VII. Conclusion: Martinů’s
Parisian Legacy
Looking back on his Paris years before
the Nazi invasion forced him to flee,
Martinů wrote: “Liberté! Now we
discovered that it is not freely available,
but that it must be fought for.
I, personally, had always had to pay
a price for my freedom, but it was my
small, private freedom."
For Martinů, it was the decision
to remain in Paris that represented
this sacrifice and risk. He arrived
penniless, with the daunting task before
him of establishing
a reputation from the ground up, with
few contacts or concrete prospects for
the future. Paris nonetheless opened
a whole new world before him, and as
Šafránek observed, “The very air breathed
liberty. Suddenly Martinů felt
himself free.”
Martinů’s
art, influenced by the Parisian musical
milieu, experienced a drastic re-orientation,
or, better yet, a series of them. The
experience of Paris brought about a
rapid and decisive self-reckoning for
the composer. As a child of the nineteenth
century
and a late bloomer, Martinů was
forced to reconcile early training and
tendencies with new approaches. He also
had to sort out the myriad musical styles
prevalent around him. For Martinů,
Paris indeed represented “a turning
point and a radical one",
as the composer later recalled, adding
that "I began to find my bearings
in to the chaos into which I had plunged
in Paris, that is, I began really to
think about it."
He elaborated upon this in a biography
printed in the Boston Symphony Orchestra
program notes for performances of his
La Bagarre and La Symphonie.
It is a fascinating self-portrait of
the composer:
Martinů
studied as a violinist at the Conservatory
of Music at Prague, where his teacher
in composition was Josef Suk. As
a young composer, he was not attracted
by the Czech school of writing,
which was influenced by the German,
with its rather clumsy romanticism;
he was favorably disposed towards
the French on account of its respect
for form, its clarity and purity
of expression. Alone among Czech
composers, he passed through the
struggles and evolution of impressionism.
Debussy at first influenced him
greatly; later, always searching
after new manners of expression,
he went to Paris for lessons from
Roussel (1924). His sojourn there
enlightened him. He at once sided
with the most "modern"
of the composers, was enthusiastic
over Stravinsky, championed him,
and made him known in Czechoslovakia.
He gradually freed himself from
this influence and came back to
the Czech spirit as exemplified
by Smetana and Dvorak. He especially
acquired confidence, technical facility,
sense of form, orchestral mastery.
The rhythmic element, always sustained
and new, that distinguishes his
works, recalls Dvorak--but is enriched
by the modern experiences and experiments.
Thus he passed in his creation of
melodic expression to polyphonic
complexity based on new musical
conceptions, but in a clear and
expressive manner. In his recent
works he shows a leaning towards
neo-classicism derived from the
modernisme of today.
Although written in the
late 20’s, this quote could very well
date from a decade later, demonstrating
that
Martinů had already embarked by
this time upon a very certain and increasingly
consistent path. The biographical sketch
seems to emphasize Martinů’s cosmopolitan
approach, with the exception of course
of German “metaphysics”. Most striking
is his self-described
uniqueness with regard to following
Debussy’s lead, which he clearly regards
as a bold early step towards independence,
despite the fact that Suk was also experimenting
in this realm. Martinů credits
Paris with enlightening him, but interestingly
this is already in the past tense. He
also takes pains to ally himself with
the most modern of composers, mentioning
only Stravinsky by name, but is careful
to point out his gradual weaning from
this influence as well. Czechness gets
it due, perhaps more
than expected, and jazz is inferred
by the phrase “modern experiences and
experiments”. This is worth emphasizing,
because as this study has shown, Martinů’s
approach to rhythm involved a synthesis
of patterns inspired by jazz and Czech
folk music. Martinů
refers to the process as “enrichment”,
and this seems particularly apt. He
also links this idea of a “sustained
and new” rhythmic approach with a tendency
towards polyphonic complexity and the
stylistic trends of neoclassicism, both
of which were observed
in relation to the rhythmic component
in chapter two. Above all, the quotation
echoes the composer’s remarkably flexible
approach to the dizzying array of methods,
styles, languages and –isms that
could be heard in the French capital.
Folk stylizations, jazz rhythms, Stravinskian
ostinati, quotes of Svatý
Václave, soothing diatonicism,
grating dissonance - all seem to come
and go with apparent ease
in Martinů’s oeuvre depending upon
the work the composer has in mind and
its expressive intent.
