ABSTRACT
Newmarch’s preface to her translation of Karel Hoffmeister’s Antonín Dvořák opens with an evocative account of a journey through the countryside north of Prague:
Motoring across the breezy, well-cultivated plains that lie between Prague and the Saxon frontier of Czechoslovakia, a league or so before reaching Roudnice – that interesting demesne of the Lobkovic family – a liĴle village nestling in a dip of the land was pointed out to me as the birthplace of Antonín Dvořák. Nelahozeves lies on the bank of the Vltava and is guarded by an old keep, perched upon a rock dominating the river, which belongs also to the house of Lobkovic. Snugly enclosed by trees, it was a sheltered and prosperous liĴle hamlet before the merciless requisitions of the Great War disturbed its peace and drained its prosperity. But I saw it in the second year of the existence of the Czechoslovak Republic, and probably by now Nelahozeves is happy and prosperous again, for it lies in a productive district within easy reach of the Prague markets. On that exhilarating June morning, when a light cool wind was driving the silvery clouds overhead, and their companioning shadows raced them over the rolling expanses of the sunny plateau, I realized the unquenchable sources of sane and buoyant intoxication which Dvořák tapped for his invigorating and simple-hearted music. His art was fresh and open like the countryside from which he came.1
