Homeless in the New World

One tends to think of New York City as a place that has always and invariably been a staunch protector and shelterer of the cultural heritage of Europe. In the course of the 20th century so many European writers, artists, thinkers, composers and others active in the arts and sciences found refuge there that a story like that of the Dvorak House - the house that contained the New York home of the great 19th century Czech composer Antonin Dvorak (who for three years towards the end of his life lived and worked in New York and elsewhere in North America) - seems unexpected and somehow cruel.

Steven Richman has done much to propagate and conserve the memory of Dvorak's American years, showing in essays and papers how important Dvorak's legacy was for the development of American music. Dvorak not only supported the cause of African-Anerican and Native American music, but also encouraged the admission of black and female students to the National Conservatory. While his influence on later American music was indirect, he none the less taught the students who would later become the teachers of composers like Aaron Copland, George Gershwin and Duke Ellington. In New York, Dvorak composed some of his best-known works, including the New World Symphony, the Sonatina for Violin and Piano, and the E flat major String Quintet op. 97. Many of these works incorporated elements of indigenous American music.

It's sad to read of what eventually happened to the composer's home. Richman writes, apropos of a Music & Arts CD celebrating Dvorak's life and work:

In 1941, on the 100th anniversary of the composer’s birth, a plaque was placed on the facade of the Dvorak House by Mayor Fiorello La Guardia. Among those who attended the dedication were violinist Fritz Kreisler, conductor Bruno Walter, Czechoslovak Foreign Minister-in-Exile Jan Masaryk, soprano Jarmila Novotná, Dvorak’s secretary J.J Kovarík, and the aforementioned Harry T. Burleigh, who, since his youthful association with Dvorak, had achieved eminence as a composer, pioneering arranger of spirituals (his versions were sung by Enrico Caruso, John McCormack, and Marian Anderson), a noted church and concert baritone (he was soloist at the very same St George’s Church, not missing a performance for 52 years!), founding member of ASCAP, and an editor for Ricordi.

Half a century later, in February 1991, the facade was designated a landmark on cultural grounds by the Landmarks Preservation Commission. Yet, unfortunately, according to the new city charter, the City Council could overturn the landmarking, and did so under pressure from the [Beth Israel] hospital in June, 1991, ignoring thousands of letters from around the world from such musicians and music lovers as violinist Josef Suk (Dvorak’s great-grandson), Kurt Masur, Yo-Yo Ma, Rudolf Firkusny, Rafael Kubelík, myself, arts patroness Alice Tully, film director Milos Forman, President of Czechoslovakia Vaclav Havel, Mercer Ellington, critic Harold Schonberg, the Archbishop of Prague, the Czechoslovak Minister of Culture, Manhattan Borough President Ruth Messinger, and AIDS activists, all to no avail. The hospital was intransigent, resisting efforts to save even the facade, and the house was summarily destroyed for an AIDS facility in late August-early September, 1991, within days of Dvorak’s 150th Birthday. Fortunately, I myself was out of the country, and was spared the awful reality of its demise. (However, a cellist friend had the foresight to preserve a brick from the site, which he has saved as a keepsake.) A newly elected City Council later renamed the street Dvorak Place, but it was small recompense.

(Hat tip: Gayle Dixon)