Indeed, Martinu’s music of the twenties
could well be seen as a chaotic art,
with many voices striving to be heard
and developed in various ways. Rarely
does the composer settle into a pattern,
seeming rather to address a different
problem or challenge with each work.
Examples worth citing in this regard
include the wedding of the Charleston
with folk song in the finale of the
Revue de Cuisine, the adoption
of Svatý Václave
into a rhythmically charged atmosphere
to represent the fervor of the crowd
in La Bagarre, and the battle
for dominance between folk and jazz
dance rhythms in his Trois danses
tchèques for solo piano.
Although one is certainly
struck by
the experimental nature of Martinů’s
early Paris works, as an overall representative
of the avant-garde Martinů’s status
remains unclear, despite his assertions
in the quote above. He certainly disdained
innovation for its own sake, echoing
Stravinsky’s words
when writing in 1928 that "modern
music cannot allow for everything, as
it is contended. The increased number
of means and possibilities does not
mean an increase in latitude. The more
freedom there is, the more discipline
is necessary." Ironically,
this statement emerged at the very same
time as many of Martinů’s most
experimental works.
Martinů’s
avant-garde tendencies are only now
beginning to be seriously addressed.
Both Šafránek and Large, Martinů’s
chief biographers, downplayed their
importance, and the climate of Czech
scholarship behind the iron curtain
was also not favorably disposed to exploring
these more renegade aspects of Martinů’s
oeuvre, so devoid of a “healthy” sense
of nationalism. Recent recordings and
performances sponsored
by the Bohuslav Martinů Institute
in Prague, however, have done much to
redress the situation and provide a
more balanced view of the composer.
The unsmiling, negativistic qualities
of some of these experimental works
show a very different side of the composer.
Jazz rhythms become a metaphor for a
bankrupt way of life or outrageous moral
values (Les trois souhaits, Les Larmes
du couteau), or are transformed
into a hard, driving force in such works
as the relentless La Fantaisie
for two pianos, which unifies popular
dance with steely, percussive, "machine
age" rhythms.
At the same time, though,
Martinů often employs jazz with
a very light touch, capturing feelings
of optimism and joie
de vivre as
in the ballet La Revue de cuisine.
Such an approach was not necessarily
less avant-garde, considering the prominence
of wit and irony in the musical language
of 1920’s Paris. At
the time jazz and dance were inseparable
of course, so it made perfect sense
to incorporate the idiom into ballet.
Martinů’s sense of humor and irony
also plays a crucial role in the Trois
danses tchèques
as he rags the polka
in a piece that does everything rhythmically
to undermine its title. In a fascinating
collision of aesthetic values, Martinů’s
folk heritage, brought with him from
Czechoslovakia, now had to contend with
the rhythms of the dance hall representing
the urban "folk".
As
has been demonstrated throughout this
study, Martinů delighted in exploring
such dichotomies. Indeed, his image
as an avant-gardist on the one hand
is balanced by an equally cultivated,
consciously naďve persona on the
other, with Orientalism or simplified
folk stylization providing the impetus
for such works as the ballets The
Butterfly That Stamped
and Špalíček.
Here, Martinů’s interest in fairy
tales and the world of children produces
works of charming simplicity, deliberately
flying in the face of modernist trends.
Martinů’s use of pastoral style
as a contrast to (and metaphorical refuge
from) surrounding passages of great
intensity and dynamism also belongs
to this category, though in such works
it clashes directly with the composer’s
more modern persona.
The search for a progressive
chronology proves beside the point in
such cases; indeed, the two ballets
above, composed in 1926 and 1932, make
odd bookends for works pushing the avant-garde
envelope such as Les Trois souhaits
and
the Sonata No. 1 for violin in piano,
both written in 1929. This is merely
one instance in which the search for
a linear development in Martinů’s
style proves to be a dubious undertaking.
Julietta,
the operatic masterpiece from 1937,
has its roots in the
surrealistic operas of the late 20’s,
and could well have been composed in
their style had Martinů chosen
to do so. So, in a similar fashion,
does a seemingly isolated work such
as the Divertimento for piano left-hand
from 1926 look forward to the simplified
style of Špalíček
and the neo-classical Serenades of the
early thirties. What can be noted with
certainty, however, is the fact that
many of Martinů’s most adventurous
works from the twenties never made it
to the theater or concert hall, and
thus critics and audiences remained
unaware of this most remarkable aspect
of the composer’s work. Martinů
was no doubt discouraged by this lack
of interest, and as the use of popular
dance rhythms often featured in his
most adventurous works became increasingly
passé, the practical need
to emphasize other approaches became
abundantly clear.
