Songs My Mother Taught Me. 

Antonín Dvořák’s Songs My Mother Taught Me filled my mind while reviving a talk on Czech culture ten days ago intended for my group of travelers in Prague. That talk comes at the end of route I particularly love called “Old World Europe” and concludes a series of talks on the culture of a region defined by Warsaw, Krakow, Budapest, Vienna, and Prague.

I ordinarily present just two musical examples in this talk: first, the soaring opening of Smetana’s tone poem The Moldau (Vlatava); and, second, a scene from Janacek’s searing opera Jenůfa where Jenůfa realizes the tragic fate of her newborn son. Despite its sadness, this opera ends with a luminous scene of redemption—a scene that elevates the work from being a terrific opera to an absolute masterpiece.

In short, my agenda for this one-hour talk is full. Still, I toyed this time with adding something by Dvořák—a Czech composer better known to American audiences than his equally celebrated compatriots Smetana or Janacek. If so, what would be best? One of Dvořák’s signature Slavonic Dances? The iconic theme of his Symphony No. 9: From a New World?

That’s when my mind drifted to this song—Songs My Mother Taught Me—a short song that evokes a specific memory in me, as I suspect it does for many people who love it. The song comes from a cycle called Gypsy Songs, B. 104, Op. 55, using poems by Czech poet Adolf Heyduk (1835-1923). The composer cast the melody to sound equally well in both Czech and German (it’s lovely in English too). If the song is new to you, do not be surprised if it springs onto your list of favorites after a few hearings.

Now, let me tell you how I came to know this song.  Let’s go back to the spring of 1981, when I was living in Portland Oregon. Everything from that period of my life was magical (I would need a book to recount that story). Furthermore, I was on the edge of (and on edge about) gaining the opportunity of a lifetime in the form of an IREX grant to complete my dissertation research in Leningrad—a goal that had shaped the previous five years of my life.

Meanwhile, while waiting, I did a lot of new things, including working in a fascinating job at Williams Diamond Shipping in downtown Portland, learning the nuts and bolts of the shipping industry. Somewhere in all of this, I met the exotic woman who introduced me to this song. I am sorry to say, but I no longer remember her name, although her image stands before my eyes with absolute clarity. So, too, does her voice, a rich mezzo-soprano sonority that I can still hear in my dreams.

However it was that we met, she asked me if I would consider driving two or three times a month to her home on the coast to accompany her for several hours as she relived music she had devoted her life to singing. It was an irresistible offer.

I went many times. She paid me well, too, although I would have gone regardless. Her home resembled a cross between a Victorian parlor and a stage set. The furnishing was heavy, covered in velvets and brocades, rich in color. The rugs were Persian, the lighting atmospheric. I seem to recall she had a window looking out at the Pacific, but I may have made that up in my mind.

Just being in her presence provided me an education in far more than vocal repertoire. She had stories to tell, as you might guess, and she told them willingly. She served refreshments that were new to me, although I cannot name a single example today. Her massive grand piano was draped in lace and stacked high with scores of operas and art songs.

Virtually everything she sang was new to me, too. I sightread well, so it worked out, but the sessions were a combination of tension and beauty, as I plowed through measure after measure of music new to my ear.

Of all the pieces, this one song by Dvorak still strikes me the deepest. It has been sung and recorded by generations of artists for a reason. The style in which she sang it was not that far removed from Dvorak’s own time (he died in 1904).

It was towards the end of our sessions that she placed this song on the music rack. By that time she was tired, ready to stop. But she still would sing it. At the time, I was too young to grasp the full dimensions of nostalgia, a person’s yearning not just for lost loved ones, but for lost homelands and a lost world. Not yet, either, did I understand the weight of transferring beauty from one generation to another. I assumed the tears in her eyes responded only to memories of her own mother.

So there I sat in the first days of May 2022, enjoying the luxury of my room in the Grand Palace Bohemia, listening again to this song. Ultimately, it didn’t make the “cut” into this particular talk due to the limits of time. After all, I needed to cover topics from the Bohemian kings to the events erupting in 1968 during a period known as “Prague Spring.” I choose to conclude this talk with a focus on Czech film director Miloš Forman (1932-2018), highlighting his edgy films made as a young director when he grabbed the rare spark of freedom that spread across Prague, only to suffer the consequences of Communist repression after the tanks moved into Wenceslaus Square. Forman had little choice but to flee his homeland, bringing his enormous gifts to the broader world (Amadeus, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Ragtime). His story needs to be told.

Still, the song continued to play in my mind, even on the flight back home. It rose up rather loudly today to hush other thoughts I had for today’s essay. Likely it has been mentioned before in these essays, and but like any classic work, it never grows old. Perhaps you can consider it a belated posting for Mother’s Day, or, if you will, a nugget of beauty that fits in your suitcase as well, whenever you must travel far.