroundings and without a knowledge of the foreign tongue before I could even see the master. American students going abroad often lose a much greater amount of valuable time in a similar way. I had previously received an almost undecipherable letter directing me to remain in Prague until Dvorak could make the journey from Pribram, his country home.

In the meantime I noted something very refreshing for the American art-lover unaccustomed to seeing his country's musicians made public characters. Everywhere in the shop windows and in the homes the master's portrait was to be seen in silent testimony of the appreciation of his fellow countrymen. He was "The Master" with everyone I met, and quite plainly the idol of the day.

A SURPRISING MEETING.
Naturally I stood very much in awe of my first visit to Dvorak's home. What would he be like? What would he say to me? Would he be satisfied with my American preparation? The coming visit seemed like a great opportunity, but at the same time a dreaded opportunity. One morning about seven o'clock there came a resounding knock upon my door--a knock which brought me to my feet with a bound. A moment later I was confronted by a tall, imposing man with a fierce gleam in his eyes, and a restlessness of manner that told me at once, without the aid of his mutterings in broken English, that I was in the presence, not of a footman to give me notice, but of the great Slav himself. I was thrilled by the touch of the hand whose creations had caused me to seek its directions in my future musical career. Of course, the unexpected meeting with so great a personality threw me quite "off my guard," and I felt very much as a child in the kindergarten might feel before the president of the board of education.

Later I found that the majority of the Bohemians have a sincere regard and respect for Americans. They see in America a land of culture, progress and immense wealth, a land of conditions little known to many of the citizens of Bohemia, some parts of which are sadly impoverished, despite the talent and industry of the natives. Dvorak soon made me his friend, and later I became his confidant in many things. He took me into his own home as though I had been a member of his family. After several interesting days I accompanied him back to his summer home and commenced my work in real earnest.

DVORAK AS A TEACHER.
As there was but one piano at Vysoka, Dvorak's own instrument, it was necessary to have one shipped from Prague to Pribram, and then taken in one of the native carts from the station at Vysoka, a distance of five miles. The latter undertaking was one of difficulty, as the road was up mountain all the way and liberally strewn with rocks. The transfer was viewed with great curiosity by numerous groups of peasants which gathered whenever the cart became stalled or the horses were given a rest.

For months I worked at this delightful spot, orchestrating an extensive symphonic sketch and in idle hours visiting with Dvorak nearby places of interest and many of the composer's neighborhood friends. On these long walks--for we seldom used carriage or cart--Dvorak would carry, bundled in a shawl-strap, the manuscript of whatever work he was then engaged on. Nothing could induce him to leave the precious scores at home. His mind was always filled with thoughts of robbers and fire. Even when we went for short strolls in the woods the manuscript was taken along, and never permitted to leave his hand.

Often during my lessons, which were faithfully taken each day, Dvorak would observe something in the instrumentation of my symphony that would cause him to roar with laughter.

"What is the matter?" I asked on one occasion.

"You wrote for horns, when it should have been for trumpets," he shouted sarcastically.

"Why?" I innocently asked, thinking it made little difference as to which instrument the particular melody was assigned. "I don't know," he replied, "only it ought to be."

In time I learned through these blunt criticisms to know that each instrument possessed a character of its own. Another time I had part of the harmony written for the oboes, through which he ran his pen, giving it to the clarinets.

"It is more dramatic," he explained; and then, after a pause, "What can be more funereal than the low notes of the clarinet?"

In another part of the composition I had the full orchestra playing triple forte, the harmonies raging in wild disorder. After a few moments' infliction of criticism upon this boisterous score, he rather sarcastically observed, "You Americans are a noisy lot."

THE MASTER'S HOME LIFE.
Dvorak's home life was marked by a freedom and ease of living that at times almost approached the condition of no rule at all. His children were permitted to invade his studio at all times, even while the composer was at serious work. My daily lessons were usually taken with the accompaniment of grimacing boys and girls hidden behind articles of furniture, or appearing at unexpected moments in doorways out of their father's sight. Dvorak's high silk hat often played a comical part on the tousled head of some one of the younger boys.

"A rather sinister effect may be obtained by adding this low tympany roll," he was saying one day, when bing! bang! on the empty hat-box, struck by mischievous hands, sounded from the closet in the corner of the room.