Equally
complex from an aesthetic standpoint
is Martinů’s relationship to nationalism.
In a review discussing
Richard Taruskin’s article on the subject
in the New Grove Dictionary of Music
and Musicians, Charles Rosen writes
that "ironic alienation is part
of the normal process in the creation
of a nationalist style."
He might well have mentioned Martinů
as an example, a classic case in this
context if ever there was one. For there
is more than a hint of irony behind
Martinů leaving Prague for Paris
in order to discover what it meant to
be - and become - a “Czech” composer.
Martinů’s music also gives credence
to the idea; the first substantial work
written in Paris, the
Quartet for clarinet, horn and side
drum, treats Svatý Václave
in just this ironic context, dissecting
it into fragments and making of them
objective "cellules" in a
musical collage. Also relevant here
is the playful battle for dominance
between polka rhythms by jazz patterns
in the Trois danses tchèques.
In these and other works of the period
Martinů is playing out his ambivalence
towards nationalism, or at least subjecting
the material to a more consciously modern
approach.
There is more than a hint
of irony as well in the fact that the
French (as well
as Europe in general) clearly saw Martinů
first as a Czech, while the Czechs deridingly
labeled him as “French”. As late as
1940 Paul Nettl expressed the Czech
point of view, with the familiar hint
of a negative subtext: “Bohuslav Martinů,
influenced by Les
Six and Stravinsky, has become almost
a Frenchman, so zealously has he thrown
himself open to foreign influences."
As
Šafránek points out, “this classification
of ‘French’ tagged Martinů for
a long time and was the source of many
of his spiritual struggles,
for at heart he was completely a Czech."
Martinů echoed these sentiments
in the following observation quoted
from “Something about that ‘French’
influence”:
If lightness appears in my work,
aha, there is that [French] influence,
if it is the color of the sound,
we then see how a Czech composer
can be ‘influenced.’ You recognize
that all of this is essentially
childish. But what is no longer
childish is when each composition
is searched for the extent to which
I ‘saved’ myself from this influence,
[or] how I lost or found my expression
such that I abandoned or am abandoning
these influences…
Martinů elaborates upon the point
in a subsequent paragraph that he later
crossed out, but the idea is significant
nonetheless. Here, Martinů puts
forth the idea that nationalism and
cosmopolitanism not mutually exclusive:
Furthermore, the Czech
elements which
I brought to France were not destroyed,
but on the contrary supported and
enhanced through maturity and were
brought into an organic order, which,
if I am not mistaken, follows only
that line which Smetana and Dvořák
began.
This complements Martinů’s
assertion elsewhere in his writings
that “If we are talking about tradition,
what I want to say here is that tradition
is not something “stable” - a new work
can come that will be different yet
it will still be Czech. There is no
prescription for how
it should or should not be."
Reflecting this open-ended approach,
elsewhere Martinů then defends
an experimental approach to nationalism,
even referring to such an approach as
necessary, observing that “it is not
a moment of great, isolated works (of
which there were
very few in the entire history anyway),
it is a moment of preparation, of searching,
of straightening out the terrain for
those who are coming."
It
is clear from all of this that Martinů
was profoundly aware of his Czech heritage
and consciously
cultivated musical nationalism as a
viable and meaningful tradition, while
at the same time experimenting with
different possible manifestations. Martinů’s
view towards nationalism was above all
flexible, and anything but codified.
On a practical level
he undoubtedly hoped to take advantage
of his origins, and that his identity
as a Czech would help him find a niche,
as was the case with Bartók and
Stravinsky. This was not a simple task,
for even though the French had proven
their love for the exotic, they had
also become spoiled by an embarrassment
of riches during the teens and twenties
with the unprecedented influx of artists
from all corners of Europe and America;
a Czech musician in their midst was
hardly guaranteed to make waves simply
because of his national origin.
