An Afternoon with Antonin

At last, a beautiful spring day, one much too pretty to waste with the ordinary routines. Until very recently there were only a few weak promises of spring, at least to my eyes, accustomed as they had become to pinks and whites, yellows and purples, salmons and reds, all thrown together on bushes and trees. Magnolias pushing upward, wisteria cascading downward. I know what spring looks like and, believe me, this isn't it! This is rain, and wind, and chill, and I've been assured it is April in Prague. It's not awful. It's just constant. And then sunshine!

I love the feeling of home. Although I am an enthusiastic tourist, I prefer to nest, to belong, even if only for a short time, wherever I am. Over the years I've learned that wherever I am is "home." I remain connected to my roots and the most recent place holding most of my stuff. I just add another place to belong, a new place to feel sheltered. There is a danger in settling in, however. It is the feeling that there's always more time. Sure, I could visit this place or see this view today, but then again, I could do it tomorrow, or next week. And sometimes "next week" becomes never. So I have made a promise to myself: something every week. Just something. A bit of effort, a new experience, or an updated view of a previous experience. And usually something not listed in the guide for those who have only one, or three, or even five days.

Antonin took two tries! I'm not normally geographically challenged, although I will admit to a bit of trouble identifying N-S-E-W when standing on a busy corner here. It's not I'm unsure of which direction my feet should move, it is that I don't know what to call it. And that's a tough one for me -- I think I came into life with a N-S-E-W gene! I also don't usually have difficulty following maps. Talk about a new experience! Finding Antonin Dvorak's home/museum was way beyond my ability a couple weeks ago. I just didn't find it. And that was a very good thing. Because a couple weeks ago there would have been branches, not buds! I would have missed the splendor of his garden, and the cream and hot pink might have been out of place in the middle of drab and colorless. The steeple behind the wall across the street would have been stark, not framed in lacy green. Not so now!

He was born in a little Bohemian town, a part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, in 1841, received musical training there, then came to Prague while still a teenager, studied at the Organ School (I didn't know that) and was also an accomplished violin and viola player, so accomplished at all three that he was church organist for many years and a member of a Prague orchestra for nearly as many. Much of his story is nearly textbook -- married a student, didn't have enough money, became friends with leading musicians who opened doors for him (Brahms and Smetana). Where he strayed from the musical path of the mid- to late-nineteenth century was in using native tunes, dance rhythms, and patterns as part of the standard romantic style. Dvorak was a regular in my musical memory, especially his Symphony from the New World and Slavonic Dances. And there I was - - walking through his front door, climbing his steps, at his home only a couple of blocks from one of my regular tram stops. Nearly my neighborhood, for goodness' sake.

There are the traditional/usual manuscripts, interesting collected bits and pieces of a life that was both ordinary and gifted. I enjoyed seeing photographs, not paintings, of him, his family, his friends, his concerts, the farm in Spillville, Iowa where he visited cousins, viewing the academic gown he wore at Cambridge. The photos make him seem so contemporary, even though they are sepia and crackled. Talk about differences -- my guide book describes his home as an elegant, early 18th century (1720) summer palace. It also says it is red and ochre -- I'll go with cream and hot pink! I'm sure New York City was becoming elegant when he became director of the National Conservatory, and I'm sure he moved in all the right society, but America was still a newcomer. No wonder he wanted to come home!

And what a home. I'm glad I learned that he walked daily in the park I pass to listen to the birds' songs, that he regularly walked to the main train station (that's where I boarded for Vienna) to chat with a gatekeeper, that he worshipped, dined, conducted, drank coffee with friends on the streets I pass.

Dvorak has been described as "a national treasure." He died in this home in 1904, only 60 years old, looking much older, if those photographs can be believed. And he's buried at Vysehrad ("where all the best Prague myths were born"), in Slavin Cemetery, "last resting place of the cream of the arts worthies." I'm saving that for another weekend.

And I think I'll return to sit again in his garden, maybe with a book, maybe just listening to his music playing softly in the house -- and in my brain.