"What!" snorted Dvorak, glaring in my direction as he adjusted his spectacles to get a clearer view of my face. My innocent expression saved the culprits a savage scolding at least. "The tympany is a tragic instrument," he resumed impressively, "when properly used. But who knows how to write for [it]? Ha! Ha!," he sneered in his usual way. At this moment a wad of dampened paper flew past our faces and flattened against the wall.

DVORAK'S ABSENT-MINDEDNESS.
From long years of constant application to his work, Dvorak abstraction had grown beyond the point of noticing these little incidents of the lesson hour. Our lessons were not at all formal, as the above pleasantries will show, and were usually accompanied by coffee and a good cigar. Once a violent thunder-storm arose, and an unexpected weakness in the great composer's nature was instantly revealed. He at once became nervous, and as the storm increased displayed an agitation remarkable in a strong man. The lesson was suspended, the shutters were ordered closed, the lamps lighted, and the piano played double forte to drown the roll of thunder and the shriek of the wind. On the other hand, I once saw him resent with unwavering courage an insult offered to his wife. This incident happened at a dance at which Dvorak and I informally played duet waltzes on the piano for the mountaineers who lived near by. In terrible wrath he chastised a soldier with a knotted cane, and might have seriously injured him had I not interfered. On leaving Vysoka at the end of the summer for Prague and Dvorak's winter home, I had intended to enter the National Conservatory, where I could still continue under the master's direction. However, I found myself barred on account of not having a knowledge of the Bohemian language, in which by law all instruction must be given. So I was again taken as his private pupil in his home, and taught as before, in English that was understandable, if not at all times clear.

The great intimacy of the winter months naturally brought to my attention many of Dvorak's habits. He was an early riser, and, as soon as dressed, would sit at the piano and compose until the breakfast bell rang. At breakfast, and all other meals, he exhibited a voracious appetite, and also an irritability which seldom failed to materialize before he left the table. Often he yelled and slapped at the children for small offenses, and, for that matter, was rather cross most of the time. He was lacking in neither charm nor wit, but found it difficult to suppress the natural irritability of the artistic mind. His wife, who was of easy-going temperament, paid little heed to his petulance or rage.

DVORAK'S PERSONAL TRAITS.
He drank great quantities of coffee and smoked incessantly cigars of a long, thin kind. After dinner and supper he would frequently stretch out on the sofa, light a cigar, and invite his eldest daughter and me to play classical duets on their piano. This clearly showed that the man's soul forever craved the hearing of sublime conceptions of other composers. Music had to sound in its fullest and broadest sense to satisfy his poetic nature. He kept open house, and the national, as well as local, celebrities came and went as they pleased. There was little order observed in the home, the impulse of the moment seemed to be the only guide. There was music all the time; seldom did a day pass without a visit from some leading man or woman of the opera, or some musician of distinguished ability. Often they came in groups, and impromptu rehearsals of a very delightful nature would take place.

Dvorak himself was negligent in dress, although when on Ferdinand Strasse, where he inevitably passed those who recognized him at a glance, his hat was jauntily worn and his long ulster-like coat gave him an air of distinction that everyone would mark.

He was a great walker, and often I accompanied him on his tours of the streets. He was fond of looking in the shop windows, but seldom entered the stores to buy. It was evident to me that Dvorak found "society" irksome, to say the least, and seemed much happier and more at ease when talking to street vendors, old apple women and market people, whom he would approach in a familiar way and chat with for minutes at the time. In passing cafes, or the bands that performed in the streets, he would often hear the composer's most popular dances being played. When the tempo was not right, he would instantly fly in a rage and roundly abuse the leaders to me for their misinterpretation of his works.

Not only did we hear his compositions on almost every walk, but were confronted by his portraits in every important street. "No one ever taught me much," he said one day, as he caught sight of one of these pictures in a conspicuous store. "I had no real teacher but experience."

"But your coloring is always beautiful to me," I replied. "You are now the greatest orchestrator in the world and you should enjoy your reputation." To this he made no reply, but simply laughed.

And it is as a great symphonist and colorist that the famous Bohemian is to-day known throughout the world. His reputation is established for all time, and it is doubtful whether Bohemia will ever again produce his like.