Martinů
also faced an uphill battle back at
home. The Czechs did not at first appreciate
the composer’s determination to pursue
his own path, resenting his defection
to Paris and declaring his music superficial
and derivative of Debussy and later
Stravinsky. However, Martinů’s
reputation in his homeland eventually
grew considerably, thanks in large part
to his nationally conceived contributions
to the Czech theater written in a consciously
simplified, accessible style. In these
works he tried to develop a identifiably
national style that would assuage his
disparagers without succumbing to the
mock-heroic style he detested. That
he succeeded remarkably in this endeavor
is reflected in his garnering the Smetana
Prize for his orchestral La Rhapsodie
and the ballet Špalíček,
both works possessing overt national
content. How ironic then that Julietta,
a complex surrealistic opera based upon
a French play, should cap Martinů’s
theatrical career in Czechoslovakia
with a triumphant series of performances
at the National
Theater.
Alongside
compositions specifically designed for
the Czech audience, Martinů cultivated
more “cosmopolitan” works. Despite the
national element being relatively sublimated
in these works, they are nonetheless
frequently discussed in terms of Czechness
by reviewers. With such works Martinů
slowly found success abroad as well,
and the following samples of contemporary
reviews are very typical of the Martinů
criticism that emerged during his Parisian
sojourn. The first concerns the String
Quintet (1927),
the second Špalíček
(1932) the third the Harpsichord Concerto
(1935) and the fourth the Tre ricercari
and Double Concerto (1938). The italics
are mine, emphasizing the most relevant
comments to the discussion at hand:
In Brussels at the
Palais des
Beaux Arts a concert of chamber
music was offered to the participants
of the festival by the Pro Arte
Quartet. The program contained a
string quintet (two violins, two
violas and cello) by Martinů,
a young Czech
who is living in Paris;
a fresh and charming work
by a man of real talent. His personality
is perhaps not yet clearly defined
and the writing is at times too
facile, but it shows a natural
and spontaneous gift.
At
the beginning of the season there
was the premiere of Bohuslav Martinů’s
Špalíček,
which the composer calls a ‘song
ballet in three acts and ten pictures.’
The emphasis is on ‘ballet’ for
the stage events are expressed only
by the dance, while groups of voices,
a women’s chorus and threes soloists--soprano,
tenor and bass--are placed in the
orchestra. They accompany, explain,
and enhance the dramatic presentation,
which is made up of fairy tales,
ballads, children’s games and legends.
The music is naturally appropriate
to the simple material, without
however renouncing its claim to
art. Martinů
is a captivating
master of rhythm. His
dance pieces gain national character
from the use of Czech folk melodies.
The polytonality, the marked time
changes, the polyrhythms, and combination
of the instruments with the piano,
make this score noteworthy.
The songs have tonal richness; in
the remarkable a capella of the
women’s chorus, in the soloists’
songs and recitatives, and in the
antiphony of chorus and solos. But
Martinů’s personality does
not stand out, his
work is a composite of Bohemian
folk music, the early Stravinsky
and French impressionism.
The orchestra is large and effectively
used, but the score is not complicated.
This dance opera may be called the
most racially characteristic work
of the composer.
The Harpsichord
Concerto of Bohuslav
Martinů has the musical, and
especially rhythmic quality, that
one finds in all the deliberately
gauche and slyly correct works of
this Czech composer. I cannot see
that the harpsichord gains anything
by being subjected to these rigors,
or, for that
matter, that Martinů gains
anything by using the harpsichord.
Any plucked instrument would have
done the trick. In this respect,
one can see that Martinů has
remained a “modern” and cannot adapt
himself to any kind of classicism,
true or false, which demands
the use either of an ancient instrument
or of an ancient form. The Concerto
is, nevertheless, musically interesting:
the man is there, honest, candid,
and with a peasant-like freshness.
I know of few composers with such
rhythmic spontaneity, or
with such abundance without excess.
Several
works by Martinů and Britten
were given premieres in both Geneva
and Basle on the same evening. Martinů,
closely bound to his country in
work and in feeling, emerges more
and more clearly as the heir of
the great Czech masters, Smetana,
Dvořák and Janáček.
His recent scores possess maturity
and power of expression and reveal
surprising progress. The Tre
Ricercari for chamber orchestra
which had its premiere at the Venice
biennial was broadcast by Ansermet
over the Swiss radio. The original
instrumentation (flute, two oboes,
two bassoons, and two trumpets,
two pianos and three groups of violins
and violoncellos) is matched by
the style of this splendid score,
which combines balance of construction
with dramatic force. Still more
important seemed the Concerto
for string orchestra, piano
and kettledrums (manuscript) written
for Paul Sacher and his orchestra
which recorded another success for
the composer in Basle.
As is evident from the
sampling above, reviewers outside Czechoslovakia
inevitably viewed
Martinů from a national perspective,
and an association with the perceived
peasant-like spontaneity of Dvořák
is also a very detectable subtext. Within
the same sphere is the critics’ emphasis
on Martinů’s approach to rhythm,
which the composer, jazz
notwithstanding, also ascribed to his
homeland with his declaration that "the
national music of Czechoslovakia is
rhythm - strong, vital rhythm."
As the reviewers above point out, even
in such works of absolute music as the
Harpsichord Concerto or Tre
ricercari, where the national element
is not so readily apparent, "Czechness"
can still be detected, sublimated into
the musical texture or syntax in some
way. This underlines the fact that although
the
two masks of Martinů the nationalist
and Martinů the cosmopolitan seem
clearly defined enough, the composer
was inclined to switch back and forth
within a single work or don both masks
at once. Again, the concepts of synthesis
and juxtaposition prove relevant.
Such complexes of styles and symbols
prove to be one of the more fascinating
aspects of the composer’s oeuvre, and
the resulting characteristics are aptly
summed up by André Coeuroy, who described
Martinů’s music as
primitive and rustic
(rude et paysanne), but always
well-constructed and searching to
solve problems in all domains…In
this abundance without weakness,
[there is] a personal language that
takes into account, without giving
allegiance to, Stravinsky and Schoenberg
and remains fresh through
contact with the Moravian folk tradition…
Opposite the morose and harsh art
of Alois Haba, Martinů makes
sparkle a supple, sinewy art that
always orients itself towards the
greater humanity.
It is particularly interesting
that Shoenberg should be mentioned
within this context, for the one thing
Martinů and Schoenberg had in common
is also what set them upon opposite
creative paths: a profoundly nationalistic
ideology.
Martinů’s
trajectory towards compositional maturity
is in many ways a familiar one.
With Stravinsky palpably under the influence
of Rimsky-Korsakov before somehow "breaking
free" with Petrushka and
the Rite of Spring,
so it is with Martinů and, for
example Debussy; it is a fascinating
coincidence that for both Slavic composers,
Paris provided the ideal proving ground.
Coming onto the scene rather late and
in the wake of Stravinsky’s remarkable
successes, however, Martinů faced
a more complicated influence-sorting
task, with an array of progenitors (in
addition to Debussy and Stravinsky),
including Dvořák, Mahler, Smetana,
Strauss, and Suk.
Martinů’s
uncertain response to the musical situation
in Prague in the teens and early twenties,
a confused period marked by critical
posturing, Nejedlian polemics and a
general lack of consensus, led
to a bewildering inconsistency of styles
in his music - polkas, sousedskás,
furiants, and other palpably
Czech items are interspersed with pieces
inspired on one hand by the romantic
ebullience of Strauss’ tone poems or
the subtle language of Pelléas
on the other. Indeed, the composer’s
works before Paris, while frequently
promising, ultimately pale in comparison
with the compositions they imitate.
In
Paris, however, Martinů manages
to turn this unpromising pluralistic
approach into an advantage, using folk,
impressionistic, and more avant-garde
elements in a convincing synthesis complemented
by the gradual emergence
of a distinctive musical voice, indeed
one of the most recognizable voices
of any composer in the twentieth century.
It
is clear that Martinů strove for
a balanced aesthetic, favoring moderation
of expression over extremism. His music
as a whole reflects a sort of reconciliation
between such opposite
poles as optimism and bleakness, grimness
and frivolity, tradition and the avant-garde.
Indeed,
as has been observed, much of the dynamic
quality of Martinů’s music derives
from its exploitation of seemingly conflicting
aesthetic goals. Elliott Carter echoed
these sentiments in his review of Martinů’s
Second Piano Concerto:
Martinů’s
extreme musicality and freshness
of expression are directly winning
qualities. He does not always give
an impression of unity because he
juxtaposes all kinds
of music in one piece, even in one
movement. In this work he seemed
to be playing off Hindemith against
certain romantic composers, but
the effect is somehow natural and
convincing.
Martinů’s place in history is
still a problematic subject, and the
Paris period has particular relevance
for a discussion of this issue. Judging
Martinů’s compositional legacy
has led to various pronouncements, from
Šafránek’s glowing prose to the following
more recent and decidedly reserved observation:
Martinů
actually loved
the tradition more than Stravinsky.
For him it was still a living tradition
and he doesn’t want to alienate
it. This makes him at once in some
ways a stronger composer in relation
to tradition than Stravinsky and
also a weaker one because he is
destroying the tradition much less
than Stravinsky does. This is one
of the problems with all composers
with music of the past - the extent
to which they use it and the extent
to which they subvert it when they
use it.
Charles Rosen’s statement
belies a prejudice
that seems to have dogged Martinů
criticism for some time. First of all,
it is debatable whether a more subversive
or destructive creative force is inherently
superior to one that is less so. One
is reminded of the so-called Futurist
music of that
period that now languishes in obscurity
despite its obviously subversive, destructive
elements. Even if siding with this post-modern
point of view, however, how does one
judge the degree of apparent subversion
in a composer’s works? Certainly Martinů
in Paris subjects
his beloved national symbols to all
kinds of "destructive" elements
in a fascinating twist on stereotypical
national expression. It is a hallmark
of his Paris style and emblematic of
his experimental approach. But as has
been demonstrated
throughout this study, Martinů
was not content to merely parrot other
composers, or continue in a tried-and-true
national tradition, but rather boldly
set out on his own path.
Nonetheless the monikers
of "conservative" and "derivative"
are still attached
to the composer. It is as if the presence
of extended tonal passages proves Martinů’s
music is unadventurous or facile, or
that the composer’s typically dynamic
use of rhythm makes of him a lifelong
sycophant to Stravinsky. It is all perhaps
a matter of
perspective, even prejudice, but as
this study has attempted to demonstrate,
the solutions offered by Martinů
to the problems of his time were his
own.
This leads, in closing,
to the issue of individuality. In composition
such a concept can of course be
discussed but never proven, being more
easily perceived than quantified. If
a person notes with relish that Martinů’s
music sounds like that of no other composer
and offers a unique aesthetic vision,
another individual might never get past
his perception
of the composer’s anxiety of influence.
In this regard, one writer’s observations
about Jean Cocteau could be applied
in spirit to Martinů as well:
It is sometimes charged against
him that he constantly impersonated
others, modeling himself on a series
of artists "greater" and
"more genuine" than himself,
notably Anna de Noailles, Apollinaire,
Gide, Stravinsky, and Picasso. What
he did was to use, very often, a
touch of "somebody else"
as an ingredient among other ingredients
in the fabrication of works of his
own; and persons who denigrate him
on this count might ask themselves
why a work by Cocteau, whatever
its "influences" or "reminiscences,"
is always strongly characteristically
Cocteau.
Judging from the many
performances of his works and the innumerable
newspaper and journal articles devoted
to reviewing and assessing his compositions,
Martinů made a remarkable impact
on the musical scene in Paris, and by
extension, his homeland and the rest
of Europe. The fact that he emerged
even more quickly
as
a popular voice in America underscores
the significance of his earlier achievements.
In America the symbolic nature of Martinů’s
art became even more apparent, and as
a wartime refugee Martinů cultivated
motives from Svatý
Václave
and Julietta with renewed
vigor in a reflection of the tragedies
that had unfolded in his personal life,
his homeland, and the entire Western
world. Perhaps this simultaneity of
levels of significance is what ultimately
resonates in his oeuvre, for in Martinů’s
works not only is
the world in which he lived brought
vividly and panoramically to life, but
also the fascinating and complex personality
who experienced it.
MUSICAL WORKS CITED
Works by Martinů
Adagio. In Klavírní
Skladby. Prague: Panton, 1970.
La Bagarre. Paris: Alphonse
Leduc Editions Musicales, 1930.
Božankovi
a Soničce. [Božánek
and Sonička].
Prague: Tempo, 1992.
Cello Concerto No. 1. Mainz:
B. Schott’s Söhne, 1931. Newly
revised edition, 1956.
Cinq pièces breves pour
violin et piano. Paris: Alphonse
Leduc Editions Musicales, 1930.
Concert pour trio (violon, violoncelle
et piano & orchestre à
cordes). Paris: Editions Max Eschig,
1971.
Concertino pour trio avec piano
et orchestre à cordes.
Prague: Melantrich, 1949.
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Introduction
I.
A New Beginning: Life In Paris
II.
How Martinů "Got Rhythm"
III.
Of Folk Tunes, Pastorals, and the Masses
IV.
Dvakrát Svatý Václave
(St. Wenceslas, Twice)
V.
An Aspect of Minor/Major Significance
VI.
Fin de séjour: Julietta
and Musical Symbolism
VII.Conclusion:
Martinů’s Parisian Legacy
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